“I’ve already put the preliminary steps in motion to make this happen, sir,” Bud said. “Your final word will be required to release the equipment.”
There was nothing more to consider. “You have it. Andrew, draft the required papers. I’ll notify the House and Senate leaders. And I want some more analysis on what their intentions might really be. Secretary Coventry, Bud…put some thought into that. And, Andrew, give Delta the green light to go from Tenerife.”
The phone next to Meyerson preempted any reply. It was meant for him, and he listened almost entirely, saying only a few words before covering the mouthpiece. “We may have a break here, in our favor. The German ambassador contacted our military attaché in Bonn. They have four GSG-9 commandos at Tenerife airport, on their way back from Brazil. They were doing some training for the Brazilian military.”
“Can they do anything for us?” the president inquired.
“They are top-notch counter-terrorist troops, sir,” Bud responded.
“Right,” Meyerson said. “And they could be invaluable debriefing some of those hostages when they’re released.”
The president looked to the secretary of state. “Get in touch with the Spanish foreign minister again, and politely inform him that we consider the German troops to be official representatives of the United States government for the purpose of interviewing the hostages. You make that perfectly clear to him. And get someone from our embassy in Madrid out there, pronto.”
Coventry went immediately to the small office he maintained in the White House. The secretary of defense relayed the American request back to the military attaché in Bonn, and it went immediately through channels to the GSG-9 troops on the ground in Tenerife. A short time later the most valuable intelligence yet received during the crisis was being extracted from the newly released hostages, though the plainclothes soldiers’ thick accents were something of a mystery.
The aircraft’s steady roar disappeared as the headset covered Blackjack’s ears. “McAffee.”
“Mike, I’ve got some good intel for you,” Colonel Cadler reported from more than a thousand miles away.
“I’m listening.”
“We got a damn good break. Colonel Dee had some men coming back from a South American training exercise. They were conveniently at Tenerife, and they got some good stuff out of some released hostages.”
That was new to the major. “How many off?”
“It looks like about two hundred, probably just under. But the big news is that you were right about the HRT plan. It wouldn’t work. No way. A number of the hostages said the guy wears that bomb before they land.”
“That clinches it,” McAffee said. Their plan was the only way now. “What about a final go?”
“We’ve got permission to stage from Tenerife. The chief says go.”
“Thumbs-up on this end,” Blackjack noted.
“On this end, too, Major. And thank Graber. His plan was a damn good one.” The colonel released the radio circuit.
Muhadesh slowly scratched his chest through the shirt, feeling the folded paper inside. There were actually two, one of which he needed to get rid of…had to get rid of.
He paced back and forth in front of his rigid executive officer, his breath expelled in angry spurts from his nostrils. He stopped in front of Indar, looking not at him, but away, focusing on a picture of the colonel that hung on the wall. To the left and below was the fax machine, now useless. The room was lit by a pair of battery-powered lanterns, giving the faces of both men eerie lit-from-below masks.
This was the second time Indar had been summoned to explain since the power was lost.
“Now, Lieutenant, I am doing my utmost not to lose my composure with you; first, because I do not believe it is worth the effort, and, second, because I wish this entire, idiotic episode to simply be over.” Muhadesh turned only his head, but Indar’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, staring at nothing and avoiding his commander’s gaze. “Explain, please, why you have not been able to restore power four hours after you so carelessly saw to its loss.” Directing a bulldozer backward onto the power lines, laid on the ground after the poles were removed, was careless, if anything. “When we last spoke you were going to see to the generators. Why has this not been done?”
The lieutenant’s gaze changed slightly, hinting at…fear?
Muhadesh turned completely to face Indar. “Why?”
Indar met his commander’s eyes. “The generators, sir, they are…gone.”
“Gone?!” Muhadesh exploded. His arms flailed out and up, coming to rest atop his head in disbelief.
“Yes,” Indar replied in a snap, ready to shift responsibility. “Before you returned, a unit from the airfield came and confiscated our generators. Their commander was a major. I could not defy him. He said they would be better used supporting the outer defenses of the airfield.”
“Both of them? And you found it so unimportant that you felt you could wait to inform me until now?” Muhadesh leaned back upon the edge of his desk. His eyes searched the ceiling for some reason, for some meaning in all this. Was Allah testing him?
“Sir—” Indar began, but was cut off by the captain’s gesture.
“No, Indar. Your lies, and excuses, and your borderline treachery is over. Finished. Now, you will listen, and I will explain to you what will be done. You have exactly one hour, and one hour only, to restore power. Sixty minutes, and they are passing as we speak. The next thing I want to hear from you is that the power is on. No…I don’t even want to hear from you — just turn on the power. The lights will be the signal.”
The lieutenant’s eyes fell, then came back up, glancing briefly into his commander’s black eyes. They were frightening in the unnatural light.
“I don’t even care if you understand,” Muhadesh said, turning away. “Go.”
He waited for the sound of the door closing before releasing his anger. It was vented in the form of a fist against the wall, connecting solidly with the plaster below the colonel’s photograph.
Muhadesh held it there for what felt like minutes. He felt pain, intense pain, spread across the fingers on his right hand and it increased when contact with the wall was broken. There was no mark on the old plaster, attesting to its strength. His skin was not broken, either. He spread his fingers out, examining the trembling digits.
One hour.
He calmed himself. The anger was unproductive, he knew, but there were times when it surfaced, like it or not. In ninety minutes he would have to leave for the rendezvous. Thirty minutes would be cutting it close, but there was no choice. He had to get the other message off to the Americans.
In the meantime he would wait, alone in the semidarkness of his office. He sat at his desk and turned one of the flashlights on its side to illuminate the writing blotter. There was one last message to compose. It was actually less a message and more an explanation. A justification? Muhadesh wouldn’t go that far.
He removed his writing paper and took a pen in hand, writing the words that would soothe no one, but that he was compelled to put on paper. Amazingly, they came easily.
Blackjack walked down the right side of the Starlifter, heading aft from the com suite, which was a generous description of the radio operator’s console. He sidestepped past the Humvees, stopping at the nose of the second. “Gather round!”
The troops sensed something, but McAffee’s face never belied his thoughts. Graber checked that they were all around, including the two drivers. Joe Anderson was still in his seat, fifteen feet back, staring intently at the message he had received.