“They are done with refueling, correct?”
“Just now,” Buzz answered.
“Then we are leaving.” Hadad pressed the gun to the back of Buzz’s neck and leaned far forward, looking out the right-side window. The last two pieces of equipment were just clearing the area. “Get moving.”
“No way,” Hendrickson responded to the order.
With the barrel still embedded in the co-pilot, Hadad held the thumb switch out toward the captain. “You defied me before. This time your number two dies. Now move.”
“Listen. We have no brakes. None. How do you expect us to get in position for a takeoff if we roll into the mud beside the runway trying? If you want this aircraft to get off the ground, then we’re going to need a tug to position us. Got it?”
Hadad eased up the pressure of the Uzi. Buzz wanted to laugh, but just continued smiling and looking straight ahead. The cap was playing this guy hard.
“Get it,” Hadad ordered, stepping back. He held his left hand and the switch out in front until reaching the jump seat. It was just a minor delay, he kept telling himself. Just a minor delay.
“Did you see him?” McAffee asked.
“Twice. It was the same guy, I’m sure.” Sean handed the binoculars back. The vantage point was almost perfect through the six-inch opening between the hangar doors. “He was just looking out the cockpit window, and a minute ago he was looking out from one of the upper-deck windows.”
They had never had a picture of the head terrorist, but it was a sure bet he was the one in the cockpit. Past experience had shown that these guys liked to be in control.
“Captain, remember the face: He’s ours.”
Secretary Coventry was flanked by one aide and two gun-toting Cuban security troops, neither of whom seemed to be officers. It looked as though Castro wanted as little official contact with the United States as possible. All the better, the lanky Minnesotan thought, as he watched events unfolding from the blacked-out glass box a hundred feet above the ground.
The setup was entirely modem, to his surprise. He was a pilot, schooled completely in small, private craft, and had visited many a tower in his adult life — and in his early life, he reminded himself. His father was a farmer, then and now, though at almost eighty years of age he had largely turned over the operation to his youngest son, the secretary’s little brother. In his prime, though, he had flown the crop duster personally out of the airport near the four hundred acres, often taking his children up with him.
He had expected old analogue instruments and sweep lights on circular radar displays, but instead there were modem Japanese sets. They couldn’t have been more than two years old. The controllers spoke in hushed Spanish, more quietly the longer he had been among them.
One of the operators looked up, speaking directly to the State Department interpreter. The balding Cuban American listened to the full message. “Mr. Secretary, the aircraft has just asked for a tug. Apparently they have no brakes.”
“That’s no surprise.” Coventry held out his hand. The interpreter removed the handset from the portable unit slung on his shoulder and gave it to his boss.
The president answered the phone himself. “Yes.”
“The aircraft is about to leave, sir.” Secretary Coventry sounded cool. Maybe it was easier being close to the action, the president surmised.
He looked around at the other three. “Any last-minute concerns?” There weren’t. The situation had practically dictated the responses to it, a truism that the president was now well aware of, and determined to prevent from recurring. “Jim, I’m giving Delta the authorization to rescue the hostages as per the plan.”
Not ten feet away Secretary of Defense Meyerson picked up a tan-colored phone on the president’s desk. It rang immediately in the NMCC.
“Granger here.”
“General Granger, inform Delta to execute CLOUDBURST.”
There were no other words. Both the president and Meyerson hung up simultaneously.
“Here we go,” the NSA said. “People are going to die.”
“The right people, Bud.” Landau massaged the wooden arm of the chair. It was smooth and hard, and the grooves made by colonial workmen were impeccable still, after two centuries of wear. “That may seem wrong, I know. We’re raised to fear God, and to believe that every life is precious. Jesus, you know, we’ve got to believe that, even in this business when we’re talking about death…about causing death. It’s just that somewhere, for whatever reasons, some folks turn bad. They take a wrong turn. God knows some of them really believe they’re in the right, but they can’t preach their own divinity. My wife always says that a man can believe what he wants to believe, that he can convince himself of anything — anything! — but there is one force in the universe”—Landau’s wiry finger pointed upward—“that knows.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “We may be the great pretenders, but if so, then we’re the pretenders on the side of right. I can look inside my heart each night and see that. We all can.”
Wisdom, fortunately, spoke eloquently when aged in human form. Landau told the others all that they needed to hear, for their silent doubts were surfacing at the moment of truth. He had known such moments before, and again he had shared of himself.
“Bud,” the president started, then held his words for a long moment. He stood, digging his hands deep in his pockets. “I’ve thought about your idea, or proposal, whatever it is. It may be your thinking, but if I agree with it and decide to execute it then I am the final arbiter. You are an adviser.”
“Mr. President?” Meyerson sensed that one military operation was all that was going to happen.
The president faced his defense chief. “Stand down the strike, Drew.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, without visible disappointment, and picked up the same phone as before.
“Mr. President, are you going to approve the proactive plan?” Bud asked.
“Tentatively, yes. But I want this to be legal, accepted by those in Congress who need to know, and covert as hell. About the only thing the Agency’s previous residents did that was even semi-intelligent was trying to keep their actions secret.” To most those words would be deceitful, almost sinister, but the practice of ‘need to know’ was meant to protect. In a Utopian society everyone could know about everything — maybe. But not in the twentieth century. Some deeds of leaders were best left to follow those in the know to their graves.
“We’ll need a time line for Congress,” Landau noted. Only eight members of Congress would ever know about it, the absolute minimum allowed by law.
“I’d like Bud and you to put that together. Drew, your office will work with Bud and the CIA to get the operational details down.” He looked at his national security adviser. “I want complete security on this, Bud. Your responsibility.”
“Absolutely.”
The president went behind his desk and sat down. Except for the darkness through the window behind him he looked as though he had just sat down to start work. He dialed the office of his chief of staff. “Ellis. I just gave the go to Delta, so your work is going to pick up in an hour or so.” Gonzales was working with the presidential press secretary to ensure that the right word went out when the time came. “And, Ellis, I want you to call the Speaker and Majority Leader right away. Inform them of what’s going on, and set them up to be in my office at seven tomorrow evening. Yes, evening. There’s no time before the funeral, and the rest of the afternoon is shot. I don’t want to break any routine on scheduling this…clear? Good. Right, it’s quiet. And, one more thing. I want the attorney general in here in one hour. Quietly, also. Thanks.” He set the receiver down and looked at the wall clock. “How long, Drew?”