The location of the airstrip was predicated on the range of the Skyhawk, and the necessity for the airplane to disappear as quickly as possible after the attack. Normally, if the president traveled west or southwest from the capital, Air Force One would be in range of the airstrip. Situated in the far western corner of West Virginia, the landing field was a simple grass strip a short distance from the confluence of the Ohio and Guyandotte rivers.
Slowly and methodically, trees and bushes had been planted thirty to forty feet from the sides of the runway. Other varieties of camouflage had been carefully planted to deceive curious observers. Viewed from the air, or from the ground, the landing site blended in with the rest of the Mountain State countryside.
Although the Internet provided flight-tracking services for aircraft operating on instrument flight plans within the contiguous U.S., Farkas and his team would have to rely on two operatives for flight information about Air Force One. Realtime flight data on military flights, Drug Enforcement Agency aircraft, civilian operators who request anonymity, and Air Force One is filtered from the Internet.
Farkas relaxed and let his mind drift, then stretched his legs and prepared to begin his descent profile. He didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to the airplane or to himself. As far as the Air Route Traffic Control Centers were concerned, the attack airplane was a Sabreliner corporate jet. He had taken off VFR from Casper, then filed an instrument flight plan en route. The air traffic controllers wouldn’t know the difference, unless another aircraft flying near the A-4 pointed out that it was, in fact, a military jet. From experience, Farkas was confident that no one would finger him.
He waited patiently for a radio frequency change for the upcoming sector, then switched to the next controller.
“Indianapolis Center, Sabre Sixty-Seven Alpha Kilo with you at three-seven-oh with a request.”
“Six-Seven Alpha Kilo, Indianapolis. Say your request.”
“Alpha Kilo would like to start down.”
“Roger, Sabre Six-Seven Alpha Kilo. Descend and maintain three three zero, and I’ll have lower for you shortly.”
“Down to three-three-oh, Alpha Kilo.”
Keeping the power where it was, he lowered the nose and began a series of rolls while he descended to 33,000 feet. A minute later, the controller cleared him to begin a descent toward his destination. Out of 12,000 feet, Farkas began slowing to 250 knots and canceled his instrument flight plan out of 10,000 feet. He squawked 1200 on his transponder — the standard code for visual flight rules — and blended in with the other VFR traffic on the controller’s radar scope. Less than thirty seconds later Farkas turned his transponder off and became a semistealthy radar image. No one would be the wiser that a corporate Sabreliner had suddenly metamorphosed into a lethal military attack jet.
Ten minutes later the A-4 arrived at the secluded private airstrip. Farkas made a firm landing, brought the airplane to a halt at the end of the grass strip, then raised the flaps and retracted the speed brakes. He quickly taxied the Skyhawk directly to the hangar and stopped next to a freshly painted corporate jet.
After Farkas climbed down from the A-4, two members of his special action cell used a John Deere utility tractor to park the airplane in the hangar. In the back of the hangar sat three containers of Sidewinder air-to-air missiles and fourteen cases of shells for the Mk-12 cannons. Eight Iranian-supplied Swedish Bofors RBS-70 portable antiaircraft missiles completed the arsenal. Before the day was over, the Skyhawk would be loaded with cannon shells and two heat-seeking missiles.
Farkas noticed a new container sitting next to the cannon shells. He opened the box and smiled with great pleasure. These should be considered weapons of mass destruction. The nine Russian-built GPS jammers could immobilize military and civilian signals, including Russia’s own Glonass Global Orbiting Navigation Satellite. When winter storms engulfed the major airports along the East Coast of the United States, Farkas and his group of terrorists planned to create nightmares for pilots, passengers, and air traffic controllers.
After a quick snack and a change of clothes, Farkas threw his canvas bags into the gleaming white and blue Cessna Citation 1/SP and headed for his next destination. If the White House ignored the deadline for the U.S. military to begin leaving the Gulf region, Shakhar had ordered Farkas to deliver an immediate and resounding response.
6
The C-37A Air Force Special Air Missions VIP transport, a modified military version of the long-range Gulfstream V corporate jet, cruised quietly at 41,000 feet as it neared the southeastern corner of Colorado. Relaxing in the spacious cabin, Scott and Jackie were the only passengers on the specially configured plane.
An hour and a half ahead of them in another Air Force VIP jet, Hartwell Prost and Greg O’Donnell were going over the details of the rescue mission. They would be back in Washington, D.C., before Scott and Jackie arrived at Dallas-Fort Worth International.
Scott was finishing the report Jackie had written about Maritza Gunzelman’s surveillance activities. Setting the confidential report aside, he reached for Maritza’s dossier. From the variety of photographs of Gunzelman wearing different disguises in different settings, it was easy to see how she could blend into almost any environment.
Maritza could pass for Spanish, Mexican, Portuguese, Egyptian, Indian, Italian, or a native of the Gulf region. Dressed in a solid black chador with her arms and legs hidden, hair and forehead concealed by scarves, she looked amazingly like the archetypal Islamic woman.
She was well versed in the Muslim religion and spoke several Persian dialects, including Farsi. Covered in traditional Islamic garb and espousing fierce opposition to the Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon, Maritza had methodically worked her way close to the senior Hezbollah activists operating in the Bekaa Valley.
Scott read a little further, then paused and leaned closer to Jackie. “How did she manage to break through — to actually become a member of the Islamic Jihad?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Jackie answered with considerable satisfaction. “She gained the attention of the militants by preaching day and night about exterminating the infidels and making Islam the sole religion on earth. She even spent entire days chanting outside the compound about the fury and breadth of Islam’s revenge.”
Scott shook his head. “Incredible.”
Jackie smiled to herself. “Slowly they began to trust her, including Bassam Shakhar. After she was invited to join the terrorist group, Shakhar personally challenged Maritza to prove her loyalty by murdering a man charged with being a heretic.”
“That sounds like Shakhar,” Dalton quietly commented, his expression unchanged. “Welcome to the psycho ward.”
Jackie paused and made eye contact with Scott. “She carried out the execution flawlessly.”
Scott avoided stating an opinion.
“That solidified her acceptance by the group, and Shakhar invited her to move into the compound.”
Scott was about to reply when the aircraft commander stepped out of the cockpit to give them an update on the weather situation in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. The present conditions were reasonable, but the weather was expected to deteriorate as a powerful line of thunderstorms neared the metroplex. The pilot explained that they would be descending soon, then excused himself and turned to speak with the pilots who had flown the leg from Andrews Air Force Base to Elmendorf AFB.