The deadline for the Americans to start their military withdrawal had just expired without any movement on behalf of the United States. Now the foolish president and his naive countrymen were about to receive a message they weren’t likely to forget. The stage was set for Shakhar’s rebellion against the tahajom-e farangi, America’s cultural aggression.
Outwardly a mild-mannered college professor with no strong views on the trouble spot known as the Middle East, Massoud Ramazani was leading a double life. In his heart, he lived for the day when the complete destruction of the state of Israel, the “Little Satan” as he referred to the close ally of the Americans, would be complete.
When not on campus, Ramazani spent most of his spare time educating himself on the weaknesses in the capability of the U.S. to deal with international terrorism. In addition to his surveillance activities, he and Farkas had established several terrorist footholds within ethnic communities in Atlanta, Dallas, Kansas City, Houston, Los Angeles, New York City, San Diego, Seattle, and Chicago.
After organizing the new “religious charity” arms of Islamic Jihad, Ramazani and Farkas had used a war chest of over $24 million to establish a base of operations to support terrorist attacks throughout America, including Alaska and the Hawaiian Islands. Bassam Shakhar had spared no expense in his efforts to build the foundation for an all-out assault on the “capital of global arrogance,” and the arrogant U.S. president. Ramazani and Farkas would play key roles in the attacks. The first step in the aggressive scheme would be to change America’s course from the new world order to complete disorder.
After five years of teaching economics at the University of Miami, the undeclared war between the U.S. and Iran had spelled the end of Ramazani’s facade. At the behest of Bassam Shakhar, the soft-spoken, thirty-four-year-old, Oxford-and Yale-trained Ph.D. would be resigning from his teaching post to devote his full efforts to the goals of Islamic Jihad. The time had arrived for Ramazani to exploit the weaknesses he had so carefully and patiently studied.
Well traveled and sophisticated in the ways of the Western world, Ramazani would assume his new duties as the number-two man in the expanding terrorist organization. Working in conjunction with Khaliq Farkas, Ramazani would concentrate on wreaking havoc on American citizens and assassinating their president.
In addition to his primary objectives, Ramazani would be in charge of sixty-three special action cells that had been filtering into the U.S. during the previous five months. The nearly bald economist would be trading his conservative coat and tie for the expensive business suits favored by the sheikhs from Saudi Arabia. Ramazani’s new persona would be that of a wealthy prince who enjoyed socializing with his American friends.
He would be relocating to his new base of operations in the Florida Keys. Complete with a helicopter and a refurbished 126-foot motoryacht, the luxurious estate on a private island reflected the type of accommodations a young sheikh would expect. If he handled his role carefully, no one would suspect that the friendly man from the oil sheikhdom of Saudi Arabia was in fact a highly educated Iranian terrorist — a terrorist with a deep feeling of resentment toward the United States. Ramazani’s father had been a passenger on Iranian Air Flight 655 when the U.S. Navy mistakenly shot down the airliner.
Ramazani leaned back and smiled in his cynical way. The feckless infidels are about to have their “civilized” lifestyles explode in their faces.
After landing at Meacham International, Khaliq Farkas had the gleaming Citation filled with jet fuel, then borrowed a courtesy car from the fixed-base operator. On the way to the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, he checked into the Holiday Inn on Meacham Boulevard, then called American Airlines to find out the departure gate for his flight.
Pleased with himself, he shaved and changed into an airline pilot’s uniform. Complete with an ID badge and a chart case, Farkas was now American Airlines Captain Manuel Gervasio.
A half hour later Farkas was parked near a security entrance to DFW. When a catering truck appeared in his rear-view mirror, he stepped out of the car and flagged down the driver.
“Son, my car quit, and I’m running late for my flight,” Farkas said without a trace of an accent. “Would you mind dropping me off at my gate?”
The pimply-faced young man hesitated. “Captain, we’re not supposed to allow anyone in the trucks when we’re making-”
“I understand,” Farkas interrupted with a radiant smile as he handed the driver a folded $100 bill. “I won’t say anything, but I have to make my flight. Let’s get going.”
“Uh, okay,” the wide-eyed youngster uttered as Farkas grabbed his chart case and climbed into the passenger seat.
“You saved the day.” Farkas beamed.
8
The mood was somber when President Macklin walked into the basement Situation Room to join Pete Adair, his secretary of defense. Neither man smiled as they exchanged perfunctory greetings.
The chief executive was tall and thin, with a prominent nose, perfectly coiffed gray hair, and deeply set blue eyes. Impeccably attired in a dark gray suit, custom-tailored white shirt, maroon tie, and highly polished black leather shoes, Cord Macklin looked the part of the consummate politician. Like many ambitious men before him, he had coveted the highest political office in the land.
Boisterous and stubborn-natured, the former F-105 Thunderchief pilot was one tough customer. He was also a highly decorated survivor of the Vietnam War. While flying a Route Pack Six mission to Downtown Hanoi, First Lieutenant Macklin had been forced to eject from his “Thud” when it was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. After a splash landing in a rice paddy near a small village, he evaded his angry pursuers for three days before a gutsy Jolly Green helicopter pilot saved him from an extended stay in the Hanoi Hilton.
Behind his tortoiseshell spectacles, Macklin’s eyes were red and irritated. He politely dismissed two Secret Service agents and sat down at the head of the wide conference table.
The president motioned for Adair to have a seat near him. “What’s the latest on the Tomcat — any sign of the crew?”
“Yessir.” There was a telling hesitation. “Their bodies were recovered about two hours ago.”
Saddened by the mysterious accident, Macklin said quietly. “Have the families been notified?”
“Yes, sir. About half an hour ago.”
The president nodded as he went through the ritual of lighting a maduro cigar. “I want to call them later this evening.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Do you have a salvage team out there?” Macklin took a deep drag from his prized Onyx.
“They’re en route, and we’ve dispatched two ships to secure the area around the crash site. They’re the ones who recovered the bodies, and they’ve also recovered quite a bit of floating debris.”
“I want you to stay on top of this, Pete,” the president insisted. “If it was hit by a missile, it’s an act of war.”
“I understand, sir.”
Born on a small farm in the Oklahoma Panhandle, Peter McEntire Adair was an island of integrity and honesty in a sea of lickspittles. An ex-Green Beret captain and former bull rider, Adair enjoyed high-stakes poker and skeet shooting. Stocky and in excellent physical shape for his fifty-five years, Adair’s friendly personality and boundless enthusiasm crackled like a lightning storm.
Adair glanced at the detailed map displays of Iran and the other Persian Gulf states. Numerous intelligence sources in the region were convinced that Israel had become so vulnerable that the Muslim world was planning its destruction. The only thing standing in the way was the 5th Fleet and other U.S. military forces in the Gulf region.