Chalmers paused when he noticed the anxiety written on Macklin’s face. “They’ll probably scramble fighters and their guided-missile patrol boats. Another thing that could be a problem is the threat of their cruise missiles, SAMs, and surface-to-surface missiles. It’s a concern, but we expect to successfully counter any type of retaliation.”
“How can you be so sure?” the president queried with undisguised apprehension. “We’re already in an undeclared war with Tehran.”
“Sir, they’re going to be caught off guard in the early hours of the morning. We have battle groups operating in the Gulf on a regular basis, plus we have scores of other ships patrolling the Gulf, so our presence isn’t going to appear to be anything other than business as usual.”
“Are the other chiefs in total agreement with you?” Macklin inquired.
“To a person, and our intel people at Rand are onboard.”
“Think-tankers,” the president mused without any warmth. “Hartwell, what’s your assessment? Will the Iranians put up any resistance?”
The line of Prost’s mouth became grimly straight. “They have the capability to inflict a lot of damage,” he answered coldly. “Will they? None of us can answer that question.”
Chalmers smiled to himself and looked at Macklin. “As usual, Mr. Prost makes a good point. That’s why we’re not going to take an invasion-size force into the Gulf. We’re going to make it look like a routine training exercise — business as usual.”
“Okay, you’re the expert,” the president said in a resigned voice. “However, I want the rules of engagement to be simple,” he asserted. “If the Iranians show hostile intent, our folks are free to defend themselves.”
Chalmers suppressed a grin. “I’ll make that very clear.”
“One other thing, Les.”
“Sir?”
“After the contrast between the Gulf War and the Balkans fiasco, the American public expect a quick, decisive operation with few civilian casualties.” Cord Macklin rose from his chair. “Although we have overwhelming firepower and technical supremacy, we’re not invincible. Let’s keep that in mind — no mistakes.”
Chalmers straightened, surprised that anyone would question his professional competence. “Sir, with all due respect, we haven’t forgotten the lesson of Vietnam.”
“We can’t afford to,” Macklin declared.
“Yes, sir,” Chalmers said firmly as he rose from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Sure.”
The president waited until the general left the Situation Room. “Pete, do you think we should consult with the congressional leadership before we take any action?”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir. If this leaked to the media before the strike, it could have disastrous results.”
“You’re right,” Macklin replied, then rubbed his chin. “You can’t keep anything secret in this town.”
“My recommendation,” Adair continued, “would be to notify the speaker and majority leader while our weapons are en route to their targets. The same with our allies.”
“Hartwell?” the president asked.
“I concur.”
Macklin leaned back and studied the ceiling before closing his eyes. “Why do I have an uneasy feeling?”
The question went unanswered.
Outwardly, the president showed a steely calm, the years of military discipline and fighter-pilot bravado coming to play. Inwardly, he didn’t feel comfortable with his decision. Macklin opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. “Well, if we’re going to champion freedom and democracy, we sure as hell can’t cower in fear.”
Suddenly General Chalmers reappeared at the door. “Mr. President, my aide just informed me that there’s been a major crash at DFW.”
The stunning news caused a moment of hesitation among the solemn-faced men. Everyone looked to Macklin.
“Turn on the television,” the president ordered as Adair reached for the remote-control unit.
“He said the plane was bound for National,” Chalmers continued, “and apparently crashed shortly after takeoff.”
Transfixed, the men stared at CNN’s live coverage of the accident scene west of Interstate 35 East. Although it was early evening in Dallas, the sky was so dark and hazy that motorists had been forced to turn on their headlights. In spite of the rain, wind, and reduced visibility, it was obvious that no one could have survived the crash. The entire airplane had simply disappeared in a muddy, smoking hole.
Moments later the president’s personal phone rang. Adair walked to the phone and answered the call, then listened in shocked disbelief while Fraiser Wyman told him the sad news about Senator Travis Morgan and the Washington contingent of terrorist experts.
As the president’s chief of staff continued to explain the tragic situation, Adair took an involuntary half step backward and went numb, thinking that Wyman must have made a mistake.
A moment later raw logic sobered Adair. He glanced at his wristwatch, then stared at it in silence; the Iranian deadline for the commencement of U.S. troop withdrawals had long passed.
With the United States on the brink of open conflict with Iran, the tragic death of Senator Morgan and the other terrorist experts wasn’t a coincidence. The reprisals had begun. Adair’s mind raced to make sense of the situation. Someone — maybe Khaliq Farkas—murdered them.
“Hold on a second,” Adair said, then cupped the phone receiver in his hand and turned to face Macklin. “Mr. President, I don’t think we have to be concerned about our plans triggering retaliation from the terrorists.”
Macklin slowly turned and gave Adair a puzzled look. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The terrorists just declared war on us,” Adair said as a frown creased his forehead. “We’re looking at the results of the first salvo. Travis Morgan and a group of terrorist experts were on that plane.”
“Damn,” Prost suddenly blurted. “Dalton and Sullivan were booked on the same flight, but canceled to wait for a call from me.”
Silence suddenly filled the room as all eyes again turned to the president.
“Farkas?” Macklin asked.
“It’s highly possible,” Prost replied.
Overwhelmed with grief and anger, the president’s eyes reflected blazing fury. “If it’s true, they’ve made a serious mistake.” Macklin’s rage was reaching the boiling point when he looked at General Chalmers. “If this crash was the work of terrorists supported by Iran, I want those gutless cowards to pay a severe penalty.”
Chalmers nodded his head. “They will, Mr. President. They will.”
Behind a heavy door on the nondescript sixth floor of the CIA headquarters, the stunning revelation about Khaliq Farkas had sent a chill through the command post for clandestine war on terrorism. While computer screens flashed dispatches and warnings, secure phones rang with alerts from operatives at overseas locations. With its array of video monitors and high-tech workstations, the antiterrorism center looked remarkably like a state-of-the-art military command center.
A small group of dedicated analysts studied dozens of up-to-the-minute spy-satellite photographs while nineteen counterterrorism specialists monitored the continuous flow of highly classified information about the whereabouts of Farkas and other widely known terrorists.
In a secluded executive conference room, the director of the CIA spoke by secure phone to a senior foreign intelligence official. The conversation was loud and strained. No one, not even field operatives who observed Farkas on a daily basis, could explain how he was still in Tehran at the same time as he was seen flying an A-4 Skyhawk in Wyoming. Embarrassed by the professional blunder, the director finally had to admit that Farkas had deceived them once again. His stand-in was a carbon copy.