“Wait a second.” Her eyes studied his with a certain skepticism. “He would’ve needed a key, or some kind of code, to enter the jetway. You can’t just walk up and open the door.”
Scott eyed her and glanced around the room. “We’re talking about the master,” he reminded her with unabashed ease. “The bag smasher said the guy used a key to enter the jetway. Farkas obviously had done his homework.”
“Or,” Jackie asserted, “someone did his homework for him. It’s amazing what money will buy these days.”
“Yeah, that’s true. The guy who saw Farkas went on loading bags and didn’t think anything else about it. After Farkas planted the explosive — they believe it was Semtex, his favorite — he came back down the outside stairs and walked through the baggage-handling area. That’s where the security camera tagged him. Once he cleared the area, he entered the concourse and probably wasn’t far from us when he triggered the bomb.”
“Amazing,” she said with restless energy. “Absolutely amazing. How did he get out of Dallas?”
“No one knows.”
“Did they find the A-4?”
“No,” Scott said lamely. “They checked every airport within two hundred miles. No one saw anything that even vaguely resembled an A-4. My guess is he flew to Dallas in a run-of-the-mill plane.”
“He might have arrived on a commercial flight,” Jackie said as she attempted to conceal her frustration.
“I doubt it.” Scott shrugged. “That would present too much of a risk, and he wouldn’t have been able to manage his time as well.”
A frown crossed Jackie’s face. “I can’t believe he just vanished after our accident.”
“Neither can I. The taxi — or what was left of it — was found about a mile from where we were, but he hasn’t been seen since.”
“That figures,” she said, then absently stirred her drink with the straw. “Did Hartwell have anything to say about the crash?”
“Yes. They listened to a copy of the ATC tapes — from the tower and departure control. The first officer was in mid-sentence with the controller when the bomb was detonated. I have no doubt that the bomb was in or near the cockpit,” because it incapacitated the pilots and instantaneously destroyed the radios. Forty-six seconds later the airplane slammed into the ground at approximately 380 miles an hour.”
Scott reached for his drink. “Hartwell believes Farkas was going for a trifecta; he planned to bring down an airliner, kill a major segment of our terrorist experts, and take us out at the same time.”
They remained silent for almost a minute, both thinking about how close they had come to dying.
Jackie finally broke the silence. “We have to stop him,” she urged in mild outrage.
“I understand your feelings,” Scott said patiently. “I feel the same way, but right now our job is to rescue Maritza. She may be able to give us a lot of information about Farkas, including where we might find him.”
Noticing the concerned look in Jackie’s eyes, Scott gave her a brief smile. “As we speak, the FAA, the FBI, the Counterterrorist Center, the Army’s Delta Force, and the Navy’s Dev Group — the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, formerly known as SEAL Team Six — are working round the clock to locate Farkas. We’ll concentrate on finding him as soon as we get Maritza out of the camp. Like I said, she may know where we can find him.”
Jackie nodded. “If she knows that, she may know how they plan to assassinate the president.”
“Yeah, that’s a possibility.” Scott casually glanced around the dining room before turning his attention back to Jackie. “Oh, I almost forgot. Hartwell gave me one other tidbit of information about Farkas.”
“I hope it’s good,” she said with a lazy smile.
“Well, it gives us an idea of how he operates.”
“And?”
“The FBI checked the ATC tapes from Salt Lake Center, Denver, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Chicago, and Indianapolis Center. From the time the witnesses said that Farkas took off from Casper, every jet the controllers handled for the next three hours was checked out and located, including a Sabre-liner that wasn’t flying that day. It was undergoing maintenance at its base in Houston.”
“The phantom corporate jet,” Jackie said in mild disbelief, then sent a glance heavenward.
“That’s right,” Scott declared. “The controllers said it sounded like the Sabre pilot was wearing an oxygen mask. Since he hadn’t declared an emergency, they didn’t question why he was wearing it at 37,000 feet.”
Jackie shook her head in frustration. “Let me guess — no crews identified their traffic as being an A-4 Skyhawk? No one corrected the controllers?”
“Yup. From what the FAA and FBI have reconstructed, the A-4 was in and out of the clouds most of the time.”
“Where did he land?”
“He was filed for Charleston, West Virginia, but he canceled IFR approximately ninety miles west of the city and disappeared. Where he went is anyone’s guess, but the feds are scouring the airports in the area.”
“I wish them lots of luck.” She gazed into his eyes. “Regardless of how this operation turns out, I want to thank you for helping us.”
“You can thank me later,” he said with a radiant smile, then leaned closer to her. “We’re going after Maritza tomorrow night, twenty-four hours early, so you better send her the signal tonight after midnight.”
Jackie’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Are you going to tell Hartwell about our change in plans?”
“No,” he admitted reluctantly.
Jackie gave him a curious look. “You trust him, don’t you?”
“With my life,” Scott said without hesitation. “But I don’t know who might be pumping him for information.”
“Good point,” she said in a tempered voice, then raised her glass. “To Maritza Gunzelman, and a successful rescue.”
Scott stared into Jackie’s eyes and felt the blood surge through his veins. “To a successful mission.”
15
Resting in the quiet darkness of his private cabin, Navy Commander Robert Gillmore dozed fitfully as Hampton silently slipped through the cold depths of the Indian Ocean northeast of Madagascar. With the exception of the slower-than-usual transit through the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, the long voyage from the Mediterranean to the Gulf of Oman was progressing smoothly.
Operating alone and undetected, the Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarine was nearing its destination. Gillmore and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Todd Lassiter, were the only men aboard the “boat” who were privy to their secret orders. The rest of the crewmen were aware that the captain was deviating somewhat from standard procedures, but the officers and sailors didn’t speculate on the nature of their mission, at least not openly. They knew the cerebral, tight-lipped skipper was not a man who tolerated scuttlebutt.
Bob Gillmore was a tall man who stooped to pass under normal doorways. In spite of his imposing size, he was adroit at navigating the narrow passageways in Hampton. His soft brown eyes peeked from under bushy eyebrows, and his thinning, sandy-colored hair was rarely out of place. Even in the confines of a cramped submarine, Gillmore seemed always to be immaculate and clean-shaven.