The embarrassment and anger he felt was evident from the grim set of his jaw muscles. Macklin caught the reassuring smile from the first lady, then faced the lights and waited for his cue.
“Good evening,” he greeted the audience in a warm, even voice. “Less than two hours ago elements of our military forces attacked two missile launch sites in Iran. Those installations were equipped with nuclear-tipped missiles and represented an immediate threat to our military personnel and our allies in the Gulf region. Based on our latest intelligence reports, the nuclear facilities received heavy damage.”
Macklin’s poise was unshakable. “Any nation foolish enough to contemplate using weapons of mass destruction against the United States, our armed forces, or our allies must fully understand the consequences of their actions. Make no mistake about it—no mistake. Our response will be swift and devastating.
“I want to reassure every American, our friends around the world, and the citizens of Iran, that we have not declared war on Iran. We do not want to declare war on Iran. However, we will continue to respond swiftly to any threat in the Gulf region, be it a military situation, or a terrorist situation.”
The president paused, hardening himself for the most difficult part of his job. With the same look of civility and grandfatherly-compassion that helped win him his position, Macklin stared straight into the camera. “Regrettably, American lives were lost during the operation to restore stability in the Gulf region.”
After Massoud Ramazani received the initial battle damage assessment from Tehran, he terminated the satcom transmission. Ramazani continued to sip warm orange juice while he watched President Macklin attempt to minimize the severe bashing the American military had taken in the Gulf.
Although the commander in chief mentioned damage to the carrier George Washington, he didn’t disclose the fact that it was currently dead in the water. The president went on to explain that some “assets” were lost in the strike, but he didn’t reveal how many U.S. warplanes were now lying on the bottom of the Persian Gulf.
Ramazani watched the tight-jawed president make every attempt to be upbeat about the results of the surprise attack. When it became painfully obvious that Macklin was spinning himself into a corner, an off-camera media consultant gave the commander in chief a “pull the rip cord” signal. With the precision of a neurosurgeon, the president brought the “live event” to a smooth conclusion and the bright lights clicked off.
Harboring mixed feelings, Ramazani rose from the sofa and walked out to the island home’s spacious dock. He was pleased that the Iranian military had acquitted themselves and humbled the Americans, but the attack on his homeland was stirring a great deal of rage in his gut. He sat down in a lounge chair and allowed his thoughts to run their course while he relaxed under the stars and balmy breezes. Macklin is a walking dead man.
President Nikolai Shumenko and Yegor Pavlinsky talked quietly over breakfast on Shumenko’s patio. They discussed the warm weather and the protest marches in Red Square while they occasionally glanced at the four heavily armed men guarding the grounds.
The president caught Pavlinsky’s eye. “I’m afraid your plan may have grave consequences for us.”
Pavlinsky gave him a barely perceptible shrug. “What consequences?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“We have nothing to lose,” Pavlinsky said defiantly, “and the Americans have a carrier out of action for at least six to nine months.”
“My friend,” Shumenko said under his breath, “I fear we have, as Admiral Yamamoto once said, awakened a sleeping giant.”
“We have to survive this crisis,” Pavlinsky declared with a solemn expression. “The Americans are becoming overextended and their situation will get worse.”
“That’s what concerns me.”
Pavlinsky glanced at one of the guards and turned to Shumenko. “It won’t be long before we’ll be filling the void in the Gulf region. It’s working in our favor, but we have to be patient. Trust me.”
They locked stares before Shumenko broke the silence. “If you trap your enemy in a corner—”
“Yes, yes,” Pavlinsky interrupted. “If the enemy has no escape, they will fight to the death. That’s not what we’re doing.”
Shumenko looked down and slowly shook his head. “It would be foolish to underestimate Macklin.”
“I know,” Pavlinsky said stiffly. “He was a fighter pilot, but now he’s a president who has to be more reserved.”
“This bit of wisdom”—Shumenko sighed heavily—“from a man who never served in the military.”
28
Using Greg O’Donnell’s night-vision goggles, Scott caught sight of the container ship a few miles in front of them.
“I’ve got ’em,” Dalton announced triumphantly.
“Where?” Jackie asked, noting the first signs of daylight in the eastern sky. “I don’t see it.”
“Eleven-thirty, about three miles,” he said as he initiated a shallow climb and keyed the radio. “Easy Rider, Charlie Actual has you in sight. Do you have accommodations and winds?”
“Light and variable with a cork to port.”
“We’re looking forward to seeing you.”
“Easy Rider, aye.”
Scott angled toward the ship as he made preparations to ditch the damaged Caravan. The fuselage tank was empty and fuel had stopped dripping from the wings ten minutes after the gauges read empty.
“Jackie,” Scott said as he eased the turboprop up to 400 feet, “how about jettisoning the cargo door and handling the life raft?”
“I’m way ahead of you,” she said, then glanced at Maritza and Greg. “They’re well braced, so I’ll toss the door out and stay with them.”
“Good,” he said as he spotted a motor launch fifty yards to the left side of the ship. “I’m going to put it down just short of—”
Without any warning, the engine quit and began spooling down.
Scott immediately turned toward the ship and said a silent prayer of thanks. Thank you, God. I’ll take it from here.
Jackie scrambled to the aft section of the cabin, then heaved the cargo door out and strapped in next to Greg and Maritza.
“At least we made it to the ship,” Jackie said as she braced for the impact. “I’m feeling lucky.”
“Yeah,” Greg said in a pained voice. “We’ll be okay.”
Scott lowered the flaps and adjusted the bank angle so he wouldn’t be headed straight for the motor launch. Two extremely bright spotlights suddenly illuminated the preferred landing area, but Scott couldn’t stretch the glide that far.
“Easy Rider,” Scott radioed as he ripped off the night vision aid. “I’ve lost the engine. I’ll be dropping in short of your lights.”
“Short?”
“I need the lights about three hundred yards out?” Scott exclaimed. “I’ve lost the engine.”
“Will do,” a different voice said as the lights panned farther out from the ship. “How’s that?”
“Outstanding,” Scott said as he smoothly flared the airplane and flipped on the landing light. “You can get the launch under way.”
“They’re headed your way.”
“Great.”
Because of the Caravan’s fixed landing gear, Dalton had to slow the airplane as much as possible before he plopped the Cessna into the water. If the nose wheel dug in at high speed, it could force the airplane up on its nose and over on its back. Altitude and airspeed control would be critical during the final seconds of flight.
“Here we go,” Scott shouted as he held the turboprop a few feet above the water and allowed it to bleed off speed in ground effect. He gingerly worked the trim, nursing the airplane along until it was almost fully stalled. Relying on his seat-of-the-pants instincts, he eased the yoke back when the Caravan stalled with the wheels ten inches above the water.