The big turboprop mushed into the Mediterranean as a huge spray of water engulfed the entire airplane. It rocked up on its nose, then gently settled back as Jackie tossed the life raft out. She pulled the exposed lanyard to eject the raft from its case and fully inflate it.
Scott unstrapped and hurried to the aft cabin to help Jackie get Maritza and Greg into the life raft. The airplane was rapidly filling with water, which made the task more difficult and time consuming. Moments after Scott and Jackie assisted Maritza into the raft, the motor launch arrived. A trained rescue swimmer leaped into the water to help with Greg. Less than three minutes later the motor launch was headed for the ship. Shivering in the bow of the boat, Scott felt Jackie’s fingers dig into his arm as the Caravan’s tail rose straight up and then disappeared beneath the sea.
He cupped her hand and shrugged. “As soon as we’re aboard, we’ll contact Hartwell.”
Jackie nodded, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “If Maritza is up to it, she can give him the brief.”
“Good idea.”
“We did it,” she said triumphantly, and put her arms around his waist. “I have a bottle of fifty-year-old scotch stashed in my stateroom. Care to join me for a small celebration.”
Scott smiled warmly. “That’s the best invitation I’ve ever had.”
“My instincts,” she whispered in his ear, “tell me that that’s not true.”
Deeply disturbed by the debacle in the Gulf, President Macklin impatiently glanced at his wristwatch while his national security adviser finished his conversation on the “secure” line. Hartwell Prost quickly wrapped up his business and joined the president and two Secret Service agents. With the agents in close proximity, Macklin and Prost began walking toward the executive mansion.
“I just got the word,” Prost said, falling in step with Macklin. “Dalton and company managed to extract Ms. Gunzelman.”
“Outstanding,” the president exclaimed. “At last, thank God, something went as planned this evening.”
“Well, not exactly.”
“What do you mean?” the president asked, mindful of the risks involved in the dangerous rescue attempt.
“They apparently flew into an ambush, like our people in the Gulf.”
Macklin bristled, but made no comment.
“Dalton and Sullivan are okay,” Prost continued in a business-as-usual voice, “but Scott’s pilot was seriously injured, and Ms. Gunzelman broke her ankle.”
The president reached inside his jacket and extracted a cigar. “What’s the extent of the pilot’s injuries?”
“Gunshot wounds to his leg and shoulder,” Prost explained, then added, “He flew cover when Dalton was shot down during the Gulf War.”
“Get both of them to Bethesda,” Macklin said as he lighted his cigar, “and make damn sure they have the best of everything, including rehab — whatever it takes.”
“Yes, sir.”
In silence, the four men continued their journey to the second story residential quarters. Once they reached the presidential living area, Macklin and Prost settled into comfortable lounge chairs on the softly lighted Truman balcony. The president eyed his cigar while the agents fanned out to opposite sides of the railed platform.
Externally calm, Macklin stared across the wide expanse of the South Lawn. “Well, give it to me straight.”
Prost paused thoughtfully. “First, I have some other disturbing news.”
“The bad news before the bad news.”
“I’m afraid so. One of our carrier helos fished the remains of a Russian pilot out of the Gulf. He’s been identified as Major Viktor Kasatkin, a Russian fighter pilot who was apparently instructing the Iranians in advanced fighter tactics.”
With the smallest of smiles, the president shook his head. “Well, it’s time to play hardball with Moscow, and set a date for a summit. I’ll take it up with Shannon. Now, tell me about Ms. Gunzelman.”
“She has given us a lot of information,” he said without expression. “Besides Bassam Shakhar and Khaliq Farkas, a man named Massoud Ramazani has been activated to assist in carrying out the threats issued by Shakhar.”
The president narrowed his gaze in sharp question. “What do we know about Ramazani?”
“According to Ms. Gunzelman, he’s intelligent,” Prost explained matter-of-factly. “He’s shrewd, and, until recently, he was a professor at the University of Miami.”
“What?” Macklin exclaimed in outrage. “You’re telling me that we had a terrorist teaching in one of our universities?”
Prost nodded.
“Terrific,” the president said in disgust.
Macklin eyed his friend with a mildly disapproving look. “Are they working in unison, or leading separate groups?”
“We aren’t sure, but Ms. Gunzelman thinks it’s a team effort. According to the word inside the compound, Ramazani and Farkas have co-responsibility for paralyzing our commercial air transportation system.”
The president quietly nodded.
“If her information is reliable,” Hartwell went on, “Ramazani and Farkas have established a base of operations somewhere in the Florida Keys, but she doesn’t know the exact location.”
“Amazing,” Macklin said with a throaty laugh. “We have various intelligence agencies, informants, and listening posts around the world. We have the CIA’s Global Response Center and Counter Terrorism Center, NSA, and the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force, and not one of them was aware that Farkas was flying an A-4 attack aircraft over U.S. soil—and that we had a terrorist teaching at an American university.”
The president suddenly stopped, fixing Prost in his gaze. “I apologize if I’m offending you, but surely you see the irony in this?”
Prost remained unflappable. “Your point is well taken.”
“We have all this vast network in place,” Macklin said with a theatrical wave of his arms, “and no one in the loop knows shit.”
With his anger seething just below the surface, the president continued. “On the other hand, working independent of the government, we have a smart, gutsy young woman who managed to work her way straight to the heart of a major terrorist organization.”
Macklin pointed a finger at Prost. “Now that, my friend, is espionage personified. No question about it. We need to get her on the payroll.”
“Mr. President,” Prost said without any sign of resentment, “I strongly recommend that we tighten air travel security, and do it now.”
“I agree,” Macklin said, pondering the DFW crash. “What do you recommend?”
“We need to go to Level Four and immediately prohibit curbside check-in,” Hartwell stated emphatically. “In addition, we need to use every intel capability we have — military and civilian — to provide aerial recon over and around our major and regional airports.”
The president remained quiet for a long moment, then gazed across the South Lawn. “I’ll give the order tonight.”
“The sooner, the better,” Prost said firmly. “These people know our weaknesses, and they aren’t like Saddam Hussein’s ragtag crew. They’re sneakier, nastier, better organized, better financed, and they have a suicidal resolve to complete their missions.”
“I share your sense of urgency,” the president said, then sighed heavily. “What else did Ms. Gunzelman have to say?”
Clearly uncomfortable, Prost avoided the president’s unnerving gaze. “Russian advisers — chemical and biological experts — have been working with Shakhar’s terrorist groups.”