In the distance, a gleaming white yacht slowed as it approached the expansive private dock. Walking barefoot through the soft, white sand, Ramazani crossed the narrow beach and walked to the end of the wooden pier. He was fascinated by the graceful lines of Bon Vivant. The magnificent 126-foot Broward motoryacht was equipped with digital satellite television, twin satellite-communications suites, and an Aerospatiale Gazelle helicopter sitting on the renovated upper sundeck. Sporting a fresh coat of paint, the revamped vessel looked like a new ship.
While the captain edged Bon Vivant next to the dock, Hamed Yahyavi, Khaliq Farkas’s trusted assistant, acknowledged Ramazani while he and the helicopter pilot studied the tiny island.
Surrounded by a man-made coral breakwater and a cement seawall, the lushly tropical compound consisted of an open and airy four-bedroom home and two spacious guest cottages. Totally self-contained, the residence was equipped with a twin generator system and a backup portable generator, solar heat, and bottled gas for cooking.
Less than a mile from the mainland, the home was close to a small airport that could accommodate most corporate jets. Secluded and quiet, the residence provided security and cover for Ramazani’s terrorist cells. The former owners were pleased to learn that the real-estate auction firm they retained had sold the property to a retired banker from Pittsburgh.
Massoud smiled with pleasure when he thought about the role the yacht would play in their assault on the U.S. and their primary target, President Macklin. However, Yahyavi’s upcoming trip to Atlanta with Farkas took precedence in the schedule of events. By declaration of Bassam Shakhar, Farkas and Yahyavi would have the first opportunity to become heroes to anti-American groups worldwide.
After Bon Vivant was secured to the dock, Ramazani went aboard and greeted Yahyavi and four handpicked three-man special action cells. To a person, the men smiled broadly and exuded a sense of warmth and friendliness to everyone. Dressed in attire ranging from expensive suits to blue denim work clothes, the highly skilled teams would use portable antiaircraft missiles to create chaos in the U.S. airline industry. Farkas would bring the weapons with him in the Citation, then cram Yahyavi and two of the three-man cells into the jet and drop the missileers near their targeted airports. Fifty-eight other cells would be operating from Los Angeles, New York City, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Seattle, Minneapolis-St. Paul, Oakland, Chicago, Newark, Detroit, and Washington, D.C.
Off to the side of the special action cells, three “throw-aways” were standing together. The vacant look in the men’s dull eyes left no doubt about their fate. Although they were not very intelligent, the men were as dedicated as World War II Kamikaze pilots to their mission of self-sacrifice. They only needed to be aimed in the proper direction.
Ramazani was surprised when Bon Vivant’s unsmiling captain grimly eyed him. Tall, with deeply set blue eyes and blond hair, the man was a walking portrait of a crusty Nordic sea dog. Paid a princely sum for shepherding the yacht across the unpredictable Atlantic, the retired cruise-ship captain was anxious to return home. His apprentice first mate, a member of the Iranian Revolutionary Guardsmen, would take over as the captain of Bon Vivant.
“Follow me,” the skipper said curtly as he motioned to Ramazani.
While Yahyavi gathered his belongings from his small stateroom, the potbellied captain escorted Ramazani through a mahogany-paneled formal dining room to an elegant king-size master stateroom.
“’Ave a seat,” the skipper said coldly, then knocked on a cabin door and walked out of the room.
Smothering his disdain for the captain, Ramazani sat down next to an open wooden crate containing six AK-47 semiautomatic rifles. The Chinese-made weapons were accompanied by twelve thirty-shot magazines. A moment later a stocky, bearded man with tobacco on his breath walked into the stateroom.
Silently, the former director of the MINATOM Defense Complex at Arzamas-16/Sarov, Russia, opened the double doors leading to the teakwood-trimmed sitting room. Without ceremony or emotion, Sergey Plekhanov unlocked and removed the top of a suitcase-size container. Inside, a thermonuclear bomb was securely mounted in steel straps.
Plekhanov, abandoned by his military sponsors, had dismissed his unpaid guards and walked away from the nuclear weapons complex with the powerful weapon. Fearing the worst for his family, he buried the bomb under a dilapidated factory, then gathered his wife and daughter and escaped from Russia during a blizzard. Networking with colleagues who were working on nuclear projects in Iran, Plekhanov and his family made their way to Bushehr, Iran.
Two weeks after leaving Russia, Plekhanov met with two of Bassam Shakhar’s agents who struck a deal with him. He gave them a map and detailed instructions to the location of the weapon. A month later Shakhar had a powerful nuclear bomb to use on the Americans and Plekhanov and his family moved into a comfortable apartment in Bushehr.
Transfixed by the sight of the weapon, Ramazani was momentarily at a loss for words. I can’t believe it’s here.
“I show you how to detonate bomb,” the Russian scientist announced in an impatient voice. “Then I leave you to your work.”
The tedious, painful process of stabilizing Greg’s condition had consumed the better part of thirteen hours. Afterward the ship’s male nurse prepared Maritza and Greg for the long flight to the U.S. With the patients resting comfortably in the cabin of the LongRanger, Jackie and Scott waved at the ship’s crew, then she lifted the helicopter from the pad and transitioned to forward flight. Navigating by GPS, she set course for Athens and climbed into the hazy Mediterranean sky.
Working with Hartwell Prost and senior White House aides, Scott had arranged for an Air Force C-141 Starlifter staffed with medics to meet their helo in Athens. The long-range Lockheed workhorse would transport Greg and Maritza to the National Naval Medical Center at Bethesda, Maryland.
Scott and Jackie would accompany their friends to the naval hospital, then fly commercially to Miami to start searching the Florida Keys for the terrorist base of operations.
Scott glanced at Jackie, then gave her a mischievous smile. “Are you comfortable with Hartwell’s proposal?”
“Sure,” she said lightly, “if I don’t think about the fact that this yacht is carrying a nuke.”
“Put it out of your mind.”
“Right, and stop breathing at the same time.”
They remained quiet while Jackie scanned for traffic.
“Someone gave Shakhar’s people a heads-up,” Scott declared in a flat voice. “This time no one will know how we’re conducting the operation. It’s just you and me and our seaplane.”
Catching sight of another low-flying helicopter, Jackie made a slight course correction. “So, when did you get your seaplane rating?’
“Last summer.” he said nonchalantly. “I thought it would be an efficient way to complete my biennial flight review.”
A knowing smile broke across Jackie’s tanned face. “How much float time do you have?”
Dalton gave her a sheepish grin. “About five hours — enough to get my rating. What about you?”
“Zilch-point-zero.”
“That’s no problem,” Scott said with undisguised bravado. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She laughed, then rolled her eyes in his direction. “Has it occurred to you that you don’t meet the insurance requirements to rent a floatplane?”
“When you’re working with the Agency,” he said in mock seriousness, “you don’t need to rent things.”