Switching the radio to the ATIS frequency for departing aircraft, he was informed that outbound flights were using Runways 8 Right and 9 Left.
Farkas switched one of the radios to eavesdrop on the Atlanta Control Tower frequency for the runways on the north side of the airport—8L-26R and 8R-26L. He then tuned a second radio to monitor the tower operator controlling the runways on the south side of the field—9L-27R and 9R-27L.
Checking his wristwatch, he calculated where Air Force One would be at the present time. The gleaming wide-body jet would most probably still be cruising at 35,000 feet, communicating with a high-altitude en route air traffic controller. According to his estimate, the specially configured Boeing 747 would commence its descent in approximately twenty minutes.
He tuned the remaining radios to keep track of clearance delivery, both ground-control frequencies, departure control, and various approach-control frequencies, including the feeder and final radar controllers. The last VHF transceiver was set to 121.5—the general aviation emergency frequency guarded by most civilian control towers, radar facilities, and flight service stations, while a UHF radio was tuned to 243.0—the military emergency “guard” frequency. The other UHF radios were tuned to Hartsfield approach, tower, ground, and departure control.
Farkas monitored the tower frequency and watched the string of aircraft taking off while he listened to the approach controllers handling the inbound flights. This allowed him to get a feel for the flow of air traffic so he could time his actions to cause the most significant consequences.
He drew a square in the center of a fresh page in the notebook and began writing the flight numbers down adjacent to where they were located in relation to the airport.
Mentally placing himself in the control tower at the center of the bustling airport, he visualized what was transpiring in the dark clouds high above the sprawling city. When an airliner approached Atlanta, an en route controller in the Atlanta Air Route Traffic Control Center “handed off” the flight to a feeder controller in the terminal radar-control facility.
The feeder controller had the responsibility of sequencing air traffic into a smooth flow before he turned the airplanes over to the final controller. The final controller’s job entailed spacing aircraft for the final approach to the airport before he “handed” the flights to the local controller or to the control tower.
From studying the flow of air traffic at Hartsfield, Farkas knew the Atlanta north feeder was controlling two narrow corridors of inbound traffic. One route was devoted to traffic arriving from the northeast, while the other busy corridor handled inbounds from the northwest. Both routes converged north of Atlanta International, where the final controller took control of the flights.
“What a great setup,” Farkas said as he checked his watch. “We just have to be patient, and think clearly.”
“You’re the pilot,” Yahyavi observed with an amused smile. “I’ll take care of the scanners.”
“FBI?” Scott whispered as Jackie helped him tie the boat’s severed anchor line to the stern of the Boston Whaler. “Was that a moment of panic, or are you really with the Bureau?”
“It just came out,” Jackie admitted, her voice barely audible. “I’m not keeping anything from you.”
Scott smiled widely, then winked. “That’s good, because I was beginning to have my doubts.”
“Well, rest easy.”
“Are you about ready, Ski Cat?” Dalton asked as he turned to the militant sitting on the dock.
The man’s hands were tied behind his back and his ankles were tied together. The end of the anchor line was securely fastened around and through his bound ankles. Scott cinched the man’s life jacket as tight as he could.
“I’m telling you,” the militant pleaded, “I don’t know anything.”
“You don’t sound very convincing,” Scott said lightly. “You could sure save us a lot of time and energy, and save yourself some — how should I phrase this? — real discomfort.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” the man cried out as his eyes burned from the salty perspiration.
“Then make something up, and it better be good.”
A seasoned water-skier, Dalton jumped into the boat and started the powerful Evinrude outboard.
“Keep an eye on things,” he said to Jackie, then turned his attention to the pleading man. “I’m gonna take out some slack, then I’ll pop you off the dock and have you flying high in no time.”
“No! Please don’t do this!”
“Relax and enjoy the ride.”
Without warning, Scott firewalled the throttle and braced himself. The Boston Whaler lunged out of the water and snatched the terrified man off the dock. He plunged into the emerald waters and disappeared for a few seconds, then popped to the surface as the boat rapidly accelerated.
Reaching top speed, Scott made a sweeping left turn as the man violently bounced along the surface of the water, twisting and spinning wildly over the edge of the wake on the outside of the turn. Nearing the dock, Dalton tightened the turn and flung the man out into smooth water.
“Hang in there, guy!”
Skipping across the surface like a flat stone, the man accelerated to a speed that was faster than the speed of the boat. When the militant’s head was skirting the edge of the pier, Scott eased the power back and spun the Whaler toward the desperate terrorist.
Jackie grabbed a boat hook and snared the sputtering man’s life jacket, holding his head above water until Scott roared up in the boat.
“Hey, you’re doin’ great!”
Panic-stricken, the terrorist gasped for air, then spewed vomit and seawater down his life jacket. “I — please,” he pleaded as his head slid to one side. “I can’t tell you something that—”
“Okay,” Scott interrupted. “You have real potential, guy, no question about it. I’m betting that this time around, you can manage some five-and-six-foot bounces off the water.”
“No!” he begged as he gasped for air. “Please don’t do—”
Dalton interrupted him. “We’re just gonna have to get the speed up a little higher, that’s all.”
“Okay,” the man said, then choked and coughed. “Okay,” he sputtered. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
“Oh, no,” Scott said as he leaned near the militant’s twisted face. “You’ll tell me everything. One lie and you’ll be going for the double whammy — the big one. Got it?”
The man nodded and coughed.
“Where’s the yacht?”
“Headed for the Potomac River.”
Jackie’s eyes widened. “What are they planning to do?”
“Set off a bomb as close to the White House as—”
“What kind of bomb?” Scott interjected.
The man hesitated, then began coughing again.
Scott grabbed him by the life jacket and hauled him halfway out of the water. “Answer me, dammit!”
“A nuclear bomb.”
Jackie and Scott made eye contact.
“Where’s Ramazani?” Dalton asked.
“On the boat.”
“Where’s Farkas?”
“In Atlanta.”
Jackie and Scott shared a startled look before Dalton stared into the man’s frightened eyes.
“Is he planning to harm the president?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Another hesitation.
“Okay,” Scott said evenly as he turned toward the controls. “I’ll make this ride extra special.”
“They are going to do something to his plane.”
“What exactly are they going to do?” Jackie asked.
“I don’t know,” he said with a pleading look on his face. “Farkas was here to pick up a person to go with him to Atlanta. I don’t know what they are planning to do — honest.”