Scott smiled broadly. “Relax, Ski Cat.”
After they hauled the man out of the water and securely tied him to a tree, Jackie motioned Scott aside.
“The other guy died while you were in the boat.”
Dalton glanced at the inert form lying on the ground, then looked around the property. “From the array of antennas here, I’d say these boys have some pretty sophisticated communications gear.”
“We better take it out of service,” Jackie suggested. “Just in case any more of these characters are around.”
They quickly destroyed the communications center and knocked the antennas to the ground.
“Let’s get out of here,” Scott said as he ripped the electric cords out of the generators. “We have to get in touch with Hartwell. The president is expected to be in Atlanta today.”
Jackie nervously glanced at her wristwatch. “Actually, he should be en route right now.”
“Let’s get airborne,” Scott said as he turned and sprinted for the floatplane. “We’ll use the sat-phone.”
Scott started the engine and quickly configured the airplane for takeoff while Jackie frantically tried to contact Hartwell Prost in Washington. After two unsuccessful attempts to get through to his office, she finally heard a ring as the Maule lifted off the water and began climbing. After a delay to interrupt a staff meeting, the conversation with Prost was short and ended abruptly.
“He’s going to contact Air Force One,” she announced as they searched for any sign of the yacht. “I told him about Farkas being in Atlanta, and confirmed that a nuke was on the yacht.”
“What’s his thinking?”
She reached for the binoculars. “He wants us to find the yacht and keep it in sight until the Coast Guard or Navy can intercept it.”
“What about the two guys we left on the island?” Scott asked as he glanced at the mist of fuel spraying over the right wing.
Jackie turned an air vent directly toward her face. “Hartwell’s contacting the FBI. He’s keeping us out of the picture.”
“Good.”
Jackie slowly swept the horizon with the binoculars. “We have to find that yacht.”
“Yeah, mucho pronto,” Scott said as he leveled the plane at 500 feet. “It shouldn’t be too difficult now that we know where they’re headed.”
Morteza Bazargan, the leader of the special action cell on the island, crawled out of the moat and pulled himself up the coral breakwater as the Maule disappeared in the distance. Wet and frightened, he reentered the water and waded across the chest-deep moat, then hurried to check on his two comrades.
“What did you tell them?” he yelled when he found his second in command tied to the tree.
The man mumbled incoherently.
“Speak up!” Bazargan said as he backhanded the man across the face. “You told them about the boat, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” the man said feebly. “They were going to drown me.
Without saying another word, Bazargan untied the traitor from the tree, but left his hands tied behind his back. He yanked him to his feet and shoved him toward the dock.
“No!” the frantic man pleaded as he desperately tried to maintain his balance. “I didn’t tell them anything that—”
Bazargan shoved him off the pier and turned toward the home. He had seen the antennas crash to the ground and he had heard the communications equipment being destroyed. Somehow, Bazargan had to make contact with the ship and warn Massoud Ramazani before the people in the floatplane located Bon Vivant.
Unfortunately for Bazargan, a private pilot flying over the island spotted a bloody body lying on the grounds and another body floating beside the dock. The pilot contacted Miami Air Traffic Control Center and they alerted the Coast Guard. Minutes later a Coast Guard HH-65 Dolphin arrived while Bazargan was changing into dry clothes. The helicopter crew entertained the suspected murderer and drug dealer until the FBI arrived.
35
Cruising in relatively smooth air at 35,000 feet, the 747 was rapidly approaching Atlanta. Noting that they were 105 nautical miles from the international airport, Colonel Bolton nodded to Kirk Upshaw. The copilot spoke into his microphone.
“Atlanta Center, Air Force One is ready to start down.”
“Air Force One,” the controller said clearly, “pilot’s discretion to flight level two-six-zero. Advise leaving three-five-zero.”
“Air Force One discretion down to two-six-zero, report out of three-five-zero.”
Curtis Bolton gingerly eased the outboard throttles back, descending with an imperceptible change in aircraft attitude and engine sound. He worked hard to make the speed and attitude transition from level flight to the approach configuration almost unnoticeable to the passengers.
“Atlanta, Air Force One is out of three-five-oh.”
“Ah, roger, Air Force One,” the controller acknowledged, and gave them a new radio frequency.
Delicately working the inboard throttles to match the number-one and number-four throttles, Bolton called for the descent checklist. The pilots went through their normal briefing for a descent and reaffirmed their approach and landing speeds.
Above and behind the 747, four F-15s began descending with Air Force One. The flight leader could see that he and his charges would have to abandon the flying White House before they had planned to. In the next minute or two, the president’s plane would be entering a wide band of dark clouds. The pilot checked in with the AWACS, then contacted the 747.
“Air Force One,” the Eagle flight leader radioed, “Shotgun One and flight are breaking off and heading for Dobbins. Have a good day.”
“Roger, Shotgun,” Upshaw replied. “Appreciate the escort.”
The F-15 pilot clicked his radio twice as the fighters turned toward Dobbins Air Reserve Base. Seventeen miles east of the fighters, the Boeing E-3 AWACS began descending toward Dobbins.
Nearing the murky cloud layer, Bolton and Upshaw listened to the Hartsfield Automatic Terminal Information Service. The latest ATIS recording provided them with information on ceilings, visibility, obstructions to visibility, temperature, dew point, wind direction, wind speed, altimeter setting, remarks about the airport, and instrument approaches and runways in use.
Bolton gazed at the thick, dense clouds as they began to descend into the dark maze. The sensation of speed mixed with nature’s handiwork made him feel euphoric.
Ken Kawachi sat in the quiet, darkened room in the Atlanta Terminal Radar Control Facility and concentrated on his cluttered radarscope. With the burden of responsibility for hundreds of lives in his hands, Kawachi, like other air traffic controllers, paid very close attention to the constantly moving blips on his radar screen.
To the uninitiated observer, the ghostly radar returns with their associated tiny letters and numerals appear to be minuscule particles slowly drifting in a sea of molasses. But to the trained air traffic controller, each radar image represents a single airplane, the flight identification, and the speed and altitude of the aircraft.
The hushed atmosphere in the gloomy control room reflected the intense, serious environment the controllers work in while they steadily and efficiently handle multiple inbound flights. Working with a multitude of computers, radar, aircraft transponders, and radios, controllers and pilots work in unison twenty-four hours a day 365 days a year to make air traffic flow smoothly and safely.
Inclement weather conditions, like snowstorms, thick fog, and violent thunderstorms, have the potential to create tension so palpable that nerves are stretched to the breaking point and mouths suddenly go dry. It isn’t the kind of work environment for those who have a low threshold for pressure. In fact, many aviation experts consider the profession one of the most stressful in the world.