He considered the odds that it might have been Air Force One impacting the ground, then dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. At least he’d managed to disrupt the arrival of the presidential jet. That was reward enough, knowing that he had sent the foolish president into harm’s way. Perhaps next time the leader of the infidels wouldn’t be so lucky.
Farkas and Yahyavi moved to the window and cautiously looked around the immediate area surrounding the Airport Marriott. As far as they could see, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. No one was looking up at the building. Everything appeared to be quiet and normal.
Yahyavi unhooked the folding antennas and closed the window shades, then quickly packed the equipment and turned the volume up on the radio scanners.
Seconds later he and Farkas heard a frenzied police report over the public-service band; at least one airplane — possibly two — had crashed near Smyrna. Leaning closer to the scanner, the terrorists listened closely as the first accounts of the accident began pouring in.
They promptly switched the television on and began flipping through the channels. A few scattered reports concerning the crash of an airplane were interrupted by fresh news flashes that indicated that more than one plane had been involved. There were interspersed reports that prior to the crash, Hartsfield/Atlanta International had experienced a major communications failure and that many flights had been diverted to other airports, including Dobbins Air Reserve Base.
Farkas selected another channel and heard the familiar musical interlude that accompanied the bright red “Breaking News” logo.
“This just in to CNN,” the vivacious blonde reported. “We’re receiving information that Air Force One has been involved in a collision and has crash-landed at Dobbins Air Force Base.”
Bug-eyed, Farkas and Yahyavi stared at each other, then turned back to the television screen.
“Repeat, Air Force One has crash landed. We have unconfirmed reports that the president was aboard at the time the plane went down. CNN will bring you more details when we receive them.”
Farkas switched to another station in the metropolitan area.
After a brief explanation of the breaking story by the anchorwoman, a grim-faced local reporter confirmed that an airplane had crashed on the outskirts of Smyrna, Georgia. A moment later the first live television pictures began coming in from the crash site.
Farkas and Yahyavi concentrated on listening to the reporter.
Holding an open umbrella in one hand and a microphone in the other, she was clearly astounded by the devastation surrounding her. Not prepared for the extent of the disaster, the commentator was relaying information as quickly as she was receiving it. Distracted by a low-flying media helicopter, the woman continually glanced at the helo while she answered questions from the news anchor at the Atlanta studio.
A smile of immense satisfaction spread across Farkas’s face. “We brought down Air Force One. We did it!”
“Praise Allahu,” Yahyavi said in a trembling voice as he repeatedly poked his thumb into the air. “Death to enemies of the revolution!”
Before Farkas could respond, the police scanner suddenly broadcast a terrorist-threat alert. Transfixed, Farkas and Yahyavi listened to the warning of “potential terrorist activity” in and around the international airport. The woman repeated everything twice, then paused to receive an update.
Every available law enforcement officer was descending on the Atlanta airport and the immediate area surrounding Hartsfield International. According to the dispatcher, the FAA flight controllers believed that the bogus radio instructions had come from somewhere near the airport.
Farkas and Yahyavi stared at each other for a moment, then scrambled to gather their belongings and make a run for the rental car.
“What about the equipment?” Yahyavi asked in a frightened voice.
“Leave everything here,” Farkas said curtly as he donned his captain’s uniform. “Let’s get moving.”
Abandoning the radio equipment at the Marriott, they drove their rental car straight to the Mercury Air Center building and made a mad dash for the Citation. Both men noted the lack of activity on the aircraft parking ramp. There was no sign of people and no airplane engines running.
Surprised that the crowded parking ramp was deserted, Yahyavi quickly yanked the engine covers off the Citation while Farkas brought the jet to life. With the second engine coming up to speed, Yahyavi jumped through the door and locked it while Farkas called ground control for permission to taxi to the runway.
“Negative, Citation Two-Two Tango Whiskey,” the controller said bluntly. “The airport is closed at this time. Do not taxi or reposition your aircraft. I repeat, remain where you are.”
Farkas was about to respond to the controller when he and Yahyavi saw two police cars slide to a halt near the fixed-base operation. Farkas’s survival instincts were honed to a razor-thin edge.
With their weapons drawn, three officers jumped out of the patrol cars and cautiously approached the idling Citation. One of the men was carrying a high-powered rifle with a scope mounted on top.
“What do we do?” Yahyavi insisted with an anxious expression. “You can’t let this happen to us.”
“Shut up,” Farkas snarled as he shoved the throttles forward and released the brakes. With animal keenness, he wheeled the jet around and raced for the taxiway parallel to runway 8L-26R. Three rounds penetrated the Citation’s fuselage as Farkas lurched onto the taxiway and added full power to takeoff downwind.
Once airborne, he sucked the landing gear up and raced northward under the dark clouds. With his transponder turned off, Farkas flew low to avoid radar detection. Fifteen minutes after the frantic escape, Farkas banked sharply to miss a tall tower. Startled by the close call, he zoom-climbed to 1,500 feet and kept a close watch for other traffic. He turned to glance at his accomplice.
Ashen-faced, Yahyavi sat in the cabin and stared at the rays of light coming through the bullet holes.
Farkas grinned as he scanned the hazy sky. If the dice continued to roll in his favor, the jet would soon be hidden in its camouflaged hangar in West Virginia.
40
“There’s a good-sized one,” Jackie announced as she I pointed to a large yacht straight ahead of the Maule. “It looks like the same kind of yacht.”
Scott lowered the nose and descended toward the gleaming ship. From the wake the yacht was leaving, it was making good speed.
“Only one problem,” Dalton said as they rapidly closed on the ship. “They don’t have a helicopter onboard, and there isn’t a name on the stern.”
Jackie raised the binoculars and closely studied the yacht. “It looks exactly the same, except for the blue canopy over the afterdeck.”
Scott leveled off at 200 feet. “And the inflatable boat where the helicopter had been on the other ship.”
“Let’s do a three-sixty,” Jackie suggested as she reached for the camera. “That’s an exact replica of the other yacht.”
“Coincidence?”
“Who knows?”
Abeam the yacht, Scott initiated a climbing turn to circle the craft. Why are they steaming so fast?
“No name on the stern,” Jackie said mechanically as they banked over the ship. “And no name on either side of the upper deck. What does that tell you?”
“Well, it might be on a delivery cruise to its owner.”
“Headed northward?” she asked as she snapped photos of the yacht.
“It could be a West Coast boat,” he advised as he allowed the Maule’s nose to drop toward the water. “That’s why they have that ditch that runs through Panama.”