Dressed in an expensive suit and new shoes, Ruhollah Ferdowsi calmly presented a phony driver’s license, a Sam’s Club picture ID card, and a fake UN diplomatic pass to the ticket agent. The smiling woman behind the counter accepted his traveler’s checks and issued Ferdowsi a ticket in the coach section of Continental Flight 460 to New York City.
A controversial computerized profiling system identified Ferdowsi as a possible security risk. His large leather bag was thoroughly searched and matched to him. After he boarded the MD-80 and took window seat F in Row 26, his bag was stowed aboard the airplane.
Forty-nine minutes after the 6:55 P.M. departure, Ferdowsi excused himself and clambered over the two businessmen sitting in the aisle and center seats. The shy-looking man ambled back to the rest rooms, entered the one on the left side of the airplane, and locked the door.
Ferdowsi closed his eyes and spent two minutes in quiet meditation, then opened his eyes and sat down on the toilet lid. He removed his shoes and socks, loosened his tie, and opened the small plastic container of anthrax taped to his ankle. It was time to complete his mission for the revolution.
One minute later the plastic explosive the “throwaway” had taped to the bottom of his right foot blew the entire tail off the jetliner, including the aft galley and the passengers in Rows 29 through 33. A flight attendant was also sucked out of the airplane by the explosive decompression.
Amazingly, the pilot managed to keep the aircraft under control for almost twenty seconds. When the captain pulled the throttles back, the loss of equilibrium finally overwhelmed him and he lost control of the stricken airplane. The ensuing crash on a small farm northwest of Jackson, Mississippi, killed all 117 souls onboard. Another ninety-four firefighters, rescue workers, paramedics, law enforcement officers, and media personnel died from exposure to the anthrax germs.
Thirty minutes after the Continental jet went down, three members of a special action cell monitored their aircraft radio as the controller gave the pilot of a Northwest Airlines Airbus permission to take off. The Iranians had patiently waited for this particular flight to depart.
Less than a minute after rising from the runway and climbing into the evening sky, the A320 was hit by a Swedish Bofors RBS-70 antiaircraft missile. The fiery explosion blew the starboard engine into thousands of glowing pieces and started a raging fire in the wing.
While the flight crew frantically struggled to return to the airport, another portable missile struck the same engine, blowing the power plant completely off the airplane. Seconds later the right wing exploded in a fireball, sending the Airbus into a slow-motion spin.
The horrific crash took the lives of everyone onboard, including a former Iranian clandestine agent in the CIA’s Directorate of Operations. The terrorists had done their homework in finding the turncoat who had caused the deaths of four of their leaders.
The members of the terrorist cell were almost caught as they made their getaway from the perimeter of the airport. Two police officers happened to see a streak rise into the sky from the vicinity of a Budget cargo van. Seconds later another streak flashed skyward as the vehicle quickly accelerated away from the scene. While the patrolmen were pursuing the van, the Airbus crashed with a thunderous explosion.
Suffering from shock, the officers chased the speeding vehicle through heavy traffic. As they closed in on the van, they called for backup, then swerved when the rear doors of the cargo van flew open. The officer driving the patrol car locked the brakes, but both policemen died at the scene from a fusillade of rounds from an automatic weapon.
Like a caged lion, the restless president prowled the White House Treaty Room while he waited for Hartwell Prost to arrive. Located on the second floor near the presidential living quarters, the former Cabinet Room was Macklin’s favorite place to discuss sensitive issues with his closest advisers.
Seconds after he arrived at the White House, Prost was quickly ushered to the Treaty Room. The ashen color of his face gave away the fact that he had heard about the crash in Mississippi.
“Have a seat,” the president said after the special assistant closed the door behind him.
Although he was disconcerted, Prost maintained a reserved, dignified aura about him as he took a seat.
“I assume you’ve heard about the Continental crash,” the president said impatiently.
“Yes,” Prost said clearly. “I just heard about it.”
“Do you have any doubt?” Macklin asked with a hint of rage in his voice. “Any fraction of a doubt that it wasn’t terrorism?”
“No.” The veins in Hartwell’s neck were protruding. “We can’t afford to wait seventy-two hours for the Iranians — or anyone else — to make a decision to call off the attacks. If we don’t send an immediate message to the sponsor states — every one of them — we run the risk of having our nation and our citizens held hostage to regimes bent on destroying us.”
The president paced the floor, then sat down. “Dammit, I have to think this through.”
Prost nodded, but kept quiet. We’re at their mercy… you have to do something. From previous difficult experiences with the president, Hartwell knew it was better to let the storm blow itself out before he attempted to explain anything, or to defend a course of action he had recommended.
“They’ve gone too far,” Macklin said bitterly. “I’m going to shut down their military, their infrastructure — electricity, water, fuel—knock them on their asses without a huge loss of life.”
“I concur, Mr. President.”
Macklin stared at Prost for a moment, then looked down at the floor. “We need to convene the NSC and have the Joint Chiefs lay out—”
A sudden knock on the door interrupted the president as the first lady stepped through the door. “There’s been another crash,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “They said something about the Minneapolis-St. Paul area.”
In disbelief, Macklin and Prost stared at Maria.
“An airliner?” the president asked.
“Yes. It was a Northwest Airbus,” she said, then sat down on the edge of a chair next to her husband. “Witnesses have reported that it was hit by a missile — right after takeoff.”
“Hartwell,” the president said with icy stiffness. “I want all the players in the Situation Room on the double.”
“Yes, sir,” Prost said as he hurried toward the door.
Maria reached for her husband’s hand and held it tightly. “You’re going to have to tell the American people something.”
“I know,” he conceded reluctantly. “When it’s the proper time.”
“Cord,” she said boldly, “there’s a sense of panic out there, and it’s spreading faster by the minute.”
Macklin’s nerves went tense. “I have to set some military responses in motion before I go on television,” he quietly said with a determined expression.
Having made arrangements for their survival gear, Jackie and Scott were taken aback when they entered the lobby of the resort. Everyone was talking loudly and many of the guests seemed to be agitated and frightened. Scott politely interrupted a conversation between a bell captain and an elderly couple who were checking out of the hotel.
“Excuse me,” Scott said to the young man. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“The terrorists have downed another airliner,” he said in a rush as he quickly loaded bags.
“Possibly two planes,” the older gentleman exclaimed. “That’s what the newspeople are saying.”