A stir was created in the hallway as word of the horrifying news spread throughout the hospital.
50
Still dressed in the uniform of an Air Force chief master sergeant, President Cord Macklin approached the office of his chief of staff. The attorney general had called Fraiser Wyman and asked him to remain at the White House until she arrived.
Accompanying the president were Hartwell Prost, Pete Adair, Sandra Hatcher, two Secret Service agents, and two FBI agents. The entourage, like the rest of the nation, was outraged by the terrorist acts that had destroyed the reserve Air Force One and devastated the John F. Kennedy and May-port Naval Station. Although their guns were holstered, the four agents were unusually apprehensive.
Enraged by the growing death toll, including everyone aboard the flying White House, Macklin viciously threw open the door and caught Fraiser on the telephone.
Hearing the whisper of the guillotine, Wyman’s mouth dropped open as he fumbled to place the phone receiver in the cradle. “Mr. President, I thought you were—”
“Don’t say anything,” Macklin threatened in a trembling voice. “A few hours ago, before I left for Andrews, I began thinking about the Dallas crash.”
“Sir, I know—”
“Shut up,” the president said with acid in his voice. “I found it strange that you happened to know that Senator Morgan was aboard the plane long before the passenger list was released.”
Seeking an avenue of escape, Wyman’s deeply set blue eyes darted from person to person. There was no way out.
The veins in Macklin’s neck looked like they were going to explode. “Then I thought about the odds against Tehran knowing exactly when and where one of our recon planes would show up. A very strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Wyman’s face turned chalky white. “Sir, let me expla—”
“Then,” the president loudly interrupted, “the surprise in the Persian Gulf was just too much of a coincidence.”
Wyman’s eyes looked huge behind his round metal-rimmed glasses.
With pure malice in his voice, Macklin stared into Wyman’s frightened eyes. The president grabbed Wyman by his tie, then savagely yanked him face-to-face. “You’re a despicable piece of trash.”
Shaking and perspiring profusely, Wyman’s mouth opened and shut, but no words came out.
“You already had a fortune,” Macklin said bitterly. “But that wasn’t enough, was it?”
Wyman’s eyes were downcast.
“Was it?” the president yelled at the top of his lungs.
“No,” he whispered.
“Who paid you?”
“Bassam Shakhar,” Wyman said weakly.
“How much did you charge to sell out your country?”
Wyman hesitated, then looked away. “Fourteen million,” he uttered in a hollow, frightened voice.
“Where’s the money?”
“In Argentina — Buenos Aires.”
With all his strength, Macklin shoved Wyman back into his chair. Shaking from rage, the president turned to face the FBI agents. “Get him out of my sight.”
“Yessir,” they said.
Macklin started for the door, then stopped and looked at Wyman. “You treasonous bastard,” the president said in disgust. “May God have mercy on your worthless soul.”
Focusing on the primary sponsors of international terrorism, President Macklin orchestrated a campaign of round-the-clock bombings of military targets and civilian infrastructure. For three weeks, seven days a week, bombs and cruise missiles rained down on airfields, naval installations, radar sites, ammunition dumps, missile sites, command-and-control complexes, military storage facilities, and selected civilian targets that would not cause mass casualties. Nothing was spared, not even military headquarters buildings.
Bassam Shakhar and his closest lieutenants rode out the pounding attacks in an underground home in northern Afghanistan.
After the blistering bombing raids, President Macklin delivered a brief but poignant speech to the perpetrators of terrorism and the sponsors of terrorism. Broadcast on MSNBC, Fox, and CNN, the message was short and straightforward. The United States was at war with terrorists. In the event of another terrorist attack on U.S. citizens, at home or abroad, American bombs and missiles would pulverize all the sponsor state’s major airports, highways, roads, railways, bridges, dams, and power plants. Signing off, President Macklin vowed to make acts of terrorism against the United States too expensive for sponsor states to condone or conduct.
51
Tanned and refreshed after their leisurely vacation in St. Thomas, Jackie and Scott invited Greg and Maritza to join them for a relaxing weekend in New Orleans. Even though Scott, Maritza and Greg were still recuperating from their injuries, the foursome enjoyed their tour of the Vieux Carré. What they hadn’t seen Friday night, they saw the following morning, including Jackson Square, the French Market, Royal Street, Dixieland Hall, and the expansive Riverwalk.
They wrapped up the pleasurable tour with a river cruise on the magnificent Natchez. With a calliope playing a jaunty melody and its huge paddle wheel thrashing the muddy Mississippi, the colorful steamboat had glided downriver past charming moss-draped oak trees and Chalmette Battlefield. By the time Natchez returned to the Riverwalk, the quartet had worked up a voracious appetite.
Repairing to a small, quiet restaurant, they dined on dirty rice and plump links of freshly grilled Louisiana-style sausage, tender and tangy in a rich roux-based sauce. Framed black-and-white photographs hanging on the brick walls depicted a variety of scenes of Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras circa the 1950s and 1960s.
Greg’s curiosity finally got the best of him. “Okay,” he said, looking at Scott and Jackie. “What’s the story on Farkas?”
Scott glanced at Jackie and shrugged. “You know as much as we do.”
“Come on,” Greg insisted. “Did they kill him or not?”
Dalton swallowed a sip of cold beer. “Hartwell says they found the ejection seat fairly close to the plane, but there wasn’t a body or a parachute anywhere for miles around the crash site. That’s all I know, honestly.”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Maritza said as she caught a whiff of the tantalizing aroma of blackened catfish. “Farkas got away, and he isn’t finished with his mission.”
Jackie nodded in agreement. “Apparently, the president agrees with you. That’s why he’s running the country from Raven Rock.”
“If Farkas is still alive,” Scott drawled as he listened to the four-four rhythm of Dixieland jazz drifting through the open door, “he’s probably apoplectic over what has happened to Iran and the other sponsors of terrorism. That could make him even more dangerous.”
Greg listened to the enchanting music and thought about Farkas. “I think the little bastard’s ego is crushed — his reputation is tarnished. He didn’t assassinate the president.”
“That’s right,” Scott said with obvious pleasure. “But one thing is for sure. He won’t stop trying until someone takes him out.”
A faint smile edged Jackie’s mouth. “Hey, guys, lighten up. The airlines are flying again, the stock market bounced back, and we haven’t had another terrorist attack since the president demonstrated his position on the issue.”
“Yeah, we’re on vacation.” Scott smiled, then let his attention drift toward the languid hoot of a tugboat plying the Mississippi. “Let’s have another round,” he said as he caught the attention of their waitress.
“I’ll second that,” Greg exclaimed with an easy smile.