Primary target anthology, p.110
Primary Target Anthology, page 110
Omar nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
He was about to leave. He didn’t like Siddiq being in command down there for any length of time.
He looked at Malik. Malik’s eyes were tired. But there was also wisdom in those eyes.
“Does it sound reasonable to you?” Omar said in Arabic.
Malik made a gesture with his hands, the two of them opening together like birds. “It sounds reasonable to wait. But I don’t believe I would wait until the very last—”
“Look,” the young pilot said. “You don’t want us to know where we’re going, so we don’t. But if we’re going to Afghanistan, or even Saudi Arabia, we are not going to make it. Even if we’re just going to Khartoum, we will crash well short of the airport. We’re going to need fuel.”
Omar took out the .38 revolver and pointed it at the man’s head. The stakes were very high here. If he fired this gun right now, from this angle the bullet would likely pass through the man’s head and hit the windshield.
Would it destroy the windshield?
Only Allah could know.
“You throw around the names of all these places,” Omar said. “What makes you think you know where we’re going? I might tell you to land twenty minutes from now.”
Secretly, he was pleased. The younger pilot didn’t even raise Mogadishu as a possibility.
“There’s nowhere to land twenty minutes from here,” the younger pilot said. “In this part of Africa, it’s all tiny airfields. This plane requires a long…”
Omar almost couldn’t believe the man’s audacity. These people overvalued themselves. They were worth their weight in coal, but they priced themselves as diamonds.
“Shut up! I will kill you right now.”
“If you kill that man, I am not going to fly this plane for you,” the older pilot said. “I promise you that.”
Omar shrugged and gestured at Malik. “That’s why we have this man with us. We don’t need you to fly the plane. You are a convenience, and nothing more.”
The pilot shook his large American head. Did all of the cow’s milk they drank make their heads expand?
“Wrong. We’ve spoken to him. He can serve as an assistant to a pilot, but on his own he cannot fly this plane, and he knows it. He will become what we call task-saturated within ten or fifteen minutes. That means he will not be able to keep up with all of the things he needs to do, he will lose control, and the plane will crash.”
There was a pause. Omar said nothing.
Malik was only supposed to talk to them enough to know what was going on. He was not supposed to share any information about his skill level. Apparently, he had told them a great deal about his abilities.
He looked at Malik. Malik stared stonily forward.
“What else have you told them?” he said in Arabic.
Malik shook his head. “I’ve told them nothing.”
“I’ve seen cases,” the pilot said, “where a task-saturated pilot at night becomes so lost in the dark he doesn’t know his own altitude seconds before he hits the ground.”
Omar let the gun slowly sink until it was pointed at the floor.
“We’re all here to die,” he said. “Remember that. I will let you know when I’m ready to commence refueling.”
He left the cockpit and stalked down the narrow stairway to the passenger level.
* * *
Hassan stepped back into the conference room.
“Siddiq,” he hissed. “He’s coming.”
Siddiq shook his head. Just as things were getting interesting in here, Omar chose to return. He pulled the shotgun away from the woman’s face. Now he held it lightly, cradling it. It was pointed at the floor, but he could easily raise it again in case of a threat.
Now he could just be standing guard, reasonably alert.
He looked at the President of the United States, who was still standing. He smiled at the old man and put a finger to his lips as if shushing him.
Then he looked at the young girl again. Her blue eyes seemed to follow his every move. He could hear Omar’s footsteps coming down the hallway.
“Next time,” Siddiq told everyone in the room, “when he leaves again, we will all have our fun.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
October 16
6:15 a.m. West Africa Time
(8:15 a.m. East Africa Time)
(1:15 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
Aboard the KC-135 Stratotanker
The Skies Above West Africa
“I kid you not, this plane was built in 1957,” Mac said. “They don’t make ’em like this anymore. Forty-eight years in the air, and I’d bet it can go another twenty.”
“Whose plane is it?” Luke said.
Luke was curious about who they were flying with. Major Henrick had claimed it was Joint Special Operations Command, but Luke had his doubts about that. JSOC tended to get the latest toys, not decrepit leftovers from an earlier age.
Mac shrugged. “It’s nobody’s plane. In reality, when push comes to shove, there is no plane. These old planes become obsolete, fall out of commission. You can’t get parts for them. Maintenance issues. Inventory problems. Paperwork errors. Where’s that old airplane? It must have been scrapped at some point.”
He looked back at them and grinned.
“You know how that goes.”
He had told them to call him Mac. That was it. No rank, no first name, no last name.
“Call me Mac.”
He was the boom operator on the refueling plane. Luke, Ed, and Deckers stood behind him while he sat at his instrument panel. He was looking through a window at the dark night, and they were seeing what he saw. A blinking light beneath the plane cast crazy shadows.
His face and body were chubby, not military at all. He wore a battered sand-colored camouflage uniform with no markings on it. He wore a headset with earphones and microphone. The headset sat perched on top of a green baseball hat.
The hat read St. John, USVI: 1493
Mac was giving them the condensed version of the mid-air refueling elevator pitch.
“We could actually refuel at about 335 knots, which is about 385 miles per hour to you guys. But since you’re going to be out there wing-walking, or whatever, what we’re going to do instead is have them slow down to just above stall speed. The stall speed for a plane like Air Force One is in the one hundred twenty-five to one-sixty-five mile per hour range. To be safe, we’re going to fly around one-eighty to two hundred miles per hour. Much slower than three-eighty-five, but still pretty darn fast. You guys sure you’re up for that?”
“What choice do we have?” Luke nearly said, but didn’t.
“We’re up for it,” Deckers said.
Ed said nothing.
Mac moved his control stick. He hit a switch.
“Let’s put a little light on the subject.”
Outside the window, the night lit up in a bleak and eerie night vision green. Below them, a long boom came into view. It had two small airfoils in a V-tail configuration. As they watched, the boom lowered and then trailed behind and below the plane.
“I control the boom with the joystick,” Mac said. “The V-tail makes it aerodynamic and gives me that control. Otherwise, it would just be flapping all over the place out there. Not good. There’s a pipe inside the boom that transfers fuel, in this case, about a thousand gallons per minute. The fuel pipe ends in a nozzle with a flexible ball joint. The boom is also gimballed on our end. The two combined give the boom lots of freedom of movement, even while the two planes are mated. Clear so far?”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
Mac nodded. “Now, he’s got to stay inside my air refueling envelope. There’s room to move, but only inside of a certain box.” He made a square with his hands in the air. “If he decides to move outside that box, it becomes unsafe for both of us, and I have to decouple and let him go. Normally, this isn’t an issue, but in this case it could be, if the bad guys catch wise to what’s going on.”
He looked at them seriously. “We know those are Air Force pilots flying that plane right now, and that’s good. But we also know the bad guys are in the cockpit with them. When you men slide down that boom, you’re going to go right past them and hit the nose of the aircraft. They might see it happen, depending on visibility. But they’re definitely going to hear it.”
He laughed.
“Depending on how fast you’re sliding, they might even hear you splatter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
2:50 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time
(9:50 a.m. East Africa Time)
The Oval Office
The White House, Washington DC
“Who are you?”
Thomas Hayes had opened his eyes to see a young man standing over him.
The man was slim, with a boyish face and hair that was already thinning on top. From this angle it was hard to tell, but it appeared he was not tall. He looked fresh and alert, and wore a three-piece suit. His tie was not askew. His shirt was not unbuttoned at the collar, and his sleeves were not rolled up. In fact, he was still wearing the jacket.
“Sir, I’m David Halstram. I’m a West Wing staff member.”
Hayes looked around.
The lights of the Oval Office were dimmed, but not out. The heavy drapes behind the Resolute Desk were drawn. He was lying on a long red and white sofa. Someone had given him a pillow and draped a small gray blanket over him. On the floor near his head was the Seal of the President of the United States. The carpet in here was a dark blue. Hayes liked that color.
Two large Secret Service men stood by the door out to the hallway. Their faces were stern and impassive. They were there when Hayes had first lain down. They had probably stood there the entire time while he was asleep.
Security was tight. He had talked to his wife, Carol, earlier. She was at the Naval Observatory, where they lived, and where Thomas Hayes would normally be at this hour. She said it was like an armed encampment.
That was good. She and the kids were safe.
“What time is it?” Hayes said to the young man, David Halstram.
“A little after three a.m.”
“Is there an emergency?”
Hayes realized what a silly question it was as soon as it left his mouth. Of course there was an emergency. What he wanted to know was whether the emergency had gotten any worse during his nap.
Halstram understood this intuitively.
“No, sir. Everything is quiet right now. A skeleton crew has been monitoring events down in the Situation Room. Air Force One has been traveling across Africa through the night, along with its complement of fighter jets and troop transports. There was a brief communication where the pilots said they had been fed from the galley and given coffee. There was some concern about the fuel reserves on the plane, and the hijackers have agreed to a mid-air refueling. A refueling tanker plane has been dispatched to the area, but the refueling itself hasn’t taken place yet.”
“Have the terrorists revealed their destination?” Hayes said.
“No, sir.”
Hayes shifted his body and sat up on the sofa. His shoes were on the carpet. There was an identical sofa across an engraved metal coffee table from him. His jacket and tie from yesterday were draped over that sofa.
He did not remember falling asleep.
“In that case, what can I do for you, David?”
“Sir, if the refueling is to take place, it must happen within the next hour or so. General Stark felt you would want to be awake and in attendance for that, in case events unfold in an unpredictable manner.”
Hayes nodded. If the plane crashed, or blew up, or they suddenly jettisoned Clement Dixon, Thomas Hayes would need to be available to take the Oath of Office. Next man up, as it were.
“A courier has brought you three suits and an array of dress shirts and ties from the Naval Observatory, picked out by Mrs. Hayes. There is an executive suite bedroom and bathroom ready for you in the East Wing, along with razor, toothbrush, deodorant, and whatever other personal items you might need so you can prepare for the day ahead. The chef and his staff can have a full egg breakfast ready for you in twenty minutes. I left a hot pot of coffee with some pastries outside the door, and can bring them in if you like.”
This Halstram character was efficient, give him that.
Hayes rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was not looking forward to this day. But he had no choice. The horror of this had to be faced, and he was the one who must face it.
He glanced up at Halstram again. The guy was like a puppy dog, waiting for Hayes to throw a stick.
“Do you live at the White House, David?”
Halstram was clearly confused by the question. “Sir?”
“Do you live here, in this building?”
“No, sir. I live near Dupont Circle.”
“Well, you look fresh as a daisy for three in the morning. You seem right at home. Made me think you might even live here.”
Halstram smiled. “Mr. Vice President, I’ve never wanted to work anywhere else. I come in early and stay late. I love my job.”
Hayes nodded. It was time to dispense with the pleasantries and start waking up.
“Is bringing me that coffee you mentioned part of your job?”
Now Halstram’s smile was a broad grin. “It sure is.”
“Then do your job, son. Do your job.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
10:25 a.m. East Africa Time
(3:25 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
The Skies Above East Africa
“Omar,” Malik’s voice said. “They say we must refuel soon, or risk a crash.”
Omar opened his eyes. It was a long night, and he had been dozing lightly. Sleeping with one eye open, he used to call it when he was young. He was less concerned about the prisoners staging an uprising than he was about Siddiq creeping up on him with that sharp knife of his.
The prisoners were okay, as relaxed as they had been since the start of the trip.
Two hours ago, Hassan had gone to the main galley kitchen and had quickly made three pots of coffee, two for the conference room and one for the cockpit. He had also brought a hot chocolate drink, for those who preferred that. He had found sandwiches and various crumb cakes and other snacks, wrapped in cellophane packaging. He had brought those here and to the cockpit as well. No cooking was necessary.
In Omar’s experience people, prisoners especially, were calmer, happier, and more compliant when they were fed. These prisoners were no exception.
“Omar?”
Omar nodded and went to the intercom. He pressed the button.
“I will come.”
He looked at Siddiq and Hassan. They were both standing, both beginning to look tired themselves. They were young men, and to Omar’s mind, they shouldn’t tire so easily. But it had been a long night. Fortunately, it was almost over now.
If they lived, they would be heroes. And Omar would see to it that they received every honor they deserved. In the scheme of things, they had suffered a brief lapse in judgment. Two men had died. Compared to the lapse in judgment of the Secret Service agents in Haiti, what was it? Compared to the never-ending assault on Islamic countries by the Americans, what was it?
It was nothing.
“Behave yourselves,” he told them in Arabic.
He looked around the conference room. The prisoners were all seated at the table, each with at least two seats between them. That way they could not conspire together. It was probably not necessary. They looked like they had nothing left.
No conspiracy. No energy. No resistance. They would do as they were told, in the hope that it would help them survive.
There were empty coffee cups, plastic plates, and wrappers all over the table. Creamers, sugar packets. If there was one thing Omar hated, it was disorder. Disorder, lack of discipline, these things caused failure. Little things added up, multiplied suddenly, and became big things.
He looked directly at Siddiq. “And clean up this room. It’s a mess.”
He moved through the hallway past the presidential office and up the stairs to the cockpit level. He stepped to the doorway, instantly taken again by the array of instruments. But this time, also by the scene outside the windshield. The first hint of light was entering the sky. It was no longer pitch-black out there. Far ahead, he could see the tails of two small airplanes, likely jet fighters, one to the left and one to the right.
The pilots had finished their coffee and their snacks, then taken all of their refuse and stuffed it into a plastic bag, which was outside the cockpit doorway. See? They were soldiers and understood the need for order. In another life, perhaps he and the American pilots would find common ground.
“Where is the refueling plane?” Omar said.
The older pilot pointed through the windshield and up.
“Above our heads. If you step closer, you will see it.”
Omar stepped in, leaned over, and looked up through the windshield. He wasn’t the least bit wary. If the pilots tried to overwhelm him, Malik would simply call downstairs and give the order to kill the President.
The tanker was above them, perhaps a thousand feet up and a little ahead. It was a drab, olive green. Omar couldn’t see the extent of it, or any obvious markings. Shreds of clouds were skidding by, obscuring his vision and causing a slight bounce in the plane.
“Will he come closer?”
The pilot nodded. “He has instructed us to drop to eight thousand feet and slow our airspeed. We are gradually doing that.”
Omar didn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”
“Why what? Why do it gradually?”
Omar spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Why do it at all? Why is it necessary to lower altitude and slow the plane?”
The big pilot shrugged. “When you refuel in the air, it’s the refueling pilot’s call. We just do what he tells us to do. Could be that’s an older plane. The older ones used to refuel at lower altitudes and slower speeds than the modern ones.”
