Primary Target (1999) (8 page)

Ramazani leaned back and smiled in his cynical way. The feckless infidels are about to have their "civilized" lifestyles explode in their faces.

Fort Wort
h
After landing at Meacham International, Khaliq Farkas had the gleaming Citation filled with jet fuel, then borrowed a courtesy car from the fixed-base operator. On the way to the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, he checked into the Holiday Inn on Meacham Boulevard, then called American Airlines to find out the departure gate for his flight.

Pleased with himself, he shaved and changed into an airline pilot's uniform. Complete with an ID badge and a chart case, Farkas was now American Airlines Captain Manuel Gervasio.

A half hour later Farkas was parked near a security entrance to DFW. When a catering truck appeared in his rearview mirror, he stepped out of the car and flagged down the driver.

"Son, my car quit, and I'm running late for my flight," Farkas said without a trace of an accent. "Would you mind dropping me off at my gate?"

The pimply-faced young man hesitated. "Captain, we're not supposed to allow anyone in the trucks when we're making--"

"I understand," Farkas interrupted with a radiant smile as he handed the driver a folded $100 bill. "I won't say anything, but I have to make my flight. Let's get going."

"Uh, okay," the wide-eyed youngster uttered as Farkas grabbed his chart case and climbed into the passenger seat. "You saved the day." Farkas beamed.

Chapter
8

The White House
.

The mood was somber when President Macklin walked into the basement Situation Room to join Pete Adair, his secretary of defense. Neither man smiled as they exchanged perfunctory greetings.

The chief executive was tall and thin, with a prominent nose, perfectly coiffed gray hair, and deeply set blue eyes. Impeccably attired in a dark gray suit, custom-tailored white shirt, maroon tie, and highly polished black leather shoes, Cord Macklin looked the part of the consummate politician. Like many ambitious men before him, he had coveted the highest political office in the land.

Boisterous and stubborn-natured, the former F-105 Thunderchief pilot was one tough customer. He was also a highly decorated survivor of the Vietnam War. While flying a Route Pack Six mission to Downtown Hanoi, First Lieutenant Macklin had been forced to eject from his "Thud" when it was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. After a splash landing in a rice paddy near a small village, he evaded his angry pursuers for three days before a gutsy Jolly Green helicopter pilot saved him from an extended stay in the Hanoi Hilton. Behind his tortoiseshell spectacles, Macklin's eyes were red and irritated. He politely dismissed two Secret Service agents and sat down at the head of the wide conference table.

The president motioned for Adair to have a seat near him. "What's the latest on the Tomcat--any sign of the crew?" "Yessir." There was a telling hesitation. -Their bodies were recovered about two hours ago."

Saddened by the mysterious accident, Macklin said quietly. "Have the families been notified?"

"Yes, sir. About half an hour ago."

The president nodded as he went through the ritual of lighting a maduro cigar. "I want to call them later this evening."

"I'll make the arrangements."

"Do you have a salvage team out there?" Macklin took a deep drag from his prized Onyx.

"They're en route, and we've dispatched two ships to secure the area around the crash site. They're the ones who recovered the bodies, and they've also recovered quite a bit of floating debris."

"I want you to stay on top of this, Pete," the president insisted. "If it was hit by a missile, it's an act of war."

"I understand, sir."

Born on a small farm in the Oklahoma Panhandle, Peter McEntire Adair was an island of integrity and honesty in a sea of lickspittles. An ex-Green Beret captain and former bull rider, Adair enjoyed high-stakes poker and skeet shooting. Stocky and in excellent physical shape for his fifty-five years, Adair's friendly personality and boundless enthusiasm crackled like a lightning storm.

Adair glanced at the detailed map displays of Iran and the other Persian Gulf states. Numerous intelligence sources in the region were convinced that Israel had become so vulnerable that the Muslim world was planning its destruction. The only thing standing in the way was the 5th Fleet and other U
. S
. military forces in the Gulf region.

SecDef checked his wristwatch and frowned. "Well, the deadline is past and we haven't heard anything from Shakhar or his cronies."

"Let's pray that cooler heads prevailed."

Adair was nervous and it showed in his eyes. "Prost and Chalmers should be here anytime." He glanced at the empty chair normally occupied by Praiser Wyman, Macklin's chief of staff. "Where's Praiser?"

"Reduperating from oral surgery."

Clasping his fingers together, Adair stared at his briefing folder. For the first time since he'd accepted his position as secretary of defense, he was facing an imminent threat from the premier state sponsor of international terrorism--a sponsor who now had Russian-made supersonic antiship missiles and nuclear-tipped missiles to augment its biological and chemical weapons.

In answer to the continued U
. S
. military buildup in the Gulf, the Iranian Supreme Council for National Defense had quadrupled Iran's long-range surface-to-air rocket sites and surface-to-surface missile pads. Provided by a leading Swiss armament company, Oerlikon-Contraves AG, the top-line weapons posed serious threats to shipping and air traffic in the Gulf region.

Many scholars and analysts were convinced that Iran planned to take control of the Persian Gulf, now referred to as the Arabian Gulf, so it could blackmail the West. At the U
. S
. Naval War College, the annual war games featured Iran--not Baghdad--as the number one menace among potential adversaries.

Arriving by helicopter from Andrews Air Force Base, Hartwell Prost walked into the Situation Room and gave the president a thumbs-up. No handshakes were proffered while the president and Pete Adair exchanged pleasantries with the national security adviser.

"Dalton is onboard," Prost announced triumphantly. "But we have to be conservative about our expectations. They're taking a hell of a risk."

"I understand," Macklin declared, experiencing a moment of concern. "Just make sure they have all the support we can give them."

"I've got it covered."

"Good," Macklin said as Prost sat down.

Following on the heels of Prost, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, Air Force General Lester Chalmers, entered the quiet room. During his first tour at the Pentagon, Chalmers had developed the ability to absorb a series of questions and extemporize rational answers that addressed each subject.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President."

"Have a seat, Les."

"Yes, sir."

The tanned, athletic-looking general had twinkling hazel eyes that squinted through narrow slits. His cheekbones were pronounced and wide, with thin lines etched down his cheeks. A full head of close-cropped gray hair and a slow smile added to his handsome features. An even-tempered man who seldom made a political blunder, General "Lucky" Les Chalmers was the embodiment of a senior military leader. He was also a former classmate of cadet "Cordy" Macklin. They had attended the Air Force Academy together. The president studied the men's faces before he spoke. "The first item of business is the ultimatum from Shakhar." Macklin switched his focus to Pete Adair. "From the day he issued his threat, I've made it clear that we have no intention of removing our military presence in the Gulf. With that in mind, I don't think we should underestimate him. Even though his first deadline has passed, we may get another one--we need to be extremely cautious, and we need to be prepared for any contingency."

When he faced the president, Adair was dead serious. "I have every confidence in our military leadership."

Macklin glanced at Chalmers, then turned to Prost. "Hartwell, what are we doing about overall security?"

Prost glanced at his notes. "All government agencies--plus our foreign embassies in the Middle East and Indian subcontinent--have been ordered to take increased security measures. The FBI is sending additional undercover agents to every major airport in the United States, including Alaska and Hawaii."

Tired from his trip, Prost spoke in hushed words. "Every airline that flies to U
. S
. locations has been informed of the terrorist threat, and the FAA is on notice. Our airports are at Level Three now, so unattended vehicles are being towed to inspection points, unattended bags are being confiscated, and passengers must show proper IDs and answer questions about their luggage. As you know, all baggage is being matched to the boarded passengers."

"What about more police patrols?" Macklin asked. "They're working on it as of this morning," Prost said, then added, "The FBI is coordinating their efforts with loca
l
law enforcement agencies to patrol airports and to search warehouses--anything suspicious--for biological and chemical agents. We're taking every step that we feel is necessary to preserve the safety of our citizens, both domestically and abroad. And, the FBI is working with the Immigration and Naturalization Service to investigate Iranian students who are attending school here. They plan to expel any suspicious diplomats or students."

Prost paused, then turned to face Chalmers. "Do you have anything to add, General?"

"No, sir," he replied. "Our forces are still being mobilized."

Although Cord Macklin appeared to be calm and unconcerned, inside he was nervous. Possessing the ego of a fighter pilot who now presided over the lone superpower, he didn't want to discuss the threat of assassination. It simply wasn't good form. Satisfied for the moment, he took a long drag on his cigar and slowly exhaled.

"Gentlemen," Macklin began slowly, "the next item on the agenda has to do with the question of Iran's recent emergence as a nuclear player. Moscow's fingerprints are all over this development, including the Russian Space Agency and the Central Aerohydrodynamic Institute. I want your input, and don't pull any punches."

Silence filled the room.

Pete Adair was the first to breach the void. "We all know the Russian foreign minister is openly anti-American. He has demonstrated that he will do anything to elevate Russia on the world stage. I think Moscow and Tehran are betting we won't cross the 'Mogadishu Line.' "

Prost removed his glasses and quietly nodded in agreement. "They're taunting us," he said in his clipped eastern accent. "After watching third-rate powers stand up to us, they're convinced we don't have the stomach for boots-inthe-mud warfare."

The chief executive narrowly eyed Prost, then spoke slowly. "They--the powers in Moscow and Tehran--figure we're too squeamish to do anything unilaterally, especially if it means taking casualties and getting bad press?"

"That's a reasonable inference," Prost said, with the confidence of a man who was accustomed to being the mos
t
intelligent person in a room. "They've closely watched us since Desert Fox and the Kosovo crisis. They honestly don't believe we would undertake a military action that risks more than a few lives, or a few thousand cruise missiles and bombs."

Pete Adair felt a sudden tenseness. "They know our military is half the strength it was during the Gulf War, and, they know we're stretched mighty thin. They figure there's no way we'll go it alone."

"What's your inclination?" the president turned and asked Adair. "Do we rely on ourselves to destroy their nukes, or do we try to build an alliance to work with us?"

SecDef paused a moment, combing his fingers through his rumpled hair. "In my judgment," Adair said reluctantly, "we have to deal with the problem. Our NATO allies and Arab friends have gone soft on us, and we don't have time to play games with the UN or NATO."

The president eyed Prost. "What do you think?"

"I agree," Hartwell declared. "Because of their business ties to Iran, some of our allies want to offer more incentives to the Iranians. They simply don't want to face the fact that Tehran has no moral compunction against using any type of weapon, including nukes."

Macklin quietly nodded.

"Hell," Prost went on, "we've tried to work with the Security Council. We've-encouraged other countries to increase diplomatic and economic pressure on Iran, and we all know it's been a pitiful failure. All it's done is cause a tremendous backlash. The Arab nations believe that we use the 'dual containment' of Iraq-Iran as a way to reinforce our position as a superpower."

Hartwell paused for his message to have an impact. "Sanctions aren't going to solve this problem. They just provoke the power structure in Tehran and make them more intransigent. We're going to have to stand up to Iran, like we did to Iraq in Desert Storm."

There was a moment of hesitation while all eyes were on Prost.

"I may be wrong," Hartwell's voice resonated, "but I don't think anyone else is going to dive into this snake pit with us. We're going to have to be sensitive to our allies and ou
r
Arab friends, but in the end, we're going to have to swim up this river alone."