The Screaming Eagles (21 page)

At six thirty-five, when everyone was seated, he would enter the small bathroom alongside the dining room, close the door, and activate the detonator. Everyone would be killed. The massive explosion would injure him but only slightly, for the walls of the bathroom were reinforced when they were built a year ago. He would be the only survivor, so it was necessary that he, be slightly injured?that way, no one would suspect him of killing everyone at the celebration breakfast.

Nervously chewing his lower lip, Michael watched the speedometer hovering at just under a hundred miles an hour as Perry maneuvered the Buick, bucking crazily and careening from side to side on the narrow shoulder of the Kennedy Expressway, reserved for police and emergency vehicles. The siren screamed its high-pitched wail, warning motorists to get out of the way. He expected that some car would do something stupid and turn into the forbidden lane Perry was driving in.

The car continued to gather speed. Expecting the worst, Michael was positive they’d be involved in an accident as he watched the narrowness of the road stretching out towards a slight curve about a mile ahead. The cars driving alongside the shoulder seemed to be far too close, barely missing them by inches, the motorists’ faces a blur of fright as the police car sped past. Concentrating fiercely on the road ahead, Perry wasn’t aware of Michael’s left hand holding down his seat belt, making sure it was in a locked position. The steady roar and low drone of the engine magnified the tick of the oscillating high beams revolving on the roof above them. He was amazed that they could hear anything above the noise of the siren.

Perry had activated the toggle switch to “yelp,” which meant the siren was on automatic and didn’t have to be manually operated. Talking into the radio tersely, Perry alerted O’Hare they’d be stopping at departures. He requested that they notify all law enforcement in the area that he and a member of his staff were armed and in civilian casual clothing. They were on a Code Red Alert and were making there way into United Global departure gates.

“We’re not in uniform and if security sees us come running in, we could quite easily be shot. Security at all our major airports is a fucking joke. You want to send a bomb onto a plane Michael, just stop off at the skycap at curbside, give him your ticket and he’ll send your suitcase through to any plane without it being scanned. The security people that x-ray your hand luggage are paid six dollars an hour, less than the fast food chains pay their temporaries. They’re only given eight hours training and are expected to guard without any experience. Oh, and if they find a gun, they’re given a twenty-five dollar reward.

Years ago, United Global hired an Israeli security expert to find out how vulnerable they were. His report was not made public because Congress was afraid that if it was, the country would panic and refuse to fly.”

Not taking his eyes off the road, Michael said. “In Israel we brought in those measures after the first hijacking of an El Al plane in the ‘70’s. The people not the politicians forced the government to institute legislation that if any country would not allow us to have our own security personnel check the passengers, El Al would not land at that airport. Even today, Israeli security guards check all passengers that fly El Al and we have plain clothes teams on every flight.”

Concentrating intently, grim faced and leaning slightly forward as he steered, Perry said, “The FAA occasionally does check security at airports by putting revolvers, plastique and hand grenades through the x-rays. Every failure costs an airline ten thousand dollars in fines. Last year the airlines failed 557 times. Can you imagine 557 potential catastrophes? Passengers should be wetting their pants every time they walk into an airport, let alone on a plane. Congress should be yelling and screaming. Groups should be on TV, demonstrating, disrupting, coming out on strike, anything. But guess what? Sweet nothing, sweet fucking nothing. U.S. airports are time bombs waiting around without any protection. They’re open targets, open season for any crazy person, angry person, lunatic fringe group or terrorists like these fucking Iranians. Just wait until the white supremacist militias find that of all public transportation per capita passenger count, the airports are the easiest targets.”

Perry slowed, then slammed on his brakes as they entered the main United Global Departures concourse. The smell of burning rubber wafted into the Buick as they swerved and shuddered to a stop.

They stopped in the middle lane. As they leaped out, Michael noticed that Perry had left the key in the ignition. He was about to say something, then realized that this way some patrolman could move the car. Michael ran after him, trying desperately to keep up. Perry held his badge and walkie-talkie in his left hand, right hand free so that he could get to his gun. The previous night he’d confided to Michael that all Subversives used Glazer Safety Bullets that contained small lead projectiles and powdered Teflon. On impact the bullet did tremendous damage because it was flat, not pointed. It didn’t ricochet, as it was designed for stopping power, not for going through walls. Its range was only about 75 feet.

People scattered, shouted and cursed them, but they continued to run bumping into those who couldn’t get out the way in time. Finally, they got to the escalators.

Perry stopped, got onto the first step and stood, casually taking in short breaths, as the escalator moved them downward. Breathing in deeply he said, “C-16 is at the bottom. Be cool. We don’t want to alert them.”

Smoothly and electronically, the metal hummed and creaked as they descended. Eventually, Gate C-16 came into view. At the bottom, Perry walked to the opposite sitting area of C-17 where they sat down. Passengers in C-16 were overflowing out into the walkway. Two lines of people holding hand luggage and suitcases on shoulder straps or wheels were waiting for boarding passes. Children running, playing, laughing or crying exasperated those sitting near them trying to work on laptops or read their newspapers. Luggage, carryalls, carry-on and plastic bags littered the floor. C-16 was normal. No Iranians were in sight.

“Fly the Skies” posters beckoned all to Hawaii, San Francisco, Tokyo or New York. Michael was able to immediately recognize seven of the undercover agents. Perry had introduced two of them, Janie and Craig, as his senior assistants. They were sitting together, a husband and wife traveling on vacation with large Phoenix Arizona duty free plastic bags lying at their feet. Craig was eating an ice cream, Janie, an apple. Michael was sure that their weapons lay in the plastic bags at their feet.

Two were businessmen with briefcases, another was a flight attendant holding an overnight bag, standing near the door. The man in a wheelchair also had an overnight bag on his knees, as did his wife sitting next to him. They were scattered in different sections of the hall, blending in perfectly, camouflaged and lost within the mass of people and travelers.

“Can you see the Iranians?”

“Nope.”

“Start on the left. Walk up as if you’re looking for someone. Look at every row. As soon as you see one, put your hand in your trouser pocket and walk back to me. Don’t look at him or make eye contact. Just continue walking and looking around, O.K.?”

Michael got up and walked to the end of the hall, staring down the rows. He stared at a man with a beard and decided he was too short. Three Hasidim were standing praying on one side. They too had beards but were also too short. Row after row, he saw nobody. Returning, he sat next to Perry.

“They haven’t arrived yet. What about outside.”

“Six of our people are ground crew or baggage handlers. Two are on the plane posing as cleaners, and another two are loading food trays into the kitchens in case they come onto the plane dressed as crew or storm it from the tarmac. Where the hell are they?”

The ticket clerk welcomed all passengers to Flight 830, leaving for Phoenix at 12:18. “Boarding must be done through Gate C-16, and we will first begin boarding passengers in the back of the plane, as well as our first class and business class passengers. Passengers needing special assistance to board, or parents with small children, would you please proceed now. The rest will board within a few minutes. So as to speed up boarding, please detach your boarding card from your ticket folder and have it ready. We thank you for flying United Global and look forward to seeing you again soon.”

Perry was standing, uncertainty on his face. “Where in the hell are they?”

“Perry, the tape said specifically United 12:38 p.m. This flight is leaving twenty minutes early. Let’s look to see if there’s another United flying at 12:38.”

“Dani checked. This is the closest. The next was 1:05 p.m.”

Michael walked to the TV monitors. Something wasn’t right. They’d been too specific. He saw the departures. Perry was right. Puzzled, the corner of his eye caught 12:30, but it was the arrivals monitor. Seconds slowly went by. His brain just as slowly responded. Then suddenly he knew now where to find the Iranians.

“Perry, Perry, quick.” Michael pointed to the monitor. “Look, Arrivals 12:38 from London. Flying in from overseas, it must be a jumbo. We’ve got to get to the international arrivals.” “You’re right. Holy shit. Let’s go.”

They ran to the up escalator. Perry pulled out his walkie-talkie. “Blatt, head of terrorist task force here. Security One, do you read me? Connect me immediately to the chief of airport security. Code Red Alert. Will meet him at international arrivals next to the elevator center. Repeat emergency. Code Red Alert.”

12:05 p.m.

Colonel Faud Khadi checked his forged Saudi Arabian pilot’s license, put it in his shirt pocket, and bent down to display the pamphlets neatly on the seat. Each pamphlet proclaimed Iran as the new leader of the world to all those who did not wish to live under the twin poisons of capitalist or communist regimes. He locked the car, pocketing the key, knowing he would never drive it again.

Lifting the heavy flight bags, one in each fist, Colonel Khadi walked toward the fixed base of operations building. He pushed the door with his shoulder marked F.B.O. It opened and he entered. The man behind the desk looked up, recognized his client and said, “Hello again Mr. Yamani. I’ve completed your paperwork. Just sign here.”

Carefully, Colonel Khadi set down the flight bags, walked to the desk and signed all the pages. He checked each copy, noting the third class medical certificate, temporary airman’s certificate, and his log book, which indicated how many hours he had flown, and in what type of planes.

“Excuse me, please, sir, Mr. Laurend-Doumba, but I do not find my receipt for the thousand dollars I give you as deposit.” “Sorry, Mr. Yamani, it’s here on the desk.” He shouted to his secretary, “Sheila give me the Simmons total receipt.”

Laurend-Doumba passed it to the man, once again noticing the four large moles above his left eyebrow, wondering again why he’d never had them removed. Maybe it was a holy sign or something, some sort of religious symbol. One could never tell with foreigners, especially the Middle Eastern types.

“I am giving you the same, single engine Cessna 182 you were tested on earlier this morning. That’s what you requested, right?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Laurend-Doumba. Thank you sir. I will return later this day at about sunset. Okay?”

“Fine, Mr. Yamani. See you then. Have a nice day and an enjoyable flight.”

*

Colonel Khadi felt the thrust of the engine jump as the Cessna purred effortlessly and lifted off Runway 10 from Schaumburg Airport. He had stacked both flight bags on a seat behind him, securing the dynamite with the seat belt and bungee cords. It was imperative to stop any movement of the bags due to turbulence or as the plane banked or turned. The dynamite was primed and ready to explode.

Gently he turned the U-shaped yoke left, feeling the ailerons respond. He glanced again at the fuel gauge, altimeter, turn, and bank indicator. The radio was positioned to the right of the center panel with a speaker above his head. He was cruising at 105 knots. At that speed he would arrive at the closest point to intercept United Global Airlines 747 jet in exactly four minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

Smiling confidently to himself, he knew that he only had five minutes and thirty-eight seconds to live. From the point of interception to the moment he would crash his plane into the 747 would be about sixty seconds. The 747 would be on its final approach course, traveling at about 130 knots per hour. With its air brakes extended and wheels down, it was at its most vulnerable, almost hovering, slowing down, ready to land. As it was about to touch down the plane, would resemble a large bird, its legs and wings extended.

He would be attacking with the sun behind him so they would have difficulty spotting him until it was too late. The traffic controller guiding the plane in to land could only give an approximation of where the danger was, so the 747 would be a helpless sitting duck. Depending on the alertness and skill of the pilot, the Jumbo would need a minimum of forty seconds before the plane could respond so as to abort the landing procedure and take evasive action. Colonel Khadi did not intend to give them sufficient time to evade him. It was critical not to attack too soon.

For months, he and his men had practiced this maneuver. Now they were experts, far more expert than the Japanese kamikazes had ever been. He glanced at his stopwatch again, which he had taped onto the panel directly in front of his eyes, so that he would not have to move his head to see the exact time. Colonel Khadi knew that all of the Screaming Eagles were now in the air pursuing their targets in designated cities in precisely the same manner. They were patriots, as he was. He loved them, for they shared this special bond, this special brotherhood. His heart was filled with pride. They were magnificent, his band of eagles, magnificent. All had about three minutes of life left on this earth.

Colonel Khadi’s thoughts were clear and euphoric. How many other people have the privilege of being able to decide where, when and how to die. Allah had blessed him. He wondered if at the moment of death that he would see the face of Allah. He also wondered if the passengers on the plane he was stalking would see the face of their gods at that same instant when both planes exploded.