Primary Target (1999) (4 page)

En route to the airfield, Muhammud recalled the emotional pep talk their squadron commander had given the pilots. The infidels are going to have to face reality; the Islamic Republic of Iran will no longer tolerate the intrusive acts fomented by the president of the "capital of global arrogance." Today marks the emergence of a different, more powerful, more determined Iran.

Muhammud swelled with pride, knowing that he was the first of Iran's elite fighter pilots to strike a deadly blow to the Americans.

Chapter
4

Alaska
.

Scott Dalton stumbled sideways in the Kenai River when
a king salmon snagged his line. Thrashing wildly, th
e
powerful fish almost jerked the rod out of Scott's hands. He quickly found his footing and regained his balance while line screeched off the reel. This was Dalton's third attempt at landing a king salmon and he was determined not to let this one get away, especially not in front of his longtime friend and fishing buddy, Greg O'Donnell.

The former Marine Corps Harrier pilots had a standing wager. When they rendezvoused in Alaska for one of their fishing trips, whoever caught the first fish of the day enjoyed dinner at the expense of the loser, and the winner of the biggest fish of the day received free drinks for the evening. The traditional rivalry had been pretty much a wash thus far, with Dalton buying most of the drinks and O'Donnell paying for the majority of their dinners.

Enjoying the cool of early morning, Dalton fought the fish and stole a glance at O'Donnell's king salmon lying on the edge of the riverbank. The gleaming trophy was a rare beauty that Scott figured would tip the scales at 40 to 45 pounds. He looked at the sun rising over the picturesque river, then cast a look at a moose and her calf. He decided that life couldn't get any better. The day was in glorious bloom, th
e
birds were trilling, and the salmon fishing promised to live up to the reputation of the Kenai River.

The descendant of a disciplined Confederate general, and the son of a hard-charging Vietnam-era Marine Corps brigadier general, Scott Johnston Dalton was a strapping native of Nashville, Tennessee. Broad-shouldered and strong-willed, Dalton was an intelligent, intense man who had learned to take time out for a few of life's pleasures. He enjoyed flying aerobatics in his Great Lakes biplane and sailing his immaculate Morgan 33 around Chesapeake Bay. At six feet even, with dark hair, he was ruggedly handsome and had startling blue eyes that exuded charm and wit.

A three-year varsity quarterback for the "Commodores" of Vanderbilt University, Scott had been Greg O'Donnell's flight leader during a number of combat missions in support of Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. When Captain Dalton's Harrier was shot down over southern Iraq, O'Donnell flew cover for him until an Army rescue helicopter could reach the injured pilot. Shortly after he returned to flying status, Scott made the difficult decision to leave the Marine Corps and pursue a different career.

Less than six months later he reported for initial training at the Central Intelligence Agency. During his first years at the Agency, he established a solid reputation for successfully completing the most complex and hazardous assignments. After he qualified as a counterterrorism-strike-force team leader, many of Scott's daring and courageous feats made him an instant legend in the CIA. As his reputation grew, the White House began calling on him to conduct special covert operations in various corners of the world.

Following several years of political infighting within the Agency, Scott elected to resign and start his own security consulting firm in the Crystal City complex near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. Specializing in corporate security measures, which many of his former associates knew was a sophisticated front, Dalton also accepted "sensitive" assignments for the Terrorism Warning Group within the Counterterrorist Center.

Reporting to the CIA director, the CTC was designed to bring all elements of the intelligence community together t
o
collect and analyze information about terrorist groups from all over the world.

In his role as a private citizen and consultant to international entrepreneurs, Scott could circumvent certain obstacles that might prove embarrassing to the White House or the Pentagon if one of his covert operations went awry. In addition, Scott's activities were not subject to the cumbersome congressional reporting requirements that accompany CIA-directed covert operations. Scott's assignments centered around one basic element of covert operations, no fingerprints and no headlines.

To that end, Greg O'Donnell often provided pilot services for Dalton's far-flung expeditions. The off-the-record excursions, sometimes as a jet captain and sometimes as a jump pilot, provided a sound financial base for Greg's Learjet charter service.

"Grab the net," Scott yelled as he waded farther into the rushing current. "This one weighs at least fifty pounds." "In your dreams." The stocky redhead laughed as he snatched the net and splashed into the swirling river. O'Donnell lost his balance and plunged forward into the frigid water. "Holy mother!" he said in a high-pitched voice. "I'm awake now."

"That's good, 'cause I need some help," Scott declared as he continually hefted the rod, then reeled down. "This guy is strong."

"Hang on." Greg laughed as he regained his footing. The battle continued while Scott desperately tried to maneuver the thrashing fish closer to shore. Finally, he waded toward the salmon until ice-cold water poured into his hip boots.

"Net him!" Scott gasped.

"I'm trying."

O'Donnell made two attempts at snaring the hefty fish before he stepped in a hole and had to swim back toward the muddy bank.

"Anytime you're ready!" Scott laughed while he struggled with his catch. "I hope there aren't any serious fishermen watching this."

O'Donnell lunged again and scooped the thrashing salmon into the net. With his thinning red hair plastered to his hea
d
and water gushing over the tops of his waders, the freckle-faced aviator proudly displayed the big fish. "Are you implying that I don't look like a professional outdoorsman?" "You look like Howdy Doody coming out of the rinse cycle."

Scott's comment was interrupted by the familiar whopwhop-whop-whop of a Sikorsky helicopter. Less than fifty seconds later an Air Force H-60 swooped low over them, then pulled up in a sweeping turn as the pilot circled to land near the riverbank.

O'Donnell studied the helo, then turned to his friend. "You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?"

Scott flashed his mischievous grin. "I'm always in trouble." Carrying the salmon toward the riverbank, O'Donnell shielded the bright sun from his eyes while he watched the helicopter descend. "Maybe they think we're lost."

"With a bright red Explorer parked on the road?" Scott asked with a chuckle. "Somehow, I don't think that's it." They watched as the Night Hawk slowed to a hover and settled into a small clearing by the edge of the river. A moment later Dalton saw two figures exit from the side door as the main rotor began winding down. He immediately recognized Hartwell Prost, his former boss at the Directorate of Operations. What the hell is he doing here, and who's the woman?

"Greg," Scott said in a barely audible voice, "I believe my vacation is about to come to an end."

Shifting his gaze to the strangers, O'Donnell's aqua-blue eyes widened. "Is that Hartwell Prost?"

"None other."

Greg raked an unruly cowlick from his forehead. "What's your guess?"

"I don't know, but it isn't good news," Dalton quietly replied. "My secretary wouldn't have told anyone where to locate me unless there was a major problem."

Prost and the young woman stopped on a rise, her arms on her hips while he waved to the two fishermen.

Returning the friendly gesture, Scott and Greg sloshed out of the river and met the couple on a gravelbar below the vegetation line.

The president's national security adviser had fatigue-
i
nduced bags under his olive-gray eyes and a firm set to his angular jaw. Medium in stature, Prost had wiry salt-andpepper hair and a warm, fatherly demeanor that made him look very professorial.

Born to a life of wealth and privilege, Hartwell Huntington Prost IV had eschewed a secure career in his family-owned investment empire. Instead, much to the dismay of his father, Hartwell joined the CIA after graduating with honors from Harvard Law.

Now a retired chief of the elite Directorate of Operations--known to insiders as "the DO"--Prost was still regarded as one of the most ingenious spymasters in the history of the Agency.

The attractive, darkly tanned woman was wearing a khaki jumpsuit that complemented her athletic figure. Allowing a hint of a smile, she made brief eye contact with Scott.

Interesting, Dalton thought as he gave her a friendly smile and casually checked her military-style name tag. In bold letters under a set of embossed Air Force wings was the name JACKIE SULLIVAN. The name and face seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember from where or when.

Although O'Donnell had met Prost on two previous occasions, introductions were quickly exchanged. Since Greg was not "officially" in the loop, Jackie glanced at Dalton to see how he was going to handle the situation.

Diplomatically, Scott smiled at his friend. "Greg, why don't you take the Explorer back to the cabin. I'll catch a ride in the helo."

"Sure," the friendly man replied with disguised relief, then turned to the visitors. "If you have time, stop by for some fresh salmon."

After Prost and Sullivan thanked him for the invitation, O'Donnell lugged the two large fish away while the trio walked to a log at the edge of the gravel bar. A tense, restless energy filled the air, the strain showing on Frost's face. "Your secretary"--Prost quietly chuckled--"is a very cautious woman."

Scott struggled to wipe the grin off his face. "She's, ah ... what I would describe as mission-oriented."

"A former Marine, huh?"

"Through and through."

"That's what I thought."

Once they were seated, Prost cast a glance down the serpentine river, then turned to Dalton and apologized. "Well," he began, and raised his voice a little, "I sure know how to ruin a perfect day for fishing."

Displaying an understanding smile, Scott overcame the awkward moment. "Don't worry about it. What's up?" "Iran," Prost said contemptuously. "It looks like they may have shot down a Tomcat--a TARPS bird."

Scott's smooth face, chiseled in strong, clean lines, was devoid of expression. "What about the crew?"

"We don't know anything yet. They just disappeared into thin air, no Mayday or anything that--" Prost paused in mid-sentence. "At any rate, that's not what I came here to see you about."

Prost turned sideways and threw a leg over the log. "Before we discuss why I'm here, maybe I should bring you up to date on the Iranian situation. We--actually the Agency and the State Department--have irrefutable evidence that Tehran has a stockpile of nuclear-tipped missiles; and Russia's fingerprints are all over the warheads."

Casting a quick look at Sullivan, Scott paused a moment. Where have I seen her? "How'd they confirm it?"

Prost allowed a slight smile of satisfaction to spread across his face. "One of Sandia's remote monitoring systems detected a breach in security at a nuclear weapons storage vault near Moscow. When our people arrived, they found fourteen nuclear warheads missing. They also discovered that the arsenal was being guarded by a group of homeless, desperate soldiers.

"The soldiers, including the officer in charge, were moonlighting at menial jobs and foraging for their basic necessities. They hadn't been paid for three months, so they turned their heads and pocketed enough money to keep them going for a while."

Prost gazed at the river. "To no one's surprise, the senior officers and bureaucrats who were behind the theft had taken their payoff and were long gone. Our friends at Sandia said it had to have been an inside job."

"That seems to be happening on a regular basis," Scott said lightly. "We're going to see a number of 'rogue' countries with nuclear weapons in the near future."

"I'm afraid you're right," Prost admitted. "Less than four days later the Agency traced the weapons to Taganrog." "On the coast of the Sea of AzoV?" Scott asked.

"That's right," Jackie interjected with an air of confidence. "The place has become a magnet for weapons exporters, and a clearinghouse for Russian scientists and engineers who have the ability to construct nuclear weapons."

Dalton's quick glance studied the sparkle in her eyes, quietly sizing her up while he focused his attention on Prost. "At any rate," Prost continued. "One of our informants spotted the truck carrying the warheads when it entered the ship repair yards. A few hours later we had an unmanned aerial vehicle monitoring the stolen weapons. Shortly after midnight, the warheads were loaded on a small cargo ship which sailed with the tide."

"Russian?" Scott asked.

"You guessed it," Prost confirmed with a frown. "The Agency stayed on top of the situation until the Vasily Proshkinov left the Black Sea and entered the Bosporus Strait. Between the flotilla of fishing boats, oil tankers, cargo vessels, and the fog, the ship simply vanished, or so it seemed to the Agency."