The Fourth War (33 page)

Air Force One
Over Central Nebraska

Air Force One is far and away the most sophisticated passenger aircraft ever built. Though there are actually two identical aircraft—specially-configured Boeing 747-200B's, tail numbers 28000 and 29000—and though every sortie they fly is considered a military mission, the aircraft never carry the call sign “Air Force One” unless the president is aboard.

The four GE engines can power the aircraft almost eight thousand miles, with the option of air refueling giving it an unlimited range, while the crew of twenty-six chiefs, aides, stewards, security personnel, medical staff, and technicians make certain the president and his staff are always comfortable. With more than four-thousand square feet of cabin space, the aircraft is as spacious and comfortable as any executive suite. Beginning at the nose and moving aft, the planes feature a private stateroom for the president, with a small bedroom under the nose of the aircraft, a bathroom, office, workout room, lounge, and executive office suite. Opposite the presidential office is a medical room with a foldout operating table. A main conference room sits behind the infirmary, then small offices for the key staff. Further back are more work areas, another galley (the aircraft carries enough frozen food for thousands of meals), seating areas for Secret Service, then first-class seats for the passengers and press corps. On the third floor of the aircraft, directly behind the cockpit, is the communications and security center. With almost ninety telephones, many with secure voice and encryption, nineteen televisions, various satellite feeds, and ground-communication avionics, Air Force One supports every possible means of communication. The aircraft also incorporates incredibly sophisticated safety measures, including antimissile technology and radar jamming equipment.

Simply put, Air Force One, the safest aircraft on earth, was a fortified flying fortress and one of the few places on earth where the president felt secure and protected.

The aircraft was enroute to Boston, where the president would give a speech to the ambassadors from the EU. It was important to keep with his normal schedule, his staff had advised, afraid of creating a sense of immobilization or panic.

But the truth was they wanted to get the president and his family out of D.C. Just for awhile. Until things settled down.

As the aircraft flew north at thirty-seven thousand feet, the president sat on the edge of his bed, which was positioned at an angle, following the curve of the aircraft's nose, directly under the cockpit. There was another twin bed opposite him on which he had placed his briefcase and personal travel bag. He stared at his hands, lay back on the bed, glanced at the clock on the night stand, then sat up again.

The president felt a growing knot in his stomach. And with every hour that passed it grew a little tighter, a little larger, a little more difficult to ignore.

He stared at the blue carpet in his stateroom while listening to the sounds of the jet. The engines were so far behind him, and the aircraft was so well insulated, that it was almost quiet where he sat, though he could sense the wind moving over the enormous aircraft's nose, the slipstream creating a low
whoosh
that was a subtle and comforting sound.

Moving suddenly, the president made a decision. After days of consultation and consideration, he knew what he had to do. Leaning to his right, he pushed a button for his steward, and a middle-aged man poked his head in the room. “Will you please find General Abram and tell him I want to speak with him,” the president said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” the steward replied.

General Abram had hardly left the president's side since the DARKHORSE had been called, and it was only two minutes before he walked into the bedroom.

“Sir,” he said simply.

The president nodded to the opposite bed and the general sat down. He had never been this far forward in the presidential suite, and he felt uncomfortable in the presidential bedroom. Sitting stiffly, he kept his back straight and both feet on the floor.

“Sir?” he repeated as the president ran his hands through his hair.

“You know this thing could break wide open,” the president said.

The general shook his head. “We won't let that happen, sir.”

The president smiled bitterly. “It's funny you would say that. I've heard those exact words before.”

The general looked confused and the president explained. “Fourteen years ago this month we lost our first child. You might remember that, Lowe—”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“My son was only sixteen, out one night for a drive with some friends. He was hit almost head-on—I thank God all the time that it wasn't his fault—but none of them were wearing their seatbelts. How many times have we heard that before? But Lowe, I can remember so well the doctor talking to us before he took my son into surgery. ‘Is he going to die?' my wife asked him. ‘We won't let that happen,' he said. But you know what, Lowe, it did happen. Despite the fact that the doctors gave it an extraordinary effort, despite the fact that they did everything they could, it happened anyway. Sometimes life throws you a sucker punch, and it doesn't matter what you do, you have to take the blow.”

The general shook his head more adamantly. “No, sir, not this time. We're going to contain this before it goes any further.”

The president narrowed his eyes and placed his hands on his knees. “I don't need to review the situation for you, Lowe, and I don't need to tell you the danger we're in. But I want you to know this—let there be no doubt in your mind. If we are attacked, I will respond. And it won't be tit-for-tat, it won't be blood-for-blood. I won't trade one of our cities for just one of theirs. Overwhelming force has been our conventional-war-fighting doctrine for years, and the same doctrine must apply in a nuclear exchange. So Lowe, I need you to help make this perfectly clear—clear to the enemy and clear to our own staff. They might get in one shot, but that is all they will get, for my response will be so overwhelming there will be nothing left. There won't be a second strike against us. I won't give them a second chance.”

Lyangar Airfield
Southern Tajikistan

The sound of heavy footsteps filled the dark night, thug-booted stomps on the wood floors overhead that ran up and down the staircase and thumped down the hall. There were voices, loud voices, calling out in angry commands, and the sound of sliding metal as the soldiers chambered their rounds. The footsteps gathered in the hallway, then halted outside Bradley's door.

Col. Shane Bradley slowly rose in his prison. He gasped in pain from the beatings, but he forced himself straight and faced the cell door.

This was it. It was over. They were coming for him. He was scared. No, this was worse, he was utterly terrified. He felt like a child left alone in the night. He felt foolish and weak for having such fear. “No,” he breathed sadly. He was not ready to die.

“Keep your head, Bradley!” he commanded himself. “Be patient. Be ready. They haven't killed you yet! You're smarter than they are. They will make a mistake.”

His cell door burst open and four guards stood there, swinging their black clubs menacingly at their sides. Every face that stared at him wore a fierce, hateful scowl.

Bradley studied the guards. Something was wrong. He could sense it, he could feel it, he could see it in their eyes—a fear and uncertainty that had not been there before. He thought of the explosions he had heard earlier, a series of violent concussions that had shaken the old walls, dropping dust and wood splinters from the rafters overhead. He thought of the light tang of smoke that had drifted from the hall. He watched the guards and wondered, as Flat Ears took a step toward him. “Face the wall!” he said.

Bradley turned slowly. He heard the sound of footsteps, then a low, muffled sound, like a heavy sack being dragged across the floor. He heard more footsteps in the hallway, then the clang of another cell door. A soft cry sounded from the hallway and he started to turn.

“
Don't move!
” Flat Ears screamed and Bradley kept his eyes on the wall. The guards spoke to each other, then he heard his cell door close.

He turned around quickly, his eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness again. Then he gasped and ran forward, dropping to his knees.

Peter lay on the floor. He looked so beaten and broken, Bradley knew he was dead. His face was purple and black and dried blood caked his mouth, and his jacket was soaked from a thin slice across the back of his neck. Bradley stared for a moment, unable to move, a horrified look on his face. For a moment his mind flashed back. Peter looked like Tia, the same crumpled body, the same black and purple face. His heart sank and he turned away as a picture of her body flashed again in his mind.

“Oh no!” he moaned from somewhere deep in his chest. “Oh no…oh no…” His breath came in sobs. First Tia and now Peter. He cried in frustration, a hopeless catch in his throat.

He leaned over to feel for breath, placing his ear next to Peter's mouth, knowing he would feel nothing but the silence of the dead. He listened carefully, then closed his eyes and rolled a few feet away.

Then he heard a grunt and a cough. Peter opened his eyes and slowly lifted his head. Bradley pulled back and gasped as Peter smiled slyly and winked, then pushed himself up to his knees. Bradley thought he was dreaming. Had he gone insane! He moved away quickly, pushing himself to the wall, his mouth dropping open. “Peter!…you're alright! Peter…what's going on?”

Peter touched his lip, brushing the dried blood away. “I
knew
this would work!” he laughed with great pride.

Bradley reached out and stammered, “Lay down! You're injured. I thought you were dead!”

“I had to argue with Washington, but I
knew
this would work. Man, I'm telling you, I'm brilliant. I deserve some kind of medal for this.”

Bradley stared, then moved toward him, but Peter waved him off, brushing the dirt from his beard. “I'm fine, Shane, really. Isn't it cool. I thought of this gig myself. A couple surgical incisions—my medic helped me with that—some blood smears, some goo, and it looks pretty bad. It looks like I got knifed, but the cuts are barely skin deep. And the bruises are only purple dye injected under the skin. I look like I took a beating, but really, I'm okay.”

Peter held out his arms, then opened his shirt to examine his blackened chest. “Man, I might have overdone it,” he said as he surveyed the dark skin. “It looks like I hit a Mack truck. But it was the only plan I could come up with to find out if you were alive. I knew if I got myself captured they would bring me here. But I figured they wouldn't be nice, you know, I might get roughed up a bit. So I thought I would save them the effort. A pretty neat trick. They should add this to the field manual. Is this a great idea, or what?”

Bradley stared, disbelieving. “You let them find you!” he cried. “That's the dumbest thing I ever heard of. Do you have
any
idea what they might have done to you!”

Peter didn't answer and Bradley fell back again. “I thought you were dead!” he said, his face turning to ash. “I owe you,” he whispered.

“You can pay me in beer.” Peter studied the colonel and added, “It looks like you took a bit of a beating yourself.”

“I'll live,” Bradley insisted. He stared again at his friend. “Does Washington know you did this?”

“Officially, no. Unofficially, he's the one who told me how to mix colored dye to inject under my skin.” Peter's eyes darted across the cell. “Where's the other one?” he asked. “That pretty little captain you were with?”

Bradley shook his head slowly, an awful sense of failure descending on him. Peter watched Bradley's face and knew the other pilot was dead. He lowered his eyes, but didn't say anything.

Bradley gritted his teeth in frustration and pounded his fist. From the time his aircraft had taken off, not a thing had gone right! The mission. The warheads. His aircraft going down. Tia had depended on him, and look how he failed!

Then he thought of Angra and what he had done. “I want to kill him!” he muttered.

Peter stared blankly at him.

“I am
going
to kill him,” Bradley repeated.

“We're going to kill them all,” Peter said.

Peter stood up, moved to Bradley, and lowered his voice. “We don't have much time, boss,” he explained. “The B-2 has been destroyed and now these guys are scared. They think someone will be coming to look for the crew. I suspect the only thing they are debating is whether to kill us right now or get us up to the mountains where they can conceal our bodies. Either way it doesn't matter, we've got to get out of here.”

The colonel shook angrily. “I'm hoping you have a plan.”

Peter smiled wryly, then reached down and started unlacing his boots.

Chitral Valley
Twelve Kilometers from Lyangar Airfield

The Great Leader stood in the shadows of the old adobe building that concealed the entrance to the cavern. Night had settled over the valley and outside the sky was dark. Looking through the broken window, the leader could see to the east. The moon was rising, but had not yet topped the peaks of the tallest mountain, though its light illuminated the thin cirrus clouds that covered the eastern sky, turning them pale and white.

Beneath him, in the cavern, three technicians worked through their sweat. Each warhead was carefully extracted from its box and put on a metal stand. A blanket of composite fiber material, very difficult to get, impossible to buy, secretly built in a German factory near the northern port of Bremen, was wrapped around the warheads and heat-sealed with electric blowers. The material, a mixture of Mylar, Lenmex, and BHT, would absorb any leaking radiation, making the warheads virtually impossible to detect. After wrapping the warheads, they were then packed into nondescript but reinforced wooden crates.

Up top, outside the building, a convoy of three cargo trucks were waiting, hidden under the trees, their lights out, their engines at idle. One by one the cargo trucks, six-wheeled military vehicles with steel sides and drop-down gates, moved into position next to the back door of the building to be loaded. Eight crates were placed in each truck, a comfortable load.

The leader watched his men work until Imad Naghneyeh approached the commander and bowed. “
Sayid,
the trucks are ready,” he said. Outside, more trucks were falling into position to surround the vehicles with the nuclear warheads. Five were open-air troop carriers with fifteen soldiers in each. A couple others had canvas tops, hiding the floor-mounted machine guns. A total of nine trucks were lined up to escort the weapons through the pass.

The Great One pushed himself away from the shadows. All of his men were waiting, watching, hoping he might notice their efforts, hoping for a kind word, anxious to see that his will be done. The commander exited the building and walked past his soldiers, moving toward the first truck. Imad followed and the commander turned to him and asked, “How long to the pass?”

“Two hours. A little more. The roads north are muddy and it is snowing in the highest elevations. Once we get over the Pamir Pass and turn west, back into Tajikistan, the roads get a little better. We will also be descending and the weather will clear.”

“Will we make Khorugh by morning?”

“No doubt,
Sayid.
We will be there long before sunrise. Our entire journey will take place in the dark.”

The Great One pulled out a brown cigarette and lit it with a paper match. He drew deeply, holding the bitter smoke in his lungs, his face illuminated by the orange glow. “If we can make it to Khorugh, nothing can stop us,” the Great Leader said. “The teams are all waiting. Once we arrive with the weapons, they will quickly disperse. Then the Great Satan, with all of his eyes, even he will not find them all.”

Imad bowed again. “Yes,
Sayid.
And Allah, Gracious God, may he bless you for this great work you have done.”

The commander waited, smoking while he watched the high clouds moving across the night sky. He considered the events in his life that had brought him to this time and place. He placed his hands on the truck, wanting to touch the war-heads and feel their power.
One night!
That's all that he asked. One more night of concealment, and his work would be through. If he could deliver the warheads to Khorugh, his life's work would be done.

The Great One finished the smoke and leaned toward Imad. “You understand, my good friend, that you have the greatest mission of all,” he said in a low voice as he looked at his friend.

The lieutenant stood straight and the Great One watched his eyes carefully. “Tell me again,” the Great One said slowly. He didn't want to test him. He simply wanted to hear.

Imad began. “I will travel alone to southern Russia, crossing the border at Orsk. There I will meet Seleiman Khromtau. He will arrange to have the warhead shipped to Turkey, then Morocco, then via cargo ship to Canada. I will then fly to Quebec and meet up with Mohammad Kebul, who has already arranged for the boat in Quebec. From Canada, we sail south, down the coast, then into the Chesapeake Bay…”

The leader nodded in approval.

The lieutenant watched his leader, then went on. “We navigate up the Potomac to Washington, then, as we approach the center of the city…” Here his voice trailed off.

The leader listened peacefully, then placed his hand on Imad's arm. “And I will be waiting for you in the bosom of God.”

Imad nodded slowly. He would meet his reward.

The Great One took a breath, then glanced impatiently down the road. “Where is that animal you call Angra?” he asked.

Imad looked back and hunched his shoulders. Angra had gone back to finish the American prisoners and should have been back by now. “Do we wait?” he asked timidly.

The Great One shook his head as he climbed inside the truck. “Let's go,” he commanded. “He will find his way.”

The Leader nodded to the driver and he started the engine. With a chug of diesel smoke, the convoy began to roar up the muddy road.