Hostage Page 4

  "And so we were successful?"

  "Our sniper reports contact with the target. At least some target. The Americans are claiming we shot some college girl bearing a description similar to that of Colcernian."

  "Ha!" A wide grin crawled across al-Akhma's face as he removed his turban and handed it to one of his servants. "You believe the Americans?"

  "I don't know, Leader." Abdur removed his turban. "Colcernian is unaccounted for. And so is Brewer. It is possible that we got one, or both, and the Americans haven't announced it."

  "Hmm." Al-Akhma scratched his scruffy black goatee. "It does seem that the Americans would show them on the television if we had missed. On the other hand, who can figure out the American press?"

  "True, Leader."

  "Public reaction?"

  "Shock. Terror." Abdur Rahman broke into a wide grin. "The White House is condemning" -- Rahman made mocking quotation marks -- "the actions of the terrorists" -- he added more quotation marks -- "responsible for this despicable act."

  "Ha!" The leader of the Council of Ishmael broke into delirious laughter. "You look just like an American when you make quotation marks. Anyway," he said, chuckling, "this is, as the Americans say, a win-win situation. Either we killed the swine, or we missed. And if we missed, we killed another infidel and have all the infidels whining and running for cover!" More guffaws.

  "And, Leader!" Abdur bent over, laughing. "Look on the bright side!"

  "What may that be?"

  "You may still get Colcernian to live out your fantasies before we finish her off!"

  "Ingenious, Abdur!" Al-Akhma doubled over laughing. "This calls for a toast." Abdur looked at one of the three bodyguards and snapped his fingers. "Ahmed. Two bottles of vintage Moroccan wine from my wine cellar. Boulaouane de Gris, please. Immediately! Pour a glass for myself and my deputy."

  "Right away, Leader," the Arab bodyguard said, then returned with wine as ordered and began pouring.

  "What of Islamic Glory?" Al-Akma swirled the Boulaouane de Gris, savored its bouquet, then downed the liquid. "How are our contingency plans progressing?"

  "You say that it is of Allah, Leader" -- the two Arabs' eyes met -- "and I believe you." A hesitation. "But . . ." Abdur took another sip, allowing the thought to linger.

  "A subtle difference between us Kuwaitis and our Saudi cousins," al-Akhma snapped, "is that in Kuwait we finish our thoughts before drinking."

  "My apologies, Leader."

  "You were saying?"

  "That I support your vision of Islamic Glory, but there has been some discussion from some of the Council of Twenty."

  "Discussion? What kind of discussion?" al-Akhma roared. He smashed the wine glass against the far wall, leaving a trail of red wine across his desk and along the trajectory. "Are there those in the Council who do not support me?" He snapped his fingers, demanding more wine.

  "Only those with a few questions, Leader. It is a hard sacrifice for a Muslim to fathom. The destruction of one of the holiest sites in Islam."

  "Not destruction!" Al-Akhma stood, slamming his fist on the table. "Sacrifice!" His gaze swept the room. "Sacrifice for the greater good! What do these fools not understand, Abdur?" A swipe of the hand. Papers flying. "Names! I want names of the subversive ones."

  "Leader," Abdur said, lowering his voice in contrast to al-Akhma's fevered pitch. "I assure you that there are no subversive ones. But you, Leader, are Allah's one true prophet on earth today. It makes sense, does it not, therefore, that you would be sensitive to hearing his voice before they would? That is why you are our leader. You and only you are Allah's visionary, Hussein."

  Abdur Rahman's velvety-smooth voice, far more than that of any other member of the Council, had a soothing effect on al-Akhma's temper. Unofficially, he had become the visionary's deputy, rumored by some within the inner circle as the heir-apparent to power should anything ever happen to Hussein himself. Al-Akhma depended on his Saudi billionaire friend. And sure enough, Abdur's points were resonating. How could the other members expect to understand as clearly as he? After all, as Abdur said, he was Allah's prophet.

  "Brother Abdur, once again, you are the voice of reason. I must be patient with my flock. After all, they are good Muslims." Al-Akhma spoke in a lower voice, then sat down and took several deep breaths. "Call the Council together for eight o'clock tonight. I shall again explain the need for this."

  "Yes, Leader."

  CHAPTER 4

  Navy JAG Appellate Government Command

  Washington Navy Yard

  Washington, D.C.

  When Lieutenant Commander Gwendolyn Hanover Poole, JAGC, USN, announced to her Law Review colleagues at Northwestern University, during her third and final year of law school, that she had accepted a commission in the U.S. Navy JAG Corps, she received considerable ridicule from her classmates.

  "The JAG Corps? What are you? A warmonger or something?"

  "Wendy, you're editor-in-chief of the Law Review, for goodness' sake."

  "Are you crazy, Wendy? You were a clerk for the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. You can write your ticket."

  "You're giving up a six-figure salary out of law school to go into the navy?"

  Such were the protests from her well-intentioned classmates. And on several points, they were right. For ten years, the editor-in-chief of the Northwestern Law Review, the prestigious position that Gwendolyn Hanover Poole had held in her final year of law school, had enjoyed a direct employment pipeline to the corporate Chicago firm Cantor and Goldstein.

  Though the few first-year associates lucky enough to get jobs with the large firm occupying floors eighty through eighty-five of the Sears Tower were required to sign a nondisclosure form keeping their salary confidential, rumors spread like wildfire around Northwestern: starting salary in the $200,000 range. Wendy Poole, from firsthand experience, knew this to be a fact.

  Though she was not at liberty to discuss the specifics with her classmates, the job offer she received from the firm called for a base salary of $180,000 per year, plus a $20,000 signing bonus if she maintained her number-one law school class rank at graduation. Plus, for all associates staying with the firm a minimum of three years and billing an average of 2,200 "billable hours" per year over that time, the firm would pay off, in one swoop, all law school debt. And although Wendy was on a full academic scholarship her last two years, she had accumulated $60,000 in debt from her first year before she was awarded a grant based on her first-year grades.

  The startup salary -- in the upper one-half percent of all first-year associates' salaries in the country -- was significant, she had to admit.

  The lump-sum tuition payment after three years was enticing. The prospect of doing drudgery work for senior partners who were billing seven hundred dollars an hour, the idea of carrying their briefcases into court, and the notion of working seventy-hour weeks -- weekends, Sundays, and holidays just to meet the minimum billable requirements -- were not.

  Despite her reservations, Wendy Poole nearly took the money and ran. Several times, in fact. Still, something inside told her money would not satisfy. The idea of becoming some high-billing senior partner's good-looking wallflower associate, even a well-paid, good-looking wallflower associate, was more than her stomach could bear.

  The call of the JAG Corps was too alluring. So what if her silk-stockinged classmates didn't understand? It was her life.

  From her office overlooking the Anacosta River in the Washington Navy Yard, Wendy did a last-minute check of her U.S. Navy service dress blue uniform. She straightened her blouse. Good. All four sets of gold buttons were in place, shining against the dark navy blouse, accentuating her trim figure.

  Two and a half gold stripes of a navy lieutenant commander were sewn perfectly around the cuffs of her jacket, and the gold mill rind insignia of the JAG Corps, roughly the size of a quarter, was sewn onto each sleeve. Her skirt was cropped just slightly above her knees.

  Good. Hemline within regs.

&n
bsp; No runs in her nude-colored stockings, at least not yet. Excellent. Her shoes, medium-heeled officer's pumps with a definite feminine touch, were polished spotless.

  She examined her salad row of awards to the left of her lapel. Two green and orange Navy Achievement Medals, two green and white Navy Commendation Medals, and a pink and white Meritorious Service Medal were perfectly in place. And on the opposite side, a blue and white name tag with the name Poole and the round insignia of JAG Appellate Government Command.

  Good.

  A touch of blush and lipstick, just about right. Subtle, not overpowering.

  Perfume, subtle.

  Good.

  Her hair was tidily pinned up in a bun, where it would fit perfectly under her white officer's cover in transit to her destination.

  It had cost her maybe three quarters of a million dollars in lost salary over the last five years by turning down Cantor and Goldstein.

  But none of her law school classmates had ever done what she was about to do.

  In one hour, Lieutenant Commander Gwendolyn H. Poole, JAGC, USN would argue the position of the government before the Supreme Court of the United States of America.

  Even after all this preparation, after all her work to prepare the brief, after all the publicity surrounding the case, the mere thought of it was surreal.

  The Supreme Court of the United States.

  She couldn't believe it was about to happen.

  The knock on the door broke her concentration. "Ready, Wendy?"

  She turned and saw her commanding officer, Captain Will MacDonald, standing at her office door.

  "Yes, sir. I think so."

  MacDonald, dressed in the service dress blue uniform of a navy captain, flashed a sly grin. "Nervous?"

  "Not too much, sir." I'm lying to my commanding officer. Don't lie to your commanding officer, Wendy.

  "Good. The master chief has a staff car waiting for us. Here's our procedure. We have to clear security at the main entrance to the building and then again just before going into the courtroom. As you know, cameras are not allowed in the courtroom, but our PR people tell us the press is already camped out in front of the main portico."

  "Great. I'd rather drink cod-liver oil than deal with those guys."

  MacDonald chuckled. "Maybe you won't have to do either."

  "Remember, Lieutenant Brewer was involved in a three-day members' trial. They learned his habits, his parking place, his lunch spot. They ambushed him at every corner. And he enjoyed it."

  "And he was good at it," Wendy said.

  "True," MacDonald said. "But that was a drawn-out affair. This is a one-shot deal. One thirty-minute argument, in and out, and you're done. They haven't seen you yet. They may or may not even recognize us as we enter the court, unless they read the name tags. Of course they'll recognize you when you come out of the court. Just keep the comments to a minimum. Remember, this is an appeal, not a trial. Stick to the issues. Keep it short and simple."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "I'll be at counsel table with you, but this is your moment, Commander. The navy is depending on you, and so is your country."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Let's go."

  CHAPTER 5

  800 feet above USS Harry S. Truman

  32 degrees 22 minutes west longitude

  35 degrees 18 minutes north latitude

  327 nautical miles WSW Lajes Field, Azores, Portugal

  North Atlantic Ocean

  The sun, now a glowing orange ball, slipped under the western Atlantic horizon as the pilot looked back over his shoulder for his final pass on the port side of the carrier. The ocean was turning into a dark, colorless abyss, except for the narrow orange carpet on the western horizon near the setting sun. And the floating gray yardstick with flashing lights, churning a white trail of water, was now barely visible.

  Passing by the stern of the USS Harry S. Truman at an altitude of eight hundred feet, the pilot gently banked the multimillion dollar jet fighter away from the sun and pressed his microphone.

  "Flight control, Viper Leader on final approach, requesting permission to land."

  "Viper Leader, flight control." This was the carrier air traffic controller. "We've got you on visual now. Be advised request for landing is granted. Proceed at your discretion."

  "Roger that, flight control. Proceed at discretion."

  Completing the wide, aerial loop behind the stern of the nuclear carrier, he pointed the F-18 Super Hornet at the stern of the floating postage stamp.

  This would be like any other landing at any other airport in the world, except the runway of this floating airport rolled in six-foot swells sliced by the carrier's hull. And the landing area on the rolling, bouncing runway was only about five hundred feet, less than a quarter of the length of a normal runway. And if the tail hook trailing underneath his fuselage missed one of the four steel cords in the aft of the deck, Lieutenant Commander Mohammed "Mo" Quasay and his navigator, Lieutenant Mark "Mouse" Price, could wind up with a cockpit full of cold, dark, North Atlantic saltwater and a free trip to the bottom of the drink.

  Quasay switched his radio to the LSO -- Landing Safety Officer --frequency, then dropped the plane's flaps.

  Landing gear down.

  Tail hook down.

  "Viper 1. LSO. Call the ball!" squawked the LSO, referring to the amber light on the stern of the carrier used for visual guidance for landing.

  "Roger ball!" Quasay called back, indicating visual contact with the flashing light on the back of the carrier.

  Ten seconds to touchdown. No more radio contact. All landing signals would now be governed by a system of lights on the stern of the carrier run by the LSO.

  Green light on.

  Good.

  Three hundred feet.

  Two hundred feet.

  The Super Hornet rushed at the carrier's stern. The ship was no longer a postage stamp, but a floating steel wall growing exponentially larger by the second, rushing head-on at the cockpit.

  Up! Up! Up!

  Five seconds.

  Three seconds.

  Cut throttle.

  A violent, jolting thump as forty tons of aircraft slammed against the steel deck. The pilot and navigator lunged forward under furious g-forces, their shoulder harnesses digging into their chests.

  Full throttle!

  The aircraft shook violently, its twin afterburners momentarily fighting the resistance of the powerful steel cable stretched across the floating runway, "trapped" by the plane's tail hook. Shaking under the thrust of full power, the plane came to a restrained stop halfway down the carrier's deck.

  Cut power!

  Quasay pulled back on the forward throttles and switched off the engines.

  "Nice job, Commander." Mouse Price patted the plane's commander on the shoulder as the pilot blew a deep exhale. "That's the tenth Okay Three in a row, sir." Price was referring to the fact that Quasay had caught the third of four powerful cables stretched across the back of the runway, considered the optimum target for the highly dangerous carrier landings.

  Praise be to Allah for his beneficence.

  "Thanks, Mouse," Quasay flipped a switch that raised the Plexiglas canopies, allowing a rush of warm sea air into the cockpit. "We were coming in a bit low for a second. Guess I've been lucky."

  "Lucky. We're still on mark for the Top Hook Award" -- he referred to the award given at the end of the cruise to the pilot with the safest landing record as evidenced by the highest number of Okay Three landings -- "and there's not even a close second. That's not luck, sir." "Thanks, Mouse. I've got a good navigator."

  Mouse made a comment in response to that, but Lieutenant Commander Quasay ignored it. He wasn't really interested in small talk. Two days to Gibraltar. By then he would know.

  He waited as an air crewman brought a portable stepladder to the cockpit, then climbed over the side, took salutes, and pulled off his flight helmet. Quasay checked his watch. His was the last flight for the lat
e afternoon cycle, and the next flight operations were still a half hour away.

  Quasay walked alone to the rear of the flight deck, leaving the flight crew to attend to his plane. Another twelve hours until he was due back in the cockpit.

  He whipped a cigarette and a Zippo out of his olive-drab flight jacket and, cupping his hand around the end of the cigarette, carefully lit it. The first draw of nicotine into his lungs preserved some of the adrenaline from the carrier landing.

  Like most naval aviators, Quasay needed adrenaline. To be constantly on the razor-thin line between life and death was exhilarating. Another long draw on the cigarette. A flick of smoldering ash into the ocean breeze. He watched as the ashes blew toward the dark waters below, mingling with the churning wake behind the carrier's stern.

  Back beyond the sunset's afterglow, somewhere in the growing span of ocean as the Truman's nuclear-powered engines pushed the carrier toward Gibraltar, the eastern seaboard of America loomed. And somewhere beyond that was his adopted hometown of Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Quasay flipped the last vestige of the burning cigarette butt into the wind, then cupped his hand and fired up another.

  America had been good to him. America granted his family citizenship, afforded better economic opportunity for his parents, grandparents, brothers, and sisters. America gave him a commission as a naval aviator in its military.

  Because of this, his mission for Allah would be a struggle. Everything they'd pumped into his head at NROTC and at flight school at NAS Pensacola was hard to wipe out.

  Duty.

  Honor.

  Country.

  Defending the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  Obeying the lawful orders of my superiors and of the president of the United States.

  The words from the officer's oath rang in his ears. These past seven years as an American naval aviator had been a heady experience.

  In a way, he hoped that Allah would spare him the task. But if it did come, he hoped to have the strength to do Allah's will.