To The Death Part 4

Admiral Arnold Morgan was already in residence, sipping black coffee in the private office of the hospital commander, Rear Admiral Adam Roberts. Also in attendance were Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe and Professor Alan Brett. That was the measure of importance concerning Mr. Reza Aghani, currently under arrest, shot, burned, strapped down, and interrogated after a busy morning at Logan.

Aghani entered the hospital on the double, six orderlies running the wheeled gurney through the automatic doors. They were surrounded by three Secret Service agents from the White House, four armed Navy guards, four Washington cops, two nurses, and two doctors.

Once inside, they headed directly toward the section reserved for the President of the United States: five darkened rooms, quivering with ultrasensitive pressure plates on the floor all along the approach. At the entrance to the suite stood two White House agents, direct from the Secret Service Command Post immediately below the Oval Office. They alone knew the numbers that would open the industrial-strength cipher locks which guarded the gateway to the presidential quarters.

And here, in this rarefied interrogation center, as designated by Paul Bedford and Arnold Morgan this very morning, the first-ever non-president of the USA would become a resident. Only briefly. But nonetheless a resident. Mind you, if President Bedford as much as complained of a head cold, Reza Aghani would have been outta there in about one minute, dispatched immediately to some kind of bas.e.m.e.nt lockup. Right now, however, he was in the relative comfort, but high security, of the Presidential Rooms.

As Arnold Morgan had stated earlier today, "I can put up with d.a.m.n near anything except someone silences this guy with a bullet or a bomb. He's all we got, and this is a day which someone planned to be another 9/11."

The orderlies placed Aghani in a bedroom normally reserved for Secret Service agents who might be guarding a sick president. Two armed Navy guards were posted in the room, with two more outside. The terrorist's first visitor was Admiral Morgan himself, who was immediately followed by Lt. Commander Ramshawe. Instantly, Aghani closed his eyes and sank back into the pillow, as if aware that no one had yet told him this was going to be unpleasant.

"Reza Aghani," said the admiral, "you are being detained by the United States government as an illegal combatant, more specifically for heading up a terrorist team that tried to blow up a pa.s.senger terminal in Logan International Airport. You of course were transporting the bomb.

"You are no longer in the custody of civilians. You are under tight arrest by the United States military. And we have fewer restrictions. The good news for you is that we may may stop short of beheading you. stop short of beheading you.

"However, you should not rule out other methods of persuasion. I will be back here twenty-four hours from now, and if you have not told us truthfully what we want to know, I will have you immediately transferred to a military prison and interrogation center. And there you will be subject to more stringent questioning and may be executed."

Admiral Morgan did not wait for a reply. Nor even to check whether the man understood what had been said. The admiral merely turned sharply on his heel and jerked his head at Jimmy Ramshawe, signaling that he too should depart.

Once outside the room, Admiral Morgan headed immediately to the exquisitely furnished presidential drawing room, slung his overcoat over the back of an eighteenth-century Chippendale chair, and sat down, somewhat luxuriously, in a softly upholstered dark green chaise longue probably worth a hundred thousand dollars.

The cost of refurbishing this room had been some kind of White House joke, ever since thieves had somehow gained entry and stolen around $600,000 worth of antiques, Sheraton furniture, crystal chandeliers, paintings, and G.o.d knows what else. It had happened on the watch of Jimmy Carter, the no-frills, no-alcohol, cost-cutting president, and, understandably, it embarra.s.sed the h.e.l.l out of him.

It did not, however, embarra.s.s the h.e.l.l out of Admiral Morgan, who slipped into the high life as if to the manor born. "Coffee, James," he commanded. "And see if they can rustle up a few cookies, while we attempt to frighten the truth out of that G.o.dd.a.m.ned little f.u.c.khead with his eyes closed next door."

"Right away, sir," snapped Jimmy, adopting the subservient tone of a lieutenant commander to an admiral. "Be right back."

Jimmy left. The admiral mused. A log fire crackled in the grate. Absently, he reached for the television remote and flicked on Fox News. The entire channel was devoted to the events at Logan that morning, the reporters complaining of a news blackout but revealing that the president would address the nation at 7 P.M.

In the princ.i.p.al part of the newscast, no mention was made of the downed airliner currently resting on the bed of the Potomac estuary. At least not until a small segment on the rest of the day's news was precised precised by the female anchor. It was based on a short press release issued by the National Air Traffic Control Center, Herndon. This had stated merely that an unknown, lightly loaded Canadian-based Boeing 737, carrying no U.S. citizens, had vanished from their screens, somewhere out over the Atlantic off the Virginia coast. by the female anchor. It was based on a short press release issued by the National Air Traffic Control Center, Herndon. This had stated merely that an unknown, lightly loaded Canadian-based Boeing 737, carrying no U.S. citizens, had vanished from their screens, somewhere out over the Atlantic off the Virginia coast.

Admiral Morgan, who had written the release himself and had the president's press office transmit it to Herndon, was somewhat smugly pleased. As he had intended, there was no suggestion of what fate had befallen it, no accurate location.

The spectacular-looking young redhead who delivered the broadcast may not have been employed by the television station solely for her vast experience of journalism and international events. But she was very beautiful and confirmed that no details had yet been released.

She then interviewed, on a link, a member of the International Air Transport a.s.sociation and wondered what the mood was like in their office with a large pa.s.senger jet missing. "Is there a sense of failure?" she suggested.

The exec from IATA blinked and said, "I'm sorry. Would you rephrase that?"

"No, well, I mean, it's kind of your responsibility, right?" she added. "I guess you guys somehow let us down?"

"Ma'am, we do not actually fly the aircraft."

"No. But they're your pilot members, right?"

"f.u.c.k me," said Arnold and hit the OFF b.u.t.ton, astounded as ever by the blissful manner in which modern "journalists" are prepared to get something completely wrong, broadcast it to millions, and not appear to care one way or another.

Jimmy returned, followed by a waiter with cookies and coffee. The waiter poured from a priceless-looking engraved Georgian silver coffeepot, which had presumably been standard issue during the elegant age of the Georgian peanut farmer.

"You know, Arnie, I've been thinking," said Jimmy. "This really would have been another 9/11, and that means there must be a very active al Qaeda cell working right here on the East Coast. Because 9/11 was not just one jet aircraft, and they did not intend just one hit on one target: there were four attacks aimed at four different targets, all on one day."

"And I guess that's got you thinking there could be another this evening?"

"Darned right it has," replied Jimmy. "Do you think they could break that little sonofab.i.t.c.h next door in the next hour?"

"Probably not, kid. Our best chance might be in Houston, if they can locate the missing Ramon Salman. But even that's a long shot."

At that moment the door opened and the tall, angular figure of the president's national security adviser, Alan Brett, came into the room. "You ready for the CIA guys, Arnie? I have them outside right now."

"Gimme five, would you?" replied the admiral. "Have a cup of coffee and tell me your views. We haven't had much time for a chat."

"Tell you the truth," replied the professor, "I'm real nervous they might try to hit us again. This guy next door is an obvious hard man, not scared of us, accustomed to being put under pressure, and full of hatred and defiance. You can tell a lot about a character who simply does not react."

"He's pretty small to be an obvious hard man," muttered Jimmy Ramshawe in his deep Australian drawl. "Doesn't look to me like he could hold down a baby kangaroo."

"Guess you could say the same about the diminutive Julius Caesar," replied Alan Brett with a grin. "And he he managed to conquer most of the known world." managed to conquer most of the known world."

"Well, this b.a.s.t.a.r.d had a serious shot at conquering the Boston airport," interjected Arnold Morgan. "And he must be interrogated as if he's some kind of a monster."

"I think the CIA guys know that," said Alan Brett. "How long have they got?"

"I'm going to tell the president to ship this guy out directly to Guantanamo Bay at noon tomorrow," said Arnold.

"Then the interrogators right here have around eighteen hours."

"No more than that," said the admiral. "But they really should operate as if they've got about two hours. Any news on the 737?"

"Just before I left, the president was talking to the CNO. Sounded like the Navy was about to take over the salvage and investigation."

"And Houston? No sign of Ramon Salman?"

"Not a thing."

"Okay, Alan. I don't need to brief the CIA guys. Just tell 'em to get going."

2030 Same Day The White House.

"Nice speech, Paul," said Admiral Morgan. "Let's keep the focus on the heroism of the Boston cops, because that'll shut the media up for a few days-keep 'em prancing around trying to speak to their G.o.dd.a.m.ned relatives and schoolmasters, while we quietly turn the screws on the terrorists."

"You mean 'terrorist,' old buddy. Right now we've only got one."

Arnold Morgan surveyed the interior of the Oval Office and then muttered, "With all the great resources of the American empire at our disposal, we have have to be able to find the missing Ramon Salman, and that's what I'm counting on." to be able to find the missing Ramon Salman, and that's what I'm counting on."

The president nodded and then added, "By the way, Arnie, you probably could get a job as a press officer if you really tried. You sure as h.e.l.l threw 'em off the scent of the missing airliner."

"I was actually thinking of taking out an ad," replied the admiral. "Lies, evasions, subterfuge a specialty. Expert at vanishing tricks. Morgan the Magician."

Paul Bedford chuckled. Then he looked up, much more seriously. "Will anyone ever find that aircraft and discover what really happened?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it."

0200 Sat.u.r.day 15 January United States Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia.

The night was clear, freezing but cloudless, over the world's largest naval station. A hard frost was already forming all along the 8,000-acre waterfront sprawl, home to the breathtaking oceanic muscle of the United States.

Lights gleamed from the ma.s.sive nuclear-powered aircraft carriers berthed along the piers, the USS John C. Stennis, George Washington, John C. Stennis, George Washington, and and Theodore Roosevelt. Theodore Roosevelt. All of them glowered in the bright moonlight, great bruising veterans of the world's most troubled regions, frontline keepers of the honor of the United States of America. All of them glowered in the bright moonlight, great bruising veterans of the world's most troubled regions, frontline keepers of the honor of the United States of America.

There was hardly a sound in the vast naval complex, which in its way is just about landlocked, save for the narrow throughway out of the Hampton Roads, past Old Point Comfort and Fort Monroe to port and Fort Wool to starboard. But tonight the thin freezing air magnified the sounds. The very occasional helicopter landing echoed on the night air; mobilized guard patrols drove slowly to and from the long, frosty jetties. Footsteps sometimes accompanied the watch changes. But none of the forty warships in residence was moving.

At 0200, the incoming tide was rising all the way down the long "inland" coastline, which joins the naval station to the shipyard thirteen miles to the south. And out to the northeast, beyond the protective land, lies Chesapeake Bay, its waters ebbing and flowing with the tides of the Atlantic Ocean.

But the tide rises silently along the Navy piers, and the sudden throb of four powerful Caterpillar diesels driving a 4,200-hp ship north in the dark caught the attention of anyone who happened to be out in this cold night, either on deck or onsh.o.r.e.

There's a bush telegraph in Norfolk, and most people knew when any warship was scheduled to clear the station in the small hours and make an exit to the open ocean. But right now, no one had the slightest idea what kind of vessel was steaming straight up the exit channel. Equally, no one much cared. It was just a bit unexpected, even though she was showing all the correct navigation lights and had plainly come up from the repair berths down in the shipyard.

The reason for her late, or early, departure was mainly due to an intense evening of painting that had eliminated every marking that showed this was a Navy vessel.

But now she was "clean," the 2,880-ton Safeguard Safeguard-cla.s.s salvage ship USS Grabber, Grabber, fully disguised as a civilian, smelling of fresh paint, and moving as fast as her engines would allow. That was twelve knots, and she was being closely followed in line astern by a couple of flatbed Navy barges, self-propelled and in a similar state of newly painted self-denial. fully disguised as a civilian, smelling of fresh paint, and moving as fast as her engines would allow. That was twelve knots, and she was being closely followed in line astern by a couple of flatbed Navy barges, self-propelled and in a similar state of newly painted self-denial.

There was no insignia, and in the dawn there would be no Navy pennants flying. This had become, in a few hours, just a tiny fleet from a private salvage company, heading through the night, toward the hottest political hot potato in the entire country; orders of the commander in chief, acting personally on the advice of the Big Man, Admiral Morgan.

On board the lead ship was an extremely unusual cast. There was the normal team on the bridge: helmsman, navigator, watchkeepers, and in this case bosun. But they were all under the command of Bob Wallace, a newly promoted commander, ex-submariner, qualified Navy diver, who'd never been on a salvage ship in his life.

There were also sixteen more divers waiting below, led by Chief Petty Officer Mark Coulson, a U.S. Navy SEAL who had been flown to the Norfolk Shipyard from the SEAL base at Virginia Beach just before midnight. He brought with him an LPO, Ray Flamini, mini-submarine driver, SEAL underwater specialist. There was also a special team of Navy salvagemen and crane operators, men who would handle expertly the steel cables attached to the two big rigs, positioned fore and aft, each capable of a 65-ton dead lift.

Most of them were sleeping now, and would do so throughout the fourteen-hour, 160-mile run out into the Chesapeake and then onward up the dark and silent Potomac River toward Washington, D.C. There would not be much sleep after that. This was an urgent mission, and it needed to be accomplished fast and secretly. No mistakes.

Slowly they chugged across the west-facing naval station, coming eighteen degrees to starboard as they approached the gateway to Chesapeake Bay. The stark outline of Fort Monroe was dark in the moonlight to port as they began their left turn northward. The water was rougher here, and there was a slap-and-swish to the freighter's bow wave as she cut through the incoming tide.

The big heavy barges directly astern rose up laboriously before wallowing back into the troughs as their helmsmen swung the wheels left, expertly allowing these c.u.mbersome floating freight platforms to find their shallow lines.

Grabber led them out to the north-running channel, and within two hours they had crossed the bay and run past Cape Charles on Virginia's eastern sh.o.r.e. A little over four hours later, they crossed the unseen frontier where all north-going ships steam into the waters of the state of Maryland. Eight bells chimed on the salvage ship's bridge, signaling the start of the forenoon watch: 0800 on this bright midwinter morning. But the sun was still low off her starboard quarter as they swung forty-five degrees left, up through the wide tidal waters of the Potomac estuary. led them out to the north-running channel, and within two hours they had crossed the bay and run past Cape Charles on Virginia's eastern sh.o.r.e. A little over four hours later, they crossed the unseen frontier where all north-going ships steam into the waters of the state of Maryland. Eight bells chimed on the salvage ship's bridge, signaling the start of the forenoon watch: 0800 on this bright midwinter morning. But the sun was still low off her starboard quarter as they swung forty-five degrees left, up through the wide tidal waters of the Potomac estuary.

Point Lookout was silhouetted clear in the morning light, lancing out from the long Maryland peninsula like a black snake on a silver carpet. The estuary was calmer here, and all along the portside of the three ships, the long, shallow, bay-strewn sh.o.r.e of Virginia stretched to the north, for forty miles, up toward the big S-bend where the river narrows and in places becomes deeper.

This is a mighty waterway. From its icy, gushing source way up in the Allegheny Mountains beyond the Shenandoah Valley, the Potomac runs 160 miles along the South Fork alone before reaching Harper's Ferry and turning east toward Washington, on its final 160-mile journey to the sea.

Grabber and her consorts still had a hundred miles to run in broad daylight, and all along the route she kept strict radio silence. Occasionally they pa.s.sed a freighter running south but made no signal of greeting, friendship, or recognition. The watch changed at noon. Lunch was served to all personnel on board the salvage ship, but the men on the barges settled for beef sandwiches and chocolate with mugs of hot coffee. and her consorts still had a hundred miles to run in broad daylight, and all along the route she kept strict radio silence. Occasionally they pa.s.sed a freighter running south but made no signal of greeting, friendship, or recognition. The watch changed at noon. Lunch was served to all personnel on board the salvage ship, but the men on the barges settled for beef sandwiches and chocolate with mugs of hot coffee.

The afternoon wore on, and a deep chill set in long before the sun began to set. By 1500, they had cut their speed to eight knots and the navigator was studying the GPS intently, calling out the numbers. As they pa.s.sed Quantico, Commander Bob Wallace made contact with the United States Marine Corps airbase at Turner Field.

They came slowly past Chicamuxen Creek on the starboard side and, almost drifting now, came alongside the low-lying peninsula of the Navy's surface warfare center at Stump Neck. Right here, Commander Wallace ordered a course change, and USS Grabber Grabber came thirty-eight degrees left into the middle of the stream, onto a 360-degree bearing, due north. came thirty-eight degrees left into the middle of the stream, onto a 360-degree bearing, due north.

Sonars active.

The navigation officer was calling the GPS numbers now, and he did so for three more miles. It was almost dark now, and in the failing light, with the sun disappearing behind the long, low sh.o.r.eline of Charles County, Commander Wallace called for the helmsman to hold course, but for engines to reverse, and for the barges to do the same. The firm voice of the navigator could plainly be heard: Thirty-eight spot thirty-eight north, seventy-seven spot zero-two west.

"Thank you, Tommy," said Commander Wallace quietly. "All stop. Drop anchors fore and aft. Diving Team One prepare to go. Check marker buoys, load sea anchors, and lower the Zodiacs away. Ops area teams prepare to leave."

Grabber was suddenly a fast-moving U.S. Navy warship. There was no enemy, of course, in the middle of the Potomac a few miles south of Washington, D.C. But there had been, and right now it was hard to tell the difference between battle stations and peacetime action stations. No one was standing still. Or sleeping. Or sipping coffee. was suddenly a fast-moving U.S. Navy warship. There was no enemy, of course, in the middle of the Potomac a few miles south of Washington, D.C. But there had been, and right now it was hard to tell the difference between battle stations and peacetime action stations. No one was standing still. Or sleeping. Or sipping coffee.

The shouts and commands of the petty officers, chiefs, and lieutenants crackled in the gloom of the early evening. Lines were made fast, anchor chains howled, heavy metal hit the riverbed sixty feet below, underwater lights were tested, scubas checked, ropes, lines, and marker buoys prepared. Away to starboard, four miles through the fast-encroaching darkness, the powerful night scopes of the watchmen at the U.S. Navy surface warfare center peered out from Indian Head. Tonight and until this mission was completed, they were watchdogs.

Two patrol craft, engines running, were moored on the jetty. The slightest suggestion of an intruder would have them racing at flank speed for the Grabber, Grabber, armed to the gunwales. That small ops area in the middle of the Potomac River was no place to be. Not tonight. armed to the gunwales. That small ops area in the middle of the Potomac River was no place to be. Not tonight.

Commander Wallace and his men were acting under orders direct from the Pentagon. And right now their mission was one-dimensional. Everything else was Phase Two. Before dawn, they must locate, and mark with floating buoys, the shattered wreckage of TBA 62.

They had the last known GPS numbers the airliner had shown on the screen before everything went fizzy. However, those numbers may have been her final position when the missiles. .h.i.t, or they may have been her final position when the 737 hit the water.

The operators at Herndon were of the opinion the air control radars would have continued "painting" her until she plunged beneath the surface. The missiles were known to have severed her engines and blown off the wings, but the general opinion was that the fuselage had stayed intact until the moment of impact with the Potomac.

Thus, Commander Wallace had positioned his little flotilla exactly at Flight 62's last known position. In his opinion, that wreck would be dead beneath the ships. If the divers failed to find anything, it meant the blasted aircraft had vanished from the screens maybe twenty seconds before she hit the water. Twenty seconds at 220 mph is equal to two thousand yards.

Essentially, Grabber Grabber was positioned at the near end of Flight 62's range of descent. If the divers found nothing, the fuselage of the aircraft was lying on the riverbed up to two thousand yards closer to the city. Commander Wallace believed, from all his reports, that the fuselage had been in one piece when it hit the water, and the numbers 38.38N 77.02W signified the precise position of impact on the water, not the position 1,500 feet above the water where the missiles struck home. was positioned at the near end of Flight 62's range of descent. If the divers found nothing, the fuselage of the aircraft was lying on the riverbed up to two thousand yards closer to the city. Commander Wallace believed, from all his reports, that the fuselage had been in one piece when it hit the water, and the numbers 38.38N 77.02W signified the precise position of impact on the water, not the position 1,500 feet above the water where the missiles struck home.

The commander left the bridge and walked down to the lower deck, where SEAL Chief Coulson and LPO Flamini were preparing to go over the side. Seamen were making last-second checks on all the equipment. For the initial search, two more Navy divers were going with the SEALs.

The lights from the patrolling Zodiacs cast a brightness upon the water, but the depths looked black, and Commander Wallace wore a look of admiration as the four black-suited figures rolled backward, down into the water, kicking hard into the depths, their flashlights casting strong beams out in front of them.

The dive control operators began communications almost immediately as the SEAL leaders, using their regular attack boards, kicked along the bottom, the GPS figures stark before them, keeping them straight, warning them when they strayed too far from the direct line of flight of the Canadian bolter.

Twenty minutes went by. Then five more. And the SEAL leader had specified that since this work was likely to go on more or less indefinitely, it should be conducted in thirty-minute takes. Four more Navy divers were preparing to go overboard when one of the controllers called, "Sir, they got something." "Sir, they got something."

Every eye swiveled around toward the men with the headpieces, standing on the deck talking to the men below the surface.

Chief Coulson's saying there's something there, maybe a hundred yards off our bow.

Another three minutes pa.s.sed, close to the limit of the SEALs' time underwater. And then the controller called again. . . .

He's telling us to watch for the buoy, coming directly up from the smashed window of the c.o.c.kpit.

The big light on the roof of the bridge suddenly blazed into life, ripping a beam through the dark and onto the surface of the river. Seconds pa.s.sed, but they seemed like minutes. Then a scarlet Navy marker buoy bounced out of the water and settled.

Two minutes later, Chief Coulson surfaced next to the Grabber Grabber's portside hull and called up, "We got her, sir. Those numbers were right on the money. Haven't found the wings yet, and the fuselage is split almost in half. If we lift her, she'll break. But if the cranes get two cables on her, she'll come up one section at a time."

"Will she take one around the tailplane and one through the cabin?" asked the commander.

"Not a chance," said Chief Coulson, hauling himself up the ladder. "Tailplane broke off on impact. I never even saw it."

"Can we get cables underneath the main fuselage?"

"I don't think so, sir. She hit the riverbed pretty good and then skidded some. I'd say she's embedded maybe three feet."

"What's the bottom like?"