Lethal Trajectories - Michael Conley [163]
Seconds later, he issued his first radio call to air traffic control. “Mayday. Mayday, Mayday, Royal Saudi Air Force F-15 Bravo, off northeastern coast with triple fuel-boost failure. Cause unknown. Experiencing flameout of both engines, going down. Mayday.”
Seconds later, for added authenticity, he shouted out, “Mayday, Saudi F-15 Bravo, Mayday. Fire in cockpit, I’m burning….” He activated the bomb and then pulled the handle on his Aces II ejection seat. The explosive cartridge propelled him to about two hundred feet above his ejection altitude. Seconds later, as his main parachute deployed, he sadly watched the F-15 he had loved like a brother explode in a fireball.
As he started his parachute descent to the murky waters of the Persian Gulf, his mind was in overload. Will Ali Jabar believe I died in a fiery jet explosion, or will he get suspicious and change the dirty bomb locations and code frequencies? Straining to see the water below, he wondered, Will the American submarine be on station at the prearranged coordinates to pick me up? Or will I flounder at sea until I’m picked up by my own air-sea rescue forces. Then what?
His anguished mind churned right down to the very second he hit the water. As the water closed over his head, his misgivings were wiped away by survival instincts. Releasing his harness, he swam toward the surface, willing his powerful athletic body to disregard the pull of the sea. He almost shouted for joy as he bobbed to the top and drew his first breath of sea air. He did shout when he saw a Navy Seal team waiting in a rubber raft less than a hundred meters away.
The Seals whisked him out to an American nuclear submarine, which delivered him to the USS Gerald R. Ford, operating some forty kilometers offshore. He was then transferred to the flight deck for a carrier-based plane bound for Bahrain.
Everything happened with remarkable speed. The Americans are a marvel of military efficiency, he thought as he was driven to the Fifth Fleet Headquarters under heavy guard. He arrived in Bahrain even before Dhahran Air Control reached General Ali Akbar to report the loss of Major General Al Mishari.
General Ali Jabar’s first reaction to any news was always the same: How will this affect me? Aabid ibn Al Mishari knew everything about the dirty bombs—far more information, Ali Jabar now realized, than Al Mishari had a need to know. But there was nothing he could do about that now. Moving the dirty bombs and changing protocols would require coordination with Prince Hahad ibn Saud, head of security, and this would mean admitting that he had divulged top-secret information to an unauthorized person. Ali Jabar imagined what would happen when his rival advised King Mustafa of the sudden need to scramble the protocols. Mustafa was a stickler on security, and a breach of this nature was likely to cost him far more than his command.
As always, Ali Jabar’s instincts for self-preservation trumped everything else, including national security. Why worry? he reassured himself. Al Mishari was a trusted officer, and his jet was blown to smithereens anyway. Dead men don’t talk. No one need ever know.
59
Pearl Harbor–Hickam Field
1 April 2018
Vice President Elizabeth Cartright, exhausted from her trip, sought relief in the easy chair in her VIP villa at the Pearl Harbor military base. The morning sun shining through the French doors of her balcony was soothing, but it was the caffeine jolt of three cups of coffee that readied her for the prearranged call with her boss. She hoped for a couple of hours of free time after the call and a short ceremonial visit to shake off the jet lag and fatigue.
She grabbed the phone on the first ring and was cheered by the familiar voice on the other end. “Good morning, Elizabeth,” said Clayton McCarty, “I hope everything’s well with you and our Pacific friends. It’s been a grueling trip, I’m sure.”
“Good morning—or should I say good afternoon—to you, Mr. President,” she replied. “And yes, visiting Beijing, Tokyo, Seoul, and Melbourne