Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Gods of Redemption
    Gods of Redemption
    Gods of Redemption
    Ebook515 pages12 hours

    Gods of Redemption

    By Robert Taylor

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    CIA operator and retired Army Delta Commander, Colonel Garrett McCloud, a guilt ridden and grieving father is given authorization to hunt down the terrorist leader that destroyed two international airliners, including the one that carried his own 6- year old son four years earlier. That authorization is secretly given by a ridiculed President seeking redemption for his past act of weakness that ultimately led to the same terrorist being allowed to go free and kill again. The President must now deal with a much greater threat posed by the same terror leader who has somehow acquired the means to kill tens of thousands of Americans in the US homeland.

    McCloud is a torn and internally conflicted character. His son's death cost him his marriage and his relationship with his daughter. Bitterness over his country's failure to respond ended his promising military career and earned himself a reputation as a rouge operator within CIA, and eventual exile into a benign agency field job. The new threat now posed by the same terror group has resulted in his recall to Washington. Evidence that the terror leader has an unidentified ally and financial benefactor within the US government only intensifies the threat. McCloud must attempt to balance his distrust of this White House, that he suspects may be setting him up as a scapegoat if his operation should fail, with his desire for revenge and his own search for redemption.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRobert Taylor
    Release dateJan 30, 2017
    ISBN9781370243174
    Gods of Redemption
    Author

    Robert Taylor

    Robert Taylor was formerly Director of the Centre for Chinese Studies and Reader in Modern Chinese Studies at the University of Sheffield. He is the author of a number of studies and academic articles relating to Chinese business management and China’s foreign policy, including Greater China and Japan and the edited volume, International Business in China: Understanding the Global Economic Crisis. He also contributed a chapter on China to the volume, edited by H.Hasegawa and C.Noronha, Asian Business and Management: Theory, Practice and Perspectives.

    Read more from Robert Taylor

    Related to Gods of Redemption

    Related ebooks

    Thrillers For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      What I’ve Learned

      Jun 2, 2022

      What I’ve Learned
      3 min read

    • Article

      Bond Of Brothers

      Apr 26, 2022

      Bond Of Brothers
      2 min read

    • Article

      Promising Young Woman

      Mar 10, 2020

      Promising Young Woman
      4 min read

    • Article

      Authenticity On Screen

      Dec 7, 2022

      Authenticity On Screen
      2 min read

    • Article

      Quotients

      May 7, 2020

      Quotients
      8 min read

    • Article

      Baghdad Memories

      Mar 3, 2023

      Baghdad Memories
      14 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Apr 18, 2024

      Letters
      14 min read

    • Article

      Justin Marozzi

      Sep 21, 2022

      Justin Marozzi
      3 min read

    • Article

      'The Only Plane In The Sky' Offers A Powerful, Graphic Narrative Of Sept. 11

      Sep 11, 2019

      When today's children someday ask what Sept. 11 was really like, Garrett Graff's book will be the answer: He vividly recounts the most upsetting and totemic moments — and critical, little-told others.

      3 min read

    • Article

      Letter From The Collapse

      Jan 7, 2022

      I'm only a writer, and the most recondite type, an essayist. Could there by any role for something so insular at the end of the world? The post Letter from the Collapse appeared first on The Millions.

      14 min read

    • Article

      Letters

      Sep 9, 2021

      With regard to Nick Guitard’s letter pooh-poohing the possible existence of tiny aliens [FT405:71], I would like to make the following observations. David Bowie, may he rock on, once said that the Internet is like an alien being has landed and that w

      17 min read

    • Article

      Explaining the Donald

      May 19, 2022

      The Magical and Occult Roots of Political Power John Michael Greer Inner Traditions 2021 Pb, 201pp, £12.99, ISBN 9781644112588 Donald Trump may be the ultimate anomalous phenomenon – at least for our age. How did an elderly American real estate and e

      8 min read

    • Article

      Buying Greenland? That's Nothing To Gabriel García Márquez

      Aug 24, 2019

      Gabriel García Márquez's intricate, confusing, magnificent novel centers around a monstrous, nameless dictator — known only as the General or the Patriarch — who sells the entire Caribbean Sea.

      3 min read

    • Article

      The Devil’s Dictionary

      Jul 6, 2021

      Select entries from Ambrose Bierce’s lexicon of cynicism, bitterness, and humor, produced over a 30-year period beginning in 1881. APOLOGIZE, v.i. To lay the foundation for a future offence. BARD, n. A person who makes rhymes. The word is one of the

      4 min read

    • Article

      Taking The Future As Read

      Jan 27, 2022

      Taking The Future As Read
      10 min read

    • Article

      A Speculative Succession

      Nov 24, 2020

      A Speculative Succession
      5 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Gods of Redemption

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Gods of Redemption - Robert Taylor

      Chapter One

      A tiny rivulet of sweat emerged from beneath the hairline and slowly traversed the furrow of his brow. It accumulated on the sharp angle above his eye, gradually becoming an unstable droplet threatening to release its hold. It hung there immobile for a moment then slid precipitously down the bridge of his nose and seeped into the corner of his left eye, instantly blurring his vision.

      Wiping both eyes and forehead he exhaled, frustrated. The annoying interruption was followed quickly by a more serious symptom, a slight shudder that began to creep through the palm of his right hand and into his fingertips. He clenched his hand into a tight fist, attempting to overpower the embryonic spasm before it became a major problem. Fear had again shattered his concentration. It was an unwelcome yet familiar irritant of his profession. And it was something he had always found difficult to overcome when constructing a bomb.

      It sat disemboweled before him on the table. He had never assembled a bomb of this type and deadliness before. The fact that he was compelled to rely on a schematic diagram, its origin and accuracy unknown to him, did not ease his sudden apprehension. He knew if he wasn’t careful, if his hand jerked at the wrong time or if he carelessly brushed against the wrong wire with the tip of his pliers, he could easily become its first victim. The last thing he needed now was involuntary disruptions coming from within his own body.

      Though it was still early morning, the heat was already becoming unbearable in the small second story room with its eastern exposure. From the moment he arrived, scarcely four weeks ago, he had repeatedly cursed this room. It was a sweat box. The stucco and cinder block walls captured the heat and held it like an oven throughout the night. The drain of sleepless nights spent sweating on a stained mattress had taken its toll on his alertness. It was not a good development for the job he had to perform. The room would finally begin to cool by dawn, but only to begin replenishing stored heat with the morning sun.

      He stared for a moment through the open window at the narrow street below. It was typical of many Athenian streets, dirty, a twisting conglomeration of small apartments and shops. The dwellings of these underprivileged Greeks rolled on forever, it seemed, across a shallow valley and up into the fingers of the surrounding rocky foothills of Attica. His eyes fell upon a small hill in the distance that peeked above the sea of rooftops. On the outcropping of barren rock, he could see the broken outline of yet another unnamed collection of Greek ruins, one of many that speckled the area even this far north of the old city. He would not have known, but the broken walls and scattered stones were once part of a magnificent monument. It was built nearly three thousand years ago in honor of Myrtilos, the mythical son of the Greek god, Hermes. According to legend, Myrtilos had conspired with Pelops a prince from Lydia, another ancient kingdom to the east in Asia Minor, to murder the Greek King, Oinomaos. Myrtilos secretly replaced the bronze linchpins of the King's chariot with linchpins made of wax. Pelops then challenged King Oinomaos to a chariot race and the King was killed when his wheel came off and the chariot crashed.Pelops subsequently married the king’s daughter and instituted the Olympic games to celebrate his victory.

      His eyes only briefly paused on the distant ruins. He was more interested in the relative obscurity that his more immediate and contemporary neighborhood had provided him during his stay. The quarter's large and highly transit Lebanese population made it particularly inattentive to the presence of another stranger like Hassan. If police should inquire about his month long presence here, as he expected they eventually would, they would find little to reveal his origin or true identity. By then he would be back in Lebanon, lost in a country that was no longer a country.The momentary distraction was ended by the harsh voice and broken English of the Greek.

      Are you finished? We must leave.

      The Greek was waiting impatiently for him to complete the device so he could take both it and Hassan to the airport. He was overweight, in his mid-forties, spoke poor English and he sat sweating in the small dirty kitchen, nervously trying to read a newspaper while Hassan assembled the final components. The presence of a wall between him and the activity in the next room, provided the Greek at least some artificial sense of protection. He wore a tattered and soiled jumpsuit of a maintenance worker. The patch on his left breast identified him as an employee of a major American airline.

      Hassan did not like this Greek. He was a foul smelling pig of a man, an oafish example of western society. They had nothing personal in common, other than being in this hot sticky room together. But none of this was very important. He would not be required to depend on him much longer. He would soon be on a plane to Cyprus, then on the ferry to Lebanon. Nor did he know the Greek's true name. Hassan was taught that ignorance of such things ensured the security of the operation and his organization. He, therefore, wondered little about the Greek's background, or how he became an ally of his group or his handler in Athens. He supposed he must be a member of one of Greece's Marxist revolutionary organizations which his group occasionally relied upon for logistical support. Just another group of infidels, but in return for their support they received generous financial contributions laundered through a series of international bank transfers to be used for their progressive war against the Greek military regime.

      Hassan looked toward the Greek's position behind the kitchen wall without answering, then turned back to the device in front of him. The spasm began to recede.

      Idiot, he thought. The fool hides behind a wall that would provide him virtually no protection, and now he is pushing me to finish quickly, as if I were assembling a toy. He picked up his pliers. With one quick twisting motion, his electrical pliers stripped almost an inch of plastic from the remaining wire, exposing a bright copper strand. He wrapped it tightly around a short lead extending from a modified altimeter that served as the trigger mechanism. He completed the union by screwing an electrical cap over the twisted wires, ensuring they would not slip free.

      The circuit loop would be charged by a small battery. However, the power loop would not be closed until the altimeter mechanically joined the two ends. That would occur when it reached 32,000 feet, the approximate cruising altitude of westbound passenger planes. Two tiny wires would come into contact, the circuit would be complete and the bomb triggered.

      I am almost finished. He said. This is not something that can be rushed.

      "We must leave now. I will miss my time!

      Marxists. He detested them, these atheists. Their support, however, was necessary, not just here, but in a dozen Western countries where groups like this one provided an infrastructure for movement and supply.

      This operation went far beyond that, however. Hassan's group needed their participation to place his device. It was a particularly risky deviation from his group's normal security precautions. The details of an upcoming operation would almost never be shared with any other group, let alone would they depend on members of outside groups to carryout the most critical steps of a plan. It was far too risky. To share sensitive information with another group may, in effect, mean sharing that information with the local police or security services if that group happened to be infiltrated by government informants. It was a risk that now needed to be taken.

      Notwithstanding all this, the inherent risks of this operation were overshadowed by the immense potential for political recognition and power to be gained by his small yet unknown group, if successful. They would exact a terrible and just retribution upon their enemies, and leave them reeling and bewildered as to how it was done, and when it might happen again. They would create panic.

      The Greek was known to him only by a false name his planners had provided, Mikos. Hassan had been briefed that when he arrived at Athens Airport he would be met by someone holding a sign for arriving passengers that read Mr. Hajar - Mikos Travel Agency. Indeed, a teenage boy was holding such a sign in the arrival area just beyond customs, and quickly led Hassan out from the terminal to a waiting car where Mikos was waiting. The boy, one of the many whom loiter about the airport earning small tips carrying luggage and selling post cards to tourists, was paid by the Greek for his service and dismissed with the wave of a hand.

      The Greek spoke to him in coarse English, but said little. Are you Hassan Hajar?

      Yes. Get in. The Greek had already started the engine and shifted into first gear before Hassan had lifted his suitcase into the back seat. The ride to his rented second story room had been with little discussion. Mikos informed him that because he worked at the airport, he would have minimal contact with him until all the components had arrived and the package was completed by Hassan. Further communications between them would be nonexistent until it was time. Hassan's only other contact was with a courier, a man Hassan believed to be either Libyan or Tunisian from his North African maghrebi accented Arabic.

      Over the preceding weeks, the courier had made three deliveries of material necessary for the package. He also brought him his final instructions, additional money and a time deadline with airline tickets out of Greece. Though he did not know it, he assumed all this had come to him from his own master, courtesy of some embassy’s diplomatic pouch. There were several Arab diplomatic missions in Athens willing to provide delivery service for groups like his. He never saw him again after the last delivery.

      Hassan did not worry about such details. He was the technician. And he had only one job, but the most important one, to construct the bomb. He was proud of the fact that few others had the specialized training or would even be asked to construct such a complex weapon. Indeed, he was a valuable asset to his group. But the theory behind the mechanical object in his hands had never been tested before, much less used against the Americans in such a clever and glorious way.There had not been a successful downing of an American plane for a number of years. The 2001 al-Qaeda attacks and several attempted plane bombings since then, had resulted in increased U.S. airline security measures that made bombings an almost unattainable goal. It was time to demonstrate they were still vulnerable.

      He slowly inserted the power supply unit and wiring into the canister and carefully screwed on the cap which was attached by a six inch double strand of wires. The cap was, in fact, the altimeter and triggering mechanism, but appeared to be nothing more than a standard 10 lb CO2 fire extinguisher cap with nozzle, gauge and handle. It even had the lead seal attached to indicate the contents had not been expended and an inspection tag complete with updated initials, both required by the U.S. Federal Aviation Administration. Hassan held the red fire extinguisher and examined it closely.

      The Greek emerged from the kitchen. We must leave now.

      Hassan rose slowly from the table and handed the canister to the Greek carefully with both hands. Anxious a moment before, the Greek now moved in slow motion as he placed the fire extinguisher slowly into a canvas work bag.

      They stared at one another for a fraction of a second. Hassan knew he did not need to tell the Greek to be gentle with his deadly cargo. Without speaking Hassan turned and quickly swept all the remaining wire, scraps of copper and tools into a paper bag. He would dispose of it somewhere from a car window between there and the airport.

      At the foot of his bed, his suitcase waited, already packed. He picked it up with his free hand and nodded that he was ready to go. He then followed the Greek from the apartment.

      Chapter Two

      Will the cabin crew please make final preparations for take-off.

      The cabin attendants were already taking their temporary seats by the time the Pilot made his announcement. One flight attendant finished securing food carts in the galley, then hurried down the aisle to her folding seat near the rear exit hatch. The roar of the four large engines ascended to a shrill wail as the plane turned and immediately began its race up the runway. Most passengers read passively as the large Boeing 747-100 lifted from the ground and began its sharp ascent.

      Many of those on the starboard side watched as Athens, now bathed in the mid-morning sun, grew beneath them. It was an immense city. Athens’ expanse seemed unbroken but for the hills and rock escarpments which protruded from the city's swirling blanket of humanity like volcanic islands. For the large number of American tourists aboard, it was an opportunity for another brief look at the Acropolis.

      A six month old infant, unable to adjust to the changing pressure on its tiny eardrums began to cry. The crying filled the cabin but was muffled by the powerful roar of the Rolls Royce RB211 turbo-fan engines. The mother tried in vain to alleviate the pain by offering the baby a bottle of formula. When the bottle was refused, she put the child to her shoulder and tried to comfort it with gentle pats on the back and a soothing voice. The last time the mother had been on a plane she was still pregnant, arriving with her husband for a three year assignment in Athens. She was the wife of a young foreign service officer assigned to the passport/visa section of the American Embassy. Because he was a junior officer and it was still early in their tour, he could not accompany her to visit her parents in Kansas to show them their grandson for the first time.

      A Greek family of five talked with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. It was for all but the father, the first ride on a plane. The family patriarch ran a small three truck delivery firm, hauling various types of merchandise and groceries for the last 25 years between the shipyards at Pireaus and markets in Athens. He had saved for six years to buy these tickets. A great sense of pride and relief filled him as the plane lifted into the air. He was finally able to take his family to New York, to see his brother and his family, a trip that had been a source of much excitement and talk in his neighborhood quarter for many weeks. It too, would be the first time he had seen his brother since he had immigrated to America fourteen years ago. He laughed at his two young sons, whose combating heads struggled to look out the same window at the same time. They had never met their American cousins, although strong family ties and frequent letters to relatives in Greece, instilled the boys with anticipation and wonderment about America.

      In midsection of coach a group of American college students laughed and shared stories of their last night in Athens. They had just ended a month long trek across the European continent, hitchhiking, walking and traveling by train. One of their group was suffering from a bad hangover and lack of sleep. His colleagues were commenting on his sallow skin coloration and began piling sickness bags on his lap as he tried to shut his eyes and ignore the amusement they seemed to be having at his expense. They were now returning back home, back to another year of college. Their summer adventure was closing and soon all thoughts would be turned toward the year ahead. Another year of studies, fall campus parties, another football season.

      There were nearly 300 passengers and crew in all aboard Trans Atlantic Airlines Flight 198, the majority Americans. Most were returning home from vacations or business. By simply stepping on board the American air carrier, many now shared the same feeling of relaxation and a sense of safety. It was like stepping on American soil. While their visits may have been pleasurable, gone were the worries over meeting hurried travel schedules, having enough money, accounting for travelers checks, maneuvering through bureaucratic airports or being swindled by local merchants or scam artists, the latter whom seemed to prey upon tourists right up to the departure gates. It was almost a relief to be able to settle into their seats for the long ride home. None knew their future was now measured in terms of minutes.

      The plane completed its initial climb from Athens International Airport and banked to the north.

      Chapter Three

      Deep within a concrete structure on the edge of Athens' Hellenikon airport, an air traffic controller, or ATC, methodically scanned a green luminescent screen in front of him. In turn, he focused on every blip to confirm each aircraft's assigned course and altitude. He was one of a small crew composed of Greek, British, American and French air traffic professionals. Because the required skill level was so high, most air traffic control centers around the world were staffed largely with western European contractors and expatriates. English was the spoken language in the center, the official language of international aviation.

      He would return to each blip in a cyclical scanning pattern. The screen displayed current speed, direction, and rate of altitude change, updating the information every few seconds. Trans Atlantic 198, like all commercial airliners, had a transponder linked to its altimeter that transmitted a distinct four digit code identifying that aircraft to the ground controllers. It continuously supplied the ATC with the exact location and altitude of the aircraft.

      As the large aircraft rose from Athens airport, it followed a predetermined route after takeoff, called SIDs or Standard Instrument Departure. It would follow the SIDs corridor until reaching its en route airway, at which point the plane's altitude and direction would be controlled by a series of ATC stations along its route back to the U.S. The ATC noted that TA 198 would soon exit the SIDs and reach an altitude and position to be accepted under his control.

      ________________

      After the initial power climb, Captain Steven J. Rawls a 10 year veteran of flying Boeing 747 aircraft, increased TA 198's air speed from 170 to 190 knots, then to 220 knots. At 10,000 feet, and approximately 30 miles from the airport, he lowered the nose to a 5 degrees nose up angle and allowed the plane's four powerful engines to accelerate to its best climb speed of 300 to 320 knots. He would fly the plane manually until he attained his final cruising altitude, which he expected the ATC to designate as 33,000 feet. Once reaching his assigned cruising altitude, Rawls would dial it into the plane's altitude selection control and feed the coordinates of a series of way points along the en route airway into the plane's Inertial Navigation System, or INS. He would then flip on the Auto Pilot and let the INS give signals to the auto pilot, allowing it to fly from way point to way point. Captain Rawls and his crew would be responsible for monitoring the plane's progress and radioing the ATC after reaching each way point. It was a route he had flown dozens of times.

      Captain Rawls keyed his radio and attempted to enter the ATC communications net.

      Air Traffic Control, this is Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight.

      Roger Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, I have you. the ATC responded. Hold north on the three-three-zero radial, climb and maintain three-two-thousand, expect further clearance at that altitude.

      Roger.

      From the radio chatter between other aircraft and the ATC, Rawls knew his westerly route across Europe would be moderately busy this day. He knew Flight 198 was following a Swiss Air flight by about eight minutes which had just departed Athens ahead of 198, en route to London's Heathrow Airport. A Saudia airliner flying at 35,000 feet, received radio clearance to enter the air route approximately 20 miles to the east, after being instructed to descend to 33,000 feet and change its heading to 330 degrees. This particular ATC, and the Flight Information Region (FIR) under its control, was always kept busy by intersecting routes from central Asia, the Persian Gulf and the eastern Mediterranean littoral nations. Captain Rawls assumed he would be instructed in the next few minutes by the ATC to come in behind the Saudia airliner and take the same heading and altitude, merging into the line of traffic heading west across former Yugoslavia and Austrian Alps.

      ________________

      At his request, a fresh cup of hot coffee had just been brought to him at his console. ATCs could not wander off from their screens to replenish empty coffee mugs while on duty, so the control center always had one or two attendants in the control center to run paperwork or get anything a controller needed. When nature called, a controller had to wait until another controller or supervisor was available to man his station. It was a normal day in the skies and on the screen. All of his children were at the proper position, bearing and altitude. The ATC sat back slightly in his chair putting his right leg across his left knee and took a sip coffee.... never taking his eyes off the screen. Still too hot, he only took a tiny sip. He casually ordered several routine adjustments as he moved the planes in his care through their expected stair step sequence of movements. His coffee cup remained in his right hand, cooling.

      After vectoring two other aircraft to their proper places, the ATC determined a safe interval of space was now available to allow Trans Atlantic 198 to enter the west bound lane of air traffic. But when his eyes focused on the small cross on his screen identified as Trans Atlantic 198, he had to squint to be sure he was seeing correctly, what he thought he was seeing. The plane was well below its last assigned altitude of 32,000 feet, by at least 2,000 feet, and off course on a heading of 340 degrees.

      Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, you are below your assigned altitude. Climb to three-three-thousand and assume a heading of three-three-zero radial. The ATC listened intently for a response to confirm his instructions were heard. Nothing.

      He tried again. Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, do you acknowledge my last transmission? Again he paused and listened carefully for a response possibly broken the first time by static or drowned out by another aircraft unintentionally keying its radio at the same time. Nothing.

      Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, what is your present altitude? The ATC noted that 198 continued to descend, now to about 20,000 feet, and seemed to be in a gradual bank to its starboard side.

      Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, please acknowledge. The ATC knew Flight 198 was in trouble of some kind. Its divergence from its assigned altitude and clear drifting from its previous course, indicated that 198's present heading and descent was beyond a simple navigation error or safety violation.

      A transmission broke in, "This is India Air seven-two-four, request.....

      The controller immediately transmitted over the India Air transmission, All aircraft clear the net, hold all transmissions, we have an aircraft in possible distress.

      Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, please acknowledge.

      By now several other controllers, including the ATC supervisor were gathered around the screen. Other controllers on different consoles were also aware of the uncontrolled path Flight 198 was taking through their airspace. They quickly scanned each position and altitude of other aircraft in the same area or that could conceivably come into the projected flight path of 198. Another controller issued instructions changing the course of a small Greek domestic airliner en route from Ioannina near the Albanian border to Thessalonikia on the Aegean sea. Normally flying at a much lower altitude than the large intercontinental airliners, the continuing descent of Flight 198 would bring it roughly into the same area of the Greek aircraft. Because Flight 198's course did not appear to be controlled, and therefore unpredictable, the Greek carrier was diverted for safety.

      The controller turned his radio on to an open speaker above his console and attempted once more Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, please acknowledge.No response.

      The controller turned and looked up at his supervisor, unsure of what else he could do.

      Any indications of trouble in his previous transmissions? the supervisor asked calmly.

      None. the controller answered.

      How long ago was your last good contact? The supervisor asked without taking his eyes from the screen.

      Approximately five to seven minutes. He was climbing at twenty thousand feet on a 3-6-0 radial, vectoring to a 3-3-0.

      Request he key his radio three times if he can hear you, the supervisor directed.

      Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, if you copy my transmission key your radio three times. Everyone listened to the soft static coming through the speaker for a full minute. There were no clicks or any repetitive breaks in the static that remotely sounded like intentional signals.

      The screen showed Flight 198 to now be at 15,000 feet and continuing to lose altitude rapidly at about 2,000 feet per minute, indicating a fifteen to twenty degree angle of descent.

      The aircraft is apparently still intact.... said the supervisor.... or it wouldn't be flying in a relatively constant northwesterly direction. He was thinking of the possibilities….engine trouble, 198's actions did not correspond to engine failure or even engine fire…..massive decompression, possibly.

      Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, please acknowledge. The controller tried once more.

      But if the crew had control, the supervisor continued, and were having some type of difficulty, they would have altered their course back to the south for an emergency landing at Athens. We would have seen some type of maneuver by now.

      The controller called out 198's altitude eleven thousand feet. He pushed his transmit button once more. Trans Atlantic One Nine Eight, please acknowledge.

      They all listened intently, as did every aircraft in the ATC area, but there was only silence.

      Straightening his back from over the console, the supervisor exhaled in a sigh of helplessness. Turning his head only partially to an assistant to his left, and without breaking his eye contact with 198's image on the screen, he spoke in a lowered voice. Contact Greek authorities, tell them we have a plane going down ......probably twenty to thirty miles across the border in Yugoslav Macedonia.....somewhere near Bitola.

      Eight thousand five hundred the controller called out.

      What's the elevation of the mountains in that area? someone asked.

      Chapter Four

      Tel Aviv -- Two weeks later.

      Garrett McCloud lowered the Jerusalem Post he had been reading slowly down to his lap. The depression and sadness had returned. It sapped his strength and stole his senses. The newspaper's sudden weight had become unbearable to his now languid arms. He stared vacantly out over the Mediterranean and waited patiently for feeling to return. It always returned, as certainly as the deep loss that caused it would remain. Nothing could relieve him of it. The numbness was merely a recurring symptom of his grief.

      Waves broke gently and methodically on the beach one hundred yards to his front. He sat exposed to the warm afternoon sun, rejecting the shade offered by the umbrella anchored through his table. The sun was required when these feelings came over him. He needed the sensation of warmth on his face when his soul went cold.

      A waiter interrupted his seaward gaze to ask if he wanted another beer. He shook his head without answering, managing a polite smile and put a cigar in his mouth without lighting it.

      The headline read TA 198: Evidence of Terrorism Found. For two weeks the tragedy had captured world attention. Two hundred and ninety-eight people dead, including 25 children under the age of twelve. The increasingly detailed and gruesome descriptions of the crash site tortured McCloud.

      Time had not diminished the pain and horror now being dredged from his own memory, taunting memories. Like ghouls from some subterranean crypt, they haunted him. His own son had died over four years before in another unspeakable tragedy. Similar to the disaster of Trans Atlantic 198, his son’s plane was destroyed by a terrorist bomb. Over 230 innocent people perished when that plane plummeted into a farmer’s bean field in Germany.

      Until two weeks ago, the ghastly event had been fading from world memory. But not from his, nor any of those who lost a husband, son, daughter or close friend on that dreadful December night. That's when the numbing guilt began.

      And now the images came flooding back. Images of his son's last moments. Images of his son's lonely and abandoned final screams for the father that should have been there. Jamie was only six years old. Torturing self censure filled him. He admonished himself mercilessly. He should have been with his little boy. Perhaps only to have time to embrace him in the few seconds between the sudden terror of his plane being ripped apart and the total blackness of death. That would have been sufficient. In McCloud's mind, nothing less than what should be expected of a father, to die with his child if he could not save him.

      His mind replayed, over and over, the moments and hours before he put his son on the plane. He had unexpected meetings scheduled the following day requiring him to change his ticket back to the States and return two days later. There was no need to keep Jamie two extra days in Germany while he was tied up in long meetings. Jamie had come to visit him in Germany three weeks before. When he had first received the assignment as the senior Special Forces staff officer to the Army’s European Command headquarters (USAREUR) in Heidelberg, McCloud and his wife decided it would be best not to uproot the family for an overseas assignment, but to keep their home and the kids in the same school, at least for the next school year. It was a commuter arrangement, with trips to visit the wife and kids whenever he could get back. Jamie had accompanied McCloud back to Germany after McCloud’s most recent official trip to Washington, three weeks earlier. It was an exciting outing for the little guy, being with his dad, seeing all kinds of new things. However, his mother was anxious to get Jamie back home before Christmas. They had agreed Jamie would be old enough to make the trip alone with the help of flight attendants who would make sure he made his connection in London and was properly delivered into the arms of his mother, Grandparents and older sister at the arrival gate in New York. McCloud would join them two days later and spend the planned Christmas holiday with his wife's parents in upstate New York.

      He remembered every word Jamie said when he left him in the safe hands of a friendly and attentive stewardess.

      Daddy, I'm scared to go alone. What if the person sitting next to me is mean?

      Hugging Jamie from a kneeling position for the last time, he assured Jamie he would be just fine, adjusting the airline lanyard around his son’s neck holding his ticket and escort badge.

      You're going to have fun and get to watch a movie, and this young lady is going to watch after you and get you whatever you need.

      Putting her arm around his son, the stewardess reaffirmed his father's words, Jamie, we'll put you in a seat right next to my galley so we will be able to keep an eye on you and take good care of you.

      As she led Jamie through the gate to his seat McCloud watched Jamie disappear down a long walkway. He never saw him again.

      He looked outward to the sea and beaches to his front, to the scores of people relaxing in the sun, walking and jogging, hoping the reality of now, of here, would stop the images assaulting his mind. An Israeli reconnaissance plane on coastal patrol several miles out was heading north toward the Lebanese border. They flew constantly, searching for possible terrorist craft attempting to infiltrate Israel by sea. Virtually every conceivable method had been used by radical Palestinian or pro-Iranian Shi’ite groups, usually Hizballah, at one time or another to insert their terror teams. Small powered speed boats, zodiac inflatables, wooden rafts, even hang gliders had been used to circumvent Israel's formidable defenses along the border. Usually they were killed. It was the media attention, after all, and not the specific operational objective that these group's sought. Only the media could generate and sustain their political energy.

      McCloud rarely had the courage for the past two weeks to read the paper before late afternoon. Even then, he would try to avoid the grisly articles describing attempts to recover the mangled bodies or identify the dead. Walking the short distance from the U.S. Embassy each afternoon to the beachside cafe had become something of a daily ritual for the last two weeks. He usually left the Defense Attaché’s or the CIA's Chief of Station office at about 6 pm. That is, if he wasn't visiting the Israeli Ministry of Defense building in the center of Tel Aviv, or one of several Israeli military installations associated with the IDF's elite special operations or counter-terrorism units.

      Now retired from the military and employed by the CIA, McCloud had been in Israel for some three months on extended temporary duty when Trans Atlantic 198 went down. Beyond his own personal anguished interest in the plane's downing, he immediately felt his purpose for being here was to somehow become intertwined with the plane's fate. He, like many in the Embassy and Israeli intelligence, believed that TA 198's destruction to be the result of a terrorist act, not some technical failure. The press also seemed to be picking up on that possibility, thanks to predictable leaks from the crash investigation team.

      McCloud wondered what they had found. Probably traces of an explosive devise, perhaps residue from plastic explosive. If he had to guess, it would be Symtex, a Czech plastic explosive manufactured in great quantities by the former communist regime and generously made available to a number of radical countries during the late eighties and early nineties. Shipments made to countries like Libya and Iraq had eventually wound up in the inventories of dozens of revolutionary groups around the world. Whatever was used to bring the plane down, he was fairly confident the answer would soon be revealed in cable traffic routinely being copied to the Embassy from State Department or CIA headquarters at Langley.

      Finding answers to such questions had become a major part of McCloud’s life. The fact was, since his son’s death, McCloud had an uncompromising personal commitment to lift every rock possible, to track down and destroy these terrorist groups. There was no nobility involved, no exemplary dedication to national service. As a soldier who had faced armed enemy on the battlefield, he despised these slimy little self-righteous cowards with their warped religious and political ideologues. They portrayed themselves as soldiers of Islam then zealously murdered unarmed and helpless civilians, often fellow Muslims. His contempt, however, did not temper his hunger for ever more knowledge about these groups. It was what drove him.He wanted to know what motivated them, how they lived, their ethnic and religious backgrounds, their education, how they were recruited, trained, supplied, how they financed their operations and to understand their command structure .

      Importantly, it was a necessity to understand how they communicated amongst themselves and with other groups. How they operated through elaborate clandestine networks of safe houses, bank accounts, couriers and internet web sites across the globe. How and where they obtained forged passports, falsified shipping manifests and how they bribed officials that either knowingly or unknowingly facilitated the movement of the terrorists or their weapons. He sorted through this maze of convoluted and usually fragmented clues with a vengeance, trying to find patterns that would expose the infrastructure of a terrorist organization or reveal the location and identity of a particular member. He became quite adept at it. His dogged determination had disrupted several planned terrorist operations and resulted in the apprehension of at least a dozen terrorists in a number of countries.

      That was all after he had abruptly ended his military career. It had been ironic that within a year of Jamie's death the Army would reassign McCloud back to the country's premier counterterrorist unit, SOF-D, commonly known as Delta. He had demanded the reassignment

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1