W. Griffin - By Order of the President

"The airplane you were looking for in Abeche, sir, was-we're pretty sure-stolen by a Somalian terrorist group called the 'Holy Legion of Muhammad:"

"The name doesn't ring a bell," McNab interjected. He looked at the others, all of whom shook their heads.

": who plan on crashing it into the Liberty Bell."

"Where'd you get this, Mr. Castillo?" McNab asked.

"From a Russian, an arms dealer. One of the names he uses is Aleksandr Pevsner. Another is Vasily Respin."

"I know the gentleman by both names. He's a genuine rascal," McNab said. "This sounds like a CIA fantasy. You said you got it? Where?"

"From Pevsner. In Vienna."

"What's in it for him? Don't tell me altruism."

"He wants attention diverted from some of his business activities."

McNab grunted.

"Anyway," Castillo went on, "the last word we had was that the airplane-now repainted with the registration numbers of Air Suriname-was last seen in N'Djamena, Chad, after a flight from Khartoum. Khartoum has no record of Air Suriname 1101 in Khartoum in the last six months."

"That could happen," Colonel Torine said and made a gesture with his fingers suggesting a bribe.

Castillo didn't respond, instead going on: "The airplane took on fuel, and filed a flight plan to Murtala Muhammad International, in Lagos, Nigeria. And never got there."

"Where do you think it is?" Colonel Torine asked.

"Kennedy thinks it's in South America," Castillo said, "by way of Yundum International:"

"Kennedy, who's Kennedy?" General McNab interrupted. "And where is Yundum International?"

"In Gambia, a hundred miles south of Dakar," Colonel Torine answered. "Another place where the more generous you are, the fewer questions are asked about where you really came from, or are really going."

"Who's Kennedy?" McNab pursued.

"Pevsner's guy. American. He's ex-FBI," Castillo said.

"First name Howard?" McNab asked.

Castillo nodded.

"He's renegade FBI, if it's the same guy I think it is," McNab went on. "A guy from the FBI was here, asking that if we ran across him anywhere to please let them know right away."

"That's a whole other story, sir, but I've seen his dossier. He hasn't been charged with anything."

"And I'm sure he gets a nice recommendation from Pevsner, right?" McNab said.

Castillo didn't reply.

"Where in South America?" McNab asked.

"I'm not sure it could make it across the drink to anywhere in South America from Yundum," Colonel Torine said. "Or from anywhere else on the West Coast of Africa. How is it configured?"

"It came out of passenger service with Continental Airlines," Castillo said. "All economy class, 189 seats."

"That probably means the short-haul configuration," Colonel Torine said as he took a pocket-sized computer from the pocket on the upper left sleeve of his flight suit. He started tapping keys with a stylus. "Typically, that would mean a max of about 8,000-there it is, 8,150 gallons. Giving it a nominal range of 2,170 nautical miles. That's without a reserve, of course."

He rapidly tapped more keys on the computer with the stylus.

"Suriname isn't in here," he announced. "But Georgetown, Guyana, is. That's right up the coast-no more than two hundred miles from Paramaribo, the only airport I know of in Suriname that'll take a 727. It's 2,455 nautical miles from Dakar to Georgetown. A standard configuration just couldn't make it."

"The fuel bladders," Castillo said.

"Okay, let's factor that in," Colonel Torine said, rapidly tapping the stylus. "A standard U.S. Army fuel bladder-that's another assumption we'll have to go with, that the bladders are Army bladders-holds five hundred gallons:"

"How did the 727 get to Africa in the first place if it doesn't have the range to cross the Atlantic?" McNab asked, and then, as the answer quickly came to him, added, "Sorry, dumb question."

Torine answered it anyway.

"More than likely via Gander, Newfoundland, to Shannon, Ireland. That's the longest leg-about seventeen hundred nautical miles, well within the range of a short-haul 727. Then down across France to North Africa, and so on."

Castillo had several unkind thoughts, one after the other. The first was that General McNab's question was, in fact, dumb. McNab rarely asked dumb questions.

Well, Jesus, he's just flown back and forth to North Africa and run a Gray Fox operation that went down perfectly. He's tired. I know how that is.

And while I'm still impressed with Torine's pocket computer, and with his dexterity in punching the keys with that cute little stylus, this is a little late in the game to start figuring how far the 727 can fly.

As if he had read Castillo's mind, Colonel Torine looked at him and said, "I guess I should have done this earlier, but, frankly, I've been working on the assumption that the 727 was headed for Mecca."

What did he say? Mecca? What the hell is that all about?

"Excuse me, sir?" Castillo said.

Torine's face showed I have just let my mouth run and he looked with some embarrassment at McNab.

"Tell him," McNab said, and then before Torine could open his mouth, went on: "General Naylor, probably because he thought I didn't have the need to know, did not elect to share with me why we were looking for the 727 in Chad, but:"

He gestured with his hand for Torine to pick up the story.

Torine looked at Castillo.

"You know who General McFadden is?"

"General Naylor's deputy commander at MacDill?" Castillo replied.

"Right," Torine said. "We go back a long way. When General McFadden called me to lay on the support of the C-17 for the McNab mission, he told me, out of school, that despite the current wisdom at CentCom that the 727 was going to fly to Philadelphia and crash into the Liberty Bell he thought that there was a good chance it was going to be flown to Mecca and be crashed into the ka'ba, thereby really enraging the Muslim world. It's an American airplane; they would probably find the body of the American pilot:"

"Jesus!" Castillo said.

"Which made a lot more sense to both of us than the Liberty Bell," McNab said. "And still does."

"General, I really think Philadelphia is the target," Castillo said.

"Far be it from me to question the judgment of the president's personal representative," McNab said. "Tell us about the fuel bladders, Torine."

God knows I am an expert on McNabian sarcasm, and, again, there's more to that crack than what it sounds like. What the hell is he hinting at?

"Okay, where was I?" Torine asked, consulting his computer again. "Okay. A bladder holds five hundred gallons. We don't know how many bladders were loaded aboard in Abeche':"

"I can find out, probably, when I get to Cozumel," Castillo said.

": but more than one. So let's go with what we know. Two bladders, 1,000 gallons," Torine went on, stabbing at his pocket computer with his stylus. "Figuring. 226 nautical miles per gallon, that's: an additional 226 miles of range-2,170 plus 226 is 2,396. They'd run out of fuel 59 miles out of Georgetown."

"Factor in another couple of bladders," McNab ordered. "Tell me how many bladders it would take to give them the fuel they need. For that matter, tell me how many bladders they can get on that airplane."

"Okay," Torine said. "Two more bladders would give them another 226 miles. That'd get them across the drink with 160-odd miles to spare. Six would get them there with almost 400 miles to spare."

"We better figure they had eight," McNab said. "What about the weight?"

"I don't think it would be a problem," Torine said. "Let me check."

There was a knock at the door. D'Alessandro went to it and opened it.

A Special Forces master sergeant was standing there.

"You're wanted on the secure line, Mr. D'Alessandro," he said.