Air France One

Air France One

A novel by Donald A. Gazzaniga

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Published by Arrowhead Classics Publishing

Los Angeles, California • Newcastle, California

http://www.arrowhead-classics.com

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D2D Edition

Copyright 1988, 1995, 2013, 2016 by Donald A. Gazzaniga. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. For information, address Arrowhead Classics Publishing, Los Angeles, CA; Newcastle, CA. visit: www.arrowhead-classics.com

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Tough Call . . .

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the first St. Louis Rams home game in the Busch Memorial Stadium. The St. Louis Rams versus the New Orleans Saints. . .

The cheering broke the stadium’s decibel recorder, forcing the announcer to press his headset uncomfortably hard to his ears; so tight, that he swore he heard background voices from an aircraft. He paled, turned white like a ghost and with a surge of nausea nearly fainted. With barely a memory of it he turned to his engineer and said, Oh, shit –

His announcer's microphone was still on.

Chapter 1

Cody Williams squinted through the not so romantic, smoggy Paris sunset, searching again for his French chauffeur. Colonel Williams needed to get the hell to his destination and his tardy driver was forcing all the blood from his heart to his frontal lobe. It wasn’t often he wore his uniform in the middle of the old Paris, especially since it was adorned with six rows of ribbons including those for his Vietnam service. The French knew what they meant, and they didn’t like it. France had lost that war long before America jumped in and then after sixteen arduous years decided to bug out.

He realized, after six months in Paris working as a counterintelligence officer, that the driver’s excuse for being late would be that the once proud Avenue des Champs Elysees had filled with the usually turbulent rush of Frenchmen heading home. Traffic always ate up the oncoming lanes, leaving but one for opposing traffic. No signs, no lines, just crazy out-of-control French drivers. Amazing.

No wonder the Germans conquered Paris so easily, he mused to himself. He glanced around to make sure no one heard his thoughts. Today it wasn’t the Germans who gave Paris troubles. Today it was Arabs, and a lot of them were already at war with Parisians.

He straightened and stretched his slender torso just enough to breathe in a few gulps of fresh air and tried to relax. What was he smelling? Ah, a bakery nearby. Most likely baguettes for the morning.

Then it caught his eye. The silver Mercedes assigned him by the French Department of Defence was dashing from one lane to another with the horn blasting away like many others, threatening every car in its path. It came at him relentlessly without any indication it would stop. The driver slowed the car, but never fully stopped. When the passenger door flew open, Cody seemed to fly across the space from the curb. He landed on the seat with such grace it appeared to the driver he’d practiced the tricky maneuver for years. A new driver, Cody noted. Everyday, a different driver.

The door slammed shut and the car continued on into the traffic of the Charles de Gaulle Etoile turnabout. You zettle? the driver asked with a thick accent of a language from across the Med.

Yes, Cody answered strapping on his seat belt. He shifted his weight and adjusted his uniform jacket and briefcase.

We haz to drrrrive clear ‘rrrround to get to Marrrrceau, the driver said, meaning the Avenue de Marceau, which would pop them straight out in front of the Hotel Etoile. His aide would be waiting.

Cody was a flight test engineer, an Air Force officer whose job it was to make sure every fighter plane the Air Force owned could fly with all the latest advertised or contracted for weapons technology. He was a qualified aerodynamic engineer, a graduate of the Air Force Academy with a master’s degree earned from Wichita State and a Ph.D. earned at MIT.

How longs, Kernal? the driver asked while he continued to guide the car through Paris’s busiest traffic.

Pardon?

How longs zee ‘Merican Air Forze?

Cody frowned. This guy’s accent was pretty thick, meaning he was typical street Arab who was too lazy to learn English or French correctly. He’d been briefed about guys like this at counter-intelligence. Spies were everywhere and they were always seeking out Americans. You couldn’t trust anyone who was not an American – well, an American who had gone through clearance, anyway. This guy, according to his mission, was supposed to be French, but he sure as hell wasn’t. He looked more like he was a borderline Egyptian or a Libyan. Where you from? Cody asked.

Ahh, you donz truz me. Zat is good.

Cody squinted at the man who had not given him an answer, then glanced up to the mirror. The driver was watching him while weaving his way through traffic. Where are you from? Cody persisted.

The driver smiled. Cairo. I come here twenty years ago. I am now a French citizen. I work for le ministère de la defence. He grinned broadly, held his I.D. up for Cody to read. His eyes sparkled with pools of light that seemed to indicate he was truthful. Then he surprised Cody by speaking what Cody thought to be the King’s English, accent and all. Truth is Colonel, I was born to an Egyptian mother, a British Army Major stationed in Cairo. Sorry I pulled on the leg of a Yank.

Cody couldn’t help but smile. You yanked a Yank, you didn’t pull.

Names Charles Brandon. Must say I’m delighted to be gone from Egypt. Went to the U.K. early on. Graduated from Oxford. Studied to be a spy. He laughed loudly, Now ain’t that just all British humor? He apologized. Sorry about that old chap. I think sometimes I’m bonkers about all this spy stuff. Frankly, looking like I’m Arabian has gotten me this post. Not much enjoyment here.

Cody reflected on his briefing. Egypt, Libya, Iraq, Iran, Israel, Syria, hell nobody was the same anymore and few admitted to their origin. He found himself doubting everything Charles said, but still he sighed, what could this answer hurt. More than twenty years.

I say, Desert Storm, possibly? You fly there?

Cody shook his head. I don’t fly. I’m not a pilot. He glanced out the window. They were approaching his aide’s hotel. There she is, he said, at the entrance. His aide was an intelligent young woman, a recent graduate of the Academy who was in the top five of her class. He thought she also happened to be pretty. Very pretty. He glanced back at the driver and decided he would not say anything more to him about his career. He’d been researching aircraft systems for more than a decade and the information about America’s flying machines he possessed in his brain was not unlike a computer databank. A valuable databank.

When the car eased up to the hotel, Cody pushed open his door to get out, but Air Force Second Lieutenant Patricia Montrose, once the high school senior class prize debutante of Chattanooga, dashed down the short flight of stairs calling out, Nev’ah mind Colonel. Ah’m here. She yanked open the back door and quickly entered the vehicle, settling unceremoniously in her seat. When the driver backed out and turned the car down Marceau, Montrose asked with Southern syrup spilling out, What’s up?

Don’t know, he answered. Only that it’s urgent.

Aren’t they all? she said with her inflection on the last word. She settled in for the harrowing ride to their destination.

Cody glanced to Montrose. He wondered why he liked this fiery youngster and then remembered. She reminded him of his own wife about twenty years ago when things were good. Back then, Miss Sally, who hailed from Memphis, had the same spunk, same energy, same bright smile and quick thinking and she had the same accent. The soft, southern accent that beguiled him. Returning his gaze to the driver’s renewed attention in them, he wondered if Miss Patty would turn out to be like Sally when she lit into her mid forties.

The Mercedes moved more quickly along the north Quai, tracking the Seine with its tourist filled boats moving slowly, voices from loudspeakers stepping on each other as they passed. They continued on toward the Louvre where the Mona Lisa sat in perpetual introspection, an interpretation Cody had given the painting after his visit there during his first week but he’s couched it a back-home simile. As though she was about to go fishing and knew where all the right holes were. Fishing. Ahh, to be back in the states, floating down the Salmon River, a line dragging behind his boat, Olympia beer in the cooler.

He glanced back to Miss Patty, shook off the useless day dream and returned his attention to the man in front who, he decided, was a spy for Moammar Gaddafi, the man whose name had more than twenty spellings.

They continued from there up to the Rue de Rivoli, a polluted avenue full of bums, trash, used condoms and dirty laundry that hung from most of the windows. They would turn away from the Seine, cross the Champs Elysees again, doubling back shortly along Avenue Gabriel to the American Embassy; damned close to the Palais Royal at 2, Gabriel.

Cody knew the numbers, the streets and the people who lived within the walls. I’ve been here too long, he muttered.

Sir? Miss Patty asked.

Nothing. Just thinking out loud.

I was told to wait for you, M’sieur Colonel, at the Embassy, the driver interrupted. That you’d be right along shortly. You would know then, where to go.

Cody glanced to Miss Patty. Miss Patty possessed a Top Secret classification. He could speak with her, but not now. He remembered the driver’s burning curiosity. Miss Patty’s innocent eyes were wide open, ready for his words, but instead, he turned back to the front of the car and said nothing. He would wait to speculate. Speculation meant nothing anyway, small talk. Guessing when guessing could cause harm.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but wonder just what in the hell was so goddamned important that they pulled him away from one of the most important projects in his career.

Chapter 2

Not far from the Hotel Etoile, at 42, rue Copernic, Ben’d Kadahare, paced back and forth in a thickly carpeted office that faced the busy avenue outside. Before arriving, he’d shed his western bleached jeans, his stripped yellow and brown cotton shirt and Reeboks, in favor of his Kaffiyeh headband with its brown tie cord, and his black caftan.

He felt safe here. A hell of a lot safer than he had a few days ago while visiting Gaddafi’s new underground chemical warfare lab near Marzuq, Libya.

He paused for a moment, glanced outside. The Great One’s own Ambassador would be here shortly. Certainly, he will bring others with him, he mumbled in Ghadamès, one of Libya’s nine different languages. Catching himself, he looked back to the room’s only entrance, and then silently added, To explain my mission.

Even though they had paid him well, ambassadors didn’t usually deal directly with hidden faces like Kadahare whose real name was so foreign to even the French that he’d changed it two years ago. It would be I, Kadahare, he said as though speaking to someone, who will take the heat away from Megrahi and Fhimah. In 1988 Abdelbaset Mohmed Ali al-Megrahi, a former security agent for Libyan Arab Airlines, brought down Pan Am" Flight 103 over Lockerbee, England. Gaddafi of course, he admitted to himself, planned the whole thing.

But what is this mission? he asked aloud with a petulant sound to his voice. He began to pace again, glancing furtively out the window. It must be great. The biggest yet. He stopped pacing again and thinking aloud said, One thing is for sure. Something is very, very different. He pulled his billfold from his left rear pocket and checked through it once again. He’d just been through training, first Marzuq, then in Iran where he’d learned to survive in a hostile ocean, drive many different military vehicles and he’d learned to fly. Small planes; crop dusters. He smiled when he checked his international certificate for flying. But none for the other crazy things, he muttered. What a shame.

He sighed deeply, surprising himself with the sound he created. This is finally my chance. To rise to power, maybe even rise over Ali Akbar Mohtashemi. He smiled. Still, he wondered aloud, why meet here? In such an important place? In the very center of Paris.

One of the double doors opened. A young man entered, closed the door and then came to Kadahare. You are ready? The youngster spoke the Arabic accent familiar to Iraq.

Kadahare nodded. Yes.

I am Asghar Muhammad Bengaz.

You are from Iraq?

Bengaz nodded. Indeed. I am Iraqi. I personally serve Saddam Hussein. I was trained at Arafat’s al-Fatah organizational camp just inside Jordan. I am the agent with the Saudis as well.

I too —

Yes, I know. Ten years ago. Then you had additional training under Abul Nidal. Much training if I am correct.

You know more of me, than I of you.

I was briefed two weeks ago.

About what?

We have a great mission, my friend. The greatest. You will be the leader however, the one with more experience and the one who can pull it off. I will be there also. Praise Allah.

Kadahare cocked an eye. Praise Allah, he said in response. Then, with that moment passed, he said, Yes, of course. I have had much experience, but it has been mostly training. But, please, who briefed you, and why haven’t I been so informed?

I was counseled by Bin Laden himself. And of course by Saddam and Muammar Muhammad al-Gaddafi. He made sure to use Gaddafi’s full title and name.

Kadahare’s change in expression showed his surprise but they were interrupted when the double-doors swung open with a whoosh. Standing there gloriously silhouetted against the bright lights from the foyer, were the Consulate Generals from Iraq, Iran, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Syria and Libya. Kadahare’s eyes brightened when he saw more men behind them, each dressed in dark, pinstripe western suits and each carrying a briefcase.

Allah be praised, Kadahare muttered when a khaki dressed man caught his eye and held it like a magnet might grab on to iron chips. It is the Great One himself, he whispered. And Jibril is with him.

Bengaz nodded. He was just as surprised to see the powerful Arab nations in one room. He whispered, Libya’s ambassador to France, Saeeb Mujber, the man on the telly who tells the Americans that Libya will never turn Megrahi or Fhimah over to the Western authorities is the one in the brown suit.

Then, appearing as an apparition from behind The Great One came Ali Akbar Motashami.

Welcome to my home, Gaddafi said softly, his dark tan glowing like Allah himself.

His stature, his demeanor does not give off a feeling of power, Kadahare thought. Instead, his eyes, yes his eyes are blazing with fire as though he is merely the carrier of danger. You are the one they call Kadahare? Gaddafi asked, looking straight into Kadahare’s eyes.

Kadahare could only nod. Suddenly, he thought, here is the power. The man who will rule the world.

Gaddafi smiled tersely. And Bengaz?

Bengaz nodded.

Please, relax my friends, he said. We are not being listened to. The room is clean. He waved all of them into the room and to the area where plush pillows surrounded a magnificent Persian carpet.

They sat on the pillows, in a circle where each could face any of the others, while a woman servant brought them cold drinks of water and juices. And now my loyal friends, Gaddafi began, do you understand what it is you will do for Allah?

Kadahare shook his head. Bengaz here has been briefed your excellency, he said slowly. I on the other hand have not, but I am ready to do your bidding.

Gaddafi glanced at the others, then back to Kadahare. You have been to Marzuq, Kadahare, true?

Yes, Kadahare said. He wanted to add that the rubber suit he was forced to wear in the plant, suggested more of the dangers inherent in the weapons under construction, than the Great One’s scientists had openly explained, but he held his words.

Yes, of course, Gaddafi responded, as though he’d read Kadahare’s mind. You found everything in order? You have learned that we are prepared to make our endless revenge against the Americans and their allies for their interference?

Specifically against the Israelis and the French, Jibril said.

We need not discuss our fullest intentions here, Mujber said firmly. Saeeb Mujber was Libya’s ambassador to France and also acted as Gaddafi’s secretary of state when he traveled to European countries.

America will be unable to handle another war. They are deplete. They shoot at tents and call that a war. They are underpowered for fighting in Arabia. Few had ever caught Gaddafi smiling, but he smiled at his own statement this time. We will stretch them thin, then we can attack across their own borders.

Kadahare was confused. Why must I know all this, your Excellency?

Ahh, a man of directness, Gaddafi stated, returning to his own well-known demeanor. "Well, for one reason, because you are about to create the greatest storm in America that has ever happened there. You and Bengaz here are about to take a foreign war to the soil of America, and burn them down with it.

It is time to begin our strikes against them where they will hurt and damn anyone who gets in our way. He pounded his right fist into his other palm for emphasis. Kadahare thought that his expression tightened while his eyes seemed to leap from his head as though they were fireballs aimed directly at him.

They have turned cowardly, Motashami said.

They are not cowards, Gaddafi responded with thunderbolts shot toward Motashami. Never underestimate their attitude or their abilities. They can crank up an army within days, produce weapons within hours.

That time has passed, your Excellency, Mujber said. Today they cannot do that as well as in the past. They have burdened themselves with too many laws, too many politicians and depend too much on foreign factories for what they need. They have become fat with corruption and failed leadership. We will have the upper hand for many months.

Motashami would not take his rebuke lying down. They are undermanned and under gunned with their present military. They cannot recover before we accomplish our goals.

They are correct your Excellency, Hamid Ahmed al-Amery, the Iraqi ambassador said. Our intelligence reports, easily obtained through the United Nations teams that still wander our country, also show that homosexuals have taken over the American military —

Impossible. You are still angry at the Americans, Ahmed al-Amery? Gaddafi teased. You make a statement like that? He shook his finger at al-Amery. I think not my friend. Be cautious how you manage your anger.

al-Amery glanced away. Of course he was angry, what the hell does this man think. I was ousted from the United States as the first secretary of the Iraqi mission, falsely accused  —

Ahmed! Gaddafi cried out with laughter. You are among friends. It is a badge of honor you wear to have plotted the murder of the critics of the Iraqi government during Desert Storm. Wear the badge with pride.

Ahmed sighed deeply, decided to get the conversation back on course. He turned to the group and said, Fear not our knowledge of the Americans lack of strength. His Excellency is right in that they are brave soldiers, and he is correct too, that they are no longer the power they were before politicians destroyed them. They are in chaos. It will take a decade or more to rebuild. Desert Storm did them in, and their new president is ripping them apart. That is a fact.

Gaddafi spoke firmly. If we attack soon, they will not be able to defend their country and not able to rebuild quickly. We will completely demoralize their people. He paused, eyed each man in the room, and then continued. It is our time. We must act promptly. We each have our own anger to assuage, al-Amery. We must be patient. Each step must be completed. The American public will panic when Kadahare and Bengaz arrive with their package. It will be the beginning of the end for them. The politicians will not be able to group and handle the impact of our act. Their new president will falter; fail to make a decision in time to save them. When all that happens, we are prepared to follow through with the blow that will destroy America as a world super power once and for all time.

Allah be praised, Bengaz moaned. The others bowed to him and repeated his words: Allah be praised.

We are together as brothers in our efforts to achieve one Middle East world for the first time in centuries, al-Amery added, bringing them back to their purpose here. Let’s not allow ourselves to disintegrate at the hands of the Americans this time. This mission can bring us together for an even stronger Islam. He coughed lightly, gazed into Gaddafi’s torrid eyes and added, Iran especially likes the weapons you have chosen.

Of course. He was happy to provide it, al-Amery added.

Gaddafi smiled. It will become known as the missile to beat all missiles. Not even Patriot will be ready for this one.

Possibly you are correct about it being the missile of missiles, Motashami muttered.

Gaddafi turned to Kadahare he said, We are here for you, Kadahare. He glanced to Bengaz, And for you Muhammad Bengaz.

Kadahare and Bengaz each bowed their head with reverence. We are ready, Excellency, Kadahare said.

What will we do? Bengaz asked.

Gaddafi smiled, glanced to the others, then said, You are about to destroy Washington D.C.

Chapter 3

While the Ambassador conferred in whispers with his own aide and two Frenchmen, who Cody did not recognize, there was an abrupt rap on the door.

Enter, Derek Mainland, the ambassador, barked. Mainland was tall, slender, direct and harsh with military types, believing that they were the cause of all wars, not the solution.

Two United States Air Force generals entered Mainland’s austere office, a room not much larger than a quad of cubicles in a sweatshop. Mainland had intended to keep visitors on point instead of spotting things like his family photo or even the portrait of the president. His walls were bare save for one very plain and empty corkboard behind his desk. The desk alone spoke of a relentless man hell-bent to save money. It was at least thirty years old, a grayish metal Steelcase with drawers that squealed when opened. His swivel chair matched the desk, declaring that neither the desk nor the user of it were even close to being hypocrites. He did not, it would seem, want to display America’s strengths nor did he like to appear pretentious.

Brigadier General Barnett was shorter than the ambassador and stocky from being desk bound for the past ten of his thirty years in the flyboy outfit. He bore wings on his chest that clearly stated his flight status as a senior pilot even though he’d not been at the controls of a plane since converting to a desk jockey. Major General Gagliardi boasted two stars and wings of envy: he was a command pilot who’d flown more than 6,000 hours and he’d been on a mission just the day before.

Cody was excited to see Gagliardi, sort of the same thrill you might get when meeting an old classmate chum you’d not seen since graduation. Cody had flown a few missions in South Vietnam in Captain Gagliardi’s F-4. Back then, Cody was a to-the-point-blunt second-lieutenant intelligence officer about to make first lieutenant.

Cody! My God man, Gagliardi blurted. He shook Cody’s hand heartily. Turning to the others he said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Please. This officer is responsible for saving my life in Vietnam.

Good to see you, Gag, Cody said.

Gagliardi chuckled, nodded to Mainland, who allowed the reunion, although his expression told them to move it along. Gagliardi put his arm around Cody’s shoulder and walked him over to the bulkhead near the windows. Cody, I heard about Sally. I’m really sorry . . .

Thanks Dick, but it’s over. Things are back to normal.

Gagliardi nodded, glanced to Mainland, back to Cody. What in the hell are you doing here?

Cody shrugged slightly. Not sure. Got a message to get my butt over here. What’s your role?

Same. Got a message. The great rank equalizer huh? No matter how high we climb, the shit still flows downhill.

Mainland interrupted. Ahh, gents, let’s move forward. I have appointments. He motioned everyone to sit in the chairs that surrounded his desk. It’s convenient that you can hold a reunion in my office General, but we do have extremely pressing matters. Thank you for coming so promptly, he said. After they sat, Mainland held a folder up. Permit me to introduce M’sieurs Lafitte and Doctor Longchamp. M’sieur Lafitte is the French Secretary d’Etat aux Transport. Doctor Longchamp is Minister of Defence.

Longchamp and Lafitte nodded.

Gagliardi and Barnett exchanged glances while Mainland continued. Doctor Longchamp is also in charge of research for the French military, gentlemen. It is because of his work that we have asked for the services of Colonel Williams here. I understand Williams, you were scheduled to return to the states at week’s end.

Cody nodded.

Well, since you are our ranking military attaché for the moment, Mainland said directly to Gagliardi, it is necessary that you be involved. Not so much for Colonel Williams’s sake, but for our country’s. Perhaps, M’sieur Doctor Longchamp can take the mystery out of this. He nodded to Longchamp to take over.

Longchamp turned to Gagliardi. His English was accented thickly, learned from his British tutors. Yes, you see, I mean you do remember the German-built poison-gas plant at Samarra? he sniffled after he spoke. It had been a lifetime habit, one he was never able to shake. It bothered him as much as any of his audience. His hair had turn white-gray a long time ago even though his energy level seemed to be for a much younger man.

It is no longer there, Gagliardi said without smiling, clearly sending the message that American pilots had done their job in destroying it.

Oui. Of course. Insane place. Indeed. Hrmph. he sniffled and then continued. I say, you chaps did a good job of it. He smiled a true French smile after sounding like a royal British snob, but the Americans did not change their expressions. Ahem. Yes. That was the plant where the Iraqis manufactured mustard and nerve gases they used against the Kurds and against Iran.

And they threatened our troops with it during Desert Storm, Mainland put in. Apparently, Cody thought, the gray-haired old minister of state had irritated the ambassador.

Specifically the Marines, Gagliardi added.

Cody leaned forward in his chair, as did Miss Patty. Longchamp was coming to a point and they didn’t wish to miss it. At first we thought only the West German conglomerate, led by Ferrostaal AG Steel, were guilty of aiding the Arab world in their terrorist activities. I am basically a cynic in these matters, M’sieur. I lived as a child through Hitler’s war and grew up learning of the German hatred for anything Jewish. Unfortunately, there are Germans who will always help Arabs build weapons that can reach Israel. To kill the Jews, of course. It’s still, for me anyway, their national purpose at work. And, not to belabor the point, they are doing it as we speak, even though the United Nations has demanded they stop.

Mainland flushed. S’il vous plaît, M’sieur. Set politics aside. He glanced to his watch. Please go on with your current intelligence.

Longchamp accepted Mainland’s direction without too much fuss. "We were wrong about Germany alone building chemical and steel plants for Saddam. Germany’s WWII ally, Japan, constructed Gaddafi’s Rabta plant where corrosion resistant containers for packaging chemical agents are manufactured. Rabta survived the fire of ‘89. Gaddafi still builds the