The President's Plane Is Missing

by Robert J Serling

  “I doubt if Brubaker will spill anything this time,” Butler said. “Jonesy heard that Haines really chewed him out for leaking that maritime subsidy proposal.”

  “How about Madigan?”

  “Hell, Gunther, he’s so scared of Haines he wouldn’t go to the men’s room without White House permission.”

  Damon nodded. “I guess you’re right. When Jonesy finishes dictating, tell him I’d like to see him whenever he can get away. There’s something that bothers me about this Palm Springs trip. I keep thinking that maybe Haines is more than just tired.”

  Butler was surprised. “Jonesy didn’t sound alarmed and you know our Malcolm—he can smell something wrong before the can’s opened.”

  “Yeh, I’m probably wrong. But I’d still like to see him. That reminds me, where the hell is Pitch?”

  Butler chuckled and it came close to being a lewd chuckle. “He called in just before you got here. Said he overslept. And don’t ride his ass, Gunther. If I was married to that doll of his, I’d never get to work.”

  “I don’t begrudge him his sex life,” Damon growled. “Only when it’s on IPS time.”

  Pitcher arrived five minutes later, wearing an obviously new suit and the first shirt without frayed cuffs Damon had ever seen on his aviation editor, a small, wiry man with a youthful crew cut.

  “I’ll say this much for marriage,” Damon commented. “It sure as hell improved your neatness. You’re a little late, Pitch.”

  “Sorry, Gunther. I was working on my novel pretty late and I overslept. Nancy didn’t have the heart to get me up.” Damon, like Butler, had a strong suspicion that Nancy and not the novel was the source of tardiness but he let the alibi stand unchallenged.

  “Pitch, can you catch Andrews tonight when Haines leaves? I know ten o’clock is a cruddy time, but I’m strapped for bodies.”

  Pitcher’s face fell, an instant disintegration that collapsed contentment into annoyance. “Aw hell, Gunther, I told Nancy I’d take her to a movie tonight.”

  “Take her tomorrow night, Pitch. I really need you or I wouldn’t ask. Tell you what—you can have all of Friday off. Give you a long weekend with the bride.”

  Pitcher’s dour face reconstructed itself.

  “That’s a deal,” he said happily. He marched off to his desk and began his workday in typical fashion—reading the newsletter Aviation Daily to see (1) what he had missed yesterday and (2) what he might swipe out of it today.

  That personnel dilemma solved, Damon finished reading the overnight report and managed to turn out four business letters before Stan DeVarian came in. He and Stan had a daily conference on staff and problems, most of them revolving around the inevitable conflict between DeVarian’s hamstrung budget and the increasing demands of news clients. The latest edict from New York had been a moratorium on replacing employees who were fired or resigned, which had thrown Damon into a frustrated rage.

  Stan informed him today that the “reduce staff through normal attrition” order had been modified.

  “We can transfer men from the line bureaus as replacements,” DeVarian said. “We just can’t hire new personnel here above the rank of dictationist. Happier?”

  “It’s better than nothing,” Damon said sourly. “What happens to the line bureaus that send us people? They’re as understaffed as we are.”

  “They’ll hire at the bottom of the Guild scale—something we can’t do because we need more experience.”

  Considerably mollified, Damon emerged from DeVarian’s office in time to hear Evelyn Strotsky, the switchboard operator, call out, “White House bulletin,” in the dulcet tones of a Marine drill instructor.

  That would be Jones’s fresh lead on the Cabinet meeting. Damon parked himself behind Lynx Grimes, the young dictationist on the receiving end of what Jones was phoning in. Gunther was torn momentarily between watching her typing and peeking down her low-cut blouse but professional interest won out over carnal instinct. Jones himself, as predicted, had not come up with anything startling.

  Bulletin

  1st day lead President

  Washington (IPS)—President Haines held a 90-minute cabinet meeting today prior to departure for Palm Springs, Calif., and an extended vacation for the crisis-weary Chief Executive.

  more

  “Anything hot?” Butler wanted to know.

  “No. It’s not worth a bulletin. Wait till he finishes a few more paragraphs. You can move it out as an urgent Keep it tight unless he has some good quotes.”

  “Right.”

  Damon’s eyes moved back to the dictationist’s clattering typewriter, pausing en route to glance again at the open blouse. Lynx was a Vassar graduate willing to endure the lowly status of dictation for an eventual chance to become a full-fledged reporter. She was a quiet, rather solemn girl with a plain yet somehow sexy face, slim hips and long, shapely legs. Damon had hired her seven months ago, partially because her first name fascinated him, and regretting at the time his self-imposed bail against dating girls under his command.

  He felt a rebirth of that regret right now but pushed it aside instantly as Jones’s smooth, off-the-cuff verbal composition rolled into Miss Grimes’s ears and off her fingers onto the typewriter. That was the White House man’s forte, the ability to dictate a breaking story without the luxury of time in which to organize, write and edit it. Some wire service men never could do it, and few had Jonesy’s consummate skill.

  The rest of his output was a brief rehash of the over-nighter, plus a paragraph describing the Cabinet members as “sober-faced and non-committal as to what was discussed.”

  Damon went back to his desk and had resumed work on correspondence when his phone rang.

  “Damon.”

  “Jonesy, Gunther. Les said you wanted to see me.”

  “Yep. You coming in?”

  “Wasn’t planning to. I want to get home and finish packing. Christ knows how long he’ll be in Palm Springs. Is it absolutely necessary?”

  “No, I guess not. Jonesy, is Haines sick or something? I don’t like this complete privacy crap and no reporters on his plane.”

  “He’s fine far as I know. Tired, that’s for sure. But no sign Sabath’s trying to cover up anything. This business of not wanting us on his bird—doesn’t surprise me at all, Gunther. Don’t forget LBJ and Kennedy didn’t always take us. Besides, there’s one big advantage to using the press charter.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The airlines are a helluva lot more generous with their liquor service.”

  Damon laughed. “Well, you’ve made me feel better. Same arrangements at Palm Springs as before?”

  “Yep. We’ll be at the Pioneer Hotel. That’s five miles from Tom Kendricks’ little shack. The usual setup— Sabath’ll brief us every morning and I have a hunch this’ll be more or less of a vacation for yours truly.”

  “It’ll be a pretty expensive vacation for IPS,” Damon noted dryly. “That advance you drew—five hundred bucks. Try to bring some of it back.”

  “If I don’t, my expense account should win the Pulitzer prize. So long, Gunther. Be home in about an hour if you need me.”

  Damon did feel better. He began the task of reading the rest of the overnight report, oblivious to the din of the teletypes that could have been the heartbeats of a sick world.

  CHAPTER THREE

  At eight that night Colonel Marcus Henderson walked into Andrews Operations.

  The duty officer greeted him with a grin that told Henderson most of the paperwork already was finished. Otherwise, the duty officer would have been wearing a harassed frown bespeaking cruel overwork, unreasonable demands on his valuable time and a silent plea for forgiveness.

  “Crew and passenger manifests all ready, Colonel,” he beamed. “Also weather and the Monster has three flight plans for your inspection.”

  “The Monster” was Henderson’s own sobriquet for the giant computer that digested data from the United States Weather Bureau’s mammoth complex at
nearby Suitland, Maryland. The en route weather, including upper air winds and temperatures, were fed into the computer along with Air Force One’s planned fuel load, gross take-off weight and gross landing weight.

  In his early Air Force days, it would have taken Henderson at least thirty minutes to work out a single flight plan. Now the computer analyzed in half that time, for the Palm Springs flight, eight different routings at a common altitude, worked out thirteen different flight plans for each of the eight routings at appropriate altitudes, and then boiled down these one hundred and four plans into the three best.

  If Henderson had been an airline captain, he would have picked the route and altitude involving a delicately balanced combination of such factors as safety, comfort and economy. As commander of Air Force One, the latter category was not quite as important although Henderson dutifully considered it. Now he was studying the Monster’s suggestions for tonight’s flight, row upon row of hieroglyphics that had tumbled out of the computer. An hour earlier he had talked with the Federal Aviation Administration’s Air Traffic Control for a preliminary outlook, after which he had phoned Andrews to request alternate flight plans for flight level forty-three thousand.

  In his own computerized eyes and brains the conglomeration of abbreviations and numbers in front of him were translated easily and instantly into fuel consumption, empty weight, fuel and payload on ramp before take-off, airways, check points and cruise Mach number—the closeness to the speed of sound. All of which he weighed and balanced in his mind before he handed two of the flight plans back to the duty officer.

  “Dahlgren Three looks like the best,” he said. “Get me an ATC clearance at forty-three thousand. Hi, Sam.”

  The last was addressed to a stocky major, copilot Samuel Foster, one of the five flight deck crew members assigned to Air Force One.

  “Colonel Henderson, sir,” Foster acknowledged with mock formality. “And what have the gods aloft decreed for us tonight?”

  “Looks routine. Forty-knot headwinds. Plenty of thunderstorm activity over Arizona. That should be below us, though.”

  “What’s our level?”

  “Forty-three. I filed for Dahlgren Three. We could swing farther north but the headwinds aren’t quite as strong on our route.”

  “Sounds fine. The usual crew?”

  “We won’t have a man from Air Traffic Control aboard this time. Otherwise, the usual.”

  Henderson read aloud from the crew sheet, skipping his own and Foster’s names.

  “Flight engineer, Captain Falk; navigator, Lieutenant Eldridge; radioman, Captain Warneke. Stewards, Sergeants Russell and Carvelli. Security guards, Sergeants Larson and Jervis. Jervis? That’s a new one.”

  “Just transferred from Air Police at Edwards, Colonel,” the duty officer volunteered. “Good man. Top security clearance. Henzey’s on emergency leave—his father’s ill.”

  “When Jervis reports, be sure and tell him I’ll hold crew briefing at 2130. If he doesn’t know where it is, take him by the hand and lead him there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sam, I’m going to inspect aircraft. Be in the hangar if you need me.”

  “Right. By the way, I hear we got a light load.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. Lieutenant, let me have the passenger manifest.”

  Henderson looked over the manifest handed him by the duty officer, then gave it to Major Foster, whose eyebrows raised to half-staff. The manifest read:

  The President.

  The White House Press Secretary, Mr. Sabath.

  The President’s personal secretary, Miss Nance.

  The President’s physician, Rear Adm. Philips, USN.

  Mr. McElhenny, Secret Service.

  Mr. Hudson, Secret Service.

  Mr. Bramley, Secret Service.

  “Only seven,” said Foster. “And three of ’em are Secret Service. Wonder why? Christ, there’s room for the whole bloody press corps.”

  “Ours not to reason why.” Henderson smiled. “See you at briefing. When Sergeant Jervis comes in, go over the emergency procedures with him.”

  “To be assigned to this airplane, he’s already had them shoved down his throat and up his butt,” Foster reminded the colonel.

  “So insert them into his navel,” Henderson said.

  The commander of Air Force One strode briskly over to the huge hangar where he was accosted immediately by one of the four armed guards on duty twenty-four hours a day. The fact that the air policeman knew him as well as he knew his own father didn’t deter the guard from inspecting Henderson’s ID badge. The AP brought his tommy gun to port arms.

  “Pass, sir—and have a nice trip.”

  “Thanks, son. Everything in order?”

  “Yessir. Beautiful ship, ain’t she?”

  “That she is.”

  And that she was, Henderson thought as he stepped inside the hangar and looked up at the ten-million-dollar symphony in gleaming aluminum, with the presidential seal just under the cockpit windows. Yes, sir, one beautiful ship—and one beautiful goddamned flying bitch no matter what the aeronautical experts decreed.

  For Marcus Henderson, down very, very deep in his airman’s heart and soul, hated this magnificent product of the Amalgamated Aircraft Corporation because he didn’t quite trust it.

  Jeremy Haines worked well past seven-thirty in his oval office, signing routine legislation and dictating routine memos to Judi Nance. When the last of the dictation was finished the President tapped tobacco into a well-smoked pipe and lit it. The chocolate aroma wafted into the air and curled into the secretary’s nostrils. She smiled as she closed her dictation pad.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Mr. President. That tobacco is too sexy for the White House.”

  “You can keep on saying it, Judi. Telling a man his tobacco smells good is like telling a woman she’s wearing the right perfume. Looking forward to the trip?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Miss Nance asked. “Palm Springs— and I gather not much work to do.”

  “Not much,” Haines said. “All packed and ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, better get something to eat, Judi, before the chopper leaves. And be back here by nine-thirty.”

  She rose and started toward the door, only to turn around suddenly and stare directly into the sharp gray eyes of Jeremy Haines.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Yes, Judi?”

  She paused, forbidden familiarity struggling with female sympathy. “God bless you, sir,” she finally blurted.

  The President nodded, a wordless gesture of gratitude. She had been gone only a few minutes when the red phone on his desk labeled “Pentagon” tinkled discreetly and rather quietly for a direct line to the Joint Chiefs. Haines always expected it to clang.

  “Yes?”

  “General Graham, Mr. President. That message from the Alaskan Defense Command you were waiting for—it’s in.”

  “Read it.”

  Haines listened to the communication. “Thank you very much, General.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  The click of the phone at the Pentagon end echoed in the President’s ears. His pipe had gone out and he relit it. His fingers drummed nervously, impatiently on his desk and he decided to have a martini before his brother arrived.

  Colonel Henderson climbed the steep, swaying hangar ramp parked by Air Force One’s forward door, conscious when he reached the top that he didn’t use to puff that hard. Climbing airplane boarding ramps, he thought, was an embarrassingly accurate barometer of a pilot’s aging process.

  At the top of the ramp, he looked down the hundred-and-seventy-six-foot fuselage, at the aft-mounted engines and towering T-shaped tail. He never could get used to the sheer physical size of Amalgamated’s Condor, twenty-three feet longer than the Boeing 707 which it had replaced as the queen of the presidential aircraft fleet. A replacement which had not been to Henderson’s liking.

  The replacement w
as as much a matter of political expediency as of aerodynamic judgment. Amalgamated’s brass had contributed substantial funds to Haines’s campaign. When the Air Force sought funds for a supersonic presidential transport as the Boeing’s logical successor, Congress had balked at the thirty-million-dollar SST price tag. The Condor was a compromise choice, almost fifty knots faster than the 707, but in addition to the speed factor there was the debt the party owed to Amalgamated, which was having trouble selling a large subsonic aircraft to the airlines. Amalgamated finally wound up with a fat contract for forty Condors in a military cargo version and tossed in a presidential configuration as a bonus.

  Its basic design, Henderson conceded, was sound. The four aft-mounted engines and T-tail gave it a marked resemblance to Britain’s VC-10. The Condor, he also admitted, handled like a fighter compared to the 707—but this was the chief reason he inherently mistrusted the plane. It handled almost too easily. The Boeing’s hydraulic boost system, for example, operated at a pressure ratio of three thousand pounds per square inch. A movement of the Condor’s yoke sent pressure of four thousand pounds per square inch through the plane’s massive control system, activating the ailerons and elevators like power steering on a heavy automobile. Power steering, Henderson worried, that seemed to lack feel of the road. The Condor was a dream to fly ninety-nine per cent of the time, and most pilots would have put this figure at one hundred. The minority, such as Henderson, considered these particular hydraulically boosted controls a shade oversensitive.

  His misgivings were more of a wispy state of mind than a solid objection, a vague uneasiness at rare times instead of factually based criticism. Maybe, he told himself, he was just one of those pilots who fell irrevocably in love with a certain airplane and refused to admit the virtues of the newer birds—as if such admission were unfaithfulness and disloyalty to an old friend.

  He started his walk-through inspection in the roomy cockpit and proceeded back toward the rear.

  Crew berths for overseas flights when Air Force One carried relief pilots.