The President's Plane Is Missing

by Robert J Serling

  “You know, the poor bastard sounded just like Harry Truman.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Gunther Damon usually went to the National Press Club on the thirteenth floor at 3 P.M. daily, Monday through Saturday, and when he went out the bureau door the staff did not have to glance at a watch or clock to know it was precisely three o’clock.

  Four hours after the momentous Madigan news conference ended, he told Custer to get him a sandwich from Bassin’s. This was an ominous sign to the staff. Any such departure from the norm usually meant that Gunther Damon was upset and/or angry. In the past, Gunther’s ordering lunch from Bassin’s had preceded such bureau-shattering events as removing Tom Prather as head of the Senate staff, firing two copy boys on the same day and— the staff had never forgotten that black occasion—posting a notice on the bulletin board that receipts had to be obtained from cab drivers and turned in with expense accounts.

  Today it was Sam Foley who heard Damon call out “Custer,” and with misgivings watched him give the copy boy a dollar bill. Sam clung briefly to the forlorn hope that maybe the news superintendent had merely sent downstairs for cigarettes. This was demolished when Custer sailed by the switchboard and announced breezily to Mrs. Strotsky, “I’m gonna get Mr. Damon a sandwich, Evelyn. Do you want anything?”

  “Oh-oh,” Foley whispered to Les Butler. “Our leader just sent out for food. Condition Red.”

  “May mean nothing,” Butler assured him in a whistling-by-the-graveyard tone of voice. “He didn’t go out yesterday, either.”

  “Yeh, but yesterday they found the plane and Madigan took over at the White House. Nobody got out for lunch all day. Not even DeVarian. The press conference is all cleaned up. Gunther could have gone out to eat if he had wanted to.”

  “We shall see what we shall see,” said Butler philosophically.

  The staff held a collective breath while Damon gloomily munched a chopped liver on rye and sipped meditatively on what passed for coffee from the office vending machine. He still had the paper coffee cup in his hand as he approached the news desk.

  “Lousy coffee,” he complained. “It tastes like emulsified engine oil.”

  Foley brightened up considerably. Maybe Gunther just wanted to denounce the coffee. Or fire the vending machine.

  “Very bad,” Sam agreed cheerfully. “Uh, how was the sandwich? Didn’t you feel like going to the club?”

  “No, I’ve got too much on my mind. The club’s no place for newspapermen today, anyway. The barflies have probably located Haines in thirty-four different places with a hundred and thirty-four explanations of how and why he got there. Where’s Pitch?”

  “FAA,” Butler replied, wondering if the aviation editor had committed some nefarious deed.

  “Evelyn, get Pitcher at FAA and tell him to come on in unless he’s fielding some earth-shaker. Is Jonesy back from Winslow?”

  “He called from home thirty minutes ago,” Mrs. Strotsky volunteered. “Said he wanted to shower and shave and then he was going to the White House.”

  “His plane landed a couple of hours ago, Damon,” Butler said. “Tell you the truth, I expected he’d ask for the rest of the day off. But he said he wanted to come downtown anyway. He didn’t sound happy about being pulled away from the crash site.”

  “Call Jones and tell him to come straight here instead of the White House, Evelyn,” Damon ordered. “And get me Colin at the Pentagon. I’ll take it at my desk. Christ, I think I’ll order a new vending machine.”

  “What’s up?” Foley said after Damon walked away. “Damned if I know,” Butler muttered. “Sounds like some kind of a conference. Pitch, Jonesy and Chet Colin. Aviation, White House and Pentagon. Something to do with the Haines story, that’s for sure.”

  It was a conference, it was about the Haines story, and it was held in DeVarian’s office, which was the only place in the IPS bureau providing any privacy. DeVarian himself was there, chain-smoking as usual and occasionally blinking at the three summoned reporters from under his bushy eyebrows with a kind of vague, detached paternalism as he let Gunther run the show.

  It was not from any lack of ability that DeVarian relegated so much authority to Damon. At one time the IPS bureau chief was regarded as a superb deskman and a skilled writer in his own right. But now he was a human buffer zone between his overworked staff and the harsh but frequently necessary demands of New York. His mind was a delicate set of scales that skillfully weighed budget resources against client pressures, manpower limitations against news commitments.

  He and Gunther Damon complemented each other as a ship’s captain needs a dedicated, efficient executive officer. He was cautious where Damon was likely to be impulsive. He could be tough where Gunther occasionally would slip into softheartedness, and yet—as he had been when Jones wanted to stay in Winslow—DeVarian sometimes assumed Damon’s tendency toward leniency when the news superintendent got his back up.

  In his relations with the staff, he was somewhat aloof but this was not entirely the result of his sitting on the pedestal of authority. Stan DeVarian was rather shy, hesitant in speech and unable to loosen himself into casual social informality—unless he was feeling his liquor. On such occasions he was likely to do a 180-degree personality turn and become “one of the boys”—in DeVarian’s case, the equivalent of a dignified collie who suddenly decides to romp with some puppies. His inebriation alarm clock was the sudden rendering of his college Alma Mater song, a sure sign at a staff party that the bureau chief had just passed the alcoholic point of no return.

  Chet Colin, the only IPS man stationed at the Defense Department, was the last to arrive for the meeting— “Probably,” DeVarian kidded him, “because you forgot where the office was.” It was a standing bureau joke that Colin had to introduce himself to his colleagues when he made one of his rare visits downtown, about once every three months. He dressed impeccably and he talked the same way, in a soft Boston drawl with letter-perfect grammar.

  Damon inspected today’s sartorial splendor with as much awe as amusement. The tall, graying Pentagon reporter was wearing a bright red weskit under a handsomely tailored charcoal-gray suit, a neatly folded handkerchief peeping from the breast pocket. Damon shook his head. “Chet, somehow you always make me feel like a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes.”

  “The trouble with most men,” Colin lectured, “is that they buy clothes foolishly—they go for price instead of material and tailoring. So the second time they wear a suit, it looks five years old.”

  “I paid fifty-five dollars for this one,” Pitcher said defensively. “I think—”

  “I think it’s time to drop the subject of wearing apparel,” DeVarian said crisply. “Gunther, this conference was your idea, so take over.”

  Damon lit a cigarette and inspected his three warriors, noting that Jones looked both weary and depressed.

  “I’ve asked you here to tackle this Air Force One business because I think with some concentrated, old-fashioned digging IPS might be the one to solve this whole mystery. Not only for the biggest exclusive in history, but as a public service. Until Haines is found, alive or dead, this country is going to be one screwed-up collection of anxious, bewildered citizens.

  “Now we seem to have two possibilities. One, the President was aboard that plane and his body is still somewhere in the gorge or at least in the immediate vicinity. If that’s the case, we also know there was an extra passenger on Air Force One for reasons as yet undetermined. But the second possibility becomes more of a probability the longer the President’s body stays missing. And our second possibility is that our unknown extra passenger wasn’t an added starter but somebody posing as the President, again for reasons as yet undetermined. Each of you operates in a specialized field and so each may be able to contribute “a few pieces to the over-all jigsaw puzzle. What I’d like to do this afternoon is review what we know and get some ideas on where we can start planting our spades. Okay?”

  Pitcher and Colin nodded. Jones ju
st gazed at the news superintendent.

  “Okay. First, the business of the unknown body. If we can find out who this was, we’ll probably have our foot inside the door. All we have right now is that the fingerprints and dental charts don’t correspond with those of Haines or anyone else on the plane. Jonesy, when you were out at the crash site, were you told anything else about that body which hasn’t been made public?”

  “Only one thing,” the White House reporter answered. “Dunbar said the pathologists figured he was shorter than the President. That, plus the fingerprint and teeth evidence, convinced them it couldn’t be Haines. The height business was off the record. I take it the Madigan didn’t let it out at the press conference today.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Damon confirmed. “But it still doesn’t give us much to go on. Pitch, you saw Air Force One take off. Are you positive it was Haines who got on that airplane?”

  “I guess I’d almost swear to it. Remember, it was night and I was about twenty or thirty yards away. But I saw his gray hair, well, let’s see—there was the homburg he always wears. The way he walked. And he was tall.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No, not exactly. Not at that distance. I mean, I could see his face but not well enough to distinguish his features.”

  “So he could have been a double.”

  Pitcher chewed on that for a minute. “Golly, Gunther, I suppose it’s possible. But. . .”

  “If you’re going to take this double or imposter theory seriously,” Jones interrupted, “there’s one large hole in it.”

  “Which is?” Damon said.

  “I just told you the mystery body was that of a man shorter than Haines. Pitch says the man he saw go aboard Air Force One, presumably the President himself, was tall. Like Haines.”

  “Well,” Damon conceded, “I’ll admit there’s a hole but there’s got to be some explanation to fill it. Maybe we should concentrate on Haines instead of that damned body. For example, where is our President? Why hasn’t he come forth? Assuming he’s not dead, and I have a hunch he isn’t, just where the hell could he have gone and why? Is he seriously ill, insane, or what? Has anybody thought to check Camp David?”

  “Camp David’s out,” Jones said positively.

  “Why?”

  “Because Jeremy Haines hated that place. Remember, Gunther? He had it closed up right after he took office. Nobody knew exactly why. Haines said it was to save money but that wasn’t the real reason. It didn’t cost that much to keep open. Haines just took a dislike to it and refused to use it.”

  “I still think it should be checked out. Jonesy, why don’t you run up there tomorrow and see if there’s any sign of life?”

  “Okay, but at ten cents a mile on my expense account, you’ll be wasting IPS dough.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Damon said genially. “Colin, I figure you might hit some pay dirt if you do some digging into the backgrounds of the crew. This may sound wild, but I’ve got a hunch somebody who was part of that crew sneaked or smuggled our mystery man aboard. I know the Air Force says it’s impossible, but this whole thing is impossible to begin with. And for all we know, there may have been a link between the mystery man and the crash itself. Pitch, why the vigorous shaking of your crew cut?”

  “Because I don’t think there was any mystery about the crash. That plane came apart in turbulence. Everything points to loss of control which led to elevator failure when the pilot tried to recover. I’ve got a half dozen old CAB accident reports in my files which fit this crash right down to the last comma.”

  “Pitch is right,” Jones said thoughtfully. “That’s what we heard at the crash scene too. And this gives me an idea— maybe one little piece we could fit into your jigsaw puzzle.”

  “I’d welcome a piece the size of a pinhead at this point,” Damon said.

  “It’s just about that size. In fact it’s only a theory, a kind of vague idea. I’ll bet that whoever thought up Haines’s disappearance, if it is a disappearance, didn’t count on one thing.”

  “Which was?”

  “That Air Force One would crash.”

  “Quite a theory,” DeVarian said. “But it isn’t any more logical than another theory. Namely, that the crash was part of a disappearance plot.”

  “And the thunderstorm also was part of the plot?” Pitcher asked.

  “Don’t go overboard on that thunderstorm,” Damon warned. “You’ve been telling me for years not to speculate on the causes of air crashes. That things aren’t always as obvious as they seem. Maybe there wasn’t any connection between the accident and the mystery, but it’s damned hard for me to write off the crash as just a coincidence.”

  “Getting back to my role as the Sherlock Holmes of the Pentagon,” Colin said. “I seriously doubt if all the digging in the world would uncover anything unusual or suspicious about the crew. Henderson, Foster, Falk—they were the finest officers you could find anywhere. They flew by the book and they lived by the book.”

  “There were nine crew members on Air Force One,” Damon reminded him. “They all weren’t in the cockpit How about the stewards? The security guards?”

  “Every man was a veteran on the presidential aircraft assignment,” Colin said. “All but one. A Sergeant Jervis was new. This was his first trip.”

  “So look into this Jervis, Chet.”

  The Pentagon reporter sighed, in the manner of an adult about to explain a simple problem to a child. “Gunther, I assure you the Air Force and the FBI must be turning that boy’s life story inside out simply because he was a new crew member. I couldn’t come close to matching an FBI investigation. Be reasonable.”

  “He’s got a point, Gunther,” DeVarian said. “You’ve also got to assume Jervis had a complete security check before he was assigned to Air Force One.”

  “In this story,” Damon argued, “we can’t assume anything. Sure he had a security check. So have a few other people who turned out to be spies, murderers or perverts.” DeVarian shook his head. “But, as Chet said, the FBI must be reviewing his security clearance. It undoubtedly is for every person aboard that plane. We can’t expect Colin or even a whole platoon of reporters to dig the way the FBI or Air Force can. And even if we had the manpower, they’d just be duplicating the official investigation.”

  “So what do you want us to do, Stan? Drop the whole thing? Sit around on our butts waiting for the official handouts?”

  “No,” the bureau chief said patiently. “But you’ve got to recognize our limitations, Gunther. Let’s concentrate on areas where we won’t be duplicating official efforts.”

  “There is no such area,” Damon said firmly. “Look, I’m not trying to be unreasonable. I don’t expect Chet or anyone else on this staff to compete with the whole Air Force and the FBI. But if we don’t do some digging on our own, we’ll just stay on the sidelines waiting to be spoon-fed what the Administration is willing to parcel out. Probably in driblets. And we don’t have any guarantee the press will be told the truth. Not the whole truth. This could be the most incredible story in the history of journalism. It could involve anything and everything—sabotage, kidnaping, murder, insanity, espionage, even sex. I say we’ve got to do more than cover it. We’ve got to solve it—or try to. That’s the word you’ve all missed—try. I know it’s a long shot. I know you could spend a year on just this one assignment and not come up with anything. But we can try, dammit, we can try. There’s too much at stake.”

  Jones looked at the news superintendent with an expression of reluctant admiration. “You should have been a football coach, Gunther. After that speech, I’m ready to go out and stop a locomotive with my bare chest. Okay, I’ll drive up to Camp David tomorrow and start snooping.”

  “I’m all fired up too,” Pitcher announced. “There’s only one trouble. I don’t know where I’m supposed to start.”

  “Second the motion,” Colin added. “Or do you still want me to look into the life and times of Sergeant Jervis and the rest of th
e crew?”

  “Frankly,” Damon admitted, “I can’t really tell any of you where to start. That Jervis suggestion was just a shot in the dark. Let’s get back to the main problem—where Haines might be if they can’t find his body. For example, how about Russia?”

  “Russia?” DeVarian asked incredulously. “What would he be doing in Russia? You mean the Russkies kidnaped him?”

  “No, that’d be too far out in left field. Maybe a secret meeting about Red China.”

  “Doesn’t add up, Gunther,” Jones said. “Suppose the President did go to Moscow on some wild, super-secret mission. Do you think he would have remained silent this long? Do you think he could have allowed all this uncertainty and mystery without revealing the truth? It’s been two days since the crash. Or go a step further. Don’t you think he would have told the Vice President where the hell he was going? Madigan may be a political lightweight, but I can’t conceive of somebody like Jeremy Haines going out of the country and not telling anyone about it. And I mean anyone.”

  “If he went to Russia,” Pitcher said, “then why the Air Force One trip to Palm Springs?”

  “Decoy,” Damon suggested. “Just to make everyone think he was heading to California. He might have taken another plane to Moscow. And that, Mr. Pitcher, is exactly where you can start digging.”

  “Huh?”

  “Like finding out if any other transport planes left Andrews the night Haines was supposed to leave. Big, long-range planes.”

  Jones was still in a refuting mood. “A goose chase, Gunther. It’s absolutely unthinkable that Haines wouldn’t have revealed his whereabouts after the crash. Before the accident, yes, there could have been some reason for total secrecy. But not after that plane went down. He’d have to tell the country the truth. My God, look at all the crazy rumors. The stock market dive. I picked up one report in Arizona that SAC’s been alerted. That’s something Chet can check into.”