by Lewis, Rykar
Loaded with C4 plastic explosives, Jassin pulled out the ignition switch. His breathing quickened and his heart began beating wildly. Just then, a Wal-Mart worker walked up to him.
“Can I help you?” the man asked, scrunching his face.
Jassin froze. A million thoughts crashed through his mind. Then, Jassin yelled, “Death to America!”
At that, the worker froze. Then Jassin flipped the switch for the C4 to go off. Instantly, the center of the building collapsed, igniting fires everywhere.
* * *
“What?” the VP asked in both shock and anger. “Terrorists blew up the USS George Washington? How?”
“We don’t know for sure, sir,” the National Security Advisor answered. “We are still learning about the situation. Apparently it happened right after the hotel bombing though.”
The NSC had been gathered again, and the news of the suicide bombing at sea was a total shock to them all.
“And that’s not all,” Smith continued. “Multiple members of the ship were killed or injured.”
“Tom, you’d better tell me the President is in the air,” Anders declared.
“He is, Mr. Vice President, but not without a struggle though.”
“Let him struggle. Just make sure he arrives safely. America cannot afford another terrorist attack.”
“Begging your pardon sir,” Secretary of State Dan Bradley spoke up, “but you seem rather certain that the President is next in the terrorist’s sights.”
“Look, we’re taking no chances here. I’m not assuming anything, but I’m also not ruling anything out. None of us should be. We’re in a bad situation, and who knows what could happen next. Tom, get me on the phone with the President, now.”
* * *
“Hey Stan, how’s the Vice President doing tonight?” Winnfield asked as he began his chat with Anders over one of the secure, brown phones sitting on his desk.
“Oh, all right I suppose. How are you, Mr. President?”
“Frustrated, to say the absolute least. I just can’t believe it; I mean another terror attack in our country. I’d have said it was impossible.”
“Well sir, the important thing is to get you here as fast as we possibly can. We’ll take care of the details when you arrive.”
“No, no. Stan, you’ve got to take charge. We need to stop these suicide bombers fast. There could be more than just one.”
“Mr. President, you haven’t heard?”
“No, what?”
“Terrorists blew up the USS George Washington. Seems they loaded a freight ship from China with explosives, parked it alongside the George Washington and they blew them up right after the hotel bombing.”
“In Norfolk?”
“Yes, Mr. President. CIA also just received word that the new Wal-Mart in New York City was blown up by yet another suicider.”
The President gasped. “Stan, get the entire Intelligence Community to try and figure out where the next attacks are going to be and when. See if we can stop them. If there have been three attacks already, there are bound to be more. And hurry will you?”
“Right away sir. I was just making sure you were all right.”
“Forget about me, I’m fine. Now do your job.”
With that, the President ended the call, unaware of the horror about to unfold in the rear of Air Force One.
* * *
Gunfire poured out of semi-automatic pistols, tearing into the bodies of three Secret Service agents. The agents never had a clue. One minute they were peacefully sitting, the next they were absorbing bullets. The plane stewards, crew, and communication team faired no better. Even in his office, Winnfield could hear the gunfire and the screams in the rear of Air Force One. Rushing out of his office, he flew to the security section. What he saw paralyzed him. The bodies of the three agents, bloody and strewn about the room, made the grand plane look like a slaughter house.
“Sit down your royalty,” Tandy mocked, forcefully shoving the President into a nearby chair. A sinister smile spread across his face. “It’s a long way to Mexico.”
2
Thursday, January 16th – 2300 hours
Air Force One
The President had seen enough to know that Air Force One had been hijacked. Only one question remained in his mind – who was flying the plane? He saw five terrorists; they were gathered around pointing their pistols directly at him. But who was flying? He decided to ask. “I apologize for my ignorance, but who is presently flying this plane now that the pilots have been killed?”
“How’d you ever get to be President if you can’t figure that out?” one of the terrorists jeered. “The pilots are on our side. They’re part of us.”
“What? How–”
“Save your breath President Winnfield, for as long as you’ve got it,” Tandy commanded.
“Look, the White House will notice when we keep heading southwest instead of going directly to Andrews Air Force Base. Then what will you do about that, wise guy?” The President tried not to be intimidated.
“What precisely can your White House do, shoot us down? They wouldn’t do that; they’d kill you. Capture our plane? How? We’d kill you the instant trouble came.”
Winnfield swallowed hard. “What do you intend to do with me?”
“Aw, we’re just taking the President of the United States of America for a little ride. That’s all. Now what harm can that bring?” Tandy joked, whipping out his satellite phone. “I’ll tell you what harm,” he continued, answering his own question, “the kidnapping, or killing of that President. That’s what.”
Suddenly, Winnfield began to shake uncontrollably. He hated himself for giving the terrorists the benefit of seeing him do so, but it was beyond his control.
“Oh, the President is scared,” a terrorist mocked, faking a sad face. “Cut it out before he–”
The man was interrupted by Tandy speaking into his satellite phone. “Yeah this is Tandy...Good as done...We should be there in a couple hours.” Tandy turned and looked out the window. “Yeah, we’ll notify you when we cross over the border...Right. See you later.” Tandy threw the phone down on a cushioned seat.
“I wonder how long it’ll take for the White House to catch on,” Winnfield began, his voice shaking. “Thirty minutes, maybe even less.”
The terrorists laughed in unison, then Tandy spoke up, “Let them catch on. Let them send up F-16s or whatever else they can think of. Nothing can help you now. You’re a doomed man, Winnfield – oh, excuse me for not saying Mr. President.”
That made the terrorists laugh even harder. The President wanted to kill them all, but he knew that was out of the question. There were several of them, and he was only one unarmed man that didn’t know how to fly. Winnfield was an Army veteran who had fought in Desert Storm for a full eighteen months. He had retired as a colonel, and received the Legion of Merit Medal, and then had decided to enter the political arena. Although right now he wished he never had. He wished he was back in the Army, fighting terrorists, not being held hostage by them.
Suddenly, a thought rushed into his mind. The fools had not taken his cell phone away, or his Blackberry. They were still in his back pocket, ready to be used. But how could he type an email to the White House without anyone seeing him? It was impossible. Or maybe it was possible. It would be risky, but he’d have to try. The sooner the White House knew about the hijacking the better. If he was fast enough, he could send a blank email that would arouse enough suspicion among the NSC. Right now typing anything secretly was just impossible, but maybe he could have enough time to send a blank message. He figured he could do it before the terrorists stopped him.
He convinced himself to try. He could easily draw his hand back and select the “CoS” option – for Chief of Staff – then all he’d have to do was hit the send button and an email would be sent to his Chief of Staff, Steve Danner.
Slowly, the President pulled his right arm back toward his rear pocket. No one seemed to notice. Then he rea
ched down and grasped his hand around the Blackberry. In a flash he yanked it out of his pocket, found the “CoS” option, pressed enter, and hit send. Before anybody could stop him he threw the Blackberry onto the hard floor. It shattered, just as he had hoped. Now no one could send a follow-up email, which would probably say to disregard the blank message as it was sent in error, or something of the sort, in order to diffuse suspicion.
“What was that?” Tandy demanded as he pivoted around and locked his eyes onto the shattered Blackberry. “What happened?”
“I think the President was trying to send an email to someone,” one of the terrorists answered.
“Did he?”
“No, we forced it out of his hand too fast. It shattered,” the man lied, motioning to the broken item.
“Check him for anything else. You idiots didn’t even think of that yet?”
“Sorry but we didn’t expect anything like that.”
“Yeah sure. If he tries anything else, kill him, and make it slow.”
* * *
The White House Chief of Staff felt his Blackberry go off. He was still in the Situation Room, but had just turned his Blackberry on now that the NSC meeting was put on hold. Danner checked the new message and found it was from the President. Puzzled, he opened it, and to his shock, found only a blank page. “Uh, Mr. Vice President?” Danner began.
“Huh?” the VP responded, jerking his head up from his hands, where it had been resting.
“I just received a note from the President.”
“And?”
“Problem was sir, it was blank.”
“What? What do you mean?” Anders leaped from his chair and walked to Danner.
“Take a look for yourself.”
As the Vice President did so, a wave of panic flooded his senses. “Smith, get me on the phone with the President immediately.”
“Again?” a confused National Security Advisor doubted.
“Just do it, now!”
“Yes sir.”
Smith dialed the correct number and handed Anders the satellite phone. The Vice President could hear the President’s phone begin to ring. “Answer it,” Anders whispered.
After several rings the VP gave up. He told himself again that the blank message was an accident, but inside he thought something was going on aboard Air Force One. “Tom, get the NSC in here quickly.”
This time there was no hesitation from Smith. He promptly obeyed, nevertheless still thinking that the VP was being a little paranoid.
* * *
The NSC gathered with the Vice President who was panicking about the President’s well-being. Anders suggested that the plane had been hijacked, and that did not set well with anyone in the room. Most of the attendees seriously doubted the reality of someone hijacking Air Force One, but the Vice President insisted that there was a possibility.
The Director of the CIA could wait no longer to speak. “Sir, if I were you I would relax about the President and I’d concentrate on stopping the terrorists that have been launching suicide attacks against us. The President will be here in a minute. He’s probably just busy and didn’t get your call. We need to start responding to the suicide bombings, or, before we know it, one will be on our doorstep.”
“Mike, we appreciate your opinion, but we do need to make sure the President arrives here safely. That’s our number one priority. Then we’ll go after the terrorists once we know he’s alive and well,” Roxon retorted.
“I whole heartedly agree with Nathaniel. It’s true that the President is already heading into Andrews Air Force Base, and will be there any minute, but we need to keep watch on him until he arrives safely,” Danner spoke up. Shaken by the blank message he’d received, Danner too felt that the President could be in grave danger.
“All right,” Cummins threw back, “but we do need to do something about these terrorists ASAP.”
“We are, Mike, we are,” Anders consoled. “What do you think I’ve been doing all night? Playing cards, or having a party? Would I have come here in my swimming attire if I didn’t think we needed to do something? Of course not. So as you stated, relax.”
A phone rang in the Situation Room and the National Security Advisor answered it. After a brief discussion, he hung up and turned to the group. “Oh my goodness guys,” Smith said somberly. “Listen to this.” Everyone held their breath in anticipation of the very worst. “Air Force One has taken a strange course. It’s flying directly southwest. It’s not going to Andrews Air Force Base,” the National Security Advisor announced.
“What do you mean?” the VP demanded.
“They should be on only a slight southwesterly course to get to Andrews from Albany, but whoever’s flying is taking an extreme southwestern course.”
“No way.”
“It’s true, sir.”
“Get the communications agency to patch us through to the pilots,” the Vice President ordered. “Let’s find out what’s going on, and they’d better have a good reason for what they’ve done.”
* * *
“GOLDEN TOWER to Air Force One. Do you read me? Over.” The White House, codenamed GOLDEN TOWER, was trying to connect with Air Force One. The White House communications team had left the Situation Room, as had the NSC, and Smith was trying to get a response from the plane. So far he was having no success. “Air Force One, I repeat, do you read me? Over.” Nothing. “Air Force One, this is National Security Advisor Tom Smith. Come in immediately. Over.” Still no response.
“Let me get on there,” the Vice President ordered. “Air Force One, this is the Vice President of the United States of America. I demand an explanation for your extreme southwesterly course. Over.”
Only static responded to the continuous efforts of the White House. “They leave me no choice,” the VP said, shrugging his shoulders as he looked over to Smith.
Smith really had no idea what the Vice President was about to do, but he nodded his head in agreement.
“Air Force One, respond immediately or we will send up fighter planes. You leave us no choice but to assume the worst has happened. Now I demand you respond immediately or we will not hold anything back. Over.”
Both Smith and the VP listened for the slightest sound. Still there was only static.
“Get General Lawington to send two F/A-18 Delta Hornets up there as fast as you can Tom,” Anders commanded. “But tell him to tell the pilots not to shoot anything yet; maybe whoever’s flying that plane will catch a clue before the use of force.”
“Yes sir. I’m on it,” Smith replied, dashing out of the room.
Lieutenant General William Lawington of the United States Marine Corps was the man in charge of the two F/A-18s about to pursue Air Force One. Everything said to and by the White House passed through his command center at the Pentagon. Lawington’s two best pilots were on patrol that day, so he would send them after Air Force One. Still, the weight of this whole matter rested on the Vice President. He had already tried to email the President, but it was of no use; the message could not be sent. He had weighed every option, played through every scenario in his mind, and the only logical order was to send up fighter planes, for whatever support they could lend. He was over a barrel, and whoever was now flying Air Force One knew it.
Cummins burst through the doors of the Situation Room immediately after Smith exited. He stared directly at the VP. “Sir, what are you planning to do, shoot the plane down?”
“I’m planning on doing something about the terrorists,” the Vice President retorted.
“Sir, I recommend you tell the NSC about your decision. I think everyone should be informed.”
“What decision have I made, Mike?”
“Well, I mean, sending up the fighter planes.”
“All right, all right, we’ll reconvene our meeting in three minutes. Is that soon enough?”
“You don’t have to run anything by me sir; I was merely making a suggestion.”
“I know, I know. Could you just leave me a
lone for a minute? I need a second to clear my head.”
“Yes sir.” The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency shook his head but obediently did as he was told.
Again the VP was left alone, discouraged and confused.
* * *
The co-pilot of Air Force One ripped off his headset and rushed down a flight of stairs to the back of the plane to see Tandy. “Mr. Tandy, Mr. Tandy.”
“What is it?” Tandy barked back, looking frustrated and half asleep.
“Uh, the White House has been trying to get a hold of us on the radio. Uh, we–”
“You were told not to respond to any radio traffic.”
“Yes I know, we didn’t, but the Vice President threatened to send up fighter planes.”
Winnfield smiled to himself, glad, once again, he had chosen Stan Anders for the Vice Presidential position. He knew that Anders wouldn’t fail him. He was a good man, with good instincts. The two had never been military pals or political chums before their bid for office – although both men had served in the Armed Forces – they had merely been high school buddies. When they parted ways after graduating, neither thought they’d ever see each other again. Anders had eventually wanted to be a lawyer, but Winnfield’s dream had always been to make a career out of the military. Who would have thought they’d go through something like this, some forty years later?
“They can threaten all they want to,” Tandy spat back, looking directly at the President.
“No sir, no threat, it’s for real.”
“What?”
“Well look.” The co-pilot pointed toward the plane’s window. Everyone hurried over to see what the terrorist co-pilot was talking about.
Sure enough, two Marine Corps F/A-18 Deltas sliced through the sky at an impressive speed as they began to tail the flying White House.
Winnfield thought he had never seen a more beautiful sight. Then he realized no one was guarding him except one man who was gawking out the window. Nobody was paying attention to him. The President, almost instinctively, grabbed the nearest man’s sidearm, fired a short burst of shells into him, wheeled around and faced the barrels of three other pistols. The President pulled the trigger again and again, not really aiming at anything, just combing the room. Before he could inflict much damage, he felt a bullet rip into his right shoulder, making him drop the weapon and roll onto the floor in pain. Blood began to soak his shirt and suit coat and started to drip onto the spotless white floor. The pain was searing. He instinctively glanced up to see Tandy’s 9mm Beretta smoking, and ready for a follow-up shot.