Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  “Explosion on Air Force One. Repeat, explosion on Angel,” radioed Strike Eagle pilot Chester Pike. Angel was the Secret Service’s unclassified designation for the president’s plane.

  “Say again,” responded the commander of the AWACS, ten miles to starboard and 6,000 feet higher.

  “An explosion in or near the cabin. Colonel Lewis was in the process of reporting multiple engine malfunctions. Air Force One is rapidly losing altitude quickly. I’m staying with her.”

  Rossy.

  “Roger.

  “One hundred yards off the left wing. Can’t see any activity in the cockpit. Assuming flight crew is disabled or dead. Request air-sea rescue emergency assistance below.”

  “Roger. Scrambling ASR emergency assistance.” With the touch of a computer screen a flash message went out to the 7th Fleet. Word simultaneously was sent via satellite to the USASOCOM, the Pentagon, and Jack Evans.

  Meanwhile, all planes except for the Pike’s Strike Eagle and two other escorts peeled off. They received orders to secure the area against enemy aircraft.

  It took the strength of both men to pull Lewis out of his chair. Once done, Taylor jumped in, buckled, and grabbed the yoke. He pulled it back with all his strength. “Get Agins out!”

  Rossy unbuckled the dead co-pilot and dragged him over the hole. He returned to the president’s side and shouted over the wind. “A bomb.”

  “I don’t care what the fuck it was now. Help me pull the nose up!”

  Lt. Ross helped. The president tried his foot rudder pedals to stabilize the yawing. The airplane responded. “We’ll need full flaps, Rossy. The second we get her leveled out, get those flaps down!”

  They were burning off 1,000 feet of altitude every ten seconds. At this rate, they’d crash in a matter of minutes. “Harder!” They were fighting overwhelming and asymmetrical forces, the power of a 747 in an uncontrollable dive, and the increasing air speed. Everything was working against them. “Come on, Goddammit! Come on!” Thankfully, they still had thrust from number four. They’d need it if they got the nose up.

  Rossy put all of his effort into the struggle. The great plane slowly angled up.

  “More!” Taylor called out. The plane bucked, not wanting to be tamed. “More!”

  The nose continued to rise. Every degree up gave them extra seconds of life. If they could level, they might be able to stabilize Air Force One enough to make it to an airport somewhere, or ditch.

  “More!”

  SAM 28000 never came completely level, but its angle of descent shallowed. “Now, Rossy! Full flaps.”

  The engineer obeyed. The flaps on each wing extended out and down, increasing the drag and the lift, which slowed their speed. An immediate effect—they could hear better. The wind still rushed in, but with the flaps down, they seemed to have a fighting chance. Thirty seconds later Morgan Taylor let out his first real breath.

  “Okay, emergency procedures.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Radio?”

  Rossy tested the system. “Dead.”

  “GPS?”

  “Inoperable. All three.”

  “Lights?”

  Rossy threw the toggles. “Landing lights only functional on the right side.”

  “Keep them off.”

  “Any idea what our fuel situation is?”

  “Looks like we bingo’ed on one and three. But I can’t tell you if any of the tanks were ever filled.”

  “What?” the president demanded.

  “Possible sabotage at fueling.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “One of my crew. I don’t know why.”

  Rossy was amazed the cockpit was still intact. He looked around. “The bomb could have been planted for good measure. Looks like it didn’t do all the damage it could have. It was under the navigator’s seat. His metal briefcase helped contain the blast.”

  “You call this contained?” the president said.

  In the midst of the crisis, Lt. Ross had to smile. “Poor choice of words, sir.”

  “Roger that,” Taylor said. “Now, let’s talk through the rest. We may not be able to later.” The moon, nearly full, illuminated the sky. Taylor saw blackness below, but it wasn’t the ocean. Lewis said they’d be above a storm center. They were going down through it and the turbulence could give them more trouble before impact. “How’s the cabin?”

  “A mess. We’ve got casualties. Only a few people were buckled in when we decompressed. I don’t know for sure,” Rossy explained.

  “Let’s see if they can hear us back there.” He tried the public address system. “This is Taylor,” he said showing as much confidence in his voice as possible. “We’ve leveled out. If you can hear me, send someone forward. Just one person. Everyone who’s not doing anything essential buckle up in secure seats.” He didn’t explain what happened in the cockpit, but if the message went out it would be clear. The flight crew was dead and the former Navy commander was flying Air Force One.

  “All right. Deactivate landing gear warning system.”

  “Roger,” Rossy responded. He pulled the circuit breaker even though the landing gear warning lights were inoperative.

  “Deactivate TAWS and GPWS.”

  Rossy turned off the terrain awareness and warning system and the ground-proximity systems to prevent unnecessary warnings.

  “No change in fuel status?”

  “No idea sir.

  “Then set radio altimeter to fifty feet.”

  “Done. We just don’t know what’s true, sir, and it’s going to be dark down there beneath the clouds.”

  “Do we know how low our ceiling is?”

  Rossy had seen the weather forecasts before take-off. What did they say? He tried to remember.

  “Ah. I think it called for fifteen hundred to two thousand.”

  The president quickly calculated. “At our current rate, we’ll have five minutes to see where the hell we are. Then…” He stopped short of finishing the thought. Another more urgent one came to mind. “Any idea how much fuel we are carrying?”

  “No.”

  “Check,” the president ordered. “She’s holding now, but if we lose number two or four, we’ll have to burn off more altitude. I’m gonna take her under ten thousand. We won’t need oxygen.” Without power, it was conceivable that the plane could glide. If he handled it right, they’d head down at around 240 knots—about 3,000 feet per minute. But he wanted more than three minutes to get his bearings.

  “Roger,” Rossy said, unbuckling.

  Air Force One picked up speed as Morgan Taylor nosed down, right into the storm center.

  The New York Times

  the same time

  “We can’t run this,” Andrea Weaver argued. She was on the phone with Michael O’Connell after reading his first draft. He was at his desk looking at the copy on his computer screen. “You’ve danced around everything. Come on, O’Connell, we talked about this.”

  “I had to,” he countered.

  “And without any facts, you don’t have a story.”

  “The facts support Strong’s rise to national prominence through a series of accidents and misfortunes. It’s all there Andrea. Read it again.”

  “I’ve read it once. That’s enough.”

  “But it’s all there!”

  “Nothing’s there.”

  “It is,” he pleaded. “Strong’s entire career is based on doors miraculously opening for him. There’s a pattern, which I’ve substantiated.”

  “And your conclusion?”

  O’Connell had the answer; or at least he assumed he did. However, he couldn’t put it in print. “We both know,” he said.

  “Correction. We don’t know. You believe,” the editor argued. “And beyond that very significant issue, what is the point of view of your story? You’re this close to calling it a conspiracy. So far, all unfounded. How different is that from what Strong does?”


  “Jesus Christ! You don’t think I know that?” He wheeled his chair away from his desk. “Why don’t we just call it a feature story on America’s most persuasive radio talk-show host and give it to Arts?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? To flush him the fuck out.”

  She was right on top of him. “That’s not our job, Mr. O’Connell!”

  O’Connell realized he’d overstepped his bounds. He needed to calm down. “Okay, then what do you suggest?” He was being sincere, not contrite.

  “You’re an investigative reporter. Don’t give me any crap about feature stories. Investigate and file something I can print!”

  Weaver was quite finished. They hung up. O’Connell faced his computer again and saw his reflection in the monitor. It was as blank as the screen.

  Over the Banda Sea

  the same time

  Air Force One’s communication center was coming to life. When the plane leveled, crew members carefully made their way to their consoles, sent out emergency messages, and radioed the AWACS and the F-15 escort.

  “What is your status?” asked the commander aboard the AWACS.

  “Casualties. Maybe thirty. We’re still getting a count. Computers back online.”

  “Roger. The F-15 pilot reports extensive damage in the cockpit.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Who the hell is flying the bird?”

  “The president.”

  “Say again,” the Com officer in the AWACS asked. “Did not fully copy that.”

  “Roger. The President of the United States.”

  Now Morgan Taylor mentally ran through the ditching procedures. He’d never done it before, but it was survivable—in simulators.

  Hit the water as slowly as possible. Keep the nose up; avoid stalling. Keep the wings parallel with the water as the point of impact approaches. Absolutely avoid one wing tip striking the water first. That would invariably result in uncontrollable, violent slewing.

  He remembered more. Into the wind. But which way was the wind blowing down there? Bleed off more speed, less damage on impact. Maintain sufficient air speed to take any last minute action. Don’t stall. Depressurize. He smiled to himself. No problem there. Most importantly, he recalled, ditch alongside a swell. But how will I know which way the swells are aligned? Experienced pilots understood that ditching into a swell would be tantamount to crashing into a brick wall. Anything else? he asked himself. He lost his concentration when he heard Secretary of State Poole.

  “I had to come up and see for myself!” Poole held a towel across a large gash that went from his forehead to his right eye. He stepped into the cockpit carefully, avoiding the sharp surfaces everywhere.

  “Norman!” The president recognized his voice without turning around.

  “Mr. President. I’m the appointed representative,” he said above the howling wind. “We heard you loud and clear.”

  “Good,” Taylor yelled over the wind. “Is everyone on oxygen?”

  “Yes. We knew to do that.” He held on as the plane rumbled.

  “We should be below ten thousand feet soon. Everyone will be able to breath normally, but I’ll be damned if I know exactly when.”

  “Good.” After he inhaled another breath he asked, “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get back and appoint some officers to stand by the emergency exits. When we’re down, get those doors open.”

  “Then?

  “Then we’ll find out how good a boat Air Force One makes.”

  “Yes, sir. Anything else?” Poole asked.

  “Just brace. Heads down. Glasses off. Knees up. It’ll be rough, no matter how lucky we are. And evacuate immediately.”

  “I’ll get the Secret Service guys up to help you.”

  “They’ll be no help to me or anyone else unless they’re strapped in tightly. Now go.”

  “Godspeed, Mr. President.”

  Morgan Taylor managed to raise one hand off the yoke and wave. He wasn’t about to give Air Force One up to God quite yet.

  The Pentagon

  the same time

  General Jonas Johnson Jackson was aware of the crisis one minute into it. He was at his desk at the Pentagon when his pager went off, his phone rang, and an instant message hit his computer screen: all simultaneously—all bad news.

  USAPACOM was on the phone from the South Pacific. The IM came from Langley and his pager showed a discreet White House number, which belonged to Presley Freedman, head of the Secret Service. He took them in order of personal priority. Phone and IM at the same time, the pager last.

  The word was the same. Emergency aboard Air Force One. General Jackson stayed on the telephone. USAPACOM handled all of the traffic out of the South Pacific. The 7th Fleet, under the command of Admiral Clemson Zimmer, was in the area.

  “Talk to me, Clem.”

  “Still getting assessments. Hold.”

  J3 was snapping fingers at assistants in the outer office and shouting down the hall for maps.

  “Confirmed. Catastrophic event on Air Force One.” He was relaying information as he was hearing it. “Two engines out. Stabilizing. What?”

  “What?” J3 asked in kind.

  “General, ah, the flight crew is dead.”

  “Then who’s flying the bird?”

  “Hold.”

  J3 distinctly heard Zimmer request a repeat of the latest information.

  “Roger, I copy.” He came back to the call. “J3, the president.”

  “The president—what?” He didn’t understand.

  “The president is flying his plane!”

  “Good God!”

  Admiral Clemson continued to give J3 updates as fast as he could relay them. Aides brought maps to General Jackson who quickly pinpointed Air Force One’s location based on the last coordinates.

  “The Banda Sea. Got it. Can he make Halim?” Jackson thought that the Indonesia Air Force Base, located outside of Jakarta, might be the closest facility.

  “Don’t know. Top Gun’s burned off a lot of altitude. Looks like he’s preparing to ditch.”

  “What do you have there, Clem?”

  “Most of the fleet is gathered closer to the Solomons, some thirty-six hours out. But I’ve got some assets closer. The Blue Ridge for one. And the Kitty Hawk’s search and rescue planes could be in the area in two hours.”

  “Roger. Stand by.” The president’s head of USASOC, America’s largest command component of SOCOM, U.S. Special Operations Command, punched in one of one hundred numbers on his speed dial.

  “J3. We have a situation.”

  “Monitoring it,” reported a desk at Special Operations Command at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida.

  “Patch in the F-15 escort and the AWACS. Sixty seconds.”

  “Affirmative, General.”

  As J3 waited, three words that Clemson stated came to mind: Search and Rescue.

  Washington, D.C.

  the same time

  Roarke’s cell phone issued the tone that accompanied a text message. He was working with Shannon Davis at the FBI.

  “Freedman. Ten-ninety.”

  Ten-ninety was a simple police code. It meant alarm. Accompanied by the name Freedman, it stood for only one thing: National emergency. Come in! He didn’t need to ask why.

  The White House

  the same time

  Presley Freedman dispatched extra Secret Service to the Capitol. He did so without thinking of the consequences. Duke Patrick could soon be president. He also placed a call to Henry Lamden’s principal physician at Walter Reed.

  Aboard Air Force One

  Rossy’s worry multiplied the moment he read the computer display at his master engineering station. It had been his idea to install a virtual cockpit where he could check on key flight deck data during the course of a journey. But what he saw was absolutely wrong. The fuel tanks showed full. They’d been flying for under two hours, two eng
ines were starved, yet the readouts were still reporting fuel capacity at 100 percent. He typed in a command. The screen blinked once, then confirmed full status on all engines. He typed an override command. The screen blinked again. Full. “Shit!” he exclaimed.

  He ran to the steps leading up to the cockpit. Rossy slumped into the co-pilot’s seat, attached the facemask, took in the needed oxygen, then pointed down.

  “Get down to the deck fast, sir.”

  Without further instruction, Morgan Taylor nosed down. He traded altitude for speed. The extended flaps made a rough ride even rougher as they were buffeted by the winds.

  “The fuel tanks were sabotaged,” Ross explained. “The computers were re-programmed to read full. No one caught it. I can’t tell you how many tons are left or whether we’ll be sucking air in another second.”

  “You’re sure?” the president shouted over the onrushing wind.

  Rossy looked out at one and three: both dead. “Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

  The president switched on the PA. “Attention! This is Taylor. Secure yourself immediately. Prepare for ditching. I repeat, prepare for ditching. Fuel supply is critical. We’re getting out of these clouds now. Brace! Brace!”

  The radio operator communicated the president’s news to the orbiting AWACS. The report was flashed halfway across the world to the Pentagon, the White House Situation Room, Langley, and MacDill. At the same time, crew members cleared the aisles as best they could, then strapped in for impact.

  Air Force One broke out of the clouds just above 2,300 feet. The moonlight, blocked by the storm, cut visibility down to almost zero.

  “See anything, Rossy?” Taylor asked.

  Rossy squinted. “Not sure, sir.” The onrushing wind didn’t help. He checked the sides. “Maybe land mass off to the right. Three o’clock. Hard to tell.”

  “What’s the direction of the swells?”

  The lieutenant looked straight down. “Can’t see ‘em yet.”

  “Going to take the edge off our descent. We can’t afford to hit the water at this speed.” Taylor estimated it to be around 230 knots as he leveled out.

  “Smell that?” Rossy asked.

  Fresh salty air rushed in. “Yes,” Taylor noted. He was glad he had pulled out.