The President's Pilot

by Robert Gandt

  It has a strange resonance. Our next lives. It makes no sense here on the shore of Africa, three thousand miles from home in a thatched-roof bar with a stranger to whom she owed her life. But she likes the sound of it.

  For a moment, Libby’s imagination wanders. As she often does, she fantasizes about being free. Not being in congress. Not living in a place like Washington. Not married to someone like Ken Paulsen.

  The bar has emptied. The band is still playing, but the pair of State Department officers and the sunburned British girls have disappeared. The white-jacketed Senegalese bartender is watching them expectantly.

  Her drink is finished. Brand empties his glass and sets it on the bar.

  “Thank you again,” she says. “Not just for saving my life. I had a nice evening.”

  “Me too. Going to dinner?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s been a long day.” She rises from the lounge chair. “See me home?”

  They walk in silence through the lounge, past the entrance to the dining room, out to the lamp-lighted pathway that led to the upper tier rooms. A watchful porter is stationed at the landing at the top of the path. Libby leads, feeling self-conscious in the clinging summer dress, hearing the soft fall of Brand’s footsteps behind her.

  She stops at the door to her room. As she fumbles with the key, it occurs to her that for someone with the reputation of being cool and poised, she’s a klutz. “Well, I’ll say good night. Thank you again.”

  “You were a trooper.”

  Libby leans forward, gives his cheek a light kiss, then turns to fumble some more with the key. She manages to get the door open and steps inside. When she turns, she sees that he is still there. As she’d hoped.

  Libby takes Brand’s sleeve and draws him inside.

  Chapter 8

  The cockpit was still dark. The only illumination came from the standby lights that Switzer had managed to restore. Brand entered, then quietly closed the door behind him. Batchelder was in the left seat assisting Morganti, who was navigating the 747 to their destination on the coast of Greenland. Switzer sat at the engineer’s station with the aircraft systems manual spread out before him. With a flashlight he was studying a schematic of the failed electrical systems.

  Sergeant DeWitt was standing behind Switzer. He glanced up at Brand, then returned his attention to Switzer’s manuals.

  Brand opened the storage bay on the aft bulkhead of the cockpit. He pulled out a leather flight bag. It bore the gold lettering Aircraft Commander. Shielding the bag with his body, he withdrew an object and tucked it into his belt. For a minute he stood in the darkened back of the cockpit sizing up DeWitt.

  The sergeant was a couple inches taller than Brand, maybe thirty pounds heavier, but he looked soft. DeWitt had the thick waist and the jowly features of a man unaccustomed to exercise. Not the physique of a fighter.

  Too late, DeWitt sensed danger. Brand seized the sergeant’s lapel, yanking him off balance. Brand hauled DeWitt across the cockpit deck and slammed him into the back bulkhead. DeWitt was trying to wriggle free when Brand slammed his right fist into the sergeant’s jaw.

  Morganti heard the commotion. He whirled in his seat. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

  Brand ignored him. He had DeWitt pinned against the bulkhead with his left arm. He gave the sergeant a backhand, then a straight-armed jab to the face. Brand felt the gristle snap in DeWitt’s nose. Blood spurted from the sergeant’s nose. Switzer was staring at them from the engineer’s seat. Batchelder was watching the scene with a look of disbelief on his face.

  “Talk to me, Sergeant,” Brand said to DeWitt. “Who told you to sabotage this airplane?”

  DeWitt’s eyes bulged. His knees gave way and he slid toward the floor. Brand snatched him upright. He shoved him back against the bulkhead.

  “I know what you did, DeWitt. As the aircraft commander I have a duty to protect this airplane. If I don’t get answers—” Brand snatched the Beretta from his belt and shoved the muzzle into the sergeant’s face— “I’m going to put a bullet right through your head.”

  “Hold on!” Morganti yelled. “Stop that! Are you crazy?”

  Brand paid no attention. He knew as well as Morganti that striking an enlisted man was a court martial offense. So was killing one, for that matter. Brand jammed the muzzle of the Beretta harder into DeWitt’s forehead. The only thing that mattered was that DeWitt believed he’d do it.

  DeWitt believed it. His eyes widened with fear. Blood was gushing from both nostrils.

  “Talk, Sergeant,” Brand said. For emphasis he gave DeWitt a wallop with the barrel of the Beretta. He shoved the muzzle under DeWitt’s chin. “Who told you to do this?”

  A shudder passed over DeWitt’s body. He slumped in Brand’s grasp. “Okay, okay, goddamnit. Put the fucking gun away. I was supposed to destroy the communications modules, that’s all. They didn’t tell me they were going to sabotage the fuel. I didn’t know we were going to flame out.”

  Brand felt a seething anger taking control of him. He looked into the sullen, bleeding face of the man who had nearly killed them. It would be easy to pull the trigger. Too easy. Brand forced himself to take a deep breath. In a level voice he said, “They? Who are ‘they,’ Sergeant?”

  DeWitt coughed, squirting more blood out his nose. His expression seemed to change. The look of abject fear was morphing into an expression of defiance. He shook his head. “Go ahead. Go ahead and kill me. You’re not getting any more from me.”

  Brand kept his grip on the Sergeant’s lapels. He wanted to keep beating him until he talked. But DeWitt was right. Brand could sense the moment slipping past when sheer terror would loosen DeWitt’s loyalty to whoever he was supporting. More pistol-whipping wouldn’t produce answers. All he could do now was turn DeWitt over to the Secret Service detail. He still didn’t have the answer. Who? Who had tried to bring down Air Force One?

  Brand glanced up at the front of the cockpit. Batchelder looked stunned. Morganti was no longer yelling about the mistreatment of the sergeant. His eyes were narrowed, as if he were trying to comprehend what he’d just witnessed.

  Switzer was glowering at DeWitt. “You sonofabitch. If they don’t shoot you, I’m going to do it myself.”

  <>

  “That’s it,” said Major Gen. Jim Ripley in a flat voice. “Angel is down. Gone from the screens.”

  Ripley and the acting Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Vance McDivott, stared at the six-foot plasma display. The two officers were alone in the situation room, deep beneath the ground floor of the Pentagon. The half dozen communications technicians normally assigned to the array of plasma screens had been sent out.

  For half a minute McDivott’s eyes stayed riveted on the display. The pulsing yellow symbol of Shell 22—the KC-135 tanker that was previously joined with Angel—was still on the screen. Still flying westward toward its base at Dover, Delaware. The symbol for Angel—Air Force One—was no longer visible.

  “Radio comms?” asked McDivott. He already knew the answer.

  “None,” answered Ripley. “No transmissions, no emissions, no data-link.”

  “What about SAR? Who’s been alerted?” The search and rescue effort for Air Force One, McDivott already knew, would be on a scale never seen before.

  “En route from both sides of the ocean. At least a dozen Coast Guard vessels and as many aircraft. More as soon as dawn comes. Eight ocean vessels are diverting to the spot. They’ll converge on the last reported position.”

  Which would buy time, McDivott reflected. Air Force One’s last reported position was more than five hundred miles from where it actually went down. A day or more could elapse before the actual debris field would be spotted. It depended on how much flotsam was on the surface. The handling of recovered wreckage would be carefully managed by Capella members already positioned on the recovery teams.

  McDivott walked back to the command desk in the front of the situation room. He took a seat and picked up the red Pent
anet handset, through which his voice would be broadcast into every room in the Pentagon. Intended as an emergency warning device, the Pentanet system had been installed a few days after the September 11, 2001 crash of American Airlines Flight 77 into the west wall of the Pentagon. Until today, the Pentanet had never been used.

  McDivott had rehearsed this scenario in his mind a hundred times. He sat motionless for nearly a minute, cradling the handset between his hands. What he was about to say would have historical significance.

  He put the handset to his ear and pressed the talk button. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Pentagon, this is Gen. Vance McDivott. It is my very sad duty to inform you that our commander-in-chief, the President of the United States, has died. We have a confirmed report that Air Force One, while en route across the Atlantic Ocean, has been hijacked and destroyed by agents of a foreign power. Although search and rescue efforts have been launched, it seems certain that the President and all the occupants of Air Force One have been lost.”

  McDivott paused, imagining the impact his announcement had on its audience. “This is a time for mourning,” McDivott continued. “Let us bow our heads in prayer.” He could hear his voice resonating through the rooms and halls of the Pentagon. It had a somber, ethereal quality. Befitting the occasion.

  “Almighty God, we ask you to cast your blessing on our fallen leader and our fellow Americans who have perished in this tragedy. We pray that you give us the wisdom to understand the meaning of this evil act. We pray that you continue to shine your bounty on our beloved nation. And lastly, dear God, we beseech you to grant us the righteous strength to punish those who have brought harm to our great nation. Amen.”

  McDivott replaced the Pentanet handset in its cradle. It’s done, he thought. We have fulfilled our duty as patriots. God’s will be done.

  He saw Ripley coming from across the room. He was carrying another wireless phone. Ripley covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s Speaker Atwater. Do you want to talk to him?”

  McDivott considered, then shook his head. The Speaker of the House could wait. Atwater needed frequent reminding that he wasn’t the one in charge. Nor would he ever be, even after taking office as President. Fred Atwater’s rise to leadership in the House of Representatives had been carefully tended by his fellow Capella members.

  McDivott knew why the Speaker was calling. As the next in succession to the Presidency, Atwater was anxious to be sworn in. Too anxious, thought McDivott. This was a historic moment in the United States, and it would be unseemly to act too quickly. The news of the death of the sitting President had to be disseminated to the world. The 25th Amendment to the Constitution, adopted in 1967, was fuzzy about the rules of succession. Atwater would have to tread lightly until his Presidency was legally established.

  Then would come Fred Atwater’s first official act as President. He would submit the name of the man he had chosen to be the next Vice President. Though many members of congress and most of the liberal media would howl like banshees, the majority of Americans would applaud the selection. In such a moment of national crisis, the appointment of a warrior-statesman like Gen. Vance McDivott to the second-highest office in the land would be perceived as an act of brilliance. Only the inner circle of the new administration—all Capella members—would know the truth. Fred Atwater was President in name only. The real commander-in-chief was Vance McDivott.

  <>

  “Fuel remaining?” asked Brand.

  “Maybe six thousand pounds,” said Switzer. “Maybe less. No way to be sure.”

  Brand nodded. It was going to be close. He could see the coastline of Greenland. It was an uneven gray silhouette against the blackened sea. Narsarsuaq was less than sixty miles away, at the mouth of a twisting fjord.

  He’d landed here before, but never under these conditions. Never without a flight plan, never without radio communication or a functioning instrument landing system. The Danish-owned facility was a refueling stop for smaller aircraft and an emergency landing field for two-engine airliners. According to Brand’s briefing sheet, the facility wasn’t manned at night.

  Which he hoped was true. If they were lucky, no one would realized they’d arrived until they were on the ramp. With more luck, Mike Grossman’s Secret Service team would deplane and secure the operations shack before anyone on the ground could transmit the fact of Air Force One’s presence.

  “What about runway lights?” asked Morganti. “Will they be on?” Morganti’s demeanor hadn’t become any warmer, but he was keeping the cockpit dialogue curt and businesslike.

  “Depends on whether some airline has designated Narsarsuaq on their flight plan as a diversion airport.”

  “What do we do if the lights aren’t on?”

  Brand shrugged. They both knew the answer. “We land anyway. We look for the fjord, then try to pick out the runway when we get in close.”

  Morganti said nothing. Neither man needed reminding about the huge risk of landing on an unlighted runway in a landscape like Greenland. Narsarsuaq had been constructed in World War II as a refueling stop for U. S. warplanes headed to Europe. The single runway was only 6,000 feet. Too short for routine airline and heavy jet transport operations. If they didn’t find the runway on the first pass, they’d have to thread the high, blackened terrain of a fjord as they climbed back out. In any case, Brand doubted that they had fuel for more than one attempt.

  No one was talking about the subject that was foremost on their minds. Someone had just tried to kill them. Sergeant DeWitt was part of it. Who else might be involved? Since the encounter with DeWitt, Brand had sensed a change in Morganti. The copilot was no more respectful than before, but he had become less contentious.

  Mike Grossman and two Secret Service agents had come for DeWitt. Blood still encrusted the sergeant’s face and his shirt. One eye was nearly swollen shut. The sergeant had maintained a stone-faced silence, making no attempt to resist when they bound his wrists with tie-wraps and hauled him back to the cabin.

  Brand was already thinking about what would happen after they were on the runway. Switzer had managed to restore some of the basic electrical systems. Would the engine thrust reversers work? Switzer thought so, but they wouldn’t know for sure until they’d touched down and Brand pulled the reverser levers back. Same with the brake anti-skid system. Without anti-skid, stopping the big jet on the short runway would surely blow some of the tires. They’d be stuck at Narsarsuaq.

  Morganti was leaning up over the instrument panel visor, peering out at the darkness ahead. “I see something,” he said. “Two o’clock low. A beacon.”

  <>

  Don’t land long. Put it down in the first thousand feet. Brand told himself that it was just another short field landing. Just like any of the hundreds he’d made on primitive runways in third world countries. Except those hadn’t been with a half-million pound jumbo jet. Brand reminded himself that the wheels were nearly a hundred feet behind and below him. The cockpit was perched thirty feet above the nose wheel, like the bridge of a ship.

  They were descending through 1,500 feet. Maybe. They had no accurate altimeter reading, since the last setting was over five hours old. The barometric altimeters could be off by several hundred feet.

  The landing gear was extended. Brand could see the dark terrain of the offshore chain of islands sliding beneath them as they neared the mainland.

  “Forty degrees flap,” he called.

  “Forty flap,” Morganti responded and clunked the flap lever into the final detent.

  Still no runway in sight. Morganti had spotted the rotating beacon atop an airport building, but nothing else. No approach lights, no runway lights. Brand slowed the Boeing, configuring for landing. He was still turning to the final heading—072—when he saw them.

  Runway lights. He felt like rejoicing. Two rows of runway edge lights. They looked impossibly short, but he knew that was a nighttime illusion. The rows of lights would appear foreshortened when viewed from this angle.

&n
bsp; But the runway was short. Too damned short for a loaded 747. It didn’t matter. Brand nudged the throttles back, slowing to final approach speed.

  “Five hundred feet,” said Morganti. It was a guess, both pilots knew.

  Narsarsuaq had no approach lights—the illuminated ladder on the ground that guided pilots to the end of the runway. The black void of the sea extended nearly to the end of the runway.

  The green-lighted end of the runway swept beneath them. Brand nudged the nose of the jet up. He eased all four throttles back and felt a whump as the main gear trucks made contact with the concrete. He could see the far end of the runway rushing toward them at 130 knots. He wrapped his hand around all four reverse levers and pulled them up to a vertical position. And waited.

  “Four in reverse,” called out Switzer. “Reversers are working!”

  They were, bellowing in full thrust. Brand applied brake pressure, carefully at first, not wanting to blow tires. In his peripheral vision he saw the blue lights marking either side of the narrow runway zipping beneath the wings.

  A thousand feet of runway remained when Air Force One shuddered to a slow crawl. Brand carefully steered the jet onto the narrow taxiway that led to the operations complex and a broad apron. Time was precious now. The thunder of the massive reversers would have alerted any airport staff to the arrival of a large aircraft. He brought the jet to a halt on the ramp and shut down the engines, leaving only the auxiliary power unit in the tail running.

  Brand peered down at the dimly lighted ramp. He saw figures running from beneath the left wing. It was Grossman’s team heading for the main hangar. Making sure that the presence of their boss, the President of the United States, remained a secret to the outside world.

  <>

  “Certainly, we can fuel your aircraft,” the man said. His name tag identified him as Johan Fischer, Airport Director. He was a slightly-built Dane with an unruly crop of reddish hair. “And tell me, please, who is going to pay?”