by Robert Gandt
Ripley’s phone was vibrating again. He put the phone to his ear and said, “Go.” For half a minute he listened, nodding. Then he said, “Yes, absolutely. As many over there as you can get in the helos. Lock the place down. I’ll inform General McDivott.”
McDivott was watching him. “Well?”
Ripley returned the cell phone to its sheath. “SigInt desk again. Angel is definitely headed for Dover.”
McDivott nodded. Then he signaled to the tall man in blue creased utilities watching him from a dozen feet away.
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Libby was behind her desk when Brand came in. Jill Maitlin occupied the chair at the end of Libby’s desk. Mike Grossman and Dennis Morton, Libby Deputy National Security Advisor, were in the chairs facing her.
Brand remained standing. He had shed the blue jacket. His collar was open. He looked tired, Libby thought. They all did.
“It’s almost over,” Brand said. “We’ll be landing in Dover in about thirty minutes.”
“Dover?” said Grossman. He frowned. “Who’s going to be waiting for us?”
“Friends, if Colonel Stockton is in command. But the situation is changing constantly. We won’t know for sure until we’ve stopped on the ramp.”
“My orders are to defend this aircraft—and the President—to the last man,” said Grossman. “After what we’ve been through, my people would be more than pleased to shoot some of the—” he glanced at Libby— “the sonsofbitches who’ve been trying to bring us down.”
Libby nodded. She knew that she was the fourth President the big-shouldered, buzz-cut Secret Service agent had protected. She had no doubt that Grossman would willingly take a bullet for her. She was also sure that his loyalty was not to Libby Paulsen. It was to the Presidency itself.
Jill Maitlin said, “Shooting should be our last choice of actions. We have to assess the situation closely when we arrive.”
“Assess?” Brand said. “Go over to the window on the left side and assess that situation. Either that F-15 or his wingman blew off our outboard wing and number one engine.”
No one moved. They had all seen the fighter. Everyone had felt the explosion when the missile took out the engine.
Jill said, “If they really wanted to shoot us down, why haven’t they done it already?”
“I don’t know. We should consider the possibility that they plan to finish the job after we’ve landed.”
“Leave that to us, Colonel Brand. I’ll remind you that your mission is to fly the airplane.”
Libby watched the exchange, saying nothing. The bad blood between Jill and Brand was getting worse. She wondered again where it came from. Jill Maitlin’s contempt for Brand went deeper than just disapproving his assignment as Presidential Pilot.
Dennis Morton spoke up. “My feeling is that we shouldn’t trust anyone on the ground when we land. No one should be allowed near the President until we’ve assessed the situation and established communications.”
Good for Morton, thought Libby. Dry and pedantic, like the prosecuting attorney he had been in his previous life. Morton’s great skill was to parse facts from speculation.
“I’ll take care of that,” said Grossman. “Between my team and Sergeant Ruiz’s Air Force security team, we have enough men and firepower to turn Air Force One into a fortress.”
Brand just nodded. He was already headed for the door. “Time for me to go back to the cockpit.”
Libby rose from her chair. She felt Jill’s hard-eyed gaze as she followed Brand into the passageway outside the office.
Libby closed the door behind her. She and Brand were alone in the narrow space outside the office.
“Are you ready for this?” Brand said.
She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid. I feel like I’m going to break down and cry.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a leader. Your people depend on you, Libby. Don’t let them see you cry.”
Libby closed her eyes for a moment. Don’t let them see you cry. How many times had she heard that? It was something her father used to say. It was bullshit. She felt like a terrified kid who wanted nothing more than to run away and cry.
And then she realized something. He had called her Libby. When was the last time they had used first names? Another lifetime.
“Remember Africa?” she said.
He nodded.
“The time you saved my life?”
He nodded again.
“Were you afraid then?”
“No,” he said.
“Are you afraid now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no time for it. Fear is the enemy. If we let it take over, it drives our decisions. We have to jam it into a compartment, get it out of our conscious thinking.”
“If it was that easy, everyone would be brave.”
“I didn’t say it was easy. It’s hard. It’s something you learn. You can do it.”
She thought for a moment. “Remember that truck you stole in Africa?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes you do what you have to do.”
“This is one of those times, Pete. Do what you have do.”
Chapter 19
“I’ll be there,” said Berg. He was already moving, yanking out his own phone as he strode toward the exit.
McDivott watched the tall, muscular frame of Rolf Berg disappear. Yes, Berg would definitely be there. Rolf Berg always managed to be where the action was. As the director of Galeforce International, Berg had a reputation for taking hands-on control of the most sensitive operations. And what was about to happen at Dover was the most sensitive operation in modern history.
McDivott had been wary of Berg at first. The big, tough-talking spec-ops veteran was an anomaly among the service academy general officers and the ivy league-educated directors on the secret roster of Capella. Berg came from a different place. He had put in his time as an enlisted SEAL, rising to commissioned status, leaving the Navy with the rank of commander. He founded the company called Galeforce International, which quickly gathered CIA and State Department contracts, executing them with impressive precision. As Rolf Berg’s reputation swelled, it was inevitable that he would draw the attention of high ranking military officers, including Vance McDivott. It was even more inevitable that Berg would be inducted him into the secret society of patriots called Capella.
Under the patronage of highly-placed Capella members, Galeforce became the government’s single largest security contractor. Galeforce units served in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Yemen, Libya, and a dozen other near and far east outposts. The largest single unit, comprising nearly five thousand contractors, was positioned close to Washington, D. C. And within striking distance of Dover Air Force Base.
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“He’s starting down,” said Morganti.
Brand saw it. The F-15C’s nose was slanting downward, beginning the descent. On the horizon Brand could make out the dark line of the Delaware shore. A hundred miles ahead lay Dover Air Force Base.
Brand eased the throttles back to keep from overrunning the fighter. He still couldn’t get over the feeling that they were a wounded trophy the hunter was dragging home so he could finish the kill. There was nothing he could do now to change the outcome. Once they were on the ground it would be up to Grossman and his shooters.
He could still see Libby’s face. The gray eyes filled with uncertainty. The expectation that he would protect her. That he would do the right thing, whatever that was. Could he pull off a miracle? He doubted it. His intuition was kicking in again. He had the sure sense that this drama wasn’t over. Something was happening that was going to change the country. And the Presidency of Libby Paulsen.
Another thought kept inserting itself in his mind. Something he had not allowed himself to think about for three years. Libby Paulsen. He loved her. Had loved her since their first night in Africa. She was the reason he took this assignment. The only reason.
&
nbsp; Knock it off, Brand. It was exactly the wrong thing to be thinking about. They were the kind of thoughts that could get them all killed. What he had to do now required cold, intuitive thinking. Focus. Do what you gotta do.
“There it is,” called out Morganti. “On the nose, about forty miles.”
Brand glanced away from the F-15C long enough to scan the horizon ahead. He blinked once, then saw it. Dover Air Force Base, its buildings and bristling towers reflecting the morning sun. Coming up beneath the nose was the jutting peninsula of New Jersey. Across the bay, on the shore of Delaware, lay the sprawling airfield. Brand had landed there hundreds of times, hauling everything from cargo to VIPs to caskets of servicemen and women killed in Middle East wars.
In the distance, sixty miles beyond Dover, was Washington, D. C. and Air Force One’s home base at Andrews. Close, thought Brand. So close that it was tempting to continue. There was no way. He was sure that if he ignored the F-15’s landing order, they’d be blown out of the sky either by the fighter or by the surface-to-air missiles that ringed Washington.
The F-15C was slowing back to approach speed. Brand saw the fighter’s gear emerge from beneath the belly. Time to configure for landing.
With the failed hydraulic systems, the checklist dictated that they add twenty knots to the landing airspeed. But there was no checklist for landing with part of the wing missing. They were in unknown territory.
“Better add another fifteen knots,” said Morganti. “It will help controllability.”
“Too fast. We’re going to have trouble stopping.”
Morganti had the airport diagram for Dover laid out on the console. “Runway three-two’s got nearly 13,000 feet. That ought to be plenty, even with the high landing speed. Our brakes should be normal as long as we still have number four system. We’ve got reverse on three engines.”
Brand nodded. As much as he disliked Morganti, he respected his knowledge. Morganti had over two thousand hours experience in Air Force One. “Okay,” said Brand. “Your call. Let’s set the reference speed to V-thresh plus thirty-five.”
The trouble was, the reference speed was calculated according the aircraft’s weight, which they could only estimate. Switzer came up with a number. Their reference speed—the airspeed at which they would fly the airplane to a landing—would be 169 knots.
It was fast. Too damned fast. The excess airspeed would make the airplane more controllable, but it would make it difficult to stop.
Following the checklist, Switzer began extending the landing flaps by the alternate system. It was a slow process, requiring nearly five minutes. Brand held the yoke carefully, alert for a control malfunction if the flaps failed on the damaged wing.
The flaps extended. No severe control problems. None yet.
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“This is some kind of silly-ass drill, right?” said Col. Ed Stockton.
“No drill, Ed.”
The sun was up, though Cassidy had no way of seeing it from the cave-like interior of his office. He had just told the commander of the Dover Air Force Base that Air Force One, badly damaged and without communications, was about to land at his base. As Cassidy expected, Stockton didn’t believe him.
Then Cassidy told him a military cabal was trying to bring down the President.
“If I didn’t know you better,” said Stockton, “I’d swear you’ve been up all night drinking.”
“I’ve never been more serious. Trust me, this is the real thing.”
“The last bulletin from the Joint Chiefs chairman says the President is dead. Air Force One is in the drink.”
“It’s a lie. There’s been a coup attempt, and the joint chiefs are involved.”
Cassidy could hear Stockton exhale hard into the phone. “Shit,” said Stockton. “Even if what you told me is true, what am I supposed to do?”
“Uphold your oath as an officer in the United States Air Force.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning do what you have to do to protect the commander-in-chief.”
“Protect her how?”
“Use all your security resources. Defend her and her staff from whoever might show up to take her out. Get her to a safe place.”
Stockton said nothing for a moment. “Who’s the aircraft commander? Morganti or the new guy?”
“The new guy. Brand. You know him from SpecOps. He was our guy in the Sudan operation.”
“How could I forget? I can think of a dozen field grade officers who’d like to take out Brand.”
“Brand needs all the help he can get, Ed. So does the President.”
Stockton let several seconds elapse. He sighed into the phone. “I’ve got a real bad feeling about this. I think that after what happens here, you and I are going to be falling on our swords.”
“We’ve had a good run, Ed. Maybe this is the right time to exit.”
“Maybe. I’d better start getting our shit together here on the ground. I’ll get back to you when we’re in position.”
Stockton hung up. Cassidy sat motionless for a minute, thinking about what had to happen next. Stockton had to get the President out of Dover before the cabal zeroed in on her location. Get her in a secure place. Surround her with loyal troops.
And he’d do it, if he could. Stockton was a good man. He and Cassidy had covered each other’s butts on more than one occasion. With Stockton running the show on the ground at Dover, it meant —
The yellow light on Cassidy’s communications console was blinking. The secure line from Dover again.
Cassidy yanked up the handset. Gritting his teeth, he waited the obligatory four seconds, listening to the squiggling sound of the encrypting program inserting itself.
Stockton’s voice came on the line. “Jack, you’re not going to believe what’s happening here. I just got a call from Ripley over at JCS. He gave me a direct order to turn over base security to this Galeforce outfit. He says they’re going to meet an inbound hijacked aircraft.”
“It’s Air Force One, like I told you. And it’s not hijacked. It’s a bogus story.”
“Yeah, yeah, I believe you. I told him that I was still the base commander and we’d take care of it ourselves.”
“Did he back off?”
“He told me I was summarily relieved. Fired. I’m supposed to get the hell off the base. My replacement would be in one of the helos.”
“Did you tell him to get stuffed?”
“Sure, I did. I told him I had to hear it from McDivott or I wasn’t—uh, oh, Jack. This is bad. They’re already here. I’m looking out at the ramp from my office. Six, eight, maybe more, landing on the ramp. No markings on the helos. No inbound calls, no clearance. I can see them deploying across the apron now. These guys aren’t military, Jack. Must be the Galeforce bunch. Some kind of blue uniforms.”
Cassidy’s mind raced, searching for options. “Listen up, Ed. You’ve got to buy us some time. Don’t let them—”
The carrier tone in the handset went silent. The blinking yellow light was extinguished.
Cassidy stared at the useless phone. He slammed it down and snatched up his cell phone. How much time do we have?
Not enough. He heard a commotion in the hallway outside his office. Cassidy fumbled with the phone, squinting at the keyboard. He had to make another call, and he had to do it very damned quickly. He heard angry shouts from outside. Loomis’s voice?
Then a thump.
Where the hell is the number? Cassidy had to put on his reading glasses. He found the number, embedded on the calls page, still encoded. He punched up the call sequence. Then he waited. He heard someone jiggling the handle on his office door. Through the latticed blind he could see the silhouette of someone behind the glass. The thought flashed through Cassidy’s mind that just a few years ago he would have his service pistol in a desk drawer. No more. Not in the security-obsessed, post-9/11 Pentagon.
He heard the phone ringing on the other end. Twice. A third time. Come on, answer the goddam thing . . .
>
The office door shattered inward. Shards of glass crashed onto the tiled floor, tinkling across Cassidy’s desk. He saw an arm reach inside, going for the inside handle.
The phone was still ringing. Cassidy saw the intruder’s arm groping through the gaping hole in the glass. Reaching for the handle, fumbling, finding it.
On the fourth ring there was a click. A voice came on the other end. “Yes?”
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Sam wasn’t sure she heard correctly. “I’m sorry, say that again.”
It was the same croaky voice, except that it sounded urgent and agitated. “Tell them not to land. It’s a trap.”
The voice belonged to Cassidy, but it wasn’t making sense. “I’m not following you,” said Sam. “If they’re not supposed to land at Dover, where should I tell them to go?”
“It doesn’t matter, for Christ’s sake. Just tell them not to—”
Sam heard a clattering noise, as if the phone had been dropped. There were sounds of a scuffle, objects hitting the floor. Then a pop. Sam felt a chill sweep over her. There was no mistaking the sound she had just heard.
Still holding the phone to her ear, Sam gazed around. The Washington workaday routine was just beginning. Half a dozen early morning customers were in line at the Starbucks counter. They were a mix of men and women, most of them young, en route to the metro and downtown office jobs. Over the phone Sam listened to what sounded like footsteps crunching on broken glass.
Then a voice on the phone. It had a resonant, authoritative ring. Like God. “Captain Fornier?”
Sam froze. She pressed the phone to her ear, unable to move or speak. She heard the sound of breathing on the other end.
“I know you’re there, Sam.”
The voice cut through her like a skewer. Sam. They knew who she was. They knew everything. She wanted to hurl the phone to the floor and run. Run like a striped-ass ape. Find a place to hide.