The President's Pilot

by Robert Gandt

  As Waller steered his passengers to the cars, Deputy Sheriff Ray Barnwell eased up beside him. The deputy was wearing a dubious expression. Barnwell had been in the job nearly ten years and was the only one allowed to run his mouth around Waller.

  “Are you sure about this, Ben? Don’t you think we oughta call in the Pesties?”

  “Screw the Pesties. Those clowns will take charge and send us off to write parking tickets.” “Pesties” was the in-house term for the Pennsylvania State Police. Over several years of budget slashes, the Pesties had taken over more and more of the duties formerly reserved for local sheriffs. Waller had seen his department shrink from a peak of sixty-two uniformed deputies to its present forty-eight. More cutbacks were coming. Waller knew the time was near, next election cycle probably, when he’d be turning his badge over to someone younger and less cynical. Someone like Barnwell.

  Before that, Ben Waller was going to go down in history. He’d be the sheriff who saved the President.

  “We don’t need them,” said Waller. “By the time we get to the television station, we’ll have the entire deputy force backing us up.”

  Barnwell’s face showed that he didn’t believe it. But the deputy knew when to shut up. He nodded and headed back to his patrol car.

  <>

  It was a tight fit. At Libby’s insistence, the four of them were jammed into the back seat of Sheriff Waller’s car. She didn’t want them to split up. Libby sat sandwiched between Brand and Jill, with Kreier scrunched against the left door. Kreier had the MP5K positioned across his lap while his head maintained a steady sweep from left to right and back again, peering through the tinted glass of the Crown Vic. Waller sat in the front with his driver, Bradford.

  They were number three in the procession. “Shooters would figure that the number one is running interference,” Waller explained. “They’d guess that number two would be carrying their target. Here in the number three slot, we have the most escape options.”

  “Shooters?” asked Libby. “In Gettysburg?”

  “Not likely, ma’am. But we gotta be ready. These guys could show up anytime.”

  Libby just nodded. The Sheriff was right. These guys—whoever they were—had already shown up in the middle of the ocean, off the U. S. coast, in at least two Air Force bases, and in a country airport in Delaware. Why not Gettysburg?

  Sheriff Waller was a talker. While the procession wound along the two lane road toward town, Waller gave them a non-stop commentary. The town had swollen in size since he was a kid. “No suburbs in those days, just the town, pretty much like it has been for a century or more.” Waller pointed to the right. “Eisenhower’s farm is down that road. Big old place, now a historical site next to the battlefield. I got to shake Ike’s hand once. He’d just left the White House and come back to live here in Gettysburg.”

  The undulating greens of a spacious golf course swept by on the right side. To the left passed a succession of strip malls, a gas station. They rolled past a complex of suburban developments. Three more Sheriff’s Department cars, identical Crown Vics, pulled in behind them as they passed an intersection. Entering the outskirts of town, they picked up an additional two who were waiting in a strip mall. “Two more are already headed for the station,” said Waller. “Thirty some deputies all together. Ought to be enough.”

  Libby said nothing. Enough for what? She felt needles of fear prickling at her again. Did anyone really believe that three dozen sheriff’s deputies were going to hold off the full force of the United States military? She glanced over at Brand. He seemed detached from the sheriff’s chatter. Brand was wearing that expression she had learned to recognize—eyes half closed, arms folded across his torso, mind focused on something far away. Did he think that Waller’s little band of deputies was going to protect them?

  Technically, Brand’s duties had ended. He was the Presidential Pilot. There was nothing left for him to fly. No reason for him to be with her. No reason except one. The same reason she had secretly appointed Brand to the job.

  Waller was still talking. Asking her something. Who did she think was behind the coup attempt? Before she could answer, Brand blinked, seeming to come out of his doze. “One thing we know for sure,” he said. “The military is involved. Fighters have tried to shoot us down. And we know they have agents at Andrews and at Dover and most likely the Pentagon.”

  “Agents?” This caused the sheriff to frown. “What kind of agents? Civilian or military?”

  “Probably civilian, according to a report we received. Guys in blue uniforms.”

  Waller shook his head knowingly. “Galeforce.”

  “Galeforce?” asked Libby. “That sounds familiar. What do they do?”

  Brand answered. “Civilian security company. They provide services for DOD and State, mostly in the Middle East, all the hot spots.”

  “We’ve heard stories,” said Waller. “Galeforce is like a private army. Supposed to be hush hush, but my information is that they have a huge presence in the DC area.”

  Waller’s cell phone was chirping. “Sheriff Waller,” he said, then listened for several seconds. “You heard right,” he said. “It’s me, and I wasn’t yanking your chain. This is for real. You want to talk to her? Hang on.” Waller covered the cell phone with one hand. “It’s Mr. Cirilli. He says he has to speak with you.”

  Libby took the phone. “Dom, this is Libby Paulsen.”

  A couple of seconds passed, then Libby heard Cirilli’s voice. “Yeah, it really sounds like you, Libby—excuse me, Madame President. I had to know for sure. This is crazy. We’re hearing from the network office in New York that you’d been killed or captured by terrorists.”

  “There’s a conspiracy of some sort, Dom. I’ll tell you all about it soon enough. Right now we need your help. We need a feed to the network so I can go public with—”

  Libby heard the phone go dead. No voice, no carrier tone. She stared at it for a moment, then handed it back to Waller. “The call was dropped. Can you get him back on the line?”

  Waller tried. He punched more keys, then he glowered at the phone. “No signal. That’s weird. We’ll try again in a few minutes. We’re almost there. Don’t worry.”

  Libby tried not to worry. It didn’t work. She couldn’t stop the wave of fear that was sweeping over her like a cold wind. Almost there. The story of her life.

  <>

  They drove through a plaza. On the far side Libby could see an open area with a two-story modern structure in the middle. A transmission tower maybe two hundred feet tall stood behind the building. The roadside sign at the looping entrance to the building read KGYB CHANNEL 32: CONNECTING GETTYSBURG TO THE WORLD.

  Libby felt her pulse quicken. It would all come to a head in this building. The nightmare that began over the Atlantic and brought her to this town in Pennsylvania would play out here. Her image would be flashed around the country, proof that she was alive and still in command. Proof that the cabal that tried to kill her was exposed and defeated.

  Unless they were already here.

  Two more Sheriff’s Department cars were waiting at the entrance to the semicircular driveway. “Parker and Kuhn,” said Waller, peering at the scene ahead. “Plus however many guys they were able to round up on short notice. That ought to bring our head count to—” Waller’s face froze. “Oh, shit.”

  Libby leaned forward to peer through the windshield. At first she saw nothing unusual. Just the pair of patrol cars, the station, the girded tower. She heard Waller say, “Move it, Bradford. Haul ass for the front door of the station.”

  Then she spotted them. Black objects, three of them in trail, swooping down to the open meadow that adjoined the television station. They were growing in size, close enough to be recognizable.

  Helicopters. Dark blue-gray paint schemes. No markings. The first one was just touching down.

  <>

  It was almost a dead heat.

  With Waller barking orders in his ear, Bradford accelerated the C
rown Vic past the two parked patrol cars, over the curb of the driveway, across the grass and through a plat of wild flowers. He brought the car to a skidding stop at the base of the steps leading into the station.

  “Go! Go!” Waller was yelling. “Get inside.”

  Brand had the door open on the right side. He spilled out of the car, yanking Libby behind him. Jill Maitlin clambered from the car behind them. Kreier burst out the left side door, the MP5K dangling from its strap around his neck. In a hunched-over run he went around the back of the Crown Vic and positioned himself behind the right back fender.

  Waller was already crouched behind the right front fender, barking orders into his shoulder-mounted microphone. Over the top of the car he could see the men from the first helicopter. They wore dark-camo fatigues. Each was carrying an automatic weapon, dog-trotting in a column across the grass directly toward him. They were a hundred yards away. Another helo was alighting behind them, and the third in its descent.

  The other cars in the procession came roaring up behind Waller, responding to his orders. Two wheeled onto the grass, blocking the path of the advancing column. Two more screeched up behind Waller’s car. The deputies piled out and took up stations behind the vehicles.

  Waller glanced behind him. The President and the gangly woman staffer were already inside. Brand, the pilot, had come back outside. He was carrying a pistol.

  Waller sent the two cars that had been waiting for them around to cover the back side of the building. Then he turned his full attention to the dark-clad figures trotting toward him. He didn’t like the way this was shaping up. Every one of them was carrying some kind of assault weapon. Waller and his deputies were armed with their little semiautomatic popguns. All except Barnwell, who was crouched beside Waller. Barnwell had the LWRC M6A3 submachine gun. If they were lucky, someone had the presence of mind to have grabbed the other three M6A3s from the office armory. Even so, they were seriously outgunned.

  Waller said to Barnwell, “Call the Pesties. Tell ‘em we need back up now.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t want them taking over.”

  “Never mind what I said. Just fucking do it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fifty yards. Close enough. Waller reached inside his car and pulled the megaphone from its clip on the sidewall.

  “Hold it right there,” he barked into the megaphone. His voice sounded tinny, distorted by the whop whop of the helicopter blades. “This area has been secured by the Adams County Sheriff Department. I’m ordering you to leave immediately.”

  The man at the head of the column stopped, then signaled for those behind him to hold up. He was a tall man, well over six feet. He wore sunglasses, a fatigue cap, and the same dark blue camo outfit as the rest of them. His submachine gun hung over his shoulder, the barrel canted across his waist to the left.

  A professional, Waller thought. Not good.

  The man in the blue camos scanned the scene around the station building. Then he looked directly at Waller. “Get back in your cars and leave. This has nothing to do with you. This is a homeland security matter.” He had a strong, clear voice. A voice of authority. A man accustomed to being obeyed.

  Waller didn’t answer. Thirty-two years, he thought. That’s how long he’d been in this business if you counted the rookie year in Pittsburgh and the four-year hitch in the Army as a military cop. He had seen it all. Drunks, dopers, bank robbers, spouse killers, arsonists, nut cases, deviates of all description. Until today he thought he would wrap up his three-decade career with some kind of community feel-good gesture—a kids’ summer program or a courtesy-on-the-highway initiative. While the citizens still had a warm and fuzzy image of Ben Waller, he’d declare his retirement and turn the job over to Barnwell, who would be a shoo-in for election this fall. Waller and his wife would already be somewhere on the road on the long-planned RV tour of North America.

  At least that had been the plan.

  Waller glanced at Barnwell. “Well? Are the Pesties coming?”

  “Nobody’s coming. Our goddamn phones are dead. Every one of them.”

  “Shit. Use the radio in the car. Move.”

  The tall guy in the blue camos with the MP5 dangling over his shoulder was peering at Waller. So were the couple dozen other armed troops standing behind him. So were Waller’s deputies. All waiting to see what Waller was going to do. The smart thing, of course, was to acknowledge reality. These guys had unlimited force behind them. Waller should order his deputies back into the cars and bug out. The Adams County Sheriff’s Department had no business involving itself in national security dust ups.

  Barnwell crawled back out the right door of Waller’s car. “Ben, the radio is dead too. Nothing but static. The sumbitches have got it jammed somehow.”

  The third helicopter was on the ground. More blue-camoed troops were spilling out and advancing across the grassy meadow. More history in the making, thought Waller. Gettysburg was going to be famous for two battles, a century and a half apart.

  “You’ve got thirty seconds to leave,” said the man in blue camos. “Then we’re coming in.”

  Waller didn’t respond. An image was stuck in his mind. Her eyes. The way her eyes fixed on him after she stepped down from that beat up old airplane. The way she looked at him and said, I’m Libby Paulsen, and I need your help.

  Ben Waller hated politics. When asked, he always declared himself an independent even though he had the lawman’s instinctive bias against liberal politicians. Never would he have been a supporter of a politician like Libby Paulsen. Until today.

  Sheriff Ben Waller had made a commitment. He had accepted the assignment to defend the President of the United States. Period. Which meant the RV tour of North America was on hold. Maybe forever.

  “Nobody’s coming in,” blared Waller’s voice over the megaphone. “Don’t come any closer. This building is secured, and we’re not going anywhere.”

  The man just stared at him. Then he made a hand gesture—some signal that Waller didn’t recognize— and the blue-camoed troops began fanning out.

  God help us, thought Ben Waller as he slid the old .357 out of its holster.

  Chapter 25

  “What are we waiting for?” Rolf Berg said into the Bluetooth mike. He was kneeling behind a hummock a hundred yards from the station. He could see the patrol cars dispersed to each side of the building. The sheriff’s deputies appeared to have taken defensive positions around the perimeter. They were amateurs. “We’re ready to make the assault.”

  “No,” came Ripley’s voice over the encrypted connection. “The general says to hold your position. We don’t want to be accused of massacring an entire Sheriff’s department.”

  Berg clenched his teeth, trying to contain his anger. He hadn’t hunted Paulsen from Dover to Summit to Gettysburg just to let some hillbilly sheriff block the final phase of the operation. What the hell was McDivott worried about? After trying to gun down Air Force One, taking out a vice president and a joint chiefs chairman as well as several Secret Service agents, what difference did hosing a few dozen Pennsylvania cops make?

  “So what are we supposed to do?” said Berg. “Wait until the whole world finds out that Paulsen is holed up here?”

  “The world won’t find out. Not before she’s terminated. The station transmission tower is already shut down, and so are all the cell and landline connections. No one inside that station has communications with the outside. The only link from Gettysburg belongs to us, and you’re talking on it.”

  “So when are we going to terminate her?” Berg already knew the answer.

  “You’ll find out. We’ll give you the order to stand clear.”

  Stand clear? What did that mean? Why the hell was he getting orders from Ripley? As the director of Galeforce, Berg ranked just a few rungs beneath McDivott in Capella. Without Galeforce, this operation wouldn’t be happening. Ripley was a flunkey, never mind the two stars, who had managed to establish himself as McDivott’s lie
utenant. Now Berg had to go through Ripley to communicate with McDivott. It was bullshit.

  Since the operation began, an image had been taking shape in Rolf Berg’s mind. He could see the treasonous President cowering before him. Begging for her life. He would put the traitor away with a single round from the P-229. No hesitation, no remorse. A single pull of the trigger and he would be restoring honor and freedom to his country.

  And not just Paulsen. There were others. This local yokel sheriff who had inserted himself into the equation. Another who’d be almost as gratifying was the too-clever blue-suiter who flew Air Force One. The one who had somehow kept the President from resting forever on the bottom of the Atlantic. The same one who eluded them at Dover, at Summit, and who was now holed up with her in Gettysburg. Shooting him would be nothing more to Berg than putting down a coyote who was stealing chickens. Doing the world a favor.

  Then Berg thought of something else. Something Atwater had told him and McDivott and a few others one night at the Briar Club. Something about photographs of Paulsen and her pet pilot getting it on aboard a boat. It was before she was President, back when she was still in Congress, but it explained a lot about her choice for Presidential Pilot. Atwater wouldn’t say where he got them, only that they would be ammunition when the time came to eradicate whatever sentimental attachment the country might have to the late President Paulsen.

  Officers in the Spec Ops community were always surprised to learn that Rolf Berg was a prude, at least in matters of morality. Despite the coarse language and intimidating manner, Berg was a deeply religious man whose views had been shaped by his fundamentalist upbringing in West Virginia. To Berg, the image of the commander-in-chief in coitus with her aerial chauffeur was sufficient reason to terminate her. And the chauffeur.

  He had discovered that McDivott, also a religious man, had the same view. God hated traitors, but He had a special punishment for traitors who were also adulterers.

  “I have snipers,” Berg said in his mike.