The president thought that over a moment.
“We don’t know that somebody is not going to try to fly this airplane into the White House or the Golden Gate Bridge . . .”
Hall opened his mouth to say something, but the president held up his hand in a gesture meaning he didn’t want to be interrupted.
“. . . so I think it could be reasonably argued that the missing 727 is something in which Homeland Security would have a natural interest.”
Hall and Cohen nodded.
“So, Natalie, why don’t you send a memo telling everybody to send the intelligence filings to Matt?”
“And the raw data, Mr. President?” Hall asked.
The president nodded.
“All filings and all raw data, from everybody,” the president ordered.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Dr. Cohen said.
“Okay. We’re on our way,” the president said.
[TWO]
Hunter Army Airfield Savannah, Georgia 1315 27 May 2005
The Cessna Citation X attracted little attention as it touched down smoothly just past the threshold of the runway, possibly because one of the world’s most famous airplanes was moving majestically down the parallel taxiway.
The copilot of the Citation looked at the enormous airplane as they rolled past it, and turned to the pilot, as the pilot reported, “Six-Zero-One on the ground.”
“Twenty-nine,” the copilot said.
The pilot nodded.
“Six-Zero-One, turn off at the first available taxiway,” Hunter ground control ordered the smaller jet. “Be advised there is a 747 on the parallel. Turn left on the parallel. Hold at the threshold.”
“Roger,” the pilot replied. “Thank you for advising about taxiway traffic. I might have not seen that airplane.”
“You’re welcome, Six-Zero-One,” the ground traffic controller replied with a chuckle in his voice.
“And by the way, Hunter,” the pilot said, “I think that’s a VC-25A, not a 747.”
“Thank you so much, Six-Zero-One,” the controller replied. “Duly noted.”
“Hunter, Air Force Two-Nine-Triple-Zero, I have that cute little airplane in sight and will endeavor not to run over it.”
“Two-Nine-Triple-Zero,” the pilot of the Citation said. “It’s not nice to make fun of little airplanes, especially ones flown by birdmen in their dotage.”
“Who is that?” the copilot of the Citation asked. “Jerry?”
“It sounds like him,” the pilot said.
Both the pilot and the copilot of the Citation knew Air Force VC-25A tail number 29000 well. Both had more than a thousand hours at the controls of it, or its identical twin, tail number 28000. Flying the specially configured Boeings —whose call sign changed to Air Force One whenever the president of the United States was on board—had been their last assignment before their retirement.
Twenty-nine, both believed, was now being flown—or, actually, both strongly suspected, just taxied to the end of the runway for a precautionary engine run-up—by Colonel Jerome T. McCandlish, USAF, whom they had, after exhaustive tests and examinations, signed off on two years before as qualified to fly the commander in chief.
The proof—in addition to the sound of his voice— seemed to be that he had recognized the tail number on the Citation and felt sure he knew who was flying it.
Citation tail number NC-3055 was the aircraft provided for the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security, although there was nothing to suggest this in its appearance. It was intended to look like—and did look like—most other Citations. And with the exception of some very special avionics not available on the civilian market it was essentially just like every other Citation X in the air.
“Miss it, Jack?” the pilot inquired as 29000 fell behind them.
“Sure,” the copilot said. “Don’t you?”
“The question is, ‘Would I go back tomorrow?,’ ” the pilot said, “and the answer is, ‘No, I don’t think so.’ This is just about as much fun, and it’s a hell of a lot less . . .”
“Responsibility?”
"I was going to say that, but . . . work. It’s a lot less work.”
"I agree.”
When the time had come for them to be replaced as pilots -in-command of the presidential aircraft—six months apart—they had been offered, within reason, any assignment appropriate to full colonels and command pilots. There were problems with the word “appropriate.” They were led to understand that although colonels command groups, it would not really be appropriate for them to be given command of, for example, one of the groups in the U.S. Air Force Special Operations Command.
That would be a great flying job, but the cold facts were that they had spent very little time at the controls of various C-130 aircraft, such as the Spectre and Spooky gunships best known for their fierce cannons, and actually knew very little about what Special Operations really did.
The same was true of taking command of a fighter wing or a bomber wing. Although both had once been fighter pilots and bomber pilots, that had been early on in their careers, decades ago, and now they were almost in their fifties.
What was appropriate, it seemed, was command of one of the Flying Training Wings in the Nineteenth Air Force. They had training experience, and knowing that they were being taught how to fly by pilots who had flown the commander in chief in Air Force One would certainly inspire fledgling birdmen.
So would becoming a professor at the Air Force Academy be appropriate and for the same reasons. It would also be appropriate for them to become air attachés at a major American embassy somewhere; they certainly had plenty of experience being around senior officials, foreign and domestic. But that would not be a flying assignment and they both wanted to continue flying.
Their other option was to retire and get a civilian flying job. The problem there was the strong airline pilots’ unions, which made absolutely sure every newly hired airline pilot started at the bottom of the seniority list. No matter how much time one had at the controls of a 747/VC-25A, those airline pilot positions went only to pilots who had worked their way up the seniority ladder.
In favor of retirement, however, was that the Air Force retirement pay wasn’t bad, and they would get it in addition to what they would make sitting in the copilot’s seat of a twin-engine turboprop of Itsy-Bitsy Airlines, and both had just about decided that’s what it would be when the rag-heads flew skyjacked 767s into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and the Pennsylvania ground.
The Department of Homeland Security had come out of that, and, with that, the secretary of Homeland Security. Even before Congress had passed the necessary legislation—there had been no doubt that it was going to happen—certain steps were taken, among them providing the secretary designate with suitable air transportation.
He didn’t need a VC-25A, of course, or even another of the airliner-sized transports in the Air Force inventory. What he needed was a small, fast airplane to carry him on a moment ’s notice wherever he had to go.
The Citation X, which was capable of carrying eight passengers 3,300 miles—San Francisco, for example, to Washington —in fewer than four hours, was just what was needed. There is always a financial cushion in the budget of the Secret Service to take care of unexpected expenses, and this was used to rent the Citation from Cessna.
Part of the rationale to do this was that the Secret Service was to be transferred from the Treasury Department to the Department of Homeland Security anyway.
The Secret Service had some pilots but would need four more to fly the secretary’s new Citation. All the ts were crossed and the is dotted on the appropriate Civil Service Commission Application for Employment forms, of course, and the applications examined carefully and honestly, but no one was surprised when two about-to-retire Air Force colonels who had been flying the president were adjudged to be best qualified for appointment as Pilots, Aircraft, GS-15, Step 8, to fill two of the four newly established positions.
“Citation Thirty-Fifty-Five, be advised that two Hueys are moving to the threshold,” Hunter ground control announced just as the Citation X turned left onto the parallel.
“Roger that, we have them in sight,” the copilot said, and then added, “Jerry, remember to lock the brakes before you start your run-up.”
The Cessna pilot chuckled.
Through the windshield they could see two Army UH-1H helicopters slowly approaching the threshold of the runway about twenty feet off the ground.
The pilot touched the ANNOUNCE button.
“Mr. Secretary, we can see the choppers.”
“Me, too, Frank. Thank you,” Secretary Hall called back.
There were four passengers in the Citation today. Secretary Hall; Joel Isaacson, the supervisory Secret Service agent in charge of Hall’s security detail; Tom McGuire, another Secret Service bodyguard; and an Army major, today in civilian clothing, whose code name for Secret Service purposes was “Don Juan.”
The secretary’s code name was “Big Boy,” which more than likely made reference to his size and appearance.
Why the major was “Don Juan” wasn’t known for sure. It could have something to do with his Spanish- or Italian-sounding name, Castillo, or, Frank and Jack had privately joked, it could have to do with what the Secret Service secretly knew about him. At thirty-six, he was a great big guy—a little bigger than the secretary—good-looking, nice thick head of hair, blue-eyed, no wedding ring, and—considering the foregoing—he probably got laid a lot.
They had no idea what his function in the department was, or, for that matter, if he was even in the department. And, of course, they didn’t ask. If it was important for them to know more than his name, they would be told.
He accompanied the secretary often enough to have his own code name, and on the occasions when he did so in uniform he sported not only the usual merit badges—parachutist ’s wings, senior Army Aviators’ wings, a Combat Infantry Badge—but also a ring signifying that he had graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point. They found it interesting that when he took off his uniform, he also took off the West Point ring. That offered the interesting possibility that he wasn’t a soldier at all but put on the uniform—and the West Point ring—as a disguise when that was required.
Their best guess, however, was that he was in fact an officer, probably a West Pointer, and more than likely some kind of liaison officer, probably between the department and the Army or the Defense Department.
The two UH-1Hs touched down on the grass just outside the threshold to the active runway as the Citation X rolled to a stop.
The Secret Service agents got out of their seats and opened the stair door and then went outside. The pilot of the closest Huey got out. She was slight and trim, with short blond hair. She tucked her flight helmet under her arm and walked toward the Citation X.
The secretary deplaned first, carrying a briefcase, and Don Juan got off last.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Secretary,” the pilot said, saluting.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” the secretary said.
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Messinger,” the pilot said. “I’ll be flying you to the island. I know you’re familiar with the aircraft, but I’ll have to ask this gentleman . . .”
“He’s familiar with it, Colonel,” the secretary said. “I think you’re probably both graduates of the same flying school.”
“You’re a Huey driver, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” Don Juan said. “And you outrank me, Colonel.”
“Colonel,” the secretary said, visibly amused by the interchange, “this is Major Charley Castillo.”
“How do you do, Major?” Lieutenant Colonel Messinger said, offering her hand and a firm handshake. “The weather’s fine; it’s a short hop—about thirty-five miles—I already have the clearance to penetrate the P-49 area, so there won’t be Marine jets from Beaufort around, and anytime the secretary is ready we can go.”
She made a gesture toward the helicopters. Joel Isaacson and Tom McGuire walked to the more distant aircraft and got in.
Major Castillo knew the drill: The Huey with the Secret Service agents in it would wait until the one carrying the secretary took off and then follow it until they reached their destination. Then the Secret Service Huey would land first to make sure there were no problems and then radio the second helicopter that it could land.
He thought it was a little silly. They were going to the Carolina White House, and, if there was something wrong there, they would certainly have heard about it.
But it’s Standing Operating Procedure, which is like Holy Writ in the U.S. Army.
Colonel Messinger double-checked to see that Sergeant First Class DeLaney, her crew chief, had properly strapped in the secretary and the major in civvies, smiled at them both, and then got back in the right seat.
A moment later, the Huey went light on the skids, lifted into the air, dropped its nose, and began to move ever more rapidly across the airfield. Cooler air rushed in the big doors left open on either side of the helicopter against the Georgia heat.
Major Castillo unfastened his seat belt and started to stand.
“Sir!” Sergeant First Class DeLaney began to protest.
Major Castillo put his finger to his lips, signifying silence.
Sergeant First Class DeLaney, visibly upset, looked to the secretary for help.
The secretary signaled the sergeant that if Castillo wanted to stand, it was fine with him.
With a firm grip on a fuselage rib, Major Castillo stood in the doorway for about two minutes, looking down at what he could see of Fort Stewart.
Then he quickly resumed his seat and strapped himself in.
“I once spent a summer here, Sergeant,” he said, smiling at DeLaney. “Mostly washing Georgia mud from tracks and bogie wheels. I haven’t been back since.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant DeLaney said.
“Sergeant,” the secretary said, smiling, “if you don’t tell the colonel, we won’t.”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the other hand, Charley,” the secretary said, “I have seen people take a last dive out of one of these things when there was a sudden change of course.”
“Sir,” Castillo said, “I have a finely honed sense of self-preservation. Not to worry.”
“So I have been reliably informed,” the secretary said. “I think the colonel likes you, Charley. She spent much more time strapping you in than she did me.”
“It’s my cologne, sir,” Castillo said. “Eau de Harley-Davidson. It gets them every time.”
The secretary laughed.
Sergeant First Class DeLaney smiled somewhat uneasily.
Jesus, DeLaney thought, what if that big bastard had taken a dive out the door?
[THREE]
The Carolina White House Hilton Head Island, South Carolina 1355 27 May 2005
The president of the United States was sitting in one of the upholstered wicker rocking chairs on the porch of an eight-year -old house that had been carefully designed and built so that most people thought it was bona fide antebellum and surprised that such a house had been built way back then overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
The president, who was wearing a somewhat faded yellow polo shirt with the Brooks Brothers sheep embroidered on the chest, sharply creased but obviously not new khaki trousers, and highly polished loafers, was drinking Heineken beer from the bottle. A galvanized bucket on the floor beside his chair held a reserve buried in ice.
The president pushed himself out of his chair and set his beer bottle on the wicker table as a white GMC Yukon with heavily tinted windows pulled up.
The driver got out quickly and ran around the front of the Yukon in a vain attempt to open the driver’s door before the secretary could do so himself.
“Hey, Matt!” the president greeted the secretary, his accent sounding comfortable at home in its native Carolina.
The secretary walked up
on the porch and offered his hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” he said.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Matt,” the president said with a smile.
Major Carlos Guillermo Castillo, Aviation, U.S. Army, stood by the Yukon waiting for some indication of what he should do.
The president looked at him and smiled and then turned his back on the Yukon.
“Don’t tell me that’s your Texican linguist?” the president asked.
“That’s him, Mr. President,” the secretary said.
“That guy’s name is Guillermo Castillo?”
“Carlos Guillermo Castillo,” the secretary said, smiling. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
The president chuckled, and then with a smile and a friendly wave ordered Castillo onto the porch.
“Welcome to the island, Major,” the president said, offering him his hand.
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Where’s home, Major?” the president asked.
“San Antonio, sir,” Castillo said.
“I’ve got two questions for you, Major,” the president said. “The first is, can I offer you a beer?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you very much,” Castillo said.
The president took two bottles of beer from the bucket and handed one to Castillo and the other to Secretary Hall and then produced a bottle opener.
“Every time I try to twist one of the easy-open caps off, I cut the hell out of my hand,” the president announced. He waited a beat, then added with a grin: “Especially when they’re not twist-off caps.” He waved Hall and Castillo into wicker rockers and then sat down himself.
“My mother would tell me, Major, that a question like this is tacky, but I just have to ask it. You’re really not what I expected. Where did a fair-skinned, blue-eyed guy like you get a name like Carlos Guillermo Castillo?”
“My father’s family, sir, is part Texan and Mexican. My mother was German.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” the president said.
By Order of the President Page 7