[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  This was followed by a wave of high-pressure gas that instantaneously over-pressurized the cavities of the plane and peeled back the fuselage skin as it sought equilibrium with the significantly lower-pressure environment outside. The expanding energy and gas waves buckled the airframe and broke it in half.

  The passengers, already in a panic, had no way of comprehending what was happening. Their bodies were violently assaulted by the Mach stem wave and expanding gasses and the shrapnel that once again filled the cabin. Almost instantly, the top of the plane peeled back and tornado-force winds rushed through the passenger compartment.

  This all occurred in mere fractions of a second and, two and a half seconds later, the plane began to break apart. The forward portion of the doomed aircraft, which contained the still intact wings, began a flat spin, the wings still providing lift. The rear portion began to plummet. As the plane continued to break into pieces, passengers and their belongings were sucked out into the freezing air.

  The first portion of the wreckage, including a seat with Senator Pete Dykstra strapped in, landed five miles east of the mountainside where President Kendall and Agent Richter had landed.

  ____

  Jack checked the GPS unit and then studied the side of the mountain.

  “They landed there,” Jack said pointing to the steep slope they faced, “about two hundred, maybe three hundred feet up. I think that explosion we heard was on the other side.”

  “Well, if that’s the spot, we should be able to find their tracks in the snow.”

  Jack shook his head. “Their tracks are probably gone by now. Besides, we don’t have the right gear. How are we going to get up there?”

  The slope of the hill in front and to the right steepened dramatically to almost thirty-five degrees. Despite the slope, the side of the hill was covered in snow, with an occasional rock formation poking through. There was no way to tell how deep it was or what dangers lay hidden beneath. Even with proper gear, an ascent would be difficult.

  “Did you bring your binoculars?” Derek asked.

  “Yeah. In the lower right-hand pocket.”

  Jack turned again as Derek searched for the field glasses.

  A minute later, Derek lowered the binoculars.

  “I don’t see any sign of them.”

  “Let me try.”

  Jack adjusted the focus and scanned the side of the hill. Beginning at the spot where he estimated the parachutes had landed, he slowly panned up the hill and then back down to eye level directly in front of their position. Seeing nothing, he continued downhill. Still nothing. He brought the binoculars back up to eye level. He was about to give up when he caught a flash of color. His heart began beating faster. He held the binoculars steady, waiting, until he saw it again.

  ____

  National Transportation Safety Board Member Brenda Hughes flipped open her binder to check her schedule as she walked down the hallway in the NTSB headquarters building in Washington, DC.

  “Director Hughes!”

  She turned to see a young staff member running down the hall. The staffer was out of breath.

  “Ma’am!” he gasped. “There’s been a plane crash.”

  Shoot, Hughes thought. There goes the weekend. She sighed.

  “Give me the summary.”

  The aide finally caught his breath. “This one is big, ma’am!” He paused again, trying to find the right words.

  “Well?”

  “It’s Air Force One!”

  ____

  Richter was peering out between the folds in the parachute when he sensed movement. He reached for his gun as two figures appeared out of the swirling snow. Did Mosby have accomplices?

  Walking across the side of the incline, they appeared to be hikers. Both wore large backpacks. Richter watched as they carefully picked their route; occasionally stopping to make sure the ground was safe. They were headed directly for him. When the two men were about thirty yards away, one of them called out.

  “Hello.”

  Richter stuck one hand through the opening of his makeshift tent and gave a half-hearted wave.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes,” Richter yelled back. “My friend is.”

  Like many police officers, Richter had developed an intuitive sense, a gut feeling, about people and situations. When something didn’t feel right, he found it was best to trust his instincts. He could see that they weren’t carrying any visible weapons and they weren’t trying to be clandestine. They were careful in their approach, clearly concerned about their own safety. They were young, in their early twenties, he guessed. He hoped his instincts and his sixth sense weren’t failing him. He slid his gun back below the parachute harness but kept it ready.

  The two men stepped onto the narrow ledge. The taller one pointed over his shoulder. “Jack’s a doctor. And a Boy Scout.” He grinned. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “What are you doing out here?” Richter kept the makeshift tent closed except for the small hole for his head. He wanted to be sure before he let some supposed Boy Scout and his friend touch the president.

  “We were backpacking. Been out here two days.” The taller of the two shrugged. “We forgot to check the forecast and got caught in this storm.”

  The one named Jack gave him a dirty look.

  “We didn’t forget anything, Derek! You forgot!”

  Jack maneuvered around Derek on the narrow ledge. Again trusting his instincts, Richter opened his parachute and let Jack in. Jack knelt in front of the president. “I’m not a doctor yet, I’m still in med school. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  Jack took off his glove, checked for a pulse and breathing, then examined the president’s head.

  He glanced at Richter. “He’s alive. How long has he been out?”

  “About forty minutes. I think he may have banged his head.”

  Jack examined the president’s head. “It was a good idea to get him into the bag and to get the blanket around him. But he won’t survive too much longer up here. We need to get him into a shelter, out of this wind. You too,” Jack said, nodding to Richter, and then frowning. “You look like you hit your head as well. How do you feel? Can you walk?”

  Richter frowned. “I’m okay. I can walk.”

  “You guys were on the plane, right?”

  Richter hesitated. “Yeah. We were on the plane.”

  ____

  Pat Monahan closed his binder. Today’s Boston Task Force raid, the fifth so far, had gone smoothly. So far, other than cuts and bruises, assault team and Mexican civilian injuries had been almost non-existent. But Monahan worried it was just a matter of time before the cartels adapted to the new tactics. Then casualties would start to mount.

  As he stepped out of the video conference room on the ground floor of the White House—today’s meeting had been moved at the request of the National Security Staff—there was a commotion as a large group of Secret Service agents, Cabinet members, and senior White House personnel headed his way. One look at their faces told him something was wrong.

  “Pat, you should join us,” one agent said as he steered Monahan toward the Situation Room.

  ____

  “We’ll have to improvise a stretcher and carry him down.” Jack yelled over the wind.

  Derek nodded.

  Jack fingered the parachute material. “This should work. We should be able to carry this guy…” he paused and turned to Richter. “Hey, what’s his name?”

  Richter hid his surprise. These guys had no idea who they were. “His name is Dave, and I’m Matt.”

  “Okay, Matt, let’s get you out of that bag.”

  Richter climbed out and zipped the bag up around the president, pulling and cinching the mummy hood up around his head, leaving only his face exposed. They wrapped the president in the parachute.

  “I can’t believe you jumped out of that plane!” Derek said. “What happened?”

  “Mechanical issues. Let’s get Dave to shelter first then I�
�ll tell you all about it.”

  They each grabbed a handful of parachute, cautiously made their way off the ledge, and began to trudge down the hill.

  ____

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” The White House Communications Director said. “I have a brief statement.”

  The director’s face was pale. The room went silent.

  “Today at approximately 11:14 a.m. Pacific Coast Time….that is about one hour and fifteen minutes ago….all contact with Air Force One was lost as the plane was returning to Washington from Seattle. Information that we have right now indicates that the plane crashed into the mountains in a remote area of Idaho. Rescue teams are en route but have not yet reached the crash site. At this time, we have no word on the extent of the damage or whether there are any survivors. That is all that I have at the moment.”

  Pandemonium broke out, and reporters began shouting questions.

  “Please. Please. One question at a time.”

  “Was the president on the plane?”

  “Yes. The president was on the plane.”

  “Are you saying the president is dead?”

  “No. Let me repeat that. No. I am not saying the president is dead. At this point, we have no information on his condition. As I mentioned earlier, rescue teams have been dispatched but have not yet reached the crash site.”

  “What happened? Is this the result of a terrorist attack?”

  “At this point, we do not know what happened. All we know at the moment is that contact was lost and that Air Force One has apparently crashed. Air Force fighter planes were immediately scrambled and have confirmed the location of the crash site, but….again….this occurred in a remote section of Idaho. There is a severe winter storm in the area. Reaching the wreckage site will be a challenge.”

  The room erupted again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Richter and President Kendall were huddled inside the snow cave. An hour earlier, when they had reached the tree line, Richter, Jack, and Derek had decided to build the cave below a tree for protection from the wind. The lower branches dipped down almost to the ground, effectively sheltering the cave. They had used the wire saws to cut dead branches from the trunk to make room, and then, once they had constructed the walls, they used the cut branches to form a latticework support for the roof. They layered on snow with the shovels from the survival kits.

  Once the basic cave had been constructed, Jack had insisted that Matt stay inside with Dave to keep warm while he and Derek finished the roof. Richter crawled inside, checked on the president and found that he was breathing regularly. He spread the second parachute on the ground to keep the sleeping bags and their clothes from getting wet. With nothing left to do for the moment, he climbed into the sleeping bag with the president and draped the second sleeping bag over them like a blanket.

  He opened one of the chemical light sticks, and the cave was filled with an eerie green light. After several minutes of shivering, his chest and thighs begin to warm. He checked the president again. With his bruised and swollen face, he was hardly recognizable. Richter noticed a large bump behind the president’s right ear. It was sticky with blood. He cleaned the wound as best he could and applied a bandage.

  Kendall began to stir. Richter checked his eyes and asked him a few questions. His eyes weren’t completely focused, and his speech was slurred. While Jack and Derek were still outside, Richter explained what had happened.

  “This was…an assassination attempt?” The lisp was heavy; the president sounded drunk.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Richter replied. “But listen—these two campers? I think it’s best if we don’t reveal who we are yet. I want to get a better sense of who they are first and why they’re out here in this storm before we say anything.”

  “What do we tell them?”

  “I think we can say we are low-level government officials who work in one of the departments…why don’t we say Immigration and Customs. I still have my gun, which might make them suspicious. So, I’ll say I’m an Immigration Agent. You can be someone from headquarters, maybe a department lawyer or something like that. We’ll say our plane developed problems and we parachuted out at the last second. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” The president responded, his voice thick.

  ____

  “Dave! You’re awake!” Jack knelt in front of the president. “My name is Jack Walsh. I’m a medical student. Can I take a look?” Jack didn’t wait for a response and proceeded to examine him. “Looks like you were in a fight. You were out for a while.” Jack studied the president’s eyes. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I lost the fight.”

  Jack grinned. He took his time examining the president, then checking and re-bandaging the head wound. “It looks like you have a moderate case of hypothermia. But your buddy Matt prevented it from getting worse. He saved your life. He did a pretty nice job treating your head wound too.”

  The president smiled as Jack turned to Richter.

  Richter reluctantly allowed Jack to examine him.

  “You’ve got a nasty cut on your head, Matt. You could use several stitches. It looks like you lost a bit of blood, but you don’t seem to be bleeding anymore.”

  Richter held up a handful of snow, stained red. “I’ve been applying cold compresses.”

  Jack smiled. “Good thinking.” He cleaned the wound, applied surgical glue and a bandage.

  Derek waited until the exam was complete. “So, you guys had plane trouble? What happened?”

  Richter relayed their cover story.

  “Was there anyone else on the plane?

  “Yes, the pilots.” Richter responded. “They told us to jump first. I don’t know if they made it out or not.” He changed the subject. “Do you guys live around here?”

  “No, we live in Lewiston. Or at least I do. Jack goes to school down in Boise.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Lewiston? About a hundred twenty-five miles northwest from here. Right on the border with Washington.”

  “What are you guys doing way out here?”

  “Jack’s on spring break from college. He came home for the week and we both decided we needed a break from our families.” Derek smiled at his own joke.

  “Where did you guys start your hike?”

  “From Elk City. That’s about ten miles from here as the crow flies, but probably sixteen miles by foot.”

  “Is your car in Elk City?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of. We parked off a four-wheel drive trail about five miles out of town.”

  “What’s Elk City like?”

  “Very small town. Three hundred, maybe four hundred people. It’s an old mining town.”

  ____

  Within five hours and thirty minutes of the crash, the twelve members of the NTSB Go Team had assembled at Andrews Air Force Base. The team was comprised of scientists and crash investigators under the lead of Stan Burton, the NTSB investigator-in-charge. Burton was anxious to get underway. Like most team members, he felt the same rush of adrenaline he always felt as the team prepared to depart. Despite the horrors of a typical accident scene, the utter destruction, the loss of so many lives, the twenty-four-seven work schedule he would face for the next few months, this was what he lived for. It was morbid when he thought about it. However, he tended to look at the bigger picture and the role that his team played in not only uncovering what had gone wrong, but in helping to prevent future accidents. Burton checked the time again. If this were a civilian airplane crash, they would already be on their way.

  “I hate this hurry up and wait shit.” He was careful to keep his voice low.

  “Patience, Stan.” This was the second time that NTSB Board Member Brenda Hughes had accompanied a Go Team. Her role was to be the public face for the NTSB, handling the press briefings, updating the NTSB board, and managing the interagency glad-handing so often required in these things. This was her first military crash, and she suspected she would spend most of her time man
aging the relationship with the Air Force brass, which had primary responsibility for investigating the crash, and deftly balancing what she anticipated would be a strict communications protocol mandated by the military and the White House.

  “Ms. Hughes. I’m General Bud Trescott. Is your team ready?” She hadn’t noticed the general until he was standing in front of her.

  She stood. “Yes, we are.” Nodding toward Burton. “This is Stan Burton. He’s our lead investigator.”

  “Mr. Burton.” General Trescott said in clipped acknowledgment. “Okay. Let’s board. I’ll brief you in-flight.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  In the mouth of the snow cave, Derek heated water over the camp stove.

  “You guys have some nice gear,” he said.

  “Your tax dollars at work,” Richter responded. “Just the basic survival kits carried on most government planes.”

  Derek had been eyeing the survival packs—he had already seen the saws, sleeping bags and thermal blankets, and some of the cooking gear—and Richter suspected that he wanted a closer look.

  “Looks like pasta for us and chicken-noodle soup for Dave. Sorry, Dave…Jack’s orders.”