Executive Treason (42 page)

No response.

The lieutenant took a few steps to the side in case the plane’s frame blocked his signal. “Brady, this is Rossy, over.” He waited a beat, then keyed the mike again. “Brady, give me your location, over.”

Each request was met with silence. Rossy spotted another of his engineering crew members in the galley. “Seen Brady?”

“No, sir. Not since pre-flight.”

Odd. Rossy found another engineer, a corporal who, in a few years, might show the right stuff for the job.

“Blumie, have you seen Brady?”

Blumenstein shot a surprised expression. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Stomach cramps. He said he spent the morning in the john and after refueling he ran back to the head.”

“Not the plane’s?”

“Ah, no. On ground, sir,” Blumie stated.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Rossy turned away to the side and tried his radio again. “Lieutenant Brady. Report! This is Rossy, over.” He waited no more than ten seconds, enough time for Brady to call in, then barked an order for Blumenstein. “Assemble everyone on our team in two minutes! Right here. Check all the johns. Call me if you find Brady!”

“Brady said he was just sick, I don’t think…”

“Do it!”

Two minutes. Enough time for Rossy to make it to the cockpit and back.

The secure door was closed and guarded. Rossy needed to pass through the Secret Service detail.

“What’s up, Rossy?” asked the agent.

“I need the colonel to radio the CO at Kandahar.”

“You know we don’t like to bother the flight crew.”

“One of my men may be missing.”

Normal 89th Airlift Wing security procedures require the crew and passengers to be fully boarded prior to the arrival of the president and his party. The agent was miffed that he was hearing this problem now.

“One second.” The secret service officer notified Colonel Lewis that Lt. Ross wanted in. He then called the supervising agent on duty. Rossy didn’t dissuade him.

“Colonel,” Rossy said before making it all the way into the cockpit, “Get Kandahar on the horn. I need to know if my man Brady’s there. Try the infirmary.”

“Why wouldn’t he be onboard?”

“That’s what I want to find out. I’ll be on the radio,” he said while backing out. “Let me know as soon as you hear.” Lewis nodded affirmatively.

Rossy’s men were now assembled, with one exception—Mark Brady.

“Does anyone know if Brady opted off?”

“No, sir,” came the replies.

“He’s always here,” offered a corporal.

“Well not this time.” Peter Lewis cut through on his radio. “Rossy, negative. Repeat. Negative. No report of Brady at the infirmary.”

“Ask them to check with their security. Did he leave the base?” By now two of the Secret Service agents flanked Rossy. “Do we have a situation we need to know about, Lieutenant?”

Washington, D.C.
the same time

“We’ve gotta match, Roarke,” Shannon Davis phoned excitedly. The Secret Service agent had to think for a moment. “A match?”

“Yes, put your pants on loverboy and get over here right away.” Davis had heard that Katie Kessler was in town. “Depp?” he asked choosing to use his own nomenclature. “Just step on it. We’ll talk about it when you’re here.” Roarke raced across town in a cab. He was in Davis’s office in under twenty minutes. “Let’s have it.”

“Miami. Here take a look. Surveillance cameras at Customs ferreted him out.” It was a nod to the FRT technology. Davis clicked on the photo that Customs e-mailed. Roarke leaned in. Despite the poor resolution and low lighting, it looked enough like Richard Cooper to take it seriously.

“Jesus, what the hell are they trying to do? Save a few bucks on electricity,” Roarke complained.

“Yeah, you’d think.”

“Tell me we have him in custody?”

“Sorry buddy.”

“Shit! Where’d he come in from?”

“Miami, via Madrid.”

Roarke stamped his foot. “Damn it!”

“They did get another picture of him.”

Davis called up a less fuzzy head-and-shoulder shot. “There.”

Roarke studied every detail of the picture, looking beyond the casual clothing, the blonde ponytail, and what could have been a fake scar across his chin. His eyes were narrow. His jaw line was square. The ears were set as he remembered. On personal observation, it appeared to be Cooper, but he wanted Parsons to run a closer scan. “Who’s he now?”

Davis read off a sheet he’d already printed out. “A Kelvin Ruffin. New Zealand passport. Other than that, I don’t know. Nothing that triggered any alarms. The system is a little sluggish and they cleared him along.”

“Have you talked to the Customs agent?”

“Way ahead of you. He remembered him. Said he was polite. A visiting journalist.” Journalist? “Why journalist?” He racked his brain. Davis smiled blankly. Roarke came up with the answer without him. “Jesus, to cover the march! He’s going on another kill!”

“Run his name against all foreign press. New Zealand. Everywhere. You’ll need to connect with Interpol. Send them the picture, too. And e-mail this over to Touch Parsons.” Roarke was already dialing the FBI computer analyst. “I want his unequivocal assurance that this is Richard Cooper.”

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

“It’s him!”

“Are you sure?” D’Angelo asked.

“Yes,” Dixon insisted. “Two people in the store ID’d him from the picture.”

“Almost six months later? How could they possibly remember him?”

“His attitude. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Personality. He tried to bargain. Pretty stupid. They said he was belligerent when they told him no. The clerk was ready to call the police. Then he calmed down, bought what he wanted off the rack, and left two suits for tailoring.”

“But no name and address?”

“Just his last name. Alley.”

“Spell it,” D’Angelo said.

“A-l-l-e-y. Like in back alley.”

D’Angelo thought for a second. “Last name, not first?”

“Right. But it’s close.”

D’Angelo realized the same thing. Alley for Ali. Ali Razak. “Very close,” he admitted. “What do you bet he’s our man?”

“Redskin tickets.” Dixon asked.

“You’re on. And if he is in Chicago, then Haddad is too,” the CIA agent concluded. “Let’s start talking with hotels and realtors. Try running Razak with it. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Consider it done.”

“And keep it close to the vest. This one’s ours.”

Aboard
Air Force One

They were taking Brady’s disappearance very seriously. Lewis radioed the air base in Afghanistan and the Air Force F-15 Eagle commander on his left wing, while the Secret Service alerted Presley Freedman’s office at the White House.

Lewis asked Milkis to plot a course to the nearest airport.

Milkis scanned his charts. “Jakarta.” He calculated the time. “Fifty minutes.”

“That’s where we’re going. Get us straight into…” Milkis was interrupted by a newly installed alarm in the cockpit: a series of fast, high-pitched bursts. It was triggered when an engine was failing or was within known limits of failing.

“Talk to me,” Lewis ordered. He automatically held the yoke steady.

“Number one’s showing failure,” Agins called out as calmly as possible. He scanned the panel. “Fuel looks good.” There are numerous reasons for sudden engine failure. Fuel flow and quantity usually are not a cause.

The ear-shattering alarm continued, suddenly compounded by another piercing tone. “Shit! Number three’s shutting down,” Lewis called out.

The plane began to rumble and dip. More alarms sounded.

“Rossy!” Lewis shouted out over the Com.

“I’m on it!” he radioed back.

Lt. Ross rushed from the mid-section, now concluding why Brady wasn’t aboard.

The plane’s unusual movement woke the president. The Secret Service agent guarding his door called out.

“Sir!” the agent shouted, not really knowing what to do. The president, still dressed, bolted out of bed, grabbed a leather flight jacket from a hook, and opened the door.

“We’ve lost an engine,” his experience told him.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe more,” the president said. “We’ve got to get to the cockpit.” A third alarm was sounding now. “Three!” He started for the stairs. The agent took the lead. At that moment, a massive blast knocked him back in his compartment and onto the floor. A door flew passed him. Then smoke. Shattered glass floated in air for a second, then reversed direction, sucked out by sudden decompression. Air Force One yawed to the left. Oxygen masks dropped. The sound was deafening.

All of this was in the first three seconds.

Taylor had been here before. The plane was going down. He put the oxygen to his mouth, took in a deep breath, and counted to ten to get his heart rate down. The president surveyed the rubble. The Secret Service agent who had come to get him was dead. The door which had blown across the compartment broke his neck.

Air Force One nosed down. Morgan Taylor dropped his mask and struggled up the stairway against the building G-force. He strained to reach the cockpit…

….or what was left of it.

Taylor grabbed the side of the demolished cabin door and swung it aside. It came off its hinges and he peered inside. Lewis, Agins, and Milkis—all strapped to their seats—were dead. Milkis’s chair was blown completely off its bolts and nearly upside down. A gaping hole through the structure opened up to the second level below. Everything that wasn’t attached was gone: out the window. To balance himself, Taylor stretched his arms out and used the walls of the cabin for support.

There was nothing he could do for the men. The plane? Virtually all of the displays were out. Other operating systems still seemed functional. Taylor struggled to keep his eyes open. The force of the wind blasting through the windshield was almost unbearable. Oxygen! He needed more oxygen. He reached for the mask, filled his lungs, then unbuckled Lewis and tried to slide him out of his seat: an impossible task considering the air blast and the G loads. But out of nowhere, another pair of hands reached in to help him.

“Explosion on Air Force One. Repeat, explosion on Angel,” radioed Strike Eagle pilot Chester Pike. Angel was the Secret Service’s unclassified designation for the president’s plane.

“Say again,” responded the commander of the AWACS, ten miles to starboard and 6,000 feet higher.

“An explosion in or near the cabin. Colonel Lewis was in the process of reporting multiple engine malfunctions. Air Force One is rapidly losing altitude quickly. I’m staying with her.”

Rossy.

“Roger.

“One hundred yards off the left wing. Can’t see any activity in the cockpit. Assuming flight crew is disabled or dead. Request air-sea rescue emergency assistance below.”

“Roger. Scrambling ASR emergency assistance.” With the touch of a computer screen a flash message went out to the 7th Fleet. Word simultaneously was sent via satellite to the USASOCOM, the Pentagon, and Jack Evans.

Meanwhile, all planes except for the Pike’s Strike Eagle and two other escorts peeled off. They received orders to secure the area against enemy aircraft.

It took the strength of both men to pull Lewis out of his chair. Once done, Taylor jumped in, buckled, and grabbed the yoke. He pulled it back with all his strength. “Get Agins out!”

Rossy unbuckled the dead co-pilot and dragged him over the hole. He returned to the president’s side and shouted over the wind. “A bomb.”

“I don’t care what the fuck it was now. Help me pull the nose up!”

Lt. Ross helped. The president tried his foot rudder pedals to stabilize the yawing. The airplane responded. “We’ll need full flaps, Rossy. The second we get her leveled out, get those flaps down!”

They were burning off 1,000 feet of altitude every ten seconds. At this rate, they’d crash in a matter of minutes. “Harder!” They were fighting overwhelming and asymmetrical forces, the power of a 747 in an uncontrollable dive, and the increasing air speed. Everything was working against them. “Come on, Goddammit! Come on!” Thankfully, they still had thrust from number four. They’d need it if they got the nose up.

Rossy put all of his effort into the struggle. The great plane slowly angled up.

“More!” Taylor called out. The plane bucked, not wanting to be tamed. “More!”

The nose continued to rise. Every degree up gave them extra seconds of life. If they could level, they might be able to stabilize Air Force One enough to make it to an airport somewhere, or ditch.

“More!”

SAM 28000 never came completely level, but its angle of descent shallowed. “Now, Rossy! Full flaps.”

The engineer obeyed. The flaps on each wing extended out and down, increasing the drag and the lift, which slowed their speed. An immediate effect—they could hear better. The wind still rushed in, but with the flaps down, they seemed to have a fighting chance. Thirty seconds later Morgan Taylor let out his first real breath.

“Okay, emergency procedures.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Radio?”

Rossy tested the system. “Dead.”

“GPS?”

“Inoperable. All three.”

“Lights?”

Rossy threw the toggles. “Landing lights only functional on the right side.”

“Keep them off.”

“Any idea what our fuel situation is?”

“Looks like we bingo’ed on one and three. But I can’t tell you if any of the tanks were ever filled.”

“What?” the president demanded.

“Possible sabotage at fueling.”

“Who? Why?”

“One of my crew. I don’t know why.”

Rossy was amazed the cockpit was still intact. He looked around. “The bomb could have been planted for good measure. Looks like it didn’t do all the damage it could have. It was under the navigator’s seat. His metal briefcase helped contain the blast.”

“You call this contained?” the president said.

In the midst of the crisis, Lt. Ross had to smile. “Poor choice of words, sir.”

“Roger that,” Taylor said. “Now, let’s talk through the rest. We may not be able to later.” The moon, nearly full, illuminated the sky. Taylor saw blackness below, but it wasn’t the ocean. Lewis said they’d be above a storm center. They were going down through it and the turbulence could give them more trouble before impact. “How’s the cabin?”

“A mess. We’ve got casualties. Only a few people were buckled in when we decompressed. I don’t know for sure,” Rossy explained.

“Let’s see if they can hear us back there.” He tried the public address system. “This is Taylor,” he said showing as much confidence in his voice as possible. “We’ve leveled out. If you can hear me, send someone forward. Just one person. Everyone who’s not doing anything essential buckle up in secure seats.” He didn’t explain what happened in the cockpit, but if the message went out it would be clear. The flight crew was dead and the former Navy commander was flying Air Force One.

“All right. Deactivate landing gear warning system.”

“Roger,” Rossy responded. He pulled the circuit breaker even though the landing gear warning lights were inoperative.

“Deactivate TAWS and GPWS.”

Rossy turned off the terrain awareness and warning system and the ground-proximity systems to prevent unnecessary warnings.

“No change in fuel status?”

“No idea sir.

“Then set radio altimeter to fifty feet.”

“Done. We just don’t know what’s true, sir, and it’s going to be dark down there beneath the clouds.”

“Do we know how low our ceiling is?”

Rossy had seen the weather forecasts before take-off. What did they say? He tried to remember.

“Ah. I think it called for fifteen hundred to two thousand.”

The president quickly calculated. “At our current rate, we’ll have five minutes to see where the hell we are. Then…” He stopped short of finishing the thought. Another more urgent one came to mind. “Any idea how much fuel we are carrying?”

“No.”

“Check,” the president ordered. “She’s holding now, but if we lose number two or four, we’ll have to burn off more altitude. I’m gonna take her under ten thousand. We won’t need oxygen.” Without power, it was conceivable that the plane could glide. If he handled it right, they’d head down at around 240 knots—about 3,000 feet per minute. But he wanted more than three minutes to get his bearings.

“Roger,” Rossy said, unbuckling.

Air Force One picked up speed as Morgan Taylor nosed down, right into the storm center.

The New York Times
the same time

“We can’t run this,” Andrea Weaver argued. She was on the phone with Michael O’Connell after reading his first draft. He was at his desk looking at the copy on his computer screen. “You’ve danced around everything. Come on, O’Connell, we talked about this.”

“I had to,” he countered.

“And without any facts, you don’t have a story.”

“The facts support Strong’s rise to national prominence through a series of accidents and misfortunes. It’s all there Andrea. Read it again.”

“I’ve read it once. That’s enough.”

“But it’s all there!”

“Nothing’s there.”

“It is,” he pleaded. “Strong’s entire career is based on doors miraculously opening for him. There’s a pattern, which I’ve substantiated.”

“And your conclusion?”

O’Connell had the answer; or at least he assumed he did. However, he couldn’t put it in print. “We both know,” he said.

“Correction. We don’t know. You believe,” the editor argued. “And beyond that very significant issue, what is the point of view of your story? You’re this close to calling it a conspiracy. So far, all unfounded. How different is that from what Strong does?”

“Jesus Christ! You don’t think I know that?” He wheeled his chair away from his desk. “Why don’t we just call it a feature story on America’s most persuasive radio talk-show host and give it to Arts?”

“Why?”

“Why? To flush him the fuck out.”

She was right on top of him. “That’s not our job, Mr. O’Connell!”

O’Connell realized he’d overstepped his bounds. He needed to calm down. “Okay, then what do you suggest?” He was being sincere, not contrite.

“You’re an investigative reporter. Don’t give me any crap about feature stories. Investigate and file something I can print!”

Weaver was quite finished. They hung up. O’Connell faced his computer again and saw his reflection in the monitor. It was as blank as the screen.

Over the Banda Sea
the same time

Air Force One’s communication center was coming to life. When the plane leveled, crew members carefully made their way to their consoles, sent out emergency messages, and radioed the AWACS and the F-15 escort.

“What is your status?” asked the commander aboard the AWACS.

“Casualties. Maybe thirty. We’re still getting a count. Computers back online.”

“Roger. The F-15 pilot reports extensive damage in the cockpit.”

“Affirmative.”

“Who the hell is flying the bird?”

“The president.”

“Say again,” the Com officer in the AWACS asked. “Did not fully copy that.”

“Roger. The President of the United States.”

Now Morgan Taylor mentally ran through the ditching procedures. He’d never done it before, but it was survivable—in simulators.

Hit the water as slowly as possible. Keep the nose up; avoid stalling. Keep the wings parallel with the water as the point of impact approaches. Absolutely avoid one wing tip striking the water first. That would invariably result in uncontrollable, violent slewing.

He remembered more. Into the wind. But which way was the wind blowing down there? Bleed off more speed, less damage on impact. Maintain sufficient air speed to take any last minute action. Don’t stall. Depressurize. He smiled to himself. No problem there. Most importantly, he recalled, ditch alongside a swell. But how will I know which way the swells are aligned? Experienced pilots understood that ditching into a swell would be tantamount to crashing into a brick wall. Anything else? he asked himself. He lost his concentration when he heard Secretary of State Poole.

“I had to come up and see for myself!” Poole held a towel across a large gash that went from his forehead to his right eye. He stepped into the cockpit carefully, avoiding the sharp surfaces everywhere.

“Norman!” The president recognized his voice without turning around.

“Mr. President. I’m the appointed representative,” he said above the howling wind. “We heard you loud and clear.”

“Good,” Taylor yelled over the wind. “Is everyone on oxygen?”

“Yes. We knew to do that.” He held on as the plane rumbled.

“We should be below ten thousand feet soon. Everyone will be able to breath normally, but I’ll be damned if I know exactly when.”

“Good.” After he inhaled another breath he asked, “What do you need me to do?”

“Get back and appoint some officers to stand by the emergency exits. When we’re down, get those doors open.”

“Then?

“Then we’ll find out how good a boat Air Force One makes.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?” Poole asked.

“Just brace. Heads down. Glasses off. Knees up. It’ll be rough, no matter how lucky we are. And evacuate immediately.”

“I’ll get the Secret Service guys up to help you.”

“They’ll be no help to me or anyone else unless they’re strapped in tightly. Now go.”

“Godspeed, Mr. President.”

Morgan Taylor managed to raise one hand off the yoke and wave. He wasn’t about to give Air Force One up to God quite yet.

The Pentagon
the same time

General Jonas Johnson Jackson was aware of the crisis one minute into it. He was at his desk at the Pentagon when his pager went off, his phone rang, and an instant message hit his computer screen: all simultaneously—all bad news.

USAPACOM was on the phone from the South Pacific. The IM came from Langley and his pager showed a discreet White House number, which belonged to Presley Freedman, head of the Secret Service. He took them in order of personal priority. Phone and IM at the same time, the pager last.

The word was the same. Emergency aboard Air Force One. General Jackson stayed on the telephone. USAPACOM handled all of the traffic out of the South Pacific. The 7th Fleet, under the command of Admiral Clemson Zimmer, was in the area.

“Talk to me, Clem.”

“Still getting assessments. Hold.”

J3 was snapping fingers at assistants in the outer office and shouting down the hall for maps.

“Confirmed. Catastrophic event on Air Force One.” He was relaying information as he was hearing it. “Two engines out. Stabilizing. What?”

“What?” J3 asked in kind.

“General, ah, the flight crew is dead.”

“Then who’s flying the bird?”

“Hold.”

J3 distinctly heard Zimmer request a repeat of the latest information.

“Roger, I copy.” He came back to the call. “J3, the president.”

“The president—what?” He didn’t understand.

“The president is flying his plane!”

“Good God!”

Admiral Clemson continued to give J3 updates as fast as he could relay them. Aides brought maps to General Jackson who quickly pinpointed Air Force One’s location based on the last coordinates.

“The Banda Sea. Got it. Can he make Halim?” Jackson thought that the Indonesia Air Force Base, located outside of Jakarta, might be the closest facility.