Executive Treason (43 page)

“Don’t know. Top Gun’s burned off a lot of altitude. Looks like he’s preparing to ditch.”

“What do you have there, Clem?”

“Most of the fleet is gathered closer to the Solomons, some thirty-six hours out. But I’ve got some assets closer. The Blue Ridge for one. And the Kitty Hawk’s search and rescue planes could be in the area in two hours.”

“Roger. Stand by.” The president’s head of USASOC, America’s largest command component of SOCOM, U.S. Special Operations Command, punched in one of one hundred numbers on his speed dial.

“J3. We have a situation.”

“Monitoring it,” reported a desk at Special Operations Command at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida.

“Patch in the F-15 escort and the AWACS. Sixty seconds.”

“Affirmative, General.”

As J3 waited, three words that Clemson stated came to mind: Search and Rescue.

Washington, D.C.
the same time

Roarke’s cell phone issued the tone that accompanied a text message. He was working with Shannon Davis at the FBI.

“Freedman. Ten-ninety.”

Ten-ninety was a simple police code. It meant alarm. Accompanied by the name Freedman, it stood for only one thing: National emergency. Come in! He didn’t need to ask why.

The White House
the same time

Presley Freedman dispatched extra Secret Service to the Capitol. He did so without thinking of the consequences. Duke Patrick could soon be president. He also placed a call to Henry Lamden’s principal physician at Walter Reed.

Aboard
Air Force One

Rossy’s worry multiplied the moment he read the computer display at his master engineering station. It had been his idea to install a virtual cockpit where he could check on key flight deck data during the course of a journey. But what he saw was absolutely wrong. The fuel tanks showed full. They’d been flying for under two hours, two engines were starved, yet the readouts were still reporting fuel capacity at 100 percent. He typed in a command. The screen blinked once, then confirmed full status on all engines. He typed an override command. The screen blinked again. Full. “Shit!” he exclaimed.

He ran to the steps leading up to the cockpit. Rossy slumped into the co-pilot’s seat, attached the facemask, took in the needed oxygen, then pointed down.

“Get down to the deck fast, sir.”

Without further instruction, Morgan Taylor nosed down. He traded altitude for speed. The extended flaps made a rough ride even rougher as they were buffeted by the winds.

“The fuel tanks were sabotaged,” Ross explained. “The computers were re-programmed to read full. No one caught it. I can’t tell you how many tons are left or whether we’ll be sucking air in another second.”

“You’re sure?” the president shouted over the onrushing wind.

Rossy looked out at one and three: both dead. “Yes, sir. I’m sure.”

The president switched on the PA. “Attention! This is Taylor. Secure yourself immediately. Prepare for ditching. I repeat, prepare for ditching. Fuel supply is critical. We’re getting out of these clouds now. Brace! Brace!”

The radio operator communicated the president’s news to the orbiting AWACS. The report was flashed halfway across the world to the Pentagon, the White House Situation Room, Langley, and MacDill. At the same time, crew members cleared the aisles as best they could, then strapped in for impact.

Air Force One broke out of the clouds just above 2,300 feet. The moonlight, blocked by the storm, cut visibility down to almost zero.

“See anything, Rossy?” Taylor asked.

Rossy squinted. “Not sure, sir.” The onrushing wind didn’t help. He checked the sides. “Maybe land mass off to the right. Three o’clock. Hard to tell.”

“What’s the direction of the swells?”

The lieutenant looked straight down. “Can’t see ‘em yet.”

“Going to take the edge off our descent. We can’t afford to hit the water at this speed.” Taylor estimated it to be around 230 knots as he leveled out.

“Smell that?” Rossy asked.

Fresh salty air rushed in. “Yes,” Taylor noted. He was glad he had pulled out.

“There!” Rossy shouted. “I see white caps. Flowing…toward us!”

“Distance?” Taylor shouted.

“Maybe five hundred feet.”

Good, Taylor thought. Enough room to bring the 747 parallel to the waves. He dipped his left wing and lost another 200 feet. That’s when his two remaining engines died.

Aboard
Air Force One

“Flaps up to twenty degrees,” Taylor called out. Without the thrust to keep the nose up, Angel lost altitude faster. Retracting the flaps could help compensate.

“Roger,” Rossy said, using only his feel to tell him what was right.

“What do you see below?”

“Catching some wave crests. But we’re too low or it’s too dark to see the swells.”

The president held the yoke steady. “Try the landing lights.”

They didn’t respond. “Negative.” He tried again. “Looks like we’ll be doing this in the dark, sir.”

The president’s immediate problem—and one that no simulator could have prepared him for—was estimating when his undercarriage would hit the water. The profile of a 747 was far higher than anything he flew for the Navy. The cockpit was perched even higher. If he misjudged and hit the water too low, Air Force One would stop dead in place and flip. If he extended his glide path too long, he would collide with a wave, which was probably inevitable anyway.

“Brace, Rossy,” Morgan Taylor said more softly.

The president summoned a mental picture of the fuselage. Nose up. The 747 was well-served by its straight fuselage. The angle of attack on the water could make the difference. A swept-up rear fuselage could, at impact, bring the plane to an almost vertical altitude before smashing down and most likely nosing under water. Rear first, Taylor, he said to himself again.

Rossy gripped the sides of his seat. He readied himself for the impact and what was to follow. Death would come with a violent backwards shock, followed by a forward catapult through the window, and the brick wall of water ahead. Altogether, they faced a second, maybe two, of pain—if that.

Aboard the F-15 Eagle

Major Pike hung to the side and three hundred feet over Air Force One when a thought occurred to him. Pike instantly dropped down, parallel and close to Taylor’s wing—possibly too close. But he had something Air Force One didn’t have. Lights.

Aboard
Air Force One

The ocean suddenly brightened. Taylor whispered a quiet thank you to the F-15 pilot. His act might prove to be the difference. Now he could judge the distance of the waves and his height above them. Less than Rossy thought. He was coming in at too steep an angle. He brought the nose up, getting the feel of the ocean rising and falling beneath him for the last 200 feet. Another adjustment. Twenty seconds. A wave passed under. He pulled the yoke toward him again, lifting slightly. Fifteen seconds. Another wave. The next one would be his.

A lifetime of memories were knocking at the door, but Morgan Taylor barred them all. He held the plane steady; nose up. There was a sudden boom as the rear of Air Force One slammed into the ocean. But the 747 didn’t flip. They lifted up, skipping like a rock across a pond. Then a second impact. This one harder. A powerful whiplash effect jerked him forward. He sensed Rossy’s body snap with his, however he couldn’t look over. He had to control the plane.

The entire fuselage of the 544,000-pound plane raced across the water at more than 140 miles an hour. Taylor needed to keep the wings parallel above the oncoming wave, which was about to crash over them.

Rossy was amazed they were alive. The salt-water spray rushing through the broken glass actually invigorated him. He glanced over to Taylor. He was struggling to hold the great plane steady against a wall of water. The yoke! Rossy unbuckled his safety belt and reached in to help.

The president was grateful for the extra muscle and equally surprised he was around to need it.

The plane rode out the waves every fifteen seconds. So far three. With each one, Air Force One’s speed decreased. Taylor and Rossy fought to control the angle until finally, forward speed was so slow, they had no more maneuvering ability. Air Force One came to a stop.

Some airplanes will float for only a few minutes, if at all. Others, according to reports, have drifted for days. Taylor wasn’t going to wait to find out how Air Force One would do. He unsnapped his harness.

“Evacuate now! Out! Fast!” he announced.

Rossy slumped back into his seat. “You did it, sir.”

“We did it. But we’re not safe yet. Now get your ass out of here!”

“You too, Mr. President.”

“I haven’t come this far to sit around and sink. Right after you.”

As he stood, Rossy had to steady himself. The plane rose and fell with every new wave. “Thank you.”

“Save it. Now get moving!”

Further back, the doors and emergency exits were open. Rafts, which automatically deployed, were already in the water. White House staff, Air Force One crew, reporters, and members of the president’s delegation made their escape.

Then there was the matter of the sensitive files and equipment onboard Air Force One, including the “football” with the go-codes for a nuclear strike. Should the plane remain afloat, its secrets could be mined. However, contingency plans were already in play.

Just as Rossy was at the flight deck door, two Secret Service agents shoved past him and grabbed Morgan Taylor by the arms.

“Mr. President, you have to go.”

The president only had a fleeting moment to survey the horrific scene. What had been Air Force One was reduced to a virtual war zone. There were fatalities—those who were not buckled when the plane decompressed, the injured—some close to death, and the dazed. He prayed that there would be time for everyone to escape. But he would not be allowed to supervise the process. Now, Morgan Taylor was going to the head of the line.

The Banda Sea
The Malukas

“Again!” Musaf Atef yelled out to Commander Komari. “The jet!” He pointed skyward. Although it was hard to determine, it appeared to be an American military plane. It over-flew them at no more than 300 meters. On its third pass, just to their right, two missiles ignited, leaving a flame of fire streaming behind them. The jet pulled up. Seconds later, maybe a kilometer away, one missile, then the next, found their target. The flashes, against the night sky, blinded the Indonesian terrorists who were onboard the stolen trawler. They were returning with another cache of weapons, bought from the Chinese. As their eyes adjusted to the explosion, Atef saw a raft approaching. The flames backlit what must have been survivors from the crash of the first plane—a bigger plane, they realized.

“Look!” Atef called.

“Yes, I see.” Komari signaled for his men to have their guns ready. He strained his eyes. “Two, no, three rafts!”

“What shall we do?” Atef asked.

“If they are friends, they will join us. If they are our enemies, they must die.”

The boat quickly cut the distance. Komari commanded his men to stand at the ready. He called to two of his more elite soldiers to unlatch the cases carrying black market Stinger missiles. They’d become quite proficient over the last weeks, and he was confident they could take out the jet, should it return.

New York City
a bar
the same time

Michael O’Connell was unaccustomed to having a crisis of conscience. Things were usually very clear to him. The tequila only reinforced his basic philosophy: Dig for facts, write your story, print it, and let the chips fall where they may. But not this time. He had some facts, he had written a story, but his editor wouldn’t run it. Now it was unlikely that he’d get much more, and yet he was absolutely convinced that everything he learned about Elliott Strong was true.

The old Russian knew I’d find out. He knew I’d come and he expected I’d know what to do with it.

O’Connell’s dilemma was simple. He struggled over whether to leak the story to the government. To make such a move would compromise his integrity as a journalist. He might never be able to go back. Sources would dry up. His credibility would be ruined. But? The third shot of tequila wasn’t helping him make up his mind.

Goddammit, I tried! He was arguing with the old communist; a conversation he’d been having for days. You had no right to contact me. Why me? The only thing the Russian said back in these mental exercises was the one word he shared with him in Moscow. Strong.

“Fuck it!” O’Connell uttered aloud. The reporter slapped down a 20 and left.

Washington, D.C.
minutes later

“What is it?” O’Connell’s name and number came up in the caller ID display. “I’m a little busy right now.” Roarke was sprinting through the White House.

“I gotta see you,” the reporter quickly admitted.

“It’s going to have to wait.” Roarke didn’t want to say too much.

“It can’t.”

Roarke stopped dead on the spot. “What is it?”

“We need to talk about it in person, Roarke. Tonight. Where?”

“Not on the phone. In person.”

“Can you come up?” O’Connell asked.

“No.” The news about the president’s crash hadn’t broken yet. Roarke wasn’t about to tell the
Times
reporter why he couldn’t leave. “What’s so important that you…”

“I know the identity of another sleeper.”

Roarke instantly switched gears from the president’s crisis to O’Connell’s bombshell. “Get down here!” The agent checked his watch. He calculated the flights out of LaGuardia and proposed a meeting time. “8:30. I’ll clear you through the North Gate.”

New York City

O’Connell made it to his condo at the Bromley at 83rd and Broadway. He threw a few overnight items together and hit the street to catch a cab at the corner. A taxi heading uptown caught his hand signal, but another sitting on 83rd honked and moved up. The reporter grabbed the door and climbed in.

“LaGuardia.”

“Very good,” replied the driver. He had an Indian accent.

O’Connell automatically looked at his name and picture. Ishmail something. The plastic was cracked.

“What airline?”

“American,” O’Connell answered. He saw the reflection of the man in the rearview mirror. He smiled at his passenger.

“Very good. Very, very good.”

The cab drove uptown. “What is your profession?” Ishmail said.

“A reporter.” O’Connell was not in a talking mood.

“Ah, very good. A reporter. You report the news. Breaking news very good.”

“Right,” O’Connell said not loud enough to be heard.

“Very good profession.”

At 110th, the taxi made a right turn, crossing above Central Park to the East Side. O’Connell hated when cab drivers talked endlessly for the sake of talking. He decided to close his eyes, hoping the cabbie would get the message.

“Very good,” the driver whispered.

The Banda Sea
the same time

The trawler came up to the first raft. Commander Komari signaled one of his men. He hit it with the boat’s searchlight.

“Hey! Kill the light!” yelled a man in a uniform.

The man at the lamp ignored the request for two reasons. He didn’t understand English and he was ordered to shine it.

Another raft drifted up. The beam swung over. A third raft came toward the trawler. Some of the men had guns. Many wore American military uniforms. Komari shouted an order in Bahasa Indonesian.

The beam swung back over to the second boat. “Allah be praised!” he exclaimed.

Musaf Atef wondered why Komari should call to the Almighty at such a time. “Commander, what is it?”

“Look, even a fool’s eyes can see who God has delivered to us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They are Americans.”

“Yes.”

“And the leader of the great Satan is among them.” He yelled to the soldier on the lamp. “There!” The light settled directly on Morgan Taylor.

Next, Komari gave Atef very specific instructions. If he followed them, Atef might redeem himself.

Atef had his men toss nets over to the president’s raft. Komari shouted out in halted English, “Come aboard! Yes, yes, come aboard!”

In the distance, the last of the flames turned to smoke as Air Force One slipped beneath the surface. With the backlight gone, the only illumination on the ocean was from the trawler. It held on the first raft until each of the seventeen men and two women were safely onboard.

Atef gave the soldier aiming a light a slicing motion across his throat. The beam went dark. At the same moment, the engines kicked in and the boat moved away 20 yards, then idled.

“Wait!” shouted one of the American officers. “The others!” He stepped forward. “You can’t leave…”

“Oh?”

A dozen guns were on the people pulled out of the boat. Three Secret Service officers automatically surrounded the president. Taylor dropped back.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Commander Umar Komari, leader of October 12. Right now your superior.”

“Bullshit!” the officer stepped forward. Shots rang out from three guns. He and the two other agents directly behind him were cut down.

Atef screamed another order. The light turned on again. It lit up the closest raft. The gunmen filled it with bullets. When they had done their work there, they turned on the remaining raft. In the course of a minute, both were gone, along with the thirty-one men and women aboard.

The fourteen remaining prisoners stood in silence, hardly believing what they had just witnessed. At that moment, the F-15 swooped overhead, rocking the trawler. Two terrorists fell overboard. Another Secret Service agent pushed the president behind him, thinking for an instant that they could use the jet’s distraction to strike, but the guns were right on them again.

“Atef!”

“Yes, commander.”

“How well have you trained your men?”

He completely understood the question. The lieutenant screamed out to two subordinates who didn’t have military rank yet. They readied their shoulder-fired Stinger. It took another moment to calibrate the targeting. The shooter turned in the direction from which the American plane was likely to come. He brought the missile tube up and prepared to fire. But he was wrong. The F-15 cut across at a perpendicular angle this time. It took a moment to adjust, then he whipped around and fired. The Stinger flamed across the sky in a race to catch up with the Eagle.

Aboard the F-15 Eagle

The F-15′s defensive systems came alive. An unmistakable alarm alerted Pike. His heads-up display revealed the full picture. Twenty-two seconds to impact. “Under attack!” he radioed out. There was no time to say anything more.