The President's Plane Is Missing

by Robert J Serling

  “Negative.”

  “Well, in view of this accident,” said the AP, “is the Air Force going to make any modifications in the plane? Or any changes in operating methods?”

  The general seemed relieved at this question. “We’ve discussed with Amalgamated the possibility of strengthening the tail section, the horizontal stabilizer area, that is. Actually, although the Board of Inquiry report did not go into this in detail, the failure on Air Force One occurred at the place where it was anticipated failure might occur first from abnormal stress loads. At points where the Condor had the least reserve strength. Now, it’s not definite whether these points can or should be beefed up. On an airplane, if you strengthen one component you may weaken another. In the case of the Condor, or so we’re told by the manufacturer, beefing up the tail-fin components might make the wing the critical component and this would be equally unsatisfactory, of course. As for operating techniques, well, we’re putting all Condor pilots through our newly acquired Condor simulators. We have every reason to believe that proper familiarization with the aircraft’s handling characteristics in abnormally rough air will prevent a recurrence of this type of accident.”

  “General, to change the subject a bit,” the Dallas Times Herald said, “could you tell us why Air Force One was flown into such turbulence? I would have assumed that the pilots of a plane carrying the President always would be on the super-cautious side. They were warned of such weather, were they not?”

  “They were aware of thunderstorm activity in their path. They were not expecting turbulence of such violent magnitude, or obviously they would have changed course, or even reversed course as an extra precaution.”

  His reply prompted UPI to go into the weather more thoroughly. “General Coston, the Board of Inquiry report did not mention the weather forecast available to the crew, either before take-off or while en route. Are you satisfied, sir, that their weather information was adequate?”

  “It was inadequate, I’m sorry to say, but that’s also a matter of hindsight. Unfortunately, weather forecasting remains a somewhat inexact science although it’s improved considerably over the past decade.”

  “How do you—” The Scripps-Howard reporter tried to get in a question but Coston shook his head.

  “Just a minute, please. I want to finish answering the previous question. Now, let me explain what I meant by the word ‘inadequate.’ I’m not trying to attach any blame to the weather forecasters. The weather briefing Colonel Henderson received before making out his flight plan did indicate thunderstorm activity, but not at the altitude he chose. That was his principal reason for selecting the altitude. He thought he’d be above the weather. Not until he was relatively close to the storm area did it become apparent that the adverse weather was at a much higher altitude than anyone expected. We’ve got to assume he figured he could climb above it. Again, we’re second-guessing. We’re Monday-morning quarterbacking a fine pilot and an excellent officer. He made a command decision based on his ability and knowledge. The decision turned out to be wrong, but only the good Lord above could have told him in advance what he was flying into.”

  Scripps-Howard managed to join Rod Pitcher on Coston’s mental roll call of reporters who deserved a firing squad. “It seems to me, General, that the Air Force is going to great lengths to protect the reputation of the pilots, Colonel Henderson in particular. If I read the Board of Inquiry report correctly, sir, and I’ll admit I’m no aeronautical authority, the elevator failure occurred because he tried to pull out of the dive too soon. Or because he applied too much pressure or too rapid pressure on the controls. Is that correct?”

  “According to the Board’s preliminary findings, that was the basic cause of the accident. That’s what the language ‘large longitudinal control displacements’ means.”

  “Then how can you reconcile this verdict with both your statement and the Board’s report that no pilot error was involved?”

  “I fail to see any discrepancy in the Board’s findings,” Coston growled.

  “Any discrepancy? It’s crawling with discrepancies. First the Air Force says the pilot used the wrong technique for pulling out of the dive. Second, you’ve just told us—or implied it, anyway—that Henderson made the wrong command decision. That he should have changed course or turned back. And you still say there was no pilot error involved? You can still defend his so-called command decision when he presumably had the life of the President of the United States in his hands? When he should have erred on the side of caution?”

  The general’s face again turned beet-red. “I suggest you read or reread the entire report. It deals in considerable detail with the principal reason why Colonel Henderson could not make a successful recovery from the dive. The reason, as far as I’m concerned, is unchallengeable. It might help to restate it. The Condor’s controls, to begin with, are sensitive—they were deliberately designed that way to make an extremely heavy aircraft easier and safer to handle. But we know now that oversensitive controls can be a booby trap for a pilot exposed to turbulent conditions, a pilot who had never before flown a Condor into such severe conditions. I reiterate that if Colonel Henderson had received the benefit of simulator training, the same type as he received on the Boeing, I don’t think this tragedy would have occurred. Does that answer your question?”

  “No, sir, it does not. Not entirely. Getting away from the subject of the wrong recovery technique, I still would like to ask how the Air Force can justify the fact that the commander of Air Force One deliberately flew into an area of known severe turbulence, with the President on board. Or supposedly on board.”

  “We’re not trying to justify anything, sir. We’re trying to explain what happened. I’m not going to stand up here and libel the reputation of a man unable to defend himself. Let me put it this way, and I can’t put it any stronger. If I had been piloting Air Force One that night, I probably would have continued on course just as Henderson did. Now, does that answer your question?”

  “No, but I don’t see any use in pursuing it any further.

  You’re just trying to protect your own. To cover up—”

  “I agree with you, there’s no point in pursuing this line of questioning,” Coston said, anger still written on his features. “And I admit to protecting our own—against any attempt to read into the Board of Inquiry report blame which is not in that report. May I have another question, please?”

  A correspondent for Time changed the subject. “General, the report says flatly there were no survivors. Does that mean the Air Force believes President Haines is dead?”

  “I believe that at the press conference held the morning of the crash it was decided that all information on this aspect would come from the White House. No comment.” Rod Pitcher decided the door had been opened to his Senator Haines theory. “Well, the Air Force is in charge of the investigation. Couldn’t you tell us what’s being done to establish the identity of the unknown body?”

  “Again, I must refer you to the White House. No comment.”

  “General,” Pitcher asked, refusing to let the door slam shut, “how about giving us your own personal views on this? Do you think the President was on Air Force One?”

  “My own personal views are unimportant. No comment.”

  “Are they still looking for the President’s body at the crash site?” Newsweek asked. ,

  “Yes.”

  “How long are they going to look?” UPI inquired.

  “Until we’re satisfied he was or was not on the plane.”

  “Then you think there’s still a chance he was? That he’s dead and not just disappeared?” the Post asked.

  “No comment.”

  “In all your experiences with air crashes, have you ever heard of a case where you haven’t accounted for all the people on board?” Pitcher’s foot was still in the door. And Coston’s answer left it there.

  “No,” the general said tersely.

  “Then it’s your opinion that failure to fin
d the President’s body means there’s virtually no chance he was aboard?” Time was following the IPS line of attack.

  “No comment.”

  “Oh, come on now, General,” the Star insisted. “You must have an opinion.”

  “I’ve got one. I’ll just keep it to myself.”

  “Would you give it to us off the record?” the Times asked.

  “No.”

  “Don’t you trust us?” said the AP plaintively, as several reporters laughed. Coston relaxed into a grin.

  “As patriotic Americans, yes. As reporters exposed to temptation, no. And if I gave you my opinion, even on an off-the-record basis, I expect the temptation to leak it some way would be overwhelming. So let’s drop it, shall we?”

  “Sir, it’s been less than a week since the crash occurred,” the UPI noted. “Isn’t it unusual for a Board of Inquiry report to be issued this fast?”

  “Very unusual,” Coston agreed. “But this is an unusual situation. We felt we owed it to the nation to make public what we know about the accident thus far. The findings are tentative, of course.”

  “Do you anticipate any revisions in the findings?” someone in the rear called out.

  “Well, I don’t want to go out on any limb. But I’d be surprised if there were major changes. The Board has done an exceptionally thorough job in a very short space of time. With the help, I might add, of the Bureau of Safety, the FBI, Amalgamated, and everyone else concerned with the investigation. Their cooperation has been superb.”

  “General Coston,” a Hearst reporter said, “the report states there’s no evidence of sabotage. Is this conclusion based partially on any investigation of the occupants aboard Air Force One?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, it’s been disclosed that one of the security guards was not a regular crew member. Was his background investigated?”

  “You’re referring to Sergeant Jervis. Yes, he was investigated. Complete bill of health. A fine non-com. I regret his death very much, just as I regret the deaths of all those aboard, crew and passengers alike.”

  “You said you feel that the replacement for the Condor as Air Force One should be an SST,” Pitcher said. “In the interim, is the Air Force making any plans to refurbish one of its Condor cargo planes for use as a presidential plane?”

  “No. We’ll use the Boeing for the time being. Until we see what happens to our SST appropriations request. I’ll entertain one more question.”

  It was asked by Colin. “General, would you blame the fate of Air Force One primarily on the machine or the man?”

  “That would be oversimplifying it,” Coston said thoughtfully. “Few accidents, if any, have a single causal factor.”

  “I deliberately used the word ‘primarily,’ General.”

  “I know you did, Chet. Let me put it this way. I’ve known Marcus Henderson ever since he was a second lieutenant with a pair of brand-new wings. We was a fine pilot. He was a fine person. You asked me if I’d blame the man or the machine. All I know is that Colonel Marc Henderson didn’t have any more to do with that accident than I did. Maybe less.”

  “Maybe less?”

  “Less. After all, I made the final authorization for purchase of the Condor.”

  “Thank you, General Coston,” said the AP.

  Rod Pitcher was used to the reasonably new opulence of the FAA Building and the clean if rather spartan atmosphere of the Civil Aeronautics Board. The comparative dinginess of the Pentagon not only surprised but depressed him.

  The press room from where he and Chet Colin had just dictated their accounts of the Board report and the Coston news conference came close to deserving the adjective “squalid.” The room was large, but this was the kindest thing that could be said about it. It was also crowded, with ancient desks smothered under piles of old news releases, newspapers and military journals.

  Pitcher suspected that some of the handouts must have dated back to World War II and he wondered if the regular Pentagon reporters had somehow acquired the pack-rat habits of misers. In these unkempt surroundings, the fastidious Mr. Colin seemed woefully ostentatious, a graceful willow blooming in the midst of gnarled cacti. His own desk was as bad as any of the others.

  “How can you work in this mess?” Pitcher demanded. “Don’t you ever throw any of these handouts away?”

  “The desire to cling fondly to dead Defense Department releases,” Colin explained, “is nothing but a disease afflicting anyone who works in this room for a period longer than three days. After all, the military never seems to discard anything so we’ve apparently absorbed this fine quality, by osmosis, so to speak.”

  “It’s nothing but an unholy mess,” Pitcher repeated. “My God, look at this handout. ‘Release for Sunday AM’s, March 28.’ I wonder what year.”

  “It could be last year,” Colin confessed. “I guess I could get rid of it but there’s something about this place that seems to make discarding anything a crime. I don’t defend it, God knows. I think Custer’s plan of battle must have come out of this dungeon. Aside from your low opinion of my working environment, Pitch, what did you think of this afternoon’s events?”

  “The Board of Inquiry report didn’t surprise me at all. What did surprise me was that they’re still trying to find Haines’s body.”

  “Why surprised? It could be there, in about fifty different pieces.”

  “Hardly,” Pitcher scoffed. “Chet, everything in this entire snafu adds up to the President’s not having been on that plane.”

  “They haven’t identified all the bodies yet,” Colin pointed out. “Like I said, Haines could be spread out over a couple of Arizona counties.”

  “Then how do you explain the one body they couldn’t identify?”

  “Just somebody who got on the plane, Lord knows how and why, without any of you observant gentlemen of the press noticing him the night they left.”

  “Baloney. Nobody sneaks aboard Air Force One—”

  “Not even if the President himself figured out a way to do it?”

  “Okay, then explain why he’d do it.”

  The Pentagon reporter shrugged. “There’s no ready explanation, Pitch. Maybe if the President’s ever found alive, he’d give us the answers.”

  “Hah!” Pitcher exclaimed triumphantly. “So you don’t think he was on the plane, either. Now, I still figure that damned brother. . .”

  “Pitch, I don’t know what to think. And neither does anybody else in this five-sided monument to red tape. The only thing I’ve been able to get out of the Air Force is ‘no comment’ or ‘it wasn’t pilot error.’ Which reminds me, did you buy that whitewash job on Henderson?”

  “It was no whitewash job,” Pitcher said with a semblance of a glare. “For my dough, that Scripps-Howard guy deserves a good boot in the ass for that hatchet job he was trying.”

  “What hatchet job? He was trying to get at the facts.”

  “The hell he was. He was trying to read into the facts we were given some insinuations and accusations he had no business making. The only whitewash was on the plane itself. And Coston came damned close to admitting Henderson didn’t think much of the Condor. In fact, I gathered that neither does Coston. That last remark he made—remember? And he was really ducking most of the questions about the plane. I got the idea he was trying to tag the Condor with all the guilt without ever actually saying so. Right?”

  “I guess so. I also got the idea he was getting pretty sore at you. Anyway, I’m glad Gunther sent you over. I’m used to Pentagonese but I couldn’t have handled that Board report alone without a degree in aeronautical engineering.”

  “You should see some of the CAB accident reports. This one was grammar school stuff. Well, I suppose I’d better get back or Mr. Damon will be climbing the walls, clutching callbacks to his bosom.”

  “Don’t mention callbacks to me,” Colin glowered. “I get ten a day—the AP has three guys here and UPI two, and then New York roasts me for not matching everything they f
ile.”

  “Par for the course,” Pitcher commented. “See you around, Chet.”

  He dialed the bureau and told Mrs. Strotsky he was returning to the office. By this time the CAB already had closed shop for the day. Pitcher figured he could just check in and then get home to Nancy.

  He drove back to downtown Washington over the bewildering complex of Virginia’s roads, pleasantly conscious of the ten cents a mile IPS granted for staffer automobiles used on company business. What with all the trips to Andrews and today’s Pentagon assignment, he could turn in an expense account of at least twenty dollars.

  The aviation editor walked into the bureau to be confronted with a Gunther Damon whose frown had a slim glimmer of triumph embedded in the wrinkles.

  “Read this, Pitch.” The news superintendent handed him a piece of copy torn from the A wire.

  BULLETIN

  WINSLOW, ARIZ. (IPS) A FLASH FLOOD SWEPT

  THROUGH THE GORGE CONTAINING THE WRECKAGE OF AIR FORCE ONE TODAY, DROWNING TWO RESCUE WORKERS AND BURYING MOST OF THE DEBRIS UNDER AT LEAST THREE FEET OF WATER. OFFICIALS FEARED THAT THE FLOOD, WHICH MOVED SOME WRECKAGE AS FAR AWAY AS A MILE, WOULD MAKE FURTHER SEARCH FOR PRESIDENT HAINES’S BODY ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE.

  “Holy cow,” Pitcher breathed. “That’s a tough break.”

  “Very tough,” Damon agreed. “Particularly tough on our beloved Acting President.”

  “Huh?”

  “Now he might wind up being Acting President until the next election.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Vice President Frederick J. Madigan, notified of the news from Arizona, immediately called a late afternoon Cabinet meeting. It was the second since the crash and caused several members to complain, only in the presence of their closest associates of course, that Madigan apparently was either lonesome or trying to run the government by committee. They were unprepared for his opening remarks.

  “Well,” he announced, “I must say this is one fine pickle we’re in.”

  Secretary of State Sharkey looked sharply at the Vice President, shrewdly suspecting that Madigan had taken the flood development as a personal inconvenience.