The President's Plane Is Missing

by Robert J Serling

  “A skirt and sweater is not exactly my idea of the uniform of the day for a first drink with my boss. I’d invite you over here for a nightcap but my roommate is about ready for bed and we’d disturb her, talking.”

  Damon mentally cursed the rigid Washington rule that All-Attractive-Single-Girls-Seem-to-Have-Roommates-Who-Want-to-Sleep. He gave up, telling Lynx he would see her tomorrow. He waved good-by to Bill Utely, told the switchboard he could be reached at the Willard Room for the next hour or so, and left the Press Building. He entered the hotel at its F Street doors and descended the stairs leading to the elongated corridor known as Peacock Alley. “Hello, Steve,” he greeted the maître d’ in the Willard Room.

  “Good evening, Mr. Damon. You’re by yourself tonight?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. How about this table in the comer?”

  He ordered a whiskey sour from Mary Ann, his favorite waitress, and glanced around the big room, which was almost empty at this time of night. He always enjoyed the Willard Room. It was a quiet anachronism in Washington’s world of glittering, spangled cocktail lounges, with its enormous high ceiling, green marble pillars and crystal chandeliers. A kind of oasis for the casual drinking that was part of serious talking or serious thinking.

  Characteristically, Gunther Damon was thinking now— the events of another busy day, another twenty-four hours in which the mystery of Air Force One continued its defiance of reason and logic. Nothing added up. That crazy business of the supposed impostor. The failure of the President to reveal his whereabouts after the crash, provided he was alive. And if he were alive, why was he still in hiding and where? Why expose the nation and the free world to the vapid leadership of Fred Madigan? What was the overwhelmingly important crisis that could have generated a plot making the Gordian knot a simple bow by comparison? And was it important enough to warrant the creation of another crisis, one of indecision, uncertainty, confusion and fear?

  The magnitude of a disappearance scheme, Damon knew, required accomplices. Not even the President of the United States could have accomplished it on his own, taking no one into his confidence and trusting not a single official either in his Administration or in the career services. So if there was a plan, who was in on it besides the President himself? Such top brass as Cabinet members? Or even Frederick J. Madigan? Or was the conspiracy carried out by relative small fry, a handful of minor characters sworn to secrecy and relied on for their loyalty toward Jeremy Haines and their patriotism toward their country?

  Or, Damon also reflected sadly, was the intrigue born in the mind of the President at all? Was it Moscow-or Peking-made? Could it be a super-criminal kidnaping plot with a colossal ransom demand as yet unmade? That one, Damon admitted, was really on the wild side but it was hard to scoff at the most unthinkable explanation. At this point he was willing to concede the possibility that the President of the United States could have somehow been spirited away by invaders from outer space. He castigated himself for even dignifying this science fiction potboiler of an idea by including it in his reveries. Yet he had not been able to prevent it from strolling uninvited into his mind. My God, he thought, I’m really clutching at the proverbial straw.

  He forced his thinking processes back to the more prosaic but likely theories. Who in the Official White House family would Haines have trusted the most? The senior Cabinet member, in terms of standing and prestige as well as close association, would be Secretary of State Sharkey. Wait a second. Chris Harmon’s overnight story. Sharkey’s unexplainable behavior, his lack of action during the past week. How much did the Secretary of State know? Was he avoiding everyone because he did know the answers? And couldn’t tell anyone those answers?

  Gunther Damon consulted his wristwatch. He strode rapidly down Peacock Alley toward the main lobby and found a phone booth. He dialed the office and asked Andrews to connect him with Chris Harmon’s home.

  “This is Gunther, Chris. That overnighter of yours on Sharkey—it gave me an idea. You got any way of finding out what Sharkey’s been doing the past few nights? I hear you’ve been told he isn’t reachable at home.”

  The State Department reporter was puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean, Gunther. He has been leaving fairly early for him. About six or seven every night. Maybe he is going home and just doesn’t want to be bothered. No social engagements that I know of, and anyway all the society fluff’s been canceled since that plane crashed. What’s the pitch? Has Drew Pearson got him involved in a sex scandal?”

  “Chris, I don’t think he’s going home. I’ve got the god-damnedest hunch he’s been seeing the President of the United States. And I don’t mean Fred Madigan.”

  Christopher Harmon had a nasty case of ulcers and a thorough dislike for newspapermen who got excited, the latter undoubtedly explaining the former. He kept his emotions corked up like vintage wine to be opened on very special occasions, and such occasions were not only rare but virtually non-existent.

  The first time he displayed the slightest agitation over a story was on December 7, 1941. In fact, that was the only time, until Gunther Damon presented him with this provocative hunch. His fertile mind automatically computed Damon’s hypothesis, analyzing it for reasonableness and probability.

  “I think,” he said in a tone that for Chris Harmon was hysterical exuberance, “you might have something. But do you also have any great inspirations on how I’m supposed to get the honorable Secretary of State to admit it?”

  “Chris, does Sharkey always use the same car on official business?”

  “I imagine so. The Cadillac limo, I’ve never seen him ride in anything else.”

  “Okay. Can you get into the State Department garage? Isn’t that where the car’s kept?”

  “Sure. What am I supposed to look for? Fingerprints of Jeremy Haines on the door handles?”

  “Nope. Mileage.”

  “Mileage?”

  “Mileage, dammit. Chris, go down to that garage first thing in the morning. Tell ’em you’re doing a story on the use of government cars—how much they’re driven every week, like compared to the average motorist. It may not work but there’s just a chance you could find out how many miles that Caddie has been driven since the night of the crash.”

  “I might also find out what the inside of the District of Columbia jail looks like.”

  “Hell, no. Chances are those chauffeurs or mechanics or whoever’s in charge of that car will be tickled pink to talk to a reporter. I don’t have to write out a script for you, do I? Ask a bunch of questions about safe driving tips and crap like that. How it feels to have the honor of driving around a Cabinet officer. But above all, drag that mileage out of him or them.”

  “Gunther, I don’t want to sound stupid, but what will we do with the mileage figure even if I get it?”

  Damon chuckled, a low, triumphant, almost dirty chuckle. “Simple. We divide the total mileage accumulated on that car since Air Force One went down by the number of days that have elapsed. That gives us the approximate mileage per day. We divide that by two. Get it?”

  “No, but that devious mind of yours fascinates me. Continue.”

  “Then after we take half that daily mileage, we take a ruler and we look at a road map of this area. We match the ruler against the map’s scale of miles to an inch, and then maybe, just maybe we can find out where Mr. James Sharkey has been driving every night.”

  Harmon whistled in combined awe and admiration, but he was cautious. “Look, Gunther, you’re assuming he’s gone someplace but home every night. I just said—”

  “I know what you said. I’m playing a hunch, Chris. But it’s the strongest hunch I ever had.”

  “I’ve a hunch too, Gunther. That you’re right.”

  “Based on what you know or heard?”

  “Nope. My ulcer just started to hurt. Good night, Sherlock. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Damon returned to the Willard Room, his mind boiling with excited anticipation. He ordered a second whiskey sour. He reali
zed he was skating on the thin ice of pure supposition but this was the way he operated best, and throughout his career he had been right more often than wrong. There had to be a link between Sharkey and the missing President. Harmon’s story could be a foot in the closed door of the unknown. It wouldn’t cast more than a sliver of light, but it was a beginning. A key card turned up in a game of solitaire, breaking a tantalizing log jam.

  Tomorrow, he told himself, might bring the beginning of the end to the enigma of Air Force One.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It helped not a little that Chris Hannon was not unknown to the personnel in the State Department garage. He parked his own car there occasionally, one of the fringe prestige and convenience benefits that never appeared on the IPS payroll check.

  A minor secretary in Sharkey’s office had tipped him off when the Secretary arrived at his desk, as usual regarding Saturday as just another workday. Harmon made the request to her casually, explaining, “I’m working on a little project and I just want to be sure he’s around in case I have to call him.” When her confirming message came through, he called the IPS switchboard.

  “This is Harmon. I’ll be out of pocket for a little while. Is Damon in yet? Okay, just leave word with him that I’m looking at speedometers. No, speedometers. He’ll understand.”

  He found the chauffeur in charge of Sharkey’s limousine without trouble. The chauffeur was a handsome Negro in his fifties. He was polishing away at the hood with a chamois, humming some undecipherable tune which he broke off as Harmon approached.

  “Good mornin’, Mr. Harmon. What brings you down to our little motor pool?”

  “Morning. Joseph, isn’t it? I can’t remember your last name.”

  “Hutchens, Mr. Harmon. Joseph Hutchens. Anything I can do for you, sir?”

  “You might, Joseph. We’re getting some material together on official cars. The ones used by the top men in government. I’m checking on your operations down here. Wondered how it feels to be driving a man like Secretary Sharkey around.”

  Hutchens beamed with such warm pride that Harmon felt like a Judas.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Harmon, the Secretary’s a fine man. A very fine man. Thoughtful. Always polite. Even when he’s got a lot on his mind. And I guess he’s got a lot on his mind these days. You fellas heard anything more about the President?”

  “No. You might hear more than we do, Joseph, on your job.”

  It was a matter-of-fact statement, made in a tone of nonchalant innocence, but the Negro’s demeanor altered instantly. Joseph Hutchens was nobody’s fool. “Mr. Harmon, you just tryin’ to sound me out? Pump me a little, maybe? You know better than that. I can’t tell you anything. Believe me, man, when I’m drivin’ this car I’ve got no ears at all. No, sir, no ears.”

  Harmon could have kicked himself for arousing suspicion. He was going to have one hell of a time worming a mileage estimate out of this boy. He decided to retreat. “So help me, Joseph, I’m not snooping. I honestly want to know something about how a Cabinet chauffeur works. The hours you have to put in. For a starter, how long have you been with State?”

  The chauffeur was mollified but still apprehensive. “Can’t see any harm in tellin’ you that. Been here since Mr. Dulles was Secretary. Didn’t drive him, though. Mr. Sharkey’s the first Secretary I’ve had the honor of chauffeurin’ and it’s an honor. Yes, sir, a real honor.”

  “Have to take any special tests to rate this job?”

  “No, sir. I kinda inherited it. Man before me, he retired. They asked me if I wanted to be the Secretary’s chauffeur and I said sure. Closest I’ll ever get to being a Cabinet man myself, I figured.”

  He chuckled and Harmon laughed with him, politely.

  “I suppose you sometimes have to put in long hours?”

  “Yes, sir. Real long. But I don’t mind. Just my wife and me at home, and she understands. Our kids, they’re all grown up and moved away. Got one son who’s a doctor. Yon know, I’m mighty proud of him but he always tells me, ‘Pop, I’m real proud of you.’ So I don’t mind drivin’ around at night, sometimes. Like receptions and stuff like that, when the Secretary has to go someplace.”

  “Do you do all the driving, Joseph? Or does Mr. Sharkey sometimes ask you if he can take the wheel? I wouldn’t blame him. It’s a beautiful car. Remember, some of our Presidents liked to drive themselves. Truman was one. And LBJ.”

  “Yep, I remember readin’ about them.” Hutchens grinned. “Seems to me they got in a mite of trouble doin’ it, too. Didn’t Mr. Truman get stopped for speeding, once? And Mr. Johnson, he was hell-bent for leather when he drove around that ranch of his.”

  “Truman was stopped on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, but that was after he left office, if I recall correctly. I suppose Mr. Sharkey isn’t the speeding type.”

  “No, sir, he’s not. To answer your question, Mr. Harmon, he never drives. Not this car. Matter fact, I don’t know if he ever drives. When he wants to come down on a Sunday or holiday, he always calls me and I go pick him up in Chevy Chase. He’s got a car in his garage but I think his wife’s the only one who uses it. Nice car, too. White Ford convertible. Man, that’s my dream in life. Older I get, Mr. Harmon, more I want a convertible.”

  “Does Mr. Sharkey do any back-seat driving? Tell you you’re going too fast or too slow? Or what streets to take?”

  “No, sir, like the Greyhound ad says, Mr. Harmon, he leaves the drivin’ to us. He just sits back there and thinks. And I guess he’s got a lotta thinkin’ to do, these days.”

  “I guess he has,” the reporter agreed. “But to change the subject, Joseph, does this car have any special maintenance? Is it greased or have oil changes more frequently than, say, the average private automobile?”

  “Well,” Hutchens said, “we pretty much follow the factory manual. One thing, I keep this baby a lot cleaner than most folks do their own cars. I make sure she’s polished up a bit every day. Wash her myself, sometimes. Right after I bring the Secretary to work and I know he’s not gonna be using it right away.”

  “It’s interesting that you follow the factory manual,” Harmon said. “Now on my car, my service station keeps telling me that twice-a-year lubrication and oil change every six thousand miles is for the birds. I change mine every three or four thousand. I guess if six thousand is good enough for the Secretary of State, it should be good enough for me.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Harmon, personally I agree with your service station. Now I got a little Plymouth. That Owner’s Manual has same recommendations as yours. But I figure it’s best to be on the safe side. And I’ll let you in on a little secret, only don’t print it. I kinda watch out for this Caddie too. I just changed the oil on her myself . . . let’s see, now, it was the day after the President got lost. And there wasn’t no six thousand miles between changes, either.” Bingo, thought Harmon. The hole’s open. This is the luckiest line of questioning in journalism history. But play it cozy, chum. Don’t get careless or he’ll clam up. “Well, now you’ve got my motoring curiosity aroused, Joseph. Not my reporter’s curiosity. What did you change it at—three thousand? Like I said, I’ve been doing it at three or four.” The Negro fell into the trap so eagerly that Harmon would have been sorry for him, except Chris was too busy mentally congratulating himself. “Well, let’s take a look at the sticker, Mr. Harmon. I use stickers just like the regular garages. Let’s see, now.”

  He opened the door on the driver’s side of the big Cadillac and knelt to read the figures scrawled on the lubrication-oil change record. “No, sir, no six thousand miles here. Oil change before was 4100. Last one was at 7055. Just about three thousand, I’d say.”

  “Well I’ll be darned,” Harmon said with a make-believe, disarming enthusiasm that would have done justice to an Alfred Lunt. “And she looks like she just came off the assembly line. I didn’t even figure she’d have that much mileage on her. You sure keep her up. What’s the speedometer read now, anyway?” Swallow that bait, bo
y. Please, swallow it.

  Joseph Hutchens swallowed it. He leaned into the car and examined the speedometer reading. “Exactly 7795 miles, Mr. Harmon. How about that?”

  “Yes,” said Christopher Harmon, inscribing two figures into his memory track. “How about that?”

  Gunther Damon came to work early that Saturday morning, although he was five minutes too late to talk to Harmon in person. Mrs. Strotsky gave him the message that “Mr. Harmon says he’s gonna look at speedometers. What’s he talking about?”

  “He’s buying a used car,” Damon explained. “You’re the nosiest switchboard operator east of the Mississippi and possibly west.”

  “If I wasn’t nosy,” Mrs. Strotsky announced in her well-modulated bellow, “I wouldn’t know a damned thing about what’s going on in this nuthouse.”

  Damon cheerfully chucked Mrs. Strotsky under the chin, waved laconically at Les Butler, and went right to his desk to give the overnight report its daily inspection. He merely glanced at most of the stories, but read Chris Harmon’s speculative piece on Sharkey with renewed interest and more than normal concentration. Butler came over and had to say “Gunther” twice before the news superintendent looked up.

  “Coffee flip time, Gunther. You in?”

  “No,” Damon said. “It’s on me this time. I’ll lose anyway. Here, give Custer this two bucks. Tell him to get some glazed doughnuts too.”

  “Doughnuts too? Boy, you’re in a happy frame of mind. Tell you what, I’d like some ham and scrambled—”

  “Doughnuts,” repeated Damon. “Don’t stretch your luck. I’m just feeling expansive.”

  “You’re feeling more than expansive,” Butler said wisely. “Something must be percolating on the Haines story.”

  “Correct.”

  “You care to confide in your day editor?”

  “Not yet would I like to confide in my day editor.”