Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  *

  LeMarcus tried to keep his eyes on the road, not on the woman sitting beside him. It wouldn't do if anything happened to that special lady. Duncan Hunter made it perfectly clear that LeMarcus needed to ensure she arrived safely at the hotel. Getting to Africa by air was the easy part. Once anyone landed on the continent, though, and had to go somewhere, nearly every road in Africa was fraught with intrigue and danger.

  As LeMarcus approached the only real limited visibility corner in a semi-jungle area, he flashbacked to an event a month earlier where he routinely braked heavily to negotiate the tight corner only to come to a complete stop when he encountered two dozen men with machetes in the middle of the two-lane.

  He leaned on the Toyota’s horn to encourage the harvesters of date palms to leave the roadway. He was ready to put the truck in reverse if the men made any aggressive moves, but they simply resumed their slow trajectory across the road, ignoring the horn.

  LeMarcus was glad no one was on the road, as he turned without having to use any of Greg Lynche's special defensive driving techniques with Ms. Cunningham aboard. He ran the gauntlet of Airport Road every day from Robertsfield to his high-walled compound near the US embassy. The destination of his special cargo was the beachside Kendaja Resort, open to the Atlantic Ocean.

  He approached trucks and buses looking as if they had just escaped a metal crusher, as they wobbled down the road, belching thick, black smoke, overloaded with cargo or people. Most of the taxis he passed on the side of the road had broken windscreens and crushed body panels. They resembled yellow carcasses pressed into service after months in a car-crash derby. Since taking the job as airport manager, LeMarcus was involved in three accidents along Airport Road, including one fairly serious rollover when he swerved to avoid a child who fell into the roadway.

  His passenger wasn’t prone to small talk. She seemed more fascinated by the scenery—families living in makeshift mud or grass huts, children dressed in bright clothing walking along the highway, unperturbed by the cars and trucks racing a few feet away. LeMarcus gave up trying to find out about the woman Duncan asked him to pick up when she got off the airplane and take her to the hotel. That's what he was going to do.

  He tried acting as tour guide. “We’re passing through the village of Smell-No Taste. They’re on airport property, but they’ve been here so long, the government wouldn’t think of evicting them. Many of them work at the airport.”

  She turned, her emerald-green eyes flashing wide. “They look like they’re doing OK. I expected more obvious famine, starvation, or emaciation. They seem well-fed. It’s a shock to leave civilization like Washington, land in Africa, and the first thing I see is jungle and this level of poverty.”

  He was about to reply when something surprised her. “Oh, my!”

  “It’s not unusual to see men and women relieving themselves on the side of the road,” he explained, “or, like that older woman, without a top. She’s the exception. I think they have dementia. There are a lot of people with horrific injuries sustained from the civil war, including mental injuries. The closer we get to town, the more people are nicely dressed or fully clothed. They wear suits and beautiful African dresses. Kids have school uniforms just like back home.”

  “It’s incredible. I had no idea. I appreciate the information, Mr. Leonard. I’ve never been to Africa.” She continued looking out the Toyota’s windows.

  LeMarcus resumed his dialogue. “As we get closer to the river, we might see someone selling fish or deer on the side of the road. Those baskets we passed are filled with charcoal they take off the roadbed. You’ll see a quarry at the top of the hill. A dozen men turn big rocks into small rocks or gravel, all with hammers. On the horizon is where the Liberian army lives and trains. US military are in there all the time as instructors and advisors.”

  “Is that an antenna in the distance?”

  “That’s an old Omega navigation transmitter. I think it’s the tallest structure in Africa, at least for a few more days until it’s demolished. Too many base jumpers get hurt, and they’re supposed to turn that property into a market or something.”

  As he pulled into the driveway of Liberia’s newest ocean resort, the woman turned and handed him a folded piece of paper. LeMarcus’ heart skipped a beat, then it calmed immediately.

  “Duncan said you can pick up these things before he lands,” she said. “Here’s some cash. The top five items are must-haves. After that, they’re nice-to-have. Thank you for showing me the sights. See you later tonight, LeMarcus.”

  Two men in flowered print shirts raced to the truck as LeMarcus and Nazy exited their doors. After the woman walked through the sliding doors, followed by the baggage handler and doorman, LeMarcus jumped into the truck.

  Before putting the vehicle into gear, he removed the paper from his pocket and read the words in beautiful cursive.

  Fully charged car battery Battery cables Ten rolls duct tape 2 large 9 volt batteries 2 buckets Scissors

  LeMarcus looked through the glass doors at the woman, no longer a sexual object, standing at the reservation desk. His expression showed a man who’d been filled with joy and suddenly found himself caught in a tragedy.

  “What the hell are you guys up to?” he muttered.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  1200 June 16, 2011

  The Bedford Park Town Crier

  Islamic Center Firebombed

  Police closed Park Lane Road through Bedford Park following a fire in the early hours of June 15. Firefighters were called to the Islamic Center in Bedford Park just after midnight to a blaze at the rear of the building. Police are treating the fire and the circumstances as arson. Although no one was reportedly hurt, several people remain missing. The fire completely engulfed the main structure, causing considerable damage to the heavily fortified property. Police envisage the road will remain shut for some hours as forensic inquiries continue. Officers, who believe the incident may be linked to a series of burned-out vehicles along Park Lane Road, are keen to speak to anyone who saw someone acting suspiciously near the building or recall seeing a car speeding away. Police investigating said, “It appears an accelerant was used, and our immediate priorities include establishing who started this fire and why, and making motorists aware.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  2300L June 15, 2011

  Roberts International Airport Monrovia, Liberia

  The outcome depended on a thousand things going right and nothing going wrong. Hunter stretched his luck past the breaking point, casually assuming they’d get a bag of gas in Djibouti-Ambouli International and continue on their way. If not Djibouti then Mombasa or Lagos. He didn’t anticipate their jet becoming the subject of an international search.

  When the Djibouti-Ambouli International Airport denied their landing clearance, Hunter and Lynche called the airport via their satellite phone to inquire why. The authorities mildly suggested they stole the aircraft and were flying it under a bogus tail number, a typical MO for drug smugglers coming in from South America. They suggested they were tracked across Africa and avoided position calls to avoid paying overflight fees sent via the Flight Information Region network.

  Lynche and Hunter looked at each other.

  “Set course for ROB,” Hunter said, reaching for his flight computer.

  “ROB? We don’t have enough gas. Distance to ROB is 3,250. We have enough gas for only 2,600 miles.”

  “Maybe.” Reading out the fuel flow for both engines, he started tapping numbers into his device. He pulled one engine to idle and trimmed the aircraft, as it slowed and slewed, then he checked the fuel flow again and rate of descent.

  Lynche watched intently.

  “Let’s see if we can get to 450 nice and gentle,” Hunter said. “I think we can do it single engine. We have good tail winds this close to the equator.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Single engine will add 110 miles over dual. We have a healthy equatorial tailwind. I predict w
e’ll run out of gas 100 miles out of ROB.”

  “Why are you so happy? You just said we’d run out of gas 100 miles out!”

  “I think I can squeeze another 100 miles out of her. We’ll see how well I can really fly this beast.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “It’s been said before. Be glad there are no real armed forces that can shoot us down. I’m not going to be able to sleep. Want to go back and get more shuteye?”

  “Really? I want to watch this.”

  “It’ll be eight hours.”

  “OK. See you in four.”

  Six hours after Lynche left the cockpit, he returned, expecting to find Hunter asleep, but the man was full of surprises.

  “How’d you do that?” He pointed at the fuel quantity gauges. “We’ve been flying single engine at maximum range, maximum endurance. If the fuel gauges are calibrated on our side, we’ll run out of gas only twenty miles short of the field. That’s Accra at your three o’clock. Abidjan is on the nose. How are they doing?”

  “I’m certain Osama thinks he’s going to Gitmo. The SEALs said you’re flying a roller coaster.”

  “That’s because I have been. I shut down number one. Number two doesn’t burn as much as one. I try to maintain altitude, but it naturally descends. I get to 350 and fire up the engine, then I climb back to 450 and do it over again. I’m taking a nap. Don’t let me sleep more than fifteen minutes past Abidjan.”

  “Roger. My jet.”

  Hunter, lowering his chin to his chest, was asleep instantly.

  *

  An hour passed, but Hunter felt he had been asleep only a minute when Lynche woke him.

  “Mav, I think we need to start descending. We’re 100 miles out with 1,000 pounds of fuel. We’re toast.”

  “Not yet. We’ll run out of gas.” He yawned and stretched, making his ribs ache anew.

  Lynche felt perturbed and anxious. They’d come so far, only to crash in the Liberian jungle short of the field. He watched the GPS count off seven miles per minute.

  Hunter checked fuel quantity and flow, then wrote figures on his knee board. At ten miles from ROB, he cinched the shoulder harness straps tight and did the same with his lap belts. “I have the jet.”

  “Your jet.” Lynche was intrigued by his partner’s calm demeanor, though seeing him tighten his harness was confusing. And scary.

  Hunter reached for the engine-control lever and shut down number-one engine. Lynche somehow got the message and quickly tightened his shoulder and lap belts, as the jet slowed and descended. Hunter trimmed the nose and held the jet on altitude until airspeed bled off rapidly to 200 knots. At 190 knots he lowered the landing gear and set the flaps to full.

  The additional drag nearly departed or destabilized the aircraft, Hunter corrected with the rudder pedals until the jet settled down. Lynche was as nervous as one of his paranoid cats.

  They were falling from the sky at 10,000 feet per minute, wings level, at 170 knots.

  “Call LeMarcus,” Hunter said. “Make sure no one’s on the runway. I can do this only once.” He stared at the instruments, flying the nose of the aircraft to maintain 170 knots.

  The altimeters unwound faster than Lynche had ever seen.

  They were eight miles from the field and 35,000 feet above ground. “This is like riding a frigging runaway elevator,” Lynche said.

  “What do you call this maneuver?”

  The jet passed through 30,000 feet at six miles from the field. Fuel flow increased on the operating engine, as the air became denser.

  Hunter kept control of the nose, not letting them fall too fast. Lynche finally understood what he intended. Then they were five miles out at 25,000 feet.

  “Dirty penetration,” Hunter said. “Call out the airspeed if we go below 170.” He was fully engaged with coordinating the approach with the runway, looking outside to acquire the airport.

  Passing through 20,000 feet, Hunter turned the yoke to increase bank angle slightly. He acquired the runway lights, but there were no strobes off one side, and he returned the wings to level.

  Three and a half miles from the field, Lynche wanted to ask, “Is this how you do it on a carrier?” but was afraid of interrupting Hunter’s focus.

  The needle bounced between 200 and 300 pounds of fuel, the engine at idle, and fuel flow increased rapidly in the dense air. Lynche feared a flame-out. Crashing in the jungle was a real possibility.

  “November one zero zero,” LeMarcus said over the radio. “Cleared to land runway two two. Altimeter two niner niner two.”

  They were two miles from the field. As the jet roared through 15,000 feet above the runway, Hunter maintained 170 knots on the indicator and said calmly, “One two three, landing checklist complete.”

  Lynche spoke to the tower. “November one zero zero, cleared to land runway two two, two niner niner zero.” He subconsciously leaned back in his seat as the jet screamed perpendicular to the runway lights, flying directly over Roberts Field at 10,000 feet.

  Two seconds later, Hunter fully deflected the yoke to the left to achieve a 45° angle of bank in his attitude indicator. He kept pressure on the stick for 270° of turn, and continually looked down at the runway lights and mentally calculating the proper sight picture.

  The two-mile runway was fully lit. They were very high and coming down very fast.

  “We’re high,” Lynche said.

  “High is OK. We have lots of runway. Give me the landing lights, Sir.” He maintained his sight picture of the runway in the inky blackness through 5,000 feet in the left turn and ignored the instruments. It was all sight picture now.

  As the runway lights started to converge and level out, Hunter slammed the yoke and rudder to the right, snap-rolled the jet wings-level, and arrested the descent with a hefty pull of the yoke. He jammed the engine to the firewall for two seconds, then back to idle.

  The rate of descent slowed to 2,000 feet per minute. With five seconds of wings-level groove time to line up the aircraft on the runway’s centerline, Hunter input a “right for line up” correction and returned to wings-level. Landing lights illuminated the runway's landing threshold.

  He flared the nose, keeping a nose-high attitude to let the Gulfstream decelerate on its own to the ground. The main landing gear gently touched down right over the displaced threshold. Four seconds later, Hunter allowed the nose to touch on the centerline.

  Lynche pumped both fists and shouted toward the front windscreen, “Yea!”

  Hunter lifted his feet from the floor to apply even pressure to the toe brakes, as the jet cleanly decelerated under 100 knots. At fifty knots, Hunter guided the jet onto the first taxiway.

  Once they were clear of the runway, the runway lights went out. While they were still rolling, Hunter indicated he knew where he would park and fired up the APU and shut down number two. Lynche shook his head in disbelief as the fuel tanks read less than forty pounds. They had less than six gallons in the airplane, assuming the indicators read correctly.

  Hunter brought the rolling jet to the edge of the tarmac, depressed the right brake, and swung the jet ninety degrees before stopping. Exhaling loudly, he said, “Welcome to Monrovia, Mr. Lynche.” Unbuckling his harness, he took a deep breath.

  Greg shook his head in disbelief. His partner simply smiled like the cat that ate the canary.

  “That was a first,” Greg said, helping Hunter shut down everything in the cockpit.

  “That probably was. Definitely not in the operator’s manual.” Hunter was very somber, as he shut off the APU and all other systems. Had the long and lanky Lynche not been flailing in the cockpit trying to leave his seat, he would’ve noticed Hunter’s hands trembling slightly. As pumps and motors shut down, the aircraft gradually became quiet.

  From the dark cabin behind them, someone said, “Sometime soon, I need to change my shorts.”

  Hunter, Lynche, and the SEALs laughed.

  Osama bin Laden didn’t get the joke.

  CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE

  0700 June 17, 2011

  United States Naval Observatory, Washington, DC

  Vice President Frank Carey stepped out of the black limousine, admiring the quaint, three-story house at Number One Observatory Circle, the official home and residence of the Vice President of the United States. The previous day, he didn’t care about moving into the house, preferring to remain in his Bethesda mansion. He assumed the Secret Service would have to provide security at his home and compound. He could make a little money.

  However, when the Secret Service director asked if the new vice president would move into the official residence with all its underground bunkers and communications systems or remain at his house in Bethesda, Carey reconsidered. He wanted to see the house and all its furnishings. Even if he moved in, he wouldn’t be there long.

  With the potential of an exciting, new underground playground for him and his partner, Carey said, “Let’s go see it.”

  Secret Service Director Marty O’Sullivan rode in the number-three armored Suburban of the eight-vehicle caravan. He met the vice president as the portly man struggled to leave the limousine. Once he was out and composed, ready to receive the SS director, O’Sullivan motioned for him to take the lead and instructed, “We will provide security for the VP and his family either here at the official residence or at your home, Sir.”

  The SS director acted as tour guide of the house and underground facility. Carey wasn’t interested in the upstairs but wanted to see the basement. The entourage remained outside the study and private office.

  Carey maintained a disinterested look about the rooms. “I suppose the help is off. The place isn’t that well-maintained. I expected much higher-quality furnishings.”

  “Sir, all the furniture and pictures in the house were donated from past vice presidents. The Smithsonian can provide you with something more to your liking if these aren’t sufficient for your needs.”