by L. D. Beyer
Derek pointed to the dashboard. “We’re going to need gas soon, too. And I need some coffee.”
Richter felt bone-weary. He wanted to close his eyes and surrender to the waves of exhaustion that swept over him but knew that, if he did, he would be out for a while. And that wouldn’t be good. When they stopped, he thought, he’d relieve Derek and drive awhile.
“You seem to have a knack for stealing cars,” he said.
“I didn’t think we had a choice.” Derek tone was defiant. “What would you have done?”
“Probably the same thing.” Richter smiled weakly. “But, Derek? You just made the President of the United States an accessory to a felony.”
___
“What’s the matter?” Richter asked.
Derek explained the problem.
“So you only have one hundred?”
“Yeah. Sorry. That’s all I have in my account,” Derek answered somewhat embarrassed. “I only keep enough for lunch and pocket money: I transfer the balance to my Mom’s account to cover living expenses, and the rest goes to restitution.”
“What about you, Jack?”
“It wouldn’t give me any cash.” Jack was frustrated. “The ATM says I’m overdrawn, but I know I’m not.”
Richter scanned the street. “This looks like the only bank in town. The hundred should be enough to get some gas and food.” He sighed. “We’ll have to try again later.”
___
Their luck wasn’t any better in the next two towns. Frustrated, they climbed back into the car.
“Ahh, shoot,” Jack said once they were back on the road. “What’s today’s date? The twenty-ninth? The thirtieth?” He shook his head. “It must be my tuition bill. That gets deducted automatically. I must have forgotten to transfer cash before we left.” He sighed and shook his head again. President Kendall patted him on the shoulder then exchanged a glance with Richter in the rearview mirror. Richter let out a breath then nodded.
An hour later they pulled off the highway again and found the bank. Reluctantly, Richter pulled out his own card. When the machine dispensed his money, he grabbed it and stuffed it in his pocket without counting. It was risky, he knew, but they didn’t have a choice.
“Where to?” Derek asked as Richter climbed in the Jeep.
“We need to get rid of this car.”
___
Rumson frowned. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, sir,” Justice Stanhope responded. “Technically, you’re still only acting president. Absent finding his body, the only way around this, that I can see, is to have President Kendall legally declared dead. That would need to be done by the court.”
Rumson shook his head slowly. “You are the court,” he said after a moment. He kept his tone even, but there was no masking the condescension.
“With all due respect, sir, I am a justice of the Supreme Court. My job is to rule on motions brought before the court. I can’t bring motions to the court. You would need to file a motion before a lower court and have a federal judge rule on it. No doubt there would be challenges. Ultimately, it might end up in my court, for a ruling.”
Rumson absentmindedly picked up the letter opener that was lying next to the blotter on the desk. His desk now, but there still seemed to be some technicalities getting in the way. He studied the letter opener for a moment. It was heavy. With its black stone handle—carved in the shape of an Aztec figure, he had heard—and the ornate silver blade, it looked like a dagger. It belonged to that prick Kendall, who, even dead, was still causing him grief. He laid it back on the desk.
Not only had Rumson moved into the Oval Office, he had also insisted on being addressed as “Mr. President.” Given the circumstances, no one argued the point with him. As each day passed, the twenty-four-hour news coverage, with its continual visual reminders coupled with the pessimistic commentary of the newscasters and analysts, only served to diminish any hopes the public may have once had. The more detailed briefings that most senior governmental officials received were bleaker still, and most had already resigned themselves to the fact that President Kendall was gone.
Rumson looked up at the Attorney General. “Can the Justice Department file this brief?”
“We’ll have to do some research. But…”
Rumson’s eyes narrowed, but Kiplinger held up his hand.
“Sir, please hear me out. We’re dealing with the Constitution here. If we approach this wrong, there will be challenges. We’ve never faced this situation before, and it’s not clear. The last thing you want is a procedural misstep. I think it’s best to wait for the recovery teams to find his body.”
Rumson was silent for a moment. “What if they don’t find him? The FBI is telling me that there’s a possibility that they never will.”
“Then that will be the basis for the motion we file before the court. We would need the investigators to declare that, in their expert opinion, the president’s body was destroyed in the crash.”
And who knew how long that could take, Rumson thought. He frowned.
“Tyler…Mr. President, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” Kiplinger paused. “From what I’ve been told, the recovery teams have done an incredible job in a very short period of time. They’re still finding bodies. I suggest that you give them another week.”
Rumson sat back. Kiplinger was right. He had to let the investigation play out. He would still keep the pressure on—the American public needed closure, and he would use that. But it was better not to rush things. It had taken a long time to reach this office, a lot of planning, many small steps. The snowstorm was just one more obstacle and a small one at that. The acting part of his title was just a formality. He was the president.
He glanced up at the two men and nodded.
___
President Kendall didn’t recognize the face in the mirror. His beard and mustache were peppered with spots of grey. His cheeks were sunken, one still bruised, and his dark eyes reflected the tension. He looked like he had aged ten years. With a Budweiser baseball cap on his head, and a green and blue flannel shirt, he couldn’t have looked any less presidential than if he had hired a Hollywood make-up artist. God, he looked like a redneck, he thought. But he was alive.
He rubbed his face. Even though he had groomed it, his beard still looked awful. Richter, however, wouldn’t let him shave it off. He sighed as he looked around the motel room, noticing it for the first time. The carpet and curtains were stained, the bed springs squeaked, the tiles in the bathroom were cracked, and the place smelled musty. But after the snow cave and the miner’s shack, it was heaven.
They had arrived at the motel on the outskirts of Boise, Idaho, late in the afternoon. The president had headed directly to the shower. It had felt good and he wanted to stand below the hot water forever. But Richter had come knocking with a new set of clothes and a couple of pizzas.
Their trip down from Elk City had taken almost eight hours. Along the way, they had learned the latest news on the crash and the recovery from the car radio, from newspapers, and from a copy of Time Magazine. President Kendall shivered when he read about the crash and the latest theories and speculation of what had happened to his body. He was stunned by the horror and devastation captured in the pictures. He read the list of names of all those, passengers and crew alike, who had been aboard Air Force One. He turned the page and saw the pictures of his family attending the candlelight vigil. His wife, his Maria, looked grief-stricken and his daughters crushed. They were holding onto their mother as if trying desperately to make sure that she too would not be taken away. His heart ached, but at the same time, he was angry. He vowed to do everything within his power to find the people responsible.
He glanced up at Richter standing by the door. His appearance had changed as well, he realized. Gone was the clean-shaven, well-dressed young man who favored designer suits. He looked more like Derek and Jack than a federal agent. With sweatpants, a matching zippered sweatshirt and running shoes, he mig
ht be on his way to play soccer or softball with his buddies. Except for his eyes, Kendall thought. If anything, they made him appear even more formidable, more intense.
___
The president seemed far away, and it took a moment for Richter to get his attention. He handed him a newspaper, pointing to the front page article.
“Pat Monahan’s heading up the investigation,” he said. “That might work to our favor, but it may be very difficult to get a hold of him.”
The president glanced at the paper and nodded.
Richter sat on the edge of the bed. They had, against all odds, made it to Boise. Now, he had to figure out their next move.
“I can try calling the main FBI number. We can get that at the local library. The problem, though, is that there’s no way they’re going to give me his cell phone number; they’ll connect me to his voice mail or maybe to his secretary.” He shook his head. “But I’m not about to leave a message.”
The president frowned. “What about a local FBI office. They should be able to reach him.”
Richter shook his head. “Too dangerous. Even with my credentials, it will probably take some effort to convince them who I am. And there’s no way to prevent them from notifying people up the chain of command.” He paused as his eyes narrowed. “All the way to Washington.”
”We might have to take that risk,” the president said.
Richter could hear the doubt in his tone.
“Mosby and Rumson have a history together,” Richter countered. “And Mosby seems to be connected to Broder too. Besides, those two federal agents I saw in the woods? For all we know, they’re real and they’re from the local office.” Richter shook his head again. “For the same reason, we can’t go to the state police either.”
The president was still frowning, but after a second he nodded. “Okay. So, it appears Rumson’s tentacles are everywhere,” he said. “What do we do next?”
Richter let out a breath. “You mentioned a reporter that you know. In Colorado?”
Kendall nodded.
“We go to Colorado.”
___
“We’ve completed the review of the data recorders.” Stan Burton handed out the transcript. “This shows the timeline and sequence of events as we understand them so far. At 10:58 a.m. local time, exactly fifty-nine minutes into the flight, the flight data recorder indicates an apparent malfunction in the fuel gauges. The gauges indicate an unequal feed from the port and starboard fuel tanks. These tanks are located in the wings and, if this were true, it would indicate an imbalance across the airframe. This appears to be an anomaly. Data on the engines and the fuel system indicate normal operation, everything within specs.
“The cockpit voice recorder indicates that the crew noticed the problem almost immediately. The transcript of the conversation is in front of you. Colonel Zweig and Major Lewis discuss the situation and then order Lieutenant McKay to check the level capacitors and the transfer pumps. They discuss the maintenance brief. Colonel Zweig then orders the Flight Engineer, Captain Wes Thomas, to check the computers and to manually calculate the fuel state. At 11:02, Lewis reports that the gauges appear to be correct, and that they indicate approximately one hundred and forty-one thousand pounds of fuel in each tank.
“Four minutes later, at 11:06 a.m., the flight data recorder indicates an interruption to the main electrical supply to the data recorders and to the communications systems. The data recorders have backup power systems and continued recording. We don’t know yet why the main power supply failed.
“At 11:09, there appears to be an explosion. The FDR indicates that the rear hatch is breeched. The crew suspects they’re under attack and begins evasive maneuvers, deploying chaff and flairs to confuse any potential inbound missiles. At the same time, they immediately lose cabin pressure; in the transcript, you can see Colonel Zweig refer to an ‘explosive decompression.’ They don oxygen masks and immediately begin an emergency descent to the minimum safe altitude. Although they’re not exactly clear what occurred, the crew reacts quickly and professionally. They’ve turned and are now on a westerly course of two-five-three degrees.
“One minute later, at 11:10, Lewis unsuccessfully attempts to contact the Air Force E-3 Sentry that is controlling the flight. She then attempts to contact Air Traffic Control, again, unsuccessfully. The aircraft continues to descend and, at 11:11, they level off at eleven thousand, nine hundred feet.
“There is another explosion. The crew deploys chaff and flairs again but does not take evasive action. It would appear that Colonel Zweig reacted appropriately, given the low altitude and the elevation of the mountains they were over. They radio a Mayday and discuss their options. They decide to try for Missoula, Montana, which is one hundred and twenty miles away. The aircraft turns north to heading zero-one-five.
“At 11:14 a.m., there is another explosion and the CVR ends. The FDR continues to record for another twenty-seven seconds and indicates major malfunctions in multiple systems, hydraulics, electrical, power plants, control surfaces. This is where the recordings end.”
Monahan waited until Burton was done and then looked around the room. “The critical question is: what exactly was Lt. McKay doing when he was sent to investigate the fuel gauge problem?”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Saturday, May 1
The call came in the morning, minutes before seven. After working through the night, Pat Monahan had just closed the door to his office and was heading to his trailer for a few hours of much needed sleep. Wearily, he answered the call.
“Mr. Monahan. This is Brett Donahue from San Antonio.”
Monahan remembered Donahue when he was transferred to Texas to become the Special Agent in Charge of the San Antonio office five years ago.
“Sir? I’ve got something down here that’s going to interest you. We discovered a body in a house about fifteen miles west of Laredo. Male, age and identity unknown, decapitated. Our initial inspection of the corpse suggests he’s of Mexican heritage. At first glance, this looks like the modus operandi for the cartels, a retaliatory killing. However, we found something with the body that suggests otherwise.”
Monahan rubbed his head, unsure where this was going.
“In a briefcase next to the body, we discovered two pounds of Semtex, plus timers, fuses, and various fake IDs.” There was a pause. “Sir?”
Monahan felt the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Yes.”
“We also found classified spec sheets and diagrams of Air Force One and the president’s itinerary for his trip to Seattle.”
___
Behind the dirty strip mall south of Salt Lake City, they found what they needed: another Dodge Grand Caravan, from an earlier model year, but with a similar color pattern. They had watched the strip mall for some time and noted very little traffic. The mall was located on a side street and had lost its customers to the more heavily traveled and newer thoroughfares. There were vacant lots on either side of the strip mall and the few small clusters of retail activity on the other side of the street appeared to be hanging on for dear life. Except for the wino out front, even the liquor store a block away looked abandoned.
In the strip mall, six of the storefronts were vacant. Of the businesses that had somehow managed to survive, there was a tax preparation service—a sign indicating it was closed—a computer repair shop, a printer, and a vacuum cleaner repair shop. There were three cars in the front parking lot and, in the back, a handful more, presumably belonging to the owners and employees. On the far end, they spotted the minivan. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, and rust was eating through the sides. A rag was stuffed into the hole where the gas cap had once been. One tire was flat, and the crack in the back window was held together with duct tape.
It took Derek two minutes to remove the license plates. The odds were in their favor that no one would notice that the seemingly abandoned minivan behind the seldom-used strip mall no longer had plates. Or so they hoped.
; ___
Henry Amalu frowned. “Do the intelligence services have anything to support this? The CIA, the NSA?”
“No sir,” the agent answered. “Not to my knowledge.”
Emil Broder sat back, only half listening. He knew the answer. Other than the body found in San Antonio, there had been no other indication that the Mexican cartels were involved in the downing of Air Force One. At least for the moment. But that wasn’t unusual. Libya’s planning and preparations for the bombing of Pan Am 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988 had somehow slipped through the intelligence nets. The USS Cole attack, the bombing of the World Trade Center in 1993, and countless other terrorist attacks, including 9/11, had slipped through the nets as well. It wasn’t until well after the events that the intelligence services were able to connect the pieces of the puzzle. Yes, the federal intelligence and law enforcement services were reorganized after 9/11, and the Department of Homeland Security was created; the goal being to ensure that coordination and information sharing across almost two hundred separate federal agencies were not impeded by bureaucracy and the desire to protect one’s own turf, something all too common amongst the agencies involved. Still, there were billions of pieces of data to sort through and somehow connect: cell phone and wire intercepts, satellite images, emails and blogs, news reports, data gathered by agents and operatives…the list went on. New data mining software helped, but it was a daunting task.
Were the Mexican Cartels behind this? he wondered as he rubbed his chest. They had a history of targeting the police and the Army in retaliation for raids and arrests. They also targeted informants, local government officials, and political candidates, going after the political structure behind the Mexican government’s war on drugs. Was this retaliation for Project Boston? Could they be sending the U.S. a clear message to stay out of Mexico’s drug battles? Or was it a matter of survival, fighting back to protect their livelihood? So far, their response to the Boston raids had been subdued.
