The President's Pilot

by Robert Gandt

  They were standing on the tarmac. One of Grossman’s Secret Service agents stood on either side of the Dane.

  Brand thought he was joking. “The President of the United States. As you may have noticed, this is her airplane.”

  “Will she be paying by cash or by credit card?”

  The truth dawned on Brand. The guy was serious. “Uh, credit card, I suppose.”

  “Since you arrived without transmitting an advance fuel order, it will take some time. I’ll have to clear your card with our verification service.”

  Brand stared at him. “Look, Mr. Fischer, we don’t have time for that. And I have to tell you that there can’t be any form of communication about our arrival here.”

  “This facility is not the property of the U. S. government, Colonel. If you wish to obtain any services from us, you will have to deal with the official representative of the Danish government.”

  “Let me guess. That would be you?”

  Fischer drew himself to his full height. “You are correct.”

  Brand tried to suppress his exasperation. This idiot was ignoring the obvious. Air Force One’s security team had already shut down the airfield’s communications facilities. Brand could simply hold the Dane under temporary arrest while they completed fueling. But without the help of Fischer’s fueling crew, it would be a tedious—maybe impossible—task purging the contaminated tanks and refilling them.

  “Mr. Fischer,” said Brand, “this is an emergency situation. We may have to dispense with some of the usual formalities.”

  Fischer’s expression remained unchanged. “This is a commercial enterprise, Colonel. I must insist that your credit be verified and a proper request made for—”

  The Dane jerked his head, suddenly aware of the woman in the blue jump suit who had walked up behind him. A look of alarm flashed over his face. “Ah, Madame . . . I mean . . . let me introduce myself . . .”

  “I’m Libby Paulsen,” the woman said, thrusting out her hand. “I’m honored to meet the official representative of the Kingdom of Denmark.”

  The Dane stared as if he were seeing an alien from space. He took her hand. “It is . . . my pleasure . . . Madame President.”

  “Mr. Fischer, Denmark and the United States have a long history of mutual assistance. I will personally thank the Prime Minister for the invaluable help we have received from your facility. I can assure you that your actions will be highly praised.”

  The Dane continued staring at her. A look of pure ecstasy spread over his face. “Yes . . . I think . . . in this case, of course. . . we can certainly make an exception to the requirement for verification.” Fischer drew himself up to his full height. “You have my assurance that our staff will fuel your aircraft and have it ready to depart as soon as possible. Is there anything else we can do for you, Madame President?”

  Libby shot Brand a quick glance. “I’m sure Colonel Brand and his crew will be most appreciative of any help you can render. You have my sincere thanks, Mr. Fischer.”

  Fischer brought his heels together and gave Libby a courtly bow. Studiously ignoring Brand, he headed off across the darkened tarmac.

  Brand watched the Dane march away. He shook his head. “Amazing.”

  “What’s amazing?”

  “The way you charmed that guy. It’s incredible.”

  “It’s not incredible. It’s an act. It’s what I do best, remember?”

  She said it without smiling. Brand detected a note of toughness in her voice. That was good. Maybe she was regaining some of her composure after being nearly killed over the Atlantic.

  Or maybe she was still acting.

  Chapter 9

  “Five more minutes, Madame President,” said Switzer.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Libby shivered in the pre-dawn darkness. She could see the refueling truck finishing its task on the right side of the aircraft. Standing with her on the tarmac were Jill Maitlin, a pair of Secret Service agents, and Johan Fischer, the airport director. The only sound on the ramp was the dull rumble of the auxiliary power unit in the 747’s tail.

  “Is there anything more we can do for you, Madame President?” asked Fischer.

  “Just one thing,” said Libby. At this she saw Jill Maitlin easing in closer so that she could hear. “We are in a . . . sensitive national security condition. I must ask you not to release any messages or calls that mention our presence here. Not for at least twelve hours.”

  She expected that the Dane would balk. Then he surprised her. “You have my assurance, Madame President. I will personally see to it that your request is honored.”

  Libby didn’t know whether to believe him or not. It didn’t matter. There was nothing more her team could do about it short of destroying every telephone and radio apparatus in Narsarsuaq. “You have my sincere thanks, Mr. Fischer.” She realized she was using her actor’s voice again. “I will convey my appreciation to your prime minister.”

  It was the right thing to say. Fischer’s face again lit up at the mention of a commendation. Maybe the guy needed to score some points back in Copenhagen to atone for whatever he’d done that got him sent to this desolate place in the first place. Or maybe he was just a bureaucrat who liked being stroked.

  Or maybe he was an actor too.

  Libby gazed around her. The fueling truck was pulling away. She could see stars twinkling through the thin veneer of clouds. In the darkness beyond the runway she could barely make out the jagged silhouette of the ridgeline. Narsarsuaq looked like the end of the earth. The kind of place where she could vanish.

  It was a thought she’d been having since they’d landed here. She could drop out. Disappear. Let the crazies who wanted her dead take over. Being President had always terrified her. Libby had managed it with brains and, most of all, acting. But this—this was scarier than anything she’d ever dreamed.

  The other passengers on Air Force One—the non-essential crew, including the members of Congress and the two Iranian diplomats—had been offered the chance to disembark here at Narsarsuaq. None wanted to stay behind. If the President was leaving, they were too. Libby wished she felt as secure as they did.

  “Time to board,” she heard Jill Maitlin say.

  Libby didn’t move. She stood at the foot of the boarding ladder, arms wrapped around her. A thought kept whirring through her mind. You’re the President. You don’t have to do this.

  Brand and his crew were already in the cockpit, ready to start the engines. Why had she let him persuade her to continue this flight?

  “Libby . . .” Jill was speaking in a low voice so that Fischer and the agents couldn’t hear. “We have to get aboard. Now.”

  Libby caught the emphasis on now. Jill had always been bossy, but lately she’d been more so. Jill Maitlin comported herself more like a mother superior than a White House advisor.

  Libby gave it a few more seconds, mainly to show that she was still in charge. She took a deep breath and trudged up the boarding stairs. Jill and the Secret Service agents followed in close trail. At the top of the stairs Libby stopped. She turned and looked back. In normal times this would be a photo op. This was where the President would pause to wave farewell to the press and the assembled politicos and the curious public.

  Here in Narsarsuaq there was no press. No curious public. Only Johan Fischer, watching from the darkened ramp. Libby waved. Fischer waved back. Goodbye, she thought and stepped inside the cabin of Air Force One.

  <>

  Brand knew it was trouble as soon as the Secret Service team leader burst into the cockpit.

  They had nearly reached the end of the runway. Grossman came to the front of the cockpit. “Sergeant DeWitt’s missing.”

  Brand stopped the airplane. He turned to look at Grossman. “What the hell happened?”

  Grossman wore a pained expression. “It’s my fault. I assigned one guy to watch him. DeWitt seemed subdued, in a stupor. I wasn’t worried about him. I needed all my team for the security sweep when we landed, s
o I had DeWitt locked up in the galley pantry. No one bothered to check on him until we were taxiing out. Sometime while we were parked the sonofabitch found a way out and slipped away.”

  “You’re sure he’s not on the airplane?”

  “My guys are searching, but it’s my guess that he’s back there on the ground somewhere. Looks like he removed a floor panel in the pantry, then went out through the belly of the airplane. Shit, I’m sorry, Colonel. We can still go back and try to root him out.”

  Brand considered. They had only about three hours before sunrise. Chasing after DeWitt would use up what darkness they had left. Darkness was their friend.

  “We can’t go back,” said Brand.

  Grossman nodded. “Understood, Colonel. And, ah, like I said, it was my responsibility, guarding that sonofabitch, and . . .”

  “If he’s in Narsarsuaq, he’s not going anywhere. You can deal with him later.”

  The Secret Service agent looked relieved. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Brand resumed taxiing. When they reached the end of the runway, he swiveled the big transport around on the 150 foot wide swath of concrete. They’d be taking off in the opposite direction they’d landed, climbing seaward instead of toward the rising terrain of the fjord. Their charts showed that even with the five-mile-per-hour tailwind, the 747 would require slightly less than 5,000 feet to become airborne. Ahead stretched the twin rows of white runway edge lights. At the far end they could see the red flicker of the runway end lights. Beyond, only darkness.

  Switzer was reading the take off check list. The PA system still wasn’t working, so there would be no take off announcement. Brand had to assume the cabin occupants, including the President of the United States, had enough sense to fasten their seat belts.

  Brand brought the aircraft to a stop in the center of the runway. He wrapped his hand around the four throttles. Air Force One would leave Narsarsuaq the same way it arrived—no communication, no announcements. Only the thunder of its four fanjet engines. No one on the ground would know they’d been there except for Fischer and a handful of aircraft handlers.

  And Chief Master Sergeant Bruce DeWitt.

  <>

  Through the streaked glass window DeWitt watched the shape of the Boeing 747 rumble down the runway. It was unlike any departure of a VIP transport he had ever witnessed. No lights, no clearances, no escort vehicles with flashing beacons. Just the deep-throated roar of the Pratt & Whitney engines propelling it like a ghost ship into the night.

  When the big jet vanished in the darkness, a flood of relief swept over DeWitt. In the space of a few hours he had seen his life spin out of control. He’d gone from second flight engineer on Air Force One to systems saboteur to near-victim of a mid-Atlantic crash to prisoner to . . . what?

  Patriot, he reminded himself. Distasteful as the sabotaging of the aircraft had been, DeWitt knew that history would remember him as a red-blooded American who had helped remove a treasonous leader. That he had survived the near-downing of Air Force One was a God-sent miracle. An even greater miracle was that he had managed to extricate himself from the aircraft. The Secret Service agent who locked him in the pantry hadn’t bothered to remove the Leatherman tool on his belt.

  It had taken only a few minutes after their arrival in Narsarsuaq for DeWitt to free himself of the plastic tie wraps. Then he used the screwdriver blade to unfasten the floor panel. With his intimate knowledge of Air Force One’s layout, DeWitt found his way through the darkened passages of the airplane’s belly compartments, then unlatched the access door in the forward fuselage.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was the fall—twelve goddamn feet to the blackened pavement. He’d hit the concrete like a dropped log, and now he could barely straighten his left leg. His left ankle was sprained, maybe broken. He’d hobbled over to the edge of the ramp, then scurried along behind a row of parked tow vehicles to the complex of hangars and Quonset huts. He knew where he needed to go. He’d easily picked out the hangar from the others by the antennas mounted on the circular roof. He let himself in the unlocked door. He’d taken several minutes to make sure he was unobserved. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle, he ascended the ladder to the loft.

  As the rumble of Air Force One’s engines slowly subsided in the west, DeWitt returned his attention to his surroundings. By now his eyes were adjusted to the darkness of the loft where he’d concealed himself behind pallets of insulation material. The shop space directly beneath him contained the station’s high frequency radio. Watching from his hiding place, he’d been surprised when the three Secret Service agents burst into the building. To his relief they weren’t searching for him but for the high frequency radio. DeWitt observed them fumbling with the console, discussing how best to disable it, finally settling on the simple expedient of severing a bundle of wires leading to the main panel.

  It was then that DeWitt understood. They were disabling communications from Narsarsuaq because they didn’t want anyone disclosing the fact that Paulsen was alive. They intended to take off again. Bound for the U. S. or back to Europe? DeWitt couldn’t be sure, but his gut instinct told him that Air Force One would be returning to the U. S. One thing he was certain about: they’d be doing it without operative radios. He’d taken care of that. It would take a team of avionics technicians and a truckload of new equipment to restore Air Force One’s communications modules.

  Dewitt waited another five minutes. When he was sure no one else was approaching the building, he hobbled down from the loft, gritting his teeth against the pain from his left ankle, and let himself into the radio room. He almost laughed when he examined the severed wire bundle. His specialty as a technician in the Air Force was avionics. Even in the darkness, using only the Leatherman and a roll of electrical tape he found on a bench, he figured he could splice all the wires in less than fifteen minutes.

  It took him ten. Before booting the radio back up, he sat on the floor massaging his ankle while he considered his next move. The radio was a Micom 2E, which meant that he could use the discrete frequency reserved for Capella to make a direct connection with an office in Washington. What he didn’t know was whether the radio was monitored anywhere else on the airport. Had the airport authorities been ordered not to report the passage of Air Force One? How would they react when they eventually discovered the presence of a left-behind cockpit crew member?

  It didn’t matter. He’d come up with a story. The only thing that mattered was that Air Force One didn’t make it to North America.

  DeWitt slipped on the headset with the attached boom mike. He flipped the master switch and was rewarded with the glow of amber panel lights on the Micom console. As quickly as he could he punched in the discrete frequency, listening to the changing static patterns while the digital radio channeled to the correct wave length.

  The static abruptly subsided. He heard the ringing of a telephone. “Tomahawk,” said a voice over the headset. DeWitt nodded. “Tomahawk” was the code name for the Capella duty officer.

  “This is Pacer Four,” said DeWitt. “I’m calling from Narsarsuaq, Greenland with an update on Angel.”

  Several seconds passed. DeWitt felt a grim satisfaction as he imagined the flurry of excitement in the Capella duty room. You bastards thought I was dead.

  “I need you to authenticate, Pacer Four.”

  “Unable to authenticate from this radio. Here’s what you need to know. Angel landed in Narsarsuaq an hour ago, and is now airborne again.”

  For several seconds DeWitt heard only thin static over the radio. Then a different voice. “Pacer Four, confirm your last. Confirm that Angel is airborne.”

  “That is affirmative. Angel refueled in Greenland and departed fifteen minutes ago.”

  Several more seconds passed. “Pacer Four, say Angel’s route and destination.”

  “No destination was disclosed.” DeWitt waited a moment, then added, “It’s very probable that Angel is westbound.” DeWitt knew whoever was in
the duty room was trying to decipher why Pacer Four, who they knew was a Capella member and the second flight engineer aboard Air Force One, was no longer aboard the jet. He also knew that without encrypted communications, the question wouldn’t be asked over an open radio frequency.

  “Are you speculating, Pacer Four, or do you have hard information?”

  DeWitt felt a surge of anger. As in a recurring nightmare it came back to him that these were the assholes who’d almost dumped Air Force One in the Atlantic—with him aboard. They’d sent him on a suicide mission. Now they were treating him like he was some kind of street snitch.

  “I just told you. It’s an educated guess, and I don’t give a shit what you do with it. I’m running out of time and I have to sign off.” He’d done his duty—more than his duty—by disabling Angel’s communications modules, then by escaping on the ground and reporting to them that their target was still not destroyed.

  “Okay, okay, Pacer four. We need you to remain on this line so we can—”

  DeWitt held down the channel-changing toggle, cutting off the transmission. Fuck them. When the digits had shifted half a dozen channels from the frequency he’d been using, he flipped the master switch off. Then he settled back against the wall and massaged his ankle. It was time to think about what he was going to tell his hosts in Greenland.

  Chapter 10

  “I don’t believe it,” said General Vance McDivott.

  Jim Ripley watched his boss ranting at the plasma display. Not one of the six plasma screens on the wall was showing the telltale yellow triangular symbol of Air Force One. When McDivott rotated the thumb wheel on the remote view selector, all he could pull up were the pulsing transpondor symbols of other military aircraft. Dozens of them. Most were en route to the point in the mid-Atlantic where they’d been told Air Force had gone down.

  But now this. If the latest report was to be believed, Air Force One hadn’t gone down. The goddamn thing had landed in Greenland, refueled, and taken off again. And it was emitting nothing. No transpondor squawk, no datalink, no radio transmissions. Air Force One had become a stealth jet.