by Robert Gandt
Whose radar? Where? It was what Brand had been expecting—and dreading. Hundreds of miles before they approached U. S. airspace they would be picked up on radar. And intercepted. Had to happen.
But not yet. Not out here over the Labrador Sea.
If everything had been working on Air Force One, the situation display on the instrument panel would show the position of any radar-emitting aircraft in the vicinity. The screen of the situation display was blank, like every other screen on the panel. All victims of DeWitt’s sabotage.
Brand kept his eyes fixed on the RWR light. Maybe it was just sensing magnetic disturbances up here in the northern latitudes. He’d seen it before. Something to do with the aurora borealis. The light would flash intermittently, then it would go out.
The light kept flashing. The flashes were coming quicker.
“Eyes outside,” said Brand. “See if we can spot this guy. Lou, go to the cabin and get people looking out both sides. Maybe we’ll see who it is.”
The amber light was flashing in a steady pattern. Amber meant they were being tracked by a search mode radar. It could be any kind of military aircraft. Patrol plane, tanker, another transport. Anything equipped with radar.
A flashing red light was something else. Red was a target acquisition warning and it meant one thing. A fighter had locked on to them. The radar warnings were among the few systems Switzer had been able to restore. They were part of the ATADS, which included the radar receivers, chaff dispensers, decoy heat-emitters, and the battery of tail-mounted AIM-9 Sidewinder heat seeking missiles. The ATADS emitted no electronic signals. Nor did the heat seeking missiles.
Okay, the RWR light worked, Brand thought. What about the rest of the air defense system? Would the decoys deploy? Would the missiles fire? He wouldn’t know. Not until they were needed.
Brand peered into the milky darkness outside his cockpit window. It was like staring into an empty void. The sea and the sky melded together in a velvety blanket. He saw nothing except the twinkle of stars. He tried shifting his gaze back into the cockpit, refocusing his eyes, then outside again.
If it was a friendly fighter, Brand figured, he would show himself. He’d have his navigation lights on. That was the procedure. He’d fly alongside, flash his lights, then escort the radioless aircraft to a suitable airport.
What was that? Something, a gray-hued shape, swimming in and out of the gloom. To the left and slightly behind. Brand saw it, then he didn’t. He tried refocusing his eyes inside, back outside. Nothing. The shape was gone. Which meant . . .
Batchelder came through the cockpit door. Directly behind him appeared Libby Paulsen. She was wearing her blue jump suit with the presidential patch. Her hair was tousled and she wore little make up. Her gray eyes looked more serious than Brand had ever seen them.
Libby said, “We spotted something out the left side.”
“What did it look like?”
“We just got a glimpse. Definitely an airplane, all gray, maybe the size of a fighter jet.”
“Could be an F-15,” said Batchelder. “Hard to say. No lights. While we were trying to ID it, the thing disappeared.”
“Disappeared in what direction?”
“Behind us.”
Brand nodded. That was bad. If a fighter were that close to them, he’d have no problem identifying them. He’d be coming alongside, flashing his lights, exchanging signals. This guy didn’t want to be spotted.
Something caught Brand’s eye. He swung his attention back to the RWR panel. The amber light was extinguished. The red light was flashing.
<>
There was no mistaking that shape. Like a giant whale, thick-bodied, wings nearly invisible against the night sky. No navigation lights, and only an occasional dim flicker through the cabin windows. But the dancing glow of the aurora borealis offered enough illumination to make identification easy. Slade had no problem making out the American flag on the vertical stabilizer. Clearly visible was the blue and white paint scheme. Just as visible was the lettering emblazoned on the fuselage: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
It was as positive an ID as Slade needed. He didn’t want to remain in view any longer than necessary. Even in the darkness, the glow of the aurora might make him visible to anyone who happened to be looking outside. Slade eased the throttles back and slid the F-15C into trail a quarter mile behind the 747.
He could see all four engines suspended beneath the nearly-invisible wings. In the center of each tailpipe glowed a yellow plume of flame. Unlike the heat seeking AIM-9 Sidewinders, the radar-guided AIM-7 Sparrow would home in on the dense mass of the 747’s fuselage.
Slade took his time. He toggled the Master Armament switch to “On.” On the multi-function display he superimposed the target acquisition box over the radar symbol of the 747. Slade eased the fighter slightly higher and into an offset trail position. Enough to keep him clear of the debris field. He’d ripple fire two missiles, then observe the results. If by any chance the aircraft was still flying, he’d shoot again.
Whatever it took.
<>
It was happening too fast for Libby.
The red light on the overhead panel was flashing like a fire alarm. “The sonofabitch is targeting us!” she heard Morganti say.
Brand turned to Switzer. “Arm the ATADS.”
“Already done.” Switzer was wearing a grim expression as he pointed to the console. The latched door that covered the console was open and Switzer had the switches armed. “Ready to shoot,” said the sergeant.
Libby felt as if she were watching a bad movie. A sci-fi drama with fake technology. She remembered a briefing on Air Force One’s air defense system. She recalled hearing about the ATADS, that it was some kind of last-ditch ploy against an unanticipated air threat. They told her that it had only been used in test platforms, never to fire real weapons. She knew that Air Force One had some kind of anti-missile system as well as protection against the electromagnetic pulse of a nuclear blast. Somewhere in the tail section of Air Force One was a battery of missiles. Each missile had its own self-contained guidance system. All the missiles needed was a positive heat signature from a target somewhere behind the aircraft.
And a command from the cockpit.
Switzer had his hand on the firing button. His eyes were fixed on Brand, waiting for the order. Brand turned to lock gazes with Libby.
Libby looked back at him. She hated this. She hated the decisions that went with this job. Brand was still looking at her, giving her a nod.
“Yes,” she said.
Chapter 13
Slade wished he could transmit a “Fox-one.” It was the brevity-code call that a semi-active radar-guided missile was being fired. He could imagine the effect back in the Capella command post. He would love to follow up with an eye-witness report of the descending fireball. He would be the sole witness to the death of the traitor queen.
But Slade knew the rules, and he understood the reason for them. Nothing, not even the record of a scrambled radio call, would be available for investigators. In total anonymity Col. Tom Slade was going to change the course of history.
Slade eased his finger over the trigger on the control stick. He gave the multi-function display a final glance. The target acquisition box hovered neatly over the symbol for the 747. The scenario was playing out exactly as he had rehearsed a hundred times in his mind.
He returned his scan to the outside. He wanted to see the missiles hit their target. He’d fire from a slight offset, get the Sparrows in the air, stay away from the cloud of flaming debris that would—
What the hell? A flash. Something in the tail of the 747, like a tiny explosion.
Then he saw it. It looked like a firefly in the darkness, making tiny course corrections as it homed unerringly for its target. Slade had witnessed the flight of over a hundred air-to-air missiles. He’d never seen one from this angle.
The sonofabitch was coming at him. More by instinct than conscious thought, Slade slammed the stick
to the left and racked the F-15C into an eight-G turn. He knew it was futile. The only effect of the maneuver was to block his view of the missile homing in on the intake of his right engine.
When the impact came, Tom Slade’s only sensation was a blinding light. Then darkness.
<>
“My god,” whispered Libby. “Did we do that?”
The flash emanated from behind and to the left, momentarily lighting up the sky. Through Brand’s side window Libby could see the pulsing yellow glow, descending behind them. The glow lasted several seconds, then faded.
“Our missile,” said Brand in a toneless voice. “It took out the bandit.”
Libby felt a wave of revulsion come over her. In her year and a half as President she had given her approval to operations that resulted in someone’s death. Sometimes the deceased was an enemy of the United States. Sometimes the deceased was an American she’d sent into action. In each instance she was removed by several thousand miles and multiple layers of responsibility from the actual carnage.
This was different. She had given the order to fire. She hated it.
Libby continued staring out the window. The yellow glow was gone. The sky was dark. “It was one of ours, wasn’t it? An American?”
Brand said nothing.
She knew. She could tell by the way Brand was looking at her. Whoever was flying the fighter was on the same team that had tried to kill them over the Atlantic. Her fellow Americans. She was their commander-in-chief.
A silence fell over the cockpit. In the semi-darkened cockpit Libby could see Brand’s profile. He was gazing out the windscreen, out where the aurora was shimmering in the northern sky. His expression was reflective, as if he were deep in thought.
She remembered that expression. She’d seen it before. In another lifetime.
<>
They are anchored on the eastern shore of Maryland. Libby is looking around the boat. She peeks into the aft cabin, then the forward cabin. Each is neat, as if a housekeeper has just tidied up. Brand actually lives on this vessel. He also has an apartment in Alexandria, but she knows it is mainly for his books, an office, and a more spacious place to spread out his painting equipment.
In Libby’s experience, few men are neat. It stands to reason that in order to live on a boat you have to have a certain sense of order. The interior of Brand’s boat is orderly, yet somehow homey. Not at all like sailboats she’s seen before. Brand’s boat looks like a floating studio. The home of an artist who also happens to be a technocrat. The nearly invisible hi-fi produces acoustics, to Libby’s ear, like those in a symphony hall.
Arranged on the bulkheads of the cabin are half a dozen unframed canvases. Brand’s foldable easel stands in a corner.
She squints at one of the paintings. Libby doesn’t qualify as an art critic, but she knows what pleases her and what doesn’t. Brand’s watercolors are mostly aquatic scenes. Harbors filled with the masts of moored vessels, a yacht much like Andromeda heeled over under full sail, a pelican gazing from his perch on a boat’s rail.
“They’re. . . different,” she says.
“Astute observation,” says Brand. “Different from what?”
“Each is different from the others. Some have a broad field of view, with an object in the foreground, like this one”— she points to a scene of a seashore view from over the prow of a boat — “and some, like this pelican here, are up close, with the background sort of . . . unfocused.”
Brand nods. “Like a photograph?”
She stands back, appraising the painting. “Yes, it has that quality.”
“I shot each of the scenes with a camera. Several times, actually, different perspectives and fields of view. When I saw what I was looking for, I painted it.”
Libby tilts her head, looking at each painting in turn. She nods her approval. “This stuff could grow on you.”
“Which do you like best?”
She squints at the paintings again. “This one. The pelican.”
“Do you want it?”
“I don’t think I can afford it.”
“You can.” He takes the canvas down from the bulkhead and hands it to her.
She gazes at it for several seconds. “It’s beautiful. But I don’t see the artist’s signature.”
“It’s better that way.”
She thinks about it for another moment. She knows what he means. Gifts of art invite scrutiny. And questions. Who is the painter? Someone we’ve heard of? Brand is right. Let the artist remain anonymous. It occurs to her that Brand is better at protecting their secrecy than she is.
“For now,” she says. “Someday I’ll ask you for the artist’s signature on the painting.”
He gives her that bemused half smile again. “Someday.”
Libby just nods. There’s that word again. Someday. She and Brand use it a lot. It’s the closest they can come to talking about the future.
<>
Snick. Snick. Snick.
The Nikon clicks off the shots in rapid succession. Beldner pulls his head back to glance at the stored images, then returns his eye to the viewer and notches the shutter speed up one click.
Snick. Snick.
They are staying a good seventy, maybe eighty yards away, but that’s close enough. The big 600 mm. lens—Beldner calls it the Howitzer—is bringing the targets up close and personal.
“Get any with her top off?” asks Manson from the nearby rail.
“Lots. Nice mole on her left boob,” reports Beldner. “Looks like she and the guy are about to get it on right there in the wheelhouse.”
“They paying any attention to us?”
“He gave us a look over, but didn’t bother with binocs. Guess they’re not worried about being surveilled.”
Beldner isn’t concerned about being spotted. The Howitzer is well concealed in a pile of orange life preservers and coiled lines. Only the 6-and-a-half-inch diameter end of the telescopic lens is peeking through an opening. The non-reflective filter eliminates any telltale glint of sunlight. The trawler is creeping along at something less than three knots. The three men with fishing rods are going through the motions of casting and retrieving their lines. Manson has even caught some kind of fish. The thing is still flopping around in the well on the aft deck.
This is the second time the targets had come out here to the east Chesapeake in the sailboat. Beldner can see why. They can anchor in one of these little coves in the archipelago across the bay from the mouth of the Potomac. No traffic, shoreline nearly deserted, no intruders. Just the odd slow-moving trawler, like this one, with the three guys fishing.
And the 600 mm. Howitzer.
Beldner doesn’t know the guy’s name. Wouldn’t be hard to find out if he were curious. He’s already figured out that the broad is a Congresswoman by the name of Paulsen. By the way they’re nuzzling each other you know that the guy isn’t her spouse, which is undoubtedly the reason for the shoot. Beldner has been in this business long enough to know that you don’t ask questions about the job. Or the client. You get the shots, get out of sight, collect your money. You don’t care what the client does with the photos. Could be blackmail, could be a tabloid spread, maybe even espionage. Beldner has seen it all. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he gets paid.
Snick. Snick. Snick.
“It’s getting better,” says Beldner. “They’re playing grabass again. Hands all over each other.”
Snick. Snick. Yeah, they are definitely getting worked up, the guy’s hand between her thighs, she stroking him like a cat. Are they going to do out there in the open? Beldner hopes so. The broad seems ready, but the guy is saying something, looking up and glancing around. He peers over at the trawler with the disinterested fishermen still working their lines, then nods to the woman. Holding her hand, he leads her down the open companionway to the forward cabin.
Beldner gets off another half-dozen frames, some good skin shots, before the couple vanishes into the darkness of the cabin. “Ease us aroun
d,” he calls up to Edmunds on the helm. “Keep a good distance and get me a better angle through that cabin door.” If they don’t close the door he might get a few shadowy shots of the real thing. Some good old-fashioned bonking. Even if they are only silhouettes, he can make the images clear enough with the computer.
Beldner keeps shooting as the trawler moves in a slow arc around the cove. They have a straight-on view of the stern of sailboat. The cabin door is still open, the interior of the cabin mostly dark. Beldner won’t know if he is getting anything good until he’s done the enhancements back in the office.
Doesn’t matter. What he’s gotten today is hot. Real hot. Images sharp and unmistakable, targets clearly frozen in activities that leave nothing to the imagination. Just what the client ordered.
<>
“Nice painting,” says Ken Paulsen.
Libby looks up from the Washington Post. She’s sitting at the breakfast table. Early spring sunshine is slanting through the kitchen window. She has fifteen minutes before she has to be out the door. The opener on her agenda is the meeting of the House Committee on Agriculture, of which she is the junior member.
“Painting?” says Libby. Her husband is standing in the kitchen doorway. He is in golf attire—jet blue slacks, web belt, polo shirt over a long-sleeved jersey. Paulsen is a two-handicap player, and the natty wardrobe matches his game. As far as Libby can tell, most of Paulsen’s business as a Washington lobbyist is conducted on the fairways of the District’s country clubs.
Then she sees it. Paulsen is holding up an unframed canvas. A watercolor of a pelican perched on a boat rail.
“Not bad,” says Paulsen, “if you like birds crapping on boats. Where’d it come from?”
Libby doesn’t hate Ken Paulsen. Not any longer. In the twelve years of their marriage her emotions have run from love to contempt to what she feels now—a studied indifference. That she has remained in a loveless marriage is, she often reflects, more a commentary on her own ambition than on her feelings about wedlock. The truth is, being married to the handsome and likable Ken Paulsen has been good for her career. Divorcing him would crush her approval rating in the heavily Catholic district she represents.
