by Robert Gandt
Falling out of love with Ken had taken her less than a year. It began the first time she was confronted with his philandering. The girl was a vapid blonde named Susie, one in a long succession of interns, reporters, lobbyists, secretaries, and one married female naval officer. The first occasion was followed by an ugly spat, denials and recriminations. Next morning came the apologies and a tear-filled promise that it wouldn’t happen again.
It did. Again and again as she learned that Ken Paulsen was a man hardwired for adultery. There were more pitched battles, accusations and denials, more promises of fidelity. At some point Libby stopped caring. The only requirement she now asks of her husband is that he not jeopardize her career by flaunting his affairs in public. He has complied, more or less. She has come to regard Ken Paulsen not as a husband but an associate with whom she has to maintain a civil if not an intimate relationship.
“That painting?” she says again. Her voice has a tinny sound, and she hates it. Damn. She neglected to put the painting away. Ken must have found it in her office. He’s holding it up like a specimen.
She says, “Oh, some little gallery in Annapolis. I bought it on a whim.”
Paulsen is giving her a curious look. “Why were you in Annapolis?”
“Business,” she says. She doesn’t like his tone. What the hell does he care where she picked up a watercolor of a pelican? “Lunch with someone.”
He looks at her for another moment, then nods. “Didn’t know you were into cheap art. Who’s the artist?”
“Who knows? I liked it, so I bought it.” She picks up the paper again and resumes reading, her signal that the conversation has ended. She feels a flash of anger, not so much at her husband—she knows better than to let Ken Paulsen push her buttons—but at herself. This feeling of guilt. It is ironic that she should be lying to him, the crown prince of liars. About a damned painting. And the painter.
Chapter 14
Sam Fornier stared at the blank screen. Something was going on. Fornier was trying to log on to Gourmand, the dedicated server that relayed text messages to the galleys of the squadron aircraft. Fornier’s laptop, which was Wi-Fi linked to the master server, was displaying a message: ERROR CODE 351: GOURMAND IS UNAVAILABLE. PASSWORD RESET REQUIRED.
Bullshit, thought Fornier. The Gourmand server, which was physically located somewhere in Virginia, had never been unavailable. And never had it been necessary to reset the password. And if it ever was required, it would be the air wing information technology officer who issued or changed passwords.
And that officer happened to be Capt. Sam Fornier.
Ooookay. The game was heating up. Someone was screwing around with Gourmand. And given the total craziness of what had happened with Air Force One, Fornier had an idea who. The same someone who had picked up on the texting link between Air Force One and the catering officer at Andrews.
Oh, shit. As the realization sank in, it took all Fornier’s will power not to grab the laptop, yank the running shoes out of the backpack, put them on and run like a baboon with its ass on fire.
Instead, the young officer went back to the laptop. Typing as fast as possible, Fornier pecked in a new password for the Gourmand server.
And then logged off.
Just as quickly Fornier opened up a new connection, this one to Chowhound, the secondary server which Fornier had set up out of boredom one night when there was nothing else to do in the catering office. Chowhound used a discrete address and had only one admissible user: Sam Fornier.
Or so Fornier hoped. Sam was loading the password for the secondary server when the sounds came from the hallway outside.
Footsteps. Lots of them. With trembling fingers Fornier pecked at the laptop, closing down the Chowhound connection.
The door to the office burst open.
<>
Is McDivott a psycho?
It wasn’t the first time the thought had occurred to Major Gen. Jim Ripley. Back when Ripley was a new brigadier and McDivott was looking for his first star, Ripley had watched McDivott maneuvering his way up the military pyramid. To his followers, Vance McDivott was a warrior in the mold of Alexander or Napoleon. A mix of religiosity and brazen courage. To his detractors, McDivott was something else. He was a dangerous firebrand with the power to mesmerize an entire nation.
Ripley knew the truth. McDivott was both.
“So what happened to Blazer?” McDivott asked.
No one answered. Each of the officers in the room gazed back at McDivott. They knew it was a rhetorical question. Blazer—the call sign for Tom Slade, pilot of the F15C dispatched to intercept Angel—had vanished from the screen. Like Angel, Blazer was emitting no electronic signals.
“It seems pretty clear,” offered Ripley. “Blazer has been morted.”
McDivott looked at him. “By what means?”
Ripley knew this was coming. Another rhetorical question. That was McDivott’s style, asking questions to which he already knew the answers, just to see if he’d missed something. “How else?” said Ripley. “We know that Angel has air-to-air defense weaponry.”
“Were we not assured that their avionics capability had been neutralized? No radar, no data link. How could Angel have gotten a lock on Blazer?”
“They’re getting help,” said an Air Force major. His name was Blackwell, and he commanded the special communications section of Capella. “We’ve homed in on a data link that seems to be emanating from Andrews. We think that an officer in the VIP catering office, maybe with the help of someone in the Pentagon, alerted Angel to the threat over an open comm channel.”
“Open channel?” said McDivott. “How did that happen? And why hasn’t this catering officer been nailed?”
“It’s happening as we speak. We’ve already shut down the server they’ve been using, which should put Angel out of communications permanently.”
“What about this source in the Pentagon? Who the hell could that be?”
Blackwell shook his head. “We don’t know yet, but we’re getting close. We’re monitoring every registered device. If they try to open up another comm line, we’ll be on them.”
McDivott clasped his hands behind him and seemed to lapse into deep thought. After several seconds he peered around the room again, pausing to fix his gaze on each of the officers present. McDivott rose from his chair and stood stroking his chin. “It’s all very clear, gentlemen. By firing a missile at Tom Slade’s aircraft, the terrorists have displayed hostile intent.”
“Terrorists?” said Ripley.
“The ones who have taken control of Air Force One. By this overt act of war, they have revealed their intentions. We have all the justification we need for shooting them down.”
“Ah, General, won’t that be stretching the rationale a bit, considering that the F-15 was on its way to—”
“This is the U. S. Air Force, not the Cub Scouts, General Ripley. The F-15 was fired upon and destroyed. When we’re fired upon, we fire back.”
Ripley knew when to shut up. McDivott’s eyes had taken on a messianic glow. Ripley had it seen before and he knew what was coming.
“Let us pray,” McDivott said. His eyes swept the room, commanding each of the half dozen officers to join him. He bowed his head. “Heavenly father, we ask that you bestow your blessing on the soul of our departed hero, Tom Slade, and welcome him to the kingdom of glory.” McDivott paused for effect. Then he continued in a more strident voice, “And we beseech thee, Father, to give us courage. Give us the courage to complete the crusade on which you have sent us. We ask your guidance and divine help to strike from the sky the oppressors who would destroy our nation.” He paused again before saying, “Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the officers in the room.
Jim Ripley was a religious man, but not as religious as McDivott. Did McDivott really believe that God was directing him? Was the general a religious fanatic who had gone over the edge? If so, he was taking an entire country with him.
Ripley uttered his own
silent prayer. He prayed that God would forgive them for what they were about to do.
<>
“What about the Iranians?” said Jill.
Libby looked up from her desk. “Iranians? What about them?”
“The reason we made this trip, remember? The two diplomats who are supposed to be your negotiating partners. You need to talk to them.”
Libby rubbed her eyes for a moment. So much had happened in the past eight hours she’d forgotten about the pair of Iranians who boarded Air Force One in Tehran. “How do you talk about a peace accord when someone is trying to kill you?”
“Fake it,” said Jill. “We’ve been their Great Satan for thirty years. These guys don’t trust us anyway, and now they’re scared to death.”
“For good reason. So am I.”
“If you want to pull off this peace accord, you have to reassure them.”
Libby sighed. If you want to pull off this peace accord. They both knew the truth. The Iranian peace accord had been Lyle Bethune’s idea, but it would have had no chance of succeeding without the involvement of the President. That involvement had just earned for her the everlasting hatred of the right wing. And maybe a death sentence.
“Okay, send them in.”
Jill stepped back into the passageway. Seconds later she returned with the two diplomats in trail. The Iranian Foreign Minister, Mahmoud Said, looked like a befuddled professor in his rumpled black suit and thick spectacles. The other man, Kamil Al-Bashir, was a younger and scruffier version of Said. Each wore a graying stubble of beard and the same glowering expression.
Said didn’t offer to shake hands. He positioned himself in front of Libby’s desk. “We are outraged about our treatment aboard your aircraft.”
“Your treatment?” Libby caught Jill’s furtive nod. “Oh, you must mean—”
“We are being watched like criminals. No one has kept us informed. We have not been permitted to communicate with our superiors as we were promised.”
Libby remembered. Gritti and Grossman were worried because the Iranians hadn’t undergone a security check. It was Grossman’s idea to keep them under constant watch.
“I apologize, Minister Said. My security people sometimes become overly protective of me. They are especially worried because of the . . .unfortunate death of our Vice President.”
“Have we become suspects in this matter?”
“Certainly not. I will order our security chief to discontinue watching you and Mr. Al-Bashir.” Libby ignored the scowl from Jill Maitlin.
Said nodded. His voice became less strident. “Does that mean we will be allowed to speak with our ministry in Tehran as we were promised?”
“Yes, of course. As soon as we have restored our long range communications network.” She paused and gave him a wan smile. “I understand your frustration. Believe me, I am just as frustrated. It must seem unbelievable that such an airplane—” she made a sweeping gesture with her hand —“would have this sort of failure. Our Presidential Pilot tells me he’s never experienced such a thing.”
She thought she saw a softening in the Iranian’s hard expression. “Madame President, is there some other danger we haven’t been told about?”
Libby tried to read the Iranian’s face. Like all the occupants of Air Force One, he knew about the electrical failure and the descent over the North Atlantic. Like the other passengers, he had chosen to stay aboard in Greenland. What else did he suspect? Did he have any idea that they had nearly been shot down by a friendly fighter?
“No danger,” said Libby. “Our crew assures me that our aircraft’s problems are minor. We will be arriving in Washington right on schedule.”
“Then we can resume our negotiations?”
“Certainly. The accord between our countries will be my highest priority. You have my sincere promise.”
It seemed to be working. Libby could sense the change in the Iranian’s demeanor. She saw Said exchange glances with the younger man, who nodded his agreement. Said turned to her. “Thank you for your openness, Madame President. Mr. Al-Bashir and I are prepared to cooperate with you in completing this difficult process.”
Libby came from around her desk and took the Iranian’s hand between hers. She gave each a smile. “Gentlemen, I am honored to be your negotiating partner. We will reach an accord that will serve both our countries. Together we will make history.”
Each man was nodding his head affirmatively as Jill ushered them from the suite. When the door was again closed, Jill said, “That was masterful. Just what it took. You reassured them.”
Libby said nothing. She slumped back into the chair behind her desk. She didn’t feel masterful. She felt like an actor. You reassured them. Maybe, but Libby knew the truth. She was the one who needed reassuring.
<>
The girl with the pony tail looked up from the desk. “Can I help you?”
There were four of them, all carrying semi-automatic pistols. Were those Glocks? The girl didn’t know. Guns were guns. These guys looked like goons and they were after something. Or someone. They had the look of rent-a-cops. Blue nylon jackets, thick necks, short haircuts.
Two of them didn’t wait. The pair charged past her desk, pistols at the ready, yanking open cabinets and peering beneath desks, .
“Hey!” she said. “What do you think you’re doing in here?”
The guy in front of her desk, a barrel-chested man who appeared to be in charge, demanded, “We’re looking for Captain Sam Fornier. Where is he?”
The girl crossed her arms over her chest. “Who are you?” She tried to appear unintimidated, even though they were intimidating the crap out of her. “Stop waving those guns around or I’m calling security.” It came out squeaky. It was the best she could do.
“I don’t give a shit who you call, lady. This is a matter of national security. I’m asking you as nice as I can, where is Captain Fornier?”
She met his gaze for several seconds before she answered. “He left about five minutes ago. He said he was going over to the east hangar to check on something.”
“The east hangar?” The man yanked out his cell phone and stared at the screen. A map of the base, the girl guessed.
The man looked back at her. “Where in the east hangar?”
“He didn’t say. Maybe the materiel office. Would you tell me what this is about?”
“No.” The man was waving to his colleagues to rejoin him.
“Should I tell Capt. Fornier to get in touch in with you?”
He leaned across the desk and glowered at her. “Don’t tell anyone anything. Stay here, don’t move, and we’ll be right back. Understand?”
She felt like telling this cretin to shove it up his rectum sideways. She thought better of it. “I understand,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She waited until the sound of their footsteps on the epoxied floor of the passageway had faded. Then she unfolded her arms from the front of her utility uniform. She glanced at the lettering embroidered on the nametape over the right breast pocket: FORNIER.
Okay, now what? Samantha Fornier didn’t know. She only knew with a growing certainty what she wasn’t going to do. She wasn’t going to hang around this goddamn office until the goons wised up and came back to arrest her. She had to get to the parking lot before it was too late. Haul ass, girl.
Sam flipped the lid down on the laptop. She yanked the power supply from the wall socket and stuffed it along with the laptop into her backpack. She removed her boots and yanked off the trousers and blouse of her utility uniform. From the locker next to her desk she pulled out a warm-up suit and running shoes. Haul ass, girl.
Three minutes later Capt. Sam Fornier was hauling ass.
<>
It was eerie, thought Cassidy. The Pentagon at three in the morning felt like a ghost town. The building’s sprawling complex of parking lots, normally filled with over 18,000 cars, was nearly deserted. A squad of security guards checked his ID at the main entrance. To Cassidy’s
surprise, they weren’t the same guards as usual. These were civilians in blue uniforms with a black emblem that read “Galeforce.” Cassidy could see more security teams with the same uniforms prowling the other lots and the grounds of the Pentagon.
When Cassidy reached the wedge-shaped section that housed the Air Force’s Manpower and Personnel Branch, he encountered yet another blue-uniformed group. The portico of the building was flooded with light. One of the guards mumbled something into his shoulder-mounted radio mike while another waved Cassidy on through the entrance.
The cavernous corridors of the building were nearly empty. Except for the duty officers and skeleton crews manning the desks of their departments, no one was there. Cassidy knew that would change in a few hours when over twenty thousand military and civilian personnel poured into the Pentagon. By then they’d all be talking about what happened to the commander-in-chief.
Cassidy could hear the echo of his footsteps on the hard tiled floor of the hallway. A lone blue-uniformed security guard at the top of the escalator to the upper floor gave him a cursory nod. Cassidy continued down the hallway to the third door on the right.
The Air Force Manpower and Personnel Branch was Jack Cassidy’s first and—he had already vowed to himself—his last non-flying post. He’d taken the job with that stipulation. No more desk jobs. His next assignment would be one of the major air commands—Pacific or Europe. That or retirement.
Or so he had thought. Given the events of the past few hours, it seemed likely that neither would happen.
The duty officer at the front desk, a major named Loomis, looked up in surprise. “Oh, it’s you, General. Guess you’ve come out because of Air Force One?”
If you only knew, thought Cassidy. He had no intention of getting into a discussion with Bill Loomis, a non-stop motor mouth. Cassidy kept walking. “I’ll be in my office, Bill. Make sure that no one gets past this desk. Not before you give me a heads up, okay?”
