by Robert Gandt
A cloud of dirt and smoke erupted around the big jet. Tilted forward in their seats, Brand and Morganti were busy shutting down the two remaining engines and discharging all the fire bottles.
The rumbling and vibrating stopped. An eerie silence fell over the cockpit. There was no sound except the patter of debris still falling on the aluminum skin of the cockpit. Brand saw that the fire warning lights were all extinguished. Air Force One was an inert hunk of twisted metal.
He turned to look behind him. Libby was wearing a dazed expression. She looked like a child who had just awakened from a nap. She was still clutching the back of Brand’s seat.
It was Morganti who broke the silence. He turned in his seat. “With all due respect, Madame President, this would be a good time for you to get the hell out of here.”
<>
The contractor, the taller and senior of the two, glanced both ways in the narrow hallway. As he expected, the door marked Women was locked. The doors to both lavatories were in the hall, out of view from the counter and the tables in the front of the shop. No one was watching. The contractor slipped the Sig Sauer from its holster inside the nylon jacket and nodded to his partner. The partner stepped back, then lunged at the door with this right foot. The lock bolt snapped easily. The door slammed open and the contractors stormed inside.
There was barely enough room for the two of them. On one wall was a sink, a hand soap dispenser, and a motion-sensing towel machine. The window on the far wall was closed. Half the lavatory was taken by the enclosed toilet stall. Visible in the space between the floor and green panels was a pair of ankles, rolled down pants, sneakers with some kind of swoop emblazoned on the side.
The contractor studied the scene for a moment. This was good. He was sure the girl wasn’t armed. Not unless she’d managed to acquire a piece somewhere between here and the woods where they’d lost her. Not likely. The trick now was to haul her ass out of here without causing a ruckus in the shop. Someone might call the cops.
Then he reassessed the matter. What was he worried about? To hell with the ruckus. The cops weren’t a problem. One phone call and they’d be pussycats. If the smartass bitch fought back, he’d pop her right here. He should have done it back when they spotted her climbing out of the wrecked car. Who would have guessed she could run like a rabbit with its ass on fire?
The door to the stall was latched. She had to know they were there. The sneakers and the ankles with the pants rolled down hadn’t moved. No place for her to go. This was working out better than he had hoped. The prospect of snatching a fugitive with her pants down sent a tingle of pleasure through him.
Aiming directly at the latch, the contractor gave the door a kick. The flimsy door flew open, banging against the wall of the stall. Exactly one and a half seconds elapsed while the contractor’s brain processed what he saw.
A woman on the john. Pants down. Thighs like tree trunks, one of which bore a purple tattoo. Large, round face, wearing an enraged expression, all crowned by a mountain of reddish hair. But what grabbed the contractor’s attention was the object in her hand. An instant too late, he realized what it was.
Pepper spray. The blast caught him in the upper chest and the lower part of his face.
“Get out of here, you fucking pervert!” the woman in the stall shrieked. “Touch me and I’ll gouge your goddamn eyes out!”
The contractor staggered backwards. His throat and chin were on fire. He was still reeling from the spray when the stall door slammed shut again.
“Wrong bitch, was it?” said his partner, just a hint of mockery in his voice.
“She comes out of that stall, shoot her,” said the contractor. He yanked off his nylon jacket and turned the tap on the sink. He could barely see through the flood of tears even though he’d managed to close his eyes just before the spray hit him. As he doused his face, waiting for the burning to subside, the contractor forced himself to think.
Where did the girl go? They’d checked the back door, the one at the end of the hall, before kicking in the door to the women’s john. That left one other possibility. He should have thought of it.
His eyes were still burning as he barged back into the hall, his partner in trail. The adjoining door, the one marked Men was locked. Another kick from his partner sent the door flying on its hinges. Pistols at the ready, they stormed inside.
It was just like the women’s lavatory except for the porcelain urinal against the wall. Same sink, soap dispenser, green-paneled toilet stall. The stall was empty. The window at the far end was the same except for one distinct feature.
It was open.
The contractor leaned out and peered each way. His eyes were still burning from the goddamn pepper spray. The alley outside was dimly illuminated by the gray light of dawn. To the left was the main street, where he could see traffic coming and going. The other direction appeared to be residential. Back yards and fences.
The contractor did a quick calculation. No more than two minutes had elapsed since she vanished from their sight in the hallway. It had taken her maybe half a minute to lock the door from inside, open the window and crawl out. She’d been on the ground no more than a minute. She was two hundred yards away, give or take a few, even at her speed.
“The bitch is close. Real close. This time we’ve got her.”
<>
“Run for it,” Morganti said to Brand. “Get the President out of here before the bandits show up. If they were waiting for us at Dover, they’ll be swarming over this place in just a few minutes.”
Brand knew Morganti was right. The problem was, he didn’t trust Morganti. Morganti had tried to undermine Brand’s authority since he came aboard. It could be a trap.
“It’s my job to stay with the airplane and the passengers,” said Brand.
“Your job is to serve the President,” said Morganti. “I’ll stay here and deal with the bandits. I’ll buy as much time as I can while you and Ms. Paulsen run for it.”
“Look, I’m in command here and—”
“Excuse me,” said Libby, “I know you two don’t get along. This time Colonel Morganti happens to be right.”
“Lib—ah, Madame President, you may not have the whole picture here.”
“I’ve always been a better judge of character than you, Pete. We have to trust Colonel Morganti. Let’s do as he suggests and get the hell out of here.”
Brand caught the personal tone in her voice. Never before had she called him by his first name in public. The others caught it too. Morganti and Switzer were wearing the same curious expression. In the back of the cockpit, Batchelder and Sergeant Manning were giving them quizzical looks.
Brand gave it a few more seconds. Libby was right. So was Morganti. Time to get out of Dodge. Brand nodded. “Okay, let’s move.”
As he rose from his seat, he saw that Sergeant Manning was still in the cockpit. There was one more thing he had to do. He sat down again and scribbled on his steno pad. He ripped off the page and handed it to Manning. “See if you can send this.”
<>
Lowanda Manning had no idea whether the texting machine still worked. The thing had a mind of its own, as if it were disconnected from the rest of Air Force One. Clutching the steno pad sheet with Brand’s scribbled message, she trotted down the passageway toward the galley. It was an uphill run. She’d never seen the deck tilted like this, at least when they were on the ground.
The little green light on the machine’s console was still illuminated. How could that be? Did the machine have its own power supply? Maybe. Maybe the message would go.
Manning sat at the console, the steno pad sheet before her, and began typing.
To: Capt. Sam Fornier
From: SAM 28000
This is the last transmission from Angel. Inform Cassidy that we are down and evading. Please know that your gallant service will be recognized.
Col. Pete Brand
Manning felt a mounting sense of urgency as she pecked out the last line of the m
essage. Any minute now she would hear the sound she’d been dreading—the whop whop of helicopter rotor blades.
The sergeant keyed the transmit button and jumped up from the console. As she raced back toward the President’s office, she realized that she still had Brand’s steno sheet in her hand. Coming up with no other quick solution, she ripped the sheet into tiny pieces. Now what? One wad at a time, Manning stuffed the paper into her mouth and forced herself to swallow.
Gagging, she thought again about this guy, Fornier. Where was he? Was he on the run too?
<>
Left or right?
Sam made the decision an instant after her feet hit the alley outside the window. Left led to the store front and the busy street. Cars, parking lot, traffic. Not good. That’s where they’d be looking.
Had to go right.
Sam whirled and started down the alley. The narrow lane was still in deep shadow. The morning sun was hovering behind the tree line to her left. She leaned into it, cranking on the speed. Run, Sam, run. Nothing else mattered. Get the hell away. Put distance behind her, then find a place to hole up.
As she ran a thought nagged at her. How did they find her? Could have been luck, random searching of the area where they’d last seen her. She doubted it. The phone? Had they managed to figure out her traceability hack, somehow got a lock on her phone? Maybe, but as she thought about it, the answer came clear. The Wi-Fi connection in the coffee shop. Nothing secure about that network. She’d gambled that the spooks wouldn’t be monitoring the net traffic this soon. She was wrong.
She’d covered almost fifty yards when she spotted them. In the shadows she couldn’t see the color of their jackets, but she knew. Had to be blue. There were two of them, still a hundred yards away. Coming toward her.
Sam wheeled and reversed course. Sprinting back down the alley, she passed the back of the coffee shop with the open window. This was bad. Unless she made it to the street, got past the parking lot and into the residential area on the other side, the goons would be waiting for her.
They already were. A car was pulling into the alley. A dark SUV, no lights. She couldn’t tell from this distance, but her gut told her it was the same one that had chased her last night when she wrecked the Mini. Bastards. Sam slowed to a trot, keeping her eyes on the vehicle. The SUV stopped, blocking the entrance to the alley. The doors on either side opened. Two men stepped out. More nylon jackets.
Sam shot a glance over her shoulder. The two behind her were maybe a hundred yards away. The pair in front no more than seventy-five. They were walking toward her. They weren’t in a hurry. Sam did a quick appraisal. To her left were the rear walls of the low buildings adjoining the coffee shop. On her right were fences, each a different height, guarding the back yards of the one-story, mid-1900s homes of the neighborhood.
Sam wheeled and sprinted back toward the first pair of goons. She couldn’t see their faces, but she could tell they weren’t surprised. They were taking their time. They knew she was trapped.
She picked one of the fences, a wooden one, not so high that she couldn’t make it over, but high enough, about eight or nine feet. High enough to slow down her pursuers. When she was nearly abeam her chosen spot she abruptly angled in toward the fence. Keeping up the speed, she launched off her left foot.
It was a good vault. Her old gymnastics coach would have applauded. She caught the top of the fence with her hands. Using her momentum, Sam swung herself up so that her chin was level with the tops of the vertical wooden planks. She hiked her right leg up and snaked her foot over the fence. Her leg was almost over the fence, arms still hauling her body up, when she felt it. An impact, like someone had jabbed her between the shoulder blades with a pool cue.
At almost the same instant she heard it—a muffled ploom. She recognized the sound because she’d heard it before. It was the same sound she’d heard when the goons were trying to shoot her. That time they had missed.
Sam Fornier felt no sharp pain, just a dull ache. Her ankle was still hooked over the top of the fence. It was as far as she could go. Already the strength was leaving her. She felt her grip loosening on the fence, gravity taking over, pulling her back to the alley. She stopped fighting and let herself fall. She’d almost made it. Almost. Like running a marathon, then bonking in the last mile.
So this was what it felt like to die. It wasn’t as bad as she expected.
Chapter 22
The first CH-53 touched down in a swirl of blowing grass and dirt fifty feet from the nose of Air Force One. Seconds later, four more of the big helicopters, one after the other, alighted in a circle around the wrecked airplane. Each troopship bore the same dark blue-gray paint scheme. No numbers, no distinguishing insignia. From each chopper spewed a column of men in blue camo fatigues. All carried automatic weapons.
A company-sized contingent took up positions around the perimeter. At the head of the first column strode a slender man in the same blue camos, combat boots, fatigue cap. He carried a Sig P-229 semiautomatic pistol at the ready in his right hand.
Seldom did Rolf Berg take hands-on control of an operation. He had tiers of competent unit commanders beneath him to direct routine operations. But Berg had no intention of turning over command of anything this critical. He hadn’t come this far, put his ass on the line so many times, to let someone bungle the operation. Or take the credit.
Christ knew, there’d been enough bungles. Air Force One was supposed to be at the bottom of the Atlantic, not here in a Delaware country airport. Still, Berg couldn’t help taking a secret satisfaction that the military brass and agency honchos had botched the job. Now it had come down to him. Rolf Berg and Galeforce.
A few paces behind Berg was J. D. Schlater, Deputy Director of the United States Secret Service. Schlater ranked only a few rungs below Berg in the Capella hierarchy. Schlater’s task was to take control of the Secret Service contingent aboard Air Force One.
Approaching the open door of the lower passenger entrance, Berg didn’t like what he saw. The belly of the aircraft was resting on the grassy earth. The lower passenger door was nearly at ground level. After a crash landing the passengers should have evacuated the aircraft. They should be standing out here in the field.
No one was standing outside Air Force One. No one except a handful of men at the lower passenger door. Each wore a white shirt and necktie. Each had the unmistakable look of a Secret Service agent. None was smiling.
The passenger door was open and the mechanical stairs were partly extended. At the foot of the stairs stood a white-shirted man holding a short-stock submachine gun, a Heckler & Koch MP5. Behind him stood two more men, also with MP5s, in the same white button down shirts and loosened ties.
“Stop right there,” said the man in the doorway. Berg recognized him. His name was Grossman, and he was the chief of the Secret Service detail aboard Air Force One. “No one is coming aboard.”
“Step aside, Mike,” said J. D. Schlater, striding up behind Berg. “Your job is finished here. I’m in charge now.”
Grossman stared at Schlater for a moment. His face took a hard set. “I’m not leaving my post, Mr. Schlater. You know the rules.”
“I know the rules, Mike. I’m your boss. I’m ordering you and your detail to step over here and lay down your weapons.”
Berg didn’t like the way this was going. Grossman wasn’t moving. These guys were holding up the show and time was critical. Schlater had a reputation for toughness, but he might be letting loyalty to his old team influence his thinking. There was only one way for this to end.
Berg glanced at Ricketts, the squad leader on his right, and nodded. Ricketts acknowledged with a nod. From six FN P90 submachine guns erupted a muted chattering sound like chirps from crickets. The nearly silent bursts lasted less than two seconds.
The two agents behind Grossman went down. Their weapons made a clunking noise in the entranceway. Mike Grossman remained standing, a look of disbelief on his face. The agent’s white shirt was laced wit
h a pattern of reddish holes. As in slow motion, Grossman let the MP5 slip from his grasp, then toppled face forward onto the grassy earth beside Air Force One.
Berg nodded again to Ricketts. The first squad of six contractors rushed through the door. Trotting behind them, J. D. Schlater paused to gaze down at the body of his subordinate, Mike Grossman. Schlater’s expression was impassive, as if he were inspecting fresh road kill. “It was your call, Mike. I gave you a chance.”
Berg followed Schlater aboard. The remaining seven Secret Service agents had been rounded up and ordered by Schlater to turn over their weapons. Unlike Grossman, they grudgingly followed Schlater’s orders. Ricketts and his squad came tramping down the stairway from the upper deck. “The cockpit’s empty, Director. No sign of the crew.”
“What about the passengers and the flight service crew?”
“All of ‘em we could find we’ve herded into the main cabin. All except—” he glanced back down the passageway “—these two.”
Berg saw two frightened-looking, middle-aged men, both bespectacled with disheveled black hair, being shoved toward him by a pair of Galeforce contractors. “The Iranians you were looking for,” said Ricketts.
The older of the two stopped and glowered at Berg. “What’s the meaning of this? What are you doing with us? We are diplomats on an official mission.”
Berg ignored him. So these were the guys. Said and Al-Bashir. The Iranians Paulsen was selling her country out to. Too bad that they didn’t much look like terrorists, but that could be fixed. These two were on a one-way trip to meet Allah.
“Keep them with us,” Berg said. “We’ve got plans for these guys.”
“Yes, sir. Some of the passengers are getting pretty vocal. That senator—you know, the white-haired guy named Ozinsky—he got confrontational with us. We had to cuff him and isolate him. It might be a problem later.”
