The President's Pilot

by Robert Gandt

  Both Iranians lay face down in the swale of the meadow. The bodies weren’t visible from where the sheriff’s men were deployed around the television station. Berg liked the idea that the country bumpkin sheriff would have heard the muffled chatter of the MP5. He’d be wondering what the hell was happening. He’d find out soon enough.

  Berg turned his back on the scene and returned to his improvised command post. He had no pity for the Iranians. Maybe they weren’t jihadists, but they were just as bad. They had made a deal with a traitorous President. God’s will had been done.

  <>

  The F-35 Lightning II soared into the morning sky. No radio communications, no radar transpondor codes, no position reports. All communications were by encoded data link. The JASSM cruise missile nestled in the internal weapons bay was equipped with its own data link transceiver.

  The pilot’s name was Leo Schwab. He was a major in the United States Air Force, a veteran of two tours in Afghanistan, and one of the early selectees for the elite F-35 program. Schwab was on a fast track in the Air Force’s hierarchical promotion system.

  Or so he had supposed. Here he was twenty miles off the shore of New Jersey, flying the most advanced attack jet in the world. And in its internal bomb bay was the stealthiest weapon in the Air Force’s arsenal. From its perch at 41,000 feet, not only was the F-35 invisible to air traffic control radars along the East Coast, the Jazzum would also be virtually undetectable. When Schwab released the missile from inside the belly of the F-35, the Jazzum would be on its own. Its wings would deploy, and its jet engine would propel it up to near-supersonic speed. The Jazzum would fly a programmed course, navigating so precisely that it could fly through a vent hole to impact within inches of its assigned target coordinates.

  Stealth was good. It was especially good if you were deploying a missile against a domestic target.

  And that was what had Leo Schwab bothered. What target?

  “You don’t want to know, Leo,” General Gavin had told him as he was suiting up for the mission. Gavin had personally walked Schwab out to the hangar where the F-35 was being fitted with its weapon load. “Hell, I don’t want to know. But I have verified the order, and it comes from the very top.”

  “The commander-in-chief?” said Schwab. He’d seen the reports about Air Force One. “Who is that?”

  “The acting President,” said Gavin. “Presumably Atwater, the Speaker of the House. My information is that the cabinet is in session with him right now. They’re counting on us to execute this mission.”

  Which didn’t make Schwab feel any better. The President—the real President—was dead, according to the intel bulletin that Schwab had just been shown. The nation was in a crisis. Schwab knew in his gut that whatever he was about to do with the Jazzum missile had to be connected to the Presidential emergency.

  Somebody was about to be obliterated. On American soil. And he, the designated obliterator, had no frigging idea who the target was. Schwab didn’t even know where the target was. And that was the eerie part. Once launched, the only instructions the Jazzum would follow were either internal or from a distant ground base. Schwab’s single function was to position the F-35 in the right place. When the launch signal came over the data link, he would trigger the sequence to open the weapons bay doors and release the Jazzum. Less than two seconds later the doors would be slammed shut again, restoring the F-35’s nearly invisible radar signature. The rest was up to the Jazzum.

  Five minutes had elapsed since Schwab reached his loiter position. Still no launch order on the data link screen. Stretched beneath his nose was the shoreline of New Jersey. From this altitude Schwab could make out the buildings of downtown Philadelphia and, further off his right wing, the hazy gray blur of New York City. Ahead sprawled the flat coastal plain of New Jersey and the greenish hills of Pennsylvania beyond.

  Maybe they’d called it off. Maybe the whole drill was nothing more than a worst-case contingency mission. One of those just-in-case-the-shit-hits-the-fan readiness plays the Air Force loved so much.

  What Schwab had always liked about being a fighter pilot was that you went one-on-one with your adversary. If you whacked him, it was because you had the edge. You had better skills or better equipment or better luck. He’d never wanted to be one of those button-pushers tasked with controlling a drone or firing a missile at some defenseless target. Or raining tons of bombs on anonymous civilians. He was a warrior, not an executioner.

  And so, he thought, was Buzz Gavin. Schwab had known Gavin since Schwab was a first lieutenant and Gavin was his squadron commander. The older man had taken a liking to him, which counted for a lot in the politics of the military. If you had a mentor like Gavin you got pulled along as he rose through the ranks. Schwab respected Gavin. Unlike a lot of general officers Schwab knew who had sucked their way up, Gavin had paid his dues and earned his stars the hard way.

  The Jazzum had a range of 230 miles, which meant that the target was somewhere within Schwab’s field of view at this altitude. It had to be some kind of domestic structure. They—whoever was ordering this strike—wanted to contain the damage, and they didn’t want any traces left, which was why they chose the Jazzum. The Jazzum had selectable warheads, including one that would vaporize everything in a small space while leaving the outer periphery intact. Perfect for whacking bad guys in urban environments. In small buildings. Pinpoint accuracy, low collateral damage.

  Seven minutes past the original launch time. Still no data link signal. Schwab was beginning to feel better. It meant that someone—whoever the hell was the current commander-in-chief—hadn’t made up his mind to—

  He saw it. Something glimmering on Schwab’s lower cockpit display. A single line of text ran across the screen: PROCEED TO GALLIPOLI.

  Schwab’s pulse rate spiked by twenty points. GALLIPOLI. The launch signal. Only he and Gavin were privy to the code. The general had given it to him as he was strapping into the cockpit. The WWI reference was classic Gavin, who was a history buff.

  Schwab sucked in a lungful of oxygen through his mask. He reached for the Stores Management System screen. In a quick pattern of strokes he initiated the sequence.

  Ready to release. Command sequence complete. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger on the control stick. For a full second Schwab’s finger rested over the trigger while unwanted thoughts streamed through his mind.

  Then he squeezed.

  In the next instant Schwab felt the rumble of the internal weapons doors opening, a lurch as the two-thousand pound missile ejected from its carriage rack, the whump of the doors immediately closing again. The entire sequence took less than three seconds.

  Schwab banked hard to the right, then back to the left. His eyes scanned the empty sky ahead of him. Where the hell was it? He saw nothing, only clouds and brown earth.

  There. It was low, the switch blade wings already extended. The Jazzum was pointed downward, the smokeless turbojet engine running and propelling it to the northwest. Schwab tried to keep his eyes on the fast-moving cruise missile but he lost it against the puffy cumulus clouds that dotted the sky below. The Jazzum was on its own. Out of Schwab’s control.

  Schwab recalled Gavin’s words. You don’t want to know. Gavin was right.

  <>

  “How’re they doing?” Libby had her arms clasped around her, trying to subdue the anxiety that was gnawing at her.

  “Hagen says don’t bug him,” Brand answered. “He says he’s an engineer, not a talk show host.”

  Cirilli and Brand were standing against the far wall of the control room. They were watching Hagen, who lay on his back amid a jungle of cables and variously colored wires. Hagen’s white, hairy belly protruded from the bottom of his shirt. Schneider squatted beside him, handing him tools.

  “So we won’t bug him,” said Libby. “Let’s wait in the studio next door.”

  Cirilli accompanied them into the studio. The cavernous room was windowless, three times larger than the control room, with a s
tage and a raised desk with KGYB 32 emblazoned on the front panel. A pair of cameras on three-wheel dollies was positioned on either side of the desk.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” said Cirilli, “Hagen is anti-social. In fact, until you arrived I’ve never seen him be so cooperative. I’d have fired Hagen years ago except that he’s the only one who knows how to keep the place running.”

  “Can he really restore the live feed?” Libby asked.

  Cirilli gave her a furtive head nod. “No. Whatever cables are left over from the nineties, they’re severed and dead. Without getting the tower back on line, it’s not going to happen.”

  Libby felt her spirits slipping even deeper into despair. How could her Presidency have come to this? From the White House, the most guarded enclave on the planet, attended by a cadre of handpicked cabinet secretaries and advisors, to this—a windowless room surrounded by armed mercenaries who wanted her dead. Instead of being protected by the most sophisticated security apparatus in the world, she had a county sheriff and his band of deputies.

  Which made her wonder. Why hadn’t the mercenaries—Galeforce, or whatever they were called—overrun the place and killed her? What were they waiting for?

  Libby didn’t want to find out. She wanted out. Out of all of this ordeal. There was a way.

  “I’m going to make a deal,” she said.

  Brand and Jill both looked at her quizzically. “A deal?” said Jill. “With whom?”

  Libby nodded in the direction of the Galeforce contingent outside. “With them. I’ll give them what they want.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My resignation.”

  Chapter 27

  Brand said nothing. He watched while Jill Maitlin exploded.

  “Resignation?” Jill spat the word out. “That’s unthinkable. Even if you wanted to, how could you do it from here?”

  “We’ll have the sheriff deliver the letter to whoever is directing the Galeforce troops out there. They can announce that the President has stepped down and the Speaker of the House has automatically taken my place.”

  “You’re delusional. Do you seriously think that they’ll back off then?”

  Libby shrugged. “They’ll have me out of office. Isn’t that what they want?”

  “What they want is for you to be dead. Damn it, try to be rational.” Jill was stabbing her finger at Libby. “You’re throwing away everything we worked for.”

  “I didn’t work for it. It just happened.”

  “The hell it did.” Jill’s face was contorted, and her voice had grown shrill. “You think being elected to Congress just happened? You think your Senate seat was just an accident?”

  At this Brand felt a jolt run through him. An old memory surged up from deep in his subconscious. An old puzzle with missing pieces. He let his eyes focus off in space. Libby’s voice seemed to come from a distant place.

  “I remember when I decided to run for the Senate,” Libby said. She was looking at Brand. “And why.”

  “You almost ruined your career.” She nodded in Brand’s direction. “Because of him.”

  Brand saw Libby take a deep breath, furrowing her brow. She turned again to Jill. Libby no longer looked tired. She looked angry.

  “What do you mean, because of him? Are you saying that you knew about . . .” She hesitated, then said, “About Pete and me?”

  “I was your chief of staff. It was my job to know.”

  Cirilli was looking more and more uncomfortable. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’d better go check on Hagen.”

  Libby waited until the station manager was gone. She turned to Jill. “If you knew about us, then you know that it ended. It ended before I announced for the Senate race.”

  Jill didn’t answer.

  “She knows,” said Brand. His eyes were no longer focused on space. They were fixed like beams on Jill Maitlin. “She knows because she made it happen.”

  Jill tilted her chin up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Brand kept his gaze riveted on Jill. “You were the one behind the photos.”

  “That’s enough, Colonel Brand. I won’t be subjected to your accusations.”

  “What photos?” Libby demanded.

  Brand didn’t answer. The pieces of the puzzle had come together. He looked at Libby, remembering.

  <>

  Someone is boarding the boat.

  Brand is in the forward cabin. He hears the sound and lays down his book.

  They are already on the forward deck when Brand emerges from the companionway. Too late he thinks about the Smith & Wesson .38 in the locker beneath the bunk. In a marina at Annapolis, a few miles from the U. S. capitol, a gun is more of a liability than an asset. Its only purpose is for protection when he sails to the Bahamas, something he hasn’t done in years.

  “Who’s there?”

  No answer. Brand steps over to the cockpit console and flips a switch. A pair of lights mounted on the cockpit combing illuminate the forward deck.

  There are three of them, two men and a woman. Each wears a nylon windbreaker, slacks, sneakers. They are standing on the deck, the sail-wrapped boom between them and Brand. Each is neatly groomed. None is holding a weapon.

  “Colonel Brand?” says one of the men.

  “You’ve boarded this boat without permission.”

  “We’re here on a private matter,” says the other man. “It’s about Ms. Paulsen.”

  Brand’s senses surge into full alert. “Who?”

  “You heard correctly. Congresswoman Paulsen. You’re acquainted with her.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk to you.”

  Brand’s danger warning ratchets up another notch. His first inclination is to throw them off the boat. But not yet. Something is going on that he has to know about. He points to the padded settee in the aft cockpit. “Over there.”

  As they step awkwardly across the deck into the well of the yellow-lighted cockpit, Brand looks them over. He doesn’t recognize any of them. The woman is thirtyish, bobbed hair, rimless spectacles. Beneath one arm she carries a black leather portfolio. The two men look a few years older. Lawyers, Brand guesses. Or legislative staffers. Each has the soft features and paunches of career capitol-dwellers.

  Brand stands in the companionway while they take seats. One of the men nods to the woman. She clears her throat and says, “We’ll get to the point, Colonel Brand. We’re here to—”

  “You haven’t told me who you are.”

  The man nearest Brand says, “It’s better if we don’t. We’re here on behalf of Ms. Paulsen.”

  “Did she send you?”

  Another quick exchange of glances. “Not exactly. This matter is. . . sensitive. Your relationship with Ms. Paulsen has placed her in a very dangerous situation. We’ve been instructed to inform you that it is in the congresswoman’s best interest—and yours—if you terminate the relationship immediately.”

  Brand doesn’t respond right away. His premonition is correct. These three are trouble. “Instructed by whom?”

  The second man says, “A political entity—it’s not necessary to be specific—that has a direct involvement in Ms. Paulsen’s career.”

  Brand is thinking. A political entity. Her staff? He knows that Libby’s people zealously manage every aspect of her legislative life. Too zealously sometimes. The party national committee? It’s no secret that they are pushing Libby to run for the Senate. She hasn’t yet agreed. She is considering all options, including leaving politics altogether. Brand is staying out of it. For both their sakes it has to be her decision.

  As he thinks about it, Brand feels anger welling up in him. Terminate the relationship immediately? How would these intruders presume that he and Libby have a relationship?

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s time you got the hell off my boat.”

  “We’re talking about this,” says the woman. She flops her lea
ther portfolio down on the cockpit table and extracts a manila folder. From it she pulls out a stack of 8X10 photographs. She pushes them toward Brand.

  For an instant Brand feels the urge to seize the photos—and the three messengers—and throw them over the side. He takes a deep breath, then reaches for the stack of photos. He looks at the one on top. Even before his eyes focus on the glossy image he knows what he’ll see.

  A smiling, chestnut-haired woman, topless, is standing in the cockpit of a sailboat. The photo is remarkably sharp, showing every detail, including a familiar mole beneath her left breast.

  Brand flips to the second photo. Another view of the same woman, still topless, leaning over, kissing a man seated in the cockpit.

  He goes through the stack. Each photo is more explicit than the one before. By the sixth photo, the two have become frolicsome lovers. In one view, the woman’s bare breasts are pressed against the man’s chest as they kiss. The face of each is in sharp focus, clearly recognizable.

  The last several views are through the companionway hatch, looking into the forward cabin. Even though the shadowy figures are barely recognizable, it takes little imagination to surmise what they are doing.

  Brand sets the photos on the table. By the blurriness of the background and precise focusing of the subjects, he knows the shots are taken at long range with a high-resolution telephoto lens. There is no mistaking the identities of the couple. Nor can there be any guesswork about the ownership of the boat. The photographer has gotten the gold-lettered Andromeda in almost every shot.

  By the angle of the shots, they have to have come from another boat. Though the details of the shoreline behind Andromeda are indistinct, Brand knows the location. One of the coves on the eastern Chesapeake. He can almost put a time and date to the occasion. It has to be one of three or four weekend afternoons he and Libby spent there aboard Andromeda.