The President's Pilot

by Robert Gandt

  Thinking they were safe.

  Brand feels a surge of disgust come over him. How can he have been so careless? He loves Libby Paulsen. It was his duty to protect her. He has failed.

  He turns to the three messengers. They are gazing at him with unpitying expressions. In the yellowish light, Brand thinks he can see something close to a smirk on the woman’s face.

  “Someone went to a lot trouble to obtain these photographs,” says Brand. “Why?”

  “We explained that already,” the woman replies. The two men each nod in agreement. “To protect Ms. Paulsen.”

  “By spying on her?”

  “We all want the same thing for the congresswoman. To save her reputation. And her career.”

  “Is she aware that someone is saving her career?”

  “It’s better that she isn’t. That’s why you have to terminate this affair immediately. And for her sake, she mustn’t know why.”

  Brand waits a moment. He is sure of the answer to his next question. “And if I don’t?”

  The woman picks up the stack of photos. “These will be on the editor’s desk of the Washington Post the day after tomorrow. And the New York Times, and half a dozen other papers. I’ll let you imagine the outcome.”

  Brand can imagine. The personal life of Congresswoman Libby Paulsen will be grist for the talk shows, tabloids, late night comedy patter. The media ghouls will drag her through endless miles of slime. Libby will be shamed out of public life. Whatever future she and Brand might have had will be forever tainted by scandal.

  And he will be to blame.

  “Let me get this straight,” says Brand. “You’re blackmailing us . . . for some political purpose?”

  The woman shakes her head as if lecturing a slow-learning student. “Don’t be melodramatic. Blackmail is illegal and immoral. What we’re doing is not only legal, it protects the congresswoman’s reputation. And it protects the constituents whom she serves.”

  Brand nods. His first impression has been correct. This acid-voiced shrew has to be a lawyer.

  Then the woman’s tone softens. And so does her expression, which turns almost kindly. “Look, Colonel Brand, I can only imagine how painful this must be for you. Believe me, we’re very sorry that this has to be done. No one doubts that you genuinely care for Ms. Paulsen. If you truly love her, you’ll do the right thing and break off this affair.”

  Brand says nothing. The woman slides the photos back into her portfolio. An uncomfortable silence falls over the cockpit of the boat. Somewhere in the streets beyond the marina, a siren is wailing. The sound of a jet rumbles in the sky overhead.

  Looking away from the three messengers, Brand gazes off across the marina. Lights atop boat masts twinkle in the darkness. The urban sprawl on each shore of the harbor shimmers in a yellow glow. Incredible, he thinks. How suddenly his happiness—their happiness—can be snatched away. All it takes is an unguarded moment. A few clicks of a camera shutter. An ultimatum.

  The woman rises, and the two men jump to their feet behind her. “The decision is yours, Colonel Brand,” says the woman. She tucks the portfolio under her arm, then glances at it meaningfully. “We know you’ll do the right thing.”

  Brand doesn’t move. He pays no attention as the three messengers step over the combing of the cockpit, up to the boat deck, and fumble their way onto the dock. When the sound of their footsteps has faded away, Brand flicks off the lights. He sits in the darkened cockpit, gazing across the bay, thinking.

  Chapter 28

  “What are you talking about?” Libby asked again.

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Jill. “He’s been trying to wreck your career ever since you began that disastrous affair in Africa.”

  “I should have figured it out before,” said Brand. “It was you. You had the photos taken. You’re the one who sent the team to my boat that night.”

  Jill’s expression remained defiant. Libby watched the exchange with mounting frustration. She said to Jill, “What photos? What kind of team did you send to his boat?”

  Jill snatched the pack of Dunhills from the satchel draped over her shoulder. She lit one with her Bic, then exhaled an angry puff of smoke. “It was an absolute disaster waiting to happen. You and Brand, having an affair practically in public view. It was just a matter of time before it was going to be found out. You couldn’t have been elected to a garbage commission.”

  “So what did you do?” Libby said. The answer was already coming clear in her mind.

  Jill shot another glowering look at Brand. “Like he said. Photos. The two of you on film. Very professional. No mistaking the players or what they were doing on that boat.”

  Libby’s confusion was being replaced by a mounting fury. “You had someone sneak up and . . . take photographs? For what purpose?”

  “Blackmail,” said Brand. “To pressure us into ending our relationship.”

  Libby nodded. It was all coming back. That night in Annapolis. The letter. She turned to Brand. “Am I hearing this correctly? Someone came to your boat and presented you with photos of us . . . together? And what were they going to do if you didn’t walk away from the relationship?”

  Brand looked at Jill. “Let her answer that.”

  Jill streamed out another cloud of smoke. “It was the only leverage we had.” She pointed to Brand. “If he was convinced that we’d turn the photos over to the media, he’d leave the relationship.”

  “Would you?” Libby said to Jill. “Would you have turned the photos over to the media?”

  “What difference does it make? It wasn’t necessary. The purpose was to keep you from ruining your career. It worked. Your reputation was spared and you were elected to the Senate. Then the White House. End of story.”

  “Where are the photos now?”

  “In a safe place.”

  “To be used for future blackmail?”

  Jill stabbed the cigarette into a bean bag ash tray on the work table. “Libby, you’ve always known you could trust me. I’d never betray you.”

  “You did betray me.”

  “Nonsense. You weren’t thinking clearly. What I did was in your best interest.”

  At this Libby shook her head furiously. Bad memories were streaming across her consciousness. You’ve always known you could trust me. How many times had she heard that? How many people in her life had betrayed her? Her father. Her husband. Jill Maitlin. And—she thought until this moment—Pete Brand.

  She turned to Brand. “That letter you wrote. Breaking off our relationship. It was because of the photos?”

  Brand nodded.

  “You thought you were protecting me?”

  Brand said nothing. She saw it in his eyes.

  “Damn it!” she said. “How could you be so stupid? You should have told me. They could do whatever they wanted with the photos.”

  “Sure,” said Jill. “And that would have been the end of your career.”

  “To hell with my career,” said Libby. “Some things are more important than a career.”

  “There you go again,” said Jill. “You’re being irrational. That’s exactly why I had to intervene. For your own good.”

  Libby looked at Jill Maitlin as if she were seeing her for the first time. Libby had never deceived herself about Jill Maitlin. Jill provided the inner steel that Libby believed was lacking in herself. Jill provided wisdom when Libby needed it. Jill was her speechwriter, counselor, confidante. Jill was also manipulative, ruthless, even devious, but Libby knew that. She had believed that she could control Jill. She was wrong.

  “You’re fired,” Libby said.

  “Don’t be absurd. I’m the only one who can get you through this.”

  “I trusted you. You betrayed that trust. We can never work together—”

  Libby stopped in mid-sentence. In the corner of her eye she saw Cirilli rushing back from the control room. “Hagen says to get ready,” said Cirilli. “He’s got something. Some kind of feed to the network.”

>   <>

  The Jazzum leveled at 1,200 feet. A stream of tiny corrections, each measured in hundredths of degrees of course change, spewed from the missile’s brain. The Jazzum had selected this altitude because the noise of its tiny turbojet engine was undetectable from the ground while its shape and color made it almost indistinguishable against the sky. A suitable compromise. Built into the Jazzum’s airframe was the latest generation of radar-absorbent materials, rendering it virtually invisible on air traffic control scopes.

  An alert was buzzing in the Jazzum’s brain. Danger ahead. An object had appeared in the forward-looking infrared sensor. Calculating the object’s speed, signature, and flight path, the Jazzum sorted the probabilities and identified the threat. A large soaring bird, most likely an osprey. The Jazzum reacted. A quick ten degree course correction, just enough to evade the circling bird, all the while reassessing the surrounding environment. Seconds later, clear of the osprey, the Jazzum was back on its programmed track.

  The Jazzum hated birds. Especially large ones. Birds were stupid, which made them dangerous.

  Coming up beneath the Jazzum’s nose was the border of Delaware. Ahead stretched a short section of flatland Jersey. The Jazzum would cut across the northwest corner of Maryland before crossing into the hilly region of southern Pennsylvania.

  State lines meant nothing. Borders were meaningless concepts. Though the Jazzum’s brain possessed thousands of times the computing power of its masters, the Jazzum had no interest in human abstractions. Boundaries, politics, war—all meaningless. The Jazzum felt no emotion, no delusions, indulged no fantasies. The Jazzum had only one obsession. Execute the mission.

  <>

  Four hundred miles away, the man standing at the situation display kept his eyes on the blinking yellow triangle. A continuous ribbon of data was flowing across the upper band of the screen. All the missile’s performance indicators were within parameters. From this console the man could transmit coded data link signals to the missile.

  On another band of the screen blinked a steadily decreasing number. It was the predicted time to impact. The number had just blinked downward through 09:49.

  The man’s concentration on the screen was total. Only on the second attempt did the voice behind him register. “General,” his chief of staff was saying. “General, there’s something happening that you should know about.”

  <>

  Libby looked around the room. They were watching her. Cirilli, Brand, Schneider, all looking at her, wondering what she was going to do. All except Jill Maitlin, who had stomped out of the studio.

  Hagen was standing in the doorway to the control room, his belly tugging at the buttons on his sweat-stained shirt. “We’re on aux power, and I’ve cobbled together the old coaxial connection we first used with the network. We’ve got a live feed, sort of. It comes and goes. As long as they keep their end lit up, we’ve got a shot. But we gotta hurry.”

  Libby stared at him.

  “He means that we don’t know how long the feed will last,” said Cirilli. “The network is ready, but, well, we don’t know when they might shut us down. We gotta move fast.”

  Libby didn’t move.

  “We’ll use the rolling mini-cam,” Hagen said, “with you sitting at the desk over there. Not a studio quality set up, but we gotta move quick with what we’ve got.”

  Libby felt paralyzed. An unreasoning fear had taken hold of her. What was she going to say to a country that thought she was dead? That wanted her dead. This was all wrong.

  Brand took her arm. In a low voice he said, “You can do this. You’re going to take back your country. Do it.”

  “I can’t. No one will believe me.”

  “Yes, they will. I’ve seen you in action. Remember that hostile rebel commander in Africa? The one you charmed into letting us go?”

  “He was hostile because you stole his truck.”

  “You talked the Iranians into signing a peace accord.”

  “A lot of good that did. Now my own military wants to kill me because of it.”

  “I saw you make an ally out of that airport manager in Greenland. You converted Joe Morganti from an enemy into your disciple. You sweet-talked that county sheriff into protecting you with his entire force. You’ve just charmed the socks off that station technician.”

  “It’s an act. I’m a phony.”

  “Not in the eyes of the people you’re speaking to. They see a leader.”

  “They see an illusion. I should be an actress, not a President.”

  “No, you should be a real President.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that if you speak from the heart, you’re not acting. You’re the President. A real President. Lead and the country will follow.”

  Libby clasped her arms around herself again. A real President? What was a real President supposed to say at a time like this? She’d never been good at extemporaneous speeches. For that matter, she’d rarely made a speech that hadn’t been written for her.

  The fear was gripping her tighter. “I can’t do it.”

  “You have to.”

  “I need Jill.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Jill knows what I have to say.”

  “Not any more. You fired her.”

  “That was then. This is now. Do as I ask. Go get her.”

  Brand was giving her that narrow-eyed look she had come to recognize. “Libby, you can do this without—”

  “Colonel Brand, your commander-in-chief has just given you an order.” She leaned close to his ear. In a soft voice that only he could hear, she said, “Damn it, Pete, do you love me or not?”

  Brand nodded. “Yes,” he whispered back, “I love you. Very much.”

  “Then please do as I ask.” She squeezed his hand. “Hurry.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way.”

  <>

  Berg squinted through the scope of the MK-11 rifle. The spotter beside him, a sniper named Brooke, was peering through his own M49 spotting scope, passing on to Berg the range and estimated wind corrections. The two men were perched in the hatch of the CH-53 helicopter. Both were screened by a camo curtain.

  Berg had the MK-11 mounted on the Harris swivel bipod. In the distance, just beyond the hummock in the open field, was the KGYB building. From his elevated position in the hatch of the helicopter Berg had a view of the eastern wall of the building. He saw a verandah with a window that shimmered in the morning sun. He could also see the outlines of the sheriff’s deputies dug in around the perimeter of the building. Amateurs. Berg almost wished he had the order to take them all down instead of waiting for the missile to do it for them. When it was over and the station was a smoking ruin, he would have to make sure that the bodies, including those of the recently deceased terrorists, were suitably arranged.

  The range was slightly over 400 yards. Almost no wind. A piece of cake compared to some of the shots he had pulled off in Fallujah and later in Helmand Province. He could have let Brooke or one of the specialists take the shot while he manned the spotter scope. That wasn’t Rolf Berg’s style. This was his show. He wanted the satisfaction of knowing that he had performed the ultimate act of patriotism.

  The problem was the glare. The sun was reflecting off the window of the station. Even with the vision-enhancing optics of the spotter scope, the window looked like a shimmering mirror.

  “Comes and goes,” said Brooke as he clicked through the settings on the M49. “This goddamn reflection. I pick up something through the window, then I lose it.”

  Berg said nothing. He was seeing the same thing through the barrel-mounted scope on the MK-11. He’d learned long ago that the sniper’s worst enemy was his own impatience. Even under pressure, you made yourself wait. Still your mind, wait, wait some more. The shot would present itself.

  Chapter 29

  “Go to hell,” said Jill Maitlin.

  It was precisely what Brand expected her to say. He had found h
er in the anteroom on the east side of the building. Jill was standing with her back to the window, puffing on a Dunhill.

  “Sorry,” said Brand. “That’s not an option. The President needs you.”

  “What for? She’s got you, right?”

  “For some reason I’m unable to understand, she thinks you can help her.”

  “Only one of many things you’re unable to understand.”

  Brand glanced around the room. Kreier was kneeling by the tall window, the submachine gun resting on his thigh. Sheriff Waller was peering outside, pretending to be oblivious to the conversation in the room. Brand didn’t like the room, particularly the window. They were too exposed.

  He said, “Look, Ms. Maitlin, this isn’t about you and me. We both want the President to get through this. If you can help her, then please do it.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you’re a good American. Because you want the best for the country. How about this? Because you want the best for the President.”

  She gave him a withering look. “Oh, please. Spare me all that weepy sentimental crap.”

  “You worked hard to put Libby in office. Was that just a sham?”

  Jill ignored him. She turned to face the window. “What about the photos?”

  <>

  “You’re on, Madame President.” Cirilli’s voice had an urgent tone. “They’re ready for you.”

  Libby’s heart pounded. She was seated at the desk on the raised platform. Across the front of the desk was the station logo and the letters KGYB. Cirilli had fitted her with the nearly-invisible ear bud. Her microphone was clipped to the front lapel of her jump suit.

  Several feet from her desk was the rolling camera with Schneider positioned behind it. On the wall in front of her was the monitor. The screen had magically come to life. Libby could see someone in a New York studio talking to the camera. Across the bottom of the screen streamed a banner. BREAKING NEWS . . . INCOMING REPORT THAT PRESIDENT PAULSEN MAY BE ALIVE . . . PRESIDENT TO ADDRESS THE NATION . . .

  Impossible, she thought. What was she going to say? How did she look? She’d had no more than forty-five seconds to dab on lipstick and run a comb through her hair. She knew she looked haggard. Where was Jill? This wasn’t right.