The President's Pilot

by Robert Gandt

  “Madame President,” came a voice over her earbud. “This is Howard Marks at the Eastern Broadcasting Corporation. We have a very tentative link to the studio there in Gettysburg. Can you declare for me that you’re not under duress, that you are free to speak without being coerced?”

  Libby cleared her throat. “I’m free to speak, Mr. Marks.” She surprised herself with the assurance in her voice. “I am not under duress. No one is coercing me, at least at the moment.” She wondered how he could possibly know whether or not she was telling the truth. Did it matter?

  “Excellent, Madame President. We’re going to go with it. We’ll be on the air in . . . thirty seconds. Are you ready?”

  Libby closed her eyes for a moment. No, she wasn’t ready. How could she possibly be ready for something like this? An extemporaneous speech? You’re over your head again. She wanted to run the hell away. Let this nightmare be over.

  “Yes,” she heard herself say. “I’m ready.”

  Where was Jill? Where was Brand? In less than half a minute she had to deliver the most important address of her life. No teleprompter, no speechwriter, no rehearsal.

  She couldn’t do it alone.

  What was it Brand had said? This is what you do best. You reassure people.

  And what had she replied? It’s an act. I’m a phony.

  When you speak from the heart, it’s not an act, Brand said. You’re the President.

  Libby put on her reading glasses. She began scribbling notes on the pad in front of her. Then she removed the glasses. To hell with glasses. She could still exercise a little vanity. She squinted as she continued scribbling.

  “Ten seconds,” the voice in the earbud said.

  Libby took a deep breath. She held it several seconds, exhaled, placed her hands on the desk in front of her. The voice in the earbud was counting, “ . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . we’re live.”

  God help me. Libby looked into the camera. On the monitor above, she could see the announcer, a news anchor named Brian Smedley. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Smedley was saying, “the President of the United States.”

  Then she saw her own image. Actually, despite the frizzed hair and the lines beneath her eyes, she looked almost Presidential. Vastly more assured than she felt. She saw Schneider observing her from behind his rolling camera. In her peripheral vision she saw Cirilli just outside the view of the camera. He was watching her anxiously. Hagen was still standing in the door of the control room. He wore a worried look.

  Libby began speaking. It was a strange effect, hearing her voice in the earbud as she spoke to the camera. Viewing herself remotely while she gave a speech.

  Good morning, my fellow Americans. I’m speaking to you from a place of historical importance to our nation, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It is my duty to report to you a series of events that have gravely endangered our country’s security.

  First, I must inform you that successive attempts have been made to remove me from office. A concerted effort has been carried out by members of the armed forces to bring down Air Force One, which would have resulted in the loss of life of everyone on board. Only through the skill and courage of the Presidential Pilot and his crew did we succeed in making an emergency landing early this morning here in the United States. The parties responsible for these heinous acts are still unidentified. It is clear, however, that these actions can only have been initiated by high-ranking officers in the armed forces and the Defense Department.

  <>

  As the angle of the sun increased in tiny increments, the blur on the window changed. Berg glimpsed something inside. Something swimming into view through the glass. Shapes, profiles.

  “Got something,” said Brooke. “A woman. Somebody next to her, talking.”

  Berg squinted. The less powerful scope on the rifle wasn’t revealing as much as Brooke’s equipment. A woman. Almost too good to be true. Berg forced himself to wait. His finger curled lightly around the trigger. He wouldn’t take an impulse shot, but he wasn’t going to let an opportunity get away.

  Then he saw it. A woman’s profile. Could it be her? At least a fifty percent certainty. Berg forced the tip of his tongue behind his teeth, took a long slow inhalation, then held it. Crosshairs superimposed over his target . . . wait . . . wait . . . be sure. . . apply pressure . . .

  <>

  “The photos?” said Brand. “What about the photos?”

  Jill was standing in front of the window. “They still exist. Someone will use them sooner or later.”

  “Who will use them?”

  She stabbed out the Dunhill in the ashtray on the window ledge. “Someone who wants to disgrace Libby Paulsen and remove her from office.”

  Brand’s mind was racing through the possibilities. A single image kept coming to the surface.

  “Atwater,” said Brand. “You used to work for him.”

  Jill nodded.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “We wanted the same thing. Or so I thought. I thought Fred Atwater was on our side. Same party. We wanted to save Libby’s career.”

  For an instant Brand wanted to lash out at her. The memory of the night on his boat came rushing back to him. The three nameless emissaries with the lurid photographs. The ultimatum. Jill Maitlin and her former boss, Atwater, playing God. We wanted to save Libby’s career . . .

  “You made a mistake.”

  Jill nodded again. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Brand said. “Nothing matters unless the President says what she needs to say on live television. If not . . .”

  Brand didn’t finish. Something wasn’t right. He glanced out the window. He saw nothing new, but his inner alarm was sending an urgent alert. He grabbed Jill’s arm, yanking her toward him, but he knew intuitively that he was too late.

  The window behind Jill Maitlin condensed into a single white orb. Jill was no longer there. Kreier and Waller weren’t there. The room filled with blazing light.

  <>

  Libby heard it. A whump from the adjoining room. The noise was accompanied by the crash of breaking glass. Libby glanced up and saw her own startled image in the monitor. After several seconds’ hesitation, she looked into the camera again and resumed speaking.

  Even at this moment, the threat to me and my staff has not ended. As I speak, this television studio is encircled by armed agents of the civilian contractor company known as Galeforce. Until just a few minutes ago, all our communications with the outside world had been severed.

  I assure you that all reports that may have been released about my being captured by terrorists, or being coerced by foreign agents are patently false. Such stories are being disseminated by the same parties that have tried to remove me from office.

  To confront this ongoing emergency, I am issuing the following directives: I am ordering the immediate suspension of all contracts with Galeforce Security International, whose agents have been implicated in this hostile action. Officers and personnel of that company are hereby ordered to surrender their weapons and will be denied access to all U. S. government facilities and equipment.

  Further, I am removing from office the acting chairman of the Joints Chiefs of Staff, General Vance McDivott. As the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs, I am appointing Gen. August Gritti, who is currently serving as my National Security Advisor.

  <>

  “Wow,” said Chief Master Sergeant Lowanda Manning. She turned to Gus Gritti. “Now that you’re the chairman, sir, how about getting us out this place?”

  Gritti took his eyes off the television screen long enough to grin at the sergeant. Somehow Manning had managed to retain her sense of humor. She and Gritti, along with the other occupants from the wrecked Air Force One, had been helicoptered to Dover Air Force Base and then detained in this locked conference room. No phones, no explanations, no way out. Armed Galeforce contractors guarded the door from outside. The room had a coffee pot, a single long conference table with chairs, a lavatory
.

  And a television. They had just watched the President announcing Gritti’s promotion to the top military post.

  “Sure thing, Sergeant,” said Gritti. “You can inform those assholes out there that the new Chairman of the Joint Chiefs says they’re fired.”

  Which, Gritti promised himself, would happen in spades. Getting fired wasn’t even close to the deluge of pain that Gritti intended to pour on the perpetrators of this operation. Assuming, of course, he ever got out of here alive.

  Gritti returned his attention to the television. Somehow the President had gotten away from that little airport in Delaware, made it to Gettysburg, and was now on television. She looked good. Tougher and more confident than the Libby Paulsen that Gritti had come to know.

  Can this be real? Gritti wasn’t sure. After the events of the past several hours, he no longer trusted his perceptions. What had seemed like a bad dream felt more like a hallucination.

  Gritti slid his chair closer to the television. He wanted to hear every word, just in case it was real.

  <>

  My fellow citizens, I promise you this. A special commission will be appointed to investigate this monstrous attempt to overthrow your government. You can be assured that the perpetrators and participants will be identified and brought to justice.

  Regarding the matter of succession to the Presidency as defined in our Constitution, I intend to announce within the next two days my nomination of the new Vice President and I will be requesting an expeditious confirmation by both houses of Congress . . .

  <>

  “Does anyone know how to get through to McDivott?” said the duty officer, a Navy captain.

  None of the watch officers in the J-3 duty room at the Pentagon looked up. The two Army brigadier generals, a Marine colonel, and a pair of Air Force two-stars remained fixed on the flickering image in the television monitor.

  “You have to go through Ripley,” said one of the Air Force officers. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  “I tried. He’s not picking up. SecDef’s going batshit. He says he has to talk to McDivott.”

  The Air Force major general glanced up at the captain. “Tell the SecDef to forget about talking to McDivott.” He pointed to the woman’s image in the screen. “He’d better talk to her.”

  <>

  Fred Atwater gazed around the Situation Room. No one was paying any attention to him. All of them—Secretary of State Bowles, Treasury Secretary Cohen, Attorney General Vitale, Interior Secretary Foley, Homeland Security chief Policastro—were staring like robots at the wall-mounted television monitor. Missing was Chad Wilson, the Secretary of Defense, who was in the main hall yelling about why the fuck no one from the Joint Chiefs was talking to him.

  Fred Atwater had been Acting President of the United States for something around seven hours, since a majority of the Cabinet confirmed him as the constitutional successor to Paulsen and Bethune. The specific protocol for the elevation of the Speaker of the House to Chief Executive had never been tested. Atwater figured that it would require a ruling by the Supreme Court before a successor’s official status—President or acting President—became clear.

  Just as murky would be his nomination of Vance McDivott as Vice President. In troubled times like these, Atwater had no doubt that the three arms of government would unite around him as the new President.

  Or so he had thought. Watching the television, Atwater sensed his plan of occupying the White House for the next two-and-a-half years—no, the next six-and-a-half years—veering off the rails. The face on the screen looked damned real. The voice sounded uncannily like the one he had heard—and hated—ever since she and Bethune hijacked the party’s nomination and made it into office. Now, instead of being just as dead as Bethune, here she was on television talking about conspiracies and generals and the people’s right to express disagreement.

  Atwater rose from the table. No one in the room looked up. Each pair of eyes remained fixed on the face in the monitor. Atwater walked out into the passageway between the conference room and the main hall and pulled out his encrypted cell phone. No one except the watch room duty officer at the end of the hall was in sight. Atwater punched the three-key combo that would put him through to the Capella command post.

  Chapter 30

  McDivott became gradually aware of someone speaking to him from behind. It was Ripley. His voice sounded strained. “General, it’s Speaker Atwater on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  McDivott swiveled in his chair. He made no effort to take the phone from Ripley’s outstretched hand. “What does he want?”

  “He won’t say. Only that he has to speak with you immediately.”

  McDivott ignored the phone. Whatever the former acting President had to say was irrelevant. Fred Atwater was irrelevant. McDivott turned back to the console and the television screen. “Explain to me how this can be happening.”

  “It can’t be,” Ripley said. “Every link from that television station was cut. There was no possible way they could connect with the outside.”

  “Somebody just did the impossible. Why didn’t Berg’s people take them down when they had the chance?”

  “Because you ordered them to hold off. They were waiting for the Jazzum.”

  “So they held off. And what happened? The site was supposed to be destroyed by the missile.”

  “The missile is still en route,” said Ripley, glancing at his watch. “I’m giving the order to abort.”

  McDivott continued staring at the face in the screen. The face that was never supposed to be seen in public again. The usurper who wanted to bring America to its knees. The Paulsen woman represented everything he abhorred about socialists and their leftist agenda. If she were not removed, she would do irreparable damage to the United States.

  “No,” said McDivott.

  Ripley looked at him in alarm. “Vance, we have to stop this. We can’t go any further. Not with the whole world watching—”

  “What happens next is God’s will,” said McDivott. He continued staring at the screen. “Let the missile do its job.”

  McDivott glanced up and saw Ripley staring at him. He’d seen that look before. It was the expression of a clerk, not a warrior. Warriors like Vance McDivott gave orders. Clerks like Ripley implemented them. The final battles were won by the warriors, not the clerks.

  He turned his attention back to the television. The woman was still talking.

  I am aware that my administration’s efforts to reach a stable and lasting peace with the governments of Iran and North Korea have provoked intense controversy. I recognize the right of members of Congress and the media and the general public to express their dissent. I hereby promise that we will thoroughly review each of the new treaties which have been proposed. We will conduct public forums in which all aspects of the proposed treaties will be debated and examined. Only then, after thorough consideration and with the consent of Congress, will I take executive action.

  <>

  The Jazzum detected no interference ahead. No birds, no aircraft, no precipitation. Beneath the missile’s nose swept the rolling green hills of southern Pennsylvania. The final act of the Jazzum’s brief career was about to begin.

  The Jazzum was climbing toward a tiny window two thousand feet in the sky east of Gettysburg. From this point in space, the missile would pivot downward at an angle of seventy-two degrees. The Jazzum knew the layout of the target—a building on the outskirts of the town. The structure had an irregular shape with the largest room in the center. Embedded in the Jazzum’s operating memory were the coordinates of the room as well as an analysis of the roof material and thickness. The Jazzum had already calculated the detonation time of its warhead after penetrating the roof structure. The blast pattern would deploy down and outward with the approximate effect of a boot stomping an ant hill.

  The reason for destroying the building was of no concern to the Jazzum. Just another human abstraction. The Jazzum’s only concern was p
recision.

  One minute.

  The Jazzum entered target acquisition mode. Its control movements took on an enhanced, almost twitchy behavior, fine-tuning the missile’s flight path to a programmed accuracy of .75 meters. Upward, through the invisible window in the sky, the Jazzum soared.

  Then the plunge downward.

  <>

  And I respect the right—the duty, even—of our military leadership to speak their view and to express their disagreement with the proposed treaties. But our system of government, as expressed in our Constitution, clearly defines the military-civilian relationship.

  <>

  The face in the television screen was unmistakable. And troubling. What she was saying was even more troubling. The man standing at the console listened for another fifteen seconds. He asked, “Are you sure this is live?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the aide, an Air Force captain. “From Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.”

  The man nodded. Gettysburg was about four hundred miles away. The right distance. He turned back to the console. The datalink read-out was counting down. 55. 50. 45 . . .

  He thought about his conversation with McDivott. We have considered all the ramifications of using the Jazzum in a domestic situation . . .

  The woman was still talking. Something about military leaders who had betrayed the trust placed in him. That the rule of law had been subverted. The man remembered McDivott’s parting words. Given the sensitivity of this mission, I won’t divulge the specific nature of the target . . .

  A ripple of anger swept over Maj. Gen. Buzz Gavin. Twenty-eight years of honorable service. A drawer full of commendations for valor in combat. Gavin loved his country, which was why he had become a member of the organization known as Capella. But not for this.

  Gavin turned his attention back to the datalink screen. The read-out was still counting down. 30 . . . 25 . . . 20 . . .