[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  Within seven minutes of receiving the scramble order, a pair of heavily armed F-15 Eagles leapt off the runway, banked hard to the right, and began to climb steeply. Both planes switched on their afterburners and quickly reached supersonic speeds; the sonic booms echoed over Portland. Seventeen minutes later, they were over north central Idaho. Guided by the E-3 Sentry, they searched for potential threats.

  ____

  Minutes later, a KC-135 Stratotanker turned onto the runway and accelerated into the blinding snow. Once airborne, it slowly banked and began climbing. The Stratotanker was essentially a flying gas station designed to provide mid-air refueling, effectively extending the operational range and time of fighter and attack aircraft.

  “Mother Goose. This is King Four. Estimate one hour and forty-nine minutes to target.”

  A communications officer on the AWACS keyed his mic. “Copy, King Four. ETA one forty-nine.”

  ____

  In the Secret Service Command Center, Tim Jacobs lunged forward, punching the keys on his computer. He stared at his screen for a moment then tapped the keyboard again. He glanced to his right at Joe Montarro, manning the satellite link. Montarro, eyes wide, shook his head.

  “Horsepower to Angel. Over.”

  “Horsepower to Angel! Do you read?”

  Damn! Jacobs cursed to himself. He jumped up, knocking his chair over in the process. He punched several more keys and glanced over his shoulder at Keith O’Rourke across the room.

  “Keith!” he yelled, before turning back to the screen. “We’ve lost contact with Angel!” Angel was the code name for Air Force One. Jacobs pointed to the computer screen as O’Rourke grabbed the second headset.

  “We’ve lost both audio and data links!”

  “Try the alternate frequencies!” O’Rourke barked at Montarro.

  “I’ve already tried them!”

  “Goddamn it! Try again!”

  As Montarro pounded the keys, speaking into his microphone again, O’Rourke turned back to Jacobs.

  “Have you checked with Microwave?” Microwave was the code name for the Air Force Command Center at Andrews Air Force Base.

  “I’m in the process!”

  O’Rourke lunged for the phone, knocking over a cup of coffee. The mug shattered on the floor, coffee splashing all over his and the other agents’ pants. The three men didn’t notice.

  ____

  Richter came down the west slope of the mountain, his descent more of a controlled slide. His two-hundred-dollar dress shoes provided no traction at all, and his suit was no match for the wind.

  The bitter cold began to sap his energy. His suit jacket and pants were ripped, and his hands were raw and bleeding. He knew there was an Airman’s survival kit on the front of his harness and that it contained a blanket and other gear to protect his body from the elements. He also knew that he had to find the president first before he worried about himself.

  He stopped for a second to get his bearings. For a moment, he felt disoriented, unsure which direction he had come from and which direction the president had been dragged away. He felt a sudden wave of panic then took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. Fear and panic could be as deadly as the elements.

  As the slope leveled off, he began traversing the face, heading, he hoped, in the direction he had seen the president sliding. Dropping to a small ledge, he stared into the distance. Through the swirling snow, he glimpsed a flash of color. President Kendall seemed to be twisting and swinging back and forth in his parachute harness. The chute, Richter realized, had saved him from continuing to fall when it became entangled in the branches of the tree that had somehow managed to sprout up through the rocks. It took Richter almost five minutes to slip and slide down the mountain to a point where he finally saw the president again. He watched in horror as the wind repeatedly bashed the president’s limp body against the rock face.

  ____

  Christ almighty, the lead F-15 pilot thought as he looked down at the screen.

  “Mother Goose, this is Basher Two-One. We are over target now. We’re not picking up any threats. Repeat, negative on threats.”

  “Copy, Basher Two-One. Have you located point of impact?”

  “I’m picking up heat blooms consistent with a crash, but no visual. Visibility is poor. Estimate debris field two, repeat two, square miles.”

  “Copy, Two-One. Can CSAR get in?”

  “It’s going to be tough, Mother Goose. Radar and GPS indicate a mountainous terrain, elevations from four thousand feet to eighty-five hundred feet. Limited to no access roads. Weather is a bitch.”

  “Copy, Two-One. Maintain CAP.”

  “Copy, Mother Goose. Maintain combat air patrol.”

  “Two-One. CSAR is scrambling now. Will notify when en route.”

  “Copy.”

  As the F-15 pilot signed off, he swore under his breath, wondering what the hell had happened on Air Force One.

  ____

  Richter grabbed onto the tree, wrapping his arms around the trunk to stop himself from sliding over the edge. He sat up, and as the president’s spinning body swung by, he grabbed a leg. Bracing his back against the tree, he stood and grabbed the president in a bear hug. With his left arm around the man’s waist, he felt the president’s neck for a pulse. Feeling nothing, he realized that his fingers, numb and bleeding, were useless. He slid his hand up, under the parachute harness, placing his palm over Kendall’s sternum, searching for a heartbeat. After a long, frustrating minute, Richter gave up. Reaching below his own harness, he pulled out his gun and held it up to the president’s face.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Finally, after almost twenty seconds, he saw it. Along the now-cold metal barrel of the gun, Richter saw the unmistakable signs of condensation forming then dissipating, then forming again. It was slow and rhythmic.

  He positioned the president’s body between his own and the tree. With his free hand, he fumbled with his harness, opening the pouch on the survival kit. Rooting through the contents, he found the military knife. After he cut the third suspension line, the president’s body slumped into his arms. He struggled with the unconscious man, wedging him between the tree trunk and the rock face. Then he cut the remaining lines as a wind gust loosened the chute from the tree’s grip. It sailed out over the side of the hill, flapping like a flag before he pulled it in with the remaining suspension line. Fighting the wind, he wrapped the chute around the president.

  He leaned back against the rock face and sat next to the unconscious president, pulling part of the chute over his own body. He rummaged through the survival kit again, finding a sleeping bag and a thermal blanket. He struggled for several minutes before he was able to wrap the thermal blanket around the president and then wedge both of their bodies into the sleeping bag. He pulled the chute around and over them, forming a makeshift tent.

  Richter put his hand on the president’s chest again, feeling it rise and fall, slowly but steadily. He studied the president. His face was pale. One cheek was bruised, and his upper lip was swollen and cut as if he had been punched. There was an ugly scrape on his chin. He couldn’t tell if there were any broken bones or internal injuries, but that wasn’t his primary concern. Hypothermia was the biggest risk right now.

  He put one arm around the president and pulled him tight against his body. He sat back again and stared out through the folds of the chute at the storm. His face was the trademark stony mask as he assessed the situation. For a brief moment, the mask dissolved and a sudden sob escaped from his throat.

  Everyone on Air Force One was dead! He knew some of them, at least well enough to say hello: the Chief of Staff, the Secretary of Commerce, the National Security Advisor, the guys from Air Force security, the flight crew. There were many others he didn’t know: the White House Counsel, the members of Congress, most of the press pool. All dead.

  Sixteen fellow agents were gone. Stephanie was gone! Hands over his face, Richter sobbed. He wept for a moment until, som
ewhere in his subconscious, the will to live and his sense of duty took over. And with them came anger. Goddamn it! He had to pull himself together! He had a job to do!

  His teeth began to chatter, and he knew it would take a minute or two before he felt any warmth. The president seemed to be breathing regularly, and Richter knew that he had done all he could for the moment. His mind started to clear, and he forced himself to think about their situation.

  Richter was trained in what the Secret Service called “Ten Minute Medicine.” Every agent had learned various first aid techniques designed to keep a victim alive for ten more minutes until emergency medical help arrived. Unfortunately, he knew that it would take far longer than ten minutes for help to reach them. He could only count on himself and his training to keep both of them alive. His next task was to find better shelter soon or both he and the president would die from exposure. He had to find a way to keep the president not only warm but dry as well. Then he had to figure out what to do. Richter’s face once again turned into a hardened mask.

  ____

  At Portland International Airport, two Pave Hawk helicopters prepared for takeoff. The HH-60G Pave Hawk was the standard rotary-wing rescue and retrieval aircraft of the 920th Rescue Wing. Known as Combat Search and Rescue, or CSAR, the air wing’s mission was to locate and recover downed or injured U.S. military personnel during combat operations. The wing also supported civilian search and rescue operations in the U.S., as well as disaster relief efforts around the world.

  The Pave Hawk crew consisted of five airmen, including the pilot and co-pilot, a crew chief and two pararescue jumpers, better known as PJs. Today, both Pave Hawks carried eight additional troops.

  The lead aircraft took off and hovered. Twenty seconds later, the second aircraft took off.

  “Jolly Sixteen. Form up.”

  “Roger, Jolly Twelve. Sixteen on wing.”

  Once in formation, both aircraft turned to the east and proceeded at maximum power to central Idaho.

  Three minutes later, a Hercules H/C-130 P/N aerial tanker and support aircraft took off from Portland and headed east, soon passing the Pave Hawks. In addition to midair refueling, the H/C-130 was capable of performing tactical airdrops of pararescue specialist teams and a wide assortment of supplies to support rescue operations, including food, water bladders, first-aid bundles, zodiac watercraft, even four-wheel drive all-terrain vehicles. The fixed-wing aircraft was also capable of providing extended visual and electronic searches over land or water.

  “Jolly Flight. This is King Flight. Call sign, King Eight. Our ETA to target is one hour thirty-three minutes.”

  “Roger, King Eight. We’re right behind you. ETA is two hours seven minutes. Find us a way in, son.”

  “Copy, Jolly Twelve.”

  ____

  He could do this, Richter willed himself, but he needed to fully assess the situation first. The president was injured and they needed to find shelter soon. The wind had picked up considerably, and it was snowing harder now. Visibility was terrible.

  The Secret Service and the Air Force would mobilize rescue units, but he doubted that they would be able to get teams into these mountains in this storm. His watch, the face cracked, told him that it was 11:21 a.m. Pacific Time. They had been flying for about an hour. That would put them somewhere in Idaho, possibly Montana, he calculated, right in the center of the storm.

  He inventoried the contents of his survival kit and found windproof matches and a lighter; food packs and cooking gear; a folding shovel and a wire saw; chemical light sticks, candles and a small flashlight; fishing line and hooks; chemical hand warmers; a water purification kit and water storage pouch; a first aid kit; a signaling mirror; and nylon rope.

  Richter grunted. That’s strange. There should also be a personal locator beacon. He checked the president’s survival kit and both of their harnesses but didn’t find any electronic signaling devices.

  He then remembered that his cell phone had built in GPS capabilities, but when he checked his pockets, it was missing. He realized it must have fallen out somewhere along the way. His radio was missing too, likely ripped from his body by the gale force winds, he realized. Damn!

  Okay, he thought. They had sleeping bags and blankets to keep warm. They could use the parachute canopies as tents. They had food, they could make a fire…if they could find wood. They could survive, if he thought this through.

  But what had happened? he wondered. That sure as hell looked like Cal Mosby. And there were…what? One…two explosions before they jumped? He remembered descending. And he was certain he had heard another explosion after he jumped and wondered whether they’d been shot down. Wait. If it was a missile, how had Mosby reacted so quickly? Why did he bail out instead of rushing to help the president?

  “Son of a bitch!” Richter yelled as it dawned on him. They had been sabotaged! Mosby had forced the pilots to descend and then somehow created an explosion to blow the door off. That’s it! Mosby had parachuted off the plane! But he knew he couldn’t parachute from thirty-five thousand feet. He wouldn’t survive. Well, he was wearing an oxygen mask, but the plane was going way too fast. He had to slow it down. He wouldn’t be able to open the door because of the pressure differences inside and outside the plane. He had to slow the plane down, and even then, he had to somehow open the door. That had to be it—someway, somehow, Mosby had forced the pilots to descend and to reduce air speed.

  Damn! Mosby must have smuggled explosives on board. He was knowledgeable about explosives, Richter knew, but what about parachutes? Mosby couldn’t have acted alone, he realized. He had to have accomplices, and it had to be someone from the Air Force. They were the only ones who visited the lower deck while the plane was airborne. They would be able to explain how planes worked, where to set explosives, how the pilots would react in an emergency. They were trained in parachutes. And Mosby was the only one able to get the explosives past all of the security checkpoints. Oh, shit! If Mosby and someone from the Air Force were involved, who else was? How many people jumped off the plane?

  There was no way of knowing who he could trust.

  Okay. Forget that, he told himself. He needed to focus on survival. The next thing he had to do was build a better shelter. They had to get out of the wind and snow. He’d need to either build a shelter up here or somehow get the president down to where there were trees. Trees would provide some shelter from the wind.

  ____

  Vice President Tyler Rumson was in a meeting with the House Whip when Agent Timmons, barged into his office.

  “Sir, we need to leave right now!”

  “I’m in a meeting!” Rumson snapped.

  Ignoring Rumson’s protest, Timmons pulled him to his feet and over to the door. Outside, five more agents were waiting.

  Rumson suppressed a smile as the agents formed a ring with himself and Timmons in the middle. He felt Timmons’ vice-like grip on his elbow as the agents, shouting, rushed him down the hall. His mind was flying. Finally!

  In his excitement, he didn’t hear Timmons.

  “Wolf is secure.”

  ____

  Maria Kendall was in her office, in the East Wing of the White House, discussing national education objectives and policy with her Chief of Staff and the Secretary of Education. Abruptly, her office door opened and the head of her Secret Service detail, Paula Tiller, and two other agents interrupted the meeting.

  “Ma’am, may I speak with you privately?”

  Maria excused herself, and Agent Tiller steered her into the hallway.

  “Ma’am, the president was aboard Air Force One today, flying back from Seattle. Approximately twenty minutes ago, we lost contact with his plane.”

  Maria’s face went pale; she stared at the agent. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “We don’t know what it means yet. We have multiple ways of maintaining contact with the president and Air Force One at all times. We’ve tried them all, but we are unable to make any contact.”
<
br />   Maria slumped against the wall and Tiller grabbed her arms to keep her from falling.

  “Ma’am, until we find out exactly what’s going on, I think it’s best if you come with me.”

  “Wait…what about Angela and Michelle?”

  Tiller led her down the hall. “We’re picking them up right now. They should be here in forty-five minutes.”

  ____

  Both Angela and Michelle Kendall attended the Brookfield Academy, a private, all-girls school in Arlington, Virginia. Angela was daydreaming while her teacher, Mr. Hatfield, droned on about inorganic compounds. Suddenly there were shouts, and two Secret Service agents burst into the classroom and darted through the maze of desks to her seat. Another agent stepped into the room, his gun drawn but pointed at the floor. Angela didn’t notice the gasps and startled cries of her classmates. She only saw the look on Agent Barbara Sullivan’s face; the hard eyes, the tight muscles stretched across her clenched jaw. Suddenly, Agent Sullivan was pulling her up from her seat.

  “Angela, we need to leave right now,” Sullivan commanded as she steered Angela towards the door. As they hurried down the hall, Sullivan lifted her cuff to her mouth.

  “Foxtrot is secure. We’re heading for the East entrance.”

  ____

  At that same moment, Michelle was running down the soccer field. Unlike most girls in her class who hated P.E. because it made them sweat, messed up their hair, and ruined their makeup, Michelle loved it. She dribbled the ball around two defenders, who made halfhearted attempts to stop her, and with a quick glance at the goalie, she picked her shot. The ball sailed past the goalie into the upper left-hand corner of the net. While a few of her teammates cheered, Michelle jogged back to center field.

  Behind her, several girls screamed. Michelle turned and saw three Secret Service agents running across the field, their suit coats flapping, two of them holding guns.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The initial shockwave from the final explosion tore a sixteen-inch hole in the right side of the fuselage. While that hole, and the damage caused to the plane from the two prior explosions, was enough to doom the aircraft, what sealed its fate was the secondary shockwave that followed the last blast. The fuselage reflected a portion of the bomb’s initial energy back towards the site of the explosion. When that reflected energy met with the waves still pulsing from the original blast, the result was a more powerful and faster traveling wave of energy, called a Mach stem wave. This traveled at supersonic speeds in several directions at once, bouncing off the fuselage and racing through open cavities and ductwork, warping and twisting metal along the way. The Mach stem wave tore a large hole through the ceiling of the cargo hold into the passenger compartment and continued up through the top of the fuselage into the rushing air outside. Much closer to the detonation site, another Mach stem wave tore a hole through the left-hand side of the plane directly across from the cargo bin where McKay had placed the bomb.