Before she could answer. Coach said, “Destroying the planet is not necessarily what I associate with being the world’s most powerful person. Lucky. I’m talking about the consummate mover and shaker, the guy who whispers, and the whole world listens. In my book, the President of the United States just doesn’t cut it anymore. He’s chained to his politics, with Congress always there to dilute his vision and veto his greatest dreams. That’s why my candidate is none other than the Chairman of the Federal Reserve.”
“Coach, I agree with your assessment of today’s Presidency,” added the engineer.
“But your choice of the Fed Chairman doesn’t quite fill all the requirements. Don’t forget that he’s still only a government appointee himself, who serves at the bidding of powers that be. One unpopular decision could cost him his job, especially if he starts stepping on the toes of the bankers.
Right now, I’m torn between two men, both of whom wield the type of unlimited power that influences each of our lives on a daily basis.”
A soft, electronic warning tone caused Lasky to momentarily redirect his attention to the mass of instruments gracing the engineering console. A quick glance was all that was needed for him to reach up with his gloved left hand and reset a tripped circuit breaker. The tone ceased, and, conscious that he still had his audience’s complete attention, Lasky slowly turned around and said, “My picks are Michael Eisner and Bill Gates.”
“Give me a break, Jake,” said Lucky with a laugh.
“A mouse and a geek for the world’s most powerful? Come on, now.”
Lasky was quick to the defense.
“You can laugh all you want, Lucky, but think about it. Turn on just about any computer in the world, and I guarantee that you have software compliments of Bill Gates loaded inside. Do the same with your television or radio, and during your next visit to the movies, count the percentage of programs that are produced by Disney, and you’ll be staggered. And that doesn’t even include Disney’s clothing, toy, and book lines. You might laugh, but the mouse and the geek, as you call them, are influencing almost every facet of our lives, as well as those of our children!”
“Jake, my man,” interrupted Lucky.
“Granted that Eisner and Gates are billionaires leading Fortune 500 companies, but that still doesn’t put them in the same league as the President. Commander Cooper will tell you, when they’re invited to the White House they still have to get in line with the masses, to pay homage to the man with all the real power.”
All eyes went to the female in their midst, and Brittany thoughtfully shook her head and expressed herself.
“As far as I’m concerned, none of you is even close. My vote goes to the Pope.”
“The Pope?” repeated Lucky like he hadn’t heard her properly.
Brittany nodded.
“That’s right, the old guy with the funny hat who lives in the Vatican. Because if it’s supreme power you’re concerned with, the Pope is the one with the clout to pull the strings that really count.”
Coach rubbed his square jaw and reflected.
“Interesting choice. Commander. But there’s one thing you’re forgetting.
Even the Pontiff’s at the mercy of a quarter percent drop in the prime. Do you realize how such a minor drop can influence the value of Sunday’s collection plate? With a single decision, the Chairman of the Fed could cost the Church billions.”
“But can either one of them green-light a ten-million-dollar movie that can bring in a worldwide gross of one hundred times as much, or produce a piece of software that every computer user on the planet can’t live without?” countered Jake.
Brittany could see that this argument didn’t have a chance of being resolved at this time, and she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here they were thirty-one thousand feet over the Black Sea, flying in one of the most sophisticated aircraft in the world, and all the flight crew seemed to care about was such an off-the-wall subject matter.
“I understand that Air Force One has landed,” she said in an attempt to redirect the course of their conversation.
Coach checked his watch and grunted.
“They’ve been down on the ground for a good fifteen minutes.”
“Any of you been to Simferopol before?” she asked.
None of the flight crew had, and Brittany added, “I’ve got to admit that I didn’t even know where it was when the President initially informed us of his desire to travel to the Crimea.”
“Scuttlebutt has it that he’s down there to finalize the Global Zero Nuclear Alert Treaty with the Russians and the Ukrainians,” offered Lucky.
“Talk about power. That agreement would change our lives forever, and make a plane like Nightwatch an anachronism.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said Coach.
“Nightwatch would still have its uses in a world without a hairtrigger nuclear response posture.” He made a slight adjustment to the throttle before turning to Brittany.
“The one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you. Commander, is how you got stuck with us. Why aren’t you down there with the President?”
“It’s because of my lousy Russian,” she answered directly.
“Major Ryan is the Army MIL AIDE and because he majored in Eastern languages back at the Point, he got the main assignment, while I drew backup.”
Coach could sense that she had been disappointed by this decision, and he made certain to catch her glance before replying.
“Though I can’t give you any frequent-flier miles for this trip, or offer you fancy accommodations like on Air Force One, speaking for the crew of Nightwatch, we’re honored to have you aboard.”
Before Brittany could respond to this gracious statement, a gravelly male voice emanated from the speakers of her headphones.
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, this is Spooky Threenine. Do you copy? Over.”
Coach turned a dial on the radio selector and replied into his chin microphone.
“Roger that. Spooky Threenine. This is Nightwatch six-seven-six, reading you loud and clear. Over.”
“Nightwatch six-seven-six, be informed that Spooky Threenine is moving north to patrol sector Avalon at eighteen thousand.
Over.”
“Roger that, Spooky Threenine. Don’t hesitate to call if we can render any assistance. Out.”
Coach turned the radio back to intercom mode and listened as Brittany questioned, “I gather that Spooky Threenine is our
AC-130U?”
“That’s affirmative. Commander,” Coach answered.
“Patrol sector Avalon will put them just off the Crimean coast, should the President dial nine-one-one.”
“I’m sure glad Spooky Threenine is on our side,” offered Lucky while looking out the windshield in an effort to spot them.
“I got a buddy who flies gunships out of Hurlburt, and from what he tells me, that’s one lean, mean fighting machine.”
Jake concurred.
“In last month’s Airman magazine, they did a feature on the AC-130U. Did you know they’re the only planes in the Air Force that are authorized to display nose art? Most of this art is of various demons, a fitting mascot for a plane armed with a 25mm General Electric Gatling gun capable of eighteen hundred rounds per minute, a 40mm Bofors cannon, and a 105mm howitzer.”
“I read that same article, and was impressed by the way all that firepower is delivered on target,” said Coach.
“An All Light Level Television system, an infrared detection set, and a multimode strike radar are all used to help Spooky carry out its main mission of providing surgical firepower or area saturation during extended loiter periods, at night and in adverse weather.”
“And then there’s their ability to simultaneously engage two different targets with two separate sensors and two different guns,” added Jake.
“Now that’s kicking ass big-time.”
“The trouble is,” Brittany somberly interjected, “if we do need to call in the
gunship to protect the President’s motorcade, chances are it will already be too late to make a difference.”
Before the flight crew could discuss this assessment, the intercom activated, and Brittany was called back to Operations for a meeting with the E-4B’s senior officer. Admiral Trent Warner, the current Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. She excused herself and headed aft, down the spiral stairway to the maindeck forward entry area. She returned the nod of the security man and passed by the gallery.
By heading forward, one could access the NCA executive compartment. This was where the Chairman’s bunk was located.
Brittany proceeded in the opposite direction, passing through the vacant conference room. The long, rectangular table could seat nine, with a projection screen built into the aft bulkhead.
As she ducked through the hatchway, she entered the briefing room. Its eighteen seats were filled with various personnel in the process of receiving a briefing from the officer standing at the compartment’s forward lectern. A large-scale map of Europe was projected behind him, and as Brittany crossed through the room, she listened as the briefer discussed the communications frequencies that they would be depending upon during tomorrow’s anticipated flight back to Andrews Air Force Base.
Brittany almost forgot that she was flying in an airplane upon entering the next compartment. This was the Operations Area, and it reminded her of the White House military office. A series of twelve computer workstations lined each side of the room.
Each of the consoles was fully staffed, with all of the personnel attired in matching green flight suits.
She briefly halted at the second console on the compartment’s starboard side. Seated here was Master Sergeant Andrea “Red” Rayburn. The trim, thirty-four-year-old African-American was immersed in a telephone conversation while at the same time entering data into her laptop. Even then, the personable systems analyst managed to flash Brittany a warm smile.
Brittany could only imagine whom she was talking to, and the means by which this conversation was being transmitted.
Nightwatch 676 was one of four sites delegated to provide secure command and control of U.S. military forces in support of the NCA. The primary land-based facility was the National Military Command Center, located in the Pentagon, with backups at Site “R” near Fort Ritchie, Maryland, and the Strategic Command underground bunker buried beneath Nebraska’s Offut Air Force Base. Of these locations, Nightwatch was the only mobile facility, offering the NCA a survivable, nuclear-war-hardened platform from which they could exercise their national security responsibilities should circumstances warrant. And it was because of this ability to survive a nuclear exchange that Nightwatch was also known as the “doomsday plane.”
Trying her best not to further disturb Red, whose nickname was derived from her bright crimson fingernails, Brittany used a key to access the file drawer that had been reserved for her exclusive use. She removed the black leather briefcase that lay inside and joined a group of airmen gathered at the console immediately behind Red. It was here that Brittany sighted the distinguished shock of white hair belonging to Admiral Trent Warner. A former submariner, Warner was a recent replacement for General William Ridgeway, who had surprised the defense community three months ago when he announced his early retirement.
Up until that time, Brittany had had limited contact with Warner. But as Chairman, he had become a frequent White House visitor, and she had made it a point to properly introduce herself. During that initial meeting she learned that Warner had received his first submarine command only after passing the scrutiny of the legendary Hyman Rickover. Like Rickover, Warner made a reputation for himself as a strict disciplinarian. His demands were high, his short fuse notorious.
Brittany would never forget the way Warner’s steely-gray gaze had examined her from head to foot. It was like he was holding an inspection, and she found herself feeling uncomfortable, afraid that he’d find a hair out of place or a button unfastened.
Several days later, after lunch at the White House mess, she mentioned this sensation to the Maitre d’, a chief petty officer and career submariner. He revealed that one of his best friends had served on one of Warner’s submarines, and had experienced a similar degree of discomfort whenever he found himself in his skipper’s company.
Now, with each step closer to the Chairman’s workstation, Brittany squared back her shoulders, took a deep breath, and mentally prepared herself to be swallowed by Warner’s dominant will. She was able to derive some semblance of relief when the knot of male officers gathered around the Chairman let loose a peal of shared laughter. Included in this group was the balding, slim figure of Colonel Lyford Pritchard, the op team’s CO.
“And that’s the last time I ever played golf with our esteemed Commanderin-Chief,” said Warner.
Brittany smiled along with the others, even though she’d missed the joke, but her arrival at the workstation generated an immediate change of attitude. The smiles quickly faded, and even the men’s postures stiffened. Once again Brittany felt the discriminatory existence of the old boy’s network. Some things in the military would never change. She had decided early in her career not to fight it, and pushed onward knowing there were some walls between the sexes that could never be breached.
The Chairman acknowledged her with a nod, and the other officers alertly excused themselves, except for Colonel Pritchard.
After Warner made certain that Brittany had brought the briefcase along, he broke the seal of the red file folder he was holding, and reached into the top pocket of his flight suit to remove his reading glasses.
“Commander Cooper,” said the Chairman, his voice deep and resonant, “as you most likely know. Air Force One has landed at Simferopol. Per the continuity of government protocol, now that POTUS is on foreign soil. Satchel Bravo is to be deposited in our emergency actions safe. Colonel Pritchard, if you’ll be so good as to give the Commander her key.”
Lyford Fritchard partially unzipped his flight suit and removed one of two chains that hung from his neck. Both of them held a single key, and he handed one of the chains to Brittany, saying, “Commander Cooper, this key is to be in your possession at all times. It opens one of two locks that ensure the integrity of our emergency actions safe. As op’s team leader, I’ve got possession of the sister key.”
Pritchard beckoned toward the compact, bank-vault-type safe that was bolted to the deck beneath the Chairman’s workstation.
Brittany followed his lead and, with the briefcase at her side, knelt down and watched as Pritchard inserted his key into the top lock. She put her key into the lock below and, on his count of three, simultaneously turned the tumbler. It triggered with a loud click, with Pritchard pulling down on the safe’s iron handle.
The interior of the safe was empty, and the briefcase easily fit inside its thick, fireproof walls. Once the case was secure, the door to the safe was shut, and the two keys were once again utilized to lock it inside.
“Let’s hope that’s the last we see of it until we land back at Andrews tomorrow evening,” said Warner, who watched as Brittany draped the chain holding the key around her neck and stood.
Unexpected clear-air turbulence caused the cabin to rattle ominously, and Brittany was forced to reach out and accept the
Chairman’s steadying hand. His palm was cool and clammy, and she let go of it as soon as she regained her balance, all the while listening as Warner’s voice lowered to a bare, conspiratorial whisper.
“Commander Cooper, both you and Colonel Pritchard are now an integral part of the continuity of government protocol.
If anything should happen to permanently incapacitate the President while he’s in the Crimea, and should Satchel Alpha be compromised, Nightwatch is responsible for relaying the need of a transfer of power to the Vice President or his successor via the FEMA central locator system.
“Yet until the next in line is sworn in. Satchel Bravo will be removed and activated. As the senior NCA representative pr
esent, I will be in charge of the nuclear release codes and all SIOP implementation. In the unlikely event that such a tragic turn of events should befall us, our nation is depending upon Nightwatch to not only ensure a peaceful transition of government, but to also orchestrate a timely, effective military response to any enemy that might wish to take advantage of a temporary lapse of executive control. Your cooperation is therefore invaluable, and I’m counting on your support should the unthinkable come to pass.”
Another pocket of turbulence shook the fuselage, yet this time Brittany didn’t need any assistance to keep her balance.
Ignoring the coffee cup that crashed to the deck behind her, she found herself fingering the silver key that hung from her neck, well aware of the great secrets it protected.
Chapter 6
Friday, July, 2, 1514 Zulu
Samuel Morrison knew that they were very fortunate to get the motorcade formed and on the road before the rains started. From the backseat of the lead Suburban, the SAIC turned his head to look out the rear window, where the single wiper was doing its best to clear off the copious amounts of rainwater that fell from the stormy heavens. He could just see the headlights belonging to the limousine carrying the President. It was the next vehicle in line, and, in addition to Two Putt, held his National Security Advisor, his Army MIL AIDE the Press Secretary, and Special Agent Moreno.
Moreno had more than earned this ride in the so-called “hot seat.” He had displayed admirable initiative when he climbed behind the wheel of their ambulance and popped the clutch, while members of the C-17’s flight crew pushed the van down the airplane’s rear loading ramp. All of them issued a relieved shout as the engine finally turned over.
Without this emergency vehicle running, there would have been no motorcade. The official rules were strict on this point, and as the President’s backup physician exited Air Force One and climbed into the ambulance to prepare it for the trip to the coast, little did he know how close they had come to having to call in a local tow truck.
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