by D F Capps
“The other thing that concerns me is confronting the Zetas on the ground. We need more protection.”
Hollis tipped back in his chair, his brow furrowed.
“We hadn’t thought much about that,” Hollis admitted. “We were thinking only of combat in flight.”
Diane glanced down and shook her head.
“Well, what happened on Baffin Island changes that. We came close to losing the president. Wearing the helmets helped a lot. I think the heat reflecting emergency blankets helped too, but they’re too small; we need them larger, or we need the reflective coating built into the flight suits.”
Hollis put his hand to his mouth, deep in thought. Then he spoke, “You’re thinking they react to infrared?”
Diane nodded. “The first Zeta I shot was following the president’s breath. I don’t know whether it could see the water vapor in the air, or the heat from his breath. Either way, the Zetas seem to have excellent vision in darkened areas.”
Hollis grabbed a pen and made some notes. He glanced up at her, then back down as he wrote some more.
“Considering the size of their eyes, I can’t say I’m surprised. What else did you notice?”
Hollis wiggled the pen in his fingers.
“They don’t have any outer ears to gather sound, so their hearing isn’t that good. I was able to come up from behind two of them. I think the cold snow helped to dampen the sound, but still . . .”
Hollis nodded and wrote more notes. “Okay, that’s interesting, but I don’t see how that helps us much at this point.”
Well, I do, Diane thought. I’ve got to make this clear. “My concern is that we’re going to have more encounters with the Zetas on the ground. We know we’re going to lose fighter craft, but in a majority of those cases the crew is going to survive.”
The furrow in Hollis’s brow was back. He paused, then said, “I’m rethinking what you said about their vision. We have sightings of saucers during the day, but the vast majority of contact with the Zetas themselves takes place at night. You may be on to something.”
Okay, she thought. I’m getting through. That’s a relief. “In addition, I used our tactical flashlight as a distraction by shining it at the Zeta. It was startled and tried to shield its eyes from the bright light. That gave me the time I needed to aim and shoot it.”
Hollis still appeared to be deep in thought. “What about the second Zeta you shot?”
The image of the ugly dead Zeta and the green fluid leaking into the snow flashed into her mind. The nausea returned as well, just not as strong. She took a breath, trying to calm herself.
“What my intuition is showing me is that the Zetas depend heavily on their strongest senses, which are telepathy and sight in low light levels. Our helmets seem to eliminate their telepathic control of our minds, but I think it works the other way around, too. The helmet limits their ability to sense our presence and location, probably by shielding our thoughts from them.”
Hollis nodded and jotted another note. “Interesting. I will have the reflective coating built into the flight suits. What else?”
Diane paused to think.
“I feel like we need a way to communicate when we’re not in our fighter craft, but it’s not really formed in my mind yet. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
Hollis shook his head again. “You don’t have to figure these things out on your own,” he said. “You can bounce ideas off Theo anytime you want. We have a direct underground line with Ceti Research. Here’s his extension number.” He handed her one of Theo’s cards. “Anything else?”
Diane paused and glanced around the room.
“I need to know more about the Zeta Greys. How can I get that information?”
Hollis shook his head. “As you are aware, this whole business is very compartmentalized. I’m not going to be able to get authorization.”
She lowered her head, breathed out, and looked back up at him. Compartmentalization was good for security, but it was leaving too many people in the dark about the enemy they were fighting.
“Please see what you can do. What we don’t know right now has the potential to kill all of us.”
Hollis looked at her, worry deepening in his expression. “I’ll see what I can do. Good job out there. Get some rest.”
She nodded and stood. “Yes, sir.”
As she walked back down to her quarters the three alien weapons weighed heavily on her mind. I should have mentioned them. I should have turned them in for reverse engineering, but my gut tells me to hang on to them. I just hope I’m doing the right thing.
* * *
Diane unlocked the door to her quarters.
“Hey,” Ryan said softly from down the hall.
She turned to him.
“How did your mission go?”
She looked down at the floor. “I almost got the president killed.”
Ryan appeared shocked. “You were with the president?”
She nodded. “I used the radio when we were too far from home. It attracted three scout saucers. I should have waited.”
Ryan shook his head. “Look, this is my area of expertise. If you were flying in a remote area, the radio was the least of your concerns—especially at night. Our fighter craft glows bright white at night. It’s visible from thousands of miles in space. Whether you used the radio or not, they would have spotted you.”
Diane hung her head. “It was a critical mistake. I lost our fighter. I shouldn’t be flying.”
Ryan motioned for them to go into her room. “I understand your concern. Under ideal circumstances, or as a training exercise, the loss of our craft would be a serious consideration. But we’re at war. We’re going to lose fighter craft and people. I’m just thankful that you and the president are still alive.”
She sat on the bed, tears forming in her eyes.
He sat next to her and paused before speaking. “You feel like you can’t be trusted as a pilot?”
She nodded.
He began chuckling, quietly, but she was irritated.
“This isn’t funny,” she said. “I almost got the president killed!”
He was trying to stifle his laughter. But he couldn’t. “You don’t get it, do you?”
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
He smiled. “I fly with you all of the time. I have no control over what you do or how you fly, and frankly, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. You’re the best pilot I’ve ever seen.”
Her heart was pounding and she felt short of breath.
He shook his head. “You still don’t get it. Hollis picked you because if he’d sent anyone else, both the pilot and the president would be dead. You’re that good.”
She looked over at him.
“I put my life in your hands every time we strap into that fighter craft. I trust you. I believe in you. I care about you.” He reached over and took her hand in his. “All I want is for you to go back to trusting yourself—believing in yourself—and being as confident in that pilot seat as you have ever been.”
She squeezed his hand.
“My personal feelings aside,” he said. “You have to get your head and your heart back into being the best pilot there ever was. You were born to fly one of these things. No doubt in my mind about it. There’s no room for doubt in your mind, either. Forget about almost getting the president killed. Almost doesn’t matter. The president is alive because of your skill and dedication. Please, let that sink in.”
He stood, kissed her on the forehead, and left.
She sat there in a state of shock, mouth open, staring at the closed door. God, she thought, I had no idea he felt this way.
Chapter 42
President Andrews walked unsteadily into the residence in Camp David.
“Sir, are you all right?” James, his head Secret Service agent asked.
Andrews was feeling dizzy and having trouble with his balance.
“It was a rough night, James. I think I’ll stay here
for a few days. Please bring my wife first thing in the morning.”
Andrews stumbled and grabbed onto a chair for support.
“Yes, sir. I’m calling the doctor. You don’t look good.”
James rushed over to help him.
“Yeah, I’ve got a really bad headache and I’m feeling nauseated again.”
James encouraged him to take a chair.
“Again, sir?” Then James said into his wrist microphone, “I need the on-duty doctor and six additional agents in the residence now, and wake FLOTUS. I don’t like the way this feels. Get her in the beast and on the road, now.”
Andrews stood, stumbled into the bathroom, and retched into the toilet.
“And get the chief of staff and Harriet, his secretary here, too.”
Dr. Wilkins, the on-duty doctor, rushed in through the front door. “Where is he? What happened?”
James pointed to the bathroom.
“What happened?” Dr. Wilkins asked again. He shined a small flashlight in Andrews’s eyes, checked his heart and lungs, and took his blood pressure and temperature.
“I have a helicopter warming up,” James said. “Does he need to go to Walter Reed?”
“I don’t know yet,” Dr. Wilkins said. “His vitals are good.” The doctor took the president’s head in his hands. “Sir, can you tell me what happened?”
“Partly,” Andrews said. “Let’s say I was in a plane that shook very violently, and bounced around a lot. I don’t think anything is broken, but I’m nauseated. I have a severe headache, and my joints hurt. Other than that, I think I’m all right.”
Dr. Wilkins looked horrified. “I want to take him to Walter Reed, full physical and neurological workup. I don’t want to take any chances.”
Andrews pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed a card. “Call this number first. Ask for Dr. Cowen. Then you can make your recommendation.”
Andrews slumped onto the floor of the bathroom.
The doctor called the number and conversed for five minutes. Then he said, “Okay. Have the chopper stand down. Take him to the clinic. I want a CT scan of his head and chest just to be on the safe side. I have a sedative for him. After the scan, get him into bed.”
Thankfully, Andrews could lie down for the CT scan. By the time it was done, he was feeling much more comfortable and drowsy. He quickly fell asleep when he got into bed.
* * *
Sean Wells sipped his morning coffee in his room at the Washington Hilton in northwest D.C. He had a local news station on the TV with the sound muted. On the screen, red and blue flashing lights with two plumes of smoke rising in the background caught his attention. Breaking News was boldly displayed across the bottom of the screen. He turned on the sound.
“Initial reports indicate that a plane or a helicopter has crashed in the countryside behind me,” the young woman said. “We think there are two crash sites, judging from the smoke, and that a small plane may have collided with a helicopter. At this time we do not know what kind of helicopter or other aircraft was involved or how many people might have been on board. The local police have the area closed off. We were able to get this before the police escorted us from the area.”
A shifting telephoto view of a helicopter crumpled on the ground filled the screen. Black smoke billowed from the wreckage with occasional orange flames piercing the roiling dark cloud. Sean stood and moved closer to the screen. A police officer appeared, holding his hand in front of the camera. The video restarted and played again.
“Oh no.” Sean grabbed his cell phone and called his editor.
“Ed, are you watching this on the news?”
Sean looked carefully at the helicopter wreckage shown on the screen.
“Watching what?”
He checked the bottom of the screen. “It’s a local station near D.C. The reporter is Virginia Cummings. She’s at the scene of a helicopter crash. From what I can see, it looks like the kind and color of the president’s chopper. Is there anything on the major news feeds?”
He walked closer to the screen.
“Let me check . . . So far nothing. What do you think is going on?”
He looked at the wreckage more closely. “I don’t know. Every time they move the president by chopper they always use three of them. Keeps everyone guessing, you know?”
It was a live feed with no DVR. He couldn’t pause or back it up for a second look.
“So it can’t be that,” Ed said. “There’s only one crash site, right?”
Sean’s heart was beating faster.
“No. I saw two smoke plumes. We have at least two crash sites.”
Did they bring down two of the three choppers? Did the president get away?
“What is the local reporter saying?” Ed asked.
Sean put his left hand to his chest.
“She thinks a small plane and a helicopter collided in the air.”
“Well then it can’t be the president. They close the airspace every time he flies.”
The screen view switched back to the local reporter. “As you can see, off to the right side, a third plume of smoke has appeared. It looks like three aircraft may have been involved.”
The camera view shifted to the right. Two Maryland state troopers were rushing over.
“This area is closed,” the first officer said. “You have to leave, now.”
The camera switched to Virginia Cummings.
“Officer, we have a first amendment right to be here. This is public property. You can’t just order us to leave.”
The officer shook his head. “This is a matter of national security,” he said as he grabbed the camera.
The view on the screen blurred as the camera moved rapidly, and then the screen went black.
“What the hell? Ed, are you getting any of this?”
Sean glanced at his watch: 7:18. Hell of a way to start the day.
“No. Nothing is on the major news feeds. Wait a minute . . . One of our younger interns has something. It’s a new Twitter feed: hashtag president dead. I can’t verify it. Someone thinks the president has died.”
Chapter 43
“Mr. President?”
Andrews opened his eyes.
“Sir,” Franks said. “I hate to wake you up, but we have a situation.”
Andrews sat up and tried to clear his mind. “What happened?”
“Sir, I’m afraid this is my fault. I’m so sorry.”
Andrews dressed quickly. “Just tell me what happened.”
“When you left the White House last night the plan was that you would be back before morning.”
“Yeah?”
Franks was uncharacteristically nervous.
“But then you stayed here and the First Lady was whisked away in the middle of the night. They came and got me and Harriet. When I found out we were all going to be here for a few days I started cancelling your appointments. Harriet and I were calling people and then it occurred to me. People would be suspicious about the president disappearing in the middle of the night and showing up at Camp David unannounced. You know?”
Franks was rubbing his hands together and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Go on.”
Franks glanced at the door. “So I thought the optics would be better if the public saw you leave for Camp David this morning. I had Agent Dodd made up to look like you. He walked out of the White House, waved to people, and got on the chopper.”
Andrews finished tying his shoes. “Okay.”
He stood, walked out of the bedroom, and into a madhouse. Secret Service agents were running in and out of the residence, phones were ringing, and three TV screens showed video of the crashed helicopters.
“What the hell happened?”
Franks rushed up next to him. “That’s what I was trying to explain, sir. All three helicopters were shot down on their way here to Camp David. Last communication with Marine One said multiple missiles had been fired from the ground, sir. No chatter, no
warning, nothing. The attack was a total surprise, sir.”
Andrews checked all three screens. “Casualties?”
Franks shook his head. “No survivors, sir. At least eight are dead. Maybe more.”
Andrews turned and looked Franks straight in the eyes. “My wife?”
Franks shook his head again. “She’s here, sir. She’s safe.”
Andrews’s head was swimming. “I need some coffee.”
“Right away, sir.”
Andrews walked over to Secret Service Agent James. “I thought those helicopters had countermeasure and jamming systems on them.”
James turned to face him. “They do, sir. Initial examination of the crash sites indicate that Russian SA-24 Grinch shoulder-launched missiles were used. Those are reasonably countermeasure resistant. Our people on the scene are reporting that they believe at least ten missiles were fired at each helicopter, sir. It was a turkey shoot. No chance of surviving it.”
Andrews’s shoulders drooped. “Any idea who’s behind the attack?”
James glanced at the screens. “No, sir. Too early to tell.”
Andrews closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled—hard. “So this wasn’t a lone nut with a missile.”
“No, sir, it wasn’t. At least thirty to thirty-five people had to be involved for a coordinated attack like this to succeed.”
The expression on James’s face was grim, but determined.
“Could someone have leaked the flight plan?”
James shook his head. “Not the way it works, sir. The route to or from Camp David is changed every time. Out of twenty-five different routes, six are chosen at random. The final flight plan is selected by a roll of a die, once the choppers are in the air. No one on the ground knows the flight path.”
Andrews stepped closer to the main screen. “So someone either got incredibly lucky, or . . .” He turned to face James.
“This was a major military-level operation with coordinated supply, deployment, and intelligence support,” James replied.
Andrews closed his eyes, breathed out, and tilted his head back.
