by John Denis
With a range of over seven thousand miles, she can land on less than five thousand feet of runway. No pilot with fewer than four thousand flying hours under his belt can sit at her controls — the motto of the 89th Military Aircraft Wing, Special Missions (MAC), which provides the Boeing’s crew, is ‘Experto Crede’ (Trust one who has experience). Many times the President and people of the United States of America have had cause to be grateful to the people who fly Air Force One, and doubtless will have cause again.
The plane has a flight-ceiling of more than forty thousand feet, and never carries less than ten in her crew. The Boeing’s economic cruising speed is 550 mph, and she is unique in American aviation in carrying a Lieutenant Colonel as navigator. Air Force One flight crewmen wear blue uniforms, and the stewards maroon blazers with blue trousers or skirts, each uniform sporting the coveted Presidential Service Badge.
More by accident than design, the President’s aircraft has become something of a cottage industry in its own right. The tableware and accoutrements are purpose-made and supplied gratis by manufacturers eager for the First Citizen’s approval. Since all the articles, from silverware, crystal glasses, dinner plates, cups and saucers, down to ash-trays, match-books and dinner napkins, bear the Presidential seal, they are eagerly sought by souvenir hunters.
Given the thriving black market in Air Force One artifacts, it is axiomatic that those who travel on her will yield to temptation and appropriate the portable items among the plane’s equipment. These are highly prized, and have even been used as a kind of ersatz currency, rather like schoolboys doing ‘swaps’.
The 89th (located, in fact, in Maryland, though the address of Andrews AFB is always given as Washington DC) would prefer to equip their flagship through the orthodox channels of paying for their own supplies and prosecuting people who steal from the plane, but the traditions of patronage and perks are deeply ingrained into American politics.
She had been cleaned, waxed and polished in preparation for the OPEC trip, and her tyres given a wash and brush-up, and she stood now on the runway at Muharraq, proud and gleaming and lovely in the yellowing rays of the sun, waiting for yet another manifest of passengers to board her who would never be charged for their journey.
The starboard engines, three and four, were already running to supply power and air-conditioning and to prepare the Boeing for a rapid start. The stores and spares inventories had been minutely examined and approved and, together with the baggage of the OPEC ministers, sent on ahead. On the flight deck the crew were at their posts for the necessary pre-flight procedures.
Master Sergeant Pete Wynanski, Chief Steward, handed ‘Airman’ Sabrina Carver a print-out of the guest-list. ‘Study it,’ he snapped, ‘because this ain’t a Bunny Dip for Hollywood moguls. These oil ministers are not just VIPs — they’re EDPs.’
‘They’re what?’
‘They’re what — “Sergeant”.’
‘Sorry. They’re what — Sergeant?’
‘EDPs. Exceptionally Distinguished Passengers. I don’t want any of ’em sloshing around in wet socks because you spilled drinks over them. ’Kay?’
‘Completely, chief. Uh — Sergeant,’ Sabrina replied. Master Sergeant Wynanski seemed to be the only crew member with an absolute zero-response to her gorgeous body, and he, she reflected ruefully, had to be the one she picked as her boss. ‘There ain’t no justice,’ she mused.
‘Yerright,’ snapped Wynanski, ‘there ain’t. Now — dooties. You’re drinks. Airman Fenstermaker here —’ (indicating a honey-blonde with tinted glasses and an enormous bosom standing alongside Sabrina) ‘— you’re snacks. ’Kay? You may have to swap later. Depends. ’Kay?’
‘Right, Sergeant,’ they chorused, though Sabrina’s brow was furrowed as her eyes ran down the Arab names. ‘’S’matter, Carver?’ Wynanski grunted.
‘Well, you said I was drinks, but it looks as if most of them will be sticking to tea,’ Sabrina explained.
‘Look, Carver, fer Chrissakes,’ Wynanski moaned. He had once been a waiter on the Staten Island ferry and had seen life. ‘You gotta unnerstan’ — these guys are Ayrabs. Moslems. Goddit?’
‘Uh-uh,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘They ain’t supposed to like booze,’ Wynanski said, patiently, ‘but from time to time, and especially when they’re out of Ayrabia, they — well — indulge, if you get me. But still they can’t appear to, and they don’t like you to know it, nor anybody else. Right? So. Read down the list again — out loud, so Fenstermaker don’t make a tit outa herself as well. Sorry, Fenstermaker. Nothin’ personal about yah boobs.’
Sabrina spluttered, but regained control and recited from the print-out.
‘Tea with milk and sugar.’
‘That’s straight tea — real tea, from leaves; with milk and sugar, like it says,’ Wynanski pronounced.
‘Tea with sugar but no milk,’ Sabrina intoned.
‘Scotch,’ said Wynanski firmly, ‘on the rocks, no water.’
Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. ‘Ohhh,’ she breathed.
‘’Bout time, too,’ Wynanski snarled. ‘Continue.’
‘Tea with lemon.’
‘Vodka. Ice. Lime juice.’ Sabrina made tiny notations.
‘Black coffee, no sugar.’
‘Cognac, neat,’ Wynanski supplied.
‘Tea — no sugar, no milk,’ Sabrina read. Wynanski looked puzzled. ‘Gimme that,’ he ordered, and scanned the list. Then his brow cleared, and a beatific smile illumined his battered face. ‘How about that?’ he whispered, ‘one o’ these guys got the hots fer Jack Daniels. Whooppee!’
Through the open hatch of the Boeing, the far-off wail of police-car sirens reached Sabrina’s ears. The motorcade, she calculated, must be on the causeway by now.
She found herself keenly anticipating the flight, whatever dangers it might hold. Especially, she was looking forward to seeing McCafferty again. He had made, she decided, quite an impression on her.
* * *
Philpott gazed meditatively for the umpteenth time at the computer print-out, dog-eared now, which was pinned to the front of Smith’s UNACO file. ‘Two down,’ he said, ‘three to go.’ He darted an exasperated glance at the ominous barrage of clocks, adjusted for time-zones and the individual preferences of more than a score of countries, sitting atop the electronic mural in the bureau’s nerve-centre, naggingly pushing forward the time for action. ‘And one just about coming up.’
‘Sir?’ Basil Swann inquired.
‘Just thinking out loud,’ Philpott returned. ‘All set for Bahrain?’
Swann replied with a trendy ‘Affirmative’. Air Force One, he supplied, would take off inside half an hour, on schedule. Sabrina Carver — ‘Airman First Class Carver’ — was already on board the Boeing, and Colonel Joe McCafferty, according to his invariable procedure, would board last of all, after delivering the OPEC emissaries.
‘No gremlins in the tracker-bug?’ Philpott asked. None, Basil assured him. Philpott chewed his lip, and refused to notice the Gulf time-zone clock, which had advanced by no more than a minute since he had last fixed it with a baleful glare. The tension got straight to his stomach, and he eased out a muted burp. Sonya Kolchinsky, from the neighbouring swivel-armchair, gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.
Of the original five events which the UNACO computer had linked to Smith’s escape, two were already safely dispatched: the gold bullion run to Moscow, and the Middle East defence talks in Cairo.
The bureau’s resident agents — one a Soviet Army physical training instructor, the other sous-chef in a Cairo hotel — had slotted into the operations, and both incidents were accomplished interference-free in their varying ways; but assuredly with no sign of criminal activity, from Smith or anyone else. The third event, chronologically speaking, on the master-list, was the journey Air Force One was about to commence, air-lifting the Arabian oil titans to Washington DC, via Geneva, Switzerland.
Philpott, for reasons he could not isolate,
had a stronger feeling of apprehension about this one than the first two, or even the remaining pair. The fatal joker in the Air Force One pack had always been clear to him: the operation could not be controlled from the ground.
Despite the presence of McCafferty, unknowingly backed up by Sabrina Carver, a swift and audacious strike by Smith at the President’s Boeing could succeed, immobilising both agents — or killing them. And Philpott would be powerless to prevent it, or to control the action thereafter. He had insisted as a minimum precaution on a monitoring capacity for UNACO to track the flight. It was impossible, though, to pick up a duplicate radar-trace, so Basil Swann simply arranged a feed of the signal relayed through a communications satellite to the Pentagon.
The signal came from the Boeing’s inertial navigation system, and Swann — against the odds, for it was a closely guarded secret — had discovered the frequency on which it was relayed. The signal was then decoded by the bureau’s computer, which obligingly translated it into a visual display on the vast wall map.
At present it was no more than a pin-point, throbbing expectantly on the island of Bahrain like an unleashed terrier.
But when the plane got airborne, the tracker-bug signal would snake out in a green line across the Middle East, the Near East and the Mediterranean, following whichever course Colonel Tom Fairman had selected to take the Boeing to Geneva.
While the President’s plane was in the skies, doing what it was supposed to do, going where it ought to go, the green tracker-line would continue crawling over the map. But should anything happen to the Boeing, the marker trail would vanish.
At all times, Malcolm Philpott would know the exact position and course of the aircraft — unless, by some inconceivable means, Mister Smith launched an attack, overwhelming even UNACO’s redoubtable agents, Carver and McCafferty. ‘And by then, of course,’ Philpott murmured, ‘we shan’t be able to do a damned thing about it.’
* * *
‘Hi,’ said the disembodied voice, ‘finished?’
Cody Jagger stared wildly at the telephone in his hand, and fleetingly cursed himself for not taking it off the hook in his (McCafferty’s, rather) bedroom.
Cody had not wanted his first test to come in this fashion. Given an even chance and brought face to face with anybody high enough in McCafferty’s circle, he reckoned he was good enough to pass. But trapped on the end of a phone with someone close enough to Mac not to feel it necessary to announce his name … the odds were that Jagger would fail. And he had. Stein had played him tapes, over and over again, of the voices of some of the UNACO man’s friends, and Jagger had absorbed them. But he had never before heard the voice that had just spoken to him; of that Cody was sure.
He kept silent, seeking a clue, willing the caller to identify himself. Jagger controlled his breathing; his forehead was beaded in sweat. At least he had remembered Stein’s instruction for telephone calls: never be the first one to speak; it would give him time to think; it would disconcert the caller, Stein had urged; and it would allow Jagger, in the last eventuality, to feign a wrong number in another assumed voice, and hang up.
He had almost made up his mind to cradle the receiver when the voice said, ‘That is you, Colonel, is it?’
‘Colonel’ — Jagger’s mind raced to cope with the import of the formal address. A friend, but not too close a friend, then. Precise with the use of the title, so more than probably military; Army or Air Force. Possibly a crew member? Not flight crew, though, or engineers; nor maintenance, technicians or stewards. None of these would have sufficient reason to disturb the security chief in his hotel bedroom.
Only one other man aboard Air Force One would actually have business with McCafferty. Jagger decided to take a chance. He could only fail a second time, and he might be able to bluff his way out of trouble.
‘Sorry, Bert,’ he chuckled, ‘I was miles away.’
‘You can say that again,’ Cooligan replied in an aggrieved tone. ‘Now, to return to the point — have you or have you not finished?’
Once more Jagger waited, but this time deliberately, even allowing himself a small, judicious cough. The sweat was still spangling his eyebrows, yet his confidence was returning; he had, after all, won the first round. He had deduced Bert Cooligan — and he had been right.
Now it was Cooligan who was unwilling to break the silence. Could he be getting suspicious? Jagger wondered, the panic raising prickles of fear on his exposed skin.
Finally, Cooligan could stand it no longer. ‘Look, Colonel,’ he said patiently, ‘if you don’t want to talk to me, for Christ’s sake say so. But do me the favour of coming back from wherever it is that you are, because you sure aren’t in your room talking to me on the phone.
‘Now just for the record, you told me at the airport — and I say this again — you told me you were coming back to the hotel to shower and have a drink. So — if you haven’t finished the shower bit, shall I come up to your room and leer at your magnificent body while you don clean drawers and best Air Force One blues? Or do I wait down here in the bar for you? Or do you wish me to have drinks sent up? Or you want I should go throw myself under a camel? Or like — what?’
Jagger started to say ‘Sure, Bert’ to one of the propositions when Cooligan interrupted him. ‘Boy, am I dumb, chief! ’Course — you got company. Huh? Tricky bastard.’
Cody laughed and assured Cooligan that he was (a) alone, and (b) with him again in body, mind and spirit. What was he to do now though? Jagger mused. Face the music? He made up his mind.
‘Sure, come on up, Bert,’ he said easily. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll promise to dress before you get here so’s not to put you to shame, on condition that you’re accompanied by a bottle of malt Scotch, a crowded ice-pail, four glasses and — since you’ve given me the taste — two dusky harlots.’
‘Tush, Colonel, not while we’re on duty,’ Cooligan admonished.
‘You’re right, Agent Cooligan,’ Jagger conceded, ‘forget the ice.’ Cooligan chortled and said, ‘That’s better, Mac. You had me worried there for a moment. See you soon.’
Jagger mopped his forehead and then snapped his fingers in annoyance. He tore off his uniform and sprinted for the shower, taking the jets of water barely lukewarm. He towelled himself down, slipped on clean underpants, and was lounging on the balcony in a bathrobe when Cooligan appeared.
The Secret Service agent was followed by a waiter pushing a trolley laden in the manner prescribed, and bearing a bonus of sandwiches. There seemed to be a world shortage of harlots, fuliginous or otherwise.
‘I checked the airport guards like you said,’ Bert began when they were settled in easy-chairs nursing a double Laphroaig apiece. ‘Their officers know what they’re doing, and the guys themselves seem keen enough, if not a shade trigger-happy. No one’s been within stone-chucking distance of the Big Bird since the Bahrainis took over. I’ve briefed them, and I’ve had a word with the police outside. There’ll be no trouble.’
‘For this relief, much thanks,’ Jagger sighed, choosing a quotation which he knew McCafferty might employ, ‘though it wasn’t crowd scares I was anxious about.’
‘Huh?’
Jagger explained that, on the face of it, the trip could present a golden opportunity for Israeli irregulars, or even for a black propaganda PLO coup, zapping the plane and blaming it on Mossad or the Jews in general.
‘Cautious old Mac,’ Bert grinned, lifting his glass in salute. ‘You don’t change, do you?’
‘You’d be disappointed if I did, wouldn’t you?’ Jagger said.
‘I would,’ Cooligan admitted, ‘and so, no doubt, would that rather gorgeous stewardess Latimer tells me you’re dating in Geneva tonight.’
Jagger forced a grin as alarms probed sharply at his mind. He nearly bit his tongue to stop himself saying ‘I am?’
* * *
Gradually the rain of stinging blows on his cheeks and the shock of the water dashed into his face from an earthenware pitcher brought McCa
fferty round. Achmed, crouched on his haunches over the American on the mud floor of the borrasti, shouted to Dunkels. The German examined their prisoner and complained that Achmed had been unnecessarily rough. A second Arab standing by Achmed grinned and drove his booted foot into Mac’s ribs. The breath left the American’s body in a rush, and a cry of pain came from his bruised lips.
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Achmed Fayeed apologised, ‘his foot slipped.’ Dunkels laughed, and asked McCafferty if he was feeling co-operative. Mac shook his head to clear away the fog and focus his eyes.
‘Does he mean he isn’t going to co-operate?’ Achmed asked, round-eyed. McCafferty looked at him dully; then, deliberately, he filled his mouth and spat a gobbet of blood-streaked saliva into Achmed’s face. Fayeed fastidiously wiped the mess from his chin, studied it on his handkerchief, and nodded casually to the other Arab, his servant, Selim. Selim stepped over the American’s body and back-heeled him viciously, turning in one fluid movement and crashing his other foot into the side of McCafferty’s head, whipping it round to meet Achmed’s fist from the other direction. In case the American hadn’t got the point, they gave a repeat performance. Then Siegfried Dunkels held up his hand.
‘That’s enough,’ he ordered. ‘I want him to talk. Much more of that and he won’t be able to even if he’s willing.’ Achmed leaned forward, grabbed McCafferty by the shirt-front, and hauled him to a sitting position. Dunkels sprayed him with water again, and yanked up his head with a handful of hair. ‘Well, Colonel?’ he said pleasantly.
‘Whoever you are,’ Mac replied thickly, his tongue feeling unnaturally big inside his swollen mouth, ‘whoever you are, you’re trying something you can’t possibly get away with. Let me go, release me, and I’ll see that it goes down as a robbery; the police won’t take any action.
