The President's Pilot Page 5

  But she didn’t dare speak it. Not yet.

  Paralyzed with fear, she had watched the drama in the cockpit as if she were a detached witness. She’d been right about Brand. She knew nothing about the technical details of Air Force One, but she knew that Brand had somehow saved them from crashing into the ocean.

  For now. Things were happening in a bewildering sequence. What was next?

  Fresh in Libby’s mind was the behavior of DeWitt, the flight engineer, when the engines flamed out. The bastards. They didn’t tell they’d do this. Libby didn’t have a chance to press the sergeant about what he meant before Brand sent him to the cabin. She would tell Brand about it later.

  If there was a later. Libby knew they were still in great danger. Brand was busy flying the airplane. In the dim light, she saw Switzer with a manual opened on his engineer’s desk, his finger tracing a schematic drawing of one of the aircraft’s systems. Switzer had managed to restore enough electrical power to illuminate a few emergency lights. Batchelder was in the jump seat directly behind Brand. Morganti, in the right seat, was wearing his same sour look.

  Libby positioned herself behind the pilots’ seats. “We’re still in serious trouble, aren’t we?” She could hear the querulousness in her voice.

  Brand nodded. “Yes, we are.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Land. Soon. We can only use the fuel that’s in the reserve tanks. Sergeant Switzer has just calculated that it will last for about an hour of flying time. Maybe a few minutes more. Maybe less.”

  “An hour? But we’re over the middle of the Atlantic.”

  “The North Atlantic. Greenland is three hundred miles to the northwest. We’ll land at a field at the southern tip of the island, a place called Narsarsuaq.”

  Land. For the first time since the emergency began, Libby let herself think about what could happen after they were on the ground. “And then what? After we land, what do you think we should—”

  The cockpit door opened behind her. The bulky shape of Sergeant DeWitt entered the cockpit. He slid past her to take his station next to Switzer. The sergeant avoided eye contact with Libby.

  “I have to talk with my staff,” said Libby. “When you can spare a minute, Colonel Brand, I’d like you to meet us in the office.”

  Brand nodded. She caught the quizzical look on his face as she turned to exit the cockpit.

  <>

  The presidential suite was a conical-shaped compartment that filled the entire front nose section of the 747 below the cockpit deck. The suite had a bedroom, shower, lavatory, and, on the right side, an office with an angular desk and facing seats. On the right wall were windows. Libby liked the office aboard Air Force One. She found it cozy and efficient, without the ostentatious trappings of the Oval Office or the Cabinet Room in the White House.

  The office was illuminated with only a thin row of receded emergency lights. Libby gazed across her desk at the people in her office. Jill Maitlin was perched on the arm of a chair, smoking a Dunhill. In the dim light, the glow of the cigarette reflected from her glasses. Jill never asked permission to smoke. Nor did she care whether anyone objected.

  Seated in the chair facing Libby’s desk was Gen. Gus Gritti, wearing a polo shirt and slacks. The chief of the Secret Service detail aboard Air Force One, Mike Grossman, stood in the corner next to Pete Brand.

  “So what do we do after we arrive in Greenland?” Libby said. “What are our options?”

  Jill Maitlin didn’t wait for anyone else to speak. “When we’re safely on the ground, we communicate with Washington. Then we wait for transportation back to the U. S.”

  Brand shook his head. “Sorry, but that happens to be the worst thing we can do. Once they know we’re still alive, they’ll do whatever they can to eliminate the President.”

  “They?” said Jill. “Who do you mean?”

  “I mean whoever made two very sophisticated attempts to destroy Air Force One. You already have confirmation of the murders of the vice president and the chairman of the joint chiefs. Doesn’t it seem likely that someone is trying to remove the President?”

  Jill exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Are you suggesting some kind of conspiracy?”

  Before Brand could answer, Gritti spoke up. “Colonel Brand may be right.” The Marine general waved his hand to disperse the cigarette smoke. “This whole scenario has the feel of a coup attempt.”

  Libby nodded grimly. It was the same dark suspicion that had been swelling in her mind. “Put a name to it, General. You’re the National Security Advisor. If you had to speculate, who do you think would be behind such a thing?”

  Gritti ran his hand through his close-cropped gray hair. “There have always been rumors. For years I’ve heard about a secret, ultra-conservative clique within the military. They’re supposedly patriots who have sworn to defend the U. S. against traitors within the government. Until today, I never considered such a thing to be a threat. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “We don’t have any choice,” said Jill. “Air Force One is damaged. We can’t fly back on our own.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Brand. “We’re crippled, but still operational. On the ground we may be able to purge the main tanks, then take on uncontaminated fuel. Sergeant Switzer thinks he can restore enough electrical power to regain some of our basic flight instruments and systems controls. As far as communications, it may be best that we not emit any radio signals. Not until we’re someplace safe and understand what’s going on.”

  “What about the airport in Greenland?” said Grossman, the Secret Service team leader. “What’s to keep the tower operators from sending the report that we’ve landed there?”

  “There isn’t any tower. Just a runway and a small contingent of workers to service transient airplanes. The field won’t be manned unless they’re expecting an inbound, which isn’t likely this time of night. If you can deploy your security people as soon as we land to secure the radio facility, no messages will go out about our arrival. We can immobilize the radio facility, do the refueling, and be airborne again. If we’re lucky, it won’t take more than an hour.”

  “And then what?” asked Libby.

  “We fly to North American airspace. We find out what’s going on. You resume being president.”

  At this, Jill Maitlin stabbed a finger at Brand. “Resume? She never ceased to be president. Thank you for your opinion, Colonel, but national security matters are beyond your sphere of responsibility.”

  Gritti cleared his throat. “For the record, I think Colonel Brand may be right. Even if our suspicions are unfounded, we’d be doing the right thing by being prudent.”

  Grossman spoke up for the first time. “I concur. We don’t know the extent of the danger. If we’re wrong, we can apologize later.”

  Jill Maitlin crushed out her cigarette. She leaned over Libby’s desk. “Madame President, sneaking back to the U. S. like that is just going to make you look like a weak and frightened chief executive, which is exactly what your enemies want.”

  Libby gnawed on her lower lip, saying nothing. What Jill didn’t say was that it would make Libby look even more like a weak and frightened chief executive. Libby could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her. Waiting for her to make a decision. That was the trouble with advisors. When they offered conflicting advice, what was she supposed to do?

  She knew. Decide. Wasn’t that why they elected her President? To make the hard call. She hated it.

  She looked at Jill. Her arms were crossed in front of her. She looked exasperated. Both Grossman and Gritti were frowning. Libby glanced at Brand. The blue eyes gazed back at her, telling her nothing.

  Libby let out a long breath. “We’ll do as Colonel Brand suggests.” She turned to Gritti and Grossman. “Gentlemen, I’ll count on you to make sure everyone aboard understands the game plan.” Both men gave her a curt nod.

  “Libby,” said Jill, slipping into the familiar form they normally used only in private, “are you
sure you about this?”

  “I’m sure,” Libby said, not feeling sure at all. She saw Brand heading for the door. “Oh, Colonel Brand, there’s something else I wanted you to know.”

  Libby followed him to the doorway. In a low voice, so the others couldn’t hear, Libby described the strange outburst of Sergeant DeWitt.

  Brand’s expression didn’t change. “Did you ask him what he meant?”

  “Yes. He wouldn’t say.”

  “How did he behave?”

  “Shocked. As if he were in a daze.”

  Brand showed no reaction. He nodded and headed for the stairway that led to the cockpit.

  Libby stepped back into the office. Grossman and Gritti were gone. Jill was lighting another cigarette. Jill said, “Do you remember my telling you that appointing Brand was a bad idea?”

  Libby had heard this before. “Does it matter that he just saved all our lives?”

  “That’s his job. Any of the dozen or so better qualified candidates you could have appointed would have done the same thing. Brand is trouble. You shouldn’t be listening to him.”

  “Even if he’s right?”

  “He’s not right. We should stay on the ground where we can be protected by the military.”

  “The same military that’s been trying to kill us?”

  “We don’t know that for sure. This could just be the work of a few discontented Air Force officers.”

  Libby said nothing. She didn’t believe it. But she knew something about Jill Maitlin. For all Jill’s legendary toughness, she had a secret fear. She was afraid of flying. Jill abhorred airplanes and, by extension, people who flew them. People like Pete Brand. And that was her reason for wanting to remain on the ground.

  Libby flopped back into her chair. Jill was right about Brand. He was trouble. But she was wrong about one thing. Libby hadn’t appointed Brand to the post, at least not overtly. The candidates for Presidential Pilot were selected by a panel of senior Air Force officers, and the President merely gave her approval. Never would an officer like Pete Brand have made the list. Not without pressure from someone in high office.

  Why Brand? Libby had her reasons. She would never share them with Jill Maitlin or anyone else. Libby closed her eyes, feeling the dull thrum of the jet engines resonating through her padded chair. She let her mind drift. To another place. Another time.

  Chapter 6

  Republic of Guinea-Bissau

  The explosions are coming closer. It has to be a bad dream, Libby thinks. No earthly way can this be happening. She wants to close her ears to the sounds.

  Representative Libby Paulsen is still in her first term in Congress. She is part of a fact-finding mission to West Africa. And something has gone badly wrong. She is hunched in the corner of a Quonset hut with her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “Are they dropping bombs?” Libby hears her voice quavering. She sounds like a spooked kid.

  “Mortars, I think,” says Jill Maitlin. She extracts another Dunhill and lights it, gushing a stream of smoke into the fetid air inside the hut. “We seem to be at ground zero in this little war.”

  Between explosions Libby hears staccato bursts from automatic weapons. The gunfire is coming closer too. Libby gazes around the hut. A single light bulb dangles from the ceiling, powered by the generator clattering outside the hut. With the exception of Jill Maitlin, the other members of the Congressional mission look just as terrified as she is. The U. S. Ambassador to Guinea-Bissau, the Honorable Herman J. Barkley, looks like a man who wants nothing so much as to get the hell back to New Jersey. It is no secret that Barkley, a wealthy African-American who made his fortune developing low-income housing in Newark, was a generous contributor to the President’s campaign.

  Huddled on the far side of the hut are the two State Department envoys assigned to the mission. Each is thirty-something, bespectacled, dressed in the same sweat-splotched safari outfits. They are trying to make calls on their cell phones. The phones aren’t working.

  It happened so suddenly. The trip to West Africa was supposed to be a good will visit to a little-visited part of the world. The six Congressional representatives and their aides have split up in Dakar. Each is headed off to visit a different republic on Africa’s western shore. Libby had drawn the Republic of Guinea-Bissau.

  A U. S. Air Force C-40B transport—the militarized version of the Boeing 737— has dropped them at the Osvaldo Vieira airport in Bissau where they are joined by Ambassador Barkley. After their tour of Guinea-Bissau, they are supposed to return to the embassy in the afternoon for briefings and a photo op, followed by a cocktail reception.

  As they pile into the vans at the airport, Libby observes the Kalashnikov-carrying security troops climbing into their own van. They are wearing sneakers, ill-fitting fatigues, red berets. “Did I miss something?” she says to the ambassador. “Is there some reason we need those guards?”

  “It’s for show,” Barkley says. “This is West Africa. They love the military stuff, the uniforms and guns.” Barkley laughs in his deep baritone voice. “Trust me, this place is safer than Newark.”

  The tour is uneventful for the first three hours. They stop at an open market, then tour a rubber plantation. Libby is feeling the effects of jet lag, hoping the day would pass and they could return to Dakar.

  The last stop is in the village of Bissora, in the northwest of the republic. They are watching a tribal group perform a native dance when the first explosion comes. In the space of a few seconds the dancers and musicians have vanished.

  More blasts, seconds apart. The frame building across the unpaved road erupts in a mushroom of dirt and smoke.

  Libby stares at the destroyed structure. Pieces are still raining down from the swirling dirt cloud. It has to be some kind of demonstration. Didn’t Barkley say this place was safe?

  Then she sees the ambassador’s face. Barkley looks like he’s been walloped with a mallet. “I don’t understand,” Barkley mutters. “This can’t be happening.”

  Libby looks around her. A few seconds ago there were performers, smiling natives, vendors selling trinkets. Now they are alone. “Where are the security troops?” she asks.

  In the next second her question is answered. A plume of dust erupts behind one of the Toyota vans. Stuffed with soldiers with red berets and Kalashnikovs, the van swerves onto the dirt road and rumbles out of sight.

  From the nearby forest comes a long rattle of gunfire. Libby spots a dark-skinned figure running toward their remaining van. He looks familiar. “Hey!” yells Jill Maitlin. “That’s our driver.”

  Libby and Jill run after him. He is a slender young man. His eyes are wide with fear. When he sees the women coming after him he puts on a fresh burst of speed.

  They nearly catch him. The Toyota’s wheels kick dirt in their faces as the van lurches onto the road back to Bissau.

  “Asshole!” Jill Maitlin yells after the departing vehicle.

  They hear the chatter of gunfire from the nearby forest. Then another explosion. Libby feels a ripple of fear pass through her. They are trapped in a war zone. And they are on their own.

  <>

  Two hours have passed. This damned Quonset hut is the best refuge they could find. The mortars are concentrating on the frame buildings along the unpaved street in the middle of Bissora.

  Huddled inside the hut, Libby and Jill try their own cell phones. They don’t work.

  “Towers are shut down,” says Libby.

  “Or blown up,” says Jill Maitlin.

  Barkley keeps punching buttons on the GPS/transceiver they’d been issued back in Dakar. “This thing is a piece of crap. It’s supposed to keep us in touch with the Air Force crew at the airport no matter where we are in the country. Guess what? Nobody’s answering.”

  “Somebody has to know where we are,” says Libby.

  “They don’t know anything,” says Barkley. “All they were told was that we’d be somewhere in the northwest sector of the country this afternoon. We
were supposed to keep them informed by cell phone.”

  Another explosion rattles the tin walls. The dangling light bulb sways and flickers, casting an undulating glow over the inside of the hut. It is just a matter of time, Libby thinks. Whoever wins this battle will come calling.

  In the next instant, she hears it. A hammering on the door of the hut.

  No one speaks. They stare at the metal door as if it were a portal to hell.

  More hammering. Libby looks at her companions. They are hunkered against the far wall. Barkley’s face is a frozen mask. The two State Department officers look like kids caught out after curfew. Only Jill Maitlin looks unafraid, but Libby knows it is a facade. Jill Maitlin’s long, plain face seldom changes expression.

  Then a voice. “Ms. Paulsen. Ambassador Barkley. Are you there?”

  Libby rushes to the door, then stops. The voice sounded American, but she’s learned that accents here in Africa are deceptive. What if . . .

  She yanks the door open.

  The image of the man in the doorway will remain seared into her memory for years to come. Olive green flight suit, blue Air Force service cap. Cold blue eyes, silver oak leaves on his shoulders. A holstered pistol. Ten feet behind him stands a mud-splattered truck.

  “Please say you’re going to get us out of here,” says Libby.

  The officer flashes a smile. “I’m going to try, Ma’am.” Libby sees the eyes making a quick scan of the interior of the Quonset hut. “I’m Lt. Col. Brand. I’m the aircraft commander of the jet that is supposed to fly you back to Dakar.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Two. Sergeant Rosak, my crew chief, is in the truck.”

  “How were you able you find us?”

  “Your Mark 12 transceiver. It’s been transmitting your GPS position. When you hadn’t moved for an hour and we didn’t hear from you, we knew you were in trouble.”