Good times indeed, but back then, enduring the shouts of what looked to be a very angry drill instructor, Rodney Scott could never have imagined that in a few short years he would become Sergeant Scott, handpicked for the elite HMX-1, as crew chief of Marine One.
As crew chief of the helicopter that flew the President of the United States, Sergeant Scott worked with other HMX-1 personnel in a secure hangar called The Cage located on Marine Base Quantico roughly thirty-five miles south of the White House. His daily job was to oversee maintenance and readiness of the White Tops — the ubiquitous Sikorsky VH-3D Sea Kings and the smaller and easier-to-transport VH-60N White Hawks. A squadron of more than seven hundred HMX-1 personnel made of pilots and maintenance personnel had all undergone the stringent Yankee White background check in order to work near the President. The maintainers kept the helicopters in peak working order — but every bolt and safety wire was double-checked by the crew chief. Sergeant Scott made sure the helicopter was stocked with the President’s favorite snacks — cashews, in the case of President Ryan — and plenty of bottled water. He spent hours prior to any presidential lift making sure there were no smudges on the highly polished green paint, no Irish pennants on the carpet. During flights, he made certain the President was situated, then assisted the pilots with navigation or anything else they required. Then he spent hours afterward cleaning up, seeing to maintenance, and restocking the passenger compartment. It was much like taking care of a beloved classic car — if that car happened to be carrying the most powerful man on the planet.
His uniform had to be as polished as the helicopter. His shoes mirror-glossed. White cover straight. Haircut high and tight. When the President stopped to salute — and President Ryan knew how to salute; he was a Marine, after all — hundreds of cameras would document the event for posterity. The copilot of Marine One sat in the left seat and could often be seen turning to look out the window at the cameras when the White Top was parked on the South Lawn. But the crew chief was in full view, standing at attention beside the steps until the President boarded.
Sergeant Rodney Scott was the face of any presidential lift. He was twenty-three years old.
The White House liaison officer — called Weelo — had notified the squadron commander that they needed a lift package prepared for Indonesia, ASAP.
Sergeant Scott’s friends sometimes asked him how fast they could get ready and move if the President needed to fly somewhere in Marine One in an emergency. The canned answer was “that’s classified,” but the more honest answer was “as fast as he needs us.” Unlike other squadrons across the services, HMX-1 ran at full organizational staffing and equipment levels at all times. The birds were always ready, hampered only by the bounds of physics and geography — and determined Marines could bend even those if the mission called for it.
The colonel had come to tell his crew chief personally, ordering up three UH-60s because the smaller birds would be easier to break down and load on to C-17s with all the other squadron equipment.
Marine One crew chiefs served for a term of a year, a few more months if a replacement’s background was taking a little longer — but the time was short, a blink in a Marine’s career. Scott savored every moment, knowing he’d be involved in only a finite number of presidential lifts. It was a massive undertaking, and it never got old.
Dozens of aircraft moved personnel, gear, two presidential limos, Secret Service follow cars, the CAT team Suburban, all the weapons, and the HMX-1 helicopters. Other Marine aircraft — big CH 53s, V-22 Ospreys — known as greenside aircraft as opposed to White Tops, might be borrowed from bases near the site, or transported. Fighter aircraft would always be overhead, and possibly a couple of RPAs — remotely piloted aircraft — depending on the location.
It was hard work, tearing down and then reassembling the birds, but it was well worth it. Scott and his team could sleep on the C-17 en route to the site, secure in the knowledge that he had the best job in the world — and he did it well.
18
Being a multimillionaire was much harder than Todd Ackerman had ever imagined. His broken legs had confined him indoors for the past couple of weeks, leaving his already pale skin something akin to veiny typing paper. The neighbor’s dogs were going apeshit about something outside, but he was hiding out, so it’s not like he could call the cops and file a noise complaint or anything. Jacinda at work had called to tell him that two “creepy” Chinese women had dropped by the office the week before to see him. She hadn’t given them his home address, but one didn’t need a government database to find home addresses anymore. Twenty-five bucks and an Internet connection could hook you up with a people-finder database that would sift through reams of public records in seconds, providing a convenient dossier on virtually anyone over fifteen years old — even if you were careful, which Ackerman hadn’t had to be until lately.
He ran as soon as he ended the call with Jacinda, stuffing a bag full of his laptops, a pile of cash, and a fake Canadian passport under the name Dillon Reese that he’d gotten off the Dark Web. Almost as an afterthought, he brought his ex-wife’s revolver. He’d never shot the damned thing — and he’d have to ditch it before he got on the plane, but it made him feel better to have it in the meantime. The walking boots for his broken legs didn’t exactly make for a speedy getaway, and he had to take one of them off to drive, but that couldn’t be helped.
Nobody wanted to rent with cash anymore, at least not anywhere that didn’t look like it had vending machines for oxycodone in the lobby. Ackerman used a prepaid credit card — also from the Dark Web and supposedly untraceable back to him — to rent a two-bedroom cottage in a sleepy neighborhood outside Plymouth. He got one with a single floor, since he was still hobbling around on the walking casts. A car he’d borrowed from his neighbor (a deal sweetened with a five-hundred-dollar incentive) was parked out back where snoopy cops couldn’t see the plate. Chinese takeout boxes were piled on the nightstand. It was the perfect place to hide out, except for the damn dogs.
He’d decided early in his scheme that he would go to New Zealand, and then find some island in the South Pacific where he could just disappear with hot babes, warm winds, and cold coconut water. Air New Zealand online reservations made you enter your passport number, and he’d held his breath earlier that day when he bought the ticket to Auckland. The preloaded credit card under the same name as his passport gave him additional anonymity. He hoped. There was no way to test this stuff without trying it. But it was the best he could do. If all went as advertised, this would be slick. He knew one thing: It was easier to get good quality forgeries when you had the dough.