“Throw the gun in the river!” he yelled at Brian.
Sanford’s forefinger moved in a tight circle, the signal to start engines. Then he pointed at the truck and beckoned them forward. Matt understood immediately. “Brian, do it,” he ordered. Matt slipped the truck into gear.
Brian heaved the gun into the water just as Matt stepped on the accelerator. The truck leaped ahead and onto the bridge. The man’s head jerked in surprise as Sanford kicked free and rolled off the side of the bridge. Matt mashed the accelerator. The man stood up, an automatic in his hands, and fired three shots into the oncoming truck. Matt slipped as low as he could behind the steering wheel and held it steady.
The front bumper of the truck caught the man head-on and smashed him against the grille of his car. His scream shattered the dark night.
THIRTY-THREE
The altimeter read 12,000 feet when the F-16’s engine flamed out for fuel starvation. Pontowski automatically checked his position: nine miles short of the Polish border. He allowed a tight smile. The Viper had a one-to-one glide ratio and for every 1,000 feet of altitude lost in a descent, it traveled one mile forward. With a little luck, he’d cross the border with 3,000 feet to spare. But that was cutting it close.
He wired the airspeed at 210 knots and scanned the cockpit to make sure everything was securely stowed. A loose pen or checklist could play havoc. He locked his shoulder harness and watched the altimeter unwind. He ran the tally. Assuming Waldo got them all back, it was his and Emil’s F-16s for the Tupolev and four Flankers. And Emil for Vashin. He had to believe it was a good exchange.
The altimeter passed 3,000 feet and he glanced outside. He was above a low cloud deck and couldn’t see the ground. An abandoned airfield or a stretch of road would have been tempting. He waited for a moment and when the altimeter touched 2,500 feet, approximately 2,000 feet above the ground, placed his feet against the rudder pedals, pushed into the back of the seat, pulled in his elbows and reached for the ejection handle between his legs.
He pulled the handle straight up.
Chuck Sanford sat alone in the front seat as he drove slowly down the highway toward Roswell. Wind and rain pounded at him through the shattered windshield and he shivered. He glanced in the rearview mirror at his precious cargo. Brian, Matt, and Zeth were very quiet. “How’s the hand?” he shouted over the wind noise.
“Hurt’s like hell,” Zeth answered. “But I can move my fingers.”
“That’s good,” Sanford said, certain she was going to be okay. But Matt was another story. “Matt, how you doing?” No answer. Sanford wanted to stop the truck and cradle the boy to him, comforting and reassuring him. But that wasn’t possible. “I gotta tell you, that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“No kidding!” Brian said. “I saw it. I couldn’t have done that, not with a guy shooting at me like that.”
Sanford pitched his voice just right. “You saved my life, Matt. I owe you big time.”
“Come here,” Zeth said, putting her good arm around Matt and gathering him to her.
“Hey,” Brian said, “no fraternization.”
“Get your body over here,” Zeth said. “I’m cold. You two Rats gotta be good for something.” Sanford smiled at the commotion going on in the backseat.
“I got an idea,” Brian said. “My mom’s house is close to the beach. Maybe we can do some serious surfing over vacation.”
“I’ve never surfed,” Matt said, coming out of his silence.
“Nothing to it,” Brian assured him. “Maybe we can get your dad to fly out. That’d be fun. How about it, Trog? You wanta do it?”
“My dad can teach you to fly,” Matt said, increasing the offer.
“I’ll think about it,” Zeth replied.
Sanford listened to them chatter away, plotting their vacation. “Hey, Maggot,” Brian said. “Do you think my mom and your dad would like to see each other again?”
Zeth laughed. “You better believe it.”
“That would be okay,” Matt said.
Sanford relaxed. They were going to be fine. All of them.
Maddy Turner’s simple request to return to Washington, D.C., as soon as possible set an incredible chain of events in motion. The Secret Service was alerted, the Federal Aviation Agency started to reserve airspace for the flight, and maintenance crews at Vandenberg Air Force Base inspected Air Force One with infinite care, preparing it for flight. However, the flight crew remained undisturbed so they would be fully rested and fresh in the morning. The White House communications section was in overdrive as it prepared to switch its focus from the West Coast to Air Force One and finally to the White House. And the list went on and on.
Joe Litton, Maddy’s press secretary, took a devilish delight in rousing the press corps that traveled with the president with the news. He rationalized that if he was up and working at four in the morning, so should they.
In the midst of all this activity, the Western White House was an oasis of calm purpose. The president was dressed for travel and sitting in her makeshift office in the family room. She showed no fatigue from being up most of the night and was busily at work. Her staff was fully reconciled to her workaholic ways, certain they could sleep most of the way to Washington.
Nancy Bender, Maddy’s new personal assistant, was with her, reconciling her personal schedule. When they finished, Nancy stood to leave. “Madame President, please have the duty officer call me the next time you wake early.”
“Nancy, you’re five months pregnant. I’m not a slave driver.”
Nancy smiled. “Yes, you are. But I knew that when I took this job. When I can’t do it, I’ll tell you.”
“I do worry about you.”
“Thank you, Madame President. But I’m fine.” And she was.
Parrish was next. “The latest weather report,” he said, handing it to her. “The storm’s finally breaking up. We should have some good weather for the next seven or eight days.”
“It’s about time. Have FEMA be ready with a full assessment when we get back to Washington. I want to brief key members of Congress on the situation and our relief efforts. And I’ll need to speak to the country.”
Parrish made the appropriate notes. “Mazie’s in the command post reviewing the latest message traffic from the Sit Room.”
“Show her right in when she’s ready.” Maddy leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. “Any news on Brian?”
“I’ll check,” Parrish said.
“Am I becoming obsessive?”
“He is your son. I’d be bouncing off the walls if my kid was missing.”
“He’s not exactly missing, just out of contact.”
Parrish hurried out to check the hot line the communications section was keeping open to NMMI.
Maddy let her mind wander for a few moments. Brian was there, so much a part of her life. At times, his image and Sarah’s joined. Her beautiful children whom she loved more than life itself. Then another image appeared — Matt Pontowski. She opened her eyes. Mazie was poised in the doorway, immaculately dressed and all business.
“Good morning, Madame President.” She sat down and handed Maddy the PDB. “This just came in. Vashin is the lead topic.”
For once, Maddy did not read it. “Did they get him?”
“The Poles shot down the airliner he was supposed to be on. His death hasn’t been confirmed yet. There is bad news. Two of the Polish aircraft are missing.” She paused. “You did know Matt Pontowski led the mission?” A short nod answered her. “One of them is his aircraft.”