The president’s motorcade pulled up alongside Air Force One. Colonel Peter Lewis saluted from the cockpit window when Morgan Taylor stepped onto the tarmac. His favorite mechanic leaned into the cabin.
“You called?”
“Yes, Rossy. Check out number three. Agins caught a power flux.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Nothing below normal,” co-pilot Bernard Agins added. “But she could use your eyes.”
“Anything else?”
“Not from me. Milkis?” Colonel Lewis asked.
The navigator, Greg Milkis, said he was fine.
“Okay, I’m on it. I’ll let you know. Don’t leave without me.”
“Not a chance,” Lewis replied.
Forty minutes later, with everyone satisfied and the president in his forward compartment, SAM 28000 rolled down the runway. In four hours they’d be in Afghanistan for a quick conference with the military leadership and time to greet the troops. After that, they’d be on the way home, a few days ahead of the much-ballyhooed march.
The hotels were all booked, but he hadn’t planned on checking in anywhere, under any name. The man had another way to find a room. He stood outside Reagan National Airport. To any passerby, it appeared as if he were waiting for someone. Occasionally, he rubbernecked around some departing travelers, trying to spot a friend. But there were no friends here. The buff man with a baseball cap and a blonde, ponytail was actually searching luggage tags. He already spotted three names and addresses he liked. He was still looking for others — people who lived closer in, within walking distance to the Mall.
The reason he wanted a family was quite simple. It was more likely that they’d be traveling for a longer period of time. He would slip into their apartment with some viable excuse should a neighbor raise a question. But these days, neighbors rarely spoke to one another.
By seven o’clock, he felt confident he had enough locations. At least one should work. He preferred multi-unit buildings.
“Couldn’t find your friend?” one American Airlines baggage handler asked when he saw the man start to leave.
“No,” he said. “Must have missed ‘em.”
They had talked off and on through the last hour. It helped him get close enough to the bags to read and memorize the tags.
“I’ll call them later. Thanks.” He tipped the skycap ten dollars, not once worrying about fingerprints. It was all too benign.
Rossy was about to check the re-fueling of the president’s plane when a member of his crew radioed for some assistance from the twin 747. Twenty-nine’s got a cargo door problem.”
“What kind?” he said over his com link.
“The latching. I think we gotta check the mechanism.”
Colonel Peter Lewis wouldn’t take off unless every door closed and sealed properly on both planes. Any loss of pressurization caused by a malfunctioning latch could be deadly. Rossy quickly found another member of his team to take over his job.
By the time Ross solved the problem, which turned out to be minor, fueling was complete.
Lewis was nearly through his final pre-flight check when he got the heads-up that the commander in chief was on the way. He called in for the latest weather advisory. Aside from a band of seasonal thunderstorms over the Banda Sea, they’d have clear skies.
Morgan Taylor boarded and went straight to the flight deck. “Colonel.”
“Mr. President, all set for the long haul?” Lewis asked. They carried enough fuel to make Los Angeles or San Francisco. But the flight plan called for them to touch down in Hawaii. If necessary, both were capable of docking with a KC-10 tanker midair.
“Am I! After I give the Mrs. a call, I’m getting some shut-eye.” Taylor automatically scanned the flight controls and gauges knowing what to look for. “If I wake up in time, maybe I’ll join you later. Tell you what, Colonel, we can swap. You figure out how to balance the damned budget and I’ll do what I really enjoy.”
“Half of that deal sounds good,” Lewis laughed. He had his headphones in his hand, so he didn’t hear the radio clearance from ground control. His co-pilot, Bernard Agins, tapped the right cup of his phones. “Excuse me sir, we’re cleared to go.”
“Then that’s my cue,” the president said. “See you gentlemen later.” He said goodbye to Agins, Milkis, and Lewis: all good men.
Two minutes later, the entourage rolled to the end of the runway. The escorts lifted off first. Most of the transports had departed straight for Washington from Glenbrook. Three minutes later, Air Force One was aloft. Lewis reported all was well on take-off, though the plane handled more lightly than expected.
Morgan Taylor was asleep by the time they climbed to cruising altitude. He lost himself in his favorite dream — he was at the controls.
The roving mechanic followed his routine. He did it throughout the flight. It started with a check of the visible systems on the plane. Then he went to the guts. He opened panels containing internal wiring and sub systems. Everything was in order.
He made his way toward the flight deck, up the stairs from the first level rear stairs, where he nodded politely to the members of the president’s staff and basically ignored the reporters. Some people were already asleep, a few were typing updates they’d e-mail out via Air Force One’s satellite com center, others were playing poker. He spoke to the crew, making sure they were okay. He was surprised he didn’t find Brady at his post.
Rossy considered Mark Brady solid back-up. Brady was relatively new to the president’s bird — if three years was new. He worked with Ross on both planes. About the only thing he couldn’t do was pilot. But he was always there, diagnosing onboard problems almost as fast as his supervisor.
Rossy cued his com set. “Brady, Rossy, over.”
No response.
The lieutenant took a few steps to the side in case the plane’s frame blocked his signal. “Brady, this is Rossy, over.” He waited a beat, then keyed the mike again. “Brady, give me your location, over.”
Each request was met with silence. Rossy spotted another of his engineering crew members in the galley. “Seen Brady?”
“No, sir. Not since pre-flight.”
Odd. Rossy found another engineer, a corporal who, in a few years, might show the right stuff for the job.
“Blumie, have you seen Brady?”
Blumenstein shot a surprised expression. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Stomach cramps. He said he spent the morning in the john and after refueling he ran back to the head.”
“Not the plane’s?”
“Ah, no. On ground, sir,” Blumie stated.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Rossy turned away to the side and tried his radio again. “Lieutenant Brady. Report! This is Rossy, over.” He waited no more than ten seconds, enough time for Brady to call in, then barked an order for Blumenstein. “Assemble everyone on our team in two minutes! Right here. Check all the johns. Call me if you find Brady!”
“Brady said he was just sick, I don’t think…”
“Do it!”
Two minutes. Enough time for Rossy to make it to the cockpit and back.
The secure door was closed and guarded. Rossy needed to pass through the Secret Service detail.
“What’s up, Rossy?” asked the agent.
“I need the colonel to radio the CO at Kandahar.”
“You know we don’t like to bother the flight crew.”