“We can’t run this,” Andrea Weaver argued. She was on the phone with Michael O’Connell after reading his first draft. He was at his desk looking at the copy on his computer screen. “You’ve danced around everything. Come on, O’Connell, we talked about this.”
“I had to,” he countered.
“And without any facts, you don’t have a story.”
“The facts support Strong’s rise to national prominence through a series of accidents and misfortunes. It’s all there Andrea. Read it again.”
“I’ve read it once. That’s enough.”
“But it’s all there!”
“Nothing’s there.”
“It is,” he pleaded. “Strong’s entire career is based on doors miraculously opening for him. There’s a pattern, which I’ve substantiated.”
“And your conclusion?”
O’Connell had the answer; or at least he assumed he did. However, he couldn’t put it in print. “We both know,” he said.
“Correction. We don’t know. You believe,” the editor argued. “And beyond that very significant issue, what is the point of view of your story? You’re this close to calling it a conspiracy. So far, all unfounded. How different is that from what Strong does?”
“Jesus Christ! You don’t think I know that?” He wheeled his chair away from his desk. “Why don’t we just call it a feature story on America’s most persuasive radio talk-show host and give it to Arts?”
“Why?”
“Why? To flush him the fuck out.”
She was right on top of him. “That’s not our job, Mr. O’Connell!”
O’Connell realized he’d overstepped his bounds. He needed to calm down. “Okay, then what do you suggest?” He was being sincere, not contrite.
“You’re an investigative reporter. Don’t give me any crap about feature stories. Investigate and file something I can print!”
Weaver was quite finished. They hung up. O’Connell faced his computer again and saw his reflection in the monitor. It was as blank as the screen.
Air Force One’s communication center was coming to life. When the plane leveled, crew members carefully made their way to their consoles, sent out emergency messages, and radioed the AWACS and the F-15 escort.
“What is your status?” asked the commander aboard the AWACS.
“Casualties. Maybe thirty. We’re still getting a count. Computers back online.”
“Roger. The F-15 pilot reports extensive damage in the cockpit.”
“Affirmative.”
“Who the hell is flying the bird?”
“The president.”
“Say again,” the Com officer in the AWACS asked. “Did not fully copy that.”
“Roger. The President of the United States.”
Now Morgan Taylor mentally ran through the ditching procedures. He’d never done it before, but it was survivable — in simulators.
Hit the water as slowly as possible. Keep the nose up; avoid stalling. Keep the wings parallel with the water as the point of impact approaches. Absolutely avoid one wing tip striking the water first. That would invariably result in uncontrollable, violent slewing.
He remembered more. Into the wind. But which way was the wind blowing down there? Bleed off more speed, less damage on impact. Maintain sufficient air speed to take any last minute action. Don’t stall. Depressurize. He smiled to himself. No problem there. Most importantly, he recalled, ditch alongside a swell. But how will I know which way the swells are aligned? Experienced pilots understood that ditching into a swell would be tantamount to crashing into a brick wall. Anything else? he asked himself. He lost his concentration when he heard Secretary of State Poole.
“I had to come up and see for myself!” Poole held a towel across a large gash that went from his forehead to his right eye. He stepped into the cockpit carefully, avoiding the sharp surfaces everywhere.
“Norman!” The president recognized his voice without turning around.
“Mr. President. I’m the appointed representative,” he said above the howling wind. “We heard you loud and clear.”
“Good,” Taylor yelled over the wind. “Is everyone on oxygen?”
“Yes. We knew to do that.” He held on as the plane rumbled.
“We should be below ten thousand feet soon. Everyone will be able to breath normally, but I’ll be damned if I know exactly when.”
“Good.” After he inhaled another breath he asked, “What do you need me to do?”
“Get back and appoint some officers to stand by the emergency exits. When we’re down, get those doors open.”
“Then?
“Then we’ll find out how good a boat Air Force One makes.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?” Poole asked.
“Just brace. Heads down. Glasses off. Knees up. It’ll be rough, no matter how lucky we are. And evacuate immediately.”
“I’ll get the Secret Service guys up to help you.”
“They’ll be no help to me or anyone else unless they’re strapped in tightly. Now go.”
“Godspeed, Mr. President.”
Morgan Taylor managed to raise one hand off the yoke and wave. He wasn’t about to give Air Force One up to God quite yet.
General Jonas Johnson Jackson was aware of the crisis one minute into it. He was at his desk at the Pentagon when his pager went off, his phone rang, and an instant message hit his computer screen: all simultaneously — all bad news.
USAPACOM was on the phone from the South Pacific. The IM came from Langley and his pager showed a discreet White House number, which belonged to Presley Freedman, head of the Secret Service. He took them in order of personal priority. Phone and IM at the same time, the pager last.
The word was the same. Emergency aboard Air Force One. General Jackson stayed on the telephone. USAPACOM handled all of the traffic out of the South Pacific. The 7th Fleet, under the command of Admiral Clemson Zimmer, was in the area.
“Talk to me, Clem.”
“Still getting assessments. Hold.”
J3 was snapping fingers at assistants in the outer office and shouting down the hall for maps.
“Confirmed. Catastrophic event on Air Force One.” He was relaying information as he was hearing it. “Two engines out. Stabilizing. What?”
“What?” J3 asked in kind.
“General, ah, the flight crew is dead.”
“Then who’s flying the bird?”
“Hold.”
J3 distinctly heard Zimmer request a repeat of the latest information.
“Roger, I copy.” He came back to the call. “J3, the president.”
“The president — what?” He didn’t understand.
“The president is flying his plane!”
“Good God!”
Admiral Clemson continued to give J3 updates as fast as he could relay them. Aides brought maps to General Jackson who quickly pinpointed Air Force One’s location based on the last coordinates.
“The Banda Sea. Got it. Can he make Halim?” Jackson thought that the Indonesia Air Force Base, located outside of Jakarta, might be the closest facility.
“Don’t know. Top Gun’s burned off a lot of altitude. Looks like he’s preparing to ditch.”
“What do you have there, Clem?”
“Most of the fleet is gathered closer to the Solomons, some thirty-six hours out. But I’ve got some assets closer. The Blue Ridge for one. And the Kitty Hawk’s search and rescue planes could be in the area in two hours.”
“Roger. Stand by.” The president’s head of USASOC, America’s largest command component of SOCOM, U.S. Special Operations Command, punched in one of one hundred numbers on his speed dial.
“J3. We have a situation.”