“Monitoring it,” reported a desk at Special Operations Command at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida.
“Patch in the F-15 escort and the AWACS. Sixty seconds.”
“Affirmative, General.”
As J3 waited, three words that Clemson stated came to mind: Search and Rescue.
Roarke’s cell phone issued the tone that accompanied a text message. He was working with Shannon Davis at the FBI.
“Freedman. Ten-ninety.”
Ten-ninety was a simple police code. It meant alarm. Accompanied by the name Freedman, it stood for only one thing: National emergency. Come in! He didn’t need to ask why.
Presley Freedman dispatched extra Secret Service to the Capitol. He did so without thinking of the consequences. Duke Patrick could soon be president. He also placed a call to Henry Lamden’s principal physician at Walter Reed.
Rossy’s worry multiplied the moment he read the computer display at his master engineering station. It had been his idea to install a virtual cockpit where he could check on key flight deck data during the course of a journey. But what he saw was absolutely wrong. The fuel tanks showed full. They’d been flying for under two hours, two engines were starved, yet the readouts were still reporting fuel capacity at 100 percent. He typed in a command. The screen blinked once, then confirmed full status on all engines. He typed an override command. The screen blinked again. Full. “Shit!” he exclaimed.
He ran to the steps leading up to the cockpit. Rossy slumped into the co-pilot’s seat, attached the facemask, took in the needed oxygen, then pointed down.
“Get down to the deck fast, sir.”
Without further instruction, Morgan Taylor nosed down. He traded altitude for speed. The extended flaps made a rough ride even rougher as they were buffeted by the winds.
“The fuel tanks were sabotaged,” Ross explained. “The computers were re-programmed to read full. No one caught it. I can’t tell you how many tons are left or whether we’ll be sucking air in another second.”
“You’re sure?” the president shouted over the onrushing wind.
Rossy looked out at one and three: both dead. “Yes, sir. I’m sure.”
The president switched on the PA. “Attention! This is Taylor. Secure yourself immediately. Prepare for ditching. I repeat, prepare for ditching. Fuel supply is critical. We’re getting out of these clouds now. Brace! Brace!”
The radio operator communicated the president’s news to the orbiting AWACS. The report was flashed halfway across the world to the Pentagon, the White House Situation Room, Langley, and MacDill. At the same time, crew members cleared the aisles as best they could, then strapped in for impact.
Air Force One broke out of the clouds just above 2,300 feet. The moonlight, blocked by the storm, cut visibility down to almost zero.
“See anything, Rossy?” Taylor asked.
Rossy squinted. “Not sure, sir.” The onrushing wind didn’t help. He checked the sides. “Maybe land mass off to the right. Three o’clock. Hard to tell.”
“What’s the direction of the swells?”
The lieutenant looked straight down. “Can’t see ‘em yet.”
“Going to take the edge off our descent. We can’t afford to hit the water at this speed.” Taylor estimated it to be around 230 knots as he leveled out.
“Smell that?” Rossy asked.
Fresh salty air rushed in. “Yes,” Taylor noted. He was glad he had pulled out.
“There!” Rossy shouted. “I see white caps. Flowing…toward us!”
“Distance?” Taylor shouted.
“Maybe five hundred feet.”
Good, Taylor thought. Enough room to bring the 747 parallel to the waves. He dipped his left wing and lost another 200 feet. That’s when his two remaining engines died.
Chapter 68
“Flaps up to twenty degrees,” Taylor called out. Without the thrust to keep the nose up, Angel lost altitude faster. Retracting the flaps could help compensate.
“Roger,” Rossy said, using only his feel to tell him what was right.
“What do you see below?”
“Catching some wave crests. But we’re too low or it’s too dark to see the swells.”
The president held the yoke steady. “Try the landing lights.”
They didn’t respond. “Negative.” He tried again. “Looks like we’ll be doing this in the dark, sir.”
The president’s immediate problem — and one that no simulator could have prepared him for — was estimating when his undercarriage would hit the water. The profile of a 747 was far higher than anything he flew for the Navy. The cockpit was perched even higher. If he misjudged and hit the water too low, Air Force One would stop dead in place and flip. If he extended his glide path too long, he would collide with a wave, which was probably inevitable anyway.
“Brace, Rossy,” Morgan Taylor said more softly.
The president summoned a mental picture of the fuselage. Nose up. The 747 was well-served by its straight fuselage. The angle of attack on the water could make the difference. A swept-up rear fuselage could, at impact, bring the plane to an almost vertical altitude before smashing down and most likely nosing under water. Rear first, Taylor, he said to himself again.
Rossy gripped the sides of his seat. He readied himself for the impact and what was to follow. Death would come with a violent backwards shock, followed by a forward catapult through the window, and the brick wall of water ahead. Altogether, they faced a second, maybe two, of pain — if that.
Major Pike hung to the side and three hundred feet over Air Force One when a thought occurred to him. Pike instantly dropped down, parallel and close to Taylor’s wing — possibly too close. But he had something Air Force One didn’t have. Lights.
The ocean suddenly brightened. Taylor whispered a quiet thank you to the F-15 pilot. His act might prove to be the difference. Now he could judge the distance of the waves and his height above them. Less than Rossy thought. He was coming in at too steep an angle. He brought the nose up, getting the feel of the ocean rising and falling beneath him for the last 200 feet. Another adjustment. Twenty seconds. A wave passed under. He pulled the yoke toward him again, lifting slightly. Fifteen seconds. Another wave. The next one would be his.
A lifetime of memories were knocking at the door, but Morgan Taylor barred them all. He held the plane steady; nose up. There was a sudden boom as the rear of Air Force One slammed into the ocean. But the 747 didn’t flip. They lifted up, skipping like a rock across a pond. Then a second impact. This one harder. A powerful whiplash effect jerked him forward. He sensed Rossy’s body snap with his, however he couldn’t look over. He had to control the plane.
The entire fuselage of the 544,000-pound plane raced across the water at more than 140 miles an hour. Taylor needed to keep the wings parallel above the oncoming wave, which was about to crash over them.
Rossy was amazed they were alive. The salt-water spray rushing through the broken glass actually invigorated him. He glanced over to Taylor. He was struggling to hold the great plane steady against a wall of water. The yoke! Rossy unbuckled his safety belt and reached in to help.
The president was grateful for the extra muscle and equally surprised he was around to need it.
The plane rode out the waves every fifteen seconds. So far three. With each one, Air Force One’s speed decreased. Taylor and Rossy fought to control the angle until finally, forward speed was so slow, they had no more maneuvering ability. Air Force One came to a stop.