Some airplanes will float for only a few minutes, if at all. Others, according to reports, have drifted for days. Taylor wasn’t going to wait to find out how Air Force One would do. He unsnapped his harness.
“Evacuate now! Out! Fast!” he announced.
Rossy slumped back into his seat. “You did it, sir.”
“We did it. But we’re not safe yet. Now get your ass out of here!”
“You too, Mr. President.”
“I haven’t come this far to sit around and sink. Right after you.”
As he stood, Rossy had to steady himself. The plane rose and fell with every new wave. “Thank you.”
“Save it. Now get moving!”
Further back, the doors and emergency exits were open. Rafts, which automatically deployed, were already in the water. White House staff, Air Force One crew, reporters, and members of the president’s delegation made their escape.
Then there was the matter of the sensitive files and equipment onboard Air Force One, including the “football” with the go-codes for a nuclear strike. Should the plane remain afloat, its secrets could be mined. However, contingency plans were already in play.
Just as Rossy was at the flight deck door, two Secret Service agents shoved past him and grabbed Morgan Taylor by the arms.
“Mr. President, you have to go.”
The president only had a fleeting moment to survey the horrific scene. What had been Air Force One was reduced to a virtual war zone. There were fatalities — those who were not buckled when the plane decompressed, the injured — some close to death, and the dazed. He prayed that there would be time for everyone to escape. But he would not be allowed to supervise the process. Now, Morgan Taylor was going to the head of the line.
“Again!” Musaf Atef yelled out to Commander Komari. “The jet!” He pointed skyward. Although it was hard to determine, it appeared to be an American military plane. It over-flew them at no more than 300 meters. On its third pass, just to their right, two missiles ignited, leaving a flame of fire streaming behind them. The jet pulled up. Seconds later, maybe a kilometer away, one missile, then the next, found their target. The flashes, against the night sky, blinded the Indonesian terrorists who were onboard the stolen trawler. They were returning with another cache of weapons, bought from the Chinese. As their eyes adjusted to the explosion, Atef saw a raft approaching. The flames backlit what must have been survivors from the crash of the first plane — a bigger plane, they realized.
“Look!” Atef called.
“Yes, I see.” Komari signaled for his men to have their guns ready. He strained his eyes. “Two, no, three rafts!”
“What shall we do?” Atef asked.
“If they are friends, they will join us. If they are our enemies, they must die.”
The boat quickly cut the distance. Komari commanded his men to stand at the ready. He called to two of his more elite soldiers to unlatch the cases carrying black market Stinger missiles. They’d become quite proficient over the last weeks, and he was confident they could take out the jet, should it return.
Michael O’Connell was unaccustomed to having a crisis of conscience. Things were usually very clear to him. The tequila only reinforced his basic philosophy: Dig for facts, write your story, print it, and let the chips fall where they may. But not this time. He had some facts, he had written a story, but his editor wouldn’t run it. Now it was unlikely that he’d get much more, and yet he was absolutely convinced that everything he learned about Elliott Strong was true.
The old Russian knew I’d find out. He knew I’d come and he expected I’d know what to do with it.
O’Connell’s dilemma was simple. He struggled over whether to leak the story to the government. To make such a move would compromise his integrity as a journalist. He might never be able to go back. Sources would dry up. His credibility would be ruined. But? The third shot of tequila wasn’t helping him make up his mind.
Goddammit, I tried! He was arguing with the old communist; a conversation he’d been having for days. You had no right to contact me. Why me? The only thing the Russian said back in these mental exercises was the one word he shared with him in Moscow. Strong.
“Fuck it!” O’Connell uttered aloud. The reporter slapped down a 20 and left.
“What is it?” O’Connell’s name and number came up in the caller ID display. “I’m a little busy right now.” Roarke was sprinting through the White House.
“I gotta see you,” the reporter quickly admitted.
“It’s going to have to wait.” Roarke didn’t want to say too much.
“It can’t.”
Roarke stopped dead on the spot. “What is it?”
“We need to talk about it in person, Roarke. Tonight. Where?”
“Not on the phone. In person.”
“Can you come up?” O’Connell asked.
“No.” The news about the president’s crash hadn’t broken yet. Roarke wasn’t about to tell the Times reporter why he couldn’t leave. “What’s so important that you…”
“I know the identity of another sleeper.”
Roarke instantly switched gears from the president’s crisis to O’Connell’s bombshell. “Get down here!” The agent checked his watch. He calculated the flights out of LaGuardia and proposed a meeting time. “8:30. I’ll clear you through the North Gate.”
O’Connell made it to his condo at the Bromley at 83rd and Broadway. He threw a few overnight items together and hit the street to catch a cab at the corner. A taxi heading uptown caught his hand signal, but another sitting on 83rd honked and moved up. The reporter grabbed the door and climbed in.
“LaGuardia.”
“Very good,” replied the driver. He had an Indian accent.
O’Connell automatically looked at his name and picture. Ishmail something. The plastic was cracked.
“What airline?”
“American,” O’Connell answered. He saw the reflection of the man in the rearview mirror. He smiled at his passenger.
“Very good. Very, very good.”
The cab drove uptown. “What is your profession?” Ishmail said.
“A reporter.” O’Connell was not in a talking mood.
“Ah, very good. A reporter. You report the news. Breaking news very good.”
“Right,” O’Connell said not loud enough to be heard.
“Very good profession.”
At 110th, the taxi made a right turn, crossing above Central Park to the East Side. O’Connell hated when cab drivers talked endlessly for the sake of talking. He decided to close his eyes, hoping the cabbie would get the message.
“Very good,” the driver whispered.
The trawler came up to the first raft. Commander Komari signaled one of his men. He hit it with the boat’s searchlight.
“Hey! Kill the light!” yelled a man in a uniform.
The man at the lamp ignored the request for two reasons. He didn’t understand English and he was ordered to shine it.
Another raft drifted up. The beam swung over. A third raft came toward the trawler. Some of the men had guns. Many wore American military uniforms. Komari shouted an order in Bahasa Indonesian.
The beam swung back over to the second boat. “Allah be praised!” he exclaimed.