“Air Force One — cleared for the approach!”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks!”
The approach controller “handed” them off to the tower operator. In turn, the tower controller cleared the flight to land before he gave them the wind direction and speed, followed by the current altimeter setting.
“We’re getting slow,” Upshaw prompted.
“Okay,” Bolton replied while he gently added power on the starboard inboard engine. “We’re lookin’ good.”
Like a sparrow hawk stalking its prey, Upshaw closely monitored the airspeed indicator and other instruments. Bolton now had the approach speed and ILS needles almost pegged.
“Just a second,” the colonel said, tight-lipped. “Stand by for the gear.”
“Okay.”
“Gear down,” Bolton finally ordered while he fought to stay on the glidescope and localizer. “Keep it nailed.”
Nine long seconds passed and the nose gear still indicated unsafe.
Wide-eyed with concern, Upshaw hesitantly glanced at Bolton. “We’ve got an unsafe nose gear.”
“That’s the least of our problems.”
Upshaw shot a look at the airspeed. “We’re bleeding off! Power — get some power on! Power!”
Curt Bolton didn’t reply as he inched the number-three throttle to the stop. The lumbering 747 yawed ever so slightly as the engine came up to speed and then howled at maximum power.
“We’re still slow,” Upshaw announced, breathing faster than normal. “Gotta have more power — power!”
Bolton eased the number-four throttle forward and felt the airplane yaw farther to the left. At this slow speed, he couldn’t add enough right rudder and right bank to overcome the yaw to the left. He was behind the power curve and he was committed to land on this pass. He couldn’t go around for another try. This was it; no second chance.
“Gotta hold my lineup,” Bolton admonished himself as the 747 began to sink slowly toward the ground. “Dammit! I should’ve held the gear until we had the runway made!”
“Do you want to raise the gear — belly it in?”
“No — it’s too late,” Bolton said through clenched teeth. “We’ll hold what we’ve got — stay with it.”
“We’re gonna be a little short!”
“Just a tad,” Bolton responded stiffly. As much as he tried, he couldn’t block out the flashing warning lights on the annunciator panel.
“Airspeed — airspeed!” Upshaw blurted. “We’re losing it!”
“Hang on!”
“Raise the nose!”
Low and slow with the wing flaps partially extended, Bolton was struggling to maintain runway alignment and salvage the landing. With more power thundering from the screaming right outboard engine, the 747 was beginning to respond to the excessive sink rate, but the nose was slowly yawing to the left.
Passing between the Navy ramp and the Lockheed Aircraft facility, Bolton increased the angle of bank to the right in a final, desperate attempt to align the sluggish airplane with the runway before Air Force One smashed into the ground.
The president sat in stunned silence. Although his mind was having trouble accepting what was happening, he sensed that things were going from bad to worse.
Suddenly the disabled airplane slammed into the overrun just short of the runway threshold. The tremendous impact collapsed the main landing gear and ripped the right outboard engine from under the wing. Jet fuel spilled along the wreckage path, then ignited in a blinding flash. Leaving a long trail of reddish-orange flames and thick black smoke, the stricken Boeing skidded onto the runway and began a long slide on its crushed belly.
Shocked by the incredible force of the crash landing, Macklin and the two Secret Service agents turned to identify the source of the dull orange glow in the cabin.
An eerie ball of bright fire traveled the length of the aisle and mushroomed into a thick cloud of oily smoke near the tail of the 747. The president could hear crackling sounds, then noticed sparks from wires and cables. Macklin recoiled in horror when he realized that his clothing was saturated with jet fuel. Oh shit! We have to get out of here!
“Fire!” someone shouted. “We’re on fire!”
“We’ve gotta get out!” an unidentified voice shouted in panic. “We’re soaked with fuel!”
“We’re gonna die!”
“Don’t panic, goddammit!” the senior agent yelled.
“We’ve got fire in the cabin!”
“Where’s the president?”
Panic broke out as more passengers began screaming and yelling, some unfastening their seat belts to scramble toward the nearest door or emergency exit. A well-known reporter from Newsweek tripped and fell on his side, causing a group of journalists to go down like bowling pins.
“Get out of the way!” the senior agent ordered passengers as he grabbed the president by the arm. “Move aside!”
“We’re on fire, for God’s sake!” a woman cried out.
“Move aside!”
“Get us out of here!”
Gripping their control columns, Bolton and Upshaw watched in horror and total exasperation as the careening airplane swerved off the left side of the 300-foot-wide runway. Engulfed in a blazing inferno of jet fuel, the out-of-control plane continued its sickening slide across the ground toward Base Operations and the control tower. Off to the side, fire trucks, ambulances and rescue equipment were accelerating to chase the heavily damaged jumbo jet.
Macklin and the two agents were savagely thrown sideways across a row of seats when the flaming Boeing dug a wingtip into the ground and lurched to a jolting, crunching stop northeast of the helicopter pad at taxiway Juliet.
All the passengers who were out of their seats or had been trying to open escape hatches were forcefully launched down the aisle and over the seats as chaos and panic spread. A mass of tumbling bodies smashed into other passengers, breaking bones and causing other painful injuries and bruises.
Dense black smoke began pouring into the passenger cabin where the aircraft had been torn apart near the middle of the fuselage.
The agents helped the disheveled president to his feet.
“We’re on fire!” one of the agents gasped as he shoved people out of the way. “Comin’ through! Get out of the way!”
“Get the doors open!” someone yelled.
Trapped by the surge of people trying to get out of the burning plane, the agents forced their way through the frantic passengers. With the president securely in tow, they clawed their way toward the nearest exit. It was clear that no one except the two agents had any interest in being second to the chief executive when it came time to abandon ship.
“Get out of the way!” the first agent said as he shoved a senior White House aide to the side. “You’re blocking the aisle!”
Reaching the exit, the agents tossed the president out of the plane. He landed heavily on his back and slowly sat up when the agents hit the ground beside him. Scraped and bruised to the bone, the commander in chief stumbled to his feet and tried to wipe the smudge off his face. He could hear the cacophony of sirens as fire trucks and rescue vehicles quickly responded to the unfolding disaster.
Shaken by the crash landing, an ashen-faced Macklin followed his handlers to the nearest ambulance. While the medical personnel treated his cuts and abrasions, the president watched the firefighters struggle to extinguish the flames pouring out of Air Force One.
When he saw the flight crew scramble from the cockpit, Macklin turned to the senior agent. “I want to talk to Colonel Bolton.”
39
With his nerves on edge, Khaliq Farkas had switched off all his aircraft radios a few minutes before he heard a remote rumbling sound north-northwest of him. On the one hand, it sounded like rolling thunder coming from many miles away. On the other hand, it sounded like a deep, somewhat muffled explosion, but he wasn’t sure what the source was.