When Colonel Bolton received the message that Marine One had departed from the White House, he took his place in the left seat of the backup Air Force One. The gates to the sprawling base were closed and all traffic on the terminal ramp was stopped, including airplanes. Fire trucks, rescue personnel, and ambulances were in position.
Three companies of Marines patrolled the perimeter of the air base, and another thirty Marines with portable surface-to-air missiles watched the overcast, rainy skies. Inside the base, double the normal amount of Air Police were on alert. Nothing had been left to chance.
A few minutes later Marine One made a gentle landing and came to an imperceptible stop in the assigned spot close to Air Force One. While the main rotor blades wound down to a halt, Macklin hurriedly finished his business with Adair and Prost, then grabbed his umbrella and walked down the stairway to the parking apron.
A poster-perfect Marine sergeant gave his commander in chief a snappy salute as a Secret Service agent tried to shelter the president from the rain. Macklin, who preferred to carry his own umbrella, waved him away as a half-dozen Air Force brass paid their respects to the president.
After the friendly greetings were exchanged, Macklin and his Secret Service retinue hurried toward Air Force One. The Marine One pilots would wait until the 747 departed before they flew Prost and Adair back to the White House.
Once the president started up the stairway, Colonel Bolton gave the command to start engines.
Thirty seconds after Macklin walked aboard the airplane, a chief master sergeant popped an umbrella open and stepped out of the 747, then hurried down the mobile stairway. The cabin door was closed and the ground crew chief smartly saluted Colonel Bolton a second before Air Force One began rolling toward the runway.
High overhead, four immaculate F/A-18Cs from Marine Fighter Attack Squadron 232, the Corps’ oldest and most decorated fighter squadron, waited for the flying White House. The commanding officer of the Red Devils and three of his most experienced pilots would escort Air Force One on the first segment of its flight to San Francisco.
46
After refueling the helo late in the afternoon at Daytona Beach, Jackie and Scott continued searching for the elusive yacht. They passed a number of Coast Guard and Navy helicopters that were zigzagging in search of the 126-foot Broward. Scott and Jackie also encountered the Coast Guard cutter Legare, the CG patrol boats Metomkin and Key Largo, and the Navy frigates Taylor and Samuel B. Roberts combing the waters along Florida’s stunning upper east coast.
Abeam the Ponte Vedra Inn & Club, Scott trained the binoculars on a distant yacht. “Come port about ten degrees.”
“What is it?” Jackie asked as she made a small heading change.
“Here,” he said, handing her the binoculars. “I’ll take it for a minute.”
She relinquished the controls and focused on the ship. “It looks like the same one, with a different paint scheme and name.”
“Let’s check it over,” Scott said as he gave her the controls. “Figuring their normal speed against ours, this may be the jackpot.”
“I hope you’re right.” Making a gentle descent, Jackie rapidly closed on the yacht and looked at the name boldly painted across the transom. “Sweet Life sure doesn’t look like the one we photographed.”
“That’s probably why no one has been suspicious of it.”
Jackie made a small course correction to fly by the right side of the yacht. “You’d think someone would have at least investigated it.”
“Not if it doesn’t fit the description,” he suggested. “Yachts can spell trouble for a skipper, especially if you stop one and find a bevy of congressmen on a ‘monkey business’ cruise.”
“Yeah, that could destroy a career, depending on who happened to be onboard the yacht.”
As they approached the ship, Scott caught sight of a pair of shapely blondes lounging on the large sundeck. “That’s interesting,” he said lightly as the young women waved at the helicopter.
“Well, don’t fall out,” Jackie teased as Scott returned the friendly waves. “This is obviously not the same one.”
“I don’t know,” Scott said as he placed his Sig Sauer next to his right leg. “There isn’t anyone else on the deck.”
“So?”
“Have you ever seen two attractive young women on a boat — any kind of boat — who weren’t surrounded by guys?”
A long silence followed before Jackie banked the LongRanger to the left and headed back to the yacht. “I never thought about it that way.”
“That’s because you’re used to it.” Scott chuckled. “You’ve always been surrounded by guys who were drooling over you.”
Her glance sliced to him. “I haven’t seen you drool.”
“I only do that late at night,” he said with a brief smile. “Let’s slow down and circle this baby a couple of times. Maybe someone will come out on deck to see what we’re about.”
“I don’t want to get too slow,” Jackie cautioned as she banked into a gentle turn. “It’s too hard to regain energy quickly enough.”
“You sound like a fighter pilot.” He grinned good-naturedly.
She turned her head and gave him a slow smile. “That’s because I am a fighter pilot.”
After a slight hesitation, Massoud Ramazani reached for an AK-47 and stepped to the side of the short passageway leading to the bridge. He glanced at the captain and saw the fear in the man’s eyes.
“Stay on course,” he ordered as his heart pounded a little harder. “There’s something familiar about the people in that—” He stopped in sudden shock when he recognized the woman. “It’s them, the man and woman who were flying the floatplane!”
Temporarily paralyzed, the skipper found his voice a few seconds later. “The people who flew over us after our helicopter left?”
“Yes,” Ramazani said curtly.
“What are we going to do?”
Ignoring the question, Ramazani checked the ocean in every direction. The closest boat, a smaller yacht, was at least two miles from Sweet Life.
“Come left five degrees and slowly increase our speed.” If I walk out on deck, they’ll recognize me.
“I’ll take the wheel,” Ramazani said as he stepped toward the captain’s chair. “Take our guests some water or something, and wave and smile at the helicopter.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Ramazani snapped in a sharp voice. “Act like you’re having the time of your life.”
The nervous skipper looked confused.
“Do it!” Ramazani ordered as he selected VHF on the aircraft scanner and increased the volume of the VHF marine radio. He noted the side number of the helo and gradually advanced the throttles. Just go away and don’t cause any problems.
Jackie and Scott were about to start the second circle when a man with four gold stripes on each shoulder walked out of the bridge, waved a couple of times, then headed toward the built-in wet bar on the sundeck.
“If he isn’t from the Middle East,” Scott said with concern in his voice, “I’ll buy you dinner every night for the next month.”
“That’s the same kind of boat, no question about it,” Jackie said as she kept the turn fairly tight. “What do you make of the blondes onboard?”
“Who knows? Most men — regardless of their persuasion or age — enjoy attractive young women.”
She studied the yacht for a few seconds. Other than the color of the paint, how many yachts look like the one we saw in the Florida Keys? Not many of this size. “Maybe we should notify the Coast Guard and keep this guy in sight until they can check him out.”