“Executive-One-Foxtrot’s been cleared to descend,” Tate reported. “He’s twenty miles northeast of Pottstown VOR.” “He’s going to have to get his tail down if he wants to make RONNY intersection by eight thousand,” one of the weapons controllers behind Tate remarked as he watched the VC-25 make its descent. RONNY intersection, fifty miles north of Andrews Air Force Base, was the usual turn- point for VIP planes landing at Andrews — it gave the pilots a nice long straight-in approach, with little traffic and few turns to disturb the passengers.
“Good thing the President’s not on board,” another WC said. “I heard the Steel Magnolia pitches a fit and tries to shit-can the whole flight crew if her ears do so much as pop while she’s in Air Force One.”
“She’s got bigger things on her mind these days… like how to keep her and the President from being indicted.” Everyone chuckled.
“There he goes,” the first weapons controller reported, monitoring Executive-One-Foxtrot’s data block and mentally calculating the descent rate by watching the altitude readout. “He’s doing at least fifteen hundred feet a minute in the descent. I think heads are going to roll tonight.”
“Just everybody settle down and monitor the transponder changeover up here,” Tate said. Before passing through ten thousand feet, Air Force VIP aircraft like Executive-One- Foxtrot switched their transponders to a discrete code, usually 2222, used only in the terminal area to alert controllers so they can give the plane expedited service. When the changeover occurred, the target usually disappeared off the radarscreen for about twelve seconds until the new code was picked up by the radar computers — if the controllers weren’t ready for the changeover, they got very frantic and sometimes pushed the panic button.
Milford went back and scanned his other four vital sectors. Everything seemed to be running smoothly. Air traffic had not returned to normal by any means, but in the past few days travel at night had virtually disappeared, and now it was making a comeback. Fewer restrictions on flight routing, more controller discretion, and less reliance on published arrival and departure procedures really helped to clear things up. That newcomer, the slow-moving VFR flight that had originated somewhere in eastern Maryland, was now over Nottingham VOR, still headed northwest— its course would take it south of Andrews Air Force Base, but it was definitely on its way to busting the Class B airspace. That idiot deserved to get his license pulled, Milford thought.
“Any ID on that VFR flight out there, AS?” Milford asked the Airborne Surveillance section.
“Still checking, MC.”
Jesus, Milford thought, what an asshole. The air defense emergency had not been officially canceled, although the FAA did announce that flights were not required to follow the special-arrival corridors into the nation’s busiest airports anymore. It was also not hard to hide all of the long- range Patriot missile sites being taken down all over the country.
“MC, no IFF changeover on that Executive-One-Foxtrot flight.”
Milford immediately flipped back to the Washington, D.C., Class B airspace radar display and zoomed his presentation in, putting the VC-25 A on the top of the scope and Andrews Air Force Base, the plane’s destination, on the bottom. His heart immediately started to beat a bit faster. Executive-One-Foxtrot was at RONNY intersection, inbound on the ILS approach to runway one-eight left, passing through eight thousand feet — and still no transponder code changeover.
The crews flying those VIP jets never made mistakes like that, never.
The next question was how to notify the crew of their omission. Although it was certainly not required that the VC-25 crews change their transponder codes or accept any expedited service, it was generally not a good idea for any of the President’s jets to be delayed in the air, especially when the President was on the road. But blabbing it on an open-frequency was probably not a politic idea, either. Milford flipped his radio panel over to the 89th Air Wing’s Special Mission Operations Center, the ones that were in constant contact with all of their VIP planes: “Midnight, this is Leather-90 on SMOC common, over.”
“Leather-90, this is 89th Wing SMOC, stand by.” There was a lengthy pause, probably so the senior controller at Andrews could look up in his call-sign book to see who “Leather” was. Then: “Go ahead, — 90.”
“I’m tracking your SAM-2800, Executive-One-Foxtrot, fifty-two miles north of ADW inbound. Can you ask him to change over his IFF? Over.”
“Say again, — 90?”
“I repeat, I am tracking Executive-One-Foxtrot inbound to ADW, and he has not changed over his IFF to terminal procedure codes. Can you notify him to change his transponder code? Over.”
There was another slight pause, probably so the senior controller could ask the VC-25 crew if they were squawking the right code and to change it immediately if they had forgotten. Milford watched his radar display, expecting the code to change at any moment… but it did not. “Ah… Leather-90, sir, we can’t verify the location of our SAM flights to you on this channel. You’ll have to contact us on a secure landline or secure datalink. Over.”
“What the hell is this guy talking about?” Milford muttered. “The whole friggin’ world knows that this plane’s up there.” On the radio, he said, “Midnight, I’ve got a valid military flight plan for SAM-2800 and an FAA ALNOT on Executive-One-Foxtrot, IFR from Manchester, New Hampshire, to Andrews. He’s less than fifty miles north of Andrews inbound for landing. He’s been airborne for well over an hour. I think it’s a little late to play hide-and-seek games with this one. All I want is to have him change over his IFF. Over.”
After another interminable pause that was about to drive Milford nuts and had now gotten the attention of the entire. AW ACS crew, the SMOC controller came back: “Leather- 90, I’ve been directed to tell you by the senior controller here that there is no SAM-2800 or Executive-One-Foxtrot inbound for landing at Andrews. All of our assets are accounted for, and none are inbound to Andrews at this time. You have a faker on your hands.”
Milford felt the blood drain out of his face, and his stomach muscles tensed so tightly that he felt as if he were going to throw up. “Shit, shit, shit, ” he cursed loudly. On the radio, he shouted, “Midnight, are you sure?”
“I can’t tell you on this channel where the VC-25s are, Leather,” the SMOC controller said, “but I can tell you they’re not inbound to Andrews. All of our other assets are nowhere near ADW. Closest one departed a half-hour ago, destination Langley.”
“Damn it, I can’t believe this,” Milford said. Tate and the * other weapon controllers were waiting for their instructions — he had to act now… “Comm, this is the MC, contact Washington Approach and Washington Center, advise them we’re declaring an air defense emergency for the Bal- timore-Washington Class B airspace. I need the airspace cleared out and instructions issued to that 747 to stay out of Class B airspace. Surveillance, MC, mark radar target P045Y as ‘unknown.’ Maureen, do we have anybody suited up? Do we have a chance to get this guy?”
“Yes, sir,” Tate responded immediately. “Two F-16s— tactical birds, not interceptors — on ready five alert at Andrews.”
“Scramble them,” Milford ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Tate acknowledged. She had her finger on the SCRAMBLE button as soon as she heard there was something wrong with Executive-One-Foxtrot. On aircraft-wide intercom, Tate announced, “All stations, all stations, active air scramble Andrews, unknown target P045Y designate as ‘Bandit- V… MC, Alpha-Whiskey One-One and One-Two acknowledging the klaxon; Weapons One, interceptors coming up to you on button two.”