“Herndon, is she still out over the river?”
“Yessir. Right over the widest part where the stream splits into the wide estuary heading northeast up Occoquan Bay. Right here we got width seven miles.”
“Northeast Air Defense, we’re gonna take her out right now. Over and out.”
“ Green Leader roger that, Langley. Weapons armed, firing both missiles starboard engine Boeing 737.”
“OKAY, CHUCK-CLEARANCE RECEIVED-HIT THE PORTSIDE ENGINE RIGHT NOW!”
The four Sidewinder missiles dropped from the wings of the two pursuing U.S. Navy aircraft. All four ignited, accelerating forward. They flashed into their heat-seeking mode, leaving fiery trails as they cleaved through the clear skies, straight toward the massive engines of the 737.
All four hit, blasting the engines to smithereens, blowing apart the wings of the big passenger jet, which lurched forward for perhaps four hundred yards and then turned turtle and plummeted out of the sky. Thunder Bay Airlines Flight 62 twisted and turned in a ball of fire until it plunged, with a thunderous crash, into the Potomac River less than a mile below.
“Target destroyed. Repeat, destroyed. Birds climbing to ten, course one-six-zero. Returning Langley, returning Langley.”
“Herndon to Northeast Air Defense-1257-Flight 62 disappeared from all screens. Last known fifteen miles south of Washington, D.C., making course north 4,000 above the Potomac River.”
“Roger that, Herndon. Over and out.”
“Jesus Christ, Arnie, they splashed it!”
“Mr. President, like we say back home in Texas, sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“Well, I agree that that’s a phrase heard more often in the Wild West than in Virginia, but, hell, this is going to raise all kinds of havoc in the media.”
Admiral Morgan looked quizzical. Then he said, “You mean there’s some kind of imperative, weighing down upon us, to make this all public? So far as I know, some charter flight company from north of the border misjudged his instructions from the tower to head inland, and crashed his ole Boeing 737 straight into the goddamned ocean. Lightly loaded, thank God. None of ’em Americans.”
“You mean we make some kind of a false announcement to the press?”
“Certainly not. We make a very sinister announcement about the Boston bomb. Then we allow the flight-control guys to issue a press release revealing that an overseas flight apparently ditched into the Atlantic several hours later. Bit of a coincidence really. Same day and everything. But the United States government will be making no statement until more facts are known.
“The air traffic department of Public Affairs should mention that there may have been a hydraulic problem in the 737, and the pilot was flying in a prohibited area off the coast of North Carolina, east of the Outer Banks, less than fifty miles from a U.S. Navy exercise.
“He ignored all our advice and then disappeared from all screens. No wreckage has yet been located. The military will of course say nothing, know nothing, and suggest nothing.”
“How about people who may have seen the missiles hit the aircraft over the Potomac?”
“Unlikely, Paul. The plane came down in one of the widest parts of the river, almost seven miles across. And it was certainly on fire on impact. There may be a very few claims to have seen something, but in the end it’ll be like a sighting of a UFO: interesting, but unproven.”
“Kinda like that TWA flight that went down off Long Island twenty years ago-there were a few reports that something hit it, but nothing ever was accepted as a fact.”
“You got it, Paul. And before Henry comes back, we have to do a few things-first, get the military and flight control on the same page. Then someone’s got to brief the CIA. We can leave that to the National Security Agency. Meanwhile, have Alan Brett call the Defense Department and get the Navy moving on lifting that wreck out of the river. Top secret, obviously. Last, make sure the damned towelhead has been moved out of Mass General and into Bethesda.”
At which point, Henry the butler reappeared with two king-sized roast beef sandwiches, a few potato chips, and a large bottle of fizzy water. “Just the way you like ’em, Admiral,” he said, addressing his remark firmly away from the president, as if conscious of the terrible sin he had most certainly committed in the eyes of the absent First Lady. At least he would have, had she been present.
The two men divided the spoils, the president pouring the springwater into two crystal glasses. They each took a luxurious bite from what Kathy Morgan described as the billion-calorie-an-inch sandwiches.
“Jesus, these are great,” said the president. Arnold Morgan, chewing dreamily, had a look of such supreme happiness on his face that a reply was strictly redundant.
Henry brought them coffee ten minutes later and clicked the sweeteners into Arnold’s cup from the little blue tube.
“Thanks, Henry,” said the admiral as the butler made his exit. Then Arnold turned to the president and inquired, “What time do you plan to address the nation? In time for the evening news?”
“Me?” replied Paul Bedford. “You think I have to make a formal speech?”
“Absolutely,” said Arnold. “Reveal that this nation has been attacked yet again by the rabid fundamentalists of Islam and that only the prompt and courageous action of the two Boston policemen prevented a massive loss of life inside the terminal at Logan. Tell them we have the main perpetrator captive and that a huge inquiry is under way. There will in due course be substantial U.S. retaliation.”
“And what do I say when some journalist wants to know if there is any connection between the airport bomb and the mysterious crash of the 737 into the ocean?”
“You say very simply, sir, the aircraft that went down was a lightly loaded, foreign, civilian Boeing 737 which had been overflying U.S. territory and U.S. waters. Neither the White House nor the Pentagon has been briefed about the precise circumstances of its disappearance. If and when the security agencies become involved, the media will be kept informed.”
“You think they’ll buy that?”
“Mr. President, Marlin Fitzwater, Reagan’s man, used to describe the White House press corps as ‘the lions.’ He reckoned they needed feeding late every afternoon. That bomb story and the attendant terrorist implications will be like throwing those lions fifty of these roast beef sandwiches apiece. They won’t be hungry. Just keep telling them we will seek revenge. They’ll love that.”
CHAPTER 2
Even the phone had an irritated ring to it when the Big Man called. Lt. Commander Ramshawe picked it up, and the rasping tones of Admiral Morgan snapped down the line. “JIMMY! Just give me one straight, no-bullshit assessment of our actions this morning.”
“Sorry, sir. What’s that you need?”
“I want to know your degree of certainty on the correctness of our actions.”
“One hundred percent.”
“REASON?”
“Sir, the CIA picked up a one-way transmission to Damascus that started off by correctly revealing the bomb at Logan International, time and place, plus operatives. Secondly, it confirmed that some kind of terror operation was happening with a Flight 62.
“Next thing we know, some fucking nutcase is driving a bloody great Boeing passenger jet straight at the city of Washington, D.C. Diving low, directly at the buildings, in defiance of our air traffic orders. What was its flight number? Sixty-two. As forecast. That’s game, set, and match, old mate. Game, set, and match.”