Patrick Robinson: To The Death

“Okay. I’ll get it done.”

“And remember, Paul, if anything else happens, our only lifeline to serious information is this little prick in Mass General. Let’s get him under real tight arrest. And the media the hell out of the goddamned way. We just don’t want a whole lot of bullshit being written about people being held without trial, or even charged.”

“Guess we ought never to forget, Arnie,” said the president, “the media wants only a story. They do not think the national interest has anything to do with them.”

“Just so we never forget, right here in this sacred office, the only thing that matters is the national interest and our ability to protect our people. Nothing else.”

“Sometimes, Admiral, you can be quite surprisingly philosophical.”

“Bullshit, Mr. President,” replied Arnold, briskly. “Just don’t want to take our eye off the ball, right?”

“Nossir, Admiral. Just hold everything for a minute while I brief Alan Brett to put our new operation in place. Then we’ll find some lunch.”

The commander in chief picked up the telephone and outlined his current view about Reza Aghani-“Just have the Navy take over, Alan, and get him into Bethesda, under heavy guard-and tell State, willya?”

He replaced the telephone and said, “Okay, old buddy, where do you want to eat? Right here, or in the private dining room?”

“This is not a private-dining-room day, Paul. I got a gut feeling we better stay right here on the bridge.”

“Good call. I’ll send for the butler.”

Three minutes later, the White House butler came in and mentioned two or three dishes he was already preparing for visitors.

Arnold said, “Before I answer, can I just check if Maggie is now in residence?” He referred to the svelte and beautiful Virginian horsewoman, Maggie Lomax, who had married her childhood sweetheart, Paul Bedford, just as soon as he resigned from the Navy for a political career.

“Hell, no, she’s out somewhere in Middleburg with her mother,” replied the president.

“Okay, Henry, I’ll have a roast beef sandwich on rye, mustard and mayonnaise. And coffee, black with buckshot.” The butler smiled. He’d known the admiral for many years.

“Same,” said the president. “Hold the buckshot.”

The president, having declined the little sweetener tablets the admiral used instead of sugar, watched the butler leave and then inquired, “Can you tell me why my wife’s presence affected what you ordered for lunch?”

“Sure, she’s going out with Kathy tomorrow. Some ladies’ fashion show, and I didn’t want to risk being seen eating anything except grass, dandelions, and cottage cheese, the way I’m supposed to.”

President Bedford chuckled. “You don’t think I’d be eating roast beef and mayonnaise if Maggie was anywhere near, do you?”

With eight major international airports closed down for both takeoffs and landings, this had been an extremely hectic morning. Aircraft were being diverted inland, or to smaller airfields in central Florida or the Carolinas. Large nonstop passenger jets moving north were being diverted out to the west. Herndon could put up with almost anything except congestion over the East Coast airlanes, where a national emergency red alert was currently operative at all altitudes.

Reports, which on a normal day were critical, today faded into background cackle… We got a medium system out to the southwest, not too big, moving westward… nothing on the president’s schedule… Andrews quiet… American 142, make a 32-degree left turn, divert to Pittsburgh… good morning, United 96… sorry about this… make a 40-degree left for Cincinnati… right now JFK’s closed.

Even the significant news that a United States Navy carrier was conducting a series of air-combat exercises eighty miles off the Norfolk approaches scarcely raised a ripple in the control room, save to make damn sure that nothing strayed into the path of an F-16 fighter-bomber screaming at eight hundred knots through cloudy skies.

Everyone was at full stretch, scanning the screens, checking out flight after flight, diverting, canceling, refusing permission either to land or leave. Their overriding task was to clear the decks as the airports evacuated the passengers, just in case al Qaeda was going to Plan B.

And right now, there were only two identified men who could help. One was Reza Aghani, still lying in Mass General with a sore arm and a firmly closed mouth. The other, Ramon Salman, had vanished not only from Commonwealth Avenue, but also off the face of the known world.

“SUPERVISOR! RIGHT HERE!” There was a sudden and unmistakable note of pure urgency in the voice of Operator Steve Farrell, a heavily overweight 25-year-old with a deceptively quick brain that might one day carry him straight into the director’s chair.

“I got a bolter,” he snapped.

“You got a what?”

“A bolter. Pilot’s ignored orders from the tower and pressed right along.”

“Where is he?”

“Right here, sir, ’bout three hundred miles south of us, heading north. He just crossed the Cape Fear River in North Carolina.”

“You got his last instructions?”

“Right here, sir. Ten minutes ago I sent him clear orders to make a thirty-degree course alteration to his left and to take a swing left around Cincinnati, leaving Northern Kentucky International to his starboard side.”

“Where’s he bound?”

“ Montreal, sir.”

“Start point?”

“ Trinidad, sir. Refueled Palm Beach, Florida.”

“Aircraft?”

“Boeing 737, sir.”

“Is she squawking?”

“Nossir.”

“You tried High Frequency?”

“Yessir. I went to SELCAL [selective calling] seven minutes ago. And I tried the private voice channel. I just hit the two cabin warning lights, let ’em know we’re trying. Nothing.”

“You sure she’s still flying?”

“No doubt, sir. She’s headed straight over the southern part of the state of North Carolina, slightly right of the city of Raleigh.”

“Airline?”

“Thunder Bay Airways, sir. Canadian. She has no scheduled stops in North America. Her fuel stop was not on her flight plan, according to the Miami Tower.”

“They probably ran out in Barbados.”

“Guess so. But what do we do?”

“Well, right now she’s flying over some lonely country. But I want you to alert the agencies. CIA, National Security, then White House Security… that’ll do it. They’ll take it from there.”

“What do I tell ’em, sir?”

“Tell ’em we got a fucking bolter! What else? And keep trying the cockpit, Steve. You never know. Could be an electrical problem.”

Today Lt. Commander Ramshawe was hot on the trail of anything to do with aircraft. The short, low-key signal on his screen was informing him that some nuthouse Canadian pilot was ignoring warnings from the control tower and appeared to be heading for the North Carolina swamps. This hit him like “Houston, we have a problem” had hit the NASA ops room on April 13, 1970.

Jimmy Ramshawe grabbed the phone, direct line to his assistant. “Get me Herndon on the line right now,” he snapped.

“ National Air Traffic Control Center, Operator Simpson speaking.”

“Operator, this is Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe at the National Security Agency, Fort Meade. Please have the operator dealing with the Thunder Bay Airlines off-course Boeing 737 call me back right away. Military Intelligence Division.”

As always, the words National Security Agency worked their magic. Inside seven seconds, Steve Farrell had dropped his donut, mid-bite, and hit the phone.