Джейсон Росс - The Last Air Force One

Sam Greaney thundered back. “We did not cause this collapse, Robbie! We’re playing the hand we’ve been dealt by fifty years of liberal, social engineering. Let the Lefties eat their own goddamn dog food. Why should our farmers pay the price for their idiocy?”

Dutch’s head swam. If it weren’t for the death and violence attached to Sam's words, he might even have agreed.

Sharon knocked at the conference room door. Dutch recognized the knock and he recognized that he needed his wife’s counsel to return him to true north.

“Gentlemen,” Dutch said with a calm that belied the horror and magnitude of the decisions they were making. “I suggest a ten minute break. Let’s reconvene at 6 p.m.”

“Dutch. Your parents are alive,” Sharon whispered as soon as she pulled her husband into their executive suite. She glanced down the hallway to make sure no one had overheard her and closed the door.

Dutch reached for the dresser and steadied himself. “I don’t understand.”

“Sam lied to you. I cornered one of the communications officers and convinced him that his oath was to the president and not the secretary of defense. Your parents were holed up in their ranch with their staff and neighbors when the troops checked on them. They refused to evacuate. They’re probably still there, toughing it out.”

“How did you know, Sharon?”

“I suspected. I didn’t know.”

“Why would Sam lie to me about my parents?” Dutch drilled the carpet with his eyes.

“He needed you to side-step Posse Comitatus, and he knew that you would need to be knocked off your emotional game before you would consent to something like that.”

“Am I that easy to manipulate?” Dutch steadied his breathing, relief and self-doubt washing over him in alternating waves.

“Darling, we’re all that easy to manipulate. It’s just that most people don’t use it as a weapon.”

“They’re alive…” Dutch spoke the new truth aloud. “Sharon. My folks are still alive.”

Sharon pulled the President of the United States to her chest while he found balance once again.

President Dutch McAdams returned to the conference room with his four secret service agents in tow. He turned to Sam Greaney and in a calm voice said, “Sam, I’m putting you under arrest.”

The SecDef launched to his feet. “Explain,” he demanded.

“No. I won’t explain. It ends here. Gentlemen, please pat him down and take him to the press section of the plane and handcuff him to a seat. We’ll leave him with the MPs at our next stop.”

“What are the charges?” Sam Greaney pressed while the secret service agents frisked him.

“Does it really matter at this point?” the president answered. “Treason. Lying to me about my parents. Instructing troops to violate the Constitution. I’m the one America elected. The guys with the guns are with me, not you. So, like I said, it ends right here.”

“You never did figure it out,” Greaney smiled as the secret servicemen handcuffed his hands behind his back. “Everyone in your administration knew it but you. You’re a clown, Dutch. A political bobblehead who sounds great on camera. But you aren’t capable of making the hard choices or doing the tough math. My way is best for America, but you’re too soft to see it through.” Greaney nodded at the darkened map.

The secret servicemen began to haul Sam Greaney out of the conference room and Dutch held up a hand.

“Tell me, Sam. Why did you have your security detail bring frangible ammo aboard my airplane? Were you planning on seizing control of the United States right from the start?”

Sam Greaney chuckled and shook his head. “You’re the only person in this whole game, Dutch, who isn’t thinking three moves ahead. You’ve been behind the curve since before you were elected. My advice Dutch, for the sake of you and your family: just let it play out. You’re too late to catch up. Release me and let me do my job. It’ll be better for everyone.”

Dutch felt a stone in the pit of his stomach—the realization dawning that there might be much more he didn’t know about Sam Greaney.

“Are you saying you planned the collapse? That you and your compatriots did this to America?”

The former secretary of defense chuckled. “Not at all, Dutch. Nobody can orchestrate something this big. The Deep State has burned to the ground along with everything else. No, Dutch; like the Russians and the Chinese and whoever else jumped on the bandwagon when this collapse kicked off, I’m just an investor staying ahead of the market. I’m watching history in the making, and I’m setting America up for long-term gain even though we’re taking a beating at the moment. We’ll come out of this okay, if we stick to my plan. I brought the frangible ammo on board in case you got stupid—maybe started listening to your wife’s psychobabble. The frange was just a backup plan to the backup plan. Don’t take it personally, Dutch. You can still come back from this mistake. Have your trained gorillas release me and let’s get back to work. The moment we walk out of this office, it will be too late.”

“Lock him up,” Dutch ordered.

The meeting broke up as three secret servicemen pulled Sam Greaney out of the office and headed down the hallway toward the security section. Robbie turned left behind them, following the men and their prisoner toward the back of the plane. The President headed toward his stateroom, stewing on Greaney’s disdain.

Before Dutch had taken six steps toward his stateroom, the plane exploded in gunfire.

A ricochet buzzed down the hallway, and Dutch’s secret serviceman shoved him to the floor, covering him with his body, searching for targets with his Glock. The firefight farther aft of the airplane continued. A whining howl wailed underneath the staccato bursts of handgun fire.

Dutch caught sight of Sharon, peeking through the doorway to the presidential suite.

“Get back inside. Take cover behind the dresser. Do it now!” Dutch shouted, thinking of his son and daughter, probably seated at the back of the plane.

A man thundered down the stairway from the upper level and opened fire when he saw Dutch’s secret service agent. The agent returned fire, forcing the comms officer to take cover around the corner of the stairs. The handgun rounds disappeared into the walls of the airplane, doing untold damage.

Dutch’s secret service agent and the assailant from the communications room screamed at one another to drop their weapons—nobody willing to back down.

A dull thud came from above. A comms officer—confederate of Sam Greaney—tumbled down the stairs, ass-over-teakettle. He sprawled limp, when he hit the floor in front of Dutch. The secret service agent shot the man in the face, then twisted to meet any new threats coming down the stairs.

“Don’t shoot!” another man from the comms room stepped slowly down the stairs holding a Haliburton Zero hard-sided suitcase over his head.

“I knocked him out for you. Don’t shoot. I’m one of the good guys!” The Air Force aide de camp slowly descended the steps holding the “nuclear football” high.

“Get back up there and keep control of the comms center. Take that gun,” the secret service agent yelled, nodding to the dead man, apparently convinced of the aide de camp’s loyalty to the president.

Dutch scrambled forward, picking up the dead man’s Beretta. “We all fight. My children are back there.” Dutch pointed toward the back of the airplane with the Beretta. He turned to the aide de camp, Captain Spilinek. “Grab a gun from the weapons locker upstairs and get your ass back down here to help.”