The Last Air Force One Page 6

  BOOM, SNAP!

  Dutch heard a massive bang, something he had never heard before on an aircraft. He rushed into the hall and headed aft, where he could now hear screams and shouting. As Dutch rounded the corner of the conference room, he ran into two secret service agents who immediately threw him against the bulkhead and placed their backs to his, pinning him to the wall.

  The shouting receded, and the screams turned to sobs. Dutch squirmed underneath the weight of the secret servicemen and worked his way out between them enough to capture the scene in the office staff section of the plane. Once again, the secret servicemen and the protective detail for the secretary of defense were pointing guns at one another. A man in a business suit lay face-down on the cabin floor, a huge burgundy pool beneath his head. Dutch’s daughter, Abigail, stood hiding in Sharon’s arms, weeping uncontrollably.

  “Abby, are you okay,” Dutch shouted over the din.

  “Yes, Daddy. I’m fine. I’ll be okay,” she sobbed, then pitched into a fit of coughing.

  “What happened?” Dutch demanded of the secret serviceman still pinning him to the wall—Daniel Brooks, he recalled, the chief of his detail.

  “Sir, the man on the ground grabbed your daughter and threatened her with a knife from the galley unless we landed the plane in D.C.. We refrained from shooting so as not to risk the integrity of the airframe, as we’re trained, sir. This… cowboy, sir, took a shot with his M4.” The secret service man pointed his chin at a Delta operator from the SecDef’s detail.

  “Okay. Relax, everyone.” Dutch pushed his way from behind the agents and addressed the operator who had killed his daughter’s assailant. “What’s your story?”

  “No story, sir. I had the guaranteed shot from behind the man and I took it. I’m shooting frangible ammo, so there was zero chance my round would compromise the aircraft after passing through his skull.”

  “What is frangible ammo?” Dutch demanded.

  “Powdered metal compressed into a slug. It breaks up when it hits a hard target. There was little risk of over-penetration, and I had the shot, point-blank.”

  Dutch looked opposite where the man had apparently fired and could see a number of gray impact marks on the fuselage and bulkhead, along with a constellation of pink spackle. Dutch turned to his wife and daughter and shepherded them back toward their suite at the front of the plane, wrapping his arms around them as they walked. His son, Teddy, followed.

  As he herded his family away from the specter of death, he remembered the words of his father when Dutch called him, late at night on the West Coast, to tell him he’d won the election to the presidency of the United States. His father’s words had knocked Dutch off kilter and had haunted him as he worked long hours as leader of the free world.

  “Congratulations, son. Just don’t forget: you’ll be president for four years. But, you will be a father and a husband forever.”

  Dutch ground his teeth as the words echoed in his soul, his daughter weeping hysterically, and Sharon wrapped around her like a shawl.

  The ghost of his dad, apparently, had found him 30,000 feet above America.

  17

  Robbie Leforth, Zach Jackson, Sharon McAdams and the president sat in the Oval Office. Sam Greaney hadn’t been invited. Late afternoon light cut through the windows, projecting fake rainbows on the plastic walls of the seat of power of the United States of America—or what was left of it.

  “I have one question, and I need it to stay in this office. Why were Sam’s men armed with frangible ammunition? I can only think of one reason, and it isn’t good. I’m hoping the three of you can think of alternative explanations.”

  Dutch’s attorney general seemed to connect the dots before anyone else in the room. “You don’t think Sam had something to do with the attack on the United States, do you Dutch? I mean, he’s an asshole, but a traitor? I can’t believe that.”

  “I don’t get it,” Sharon said. “Why does having frangible bullets mean that Sam Greaney was in league with the cyberattack?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t,” Robbie replied. “Maybe he just came onboard ready for violence.”

  “Back up.” Sharon held out her hands in a stopping motion. “What am I missing?”

  Dutch explained. “There’s only one good reason to come loaded with ammunition that shatters on impact, and that’s to be ready to shoot on the airplane. Not even the secret service was loaded for a shooting incident inside the fuselage.”

  Sharon slumped back on the sofa, thinking.

  “Who was that guy? The one who grabbed my daughter?” Dutch asked as the silence stretched out.

  “His name was Paul. He was one of my legal staff,” Zach Jackson, the attorney general exhaled. “He hadn’t heard from his family in D.C. in four days, and his stock portfolio had been completely wiped out by the first wave of sell-offs. He also didn’t have a chance to bring his anti-depressants on board. I made him come with me even though he objected. I think all this is my fault.”

  Dutch shook his head. “When it comes to mental instability, it’s hard to assign blame. How’s everybody else on the plane doing? Paul probably wasn’t the only one in a bad way.”

  Nobody answered, probably because everyone was feeling the stress, including each of the four in the Oval Office. Being cooped up in a beautiful, custom-built flying hotel could still feel like a prison, and everyone aboard had come to know that unexpected truth.

  “We need to get on the ground and empty this airplane,” Sharon stated. “Things are going to go from bad to worse in terms of mental health. Plus, if Sam Greaney is actually a threat, then we need to tie a rope around that threat.”

  18

  As Air Force One descended toward Omaha, Nebraska, Dutch broke the news to Sam Greaney. As much as he would’ve liked to leave the man in Omaha, he would have to justify it based on a frayed suspicion triggered by the kind of ammunition his men had brought onboard. As Dutch well knew, there could be a hundred plausible explanations.

  “You’re going to need to ditch your security guys at Strategic Air Command, Sam. We’re getting rid of everyone on the plane except for critical personnel. If we’re going to have any chance of taking this country back, we can’t be toting around a plane full of non-essential personnel distracting us from our mission. I’ve seen secret service guys point guns at your guys, and your guys point guns at them twice now. That’s over. Your heavy hitters are Nebraskans now.”

  Sam Greaney’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to consider arguing the point. Then his face relaxed. “Okay, Mister President, I will need four of my support guys, and of course the comms operators if we’re going to continue coordinating the military effort.”

  “Okay,” Dutch agreed. “Another thing, Sam. I’m going to need two hours on the ground to do my job as a father.”

  “How’s that, Dutch?”

  “If we can’t get D.C. back in our control, and if we end up making a contingency landing somewhere else, I need to know I can take care of my family. As it stands, on this airplane, I don’t even own a pair of jeans.”

  Sam raised an eyebrow. “You want to gather supplies for your family?”

  “You can’t guarantee the success of this mission and neither can I. At the end of the day, I’m a father. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t prepare for my family’s long-term options?”

  Dutch could see the wheels turning in Sam’s head. A little younger than Dutch, Sam’s wife had passed away from breast cancer ten years prior, and his son worked as a business executive in London. Sam would struggle to see things from Dutch’s perspective when it came to family. Sam seemed to reach some kind of decision and it made Dutch’s shoulder’s tense.

  “Okay, Dutch. I’ll have a quartermaster standing by ready to set you up with whatever you need at SAC base. They should be able to send you off with a damn Army/Navy Surplus store. That’s where the ‘doomsday preppers’ buy their stuff, right? Army/Navy Surplus?” Sam laughed, and Dutch couldn’t tell if he was be
ing ridiculed.

  “Two hours, Sam. I need to be a father for two hours. After that, I’m back to being President of the United States, and we can pull our country back from the brink. Deal?” Dutch disliked the sound of himself negotiating with his secretary of defense. He knew himself well enough to know that his self-doubt was eating away at his personal strength. Undoubtedly, his father and mother’s passing had eroded that foundation. In the end, no man could be utterly certain of his mental fortitude. Depression could get its hooks into anyone.

  “Of course, Dutch. It’s no problem. You’re President of the United States. You can take as many MREs as you want, whenever you want.”

  The intercom announced the return to seats as Air Force One lined up for landing.

  Sam Greaney stood and moved toward the door. “Dutch, you might want to let Robbie Leforth off at Omaha as well. He’s wearing a little thin.”

  19

  As he sped across the tarmac in a Humvee, Dutch’s mind tore at the problem like a dog scratching out a hole. What could he do in the next two hours that would ensure his family’s long-term survival?

  He had already decided that he should approach the problem as though America would never come back. It was the last thing he wanted to believe, but he owed it to his family to face that reality. For starters, he would have to frankly consider the end of the American nation and all the comforts that had come with it.

  Not only would he have to imagine his world without modern advantages, but he would have to see it without him as president. In a desolate future, Dutch’s role as leader of the free world would be a curiosity at best, a death warrant at worst. For seven days, hanging over America in the sky, Dutch had born witness to tens of thousands of fires, particularly as they passed over populated areas. From horizon to horizon, the hopelessness of Americans billowed into the air like blackened fists, thrusting their impotent wrath skyward only to dissipate in the coming jet stream of winter.

  A hundred thousand pilasters of smoke offered final judgment on modern American city culture: they were not of a heart to redouble their efforts, tighten their belts and proceed forward with greater humility. This was not the America of the Great Depression, where most turned to growing vegetables instead of lawns, packing families into smaller homes for warmth, and scavenging trash for reuse.

  In contrast, modern Americans set fire to their cities.

  If he were recognized as president, their indignation and blame would likely sweep his family up like rats. It made him think of black and white photographs of Mussolini, the Italian dictator, hanging upside down with his mistress from iron scaffolding.

  The thought made him glance at his driver, an Air Force supply management officer. The man stared straight ahead as he drove, wrapped in professionalism. Dutch couldn’t tell if the man blamed his president for the sudden loss of his hopes and dreams.

  The air whipping through the Humvee blew heavy with the smell of smoke, a grim reminder of the panic and disorder that had swallowed nearby Omaha. Dutch wondered how the man must feel about helping them take resources from their base. Those same resources could’ve otherwise contributed to the survival of the man, his base and maybe his family. Dutch felt an urge to ask about the man’s family, and almost spoke. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut.

  For these next two hours, he needed to put aside his concern for anyone other than his family and friends. For the next two hours, he would be a father again; maybe too late, but better late than never.

  As the Humvee sped closer to the chain-link fence surrounding the airfield, Dutch reined in his thoughts. For the first time ever, he needed to focus on the animal survival of those he loved. He tapped that version of himself—almost fifty years in the past—that had lived in the hardscrabble world; a lifetime distant from when he worried about whether blue socks clashed with his charcoal slacks.

  Dutch would have to locate that place in his soul that once scaled Mount Whitney, the lives of his hikers utterly reliant upon his judgment. In a past life, he once concerned himself with pack weight, calories, exertion, and above all else, weather. He would take in the capabilities of those in his care and assess their strength and needs, their boots and cardiovascular fitness. He would set contingency plans to ensure survival when Murphy’s Law came to call and stacked against them all the worst-case scenarios and maybe some scenario he had never considered.

  Dutch forced his mind to consider merciless nature and entropy; a heartless adversary who would fight his every move with random, dangerous permutations. All his education, experience and intelligence could come down to this moment and this question: what would he pack aboard Air Force One to save his family’s lives?

  Dutch had already decided they would not remain at Offutt Air Force Base. Earlier, as they’d descended from above the clouds in Air Force One, he’d seen the burning of Omaha—hundreds of fires, curling black-on-black tendrils into the sky. Something in Dutch’s subconscious had known that those chemical fires bespoke a greater evil; that a malevolent legion would eventually come for his family if they stayed long at Offutt.

  After doing all he could for his family to survive, Dutch might have to shrug off the mantle of president and go forward as any other man, fighting to protect his own.

  Food was the first thing to come to mind, but Dutch held that thought at bay for a moment, considering the minarets of smoke over Omaha.

  “Guns.” Dutch shouted to the driver over the howling wind in the Humvee. “Please take me to the armory.”

  The officer nodded with a slight smile, apparently approving of Dutch’s awakening.

  Security first. Everything else second.

  20

  Dutch, his son Teddy, the supply officer, and two Air Force security officers stood together for a moment, regarding the racks filled with modern firearms. Given the critical nature of Strategic Air Command to the defense of the United States, someone had seen fit to arm the base security forces to the teeth. Unfortunately, the array of weapons did more to confuse Dutch than inspire him.

  “I’m really, really wishing you had taken my advice and joined the damn Marines, Teddy,” Dutch said, half-jokingly. The three servicemen chuckled.

  “Sorry, Dad. I’m pretty useless in this department,” Teddy apologized. “Everything I know about this stuff I learned from Call of Duty."

  Dutch had shot guns a lot growing up on the slopes of the California High Sierras, but his father’s arsenal titled decidedly toward cowboy-style firearms. The scores of oiled, black rifles arrayed before him looked like movie props to Dutch.

  “If I may, sir…” one of the Air Force security men spoke. Both he and the other security force officer were outfitted like Navy SEAL assaulters: camouflage fatigues, kevlar helmets and chest rigs with magazines, radios and other doo-dads sticking out in all directions.

  “Please do. I would consider it a favor,” Dutch said, motioning to the racks of weapons.

  The three airmen snapped to work loading up a rolling handcart for the president. They began with six, compact assault rifles, each with a chunky holographic sight on top. The men buzzed around the armory grabbing guns, ammunition, batteries, extra batteries; chatting it up like schoolgirls on a shopping spree at the mall. For a moment, Dutch forgot how deadly-serious this exercise might be. Even with America burning, it was hard to imagine he would ever defend his life and family with military hardware.

  “Sir, how do you feel about this one?” One of the airmen held up a big, bolt action rifle with a hulking scope on top.

  “If that’s a Remington 700, then I think we’re good to go,” Dutch couldn’t help but show off a little. When he was a young man, he had hunted deer in central California with a wood stock version of the same rifle.

  “Excellent.” The airman beamed approval and loaded the rifle in the cart. “This one’s a 7.62, sir. I’ll grab a case of ammo for it,” he said as he darted into another room.

  Finally, the supply officer brought out three crates full o
f hand grenades.

  Dutch held up his hands. “I’m not sure grenades would make sense for us.”

  His son shook his head, smiling in a parody of disappointment with his old dad. “If I’ve learned one thing from hundreds of hours playing Call of Duty, it’s that you never pass up on grenades.” Teddy carefully took the crates from the waiting airman and loaded them into the rolling cart.

  “I suppose that means Javelin and LAW rockets won’t be required,” one of the airmen asked.

  “No, thank you,” Dutch confirmed. “But I do think that night vision goggles and maybe some body armor could be helpful.”

  “Absolutely, sir. That stuff’s next door.”

  21

  Word spread that Air Force One had landed in Offutt, and Dutch’s worst fears began to coalesce around the front gate to the base. The two security forces officers helping Dutch were pulled away to address a menacing crowd of angry civilians at the base entrance, shouting pleas and curses for their president to save them from the turmoil that had seized Omaha.

  Dutch had no time to agonize over their ire. He had only an hour left on the ground and he wracked his brain as to what his family might need in the months to come.

  Try as he might, he could not come up with a large-scale, reliable solution to providing clean water for his family. Every good option seemed tied to a piece of land. He needed a river, lake or a well to provide water for any length of time, and he had a bad feeling about setting up near ground water. It seemed like ground water would attract people, and that he must stay clear of the masses at all costs.

  The more he thought about long-term survival, the bigger the problem loomed. Dutch felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole—the questions becoming deeper and stranger the farther he descended. The president kicked himself for not preparing ahead of time, like setting up a ranch in Montana or a farm in a small town. He’d had the money. He just hadn’t thought to make it a priority.