Medusa's Child

TWENTY

With a furious President waiting for answers in the Star-suite aboard Air Force One and an embarrassed and equally furious Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff pacing around the communications consoles in the Situation Room at the White House, the rattled Secretary of Defense and ashen-faced Secretary of the Air Force conferred in one corner of the Pentagon's dark, two-story, wood-paneled War Room. A new round of calls laced a tightening net between Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base and the Pentagon as the storm inside the Pentagon echoed the intensity of the growing hurricane outside.

The on-the-spot presidential sacking of Colonel Jeff Peters had shocked everyone, but as three other senior officers—two major generals, and a lieutenant general—were removed from the command post and interrogated by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on a secure line from the Situation Room, a frantic attempt was being made to contact the crew of ScotAir 50. A patched-in radio call from the aircraft commander of the C-141 who had talked to ScotAir came through at the same moment, instantly stopping every conversation in the room.

"Uh, sir, I said that ScotAir Fifty has called us on a UHF frequency. He wants us to meet him at Grand Strand Airport, which is north of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. He wants parachutes and survival gear. He's proposing to head his aircraft east and bail out. I need orders, please. How should I respond?"

The commander of the Air Combat Command, a four-star general named Ralph Kinney, held up a finger for time and picked up the secure tie-line to the Situation Room to inform the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of the details.

"What, precisely, does the President want us to do in this circumstance?" General Kinney asked. "I don't want any more of his wrath, so what do we do?"

"What we do, Ralph, is ask him ourselves. Get to the Starsuite on your end."

In less than a minute a split transmission turned the other side of the President's airborne Starsuite into a split screen, with the Situation Room on one side and the Pentagon command post on the other.

"Where are we now with respect to detonation time?" the President asked.

"Less than an hour and ten minutes, sir," General Kinney said.

"If he lands on a coastal runway, do we have any way of transferring the bomb to the 141?"

Both generals conferred with their aides and looked back at the President as General Kinney replied.

"I'm told the C-141 does have a small K-Loader aboard, but they're unsure how fast they could get the bomb transferred. So the answer is, probably not."

"Okay, so what do you two suggest now?"

"Mr. President," General Kinney said, "we were proceeding on the assumption that we could explode the bomb in a non-nuclear controlled detonation using high explosives. The captain of that aircraft is adamant that the bomb's mechanism is different. He's convinced we'll set off a nuclear blast if we do so. That's apparently why he elected to leave Seymour-Johnson."

The President scowled and waved his hand angrily in a gesture of dismissal. "I know all that. So what do we do now? We've only an hour or so left. Is there any possibility of disarming it, as we originally intended?"

The general shook his head once more. "Sir, again, the 727's captain is virtually convinced that the device is sealed and booby-trapped and impossible to defuse in the time remaining."

"Well? Is he right?"

"He… may well be, sir. We've only got one expert available."

"And you couldn't figure this out earlier?"

The general shook his head as he looked at the President. "Sir, we're doing the best we…"

"Why the hell didn't you guys come to this conclusion a half hour ago?" the President asked, his eyebrows flaring.

General Kinney slammed a leather notebook down on the table in front of him with obvious disgust and sighed. "I honestly don't know, Mr. President. If I did, I'd tell you. With all due respect, sir, I do know we're wasting time with hindsight evaluations and over-the-shoulder management."

"Ralph!" The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was glaring at the electronic image of his four-star subordinate at the Pentagon.

The President ignored the Chairman's attempt to muzzle the Air Combat Commander and swiveled his chair aboard Air Force One to bore-sight his eyes on General Kinney.

"General, I take it you're disagreeing with my level of participation in this thing. Speak up."

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff looked alarmed and raised his hand.

"Ah, Mr. President, I don't think…"

"Let him speak, John. I never fault anyone for being frank." The President looked back at General Kinney. "Go ahead, General."

"Sir, I know you were an Air Force pilot, and I know you made colonel in the Reserves, but with all due respect, you were never an active-duty senior officer on the Air Staff, and frankly, I don't think you understand what we've been facing in this crisis."

The President leaned forward. "You're right, General, we're wasting time, so I won't belabor this. Like any other general officer in the Pentagon citadel, you've come to think no one else understands what you do, least of all fuzzy-headed civilians, and least among those, politicians. I appreciate your candor, but understand this clearly. I'm more aware of what goes on at your level than you are because I've been a member of the working brotherhood and know well how dysfunctional the vertical military structure really is. To get to the Air Staff requires more than discipline. It requires a willing suspension of personal integrity, a willingness to lie to your commander, and a willingness to embrace the dangerous idea that the military is justified in lying to the public, the Congress, and the President, if necessary, to preserve its ability to function as it believes necessary."

"Sir, I think that's excessive and slanderous."

"But all too true. General, I'm your worst nightmare. I completed all the professional military courses like the War College, as well as Command and Staff. I'm a charter member of the brotherhood who knows all the secret handshakes, yet rejects the code of silence. May I remind you that the President is the Commander in Chief? I'm watching the forest while you're minding the trees. That's why our freedom depends on continuous civilian control of the military, and I happen to be the first Chief Executive in the last forty years with enough professional military experience to understand both sides. We'll get into your collective screwups on this thing later. And, no, General, I'm not micromanaging. I'm simply the first Commander in Chief since Eisenhower who can't be snowed."

General Kinney reined in his anger and glanced down at the table to compose himself before squaring his shoulders and looking back at the President.

"You asked for our recommendation, Mr. President?"

"I did."

"I recommend we forget trying to disarm the bomb and concentrate instead on how to dump it as far out in the Atlantic as we can. To that extent, we've got two pilots with Special Operations background available at Seymour-Johnson. They're already on a KC-10. They have parachutes and survival gear aboard, and they can be sent to wherever the 727's captain wants to meet them. They volunteered earlier. One even has Boeing 727 experience."

"What?" the President asked with mock surprise. "You mean to tell me that one of these pilots is a ratty Reservist?"

The general paused and swallowed hard before replying. "Yes, sir. An airline pilot."

"Fancy that," the President replied, raising an eyebrow. "The Reserves actually being capable of a unique contribution." He leaned forward, his voice dropping back into a serious tone. "I guarantee you fellows are going to be utilizing a lot more Reserve contributions in the near future. Go on."

The general cautioned himself to stay in control and continued.

"Our plan, if you could call it that, was to transfer the bomb to the C-141, but if it looks like it's going to take too long, we could get the civilians off the airplane and have our guys do what the civilian captain was proposing: Fly it east and bail out when they're a safe distance from the coast."

"Wasn't there a problem about a pacemaker? The scientist's ex-wife's pacemaker?"

"The FBI still thinks that's a hoax."

"I'm underwhelmed with the FBI's performance here, too. What if they're wrong?"

"Well… we could, perhaps, carry the woman with the team and have her bail out as well."

"And if it isn't a bluff, won't the bomb detonate as soon as she leaves the airplane?"

General Kinney turned to an aide, who whispered something urgently in his ear.

He turned back suddenly. "I'm told the FBI did have a plan in place to match the pacemaker's radio emissions so they could get her out. I think that kind of got lost in the arrest planning,"

"So," the President said, "you could get that radio device there, as well?"

"Well…" Once again the general turned to confer with the aide, an Air Force lieutenant colonel, before facing the President again. "Yes, sir. In fact, they've already launched aboard a different KC-10 tanker. We can divert them wherever the 727's captain desires. We've also got those same two F-16's headed out to help. They're armed, in case the jet needs to be shot down after the pilots bail out."

The President nodded. "Okay, do it. Get moving. Use whatever additional support you need. You can take it from here, but the policy decision is simply this: Forget diddling around with the damn thing, just get it out over the Atlantic and dump it before it goes off. Try to get it past the edge of the continental shelf. Save the civilian lives aboard that Boeing, including the woman's. We can sort out who did what to whom later."

He got to his feet and disappeared out the door of the Air Force One Starsuite, leaving the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the commander of the Air Combat Command looking at each other electronically across a gulf of eight miles between the White House and the Pentagon.

"You heard him, Ralph," the Chairman said. "If you need me, I'll be here looking for a sword to fall on."

The general simply nodded and turned to the occupants of the command post, who were already issuing the appropriate orders and talking to the pilots of the C-141.

It took nearly six minutes for the pilot of the C-141 to come back on the radio, his voice now more cautious than before.

"ScotAir, we confirm we can meet you at Grand Strand. There's enough concrete for both of us."

"Great," Scott replied. "Any idea what the weather's doing there?"

"We'll check with flight service. Is that where you want to go?"

"We've got no time to play games, Reach. I know you've consulted your command post. Are they going to let you help us?"

"Ah, sir, I'm instructed to help you as fast as we can."

Scott looked at Doc and raised his eyebrows. "As fast as they can?"

"He has his orders and he's scared," Doc said.

"I'll agree with that," Scott replied, punching the transmit button again.

"Give me the coordinates of Grand Strand, Reach."

The other pilot read off the latitude and longitude figures and Doc punched them into the flight computer.

"Got it," Scott told them. "If you'll head there immediately, so will we. Please get the parachutes and survival packs ready. We're almost out of time."

The C-141 pilot's voice returned.

"Sir, the Air Force command post at the Pentagon is now controlling this situation. They want us to let you know that we do have a K-Loader aboard. There might be time to transfer the, ah, bomb, and dump it from this aircraft without the loss of your aircraft or danger to your people. Is that an acceptable plan? Over."

Doc was nodding and Jerry flashed a thumbs-up sign. Scott could hardly believe it. A K-Loader! The special diesel-powered vehicle could lift cargo pallets out of a 727 and insert them in a C-141. Exactly the vehicle they had expected to find at Seymour-Johnson, and the very piece of equipment needed to get Linda's pallets out of the way and get the bomb moved to the back ramp of the C-141.

If they worked fast, there might be just enough time.

Linda permitted herself a small smile. The cold, hard knot in her stomach hadn't relaxed since their near crash at Pax River, but for the first time there seemed to be a way out, except for one detail.

"Sounds like a plan," Scott said.

"Wait a minute, Scott," Linda said. "We're forgetting again. If the bomb goes out the door without Vivian's pacemaker, it may go off before it hits the water."

Scott keyed the microphone again. "Reach, has your command post informed you of the problem with our passenger who can't get more than fifteen feet from the device?"

"That's, ah, the pacemaker problem, ScotAir?"

"Roger that."

"Yes, sir. I was instructed to tell you they have a radio on the way to take care of that."

Scott sighed and turned to Linda. "Tell Vivian, will you? They're going to match the radio emissions as they'd planned to before."

Linda nodded and headed for the back once again as Doc banked the 727 in the direction of the chosen airfield.

"Reach, how long before you arrive?" Scott asked.

"Where are you, ScotAir?" the C-141 pilot asked. Scott hesitated. He considered polling Doc and Jerry for advice, but the prospect of handing the bomb off to the C-141 was a powerful draw. Scott reached down to the flight computer and punched up the coordinates being generated by the global positioning satellite system. He punched the transmit button and relayed them as Doc looked up in alarm.

"Roger, ScotAir. We'll be there just about the time you arrive if you're doing two hundred fifty knots."

"Affirmative, Reach. You land first, okay?"

"Ah, whatever you'd like, sir."

Doc had been watching Scott's face.

"You sure that's wise, Scott? You just told any fighters in the area precisely where we are, and that C-141 crew is being controlled by the same group that tried to lure us into a trap before."

Scott shrugged. "I was thinking about that. But even if they wanted to shoot at us, they couldn't, because they couldn't guarantee the bomb would be exposed to a powerful enough external blast to destroy it, that is, even if they still believed the thing could be blown up without a nuclear blast."

"What makes you think they've changed their minds on how to handle this?" Doc added. "Someone wanted that bomb intact, wanted to arrest Vivian, and wanted to completely disregard what we were telling them. Scott, why would they change their minds now, just because we escaped?"

"I… don't know, Doc,"

Jerry had leaned over the center console to join the debate. He nodded suddenly.

"Doc's right, Scott. We're trusting them all of a sudden. They could be laying a new trap up ahead. We land—blam —we can't move this time. Blocked runway, guns at our heads, and no time left. They could be rushing the same blasting materials from Seymour right this minute. The only difference is, as we disappear in a mushroom cloud, Goldsboro will have more of a chance. Of course, Myrtle Beach is toast, not to mention the danger to the rest of the country."

Doc was nodding. "Yeah, we're dead, a twenty-five-mile radius of the United States is a smoking nuclear radioactive hole with the ashes of one helluva lot of people, and if that isn't enough, Medusa will help finish off the economy," Doc finished.

Scott looked at both of them quietly. "So what's the alternative, guys?"

Jerry thought he heard a small quiver in Scott's voice, but the captain was trying hard to stay composed, even as he peered over the abyss.

"Should we drop in somewhere else?" Scott continued, his voice constrained. "Without the parachutes, it's a suicide mission no matter what. I… sure don't want to… die, but if we don't get their help, I see no other alternative but to kick you off and go it alone. It would be ridiculous for all of us to go. I mean, it wouldn't necessarily be a kamikaze mission. There would still be a thread of hope that the countdown might end and nothing would happen."

"You know better than that, Scott," Doc snapped. "I think we all know better than that. They found nuclear material, remember? They spotted it in Miami and they found it in the Henrys' home. You don't plant Plutonium on a dummy bomb."

"Okay." He took a deep breath, but it came out somewhat ragged. "So, guys, help me here," Scott said. "We're up against it. Do we run, or do we trust them?"

There was an intense silence that lasted for what seemed like an eternity as Linda reentered the cockpit and quietly took her place behind Scott. The extreme seriousness of the moment was apparent and she said nothing as her eyes watched the resigned expression on Jerry's face and the suppressed emotions becoming readable on Doc's far more weathered features.

A long sigh came from Jerry Christian. "You're right, Scott. Without their help…"

"But if they trap us," Doc said, "even if we got away in time, the idiots would probably detonate it trying to examine it."

"Your vote, Doc?" Scott asked quietly.

Doc shook his head and began to laugh, a rueful, sarcastic, resigned laugh. "McKay, there were a lot of things about this outfit you didn't tell me when I signed on!"

Scott smiled. "Yeah, I'm a dirty, lying, rotten rat of an employer, but answer the question. Run or play?"

"We don't have a choice," Doc said as he studied Scott's eyes. "We have to trust them."

"Unless…" Jerry began.

"Yes?" Scott turned to look at him.

"Unless we see some evidence that they're setting us up. Scott, you told him to land first. Let's circle at a distance, in the clouds if possible, stay low and out of radar. Let's make sure that C-141 is on the ground."

"And if it isn't, they've set a trap, and we leave immediately. Good idea," Scott said.

Jerry nodded. "We'd get the hell out of there. To where, I don't know, but we go."

Scott turned to Linda without a smile.

She closed her eyes and raised her hand as she nodded. "I heard. I understand. And I agree."

"We'll get you off this aircraft, Linda. I couldn't live with myself if…"

"If you killed both of us simultaneously?" she chuckled. "If you do, I'll see to it NOAA never hires your company again."

At that, Scott turned almost sideways in his seat as Doc watched the 727 respond to the gentle corrections of the autopilot. They were plowing through bumpy air and occasional moderate turbulence, the radar showing red blotches of heavy rain showers and thunderstorm cells ahead, but they had all been concentrating so hard, the rough ride had gone unnoticed.

Scott's eyes found Linda's, and they looked at each other without speaking, as if neither had seen the other before, their thoughts running through a lifetime of images and wishes and always coming back to the same shared reality: I may end this life within an hour in the company of this person.

Doc busied himself with the airplane and Jerry with his panel, but both were aware of the sudden silent bond that had formed between the man in the left seat and the attractive young woman a few inches behind him.

Reluctantly, Scott broke the lock and turned back to the instrument panel, aware that his heart was beating a little faster.