Marine One

5

I HAD ONLY actually met Chuck Collins once, or maybe twice, but I remembered his voice. It was one of the first things we heard from the cockpit voice recorder, and I recognized his resonant sound immediately. Collins had been one of the best helicopter pilots in the Marine Corps. He had flown off carriers, desert pads, and roads. He had mastered every helicopter the Marine Corps owned, from the biggest cargo carrier to the smallest, fastest gunship. He had flown off steep, snow-covered mountains and floating platforms while working with special operations. He had even graduated from Navy Test Pilot School in Patuxent River, Maryland. He had flown several tours in Iraq and begged to go back for more, but he had gotten too senior to go blow things up. During his last tour as a helicopter squadron commanding officer, much of which was spent on a carrier in the Pacific, he was told he would be the first pilot to fly the president in the new presidential helicopters, the WorldCopter 5, now known as the VH-80.

The CVR had captured the last thirty minutes of that evening's flight. It started with Marine One approaching the South Lawn of the White House through a torrential downpour. Collins was all business. Full of comments on the weather. His copilot was doing his job perfectly, monitoring the altitude, the air speed, and radios. They were talking to Washington control and the White House. It all sounded normal. Collins was a good pilot, and it showed through the recording.

I put myself in his seat and visualized what he was seeing, the instruments, the lightning, the rain hitting the rotor blades, and watching the White House grow bigger in the dark night as he approached. I'd never flown in Marine One, and I'd certainly never put a helicopter down on the South Lawn of the White House; but I had several hundred hours in this WorldCopter model and knew every switch that Collins was throwing and everything he was touching. I could do it in my sleep.

As they landed, everything continued normally until, just as they touched down, Collins said, "Whoa."

I focused intently. His copilot, Rudd said, "What was that?"

"I don't know. Might have been a wheel settling into the mud, but it felt like more of a thump. Maybe the strut bottomed out. We'll check it when we get out."

"Roger that."

We listened intently to the pilots' small talk while they waited for the president, listening for any indication of what we knew was about to happen, to see if just maybe they had a hint of what was coming. We listened for slurred speech, depression, anger, all the things anyone would listen for. But as the recording went on, it built its own story.

"This is an unbelievably shitty night to fly. Why we doing this?" Collins asked.

Lieutenant Colonel Rudd replied, "You've got the final say. Just say the word. Ground us." He waited for Collins to ground them, but he knew it wouldn't happen. They did what the president wanted, and the president wanted to go to Camp David.

"We're doing this because El Jefe says so," Collins said.

Rudd said, "Plus we're just dumb-ass Marines who always do what we're told."

"You're a dumb-ass, but I'm a smart-ass. So why am I doing this?"

Rudd replied, "Because you've been trained since your earliest waking moments to follow stupid orders in shitty conditions. We're trained to love it. The stupider the order and the worse the conditions, the more faithful the Marine is for obeying it. Semper fi. You know that."

Collins laughed into the ICS microphone. Probably only Rudd could hear him, but the crew chief might have been on the ICS line too. On a night like that, he would probably be outside checking the soggy ground in the pouring rain to make sure they wouldn't be pulling the earth toward the moon when they tried to take off, stuck in mud up to their axles. He was probably looking for the origin of the thump as well.

"At least we're in here and dry."

"Here comes the president," Rudd said.

I looked over at Rachel, who was listening with her mouth open.

"You've got the airplane. I'm going to talk to Secret Service." You could hear Collins moving out of his seat. I waited for the sound to cut off, but then remembered that they were using the new, encrypted wireless headsets. You could hear Collins belching as he made his way to the back of the helicopter. He was walking or moving, it was unclear, then he said, "Hey, Greg." Greg Marshall no doubt, the head of the Secret Service detail on the flight.

"Chuck," Marshall replied perfunctorily. We could barely hear the other voice, since it was coming through Collins's mike. If they hadn't had the speakers turned up so loud, we wouldn't have heard it at all.

"What the hell are we doing?" Collins asked. "Can't you drive the president to Camp David?" I could hear the noise of the helicopter engines in the background; they had kept the engines running and the rotors spinning as they waited for the president to board.

"No comment," Marshall said.

"You know what this is about, don't you?"

"Yes. One of many important meetings of the president of the United States."

"Meeting. Right. Just a meeting. And who's he going to meet? Do you know everything you need to know about them?"

"You know something I don't know?"

I found myself trying to see their faces in the speakers, wishing I could see their expressions and body language.

"I've forgotten more about Adams than you'll ever know."

"Right. Adams scholar. I forgot." Marshall waited a short time, then asked Collins in a tone that was half-annoyed and half-concerned, "So what you got? Anything I should know about?"

"If you don't know by now, I'm sure not going to tell you. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it. It's nothing you can do anything about."

"You got something I need to hear, you know where to find me. Just don't kill us on the way."

"No guarantees tonight," Collins said. "Your life will be in my very capable hands, but there are other forces at work."

Collins's words were strange. Everyone in the room could feel it.

Marshall felt it too. "You saying it's unsafe? Say the magic words, Chuckie, say it isn't safe, and we're headed straight for the limo."

"Can't do it. I serve at the pleasure of the president. I do what I'm told."

"You can override any flight request."

"Never going to happen. How could it be unsafe when I'm the one flying? I could land this helicopter on the top of a flagpole." Collins chuckled. "But you wouldn't mind if I flew ten feet above the ground to avoid the weather, would you?"

"You know the minimum altitude." Marshall spoke to others we couldn't hear, then said, "President's coming aboard."

Collins sounded as if he had returned to the cockpit, and you could hear some background noise. Rudd exchanged comments on the weather and the instruments with Collins, then warned him that the president was coming into the cockpit. A chill came over the room as we heard President Adams's unmistakable voice: "Shit, Colonel-it's blacker than a witch's heart out there! Can you get us out of here?"

There was a long, long pause while no one spoke.

Rudd filled in the gap: "I believe so, sir. It isn't the best night for flying, though. Sure you wouldn't rather drive? You can borrow my car if you need one. Could be real bumpy, sir."

The president laughed with a nervous, strained sound, then the voices faded. The cockpit was quiet.

Rudd's voice was loud: "What the hell you doing, Chuck? You can't just ignore the president! He was talking directly to you!"

"I don't really give a shit what he was doing."

"Don't let your politics get into this. They'll fire your ass. Show respect for the office if not for him."

"I don't have any respect for the office while he's in it. You see his face? He looked like he's about to crack."

"He always does. RPM?" Rudd replied as they talked about the president and completed their checklist at the same time.

"Not like this. One hundred percent."

"Pretty close. Engine temps?"

"This is different. Engines are good."

They finished the checklist and were ready to take off. Collins said on the ICS, "Ready in the cabin, Sergeant Olson?"

"Ready, sir."

You could hear the rotor blades bite into the air as they pulled the helicopter off the ground. Rudd called out their departure on the radio: "Washington Control, Romeo Uniform One Zero One airborne, northwest departure." They were using an innocuous call sign. If some sniper or missile shooter was waiting for them to take off, he wouldn't know by the call sign, different even from the one they had used during landing.

"Roger, One Zero One, climb and maintain thirty-five hundred feet. Take heading three two seven. Squawk three five six five and ident."

"Roger. Passing two hundred for three point five. Squawking."

"Radar contact. You're cleared direct destination."

"Roger. Turning… Washington Center, Romeo One Zero One. You have any PIREPs on the tops for this storm?" A PIREP was a pilot report about the weather or conditions. It was highly regarded by other pilots. Real-time information, instead of some weatherman reading a scope or satellite picture.

"Stand by, One Zero One."

But Collins couldn't wait. "One Zero One requesting seven thousand feet. The turbulence is too severe here."

"Roger, Zero One. You're cleared to seven thousand or anywhere in between at your discretion. Report when level. Latest PIREP shows tops at twenty-five thousand."

"Roger. Leaving thirty-five hundred for seven thousand. Will report level. Thanks for the PIREP."

"No problem, Zero One. Wish we had better news for you."

Rudd laughed and said to Collins on the ICS, "Maybe we should just stay at this altitude and see if we can get A3 to hurl."

"Not a good idea. And knock off that A3 bit. He's not related to the other Adams presidents and you know it."

"Come on, Chuck; you got to get off that. One guy in his line like a hundred years ago was illegitimate or adopted or something. Doesn't mean he isn't a descendant."

"I'm surprised he doesn't claim to be the illegitimate son of Thomas Jefferson too. He's obviously comfortable with being a bastard."

The room was in disbelief that Collins could have such hostility for the president and was discussing what a fraud he was while flying him through a thunderstorm.

"Get over it, man. Why do you overthink this stuff? It just doesn't matter."

"I've looked into everything about him. I'm fascinated by him."

"Fascinated. But not in a good way."

They were talking over some radio conversation that would have to be separated out later by a technician. It was impossible for me to tell whether it was significant. The NTSB had the Air Traffic Control Center tapes too, so it wouldn't be hard to reconstruct what was said.

"You're just still dazzled by him. You'll get over it."

"You're right about that. I'm absolutely not ready to hear whatever it is you're talking about. There's seven thousand feet."

After a few minutes of silence, Collins said, "Not much better here."

"I think we're just stuck in this crap until Camp David. Thirty-seven miles. Look at the winds. They're westerly at thirty-five knots. If those are the winds at Camp David, we'll never get this thing on the ground."

Collins didn't respond for a long period, then transmitted, "Center, Romeo Uniform One Zero One. No better here. We're going to head down to twenty-five hundred to find some smoother air."

"Roger, Zero One. Cleared. Take whatever altitude is best. No other traffic."

A series of rapid, unidentifiable noises followed. Something was happening, but no one could tell what, at least not without analysis of the sounds. The next thing we heard was a strained Collins saying, "We've hit severe turbulence."

He was fighting something.

Rudd asked, "You need any help?"

"No. I've got it." Noises… struggle… grunting. "Shit! This thing is out of control!"

"You got it?" Rudd screamed.

"No!" Collins yelled.

"What's going on?" the sergeant screamed from the back. "The president's panicking!"

The violence increased. The engines suddenly seemed loud in the usually quiet background of cabin noise. I thought I heard the blades. They sounded strained, as if they were working against each other instead of creating a smooth-spinning disk to keep the helicopter off the ground.

"… out of control!" Collins said. "Check… hydraulics!"

"No light. Pressure's good!" Rudd said in what sounded like a mighty attempt to sound calm.

The noise built to a crescendo. It sounded as if things were floating in the cockpit, hitting other things. I breathed harder just from listening. I tried to visualize what was happening, creating images that were surely only partly right. I didn't have enough information to complete the images, but my mind filled in the gaps.

"Pull up!" Rudd cried.

"I'm trying!" Collins yelled. "Shit!"

"The vibration…" Rudd reported

There was no response. Grunting, pulling, noises, small collisions, and metal doing what it wasn't designed to do. Then silence.