Primary Target

38

Shocked by the violent collision, Colonel Bolton froze on the controls when the Boeing rolled slightly left wing down and yawed to the left. He instantly recognized what had happened, but his mind was reeling from the seriousness of the situation. Air Force One had had a midair collision and he was the pilot in command. It was hard to comprehend the magnitude of the accident.

The cockpit was aglow with warning lights as he and Kirk Upshaw mechanically went through the emergency procedures to secure the two left engines. Upshaw maintained his professionalism while handling the checklist, but he was suffering from a combination of disbelief and horror.

“Get us priority at Dobbins!” Bolton exclaimed as he struggled to fly the 747 on the two starboard engines. “We’re goin’ straight in! I can’t hold this — I can’t maintain altitude!”

“Mayday! Mayday!” Upshaw urgently radioed. “Air Force One has had a midair! I repeat — Air Force One has had a midair collision! We’ve been hit. We’re turning… we’re heading straight in to Dobbins. The president is onboard and we need priority handling and the equipment standing by!”

“All aircraft stand by,” the astounded controller replied. “Air Force One, you’re almost abeam the runway. I’ll have to take you out for a right turn to Runway Eleven, Runway

One-One. Maintain two-eight-zero on the heading and descend to three thousand.”

Upshaw repeated the instructions. “Two-eight-oh and down to three thousand, Air Force One. Roll the trucks — roll everything you have!”

“Roger.”

Racked with guilt that he suggested they change altitudes, Kirk Upshaw listened while the controller told him the latest weather conditions. If they were lucky, they’d break out of the clouds during their turn to final approach.

“Air Force One, the equipment is rolling.”

“Thanks,” Upshaw said briskly, then ordered Chief Master Sergeant Brewer personally to inform the senior Secret Service agent of their emergency situation.

“Yes, sir,” Brewer said stiffly as he rushed out of the cockpit.

With his mind reeling, Curt Bolton glanced over his left shoulder and saw the scores of jagged holes in the leading edge of the wing. The number-one engine had literally been ripped from its mount, and the second engine was crushed and canted downward at a precarious angle. A greasy trail of blackish-gray smoke poured from the heavily damaged General Electric turbofan.

Bolton pushed harder on the right rudder pedal, banked slightly into the operating engines, and added power to the number-three engine to slow the increasing sink rate. He managed to level the airplane at 2,900 feet.

“Curt,” Upshaw solemnly reported, “we’ve got hydraulic problems… and we’re losing fuel at a hell of a rate.”

Bolton responded in the calmest voice he could muster. “Just take care of the priorities, okay?”

“I’m working on it.”

“We gotta concentrate on getting down in one piece,” Bolton said with an expression of frustration. “Get another message off to Washington. Tell ’em we have heavy damage — that we’re going into Dobbins.”

Upshaw nodded and answered a question from the controller. “We’ve got two engines out and marginal control authority. We’re losing hydraulics and we’ve got fuel pouring out.”

“Copy, Air Force One. The equipment is in place.”

Bolton was beginning to catch glimpses of the ground, but the visibility was still patchy. “What’s the field elevation?”

“It’s — let’s see,” Upshaw muttered as he grabbed the Instrument Landing System Runway 11 approach plate. “A thousand and sixty-eight.”

When the controller advised them to turn and descend to 2,500 feet, Bolton prayed that they would break out of the clouds. He desperately wanted to get the airplane on the ground as quickly as possible. In its present condition, the wounded Boeing was extremely difficult to handle.

He recalled the United Flight 232 crash landing at Sioux City. After an engine component in a DC-10 disintegrated, the tail-mounted engine exploded and severed the hydraulic systems that powered the primary flight controls. Constantly adjusting the thrust of the wing-mounted engines, the pilots skillfully maneuvered the airplane to the Sioux City Airport, but lost control in the final seconds of the approach. The horrifying crash landing killed 111 people, while 187 survived. Bolton desperately wanted to avoid a similar fate.

“Air Force One,” the controller said in an even voice, “I’m going to set you up with the ILS Runway One-One approach — keepin’ ya in close.”

“Appreciate it.”

The president knew they’d had a midair collision. It was obvious that the airplane was staggering through the air. Along with the other passengers, the president was suddenly startled when another airplane thundered close over the top of Air Force One. The sound of the passing engines was extremely loud, and a sharp jolt from the severe turbulence of the wing tip vortices shook the huge Boeing. For an instant Macklin allowed a tinge of panic to grip him. He wanted to talk to the pilots, but he knew they had their hands full trying to get the airplane on the ground. Macklin had a gut feeling. Something is very wrong.

The president started to get up, then sat down when two Secret Service agents pounded on the door.

“Come in,” he uttered.

The agents rushed in and almost fell over Macklin.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Mr. President,” the senior agent exclaimed in a commanding voice, “we’ve had an accident, and we’re going to be landing at Dobbins.”

“Is everyone okay?”

The agent ignored the question. “We need to seat you in a different section of the airplane. Please follow us.”

Staring into the hazy, opaque clouds, Curt Bolton wrestled the controls of the unsteady 747 as he worked hard to level the aircraft at 2,500 feet. He and Upshaw had performed a flight control check and decided to increase their approach speed by fifteen knots. The flaps were set for the airplane’s current configuration, and the pilots were delaying the lowering of the landing gear until they were sure they could make it to the runway.

While Upshaw used the PA system to brief the president and the other passengers about the impending emergency landing, Bolton made judicious throttle corrections to follow the heading changes issued from the new approach controller.

“Air Force One, keep it comin’.”

The sudden utterance of a drawling, experienced voice was a comforting surprise for the VIP pilots. The senior controller at Dobbins had been placed in charge of Air Force One.

On base leg to Runway 11, Bolton finally made visual contact with the surrounding terrain. Seconds later he saw the 10,000-foot runway in the distance. A sigh of relief swept over him as he nursed the battered Boeing toward the air base. For Upshaw’s benefit, Bolton jabbed a finger in the direction of the airfield.

“I see it,” the copilot exclaimed, staring through the light, intermittent rain. “Thank God and General Electric!”

Lieutenant Colonel Skip Tornquist, the flight leader of the F-15s that had escorted Air Force One to Atlanta, taxied to a halt on the ramp at Dobbins ARB. He watched the E-3 AWACS land, then raised his canopy and glanced at the fire trucks racing toward the runway. Seconds later, as he egressed from the cockpit, Tornquist stopped and stared at a lumbering 747 as it emerged from the rain-swollen clouds. “Oh, my God,” he said to himself as he recognized the famous Flying White House. Jesus, they’re missing an engine.

In obvious trouble, the airplane was flying in a strange, wing-down, nose-up attitude. What happened?

When Tornquist reached the pavement, he and his fellow pilots stared in total shock as Air Force One staggered toward the runway. Tornquist clenched his fists. They aren’t going to make it.

Curt Bolton spotted the sprawling Lockheed Aircraft complex, then saw the array of fire trucks and emergency equipment awaiting them. “They’ve rolled out the welcome mat.”

“Let’s hope we won’t need it.”

“Air Force One” the relaxed controller said in a monotone, “continue your turn to… right to one-one-zero. The runway’ll be at your twelve o’clock, four and a half miles.”

“We have it in sight,” Upshaw reported with a rush of excitement as he rechecked and identified the localizer frequency. The inbound course was set on 109 degrees and the glideslope and localizer were coming to life. They were intercepting the final course low and in close.

“I’m keepin’ you in tight,” the controller stated in a confident voice. “You’re cleared ILS Runway One-One.”

“Air Force One — cleared for the approach!”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks!”

The approach controller “handed” them off to the tower operator. In turn, the tower controller cleared the flight to land before he gave them the wind direction and speed, followed by the current altimeter setting.

“We’re getting slow,” Upshaw prompted.

“Okay,” Bolton replied while he gently added power on the starboard inboard engine. “We’re lookin’ good.”

Like a sparrow hawk stalking its prey, Upshaw closely monitored the airspeed indicator and other instruments. Bolton now had the approach speed and ILS needles almost pegged.

“Just a second,” the colonel said, tight-lipped. “Stand by for the gear.”

“Okay.”

“Gear down,” Bolton finally ordered while he fought to stay on the glidescope and localizer. “Keep it nailed.”

Nine long seconds passed and the nose gear still indicated unsafe.

Wide-eyed with concern, Upshaw hesitantly glanced at Bolton. “We’ve got an unsafe nose gear.”

“That’s the least of our problems.”

Upshaw shot a look at the airspeed. “We’re bleeding off! Power — get some power on! Power!”

Curt Bolton didn’t reply as he inched the number-three throttle to the stop. The lumbering 747 yawed ever so slightly as the engine came up to speed and then howled at maximum power.

“We’re still slow,” Upshaw announced, breathing faster than normal. “Gotta have more power — power!”

Bolton eased the number-four throttle forward and felt the airplane yaw farther to the left. At this slow speed, he couldn’t add enough right rudder and right bank to overcome the yaw to the left. He was behind the power curve and he was committed to land on this pass. He couldn’t go around for another try. This was it; no second chance.

“Gotta hold my lineup,” Bolton admonished himself as the 747 began to sink slowly toward the ground. “Dammit! I should’ve held the gear until we had the runway made!”

“Do you want to raise the gear — belly it in?”

“No — it’s too late,” Bolton said through clenched teeth. “We’ll hold what we’ve got — stay with it.”

“We’re gonna be a little short!”

“Just a tad,” Bolton responded stiffly. As much as he tried, he couldn’t block out the flashing warning lights on the annunciator panel.

“Airspeed — airspeed!” Upshaw blurted. “We’re losing it!”

“Hang on!”

“Raise the nose!”

Low and slow with the wing flaps partially extended, Bolton was struggling to maintain runway alignment and salvage the landing. With more power thundering from the screaming right outboard engine, the 747 was beginning to respond to the excessive sink rate, but the nose was slowly yawing to the left.

Passing between the Navy ramp and the Lockheed Aircraft facility, Bolton increased the angle of bank to the right in a final, desperate attempt to align the sluggish airplane with the runway before Air Force One smashed into the ground.

The president sat in stunned silence. Although his mind was having trouble accepting what was happening, he sensed that things were going from bad to worse.

Suddenly the disabled airplane slammed into the overrun just short of the runway threshold. The tremendous impact collapsed the main landing gear and ripped the right outboard engine from under the wing. Jet fuel spilled along the wreckage path, then ignited in a blinding flash. Leaving a long trail of reddish-orange flames and thick black smoke, the stricken Boeing skidded onto the runway and began a long slide on its crushed belly.

Shocked by the incredible force of the crash landing, Macklin and the two Secret Service agents turned to identify the source of the dull orange glow in the cabin.

An eerie ball of bright fire traveled the length of the aisle and mushroomed into a thick cloud of oily smoke near the tail of the 747. The president could hear crackling sounds, then noticed sparks from wires and cables. Macklin recoiled in horror when he realized that his clothing was saturated with jet fuel. Oh shit! We have to get out of here!

“Fire!” someone shouted. “We’re on fire!”

“We’ve gotta get out!” an unidentified voice shouted in panic. “We’re soaked with fuel!”

“We’re gonna die!”

“Don’t panic, goddammit!” the senior agent yelled.

“We’ve got fire in the cabin!”

“Where’s the president?”

Panic broke out as more passengers began screaming and yelling, some unfastening their seat belts to scramble toward the nearest door or emergency exit. A well-known reporter from Newsweek tripped and fell on his side, causing a group of journalists to go down like bowling pins.

“Get out of the way!” the senior agent ordered passengers as he grabbed the president by the arm. “Move aside!”

“We’re on fire, for God’s sake!” a woman cried out.

“Move aside!”

“Get us out of here!”

Gripping their control columns, Bolton and Upshaw watched in horror and total exasperation as the careening airplane swerved off the left side of the 300-foot-wide runway. Engulfed in a blazing inferno of jet fuel, the out-of-control plane continued its sickening slide across the ground toward Base Operations and the control tower. Off to the side, fire trucks, ambulances and rescue equipment were accelerating to chase the heavily damaged jumbo jet.

Macklin and the two agents were savagely thrown sideways across a row of seats when the flaming Boeing dug a wingtip into the ground and lurched to a jolting, crunching stop northeast of the helicopter pad at taxiway Juliet.

All the passengers who were out of their seats or had been trying to open escape hatches were forcefully launched down the aisle and over the seats as chaos and panic spread. A mass of tumbling bodies smashed into other passengers, breaking bones and causing other painful injuries and bruises.

Dense black smoke began pouring into the passenger cabin where the aircraft had been torn apart near the middle of the fuselage.

The agents helped the disheveled president to his feet.

“We’re on fire!” one of the agents gasped as he shoved people out of the way. “Comin’ through! Get out of the way!”

“Get the doors open!” someone yelled.

Trapped by the surge of people trying to get out of the burning plane, the agents forced their way through the frantic passengers. With the president securely in tow, they clawed their way toward the nearest exit. It was clear that no one except the two agents had any interest in being second to the chief executive when it came time to abandon ship.

“Get out of the way!” the first agent said as he shoved a senior White House aide to the side. “You’re blocking the aisle!”

Reaching the exit, the agents tossed the president out of the plane. He landed heavily on his back and slowly sat up when the agents hit the ground beside him. Scraped and bruised to the bone, the commander in chief stumbled to his feet and tried to wipe the smudge off his face. He could hear the cacophony of sirens as fire trucks and rescue vehicles quickly responded to the unfolding disaster.

Shaken by the crash landing, an ashen-faced Macklin followed his handlers to the nearest ambulance. While the medical personnel treated his cuts and abrasions, the president watched the firefighters struggle to extinguish the flames pouring out of Air Force One.

When he saw the flight crew scramble from the cockpit, Macklin turned to the senior agent. “I want to talk to Colonel Bolton.”