The First Casualty

46

The huge hangar that was home to the two very special 747s was a scene of orderly activity, activity Colonel Bill Hasty watched closely. When one of those babies was going to fly in two days, there were a lot of necessary preparations; and, as pilot in command, it was his job to see they were made correctly. He observed the self-contained retractable stairway and baggage loader work over and over. Their function was part of the plane’s extensive equipment that assured the aircraft was never dependent on airport facilities.

Inside the huge aircraft, he began his normal inspection of the entire 4,000 square feet on three levels, starting with the cockpit. The plane had all the electronics one would expect to see in a modern commercial airliner and a quite a few that might not be so normal: an antimissile defense activator switch, which would release clouds of super-heated metallic chaff to decoy heat-seeking weapons and defeat any guidance radar; surge protectors to ensure even the electromagnetic pulse of a nuclear weapon would not interrupt communications; an in-flight refueling system to give the aircraft unlimited range; and radar-jamming electronics were only a few. Then there were the 240 miles of internal wiring that assured all forty-eight telephones on board had full air-to-ground capability as well as the ability to speak to one another.

It took nearly a half hour to work through the extensive check list, flipping toggles, pushing test buttons, and cross-verifying instruments. Satisfied, he left the cockpit, entering the president’s suite: an office with a full-size conference table, fax, shredder, computers, printers, and twin television screens. One of the latter was on, a twenty-four-hour commercial news station turned to low volume. Sitting at the table watching was a black woman wearing the stripes of an Airman First Class on the sleeves of her uniform. She jumped to her feet as Hasty entered.

He motioned her back into her seat “Stay put, Rosie. All the bells and whistles working?”

“Yes, sir! Any what aren’t will be, time I leave this aircraft.”

He touched the bill of his cap, not quite a salute but not not one, either, as he passed through to the presidential bedroom and bath. “Carry on, then.”

Not a doubt in his mind. He had inherited Rosie Carpenter along with most of the Air Force One crew. If it was electric, she could fix it, from a toaster in one of the ship’s two galleys to the most sophisticated computer. He had originally been suspicious of why she had stayed with the U.S. Air Force when her talents would bring a much higher salary on the civilian market. The answer had made him ashamed of his doubts: Her husband, confined to a wheelchair by incurable multiple sclerosis, would have had a difficult time affording treatment outside the military.

Two men were in the president’s bedroom suite. One, earphones looped over his head, was vacuuming the lush carpet. The other could be seen through an open door polishing the bathroom fixtures. Neither man saw Hasty and he passed through unnoticed.

Ten minutes later, he was standing amid the gleaming stainless steel of the forward galley. A steady procession of uniforms was carrying provisions to the mammoth refrigerator, the huge freezer, or the cavernous pantry. All told, the plane could carry 2,000 meals. Hasty knew the non-coms doing the work had unloaded dozens of vehicles, mostly unmarked SUVs driven by men and women in civvies who had made the purchases at random grocery stores around the DC area. That, plus the rigid security surrounding the airplane until it was in the air, would make tampering with the food supply very difficult.

“Hungry, Colonel?”

Hasty turned to a man in turtleneck and jeans. “I’d known you were going to ask, I’d skipped McDonald’s on the way here.”

A bright smile split the swarthy face. Placide LeBrun, the president’s famous Cajun cook. The president, from Louisiana, had brought the chef of his favorite Baton Rouge restaurant with him to Washington to ensure his fare did not suffer in quality. Admittedly, the practice of noisily sucking the juice from crawfish heads, adding hot sauce to everything except dessert, and serving fried alligator tail at state dinners had caused a stir in the ever-scandal-hungry city. But when the emir of Dubai pronounced LeBrun’s sassafras-laced filet gumbo (minus the andouille pork sausage) “truly fit for the mouth of the Prophet,” a Cajun craze raged through the nation’s capital. Formal dinners were less likely to conclude with classical string quartets or piano concertos than appearances by Zachary Richard (pronounced “Ree-chard”) or Gerald Thibedeaux’s Cajun bands.

“Looks like you have everything under control here,” Hasty observed.

“Colonel, if you manage this airplane with the care I manage its galleys, all will be well.”

Hasty gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Sounds like we’re in great shape, then.”

Next, the colonel passed through the aircraft’s medical facility, an office that could quickly be converted into a surgery should the need arise. Sam Silverstein, the full-time Air Force One doc, was inventorying the pharmacy. Long past retirement age, Sam had somehow evaded severing ties with the service. Popular rumor was that he had been around long enough to have a bit of dirt on those now in high places in the Air Force, and had every intention of using it should that be necessary to continue to enjoy the prestige and travel associated with his job.

“Got enough pills?” Hasty asked. “Eye of newt, toe of frog?”

Silverstein turned around, adjusting frameless glasses. “Oh, hi, Colonel. Nothing quite that exotic, I fear. Just making sure we have enough motion sickness medication. One little bit of turbulence and half the press corps are flipping their lunch, which, in turn, makes the others ill.”

“See what you can do, Doc.”

Finally, Hasty was in the cargo hold. A separate C-17 Globemaster III had already departed with the heavy stuff — two armored GMC TopKick trucks with Cadillac-like bodies, the Suburban that followed the presidential limo with various defensive mechanisms and the rest of the presidential cavalcade. Air Force One’s cargo would largely contain scrupulously inspected baggage of the crew, the attending press, and the president. Two Airmen Third Class were already stacking suitcases.

“You men be careful with the president’s golf clubs,” Hasty admonished.

Both men snapped to attention.

“Sir!” One of the men’s eyes were centered on a spot an inch or so above the colonel’s head. “The president’s golf clubs, along with the rest of his gear, will be loaded last, probably not until just hours before departure.”

Again the fingers touched cap brim. “Very well, then.”

Hasty stood akimbo on the cement floor of the hangar, looking up at the plane he had just vacated. He had done all he could at this stage to make sure the president was delivered safely to Egypt.

The rest was in the hands of what Hasty’s experience had taught him was a very capricious God.