The First Casualty

57

The 747 had become Air Force One five hours earlier, once the president stepped aboard. A breakfast of eggs Sardou, sausage bread, and grits had been served to all, the latter drawing the usual disparaging comments from the would-be elite press corps from the northern and West Coast media and retorts from those based in the Southeast. The chicory-laced coffee had been shipped to the White House directly from Baton Rouge, and was a favorite among those who liked their morning beverage to have the viscosity of used motor oil.

Many of the newsies had dozed off; the president’s staff didn’t dare. All too frequently, one or more might be summoned from their aft quarters to the office just behind the presidential suite. Woe betide the person who appeared with red-rimmed eyes and face puffy from sleep rather than crammed with every bit of information relative to his or her duties during the trip at hand.

In the cockpit, Colonel Wild Bill Hasty undid his seat harness, stood, and stretched. He put his hand on the copilot’s shoulder. “Major, I’m going aft for a few minutes. Take a leak, shake hands with the passengers.”

The latter practice reflected that of a time when air travel was both pleasant and gracious, passengers treated much like honored guests, a time as far distant as twenty-five-cents-a-gallon gasoline and civility in politics.

Major Patterson looked up. “OK, Colonel. I’ve got the ship.”

Hasty stopped at the cockpit door, looking at the screen in front of a blonde woman whose otherwise curly hair was tethered in a tight bun, the flight engineer with twin bars on each shoulder. “Captain, how far out are we from radio contact with Gibraltar Center?”

She didn’t look up. “That would be Hamid intersection, sir. I’d estimate forty-six minutes.”