“The opposite, Billy,” the president declared, working himself up more. “My acid reflux makes news. But what do we know about the people who write or broadcast the crap? Where’s the Biography of these hate mongers? What about a 20/20 or 60 Minutes expose? Give me just one investigative book about Strong and the others who fall in lockstep behind him. Where are they?” He answered his own question. “Nowhere. And why? The mainstream press is afraid of becoming a target themselves. So these clowns set the national debate every single day and night. They do it pretty much unchecked. You know what’s even scarier?” Gilmore didn’t interrupt the president’s train of thought. “They’re becoming the real voice!”
“Nobody cares, Mr. President.” The chief of staff was trying to calm down the president.
“You are so wrong, Billy. So deadly wrong.” Lamden’s nostrils flared. “Everybody cares! You tell me Limbaugh had no influence on Clinton’s ability to govern? And when some conservative commentators turned on Bush after Iraq, that didn’t affect his presidency?”
Lamden picked up a picture of his grandchildren. He sensed he’d gotten far too agitated. He rubbed his arm for a moment, took a deep breath, and walked the length of the Oval Office before talking again.
“It’s getting so we have elections 365 days a year. Hell, I got voted out of office again last night on Strong’s show.”
“He’s a wacko,” Gilmore quietly said.
“With a huge audience.”
“All sharing one brain.”
“Yes, his,” the president emphasized. “That’s the problem.”
“So you were up last night.”
“I was. On the flight back. And I recommend that we start tracking his broadcasts for our morning news briefings.”
“Come on, it only legitimizes him.”
“Legitimize him? Billy, he’s already legitimate, with a legion out there. I don’t know what his endgame is. Ego? Ratings? Bigger salary? I can’t tell you that any more than I can tell you anything else about him. But somebody should. That man and his cronies are setting a new national agenda.”
“Which is?” Gilmore asked skeptically.
“A constitutional amendment.”
“Come on. No way.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Mr. President, you know the funny thing about nighttime?” Gilmore said trying to take the edge off the conversation. “No, you tell me.”
“That’s when you’re supposed to sleep. It helps. Rejuvenates you. I recommend you pick up the habit.”
“You better hope I don’t, Billy. Because there’s a lot going on then that we have to pay attention to.”
Chapter 9
Ross walked around the plane that had taken him cross-country.
His 243rd flight.
It was impossible not to be awestruck by Air Force One. No other jet approximated it. In some regard, it was like being aboard an aircraft carrier, the focal point of a flotilla.
On international trips, the twin 747-200Bs travel with at least fourteen other support aircraft. A pair of two C-5 Galaxy heavy transports carry upward of fifty soldiers and staff, and ferry not one, but sometimes two or three bulletproof limousines. The extra vehicles can be utilized as decoys when necessary. In addition, the transports carry a fully outfitted ambulance and as many as three VH-60 helicopters with folding roto blades. Everything is packed inside the massive 35,000 cubic feet of available cargo space. The C-5′s interior is so large that its 121-foot-long cargo floor is one foot longer than the distance flown by the Wright Brothers on their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.
Depending upon the duration and purpose of a presidential excursion, two or three C-17 cargo planes can also be assigned, bearing dozens of troops and additional equipment. Three KC-10 Air Force tankers, modified DC-10s, along with an equal number of smaller KC-135 tankers, keep the entire entourage fueled.
Rounding out the air show is an additional 747 dedicated to the press and an E-4 operational flying command post, ready to be activated as a working hub for the United States government in the event of a national emergency or a nuclear attack.
Ross knew the name of each and every man and woman assigned to the president’s Secret Service detail, both the uniformed officers and those in plain clothes. Their vehicles, equipped with non-standard extras, flew inside the bellies of the C-5s.
The presidential retinue also included about twelve rotating reporters, each of them with their own means to phone home. Air Force One’s crew numbered twenty-six. Including the cooks and the press pool, upward of 102 souls flew with the president.
As many as 1,000 people traveled with President Clinton when he visited Vietnam in November 2000. And as few as one other when President Morgan Taylor’s two-seat F/A-18 became Air Force One when he flew to the Mediterranean prior to the Special Forces assault on Tripoli.
The $650 million that went into getting the two 747s into service was just the beginning. It takes millions more every year for maintenance and upgrades. The exact cost of operating SAM 28000 and 29000 and the associated fleet of aircraft and personnel remains classified.
The 89th Airlift Wing proudly considered it “the safest aircraft in the world.” Air Force Lt. Eric Ross swore by the boast. He was completely certain that if anything was ever wrong, he’d personally know about it. However, it was getting harder and harder to keep track of every detail. That meant that Rossy had to trust others for their correct judgment and professional care. He couldn’t supervise all of the electronics and avionics. And though he didn’t tell anyone, that very fact scared the living hell out of him.
Luis Gonzales stepped off the jet way at Chicago’s O’Hare, clutching a brown leather attaché case. The 3-hour and 55-minute flight from Mexico City went quickly, but he still felt exhausted. It wasn’t because of his nonstop United Airlines flight. The previous year had begun to take its toll.
The Spanish-looking Gonzales managed a little sleep in his first-class seat. It was something he wasn’t supposed to do for deeply religious reasons, but of course, no one knew. To the world, or the few people who actually did business with him, Gonzales was an art dealer with a handsome bank account, worldwide clients, and large portfolio. His transactions were mostly anonymous. He rarely appeared at a showing, instead choosing to bid and make his purchases over the Internet or through intermediaries. Gonzales had saved for years, tucking millions into accounts that he rarely touched. He lived a private life, in a Lake Shore Drive condominium that only recently had become his principal residence.
He spotted his driver. He was a big man: 6′5″ — impossible to miss.
“Mr. Gonzales, may I take your bag.” He reached for the burgundy tweed Hartmann.
“Thank you, Mr. Alley.”
That was the extent of the conversation. The driver worked for Gonzales for a number of years, and he knew not to talk with him in public.
At midday, they made the thirty-two mile ride in under fifty minutes. The driver parked in front of the twenty-six-story, lakefront building. Gonzales waited for him to open the door. Minutes later, they were both inside the luxurious condo. 19G. Gonzales didn’t speak yet. He needed assurance from his man, who was more bodyguard than driver, that all was well. Like Gonzales’s other assistants, Roger Alley knew how to sweep the surroundings for bugging devices.
“Are we okay, Mr. Alley?” Gonzales asked.
“Yes, sir,” he said after checking with two other guards. “We’re fine, Mr. Gonzales.” The hardest part for the bodyguard and the rest of the staff was remembering their boss’s new name, and their own.