‘Tower, this is British Airways Flight Niner-Two-Niner. I’m going around.’
He pulled the wheel back toward his chest.
‘No response?’ the co-pilot asked.
The pilot turned the wheel from side to side. The co-pilot stared at him in terror.
‘State your problem, Niner-Two-Niner,’ the tower called.
‘Heathrow Tower,’ the pilot said, his voice flat despite the rising fear, ‘BA Niner-Two-Niner is declaring an emergency. I’m having problems with the autopilot disengage.’
The engines rose to a new plateau of sound, and the nose pitched down just slightly, still heading toward the lights at the end of the runway.
‘Jesus!’ the co-pilot said, pulling the throttles back all the way to reverse thrust, and then forward again. Nothing. No change in the whining engine sound. ‘Airspeed is two ninety. Altitude four hundred.’
‘Reset the computer,’ the pilot said to his seatmate.
‘Christ, James! It’ll take six or seven seconds for…’
‘Reset it!’ the pilot yelled as the engines increased power again, and the aircraft pitched forward. The nose was aimed right at the touchdown marks on the runway.
The co-pilot flipped a protective cover up, then pressed the button over and over. ‘It won’t reset!’
A buzzer sounded — the ground collision avoidance alert. It was the sound that signaled to the human crew that they should take over. That something was wrong. The pilot thrashed the wheel about wildly, cursing it and kicking at the rudder pedals.
The engines wound up to full power.
‘Oh, mother of God!’ the co-pilot shouted.
‘Flight Niner-Two-Niner,’ a new voice came over the radio from the tower — a supervisor. ‘Please advise situation, over.’
‘Airspeed three fifty and climbing!’ the pilot shouted over the cockpit noise. From the First Class cabin in back he could hear screams. ‘Altimeter three hundred and falling! Controls totally nonresponsive!’
The whining wind past the windshield made a sound like a dive bomber in an old war movie. ‘Shut it down!’ he shouted to the co-pilot, and they both reached up to start throwing circuit breakers on the panels above their heads. The avionics of the advanced cockpit began to fall dark one instrument at a time.
‘Airspeed four forty. Altitude two hundred.’
The nose dipped down again. From the carnival-ride feeling of free fall the pilot got in his groin he knew it was too late. He and the co-pilot, strapped in their seats in the nose of the mammoth aircraft, hurtled toward the hard concrete runway.
The investigators listened over and over to a shout on the cockpit voice recorders. Finally, one investigator thought to check the pilot’s personnel records. It was his wife’s name, but it was nearly instantly drowned out by the sound of the wrenching force that tore the life from all two hundred aboard.
The sound of the ringing telephone filled the Oval Office. The principals of the National Security Council and the heads of the nation’s law enforcement agencies listened — waiting. There was no answer.
‘Try his dacha,’ Marshall finally said, and his aide called the Russian President’s home outside Moscow. The phone rang and rang. Secretary of State Hugh Jensen looked at his watch and shook his head. ‘Tom,’ Jensen said in a low tone, ‘it’s just after nine o’clock on a Friday morning in Moscow. We’ve tried all the telephone numbers we keep on file for President Krestyanov. One of them — their military command net number — is supposed to rove and guarantee contact twenty-four hours a day.’ He was hunched over his elbows. ‘There’s nobody there.’
In the background, the sound of the ringing telephone droned on.
After the meeting broke up, President Marshall read the Chicago Tribune at his desk in the Oval Office. ‘The Terror Continues’ a banner headline proclaimed. Marshall sighed as he skimmed. More lurid details of violence. ‘Chinese Crush Student Protest,’ read a ‘below-the-fold’ article. What would have been the top story — hundreds of democratic protesters feared killed — was relegated to second-class news. An article toward the bottom of the page caught his eye. ‘Bold VP Nomination Changes Race.’ Marshall smiled at the presumably unintended pun. ‘Changes Race’ he thought. He rocked back and put his stockinged feet on the desk to read the story about Gordon Davis.
The first flash poll following the close of the Republican Convention was out already. Marshall’s lead had fallen from eighteen to eleven points. The Tribune’s political analyst attributed it to a masterstroke by Governor Bristol. ‘Bullshit,’ Marshall whispered, snorting. ‘Just post-Convention bounce,’ he mumbled.
The intercom buzzed. Marshall lowered the paper. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Sir, the Swedish Prime Minister is on line three for you from Stockholm.’
Marshall made a face. He’d met the man only once. What the hell could he want? Marshall had his secretary summon his chief of staff, and then he pressed line three. ‘Prime Minister?’ he said in an energetic, vibrant tone — his public voice. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Mr President,’ came the deep and heavily accented voice, ‘I have news of some significance of which you should be made aware.’ The President’s chief of staff walked in, carrying his coffee mug and nodding jovially at Marshall’s secretary. ‘Approximately one hour ago, there was an unauthorized landing by a Russian aircraft on a runway outside Kiruna in the far north of our country.’
‘Who is that?’ Marshall’s chief of staff mouthed, pointing down at the phone. He placed his cup on a coaster and sat across the desk from Marshall.
‘Swedish PM,’ Marshall whispered.
‘In that aircraft,’ the slow voice came over the background hiss of the transatlantic connection, ‘was the President of Russia, the Russian Prime Minister, several members of the cabinet, and their families.’ The President rocked forward. The White House chief of staff leaned over the desk closer to the phone. ‘They are all seeking political asylum.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Marshall whispered.
‘It’s about Goddamn time!’ Daryl Shavers exclaimed. He was craning his neck to look out the small round window of the business jet.
‘Daryl!’ Elaine Davis said as Celeste and Janet looked at each other and giggled.
Daryl looked around at the girls and apologized. They had been waiting on the cramped jet for forty-five minutes, and the plane was now sweltering despite the early hour.
A tanned and well-groomed man boarded the jet. The single flight attendant closed the door behind him. ‘Senator Davis,’ the new arrival said, ‘my name is Arthur Fein. I’m the head of Governor Bristol’s Vice Presidential Team.’
Gordon rose and shook his hand. ‘I’d like you to meet Elaine, my wife.’ They shook hands. ‘And my two daughters…’
‘You must be Celeste!’ Fein said. The jet the Republican Party had leased fired up its engines. ‘And you’re Janet.’ The two girls smiled. ‘Look at you two! You’re both very pretty.’ Gordon marveled at how quickly the girls had recovered from the horror of the night before. It had to be the novelty of the limos and the press and the jet that had snapped them out of it. And they’re young, he thought. Gordon looked at Elaine. He saw only the blank, bland expression she’d worn since their drive home from the gym. It worried him. She hadn’t yet recovered from the shock.