“Okay. Relax, everyone.” Dutch pushed his way from behind the agents and addressed the operator who had killed his daughter’s assailant. “What’s your story?”
“No story, sir. I had the guaranteed shot from behind the man and I took it. I’m shooting frangible ammo, so there was zero chance my round would compromise the aircraft after passing through his skull.”
“What is frangible ammo?” Dutch demanded.
“Powdered metal compressed into a slug. It breaks up when it hits a hard target. There was little risk of over-penetration, and I had the shot, point-blank.”
Dutch looked opposite where the man had apparently fired and could see a number of gray impact marks on the fuselage and bulkhead, along with a constellation of pink spackle. Dutch turned to his wife and daughter and shepherded them back toward their suite at the front of the plane, wrapping his arms around them as they walked. His son, Teddy, followed.
As he herded his family away from the specter of death, he remembered the words of his father when Dutch called him, late at night on the West Coast, to tell him he’d won the election to the presidency of the United States. His father’s words had knocked Dutch off kilter and had haunted him as he worked long hours as leader of the free world.
“Congratulations, son. Just don’t forget: you’ll be president for four years. But, you will be a father and a husband forever.”
Dutch ground his teeth as the words echoed in his soul, his daughter weeping hysterically, and Sharon wrapped around her like a shawl.
The ghost of his dad, apparently, had found him 30,000 feet above America.
17
Robbie Leforth, Zach Jackson, Sharon McAdams and the president sat in the Oval Office. Sam Greaney hadn’t been invited. Late afternoon light cut through the windows, projecting fake rainbows on the plastic walls of the seat of power of the United States of America—or what was left of it.
“I have one question, and I need it to stay in this office. Why were Sam’s men armed with frangible ammunition? I can only think of one reason, and it isn’t good. I’m hoping the three of you can think of alternative explanations.”
Dutch’s attorney general seemed to connect the dots before anyone else in the room. “You don’t think Sam had something to do with the attack on the United States, do you Dutch? I mean, he’s an asshole, but a traitor? I can’t believe that.”
“I don’t get it,” Sharon said. “Why does having frangible bullets mean that Sam Greaney was in league with the cyberattack?”
“Maybe it doesn’t,” Robbie replied. “Maybe he just came onboard ready for violence.”
“Back up.” Sharon held out her hands in a stopping motion. “What am I missing?”
Dutch explained. “There’s only one good reason to come loaded with ammunition that shatters on impact, and that’s to be ready to shoot on the airplane. Not even the secret service was loaded for a shooting incident inside the fuselage.”
Sharon slumped back on the sofa, thinking.
“Who was that guy? The one who grabbed my daughter?” Dutch asked as the silence stretched out.
“His name was Paul. He was one of my legal staff,” Zach Jackson, the attorney general exhaled. “He hadn’t heard from his family in D.C. in four days, and his stock portfolio had been completely wiped out by the first wave of sell-offs. He also didn’t have a chance to bring his anti-depressants on board. I made him come with me even though he objected. I think all this is my fault.”
Dutch shook his head. “When it comes to mental instability, it’s hard to assign blame. How’s everybody else on the plane doing? Paul probably wasn’t the only one in a bad way.”
Nobody answered, probably because everyone was feeling the stress, including each of the four in the Oval Office. Being cooped up in a beautiful, custom-built flying hotel could still feel like a prison, and everyone aboard had come to know that unexpected truth.
“We need to get on the ground and empty this airplane,” Sharon stated. “Things are going to go from bad to worse in terms of mental health. Plus, if Sam Greaney is actually a threat, then we need to tie a rope around that threat.”
18
As Air Force One descended toward Omaha, Nebraska, Dutch broke the news to Sam Greaney. As much as he would’ve liked to leave the man in Omaha, he would have to justify it based on a frayed suspicion triggered by the kind of ammunition his men had brought onboard. As Dutch well knew, there could be a hundred plausible explanations.
“You’re going to need to ditch your security guys at Strategic Air Command, Sam. We’re getting rid of everyone on the plane except for critical personnel. If we’re going to have any chance of taking this country back, we can’t be toting around a plane full of non-essential personnel distracting us from our mission. I’ve seen secret service guys point guns at your guys, and your guys point guns at them twice now. That’s over. Your heavy hitters are Nebraskans now.”
Sam Greaney’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to consider arguing the point. Then his face relaxed. “Okay, Mister President, I will need four of my support guys, and of course the comms operators if we’re going to continue coordinating the military effort.”
“Okay,” Dutch agreed. “Another thing, Sam. I’m going to need two hours on the ground to do my job as a father.”
“How’s that, Dutch?”
“If we can’t get D.C. back in our control, and if we end up making a contingency landing somewhere else, I need to know I can take care of my family. As it stands, on this airplane, I don’t even own a pair of jeans.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “You want to gather supplies for your family?”
“You can’t guarantee the success of this mission and neither can I. At the end of the day, I’m a father. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t prepare for my family’s long-term options?”
Dutch could see the wheels turning in Sam’s head. A little younger than Dutch, Sam’s wife had passed away from breast cancer ten years prior, and his son worked as a business executive in London. Sam would struggle to see things from Dutch’s perspective when it came to family. Sam seemed to reach some kind of decision and it made Dutch’s shoulder’s tense.
“Okay, Dutch. I’ll have a quartermaster standing by ready to set you up with whatever you need at SAC base. They should be able to send you off with a damn Army/Navy Surplus store. That’s where the ‘doomsday preppers’ buy their stuff, right? Army/Navy Surplus?” Sam laughed, and Dutch couldn’t tell if he was being ridiculed.
“Two hours, Sam. I need to be a father for two hours. After that, I’m back to being President of the United States, and we can pull our country back from the brink. Deal?” Dutch disliked the sound of himself negotiating with his secretary of defense. He knew himself well enough to know that his self-doubt was eating away at his personal strength. Undoubtedly, his father and mother’s passing had eroded that foundation. In the end, no man could be utterly certain of his mental fortitude. Depression could get its hooks into anyone.
“Of course, Dutch. It’s no problem. You’re President of the United States. You can take as many MREs as you want, whenever you want.”
The intercom announced the return to seats as Air Force One lined up for landing.
Sam Greaney stood and moved toward the door. “Dutch, you might want to let Robbie Leforth off at Omaha as well. He’s wearing a little thin.”
19
As he sped across the tarmac in a Humvee, Dutch’s mind tore at the problem like a dog scratching out a hole. What could he do in the next two hours that would ensure his family’s long-term survival?