The hallway narrowed and turned when they hit the conference room door. Dutch could see the lower half of a body on the ground, and nausea rose as he recognized Robbie Leforth’s slacks.
The secret service agent crouched low and took a snap peak around the corner. No gunfire followed. The fight had apparently devolved into a Mexican standoff between the office section and the security section of the plane.
“Sir, our secret service team must’ve ducked into the office section when they started taking fire. Don’t lean into the corridor. It’s a fatal funnel. Someone has it covered from the rear of the plane.”
“Agent Brooks,” Dutch yelled around the corner. “What’s your status? Do you have my children with you?”
The head of security replied. “Sir, we have Greaney and we’re all three good-to-go in here. Nobody else was in this compartment. Mister Leforth is down.”
“We have your kids,” an unknown voice shouted from the security section at the back of the plane. “Cut Sam Greaney loose and we’ll send your kids up. Straight trade. We’ll give you a two-for-one, even.”
Captain Spilinek, the aide de camp, armed with a handgun joined Dutch and his agent in the passageway.
The aircraft intercom blared before Dutch could reply to the gunman’s demands.
29
“I don’t know what’s going on back there,” the pilot spoke calmly over the intercom, “but my aircraft is leaking air. Whatever it is you’re doing, please stop or we’ll all die. I’ve got another hour or so of oxygen before y’all pass out.”
“Just let me go, Dutch,” Sam Greaney shouted from the office section. “You’re not going to win this. Even if you do, I’m the only one who has a chance of pulling this mess back together. The generals on the ground are all mine—I made sure of it.”
Sharon appeared behind Dutch, pressed against the wall of the hallway. Dutch considered ordering her back to the executive suite but realized she wouldn’t go back while their children were in danger.
“How do you see this playing out, Sam?” Dutch yelled, buying time for his children. “Do you think you and I are going to head back to work now that your private assassins have killed Robbie? Is that what you’re imagining?”
“You’re not offering any solutions for the country, Dutch. I am. Let me do my job. Let’s put the plane down, you get off with your people and the trinkets you picked up at SAC, we patch that hole, you give me the nuclear football and written authorization to continue operating military command. I’ll fly away to do my job for the country. You stay on the ground to do your job for your family.”
“There’s no way in hell…” Dutch shouted but Sharon clamped her hand on his arm, interrupting him.
“Do it,” she hissed into Dutch’s ear. “Trust me. Give him what he wants.”
Dutch swiveled on his heels and stared intently at his wife, trying to gauge her intention. Slowly, he pivoted toward the ugly negotiation, holding his country in one hand and his family in the other.
What kind of man sacrifices his family for his country?
What kind of man sacrifices his country for his family?
Dutch already knew his answers, but he paused to weigh his honor and the lives of hundreds of millions that hung in the balance.
“Trust me,” Sharon repeated.
“Okay,” Dutch swallowed hard before he said his next words. “I need a show of good faith, then we’ll do it your way. Have your men send Abigail forward and I’ll route the plane toward a contingency landing site. You’ll get everything you want.” And everything you deserve, Dutch fumed secretly, biding his time.
Sam Greaney instructed his men to let the president’s daughter go.
A few minutes later Abigail dashed into the hallway and ran into the arms of her mother. The two women hurried to safer quarters at the nose of the aircraft.
Dutch nodded at the secret service agent and his aide de camp, lifted slowly out of his crouch and moved toward his office.
As he walked past Robbie Leforth’s lifeless body, conviction overtook Dutch. He would dishonor Robbie’s death if he handed command to Sam Greaney. So many had made the ultimate sacrifice to defend the United States of America, and now Dutch McAdams would trade it away for the life of his son. The thought caused his knees to go weak, and Dutch stepped into his office to gather his thoughts before turning Air Force One toward a landing place for his family.
Like everything else in life, this crossroads wasn’t simple. The nation Dutch had been elected to lead had made its choice—it had decided to abandon the Rule of Law. Dutch knew he was placing blame on hungry, desperate people, but in the end, they were voters, not blundering cattle. They chose to end their government, and many would die with that choice on their breath.
Dutch hadn’t been elected to force people into doing the right thing or even the smart thing. By rioting and rejecting the leadership of the United States government, the people had effectively impeached him and every other elected official. Of course, not everyone had made the choice to loot and riot, but enough had chosen lawlessness that the military hadn’t been able to put the genie back in the bottle. The inner-city populations had voted with their feet, plain and simple.
This train of thought brought Dutch back to Sam Greaney’s brutal plan. Was locking inner city rioters into their self-made hell really such a bad idea? Preserving the heartland for capable survivors made a lot of sense, at least on paper.
And that was the rub. Dutch had seen it more times than he could count: policies that looked good on paper that resulted in incalculable evil. Dutch had long ago learned that a decision not only had to look good on paper, but it had to pass the smell test.
Greaney’s plan smelled foul to the president. Dutch could describe his disagreement in twenty ways, but it all boiled down to the reality that his soul could not abide it.
But Dutch wasn’t going to sacrifice his son to hold that line. He would find another way.
30
Alone in his office, Dutch settled on Mountain Home, Idaho as their landing place. More than forty miles from Boise and almost three hundred miles from Salt Lake City, the spartan, Cold War strategic bomber base would give the first family a remote location to put down, far from inquisitive eyes and angry mobs. More importantly, the plane could reach Mountain Home before they all died of hypoxia.
The satellite feed on Dutch’s laptop showed southern Idaho to be an area between farms and sprawling, gray swaths of desert. It looked like a place he could hide his face and rebuild the government. Southern Idaho would be their last stand, both as a family and as a presidency. Dutch picked up his phone and played the last chip in his stack.
“Captain Spilinek,” Dutch said to his aide de camp, now running the comms center. “Please call ahead to Mountain Home Air Force Base and let them know we have a priority landing coming their way in about two hours. Tell them it’s a Code Raptor-300 event and request that three Strykers mobilize out of Boise with minimal crew, all single males, to meet us at Mountain Home. Do you copy the last?”
“Yessir. Radio Mountain Home AFB, let them know a Code Raptor-300 event is coming in one-two-zero minutes and to scramble three Strykers out of the armory in Boise with a skeleton crew, fully-equipped, all single males, to meet us at the airfield.”
“Correct. And, Captain,” the president said, “do not tell them we’re Air Force One or that the first family is aboard. You got that? Please let the pilot know to change course.”