“Don’t we want a grenade to cause damage?” Dutch asked.
“Yeah, but not so much that it’ll kill your boy or split a seam in the aircraft. And if those guys are Delta, or anything in that family of operator, we’ll need to do more than flashbang them to put them back on their heels. Those men will be dedicated adversaries. First things first. Did they load the grenades in the forward compartment or the rear?”
“I’m not sure. I think the food pallets got forklifted into the back. I’m guessing they loaded the other stuff up front to balance the load.”
“Good. The forward lower compartment is right down the stairs up front. Let me check to see if the grenades are up front where I can get at them. Maybe Jesus is smiling on us after all. How much time do we have?” the agent looked at his watch.
Dutch looked at his own watch and did the math. “I have to check with the pilot, but I think we’re about ninety minutes out from Mountain Home, which means we might be sucking thin air before then, depending on how good your patch worked. Best guess: we’ll be on the edge of passing out in less than an hour.”
“Why don’t we just wait until they pass out and then get Teddy?” the aide de camp offered.
“We don’t have mobile O2 units on this aircraft. If they pass out, we pass out. If we have O2 masks, they have O2 masks. We can breathe through our little masks hanging from the ceiling, but then we’re in no position to assault. They’d be breathing off their ceiling O2 masks and shooting from fixed positions. We’re the ones who need to be mobile. Not them.”
Everyone nodded, thinking through their complicated reality; fighting aboard an aircraft at 30,000 feet against trained commandos with a hostage. All that and they had a whistling clock ticking away their air.
Agent Brooks broke the reverie. “First things first. If we can get a couple M84s, we might have options. Meet up in the Oval Office in ten.”
33
Agent Brooks thunked down two grenades on the President’s desk. “We’re in business. We need to find something we can use to generate light fragmentation. Sixteen penny nails would be perfect.”
“I doubt there are any nails on the airplane, but I have a whole case of stainless steel Monte Blanc pens that we give away when we sign treaties.” Dutch stood, dug around in his credenza and came back with a cardboard box full of gleaming, steel pens.
“Perfect,” Agent Brooks grabbed one and twisted it into two metal tubes, dropping the ink insert back into the box. “We can tape a hundred of these around the grenades and they might act like flechettes. I think they’ll stick into anything and everything, including the operators. The airframe should be fine.”
“I didn’t think an airplane could tolerate the pressure from a grenade.” Dutch vaguely remembered something about a terrorist with a little bit of C-4 explosive in his shoe posing a serious threat to an airliner.
Brooks shook his head. “Air Force One is actually designed to withstand the M-84 flashbang. We bring them aboard when we have dodgy foreign nationals in the press section. There are four times as many overpressure valves on this 747 as on commercial models. We’re good. Also, I found more nine millimeter frangible ammo in the weapons locker left over from the last time we flew with Saudis aboard. Even frange can damage the hull and the electronics, but it’s better than shooting ball ammo.”
“How do we protect Teddy from getting hit?” Dutch looked at the camera’s view, Teddy’s head poking over the seat back.
“Your son studied French, right?” the aide de camp said. “I’ve started rotating photos of France from my iPhone on both screens, just like screen savers. I think they fell for it. The commandos haven’t paid any attention to the monitors. We’re so accustomed to screen savers, it’s not something we notice anymore.” The young officer smiled at his mental victory over the trained operators. “I can start running random phrases in French and then slip in a few warnings. If we can get your son to duck and cover when the grenades fly, he should be fine.”
“Look.” The young officer pointed to the screen as he flipped back to the rear monitor. “Teddy is paying attention to the screen saver.” The monitor showed Teddy looking directly at the camera, eyes wide.
“Do you know French?” Dutch asked.
“My family is Quebecois,” the young officer said and smiled.
Agent Brooks pointed at the rows of chairs behind Teddy. “The flechettes shouldn’t penetrate more than two rows of airplane seats, at most. Teddy’s four rows back. If he gets his head down, I don’t see how he’d get hit.” The agent held up his hands. “But, it’s your call, sir.”
Dutch considered his conflicting obligations: his country. His family. His son. Fathers across this once-great nation were watching their children starve. At least Dutch’s and Teddy’s risk might make a difference.
“Let’s do it,” he decided, leaving the outcome to fate.
“Sir, one more thing.” Agent Brooks cringed. “I’ll be going in first on the assault, and I’d like to use Secretary Greaney as a human shield. I know that probably offends your sense of honor, but those operators will think twice before they shoot their boss. At least I hope they’ll think twice—”
Dutch interrupted him. “—Fuck that guy. Pardon my French. He’s holding my son hostage. Cut off his head and stick it on a pole if you think it’ll help.”
34
Les grenades arrivent bientôt… Préparez-vous à vous couvrir la tête.
President McAdams, Agent Brooks and the Air Force aide de camp watched the words appear on the screen, then disappear. Teddy nodded emphatically into the camera, now fully aware of the scheme.
“They didn’t notice the text,” the young man rubbed his hands together. “They should’ve spent more time studying in high school, less time lifting weights.”
“They’re getting lax,” Agent Brooks observed. “They’ve been on-point for over an hour and they’re letting down a bit—assuming that we won’t come at them while they have a hostage. If we pitch the flashbangs just past the first row of seats, they should get a face full of stainless steel.”
“Is there any reason not to go right now?” Dutch asked.
“Yes, we should go now, but you misunderstand, Mister President. Under no circumstance will I allow you to participate in this assault.” Agent Brooks set his feet.
“Tell you what, Agent Brooks,” Dutch switched into negotiation mode. “I’ll be your backup if things go sideways. I’ll hang back in the office section unless I’m needed. That’s my final offer,” Dutch held up the Beretta to prove to the secret service agent that he was going in one way or the other. The agent would to have to wrestle the gun away from the president to stop him.
“Okay, then it’s five of us going in, the President in reserve and the secretary of defense out front. This should work,” Agent Brooks said.
At sixty-three years old, it had been almost fifty years since Dutch had been in a physical confrontation with another man. Even so, he remembered those schoolyard brawls and he wondered how he would respond to combat in the real world, with real bullets. With combat looming, Dutch had to ask, am I a coward?
Once, when Dutch had been walking his girlfriend home from middle school, her books in his arms, an older boy from high school confronted them on the sidewalk, smacked the books to the ground and taunted Dutch with insults against the girl’s maidenhood. Dutch feigned helplessness. Since the high school boy had fifty pounds and three inches of reach on him, acting helpless made sense. But in that moment, Dutch’s mind worked out a plan to inflict maximum damage on the bigger boy.