Even so, Dutch sat in his office chair and buckled his seat belt.
He wondered if Sam Greaney would try to seize the airplane before they could offload. Dutch still had his secret service detail, so the two teams of fighting men would still probably cancel one another out. His men were all severely wounded, and he had no doubt the commandos were injured as well. Dutch doubted that anyone wanted another gunfight.
At this point, the variables of the situation were spread all over the map. Sam Greaney had been right: Dutch had never been good at looking three steps ahead. He had already handed the nuclear football over to Sam, but he refused to give him the combination to the suitcase locks. Also, Dutch withheld the letter of authorization, holding it until his family and supplies were off the plane.
It was the best he could do.
Dutch felt his defeat, whole and unmistakable. He knew he was handing the remnants of America over to a soulless tyrant.
The aircraft trembled as the wheels contacted asphalt. Dutch inhaled, subconsciously allowing himself to breathe again. He looked out at endless sage and rolling hills racing past his window. The Idaho desolation was to be their new home, and if the handoff went according to plan, the desolation might be their savior.
He unbuckled his seat and headed out of his office to shepherd Sharon and Abigail down the jetway, hungry to get as much of his family off the plane as he could.
The women had gathered up the most rugged clothes they could find, even while Teddy sat bleeding and maimed in the back of the plane. Everyone had to do what they could to survive. Something about that refrain struck Dutch as a new and permanent reality.
Get used to it, he told himself. He watched his wife and daughter descend the built-in jetway on Air Force One. They stepped down and greeted the soldiers—wide-eyed and gawking at the unexpected arrival of the president’s airplane. The three armored vehicles he requested and two Humvees awaited.
Dutch moved aft toward the no man’s land between the office section and the security section of the airplane. Sam Greaney and his commandos hid in their section, giving Dutch no idea as to their disposition. For all he knew, the operators could’ve died from their wounds.
“Sam, we’re disembarking and unloading our gear. Send Teddy out now.”
Unseen behind the bulkhead, Sam Greaney shouted back. “With respect, sir. Fuck you. You’ll get him when I get my letter and the combination to the briefcase. Don’t toy with me or I’ll send you the middle finger. Literally. Also, get those airmen refueling us and patching the holes. You’re lucky I’m even going let you have your prepper crap. I don’t have to do that, you know.”
Sharon must have handled offloading logistics with the airbase because Dutch heard the sound of forklifts and felt the airframe vibrate as the cargo doors opened.
“I’m going to make sure the mechanics are en route. My men will stay right here,” Dutch threatened. He didn’t want Greaney to get the idea that he held all the cards. Agent Brooks, still bleeding from the open wound on his shoulder, gave Dutch a thumbs up.
“Dutch. If you want your boy back with his hands still attached, you’ll stay here. I don’t want you going anywhere. And throw us the big med kit. Do it in the next ten minutes, or I’m going to have them cut off his right hand,” Greaney demanded.
It was an unnecessary threat, but Sam Greaney apparently enjoyed making them. As he picked up the phone on the wall, Dutch couldn’t imagine how he had overlooked the malignant soul in his pick for secretary of defense.
38
Air Force One taxied away moments after Dutch McAdams descended the stairs, holding Teddy up as his son stumbled down the jetway. All their supplies had been forklifted down, the holes in the airframe hastily patched, and medical supplies thrown to Sam Greaney and his hired shooters. The exchange was done, but Dutch hadn’t surrendered.
Dutch had given Greaney the letter and the combination to the nuclear suitcase in exchange for his boy, but he had promised himself he would destroy the plane before he would let Sam Greaney get away.
“Did you tell them to shoot it down?” Dutch yelled at Sharon as he passed Teddy off to an Air Force medic and ran toward the armored vehicles. When Sharon replied with a bewildered look, Dutch veered toward the nearest Stryker.
“Destroy that plane now,” Dutch shouted. The reservists stumbled about the vehicle looking for some kind of command authorization. “I’m your Commander and Chief,” Dutch roared. “You don’t need to confirm my order. Shoot it down!”
The crew commander finally grasped the order and bellowed at a crewman to bring up ammo for the fifty cal. While the men struggled to load the huge machine gun on top of the Stryker, Air Force One thundered past on the opposite runway, taking to the sky just as the top plate on the machine gun slammed shut.
The Browning M2 exploded to life, the line of tracers lagging a hundred yards behind the plane as it banked off the runway. The machine gunner corrected, firing a string that chased the 747 but fell short and to the outside of its banking turn. The machine gunner elevated his next burst and placed the glowing rope exactly where the jet liner had been moments before, still falling behind.
The belt expended, the assistant gunner quickly laid another belt into the feed tray and slapped the top plate closed. Air Force One continued to climb, now almost two miles away. The machine gunner continued firing, trying to walk the line of tracers into a target approaching a speed of three hundred miles an hour. If he scored any hits, it had no apparent effect on the aircraft.
When the massive din from the machine gun died, the machine gunner apologized. “I’m sorry sir. That was my first time shooting at an aircraft. I’m sorry. I’ve never attempted anything like this.”
Sharon stepped beside her husband as he ran his fingers through his silver hair over and over again. “Oh my God, Sharon. I let him get away with the codes. Oh my God…”
She took his hand in both of hers, calming him. “Dutch. It’s going to be okay.”
A familiar face stepped out from behind the Stryker and Dutch took a second to recognize the co-pilot from Air Force One. Dutch turned to his wife, struggling to understand.
Sharon looked at him with hard eyes, sadness and resolve playing across her face.
It had been the same expression a year earlier, when she had urged him to fire his secretary of state. With those same eyes, she looked toward the horizon—toward the dwindling shape of Air Force One.
“Jeff said he’d be willing to make the sacrifice if it came to that,” Sharon explained without taking her eyes off the aircraft. “Jeff’s wife and daughter are gone, so dying for his country would be a gift, he said.”
Dutch watched the plane make a slow banking turn, then it tipped nose forward and banked in the opposite direction.
“Not everyone in this country has forgotten about honor,” Sharon spoke the pilot’s epithet.
Air Force One angled from the sky at full speed, then suddenly disappeared into the side of a mountain, a mile-wide starburst erupting from the grey rock. A massive, silent fireball rolled into the sky. Twenty seconds later, the sound of ripping thunder reached the airfield.
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” Dutch whispered.
“He said it’d be a gift,” Sharon turned toward Dutch and leaned her forehead against the side of his head, her tears trickling down his sideburn. “We aren’t the kind of people who let a monster hold America in his hand, and neither was Jeff Crane. That wouldn’t be something we could live with.”
“This was you?” Dutch pleaded with her for understanding.
“Jeff… the pilot. He and I agreed that this would be best, if it came to that.”