“According to Maintenance, it’s right out of the depot. Total rebuild.”
“So we finally lucked out and got a good one,” Pontowski said. “Let’s go howdy the pilot.” They walked outside to wait. In the distance they saw a follow-me truck leading an A-10 into the parking area. The engines had a different sound, and the plane’s fresh jungle green paint job glistened in the bright sun.
“It’s one of the reengined birds,” Maggot told him. The Warthog came to a stop, and the ground crew quickly installed wheel chocks and safety pins as the engines spun down. The canopy lifted, and the pilot removed his flight helmet, revealing a full head of dark hair streaked with gray. His potato-shaped face broke into a smile as he scampered down the boarding ladder. The crew chief was surprised that a pudgy, middle-aged man with a body that matched his face could move so quickly. “Son of a bitch,” Maggot said, smiling broadly.
On the ground, George “Waldo” Walderman spread his arms wide and announced to the world, “I have arrived. You may start the war.”
Pontowski gave a very audible sigh. “Misfits. We’re nothing but a collection of misfits.”
“Ain’t it wonderful,” Maggot said.
The half-light of sunset played with the rain that danced across the area where nuclear-armed B-52s had once sat cocked and ready for takeoff. But that was over twenty years ago, and the bombers were gone. Now only a blue-and-white Boeing 747 sat behind the fence, its reflection casting long shadows in the standing water. The plane stood there in quiet majesty, the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA emblazoned on its side proclaiming it was the president’s aircraft, Air Force One.
Because it was a secure area, the small army of agents detailed to guard the president breathed easier while she was in Sacramento. At first Turner had objected to parking in the area because she hated any appearance of being walled off from the people. But there wasn’t a choice. The high number of casualties suffered during the first nine days of the war had triggered numerous death threats against her life, three from the Sacramento area alone.
Consequently, security was tighter than ever, surrounding Air Force One like an invisible wall. It wasn’t there until you tried to breach it, and then, as one reporter from the local newspaper found out, it was solid as the Rock of Gibraltar.
As were so many, the newspaper’s editorial staff was genuinely appalled by the heavy casualties coming out of the Gulf and, not understanding the nature of modern warfare, had severely criticized the president’s conduct of the war. In an editorial that received national attention, they charged she had deliberately started the war for political gain. Then the same editors were furious when Turner declined to be personally interviewed by their star political reporter, Lacy Bangor. They would have attained heights of unknown apoplexy had they known that Shaw also wanted to pull their Washington bureau’s credentials and cast their reporters into an informational limbo. But the president had vetoed that. In retaliation for the interview snub, and not aware of the bullet they had dodged, the editors decided on the lead headline for their Sunday op-ed section: PRESIDENTIAL STRATEGY AND SECURITY — MASSIVE FAILURES. But the editors needed a story to go with it, and over Lacy Bangor’s loud protests they told her to test the security around Air Force One before she was apprehended and arrested. The follow-up story would document how freedom of the press and her civil rights were violated. Needless to say, that was a mistake.
The president was sitting in the aft lounge aboard Air Force One with her campaign staff when a Secret Service agent told her that the reporter had tried to penetrate the security cordon by driving her car through a checkpoint. Guards had stopped the car before it went thirty feet, and Bangor was spread-eagle on the asphalt. “Is she still there?” Turner asked.
“In a mud puddle,” the agent replied.
“Release her,” Turner said. “Have someone from Justice give her paper a call and explain a few facts of life to them.”
“They’ll probably withdraw their endorsement,” an adviser said.
“They already have,” another adviser replied. “It’s the numbers.” For a moment no one said a word. Turner’s opponent had made the high casualty rate the number one issue of the campaign and was using it to drive the polls.
“Her editors,” the first adviser said, “are going to make this an issue no matter what we do.”
“Then make it a nonissue,” Turner ordered.
“Maybe they need a distraction,” a third adviser suggested. “Perhaps a visit from the IRS?”
Turner gave the speaker a steely look. “We don’t play that way. They may, but I don’t.” Then she relented. “You’re right. They do need a distraction. Have Patrick call them instead.” A chuckle worked its way around the lounge as her advisers speculated about what Patrick Shaw would say. Most were willing to bet he’d say something about the president listening the next time he wanted to pull the newspaper’s White House press credentials. They went back to work, firming up her next day’s campaign schedule before they returned to Washington.
Richard Parrish, her chief of staff, interrupted them. “Madam President, we have a message from the NMCC. Perhaps in your private office?” He followed her forward, through the passenger compartment, where a group of reporters were working.
“Madam President,” one of them called, “what are you going to do about that reporter?”
“Lacy Bangor?” Turner replied. “Dry her off and send her home.” She stopped. “I like Lacy. She’s a good reporter, but…” She hesitated and smiled. “You all know the ‘buts’ as well as I do. I’ll talk to her after we find out what happened.”
“Thank you, Mrs. President,” a reporter said. They all had a new story and considered that a dunk in a mud puddle was worth a private interview.
The president’s personal assistant held the door to her private office. “Thank you, Nancy. Anything from the family?”
“I talked to Maura a few minutes ago. All’s quiet on the home front. Sarah’s doing her homework.”
“I’ll call later this evening,” Maddy said, looking directly at Scovill. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Parrish followed her in and closed the door.
“Yes, ma’am,” the colonel answered, “it is. The first two fast sealift ships transiting the Straits of Hormuz struck mines. Both sank. One of the two escort frigates also struck a mine but didn’t sink. The other six sealift ships are still in transit and being diverted to safe waters until we decide how to proceed.”
The agony was back, unrelenting and constant. “How many?” the president asked. Nothing in her voice betrayed her feelings.
“So far,” Scovill replied, “fourteen known dead. The undamaged frigate and three minesweepers are recovering survivors. More help is on the way. Apparently most of the crew members on the cargo ships are okay.”
Turner paced her small office. “What happened? I was told the Navy was going to sweep the straits before the ships arrived.”
“They did, ma’am. In fact the minesweepers were in sight when they hit the mines.”
A red light flashed on the intercom panel on Turner’s desk. Parrish picked up the phone and hit the button connecting him to the aircraft’s communications deck. He listened and handed the phone to the Marine. “Another message from the NMCC,” he said.
Scovill listened, his face impassive as he jotted down notes. He almost asked his president to sit down but thought better of it. Madeline Turner could take bad news. “Three Libyan ships were blown up by their crews in the Suez Canal. It’s closed. For how long, we don’t know.” He glanced at his notes. “One of the minesweepers picking up survivors in the Straits of Hormuz retrieved what looked like a life-raft canister. Luckily, they recognized it as a mine and knew what to do. It’s a new type of mine we’ve never seen before. Made of ceramic and self-propelled.”