Air Force One is Down

Philpott, who had his finger clamped firmly on the pulse of international crime, became aware of the swiftly rising star (she was still only twenty-seven) and watched her subsequent career with interest and not a little pleasure. He waited for her first mistake, and when she made it in Gstaad, trusting a greedy lover, Philpott had snatched her from the Swiss police and enrolled her as a part-time agent of UNACO.

Philpott paid her lavishly enough for her not to have to steal again, but, as he freely acknowledged, a girl with Sabrina’s brains and stunning beauty had never actually needed to be a thief; she simply enjoyed it. Stealing was what she did best, and neither Philpott nor her position as a UNACO field operative would prevent her from doing it. That was why she was a part-time agent.

She sat in the foyer of Manama’s most splendid hotel and quickly adjusted to the idea that most of the diamonds in Bahrain would be worn by men. She was idly sketching in her mind a plan to penetrate the Sheikh’s palace when she was forced to relinquish pleasure and get back to reality – Joe McCafferty strode in through the ornate revolving doors.

McCafferty spotted her immediately, for she was wearing the uniform of Airman First Class in the USAF. He had been heading for the reception desk, but changed direction when he saw Sabrina. As he got closer his stride faltered and he blinked. Sabrina Carver had that effect on men; she was breathcatchingly lovely, with a cascade of dark brown hair falling to her shoulders, framing a face elliptical in its contours, from the central hair parting high on her forehead to the dimple in her chin. Her brow was deep, her eyes wide-spaced and large, and her nose and mouth were set in exquisite classical proportion.

McCafferty completed the journey with outstretched hand and slightly glazed eyes. ‘You’re Prewett’s replacement, I expect,’ he said. A Flight Traffic Specialist (the equivalent of a stewardess on a civil airline) had dropped out at the last moment, and he had been warned by radio that a substitute would meet Air Force One in Bahrain. Fairman was able to make the outward trip with only one stewardess, but he needed two for the passenger-run to Washington. As always with the President’s jet, all new attachees to the crew reported in the first instance to the Head of Security. Sabrina stood up, saluted and handed over her identification documents, as she had been briefed to do by Basil Swann after Philpott had fixed the Pentagon.

She took McCafferty’s hand and felt his strong fingers enclose her own. She was careful not to return equal pressure, though her hands were undoubtedly a good deal more adaptable and educated even than his. ‘AIC Carver, sir,’ she said, ‘reporting as directed to Air Force One. You’re Colonel McCafferty, sir?’ Mac confirmed the introduction; he was still faintly dizzy from the impact she made on him. ‘Right then, C–Carver,’ he stammered, ‘or may I call you whatever it is, since we’re off duty?’

She smiled winningly and replied, ‘It’s Sabrina – strictly while we’re off duty. Do I keep calling you “sir”, sir? Only for off-duty, that is?’

‘Ah – no. My name’s Joe, but most of my friends call me Mac.’

‘Which do you prefer?’

‘I’ll leave the choice to you.’

‘Well, since we’re apparently going to be friends, perhaps I’d better make it “Mac”,’ Sabrina rejoined with not a trace of coyness. McCafferty smiled a shade awkwardly and she decided that the file photographs of him which Basil Swann had shown her did not do the Colonel justice. He was decidedly handsome in an aggressive and somehow unflattering way, with a hint of pugnacity, or perhaps cruelty, in the determined set of his mouth and chin; his nose was long, wide and straight, and his eyes coloured a piercing blue.

She questioned him about their schedule, and McCafferty explained that they intended making a convenience refuelling stop in Geneva while picking up stores which were not easily obtainable in Bahrain. They would stay in Switzerland overnight. Take-off from Manama (he consulted his watch) was in four hours.

‘Do you have a room here?’ McCafferty asked innocently, then blushed as he realised how his question could be taken. ‘I – I didn’t mean – for God’s sake – well, you know – I’m not that fast a worker. Wh–what I meant was—’

‘What you meant,’ Sabrina replied, enjoying his discomfiture and liking him for it, ‘at least what I hope you meant, was do I, like the rest of the crew, have a room at the hotel where I can freshen up before the trip.’

McCafferty breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks for letting me off so easily. I’m not really that sort of guy – despite anything you may have heard to the contrary.’

Mac groaned when he saw how deeply he had landed both feet in it this time, and sent up his hands to cover the flush that threatened to suffuse his entire face. Sabrina burst out laughing, but quickly apologised to save him from even more acute distress. He could not, after all, possibly know that she was able to recite the names of every woman Mac had slept with over the past five years, as well as their assessments of his capabilities – in and out of bed.

‘I really don’t have that sort of reputation,’ Mac protested earnestly.

‘I’m sure you don’t, Colonel – sorry, “Mac” – but since you’ve given me the impression that you do, maybe I should think twice about accepting that dinner-date in Geneva you were on the point of offering me.’

Mac looked at her in amazement. ‘How did you know I was planning to buy you dinner in Geneva tonight?’ he exploded. ‘I hadn’t even got around to the preliminary – uh—’

‘Preliminary seduction moves?’ she whispered, wide-eyed and girlish. ‘Gosh, gee and golly, I’ve never been seduced by an expert before, by a famous Lothario like the great Joe McCafferty—’

‘Now you’re toying with my emotions,’ Mac protested, drawing himself up sternly. ‘In my capacity as Head of Security on Air Force One, and as the first crew member to set eyes on you, I consider it my military duty to protect you from that crowd of rampant wolves by ordering you, AIC Carver, to dine with me this evening in Geneva. Is that understood?’

‘Aye aye, Colonel,’ she responded, throwing him a second smart salute, ‘as long as it’s purely in the interests of protective discipline, of course.’

It was Mac’s turn to smile. ‘I don’t normally beat the crew,’ he said, ‘but I could always make an exception of you, if that’s what turns you on.’ Sabrina reddened prettily and gulped. ‘I think we’d better end this conversation and continue our “on duty” relationship, sir,’ she said.

‘But you’ll make it for dinner tonight?’ Mac pleaded.

‘You bet.’

They parted, and the Arab sipping an ice-cream soda in the screened-off bar area to their left, laid his binoculars case on the table and jotted an entry in a slim blue notebook.

Sabrina received a message from a man who announced himself as Chief Steward Master Sergeant Pete Wynanski from Air Force One. The Commander, he said, had ordered a crew muster in the hotel lobby. She saw the group at the far end away from the bar as she left the elevator. McCafferty was not with them, and she felt unreasonably disappointed. She saluted Colonel Fairman and met the crew, each of whom looked at her perhaps a little too much, to Fairman’s evident amusement.

‘I can see you’re going to enjoy it with us, Carver,’ he grinned. ‘Even if you don’t, the rest of the crew obviously will.’

Sabrina smiled back and inquired for McCafferty’s whereabouts. ‘Aah,’ moaned the delicately structured, poetic looking Latimer theatrically, ‘already smitten with our dashing Head of Security, I can tell. Swashes his buckle at anything female that moves aboard the plane, does Mac, although I have to admit that this time, for once, he has shown excellent taste.’

‘Stow it, Pat,’ said Fairman, ‘AIC Carver’s a member of this crew, and I do not want her position made any more – eh – difficult than it is at the moment. She’s with Air Force One to work, and I want nothing to interfere with that. To answer your question, Carver, Colonel McCafferty’s gone out to the airport with Agent Cooligan via the route the OPEC ministers will use. Then, if I know Mac, he’ll check, double-check and recheck the plane, the police, the airport guards, the luggage hold, and even look for cracks in the runway. Colonel McCafferty’s damned good at what he does. I only wish that went for the rest of my so-called crew.’

The Commander chuckled easily along with the rest of the flight staff, then returned once more to business, asking Sergeant Wynanski if he was all fixed for provisions. Wynanski replied that he had been furnished by the White House with a list of the ministers’ dietary requirements, which he had augmented through discreet inquiries at the hotel and at the palace. He still had to pick up a few items from the markets in Manama.

‘Good work, Sergeant,’ Fairman commended him, ‘you have about an hour. That applies to everyone. I’ll want cabin personnel aboard by 1600 hours. Flying crew to Ops by 1650. You’ll find minibuses outside this hotel half an hour before reporting times. Roll-out’s at 1805.’

Wynanski and his staff and most of the flying crew drifted away; Fairman stayed to take Sabrina on one side. As a new crew member, she got the Commander’s introduction to Air Force One at full strength on the patriotism scale. Fairman also impressed her with the importance of their current assignment.

‘This isn’t going to be just a milk run,’ the Colonel said gravely. ‘We’re using Air Force One mainly because our own Energy Secretary, Mr Hemmingsway, will be on board – but let me assure you that we do wish to impress the OPEC ministers; we want to make them feel good. I need hardly tell you, if you’ve been keeping up with the news, that if they don’t come in with us on this oil deal, then they’re likely to cut back production so far that we’ll be riding bicycles and reading by candlelight back in the States for years to come. Nothing, but nothing, must go wrong on this trip, Carver; so – be alert, polite and efficient at all times. A good stewardess can make the world of difference to a military flight. Chief Steward Wynanski’s something of a martinet, but I guess you’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time, just like the rest of us.’

Sabrina felt herself going hot and was framing a suitably tart reply when Fairman held up a warning hand. ‘Just teasing, honey, just teasing,’ he assured her.

‘So was Major Latimer, sir,’ she replied sweetly, ‘and, as I recall, you hauled out his ass for it.’

Fairman regarded her appraisingly, and grinned. ‘Somehow I don’t think you really need any advice from me, Carver,’ he said.

Axel Karilian paced the floor of his Geneva apartment and bayed into the telephone. ‘It is important – vital – that Jagger contacts me here as soon as possible,’ he roared. ‘Do you understand that, Stein?’ Karilian sneaked a sideways glance at the menacingly imperturbable Myshkin, lounging on a sofa nursing a generous Chivas Regal.

‘It’s not long to zero-hour there,’ Stein protested. ‘For God’s sake, Axel, Jagger will be very busy, with Smith and Dunkels breathing down his neck the whole time. It’ll be very difficult to contact him.’

‘You must!’ Karilian insisted. ‘There has to be a way.’

Modesty, a strong suit with Doctor Stein, veiled the slyness with which the little Swiss produced his trump card, mostly for the benefit of Myshkin, whom he correctly guessed was in Karilian’s apartment. ‘Of course,’ Stein said smoothly, ‘Jagger can

be contacted discreetly. I have, as it were, an open channel to him.’

‘Then use it! Jagger must call. There are new instructions to be passed to him, which alter the entire picture of the operation. Hot from Moscow, Stein – and they have to be obeyed. Get on with it.’ He banged the telephone down and was uncomfortably aware of Myshkin’s gaze, directed at him through barely-raised eyelids.

It took Jagger half an hour from receiving Stein’s message before he could elude Dunkels for long enough to make a telephone call. The ringer’s blood chilled when the cold, precise voice of Myshkin talked to him first in Russian and then repeated his orders in English to establish absolute clarity.

‘As I understand it, Jagger,’ Myshkin said, ‘Mister Smith’s plan is to – ah – interfere, shall we say, with the operation of Air Force One sufficiently to enable him to make a financial gain from the situation in which the OPEC ministers will consequently be placed. I do not wish to go into further detail on an open line.’

Jagger confirmed the details. Karilian nervously pressed together the damp palms of his hands, and Myshkin continued, ‘Up to a point that is still satisfactory, but we feel that greater advantage can be gained by us if the affair concludes in a more – ah – drastic way. Do you follow me?’

‘I – I don’t, I’m afraid,’ Jagger replied uncertainly.

Myshkin gave an exasperated grunt. ‘I can see I shall have to be more specific,’ he said caustically.

‘It is of crucial importance to us, Jagger, that America comes badly out of this episode – as badly as can possibly be imagined. And there is surely one way to persuade the OPEC states not merely to refuse to sign the oil accord, but actually to sever relations of any kind with the United States.’ Both sides of the conversation were in English now; Myshkin had to make absolutely sure that Jagger understood him.

The ringer gasped in disbelief. ‘You can’t mean – you can’t—’

‘But I do,’ Myshkin said. ‘That is precisely what I mean. You will kill the OPEC ministers, and the surviving crew members of Air Force One. You may leave us to deal with the genuine McCafferty.

‘How you do it, Jagger, is your business. But do not fail me. Whatever happens, do not fail. Even if you are the only person alive on Air Force One when it is finished, that will be acceptable. But you must accomplish this task.’

Jagger put down the receiver in his Bahrain hotel and took the elevator to the ground floor. As he stepped on to the ground floor, Dunkels hurried forward and grabbed his arm.

‘Get into uniform,’ the German snapped brusquely. ‘We leave in five minutes. Achmed’s reported that the pigeon is sitting up begging to be plucked.’

McCafferty and Bert Cooligan came down the steps of Air Force One to meet the advancing posse of uniformed senior Bahraini policemen, all armed to their splendidly white teeth. McCafferty stopped and scuffed one of his shoes over a mark on the hardstand. Cooligan grinned. ‘That is not, sir,’ he whispered, ‘a crack, and even if it were, it’s not on the runway.’

Mac then met the police – who had tactfully placed themselves under his orders – and handed them copies of the security schedule. After their brief exchange, he and Cooligan walked on to the terminal building, where an Arab toyed with the strap of his binoculars case and decided to visit the men’s room. McCafferty looked up at the roof of the terminal, and saw three machine-gunners placed strategically along the parapet.

‘Check those guys out, Bert,’ he murmured. ‘Make sure they know that they’re to fire indiscriminately at any, and I mean any, unauthorised person getting within fifty yards of the Air Force One steps. Give ’em copies of the programme, too; I don’t want to be shot when I lead in the convoy. I’m going back to the hotel. I need a shower and a drink and another chat with Hemmingsway before we get the motorcade under way. OK?’

Cooligan said ‘Ciao,’ and Mac went through the terminal out into the street, in the wake of a tall, well-groomed young Arab in a Savile Row suit, who had a leather binoculars case swinging from his shoulder.

Mac carefully surveyed the front of the airport, where the police detachments were manoeuvring into their positions, and so missed the barely perceptible signal which the Arab, known as Achmed Fayeed, made to a cab-driver who was separated from the main gossiping bunch at the head of the taxi rank. The driver, who had been leaning casually against the side of a car, arms folded, unwound himself and got into the first cab.

As McCafferty lifted his arm to wave, the cab peeled off the rank and screeched to a halt about six inches from the American’s leading foot. Mac yanked open the door, jumped in and gave the name of his hotel. On the route out of the airport, they passed a by-road leading up to the cargo-sheds. A short way along the by-road, its engine revving, sat a shiny black Cadillac. Achmed Fayeed spun the wheel, and cruised out after the cab.

Once he had settled in his seat, Mac returned to his security schedules for Geneva as well as those for Bahrain. Even if he noticed the following Cadillac, it did not register on his mind. Cadillacs – mostly in the Ruler’s fleet – were common enough in Bahrain, and throughout the Gulf States. His driver watched the American carefully in the rear-view mirror.

A causeway links the airport at Muharraq with the main island of Bahrain, and when McCafferty glanced up and saw the road stretching out before him and the sunlight glistening on the water to either side, he dropped his eyes once more to the intricate details of his assignment. He was relaxed, and totally unprepared for the savage wrench at the wheel which took the taxi off the tarmac highway and on to a rutted dirt track that veered off to the right just before the water-crossing.

The track led to a cluster of tiny buildings known to the Bahrainis as borrastis, mean little huts made from palm fronds and mud into wattle beehives. Mac saw none of this. He went instinctively for his gun, but he was fractionally too late. The driver, a handkerchief clamped to his nose and mouth, aimed an aerosol spray over his shoulder, and it took the American full in the face.

McCafferty actually had his revolver in his hand, but it dropped from his unfeeling fingers. He slumped forward against the back of the driver’s seat, and blackness descended on him.

Achmed Fayeed’s car pulled up on the rough ground alongside the taxi, and the Arab pointed in the direction of the borrasti huts, which were hidden from the main road and the perimeter-buildings of the airport by a fringe of palm trees. Both vehicles shot away and were soon lost in the oasis.

Achmed opened the rear door of the taxi and yanked out McCafferty’s body. Dunkels strolled from the hut, looking down at the security chief. Then he turned and regarded a second man emerging from the borrasti. The likeness between the two was staggering, perfect in every detail.

Dunkels ordered Achmed to retrieve Mac’s personal effects, ticking them off on his fingers:

wallet, gun, security shield, documentation, money, pen, handkerchief, lighter (if any). The Arab ransacked the American’s body and handed the articles to Jagger, who stowed them away, checking at the same time that his uniform matched the security chief’s exactly. ‘Take him inside now,’ Dunkels said, ‘and bring him round. There are things we need to know that only he can tell us.’

‘And if he won’t?’ Jagger asked. Dunkels shrugged. ‘He’s going to die anyway. He might as well make it easy for himself.’

‘Not too easy,’ Jagger sneered, and got into the cab. The driver reversed his vehicle in a swirl of dust and took off back down the potholed track towards the causeway. There he turned on to the road-bridge and sped away to Manama.

He was in a hurry but drove with studied care. After all, he carried an important passenger: the Head of Security of Air Force One.

FIVE

Air Force One is a standard-frame Boeing intercontinental jet airliner, 153 feet long and almost as wide with a wingspan of 145 feet, 9 inches. She has four engines – Pratt and Whitney turbojets – which are capable of lifting a maximum take-off weight of more than 150 tons.

With a range of over seven thousand miles, she can land on less than five thousand feet of runway. No pilot with fewer than four thousand flying hours under his belt can sit at her controls – the motto of the 89th Military Aircraft Wing, Special Missions (MAC), which provides the Boeing’s crew, is ‘Experto Crede’ (Trust one who has experience). Many times the President and people of the United States of America have had cause to be grateful to the people who fly Air Force One, and doubtless will have cause again.

The plane has a flight-ceiling of more than forty thousand feet, and never carries less than ten in her crew. The Boeing’s economic cruising speed is 550 mph, and she is unique in American aviation in carrying a Lieutenant Colonel as navigator. Air Force One flight crewmen wear blue uniforms, and the stewards maroon blazers with blue trousers or skirts, each uniform sporting the coveted Presidential Service Badge.

More by accident than design, the President’s aircraft has become something of a cottage industry in its own right. The tableware and accoutrements are purpose-made and supplied gratis by manufacturers eager for the First Citizen’s approval. Since all the articles, from silverware, crystal glasses, dinner plates, cups and saucers, down to ash-trays, match-books and dinner napkins, bear the Presidential seal, they are eagerly sought by souvenir hunters.

Given the thriving black market in Air Force One artifacts, it is axiomatic that those who travel on her will yield to temptation and appropriate the portable items among the plane’s equipment. These are highly prized, and have even been used as a kind of ersatz currency, rather like schoolboys doing ‘swaps’.

The 89th (located, in fact, in Maryland, though the address of Andrews AFB is always given as Washington DC) would prefer to equip their flagship through the orthodox channels of paying for their own supplies and prosecuting people who steal from the plane, but the traditions of patronage and perks are deeply ingrained into American politics.

She had been cleaned, waxed and polished in preparation for the OPEC trip, and her tyres given a wash and brush-up, and she stood now on the runway at Muharraq, proud and gleaming and lovely in the yellowing rays of the sun, waiting for yet another manifest of passengers to board her who would never be charged for their journey.

The starboard engines, three and four, were already running to supply power and air-conditioning and to prepare the Boeing for a rapid start. The stores and spares inventories had been minutely examined and approved and, together with the baggage of the OPEC ministers, sent on ahead. On the flight deck the crew were at their posts for the necessary pre-flight procedures.

Master Sergeant Pete Wynanski, Chief Steward, handed ‘Airman’ Sabrina Carver a print-out of the guest-list. ‘Study it,’ he snapped, ‘because this ain’t a Bunny Dip for Hollywood moguls. These oil ministers are not just VIPs – they’re EDPs.’

‘They’re what?’

‘They’re what – “Sergeant”.’

‘Sorry. They’re what – Sergeant?’

‘EDPs. Exceptionally Distinguished Passengers. I don’t want any of ’em sloshing around in wet socks because you spilled drinks over them. ’Kay?’

‘Completely, chief. Uh – Sergeant,’ Sabrina replied. Master Sergeant Wynanski seemed to be the only crew member with an absolute zero-response to her gorgeous body, and he, she reflected ruefully, had to be the one she picked as her boss. ‘There ain’t no justice,’ she mused.

‘Yerright,’ snapped Wynanski, ‘there ain’t. Now – dooties. You’re drinks. Airman Fenstermaker here –’ (indicating a honey-blonde with tinted glasses and an enormous bosom standing alongside Sabrina) ‘– you’re snacks. ’Kay? You may have to swap later. Depends. ’Kay?’

‘Right, Sergeant,’ they chorused, though Sabrina’s brow was furrowed as her eyes ran down the Arab names. ‘’S’matter, Carver?’ Wynanski grunted.

‘Well, you said I was drinks, but it looks as if most of them will be sticking to tea,’ Sabrina explained.

‘Look, Carver, fer Chrissakes,’ Wynanski moaned. He had once been a waiter on the Staten Island ferry and had seen life. ‘You gotta unnerstan’ – these guys are Ayrabs. Moslems. Goddit?’