Page 13 of Air Force One
“Ms. Chase, what can you tell me?” Sarah asked as the three women and one dog stepped into the President’s office in the PEOC.
“Your conversational openers are as efficient as Drake’s and more efficient than Roy’s.”
Sarah sighed. Just because Air Force One was on its way to crashing, didn’t mean that Miranda would realize that was the only thing of importance at the moment. She didn’t have time for patience.
“Elizabeth?” She’d never been comfortable calling a two-star general Lizzy. That would be even more true when she became a four-star if the Senate confirmed Sarahs’ nominating her to replace Drake.
General Elizabeth Gray-Nason turned to Miranda and spoke in a calm, even tone that Sarah couldn’t have managed at the moment. “Miranda, can you tell us the chances of survival of Air Force One?”
“Not without knowing all of their flight parameters.”
“So find them out.” Sarah pointed at a phone, one well off to the side. “Punch Nine and the Marines will get you everything.”
Miranda moved away with Captain Andi Wu in tow and the bright click of her terrier’s nails on the parquet flooring following along.
Sarah turned her attention to Elizabeth. “I’m so sorry to not offer more sympathy, but what’s the word from your husband?”
“Drake is in the command center of Air Force One, but this is out of his hands.” Her voice was tight. Though she appeared to be a mild, slender, Japanese-Eurasian in her mid-fifties, she had commanded a combat flight of F-16s at one time and risen to be a two-star general in charge of the National Reconnaissance Office—one of the largest and most clandestine agencies of the US government. She knew how to keep it under control. “We didn’t speak much about the flight.”
“Understood. What’s my tactical situation?” It just slipped out that way, as if she was already the President.
Elizabeth’s light skin paled further, but she managed to sit when Sarah nodded toward one of the seats facing her desk. “Unchanged as far as we know. No sign of any launches or other overt activities among friend or foe. We’re still inside the first thirty minutes, it only feels longer. I see you went to DEFCON 4 but not 3. I think that is an appropriate match for the current circumstances. I suggest we contact Director Reese at the CIA…”
Sarah pointed her joined index and middle fingers at Felicia, who immediately turned for the phone.
“…to further assess any back-channel chatter that may become relevant in?—”
“Ninety seconds, plus or minus seven.” Miranda spoke.
She’d moved so silently that Sarah flinched in surprise to see her standing beside the desk. No clicking dog nails in warning, as her therapy dog was now curled up and napping in one of the conference table chairs. Felicia stopped halfway through messaging Clarissa and stared at Miranda in abject horror.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but time is of the essence at this juncture. I do not project a high chance of survival, but every crash is unique. As this one hasn’t become a crash yet, I can’t provide any accurate assessment—which we won’t know as a fact—in approximately eighty-two seconds. A water-based landing tends to be far more abrupt than a land-based one—typically ranging between one and three seconds with the extreme outlier of nine seconds’ duration for US Airways Flight 1549’s landing in the Hudson River. Assuming a landing attempt at the edge of Air Force One’s stall speed of a hundred and seventy miles per hour, in a worst-case scenario they would experience an eight-g deceleration, breaking many of their necks depending on their position in the aircraft and several other factors. The captain said?—”
“You spoke with the captain during a flight crisis?” Sarah placed her hands flat on the desk to stop them from shaking.
“It seemed the most expedient way to gather the needed information to answer your question. I also spoke to Roy. He’s always been very kind to me and my therapist taught me that it would be rude if I didn’t say goodbye. The captain said?—”
“You spoke to President Cole?” There was a ringing in her ears. There must be, because she wasn’t hearing this right.
“Yes. The aircraft is?—”
“What did he have to say?”
“Who? The captain or the President? The crash will occur in the next forty-three seconds. If you keep interrupting me, my analysis will become moot as it will be superseded by actual events.”
“Do we have a visual on the aircraft?”
“Your conversational style is very difficult to follow, President-elect Feldman. Yes. Do you wish to see it?”
Sarah managed a please instead of a snarl. Miranda called on the Marines to put an image on the big monitor. It was a split-screen view.
To one side was a pilot’s view from Air Force One. It was overlaid by a whole array of numbers and little diagrams that Sarah had little basis for interpreting.
Elizabeth’s sharp curse didn’t bode well. Nice to know the woman wasn’t wholly unflappable. She’d given little sign that her husband was aboard. If she was like Sarah, she’d grieve later—in private.
But the white crests on the too-visible waves and no hint of land in sight? That Sarah could interpret without a problem.
The other half of the screen was again split. The lower half a radar image, showing a single point of green light straight ahead. The upper half, she could tell by the shimmer of the blades sweeping across the top, was the view out the front of a helicopter. A tiny spark of white must be Air Force One—very low to the waves.
