Uncivil Liberties (3 page)

“Major, this is General Wilson. I authenticate zebra foxtrot at 1940 Zulu.”

“Bird Dog Nine One copies zebra foxtrot. Good authentication, sir.”

“Major, are you in contact with KL6051?”

“Off my left wing, sir. They refuse to acknowledge me, but I can see two people in the cockpit. They do not, repeat, do
not
appear to be in flight crew uniform.”

“I understand. Now listen carefully. Are you prepared to carry out the orders of the commander in chief?”

“I am, sir.”

“Major, I want you to try again to contact whoever is in control, tell him of your orders to destroy the aircraft, and, if you fail to receive a response, you are to shoot them down before they go feet dry.
You have launch authority
.
Do you understand that order?”

“Attempt contact, then splash the airliner. Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”

“Both of you. I want you
and
your wingman to fire.”

Witherspoon didn’t respond for a moment, deciding in that instant not to include his young wingman in this distasteful task, then he responded. “Copy all, sir.”

“Major . . . do it quickly. The airliner must
not
be allowed to go feet dry!”

“Affirmative, sir.

“Good luck. Wilson out.”

Dutch squeezed the transmit button on his inter-flight radio. “Bird Dog Nine Two, stay in cover position and remain armament safe. I repeat, armament safe, nose cold.”

Rocky remained two miles dead astern of KL6051 with a radar lock-on, and Witherspoon changed frequency on his #2 radio. He continued to fly parallel with the huge airliner, clearly visible to those in the cockpit.

“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005,” he called, using his tail number. “Do you read?”

No response.

“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005. Please acknowledge. I have been instructed to prevent your entry into American airspace. Please acknowledge this transmission.”

For ten seconds there was no response. Dutch reached with his left hand to flip the master armament switch to ARM and squeezed the trigger, letting a few hundred rounds of 20mm fly in front of KL6051’s nose. The noise of the gun was almost as deafening as the silence that followed.

“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005.
Acknowledge!”

Witherspoon’s headset crackled with Rocky’s voice. “Dutch, he’s under four minutes to feet dry. Do you want me to arm hot?”

Witherspoon quickly shifted frequency back to Washington Central. “Whetstone, Bird Dog Nine One arming hot. Is there any change of order?”

“Negative, Bird Dog. Proceed as ordered.”

Major Harrison Witherspoon extended the speed brake and quickly drifted to a position roughly a mile aft of KL6051, his thoughts turning to his wife and her effort that morning to change his mind about flying today. She’d wanted to attend the inauguration celebrations in downtown D.C., but he’d been adamant that he needed to fly. She’d taken the kids on her own and left him to his intention, her silence sufficient evidence of her displeasure.

“Bird Dog Nine One, Whetstone.
Engage
 the target!”

“Roger, Whetstone, locked on target.” The warbling tone in his headset confirmed an AIM-9X lock on target, and the AIM-120Cs were set to launch as well. The growling of the missile’s infrared seeker grew louder as it shifted lock directly to an engine.

How often had the Fighting Eagles debated this precise moment in the pilot’s ready room at the squadron? How many variables and no-win scenarios had entered the minds of those pilots assigned to Operation Noble Eagle, commenced after the attack on the World Trade Center? And what
were
the overall objectives of Noble Eagle? To protect innocent civilians on the ground? By killing innocent civilians in the
air
?
Even his wife, Melinda, had cast her vote. As they lay in bed late one night several years earlier, discussing his new assignment, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, her tears trickling down his chest, she had softly voiced her innermost thoughts. “I don’t understand how they can ask you to do this. I couldn’t
stand
it, Harry. I can’t comprehend the thought of all those people crashing to their deaths from an airliner that
Americans
. . . that
you
shot down. There’s got to be another way. There’s just got to be.” She lifted her head slightly, shifting her gaze to meet his eyes. “Harry, if you were ordered to . . . to . . .”

Witherspoon had pulled his wife closer, kissing her forehead, brushing back her soft, auburn hair, and comforting her in this moment of despair. “It’ll never happen again, Millie.” But his words brought little solace
as they drifted toward sleep. It
could
happen again, and they all knew it.

And now it had.

The moment they had all dreaded had arrived. Dutch had drawn the short straw in this lottery of life and death. He knew he could refuse the order, simply fly away, and someone else would have to make the kill once the airliner had crossed the coast, or Whetstone would shift the burden to Rocky, and he would have to carry out the order. In that split second of vacillation, an indecisive moment born of months of mental gymnastics and personal angst, Dutch realized that he had subconsciously determined the end result long ago. If he ran, he would betray his commitment. His career would also be over. His professional life would be destroyed. And if he obeyed his orders, he was equally dead, politically and professionally speaking. He would forever be the man who killed hundreds of civilians with his Air Force jet, and his missiles would not present a good image on the campaign trail.

In the end, it came down to duty. That’s what the Fighting Eagles had determined in their cavalier approach to tough choices. It was fate. They were as good as dead if they were called upon to accomplish such a publicly abhorrent mission. It would haunt them for the rest of their lives, much as it had Colonel Paul Tibbets, the pilot who had dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan. The Fighting Eagles had come to the conclusion, mostly unspoken, that the only way to view it was to accept that it was combat—kill the enemy and die. There was no other honorable way.

KL6051 thundered on, the vacuum behind the giant aircraft attempting to pull the Raptor closer. Dutch could hear his pulse deep inside his inner ears, his heart heaving and thumping deep in his chest. His years of training took over, and in a practiced reflex action, not taken in reality since his sorties over Iraq, he climbed a few hundred feet to position himself above the airliner and loosed three of his six missiles at the behemoth dead ahead.

“Bird Dog Nine One, fox one! Fox two! Fox three!”

Moments later, the inboard engine on KL6051’s right wing exploded with a direct hit, followed by a slow disintegration of the wing. Hunks of jagged metal streaked below Dutch’s Raptor. The fatally wounded airliner lurched to the left as two larger missiles impacted the tail and fuselage, severing the aft third of the huge aircraft. In the stream of suitcases and clothing that followed, Dutch thought he saw two passengers, still strapped to their seats, tumble past.

KL6051 began a steep dive toward the ocean, trailing thick black smoke from its stub of a wing. Bird Dog Nine One with Nine Two in tow followed the shattered Boeing 767 as it gathered momentum in its downward spiral, continuously spewing litter from the gaping hole where there once was a tail. The impact was tremendous, with the water splashing hundreds of feet into the air. It was as if a pod of dozens of whales had jumped high out of the water and flopped as one. Flaming debris could be seen scattered along the surface as they flew past the gruesome impact site.

“Bird Dog Nine One, Whetstone. Report?”

Dutch hesitated for several long seconds. “Splash one . . .” he responded, his voice weak and distant.

He  made three slow circles over the impact site, observing debris now scattered over a two-mile-wide area as Rocky resumed formation with his flight lead. “Whetstone, debris location is north 3861, west 7479
. . .
No survivors seen . . . Bird Dog Nine One returning to CAP.”

As the flight of two Raptors began to climb away from the scene of the carnage, Lieutenant Simmons watched as Dutch suddenly rolled his aircraft inverted and pulled back down toward the water. Rocky pursued, trying to maintain formation with his flight lead.

“Bird Dog Nine One, this is Bird Dog Nine Two. Dutch, are you okay?”

Silence filled the air for several long seconds before Bird Dog Nine One, Major Harrison “Dutch” Witherspoon, heir apparent to Virginia’s 1
^st
congressional seat, made his final radio call.

“Rocky, tell my family I love them . . . and I’m sorry.”

Lieutenant Simmons stopped his pursuit and leveled off, watching in horror as Bird Dog Nine One knifed into the cold grayish water, a half-mile short of the deserted Delaware beach.

At the moment Bird Dog Nine One entered the ocean, Roger Turnbill, the president’s personal physician for nearly a dozen years and the man who had repeatedly warned him—privately, of course—that his heart would not stand the stress of the presidency, rose from beside the chair which held the remains of the former president of the United States. Four Secret Service agents were now also in the room.

“There is nothing further to be done,” Dr. Turnbill said, placing his stethoscope back in his bag. “This time it was just too massive.”

“Resuscitate him. Put him on life support,” Marilyn Cosgrove demanded.

Dr. Turnbill shook his head. “It’s no use, Marilyn.”

Several staff members had gathered in the room. Secretary Designee Tiarks motioned to one of them, a young woman. “Find the vice president.” Rendered speechless by this moment of history, she just nodded and left the room.

Admiral Barrington, thinking along the same lines as Secretary Tiarks but not confident the young staffer would hold herself together long enough to perform her task, nodded toward one of the Secret Service agents. “Clear the room except for Ms. Cosgrove, Secretary Tiarks, Dr. Turnbill, your security detail, and myself. Then see that the vice president is informed. Also, see if you can locate the chief justice and escort him here.”

Under Secret Service control, three paramedics entered, pushing a gurney. They began to work with the president, unwrapping a blood pressure cuff and feeling his neck for a pulse. “That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Turnbill said. “Please place the president on the gurney.” The three medics hesitated for a moment, uncertain of their next action. Again, Admiral Barrington spoke.

“Gentlemen, please follow Dr. Turnbill’s instructions. The president has been pronounced dead. Let’s all follow procedure here and do this with the proper degree of respect.”

The three men gently lifted President Clay Cumberland’s limp body from the chair, placing him on the gurney and covering him with a green sheet. Tears were now streaming down Marilyn Cosgrove’s face as she leaned against the wall, her well-known, unflappable, take-charge demeanor suddenly subdued.

Secretary designee Tiarks stepped close to Admiral Barrington and the senior Secret Service agent. “When the body is removed, I think we should gather
in the Oval Office and meet the VP there.”

“Agreed,” Barrington said. “Shall we try to reassemble the congressional leadership? They can’t be far.”

“Yes,” Tiarks said, nodding his head, “but first we should speak with Vice President Snow. He may have a preference or some concerns that will need to be addressed before we take the next step.”

“What about the media?” Barrington asked.

“Let’s speak with Vice . . . uh, President Snow first,” Tiarks said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in his  shoes over the next forty-eight hours. He’s about to reap the whirlwind and he had no part in the decision. What a state of affairs. Two dead presidents in four months. For better or worse, we’ve got yet another president. God help us!”

“And God help
him
,” Barrington added.

Carlos Hernandez Castro was dressed in slacks, pull-over golf shirt, and a dark blazer. At five feet, ten inches tall, with a muscular upper body, he looked more like a halfback than a wide receiver. His dark hair was closely cropped, a twenty-year affectation instilled by the military. He had deep-set, dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, compliments of years in the field and multiple generations of Spanish, Central American Indian, and the occasional European ancestor. His smile was rare, but when delivered, had been known to win a few bucks from his colleagues when put to the test against some unsuspecting female.

He descended the front steps of the American Embassy in Dublin at a hurried pace, turned west, and strode briskly down Pembroke Street toward St. Stephen's Green and a pre-arranged meeting. Once there, he stood on the northeast corner for about five minutes, during which his mind wandered over the events of the past sixty days. Major changes had recently occurred in his  life. The death of President Cumberland two days ago only compounded the confusion. Carlos had already departed on this assignment, having no ability to speak with General Connor about the new development. That would have to wait for his return.