In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (14 page)

Lieutenant McKay checked his watch.  It was time.  He keyed his radio.  “Colonel, I’ve got to hit the head.”

“Last night’s dinner still bothering you?” Zweig joked.

“A little, sir.”  He let out an audible breath.  “I’ll confirm when I’m back on station.  Out.”

Brandt glanced up from his magazine.  “You okay, LT?  You don’t look so good.”

“Something I ate yesterday.  I’ll be fine.”  McKay walked to the restroom.  Compared to a commercial airliner, the lavatories on Air Force One, even in the press section, were spacious.  McKay removed a plastic garbage bag from the cabinet below the sink and stuffed it in the toilet.  He folded the top of the bag over the rim.  It took him several minutes of pushing to force the soft plastic container out of his colon.  Not a pleasant experience by any means, but it foiled the security screens that the Secret Service made everyone, including the flight crew, pass through.  The container dropped into the plastic bag in the toilet. 

McKay retrieved the plastic container, gently washed it, then stuffed it into the pocket of his flight suit.  He cleaned up the bathroom and returned to his seat.

“Colonel, I’m back on station.”

“Roger, Lieutenant.  Do you need someone to relieve you?”

“No, sir.  I feel much better now.  Out.”

As the door to the president’s office opened, Sartori stood then followed the president as he limped over to the medical facility.  Major Diane Camden frowned.

“Your knee again, sir?”

Kendall nodded.  “Flying always seems to make it worse.  Got any Tylenol?”

Camden returned with two capsules and an ice pack. 

“Sir, you really should put this on it.  Keep it elevated.” 

Kendall shook his head as he took the pills.  “I’ll grab some ice on the way back.  I need to speak to the press first.”

Twenty minutes later, the president was back in his office with Howell and the White House Counsel.  He had an ice pack on his knee.  Sartori sat at her post outside the door.  Richter, wearing his usual on-duty mask, took the seat next to her. 

He glanced into the cabin.  The National Security Advisor was discussing something with an aide.  The Secretary of Commerce and the Press Secretary were leaning over a table reviewing papers.  A handful of people were watching C-SPAN.  Everyone was engrossed in something. 

Richter turned to Stephanie, unable to hide his grin.  As he struggled to put his mask back on, he leaned toward her, speaking softly.

“Listen, I can’t stay long.”

Stephanie nodded, fighting to hide her own smile.

“I just wanted to say that last night was wonderful.”

“You’re turning red again, Agent Richter.”  She patted his arm, but he could see that her face was red also.

“It was wonderful for me too,” she whispered.

He coughed, made a show of checking his radio, then glanced into the cabin again.  Thankfully, no one was paying them any attention.

“I better go.  But first, I wanted to ask you out on a real date.  What are you doing after work tonight?”      

Major Lewis began another scan of the instrument and warning indicators, a process so well ingrained from thousands of hours of flying that it had become second nature.  The fuel gauges caught her attention.  The starboard wing tank registered one hundred and thirty-eight thousand pounds of fuel remaining, while the port wing tank had one hundred and forty-four thousand pounds.  The imbalance, some six thousand pounds, was beyond the acceptable margin.  Normally, the plane’s engines pulled equally from both tanks to maintain an even weight distribution across the airframe.  She scanned the panel.  All four engines were running within specifications, and they didn’t appear to be dumping fuel.  Something was wrong.

“Colonel, the fuel gauges indicate we’re out of balance.” 

Colonel Zweig glanced at both gauges and frowned. 

“Do you want me to pump fuel from the port tank to the starboard?”

“No,” the colonel responded.  “I don’t think the gauges are right.  Have McKay check the level capacitors and the transfer pumps for both tanks.  Reset them if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Zweig glanced over his shoulder at the Flight Engineer.  “Captain, was there anything in the service record that indicated clogged or leaking fuel lines or other problems with the fuel management system?”

Thomas already had the binder open.  “The system was reset, and they replaced the fuel relay switches.”  Thomas looked up.  “Looks like routine maintenance.”

“Okay.  Do a manual calculation and let me know how much fuel we should have.  Also, check the computer.  The flow rate could be miscalibrated.”

“Roger, sir.”

Major Lewis keyed her microphone.  “Lieutenant?”

In the rear of the aircraft, McKay checked his watch and took a deep breath.  Showtime. 

“Yes, Major?” He listened as Lewis described the problem. 

“Lieutenant?”

“Ma’am?”

“Are you feeling well enough to do this?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

McKay unbuckled his seatbelt, stood, and grabbed his toolkit from the storage bin over his seat.

In the cockpit, Zweig turned to Lewis.  “Maybe Brandt is right.”

Lewis raised an eyebrow.

“He calls this plane ‘The Bitch.’”

Stephanie couldn’t stop thinking about Matthew and, every time she did, she felt her face redden. 
It was just one night
, she told herself. 
What did one night even mean?
   God, that’s something she hadn’t done since college!  And remember how well that turned out? 
Take it slow
, she told herself. 
You’re not twenty-one anymore.
  She needed to get to know him better. 
But, still,
she thought with a smile as she watched him walk away,
he just asked me out on a date!
  She turned her head, feigning concern over something; a few seconds to regain her composure. 

It was hard to concentrate. 
Matthew Richter
, she thought.  What did she really know about him?  He was athletic.  He was intense, very driven at work.  But away from here, he was a nice guy; funny and cute as hell when he smiled.  This was the first time a man had asked her out in….Lord, she couldn’t remember.  She thought about the upcoming evening.  A dinner, just the two of them.  Maybe they would share a bottle of wine.  They would get to know each other better.  Heck, neither of them had to work tomorrow, so they could stay out late!  Then after dinner, who knew?  
Be serious, girl,
she thought with a grin.  More than likely, they’d skip the dinner part.  She felt her face redden again.

But could it last?
  Not while they were both guarding the president; that would never work.  Did she want it to last? she wondered.  And what did that mean exactly? She thought of her sister, happily married for the last ten years, two young girls, her nieces.  So different from her own marriage, she thought.  Maybe she hadn’t been ready then.  And maybe, she thought, it was the wrong guy; her ex-husband was nothing like Matthew.

God!  This is happening way too fast!

McKay closed the door to the passenger cabin and descended the staircase to the cargo hold.  He stepped through the bulkhead and maneuvered around the luggage bins and stored goods to the center.  Noting the time, he figured he had five minutes before Lewis would call him again.  He removed the four screws in the access panel on the floor.  Setting the cover to the side, he pointed a small pen light inside.  It took a few seconds to confirm that he had found what he needed: the main power feeds for all of the aircraft’s systems.

McKay glanced at his watch.  A minute and a half had elapsed.  He pulled the soft plastic container from his pocket, opened it, and extracted the Semtex.  He rolled the plastic explosive back and forth between his palms for a minute, then broke off a small piece, putting it back in the container.

Checking his watch, he saw that two and a half minutes had passed.  He pulled a handheld diagnostic computer from his toolkit and hurried over to another electrical panel located on the bulkhead.  He opened the panel and plugged the USB lead into the port on the fuel management system control board.  With several keystrokes, he reset the flow rates for each tank.  Once the computer confirmed the new rates, McKay unplugged the connection and closed the panel cover.

That’s better
, Lewis thought.  “Colonel, the gauges look correct now.  Both read just over one hundred and forty-one thousand pounds remaining.” 

“I concur,” Thomas added.  “I’ve manually calculated the burn rate.  We’re on target.  It looks like the flow rates in the system were incorrect and we were getting false readings.  The lieutenant must have reset them.”

“Okay,” Colonel Zweig replied.  “Let’s make a note to have the system checked thoroughly when we get back to Andrews.” 

Thomas nodded.  “Roger.”

“We’ve narrowed the list down to eleven potential running mates.  I have a page on each person with their picture, biography, and curriculum vitae, as well as the initial ranking I assigned based upon the criteria we established last week.”  Huff handed binders to both Howell and the president.

“Okay, first is Juan Garcia Mendez.  As you know, he’s the Governor of New Mexico.  He has an interesting background.  He was born in Los Angeles, but his mother died when he was an infant.  His father wasn’t able to take care of him and sent him to live with relatives in Mexico.  Three years later, his father was killed, apparently in a dispute over money.  Governor Mendez grew up poor.  His only options were to work the farm, like his family had done for generations, or join one of the growing drug cartels.  He broke the cycle thanks to an uncle who lived in California.  He came back to the U.S. when he was twelve.”

“I met him once when I was a senator.”  Kendall winced and shifted the ice pack on his knee. 

Huff continued.  “He learned the language and, in high school, he focused on school and sports and avoided the Latino gangs that many young Mexican men fall into in Southern California.  He graduated number three in a class of almost two thousand.”  Huff looked up for a moment.  “Not bad for a kid who didn’t speak a word of English just five years before.”

President Kendall grimaced again.

“Is there something I missed, sir?”   

The president waved his hand.  “No.  I think he’s worth considering.”  He stood up.  “I’m sorry, Linda.  Let’s regroup later.”

McKay froze at the sound of footsteps.  He placed the plastic explosive in his toolkit, closed it, and prayed it wasn’t Brandt coming to check on him.  He let out a breath when Mosby stepped through the bulkhead.  The two men nodded at each other, neither speaking.  McKay pulled the plastic explosive back out, while Mosby walked over to one of the bins and began to unstrap the netting that held the luggage in place.

McKay inserted two testing probes into the digital multi-meter.  The meter was an electrician’s device for measuring current and voltage, checking circuits for continuity, and other tasks particular to their trade.  While the device McKay held would indeed function as a multi-meter, should any one bother to inspect it, McKay had inserted a clock chip and modified the wiring leading to the testing probes.  Now, it would also function as a timer.  His degree in electrical engineering had served him well.  After connecting the testing probes to the fuse, he turned the meter on and watched as the digital display blinked several times before settling to zero.  He set the timer for twelve minutes. 

Mosby removed some luggage, creating a small space in the middle of the bin.  He opened one of the bags, and McKay placed the bomb inside.  Crouching in front of the bin, he checked the connections one more time.  He pulled his hand out, looked at his watch again, then at Mosby, and then back down at the bomb.  His life has come to this, he thought.  He could feel his heart hammering in his chest and felt the sweat running down his face.  He felt a sudden pang of guilt as he realized the price that would soon be paid to ensure his own survival.  The butterflies in his stomach, the surge of adrenaline, made him queasy. 

“Come on, McKay!  There’s no backing out now,” Mosby growled. 

McKay wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a deep breath, reached into the suitcase and pushed a button on the multi-meter.  He pulled his hand out and started the timer on his wristwatch.  Mosby did the same.  Their watches, preset to twelve minutes in the “Timer” mode, began to countdown.

The president nodded to Richter and Sartori as he limped over to the medical facility. 

Major Camden stood.  “Sir, are you sure you don’t want something else?” 

Kendall shook his head as he handed her the ice pack.  “No thanks, doc.  I think I want to walk around a bit.”  He turned to Richter.  “What was the score of the game last night?”

“I didn’t catch it, sir, but I read that the Flyers lost.  Four to three.”

Sartori stood guard while the president and Richter discussed the game.  Half listening, she scanned the aisle for any sign of a threat.  Although an attack on the president was unlikely while he was on Air Force One, training and the ultimate fear that something would happen on her watch, a fear shared by every agent, kept her vigilant. 

Mosby pulled two parachute harnesses from the storage bin by the rear bulkhead.  He checked the bin again and found the parkas.  He put on one of the heavy coats, strapping the parachute harness over it.  The pack was awkward, and he felt restricted in the confined space. 
That’s okay
, he thought, as he pulled out the oxygen mask and goggles. 
I won’t have too far to walk anyway.

“We’ve got what…another three and a half or four hours?”

Richter checked his watch.  “About three hours and forty minutes, sir.”

The president grimaced again. 

“Are you sure you don’t want something from the doctor, sir?”

The president shook his head as he flexed his knee.  “No.  I need to move around a bit.”

“Well, if you want something different to do,” Richter said with a grin, “we can always go over the emergency evacuation procedures.”

“Didn’t we already do that on an earlier flight?”

“We covered the basics, sir.  I can give you a more detailed briefing, but we would have to visit the cargo hold.”

“Great.  Let’s do it.”

Richter hesitated.  “Sir?  I was just…” He glanced at Stephanie then turned back to the president.  “We’ll have to use the stairs, sir.”  He hesitated again.  “With your knee….are you sure?”

“I think I can manage that, Mr. Richter.  Let’s go.”

Richter nodded.  Sartori lifted her cuff to her face.  Moments later, Lansing joined them.  He looked at Sartori for an explanation. 

She shrugged and whispered.  “POTUS wants a demonstration of the emergency evacuation procedures.”

Lansing seemed to consider this for a moment.  After a second, he shrugged and nodded, a subtle confirmation that only Sartori could see.

Richter held the door, letting Sartori lead the way down the steps.  He gestured for the president to follow then fell in behind him while Lansing brought up the rear.

McKay knelt in front of the rear hatch.  He broke the remaining piece of Semtex in two and began kneading one of the pieces into a shaped charge.  He placed the charge, no more than one-half an ounce of explosive, over the lock mechanism.  He connected a fuse and rigged a second modified multi-meter and set the timer to four minutes.

“The plane is equipped with some pretty sophisticated equipment, sir,” Richter said as they reached the bottom of the stairs.  He led the president to a bin in front of the bulkhead near the crew door.  Lansing stepped through the bulkhead into the main cargo hold while Sartori stood just on the other side with Richter and the president. 

Richter opened the bin and pulled out two items. 

“We have portable oxygen systems and smoke goggles in case of fire.” 

He handed the president the goggles and mask. 

“We have these upstairs, too,” he continued as the president inspected the googles.  “But there are some pieces of equipment that are only kept on this deck.”

“Such as?” The president asked.  

Richter pointed back into the bin.  “Flotation devices, rafts, wilderness survival kits, and…” He fingered the shoulder strap of a large backpack. “Parachutes.”

“Really?  I thought that was urban legend.”

Richter shrugged.  “Frankly, sir, I can’t think of any situation where we would need them.  It’s impossible to jump out of a plane traveling over six hundred miles an hour at thirty-five thousand feet.  But chutes are standard for the Air Force, sir.  All of their planes—tankers, bombers, fighters—have them.  On the other hand, I suppose the survival gear would be useful if we ever crashed in a remote area.” 

Kendall grinned, shook his head, then held the goggles up to his eyes.

“Would you like to try them on, sir?”

The bundle consisted of wires of various thickness and color.  McKay snipped the plastic wire tie that held the bundle together, then separated seven wires from the rest.  In one smooth motion, he severed all seven wires, disconnecting power to the Cockpit Voice Recorder and the Flight Data Recorder, as well as the radio and satellite communications systems.  The black boxes had backup power systems, he knew, but it would cause momentary confusion in the cockpit.  The loss of the communication systems would add to the confusion, and that’s precisely what he wanted.

Major Lewis frowned.  “Colonel, I’ve got lights indicating a malfunction with the data recorders.”

Zweig glanced at the instrument panel.  “See if McKay is back yet.”

After several unsuccessful attempts, Lewis shook her head. 

“No response, sir.  Maybe he’s in the head again?” 

McKay had just pushed the wires back into the access hole when he heard voices.  He fought the wave of panic that washed over him and squinted through the netting.  The bulkheads and luggage blocked his view.  He checked the time.  Less than two minutes to go.  He quickly replaced the panel cover, not bothering with the screws, and hurried to the back of the plane.

“There’s someone down here,” McKay whispered.

“I heard.  Let’s move.”   Mosby handed McKay a parka and then helped him strap on his parachute. 

McKay pulled on the oxygen mask, attaching the bottle to the front of his harnesses.  He adjusted the smoke goggles over his eyes, then turned and squatted on the forward side of the rear bulkhead.  The rear hatch and his second bomb were on the other side, ten feet away.  He looked at his watch again.  They were cutting it close.

They might have made it undetected if not for Mosby’s parachute.  When he squatted, his harness snagged on the cargo bin’s cover.  It slammed shut with a bang.

Richter flinched at the noise.  He grabbed President Kendall and turned towards the stairway, while Sartori stood protectively in the doorway of the bulkhead, blocking access.  Lansing stepped farther into the cargo hold. 

McKay jumped at the bang of the cargo bin lid. 
Oh, God
, he prayed as a wave of panic washed over him.  He just needed another twenty seconds!  He just needed to get off the plane!  At least then he’d have a chance, with a plan, a running start, and two and a half million dollars.  He would never see the rest—he knew Jane would never let him live long enough to collect.  But that didn’t matter.  He had a plan and the most important part involved avoiding Jane and her henchman once he did their bidding.  The little she had paid him was enough and he had made sure his mother was safe. Now he had to make sure that he was too. 
One step at a time
, he told himself,
and the next step is to get off the plane in one piece.

He glanced nervously towards the front of the cargo hold when the plane was rocked by a tremendous explosion.