Chapter Six

Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland

Once they arrived at the gates of Andrews Air Force Base, Harm let C.J. out at the restricted parking area near the flight line, where they said a quick goodbye. C.J. hurried as fast as her heels would allow toward the passenger stairway, and Harm veered off toward Operations.

Each of the four National Airborne Operations Center aircraft, designated E-4B by the U.S. Air Force, had begun its life as a Boeing 747, similar to the planes that often bore the call sign of Air Force One. These planes were not designed to comfortably transport dignitaries and legions of the press, though. Instead, they were outfitted with enough intelligence-gathering sensors and communications equipment to run a theater-wide war. That was their purpose: to ensure that the government and military of the United States would continue to function even in the event of a major catastrophe or attack. Some people had taken to calling them the 'WCS' planes, short for 'worst-case scenario', or even 'Doomsday Planes'.

Though no one would admit it out loud, the truth was that the mere existence of these aircraft gave most people the creeps. She was one of these people, C.J. thought, as was boarding one now for the very reason it existed, and it utterly terrified her.

"C.J.," Josh greeted her as she climbed aboard, waving her toward a somewhat subdued area of the cabin. "You got something to change into?"

She found it odd that he would worry about her gown at a time like this, especially since he was still wearing the shirt and pants off his tuxedo.

"Sure," she said absently, gesturing toward the duffel in her hand. "As long as you guys can deal with my gym clothes. Are we ready to go?"

"Just about." His gaze flicked toward the back of the plane, where a huddle of people surrounded a very tense-looking President Bartlet. "According to the Air Force and the FAA, we've still got most of an hour before they can reach us, even at a top speed of Mach 0.94."

"They?"

Josh rubbed at the back of his neck. "Oceanic Flight 419. Since it's a red-eye, it's not anywhere close to capacity, but it's still got sixty-one passengers and crew aboard," he explained.

"And they just disappeared off the radar?" C.J. wondered.

"Not responding to hails, either. And the transponder is inoperative. CIA thinks it might be a Qumari response to Shareef's death. But honestly, nobody has evidence yet. Justice is running the passenger list through their database right now. They're trying to come up with any known terror links or Qumari citizens. But the likelihood of that doing us any good in the next forty-five minutes isn't great. All the airports along the Eastern seaboard are quickly and quietly getting incoming flights down and holding their outgoing flights until we get this sorted out. Headquarters ACC has already put its entire inventory of F-16s in the air, and they're doing their damnedest to cover the entire coast. We're getting a four-plane escort from the Navy –"

"I know," she whispered.

He blinked at her and thought for a moment. "Rabb?"

C.J. nodded. "Yeah. Small world, huh?"

"Makes me feel pretty good about our chances, though," Josh stated to C.J.'s surprise.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"We're not 'going' anywhere. We're just going to stay airborne as long as we have to. Ever seen an air-to-air refueling before?"

"No, and I'm hoping to keep it that way."

A low rumble from the engines encouraged them to find seats, and C.J. slid her pantyhose off without so much as a comment from the normally laconic Josh. After she'd wiggled her gym shorts on under her dress, she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes until they'd lifted off the ground.

"Josh, what are the chances that this is just an airliner in distress? I mean, after everything that's happened, would somebody truly be sick enough to crash another plane?"

"There are plenty of people out there who are sick enough," he responded grimly. "The question is, was someone smart enough and lucky enough, to do so? And were they all of those things tonight?"

"I guess we'll know in an hour or so."

She watched the lights of midnight D.C. grow smaller in the window and sighed. "Out of curiosity, what am I doing here? It's not as if I'm going to be holding any briefings from thirty thousand feet."

"You're part of this team, aren't you?"

It wasn't Josh that answered, but someone else. C.J. turned in her seat to face Leo McGarry, who looked as resolute as ever in his rumpled tuxedo. "That's why you're here," he finished. "I can't believe they gave us a Navy escort, though ..."

"Don't sweat it, Leo," Josh suggested amiably. "If the guy can take out a nuclear missile, I think he can handle flying our wing."

The Chief of Staff looked from him to C.J. with curiosity. "Your guy?"

"For the sixty-eighth and final time, he is not my guy," she protested weakly, grateful for a momentary break from the surrounding situation.

"Oh, no? True or false–you were with him when you got my page."

Josh had her trapped with that one: if she denied it, she'd have no credible way of explaining her awareness that Harm flew that night.

She rolled her eyes. "Wow, I can see why you were such a strong litigator in your day, Josh. The 'true or false' gambit must work on just about everyone."

"In my day? What am I, thirty-nine going on dead?"

A voice issued from the speakers in the center of the cabin silenced the forced banter.

"Convoy, this is Cheyenne. We've got a blip, tracking south-southeast at altitude two-niner and five hundred knots. Confirm when you see it on your scope."

"Roger, Cheyenne, scanning now," replied an Air Force sergeant seated at one console, his fingers flying over the keyboard in front of him. "Confirmed at twenty-nine thousand feet. Sentry, do you have the bogey?"

"Convoy, Sentry Lead," radioed a familiar voice. "Affirmative. Target at three hundred miles and closing. Who wants to do the honors first?

"It's all yours, Sentry. Try it."

"Will do." Harm's voice was cautiously neutral as he transmitted over standard commercial channels.

"Oceanic Four-One-Nine, this is the U.S. Navy. You are off course and being monitored. Please respond."

Only silence answered him. "Four-One-Nine, respond or we will classify you as a threat. This airspace is restricted."

Nothing. He repeated the warning many times on several frequencies, but with no success.

"Is it possible we're not close enough for them to pick us up yet?" C.J. wondered aloud from her seat. Josh shot her an incredulous look. "You want them to get closer? I was voting for farther, personally."

"Sentry Lead, Sentry Three," a younger voice called. "They're really rude, aren't they Hammer? What do you normally do when someone ignores your hail?"

"Last time the situation came up, I choked the guy's engine with a strategically timed fuel dump and sent him limping for home," Harm said wryly.

There were a few seconds of silence as everybody thought about what Harm had said.

"Given that we're dealing with a 757 and not a Learjet, however, I don't recommend that option here."

"Roger that, sir."

The apparent lightheartedness of their conversation was only the thinnest of facades. They were gravely serious about their mission tonight, and every second that passed brought them another second closer to a confrontation.

"Whoa," said the sergeant, frowning. "Sentry, Convoy–you guys pick up that course change?"

"We saw it," Harm replied tersely. "Looks like they're coming our way after all."

One of the other pilots bit back a curse. "They're erratic as all hell. Whoever is flying is either drunk or –"

"Your mike's all the way hot, Mustang," his leader warned. "Unless you want the President to hear it, I suggest not finishing that sentence."

A short and awkward silence followed. "Um, sorry, sir." The younger man sounded properly abashed. "What next?"

"Well, there are two possibilities here. Either they know we're here and are heading for us on purpose, or it's just a huge coincidence. So how much are we willing to stake on it being the latter?"

"I'm sure as hell not taking those odds."

"Wise man. Two and Four, close up on Convoy's wing. Greenie and I are going hunting."

One fighter from each side of the aircraft peeled off and headed out, presumably toward the mystery airliner.

C.J. busied herself by repeatedly disassembling and reassembling her pen, unnerved by the current plan. She didn't particularly care to continue the agonizing wait as the plane came ever closer, but the idea of Harm charging off to meet it wasn't any less worrying.

How long could this awful silence go on?

In her job, any information was available if you talked to the right person. Here, there was nothing. That there was no way to gain any information about this plane was both infuriating and frightening.

"How could they know we're here?" Sam asked Toby from somewhere behind her. "Is a typical passenger jet equipped to monitor that kind of thing?"

"I doubt it, but I wouldn't rule out the possibility of someone sneaking some type of transmitter on board in a laptop or something," Toby replied. "Besides, we're not exactly running silent ourselves. Most 747s don't travel with a fighter escort."

"You make a good point."

"Convoy, Sentry Lead."

Harm's static-dimmed voice filtered through the speakers. "We're almost in visual range, so if there are going to be any modifications to our rules of engagement, now's the time."

"Stand by, Lead." The sergeant looked up, somewhat anxiously, toward the President.

Bartlet had been quietly hovering in the background, and his only response was a slight nod toward Leo.

The former pilot leaned into the microphone. "Commander, this is Leo McGarry, White House Chief of Staff, I'm here with the President. Your ROE are as follows: Engage the airliner only if it takes a decisive and threatening action toward another aircraft or an apparent target on the ground. Otherwise, you park on his wing and keep trying to hail him until you hit bingo fuel. Is that understood?"

"And acknowledged, Sir. Moving to intercept."

What a difference a year makes, C.J. thought bleakly as she shifted to gaze out the dark window. One year ago, those in authority would have handled the situation as it seemed to be, not like what it could be. The FAA and NORAD would have done their usual aircraft-in-distress procedure, and we all would have heard about it in the morning. Now, we have to believe that disasters are possible, and act as though they're inevitable. God, I miss my ignorance.

"Oceanic Four-One-Nine, this is the U.S. Navy at your one o'clock. Please respond or be classified as hostile."

Nothing. A nervous airman reported, "Sir, they're closing in on the metropolitan Philadelphia area."

"If we're gonna take it down, we can't wait until they're over Philly," Leo said under his breath. "Casualties on the ground – "

"I know how gravity works," Bartlet replied tersely. "How long before they force our hand?"

"Seven minutes, Sir, give or take."

"There's far too much 'give or take' in this whole situation for my liking," the President replied.

"Four-One-Nine, please respond."

Harm's voice was level, but everybody could hear an edge creeping through.

"You've got six and a half minutes, Sentry," stated Leo. "After that, we have to worry about population centers."

There was a pause. "Acknowledged, Sir."

Harm was still furiously thinking through all information and possibilities. Experiences from the years of JAGman investigations were helping him now, as he got an idea.

"Cheyenne or Convoy, can you give me a flight history on Four-One-Nine, from the time you first painted him?"

"Yes, sir," replied the sergeant, puzzled but willing to obey. "Just give me a second."

"Hammer, where are you going with this?"

His wingman, a lieutenant commander named Dave Greene, asked.

"Check your altimeter. We're down around angels two-seven, and our sink rate is pretty unstable."

"You think that means something?"

"Newer jets are fly-by-wire, but 757s still have reversible flight control systems. I'm wondering if they've had some kind of power loss and are flying blind."

At that, the mood inside the E-4B's cabin changed abruptly.

"Is that possible?" Josh demanded. He'd spoken to no one in particular, but the microphone was hot, so Harm answered him. "I'm not sure. I don't fly airliners. But they're flying without wingtip lights, which is fairly nonstandard. If something knocked out their comm' gear and their transponder, it might have knocked out some of their flight systems as well. They might not have any way to know what their altitude and heading are."

"Or they might have killed the lights on purpose, and they might descend to locate a target," Leo warned.

"Also true, Sir."

"Got that data, Lead," the sergeant came back. "They've been wandering between twenty-six and thirty-one thousand feet, but except for that one bank, their heading had been fairly constant."

"Heading's easier to maintain without indicators than altitude is," commented Greene, warming to Harm's theory.

"Sentry Lead and Sentry Three, you're in Philadelphia regional airspace in four minutes," said a disembodied voice from the Cheyenne post.

"Stand by, Convoy. I've got an idea."

Harm switched to his cockpit mike and spoke to his RIO. "Jake, how's your Morse code?"

"Passable, sir. Why?"

"Grab your flashlight and start blinking at them. I saw it working once - maybe we'll get lucky."

"You got it."

The lieutenant retrieved his emergency flashlight and aimed it out through the Plexiglas canopy. "What should I say?"

"Um ... I guess there's nothing wrong with the direct approach. Send this: 'Oceanic Four-One-Nine, do you need assistance?'"

Jake complied, and they and everybody else waited in tense silence to see if they would acknowledge the message.

"Four minutes, Sentry..."

Finally, after three repeats and seconds that felt like years, Harm saw a small, flashing light from the cockpit window of the jet. The sender was not fluent in Morse code, but the simple message was clear:

S - O - S.

He sagged in momentary relief. He told his RIO what to send next. After a few seconds, there was a reply.

Harm toggled his mike. "Cheyenne, Convoy, this is Sentry Lead. We have received a distress call from Four-One-Nine. Request permission from Washington Center to assist them in landing at Andrews."

C.J. closed her eyes with a silent prayer of thanks.

"Granted, Convoy," responded a controller. "Did you receive a radio transmission?"

"Negative–Morse code. We just asked the crew to locate a military passenger or someone with stronger code skills to help explain the situation. Hold on, I think they've got somebody."

Harm watched the light and mentally translated the flashes. "'On auxiliary electric power only ... lightning strike.' No kidding ..."

"Lightning can do that?"

"Not ordinarily, but I guess they'll have to figure the details out later. Convoy, do you intend to return to Andrews as well, or land elsewhere?"

"We'll take Andrews, Sentry. Looks like we can beat you to it by enough time to be out of your way."

"Roger that. Jake, send Four-One-Nine two words: 'Follow us.'"

C.J.'s relief had drained all her earlier nervous energy right out of her, but she knew the ordeal wasn't over. "So they're going to guide this plane in with Morse code?" she asked Leo doubtfully.

"They'll fly his wing and keep in contact with the tower," Leo reassured her. "He just has to stay with them visually."

"Just like that?"

"Not just like that. If their avionics are fried, it could get ugly."

She looked over at him.

"Hey, you asked." Leo shot back a look that clearly said, 'What do you want from me?'.

"Leo, for Christ's sake."

"C.J., I think it'll be fine. I'm just trying to get ready for the aftermath in case it isn't."

"Right."

Her mind spun, putting together possible statements to give the press for each contingency. A heroic mid-air rescue by the President's escorts, or a deadly crash close to the ghosts of last September? Either way, she didn't dare tell the world how close Oceanic 419 had come to being shot down.

As the E-4B descended and executed a flawless landing on the main runway at Andrews Air Force Base, the crew members and assorted staffers all wore a seemingly identical expression. Relief, but not a full release. No one made a move toward the aircraft's doors, even after it had taxied to its assigned place: they were all fixed in place at consoles or windows, expecting and dreading the events of the next few minutes.

At last, the trio of airplanes appeared from the northwest, the comparatively small Tomcats flanking the crippled jetliner. Only the fighters were visible at first, since the larger plane's landing lights were only partially operational. As they neared, one fighter pulled slightly ahead to make an initial pass of the runway, flicking his landing lights to mark the desired touchdown point and then circling to rejoin his charge.

Please, God, C.J. prayed, unable to tear her gaze from them. Don't make me tell the American, Canadian, and French media that we couldn't save their countrymen.

Then, as if in slow motion, the hulking airliner made its approach, and with an F-14 on each wingtip to guide its descent, it gingerly set itself down. The main landing gear overshot the optimal point of impact by only fifteen meters.

The fighters pulled up hard in a textbook touch-and-go, intending to circle once more before landing on an adjoining runway. The 757 jerked to an awkward stop near the end of the strip, wisely choosing not to taxi and take any further risks. Security and an emergency team converged on the plane immediately, leaving the occupants of the idle E-4B to sit in stunned silence.

In the movies, this type of climactic event always seemed to end with an image of people exulting success, cheering and clapping wildly from behind desks or consoles. That didn't happen this time. Instead, all quietly watched as the flight line personnel hurried to assist the shaken passengers away from the plane and into a nearby building.

Eventually, the President was escorted down the stairs toward a waiting limousine, and C.J., feeling numb, descended behind him with the rest of the senior staff.

"Shit," Josh mumbled from just within earshot, noticing the small crowd of television cameras stationed beyond the barbed-wire fence. "We probably ought to let them in before they start broadcasting these pictures and drawing some bad conclusions about it all. You ready to deal with them?" Josh asked C.J.

Hell, no, a voice in her head promptly replied, but it was overruled. "Yeah, I'll do the first briefing from here. The base public affairs office should be able to set it up."

"As soon as somebody wakes them all up." Josh waved a hand toward the first rays of the sun creeping over the horizon. "So far, I'm not crazy about the way this weekend's going."

"Don't come crying to me. I'm the one who has to go on TV now. Tell base security to allow certified camera crews through the gate and send Carol over here with the suit that's hanging in my office."

"You got it. Good luck," Josh said and put a comforting hand on her arm.

As Josh disappeared with the rest of the motorcade, she turned her attention to the row of Tomcats that now sat serenely in front of the main hangar. Maintenance crews and flying officers were efficiently performing the usual post-flight checks and securing their aircraft without pause. Somehow they didn't look nearly as rattled as she felt, C.J. decided while scanning the throng for Harm.

Harm pulled off his helmet, grateful to feel the cool dawn air against his overheated skin. Running a gloved hand through sweat-soaked hair, he accepted a checklist from the young sergeant who'd inspected his bird. It was perversely fascinating to watch the pen tremble ever so slightly in his hand as he signed the form and handed it back. Up there, he'd been as rock-steady as ever. Now that it was over, the magnitude of it all refused to remain ignored any longer. Despite all his experiences, from dog fights to crashes, this one had been very different. He knew this flight would stay with him forever.

"Commander."

He glanced up to see C.J. making her way toward him, a picture of incongruity in gym clothes and a diamond necklace leftover from the previous evening. Then again, he reflected, I'm a lawyer in a flight suit, so I probably shouldn't throw stones.

"Hey," he greeted tonelessly. "Are you trying to maintain decorum with the rank thing, or have I done something wrong?"

"Sorry. I guess there's no point in doing anything for appearances right now."

She could see the faint creases of exhaustion around his eyes and wondered again how he could willingly accept a role such as this. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to understand the context of the question and shrugged. "I did my job, and we got a happy ending this time. Now you get to do your job."

She followed his gaze to the security-flanked news vans that were approaching the operations building. "Want to help me out? I bet they'd be way more excited to talk to you than me."

"Sorry, C.J., you're on your own. After I debrief, I doubt I'll even be coherent enough to drive home. I'll probably pass out in the ready room for a couple of hours until my CO hears about all this and tries to hunt me down..."

He paused in the motion of taking off his gloves, then looked up at her, shaking his head. "Jesus, C.J., that one was close," he breathed.

"I know."

The tension that had come to a head only a few hours earlier had vanished as if it had never existed. They both knew that they would eventually have to talk about what had almost happened, of course. But not now.

"Will I see you Thursday night?" she asked finally, not knowing what else to say.

A hint of a smile flickered across his weary features. "Sure."

"Okay. And by the way – nice job tonight."

He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, and they went their separate ways.