Bartholomew held his systems analyzer in the palm of his hand, tapped into the main terminal of the aircraft while a dour Secret Service agent peered over his shoulder. His fingers flew over the keys, making minute adjustments, aligning the computer interfaces. There were fifty-one individual electronic systems on Air Force One. Seventeen separate systems with triple redundancy. Any failure immediately initiated a backup. In the rare event that the backup failed, there was the third system. It had never been needed. He monitored the readouts on the systems analyzer, a Beck-Dibden DB9. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn it was his own.
Bartholomew had no idea how Eagleton had done it, but the man had made an exact match of Bartholomew’s DB9, even down to the serial numbers etched into the microscopic components. Same wear patterns as his old one. Same digital history. His own DB9 had been a gift from his father upon his graduation from advanced training five years ago. Cost enough to buy a house, enough to put his father in debt for years, but his father never looked happier than when Bartholomew opened the box. Bartholomew had prostrated himself in gratitude before his father, his tears soaking the carpet. A week ago…a week ago, after getting this one from al-Faisal, he had taken the ferry to Bainbridge Island and tossed the gift from his father overboard halfway across the Sound.
The DB9 beeped. Bartholomew showed the screen to the Secret Service agent, then disengaged the unit. He bowed to Peterson, then sat in the jump seat, while the other inspector did his own check, watched over by another Secret Service agent. Peterson wouldn’t find anything amiss. Allah willing.
Bartholomew belted himself in, then looked out the window at the refueling trucks on their way back to the terminal. He was astounded at how calm he was. From the other side of the curtain, he could hear the president telling a joke to the assembled reporters. Their laughter disgusted Bartholomew. He turned back to Peterson. The man was utterly serious. Focused. He might be an idolatrous modern looking forward to the sins available in Mexico City, but at this moment he was a dedicated, superbly trained professional.
Peterson showed his DB9 to the Secret Service agent and sat down in the jump seat opposite Bartholomew. He clasped his seat belt. Nodded at Bartholomew as the plane started moving.
Bartholomew watched the tarmac roll past, faster and faster, the big jet rapidly gathering speed. He felt as though he were beginning his ascent into Paradise.
Rakkim pointed and Spider turned, the two of them watching the president’s jet rising above the city. Not a plane in the sky other than Air Force One and the six fighter jets providing an escort. People in the surrounding houses walked out into their backyards, shading their eyes with their hands. Most of them crossed themselves. Even with all that had happened, the constant religious tension and steady decline in the quality of life, President Kingsley was the only politician that drew support across all classes and faiths.
Rakkim clasped his hands toward Air Force One. “Salaam alaikum.”
“Shalom,” said Spider.
“Mr. President!” Sarah pressed a finger against her ear link. Static. “Sir!” She was one of only a dozen people who had a direct link to the chief executive. Day or night she should have been able to reach him on this emergency frequency. She stared at the holographic image of the gold airplane on the screen. “Sir!” The gold airplane’s cockpit was filled with fire, and the frightened pilot looked just like the president. “Mr. President?” Static. Sound of electronic snow drifting higher and higher.
Bartholomew stared out at the city below, the neat grid of streets and skyscrapers, the lush green parks…the golden dome of the Great Mosque. It was never more beautiful than now. The great engines of the jet thrummed all around him, the power of man, dwarfed only by the will of Allah.
He slipped off his watch. Time was irrelevant now. He saw Peterson watching him and turned again to the window. Faint static filled the air, every electronic device in the plane overwhelmed by the chaff-Air Force One generated a stream of jamming frequencies across the spectrum on takeoff and landing to prevent a missile attack.
Bartholomew thought of his mother and father down below…in a small house off Green Lake with a neatly trimmed yard and a rusting basketball hoop over the garage. He hadn’t lived at home for years, but his father kept the hoop up anyway. Said he liked to look at it as he left for work in the morning. Bartholomew was their only son, their greatest joy. He hoped they were not looking up in the sky right now, following the president’s progress. He should have been proud of his handiwork, his small part in the vast design, but Bartholomew was weak. He hoped his parents were busy with other things.
“Mr. President!”
“Sarah?” More static. “-that you?”
“Mr. President, thank God.” Tears rolled down Sarah’s cheeks. She could see her mother in the doorway, holding Michael in her arms. Leo stood beside her. “Mr. President, order your plane to land, now.”
“Sarah…” Static crackled, then cleared. “What’s wrong?”
“Please order your plane to land, sir. I don’t care where, just put it down.”
“Yes…yes, of course.”
Sarah heard the president order the pilot to land, his voice steady. Then she heard…silence. All the static of the transmission was gone. All that remained was the president’s voice, perfectly clear, saying, “That’s odd.” And the pounding of her heart, getting louder.
“Mr. President? What’s happening, sir?”
The president cleared his throat. “It seems…we seem to have lost power.”
Bartholomew listened to the nervous whispers from the rear of the plane. The prayers.
A Secret Service agent jerked him from his seat, pushed him toward the main console. “Fix it.”
Peterson was already at work with his DB9, trying to make a connection.
Seventeen separate networks, triple redundancy. Yet, exactly eighteen minutes after Bartholomew had run his preflight diagnostic, every system went dead. Irrevocably dead. The secret was a molecular timer inserted with Eagleton’s DB9. Perfectly normal until eighteen minutes later, at which point the whole system fried.
The floor of the plane tilted down. The pilot performed brilliantly of course, but he had no stabilizers, no engines, no wing flaps, no communications. He had nothing…but a heavy piece of metal, and gravity was calling. The floor tilted farther…farther.
The Secret Service agent kicked Bartholomew in the ass. “Do something.”
Bartholomew fell to his knees, pressed his forehead against the cool carpet, and offered his devotion and praise to Allah, and the Wise Old One who served him.
And as for him who was outrageous and preferred the life of this world, verily, hell is the resort!
But as for him who feared the station of his Lord, and prohibited his soul from lust, verily, Paradise is the resort!
“I saw…I saw it on TV,” panted Colarusso, out of breath. “You know what’s going on?”
Spider shook his head, focused on the small, silver shape that was the president’s plane. He watched as it rolled over, spinning slowly as it fell.
Rakkim ran down the stairs.
“It’s quite all right, Sarah.” The president sounded relaxed. At peace.
“Send out a Mayday-”
“We have no communications at all.” The president chuckled. “It’s just you and I, dear girl.”
Sarah could hear weeping in the background. “The ejection pod-”
“A total systems failure, according to the pilot,” said the president. “There may be some mechanical explanation…or it could be our enemies have finally succeeded.”