Arc Light by Eric Harry Page A

otherwise black night. In the distance a nondescript building was lit by a single spotlight. The man was unprepared and fumbled with his earphone while speaking to someone off camera. After a few seconds he straightened and said, “Good evening. A few minutes ago—” His report was cut off by the roar of jet engines. The reporter half turned to look over his shoulder. At the right edge of the picture there appeared four brilliant streaks of blue, grouped in two sets of two, making their way toward the center of the screen and away into the distance. The long exhaust flames lifted slowly into the air as the camera zoomed unsteadily in on the dark, nearly invisible aircraft.
    The camera refocused on the reporter, who yelled over the receding noise. “Planes have been taking off here from Dyess Air Force Base a few miles away from our CNN bureau for several minutes! We don’t know what’s going on, we only just got here.”
    â€œDo you know what kind of planes those are?” the anchor-woman asked, her brow knitted.
    â€œI’m not exactly sure,” the reporter said. “It’s very dark. Dyess is home, however, to a great number of bombers, B-l bombers, which on any normal day you can see lined up wingtip to wingtip just over this way.” He pointed into the darkness. A roar erupted again. “Here comes another one!”
    Melissa had seen enough. She grabbed her bag and headed for the car.
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE, MARYLAND
June 11, 0500 GMT (0000 Local)
    Crown Helo landed less than 100 feet from the E-4B, a huge 747, after the high-speed flight from the White House. As soon as Lambert and the President’s entourage exited, the helicopter took off and headed away in the dark.
    As they approached the plane, whose jet engines already whined at a loud volume, Lambert saw another group of men, in military uniform mostly but some in casual civilian clothes, climbing the stairs to the plane’s door. Security troops in blue uniforms bloused into their combat boots and wearing black berets—air police, Lambert guessed—stood at intervals down the length of the aircraft, M-16 rifles at the ready and pointing out.
    The President and First Lady began climbing the stairs, and Lambert and the White House military liaison with the nuclear codes and several Secret Service agents took to the steps behind him.
    Lambert heard, “Everybody on board!” from somewhere below, followed by the sound of running boots as the air police headed for the stairs. By the time Lambert got to the landing at the top, the first pair of men were in line behind him.
    Lambert stepped into the aircraft past another armed air policeman and followed the President into the narrow corridor to the right.
    â€œWelcome aboard, Mr. President. My name is Brigadier General Sherman. I’m in charge of ‘Kneecap’ operations.” The general shook the President’s and then Lambert’s hands. “General Thomas is in conference right now, so let me give you a quick tour of everything here to get you oriented.” He led them down a narrow corridor to the cockpit through the line of air policemen who streamed aboard. The three-man crew was going over a checklist. “There will be ninety-four of us on board this evening,” General Sherman continued. “We’ve got three SAC flight crews, nine men and women, from the 55th Strategic Recon Wing out of Offut Air Force Base, Nebraska. They’re the very best. Then we’ve got another eighteen aircraft crewmen in charge of food, repair, and maintenance.”
    The aircraft began to move, and the President said to the flight crew taxiing the great aircraft in a cheerful, campaign voice, “Don’t you think you boys oughta open the shades?”
    Lambert craned his neck to see into the cockpit. The windows were all covered with a thick, white shade. Mounted between the pilot and copilot, a glowing television screen