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  Uncivil liberties

  ( Pug Connor - 2 )

  Gordon Ryan

  Gordon Ryan

  Uncivil liberties

  Prologue

  White House

  Washington, D.C.

  Presidential Inauguration Day

  January, 2013

  Clay Cumberland had been president of the United States for less than two hours when his understanding of the magnitude of the office changed dramatically. Following the inauguration ceremony at noon, the first order of business for the new president-a fulfillment of his major campaign promise-was conducted in the Oval Office amidst great fanfare, in the company of a clutch of key political supporters and the full leadership of the Senate and the House of Representatives. All of them projected their best campaign smiles for network television.

  Inscribing his signature using one of two dozen gold engraved pens-each of which he then distributed to senior officials in the room-Cumberland signed the Aspers-Kendall Health Act, extending expanded health care benefits and a greatly broadened pharmaceutical package to senior citizens throughout the United States.

  The second order of business, accomplished some fifteen minutes later in a much more secluded setting, was not of his choosing and marked an undesired, but immediate, departure from his other campaign promise-to seek peaceful solutions to America’s escalating terrorist problems. Acting as commander in chief, President Clay Cumberland verbally authorized a horrific, unprecedented military action, a decision that would, ultimately, end his presidency.

  Instinctively, President Cumberland knew he would not be in attendance at any of the nine gala inaugural balls planned throughout Washington that evening.

  Chapter 1

  Bird Dog Nine One

  East of Washington, D.C.

  January, 2013

  A three-hour combat air patrol over Washington, D.C., wasn’t bad duty, especially if the shift started at midday. Cruising at 16,000 feet in a loose, forty-mile, counter-clockwise racetrack pattern certainly didn’t tax a pilot’s ability to navigate, least of all Major Harrison ‘Dutch’ Witherspoon’s, leader of Bird Dog Nine One, a flight of four F/A-22 Raptors.

  Deputy Commander of the Air National Guard component assigned as part of the 27 ^th Fighter Squadron, 1 ^st Fighter Wing, Langley AFB, Virginia, Witherspoon had pulled rank to get on the day’s flight schedule so he could observe the crowd gathered for the swearing in of the new commander in chief from three miles above. Security was extremely tight for the inauguration, including combat air patrols overhead, but beyond the hype surrounding a new presidential change of command ceremony, this crisp, blue-sky afternoon in January was destined to be unlike any other day. Or any other mission, for that matter, including the forty-seven combat sorties Witherspoon had flown over Iraq.

  At the age of thirty-six, Witherspoon had traveled internationally, especially while he was on his brief active duty tour with the Air Force, but he was still regarded by his peers as an upper-class home boy-a landed-gentry Virginian who had never left his roots.

  He had a solid Dutch heritage, a result of his New Amsterdam/New York ancestors, the first of whom arrived in America in 1685. Since then, fourteen generations of Witherspoons had prospered in what became a solidly English Tory colony, taking their place among the leading families of the upper and middle-eastern seaboard, eventually moving to the coastal tidewater area, and by the end of the War of 1812, into central Virginia.

  A graduate of VMI with a bachelor of arts in economics and business, followed by a law degree from Georgetown University, Witherspoon had followed his father, a former mayor of Richmond, into politics, and three years earlier had been elected to the Virginia General Assembly. His recently announced plans to run for Virginia’s 1 ^st Congressional District seat had surprised no one, least of all his father. As a partner in Witherspoon, Witherspoon, and Templeton, one of Richmond’s oldest law firms, ‘Dutch’ Witherspoon’s future was, by general consensus, blue chip.

  Appointment to the Air National Guard through Virginia’s “good old boy” network offered, even in hard economic times, two or three sorties a month in a high performance Air Force fighter. Air Guard membership provided the thrills, male bonding, and locker room camaraderie fighter jocks find essential to their well-being. More importantly, membership in the Air Guard had offered the ultimate political resume, at least in Virginia-combat experience in a war zone during the liberation of Iraq, and the requisite air medals.

  He’d even earned a Purple Heart during a temporary assignment following the Iraqi defeat. While he was serving as a ground observer for close air support, and traveling by convoy with a battalion of combat Marines, an improvised explosive device (IED) had detonated, delaying the movement temporarily while minor wounds were attended. The small shrapnel wound Witherspoon received to the left side of his neck required only three stitches, but the Marines, in a jocular ceremony, had declared the Air Force “Weenie” a certified leatherneck.

  All in all, Harrison Witherspoon was the product of the perfect political family in the traditional mold of Virginia aristocracy. Every aspect of his life and his family’s colonial genealogy smacked of military, a genealogy that had almost been wiped out during the Civil War as the family line was threatened when two of the three male Witherspoons were killed. Only Captain Colton Witherspoon, riding with the 43 ^rd Battalion of Virginia Calvary, better known as Mosby’s Rangers, had survived the Yankee onslaught, surviving to become Dutch’s third great-grandfather.

  Dutch’s wife, the former Melinda Phillips, added her own component to his military credentials. She was the eldest daughter of Admiral Tarkin Phillips, recently retired as the Superintendent of the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. According to the party hacks, Harrison Witherspoon’s political “tally points” pointed to nothing less than a sweeping victory in the next congressional elections.

  As his four-ship flight of Raptors assumed patrol over the nation’s capital, Dutch could clearly see the assembled crowds on the streets of Washington dispersing after the inaugural speech, followed by the parade with the ever-present knot of cars and trucks on every major artery of the city.

  The first squadron in the Air Force to convert from F-15s to the hot rod F/A-22 Raptor, the 27 ^th Fighter Squadron had been flying the Air Force’s newest stealth aircraft for four years. Dutch’s wingman on this momentous day, First Lieutenant Teal “Rocky” Simmons, was only five weeks out of Raptor qualification training at Tyndall AFB, Florida, and on only his second Combat Air Patrol, or CAP mission, since being assigned to the 27 ^th. Short, solid, and confident, Rocky’s flat nose betrayed his collegiate boxing career. Class of ’10 at the U.S. Air Force Academy, Lieutenant Simmons was the cadet wing boxing champion and national runner up in the 167-pound class. He was archetypical of the combative, do-or-die warriors that filled the ranks of the 27 ^th Fighter Squadron. The envy of every other pilot, the Raptor had put the 27 ^th in the forefront of America’s first line of defense, and the Fighting Eagles, as they proudly called themselves, were determined to stay there.

  Over a decade into the 21 ^st century, the Raptor was America’s latest entry in the air supremacy race. Despite the absence of any credible enemy air force, the Pentagon’s senior Air Force brass had, nonetheless, applied a full-court press on Congress for at least fifteen years, lobbying the military’s need for the latest “must have” weapon, pressing hard for the full-scale development, testing, and production of a new airship that would boast super-cruise, super-maneuverability, and super-stealth capabilities. Once approved, even the subsequent decision by the Pentagon that the fighter was no longer needed did not stop congressional representatives, in whose district the production occurred, from continuing to
press for further orders.

  Every pilot who was given the chance to take the stick and get airborne in a Raptor emphatically praised the latest generation air weapon. A single-seat stealth aircraft, the Raptor flew effortlessly, and, with its engines’ unique thrust-vectoring nozzles, was capable of nearly unbelievable acrobatic maneuvers. The acceleration of its overpowered engines was astonishing, even to a seasoned fighter pilot. The first production fighter capable of maintaining over Mach 1 without the need for afterburners, and with an operational ceiling of over 60,000 feet, the Raptor could get anywhere in a hurry, limited only by fuel capacity. It was armed with a variety of air-to-air missiles, a 20mm Gatling gun that could fire 6,000 rounds a minute, a state-of-the-art electronically scanned array radar, and a helmet-mounted display to aim its sensors and weapons with a mere turn of the pilot’s head. The Raptor was, by any measure, formidable.

  The weapons package for this day’s domestic CAP mission was the medium range AIM-12 °C missile with its own internal radar to lock onto targets, the incredibly agile AIM-9X short-range, heat-seeking missile, and over 500 rounds of 20mm ammunition.

  Ninety minutes into Dutch’s patrol, the Northeast Air Defense Sector air traffic controller, his primary source of information, unexpectedly contacted him, redirecting his communication to the airborne controller, call sign Chalice.

  “Bird Dog Nine One, this is Whetstone.”

  “Whetstone, Bird Dog Nine One, go ahead.”

  “Bird Dog Nine One, vector east. Bogie bearing 065, range two hundred twenty-five miles. Contact Chalice on three one eight point six.”

  “Bird Dog Nine One vectoring east, switch three one eight point six.”

  “Two!” acknowledged Rocky, his wingman.

  With a dip of his wingtip, Dutch silently signaled Rocky to turn with him toward the northeast, then punched in the new frequency on his digital keypad, switching his radio to the airborne AWACS controller, a military version of the Boeing 767, coordinating all aircraft on patrol that day.

  “Chalice, this is Bird Dog Nine One.”

  “Two!” said Rocky quickly, confirming he was on frequency as well.

  “Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice, go secure.”

  “Bird Dog Nine One,” acknowledged Dutch as he and Rocky switched their radios to a secure, encrypted mode. This could only mean that AWACs had some classified information to transmit. Dutch was hoping for some news of interest to make the monotonous sortie pass a little quicker, but a secure communication was not likely to be a replay of the president’s inaugural address. His pulse quickened.

  “Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice, radio check.”

  “Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One loud and clear,” answered Dutch, despite the fact that the secure radio mode was akin to talking to a deep sea diver through a face mask 300 feet down in the Caribbean.

  “Two, loud and clear,” lied Rocky.

  “Bird Dog, I’ve got you loud and clear. Snap to heading 067. Your bogey is a 747, range two hundred five. We’ve had no radio or transponder response since initial communications.”

  “Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One copies. Bird Dog Nine Three flight will remain on station. Bird Dog Nine One snapping 067 to intercept the bogey.” With that, the third and fourth Raptors in the flight remained on station while Dutch and Rocky swung northeast.

  The Delaware coastline passed beneath them as they headed over the Atlantic. With a few moments’ reflection, it seemed a strange coincidence to Dutch that precisely when the presidential inauguration was taking place, an airliner would approach Washington with its radios and transponder off. He hadn’t seen an airliner with these malfunctions during any of his previous CAP missions. His pulse climbed yet another notch as an adrenalin rush engulfed his body.

  “Bird Dog Nine One flight, push it up!” Dutch ordered as he slammed his throttles forward. Within seconds, he was supersonic, chopping the throttles back to maintain Mach 1.5.

  Ninety seconds later, Chalice called.

  “Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice. Bogey aircraft is KL6051, a commercial 767. Aircraft is renegade. Repeat-aircraft is renegade.”

  Renegade! A hijacking on his watch. Dutch felt instant nausea. The bile rose in his throat, threatening to fill his oxygen mask. He glanced across the narrow space between the two fighter aircraft at his wingman, Rocky, who was monitoring the communication. “Chalice, Bird Dog Nine One copies. KL6051 confirmed renegade. Say mission.”

  “Bird Dog Nine One, mission is to shadow and stand by for further words. Suspect is 067 for one ninety, Angels thirty-three. Report contact.”

  “Bird Dog Nine One copies shadow and stand by for words. Bird Dog Nine One is in radar contact with bogie.”

  White House

  Washington D.C.

  January

  As the cluster of well-wishers began to filter out of the Oval Office following the signing of the new Aspers-Kendall Health Act, Marilyn Cosgrove, the president’s White House chief of staff and the architect of his brilliant, two-point election victory, gave him the look he knew so well: I need to see you.

  Shaking hands with the Senate majority leader as he departed, Cumberland nodded slightly to Marilyn. She then stepped into a small anteroom, accompanied by two men, one in naval uniform. In a moment, the president moved to join them, pausing momentarily as he heard, and then observed, the Marine helicopter landing on the broad lawn.

  Cumberland acknowledged Admiral Thornton Barrington, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Hank Tiarks, the president’s secretary-designee-as yet unconfirmed by the Senate-for the Homeland Security Department.

  “Good afternoon, Admiral. I didn’t expect to see you this quickly. This isn’t another world situation briefing, is it?” he said, extending a handshake and a warm smile.

  “No, sir, Mr. President. I apologize for the interruption to your schedule, but we have an urgent matter at hand. You will have noticed Marine One landing. We need to talk for a moment, then I have to ask you to board the helicopter as quickly as possible.”

  President Cumberland looked toward Secretary-designee Tiarks, who gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and a brief shake of his head.

  “Please explain, Admiral. I have appointments throughout the afternoon and was not advised I would need to leave. I presume you’re the only one in the room who knows what this is all about.”

  “Mr. President, there is a hijacked commercial airliner inbound to Washington. At 1315 hours, air traffic control at Washington Center received a communication from KLM Flight 6051, a civilian 767 en route from Amsterdam to Dulles. At that point they were just over an hour from their projected ETA. Sir, the radio transmission stated that KL6051 was now under ‘Allah’s control.’ The aircraft hasn’t responded since.”

  Cumberland looked toward Marilyn, his eyes displaying his incredulity at such news his first day in office. In fact, his first two hours in office. “You’re telling me this airliner has been hijacked and is headed toward Washington?”

  “That’s what it looks like, Mr. President.”

  “Can you divert it?”

  “Only if the pilot, or whoever is in control, is willing to change direction.”

  “Can’t you direct your fighters to force it to change course?”

  “Sir,” Admiral Barrington said, “No aircraft, military or civilian, can force a very large aircraft to change directions if the pilot doesn’t want to change directions. It’s not as simple as nudging a vehicle off the road.”

  “What do they want?” the president asked.

  “They’ve made no demands. At this point, we’ve only been advised that the aircraft is under hostile control. I’m sorry to be so abrupt with this news, but we have less than…” he glanced at his watch, “… eleven minutes until the aircraft goes feet dry.”

  “Feet dry?” Cumberland asked.

  “He means that’s when it crosses the coastline, Mr. President,” Secretary-designee Tiarks, a former Air Force officer, offered. “What are the president’s options, A
dmiral?”

  “Mr. Tiarks, given the brief time remaining, we have only two options: escort it while they continue to wherever they decide to take it… or shoot it down.”

  “ Shoot down a civilian airliner?” the president said, his face suddenly flushed.

  “Mr. President-” Barrington started.

  “That’s not an option, Admiral,” the president said, his voice now tense, the veins in his neck prominent, his breathing beginning to accelerate.

  “Sir, with all due respect, it’s your only option unless you’re willing to allow him to choose his target.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about? What do you mean, his target?” the president continued, anger welling up in his voice and coloring his face. “What are his objectives?” Cumberland took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

  “Mr. President, he’s already met his objectives. He’s leaving the final choice up to you.”

  Cumberland’s eyes opened wider. “To me? ”

  “Yes, sir. Consider this, Mr. President. A suicide bomber boards a bus in Tel Aviv, detonates an explosive, killing himself… or herself, and five or six people, perhaps wounds another ten. Their mission has been accomplished. When this terrorist, or terrorists-we don’t know how many are on board-gained control of this aircraft, their objective was met. There are only two outcomes: they choose a target, perhaps the White House or the Capitol building or even the Pentagon again, and crash the aircraft into the building. They kill everyone on board the aircraft, plus hundreds or even thousands on the ground. We have no time remaining for evacuation. They know that. They also know that the alternative is for you to order the plane to be shot down before it reaches its target. They know these are your only choices, Mr. President. They’re forcing you to decide, and timing it to coincide with the inauguration is no accident. They know you have to let them crash the plane where they choose, or that you have to order the death of the people onboard the airliner. They’re prepared to die in either case.”