Executive orders - Tom Clancy [60]
WHAT'S THAT FOR? Cathy was wearing a crash helmet with full connections into the helicopter's intercom. She pointed at another aircraft fifty yards to their right rear. We always fly with a backup aircraft, ma'am. In case something breaks and we have to land, the pilot explained from the right-front seat, we don't want to delay you unnecessarily. He didn't say that in the back-up helicopter were four more Secret Service agents with heavier weapons.
How often does that happen, Colonel?
Not since I've been around, ma'am. Nor did he say that one of the Marine Black Hawks had crashed into the Potomac in 1993, killing all hands. Well, it had been a long time. The pilot's eyes were scanning the air constantly. Part of VMH-1's institutional memory was what had seemed to be an attempted ramming over the California home of President Reagan. In fact it had been a screwup by a careless private pilot. After his interview with the Secret Service, the poor bastard had probably given up flying entirely. They were the most humorless people, Colonel Hank Goodman knew from long experience. The air was clear and cold, but pretty smooth. He controlled the stick with his fingertips as they followed I-95 northeast. Baltimore was already in view, and he knew the approach into Hopkins well enough from previous duty at Naval Air Station Patuxent River, whose Navy and Marine helos occasionally helped fly accident victims. Hopkins, he remembered, got the pediatric trauma cases for the state's critical-care system.
The same sobering thought hit Cathy when they flew past the University of Maryland's Shock-Trauma building. This wasn't her first flight in a helicopter, was it? It was just that for the other one she'd been unconscious. People had tried to kill her and Sally, and all the people around her were in jeopardy if somebody else made another try-why? Because of who her husband was.
Mr. Altman? Cathy heard over the intercom.
Yeah, Colonel?
You called ahead, right?
Yes, they know we're coming, Colonel, Altman assured him.
No, I mean, is the roof checked out for H-60?
What do you mean?
I mean this bird is heavier than the one the state troopers use. Is the pad certified for us? Silence provided the answer.
Colonel Goodman looked over at his co-pilot and grimaced. Okay, we can handle that this one time.
Clear left.
Clear right, Goodman replied. He circled once, checking the wind sock on the roof of the building below. Just puffs of wind from the northwest. The descent was gentle, and the colonel kept a close eye on the radio whips to his right. He touched down soft, keeping his rotor turning to prevent the full weight of the aircraft from resting on the reinforced-concrete roof. It probably wasn't necessary, of course. Civil engineers always put more strength into buildings than they actually needed. But Goodman hadn't made the rank of bird-colonel by taking chances for the fun of it. His crew chief moved to pull the door open. The Secret Service agents went first, scanning the building while Goodman kept his hand on the collective, ready to yank up and rocket from the building. Then they helped Mrs. Ryan out, and he could get on with his day.
When we get back, call this place yourself and get the rating on the roof. Then ask for plans for our files.
Yes, sir. It just went too fast, sir.
Tell me about it. He switched to the radio link. Marine Three, Marine Two.
Two, the orbiting backup aircraft responded at once.
On the go. Goodman pulled the collective and angled south off the roof. She seems nice enough.
Got nervous just before we landed, the crew chief observed.
So was I, Goodman said, I'll call them when we get back.
THE SECRET SERVICE had called ahead to