"Center off, main on," said the copilot, unaware of the chrome-ringed microphone disk that appeared on the floor beside his shoe like a metallic eye opening. It had appeared, as if on cue, when the copilot uttered the word "survive."
Then the clatter announcing the arrival of Marine One and the President caused them to forget their argument and focus on the remainder of their flightline check.
Hours later, over the sparkling blue of the Gulf of Mexico, Fort Worth air-traffic control handed over Air Force One tracking to Mexican air-traffic control in Monterrey.
"Here's where it gets hairy," Captain Flagg warned his copilot. "Just remember. These Mexicans traffic controllers may sound like they understand English, but half the time they don't catch what you're saying. Ask 'em if we can put her down on an oil platform in the Gulf and they'll happily roger the request. Or as they say, 'royer' it.
The copilot laughed. "It can't be that bad."
"They also like UFO reports. Report an in-flight problem and they ask you to confirm it as a UFO sighting. And that's just Mexico. It'll get worse the further south we go. Listen."
Captain Flagg hit his throat mike and began speaking.
"Monterrey air-traffic control, this is Air Force One. Over."
"Air Force One, we welcome you into our airspace. Say your heading."
"Gracias. We're proceeding on a southerly course to Mexico City."
"Royer."
The captain flashed his young copilot a lopsided grin.
"Royer," he muttered.
As the Gulf fell behind and Air Force One came in over the Mexican coast, the copilot looked down. Barren ranges of mountains rolled under the starboard wing, looking for all the world like a herd of dusty brontosauruses had collapsed and petrified there a million years ago.
"Brrr. I'd hate to have to ditch down there," he muttered.
"Royer," Captain Flagg said, laughing.
The U.S.-made Stinger missile destined to bring down Air Force One was built in General Dynamics' Pomona Division and shipped via the CIA to Pakistan and then across the Khyber Pass by pack mule to the Afghan Mujahideen. It lay for an entire winter in a cold cave controlled by the Hezb-i-Islami faction, along with three others, until it was finally brought into service.
A Soviet MIG Flogger was sweeping the desert floor and a rebel commander ordered it shot down. A goatherd-turned-freedom-fighter named Kaitmast brought the Stinger to his shoulder, uncapped it, exposed its optics, and braced himself for the blowback.
The Stinger sat on his ragged shoulder like a length of inert pipe.
Hastily Kaitmast thrust it aside and brought another to his shoulder. That one ignited, sending a rocket racing for the Flogger's glowing yellow tailpipe. The Stinger was designed to home in on the craft's superhot tailpipe. This one instead went crazy, zigzagging all over the sky like spastic skywriting.
The MIG vectored away. The Stinger gave a last sputtering gasp and dropped straight down, denting the top of a mountain.
Kaitmast cursed and drew back a boot to kick the dud Stinger in frustration. His rebel commander stopped him with a word.
"No," he spat. "We can sell it."
Back to Pakistan went the Stinger, where it was bartered to representatives from Iran for AK-47 ammunition. The Iranians, in turn, passed it along to Shiite fighters in Lebanon, where, after a complicated series of events, it fell into the hands of Bishara Hamas, a.k.a. Abu Al-Kalbin. In English, "Father of Dogs."
Among Palestinian terrorists, Abu Al-Kalbin was not a major player. Unlike some terrorists who pretended to be committed to Islamic revolution-and not merely murder and money-Abu AI-Kalbin was for sale to the highest bidder. It was that simple.
But when your nom de guerre is Father of Dogs, bids are usually low, even if you do have possession of an operational Stinger missile.
So when the Cali drug cartel of Colombia contracted with Abu Al-Kalbin for his services, Bishara Hamas indulged in no rug-merchant bazaar bargaining.
"Whatever is it, we-my Krez militia and I-will accomplish it," he confidently told his potential employer over a bottle of Omar Khayyam in his Beirut apartment.
The man who called himself "El Padrino" was dark of complexion, with the shiny black eyes of an Arab. But he spoke with a Spanish intonation as he carefully explained what he desired.
It was nothing less than the extinguishing of the President of the United States.
"Done," said Abu Al-Kalbin, who hated America because all his friends did.
And so it was that the Father of Dogs found himself, with both members of his ragtag Krez militia, crouched in the chilly top of a bare Mexican mountain in the desolate Sierra Madre Oriental range, beneath the air lane where their employer had assured them Air Force One would travel.
The hours dragged by as his men shivered and examined their precious Stinger-now nearly five years old-as if it were their firstborn.
"Put that down, you donkeys!" Abu Al-Kalbin snapped. "It is our only one. If you damage it, we will forfeit our payment. Worse, the prize we have sought for years will never be ours."
The men hastily lowered the Stinger to a blanket, careful not to jar it.
Abu Al-Kalbin brought his night-vision glasses back to his eyes. He had been told to look for an ordinary 707 flanked by F-14 Phantoms flying escort.
He frowned, thinking once again how the escort complicated matters. What if he knocked down one of the Phantoms? No, the heat-seeking missile would seek the closest heat source, the multiengined 707, not the fighters flying high cover.
The night wore on. He wrapped his kaffiyeh more closely around his mouth. He had worn it for disguise purposes-not that he expected to be spotted in this desolation of mountains-but the high thin air was chilling. His stomach rumbled hungrily, and he thought of the tostada he had bought from the street vendor back in Mexico City, only hours before.
He hoped he would eat again soon. Decent food. There were Arabic restaurants in Mexico City. He contemplated a feast in the best of them before the night was over. Lamb. Or stuffed pigeon. Perhaps sorrit issit for dessert. And a bottle of Laziza beer.
Then all thought of his next meal departed Abu Al-Kalbin's thoughts. They careened back to the tostada as, suddenly, urgently, he felt his bowels gurgle in warning.
"I suddenly do not feel well," Abu Al-Kalbin said slowly.
"What is wrong?" asked Jalid.
Abu Al-Kalbin did not answer. He was looking about the barren mountaintop for a bush or shrub to go behind. But there was no vegetation to shelter his modesty.
"I have the turistas," he moaned. "I must do my business here. Both of you-turn your backs!"
And as he began to drop his pants, a distant drone cut the night. Abu Al-Kalbin blinked.
"It comes!" a voice shrieked. It was Walid.
"Not now!" Abu Al-Kalbin cried, his eyes sick as they lifted to the star-blasted Mexican night. "You cannot come now!"
But it was coming now. Just as the smelly contents of his bowels were abruptly erupting onto the ground.
"You must do this yourselves," Abu AI-Kalbin moaned. "I am helpless." He moaned like a wounded cow, seeing his chance for immortal glory running from him like the hot contents of his digestive tract.