"One of you! Just one!" Abu Al-Kalbin shouted.
Walid wrestled the Stinger from his fellow, Jalid. He hefted the clumsy black tube to his shoulder, removed the cap which came off too easily, he thought and sighted.
"I have it!" he shouted, spotting Air Force One in the optical sight. It was a winged shadow studded with lights.
"Do not hesitate! Launch!" Abu Al-Kalbin shouted, his face miserable with shame.
Walid triggered the Stinger. The protective tube kicked, expelling its contents. The first stage carried it away. The second stage ignited, sending it screaming into the night like a Roman candle.
At his electronic nest aboard Air Force One, Electronics Warfare Officer Captain Lester Dent spotted the heat source far below. Then the radarscope picked up an incoming object.
"Something coming at us," he shouted to the flight crew. "This sucker is traveling!"
"Disengaging autothrottle," Captain Flagg said, taking the plane off autopilot. He took immediate evasive action, hitting the right rudder. The big four-engine jet heeled sharply.
"Deploying phosphorous bombs!" Dent called out. From pockets in the aircraft's skin, phosphorous bombs were ejected. They ignited, providing convenient targets for any heat-seeking device.
Unfortunately, the five-year-old Stinger, improperly stored and manhandled for much of its life, was not homing in on anything in particular. It zigzagged for one sputtering phosphorous bomb, careened past it, and vectored back in the direction of Air Force One.
"Monterrey ATC," Captain Flagg called urgently. "I have a problem."
"Roger. Are you declaring emergency?"
"Affirmative, Monterrey. Advise we are at thirty-two thousand feet and taking evasive maneuvers to evade unknown approaching object."
"Are you reporting UFO?"
"No, dammit. I don't know what this thing is!"
"UFO. Royer, Air Force One," Monterrey said laconically.
"Dammit," Captain Flagg muttered, feeling the flying wheel go stiff in his hands. "Oh, my God!" he said.
"What?" gasped the copilot.
"The wheel. It's not responding."
"Hydraulics are fine," the copilot said, looking at his array of warning lights. They were amber, not red.
"It won't move."
"I'll try mine."
Before the copilot could take over, his flying wheel moved of its own accord.
"You got it?" the captain asked.
"No."
"What?"
"I'm not touching it," the copilot snapped. "See for yourself."
Captain Nelson Flagg looked over to the copilot's wheel. It was moving to port, putting the aircraft into a slideslip.
"What the hell is happening here? She's flying herself."
"Let's try to bring her back together."
The captain and the copilot put their shoulders into it, trying to hold their wheels steady. The wheels moved as if unseen hands had control of them.
"No go!" the copilot said in defeat.
"This damn ship!" Flagg grated.
Then he forgot all about his cursing as a sputtering incandescent object shot up past their windscreen and, turning sharply, came right at them.
The elevators abruptly moved of their own accord, throwing Air Force One into a steep dive. The approaching rocket disappeared from view.
"I lost it!" the copilot barked, craning to see out his side window. He caught a flash of one F-14 coming around, and only then became aware of the pilot's anxious chatter in his earphones. He ignored it, thinking, where'd that bogey go?
Then a flash of light burst off to starboard. The aircraft shuddered and the controls seized up.
Three red lights lit up, accompanied by the enginefire warning bell, shrill and insistent.
"Number four engine," the copilot called hoarsely. "EPRS on one, two, and three dropping fast."
"Fire the bottle and shut it down," Captain Flagg said crisply. Into his mike he said: "Monterrey. Monterrey. This is Air Force One."
"Royer. Go ahead."
"I am declaring a special emergency at this time. We're going to have to make an emergency landing in the desert."
"Royer. Happy landings, Air Force One," Monterrey said unconcernedly.
"Did he understand what you just said?" the copilot asked Flagg.
"No," returned Captain Flagg, looking down at the intensely black wrinkled mountains that were coming up to greet him. He hit the ident button, which automatically doubled his radar blip for Monterrey's benefit, and switched the transponder to emergency frequency. He wondered if it would matter.
In his private compartment, the President of the United States had already assumed the crash position -crouched over, hands on ankles and head between his knees-when he heard the mushy whump! of the explosion.
It had all happened so fast. A steward had come in to say there was a problem. That was all his Secret Service guards needed. They were on him like reporters, practically smothering him with their bodies, pistols raised ineffectually, looking at one another in sick fear.
"What was that?" one croaked.
"Explosion. "