networks, or their senior representatives, to meet with me. Tom Scott has just informed me they are here. I’m going to ask them to play down as much as possible the ultimatum given to us by the President. The last thing I want is for the country to panic, so we’ll need maximum restraint from the media.”
As the opposition leaders rose to go, George Foot said, “Well, I wish you luck, Prime Minister. You’ll do well to keep the press under control with a news story as big as this one. But you can rest assured that I and my party will do nothing to make this situation more difficult. If we stand together we will show the President that we have some muscle too.”
Washington / 10:22 a.m., EDT
The President loped across the green lawn of the White House toward the huge Navy helicopter waiting for him, its blades already starting to turn.
A tall, angular, athletic man, he moved quickly and decisively. His white hair blew wildly in the down-draught from the idling blades as he entered the door, followed by a retinue of six aides and secret service agents, all lugging their briefcases and green army-issue parkas, a strange sight on a warm autumn morning in Washington.
The President acknowledged the salute of the chief crewman as he entered the aircraft. He shoved his mane of hair back in place. As he walked toward the cockpit of the monster helicopter, he stripped off his coat and threw it on one of the passenger seats. Without breaking stride, he ducked his head as he entered the cockpit.
“Are we all set to go, Mac?”
The pilot replied, “Yes, we are, Mr. President. I’ve got all the taps on, and we’ve got traffic clearance across to Dulles at 3,000 feet.”
“O.K., let’s go. I’ll ride as a passenger on this one.”
Flying the helicopter, flying Air Force One, flying anything he could get his hands on was an enormous release for the President. He had been a pilot, and a first-class one, from the time he was twenty, when he joined the USAF. He had become one of their top fighter pilots in the European theatre, flying P51’s in the Eighth Air Force as escort for the B17 Flying Fortresses. During his tour of operations he had shot down eight enemy aircraft and eventually had commanded his own squadron. There were times when, after long escort flights of six or seven hours, the ground crew would have to lift him out of the airplane. He would be so stiff from being cramped into the small cockpit that he couldn’t move.
After the war, when he had graduated from law school and started to practise law in Houston, he kept up his flying. He had also begun to take part in his family’s oil business, and the firm’s fleet of aircraft provided him with an opportunity to maintain his standards. Even now, at the age of fifty-nine, the President of the United States flew as often as he could.
After the short hop from the White House lawn to Dulles, the helicopter set down with a bit of a bump about fifty yards away from the enormous silver Boeing 747, Air Force One, which was sitting waiting for him on the ramp. He and his six companions immediately transferred to the giant aircraft to join the large staff already on board. The President went directly to the cockpit.
The captain of the 747, Colonel Mike Wypich, with whom the President had flown so many times, had Air Force One set up for him in the usual way and was just completing the pre-flight checks. Finally Wypich said, “It’s all yours, sir.”
The President responded, “Good.” Then he changed his mind. “No, you taxi out, Mike. I need practice in taking down the clearance.”
He called Dulles Ground Control for taxi clearance, then switched to Departure Control for flight clearance. Both came through immediately. The President’s pen moved rapidly as he copied down the details on his route pad. When the controller had finished reading the message to him, the President read it back to confirm that he had it correct. “ATC clears Air Force One to the Resolute Bay airport via direct Westminster, Jet 75 Plattsburgh, high level 567 Montreal, high level 570 Chibougamau, high level 572 Poste de la Baleine, INS direct Resolute, to maintain flight level 410. Depart Runway One right. After take-off maintain runway heading for radar vectors.”
The voice of the Air Controller came back. “Your clearance checks. Go to Dulles tower frequency now.” Then, in a rare lapse of procedure, the controller said to one of his buddies, “Hey that sounds like the man himself!” The President chuckled as he dialled up Dulles tower on the radio and took control from Mike Wypich.
At 10:32 Eastern Daylight Saving Time, the President got the huge 747 smoothly off the ground, rotating to pick it up cleanly at 160 knots. He climbed away on runway heading in accordance with his clearance.
The captain raised the landing gear on signal and changed over to departure frequency, contacted Departure Control, and received instructions to turn left to a heading of 350 degrees for vectors to the Westminster VOR. The President started a gentle left turn, and after rolling the 747 out on the assigned heading, asked for the after-take-off checks.
The route Air Force One was to follow today would take it over Albany and Plattsburgh, and then on northward over Canadian air space to Montreal’s St. Eustache VOR, Chibougamau, Poste de la Baleine on the south-east coast of Hudson Bay, and then across Hudson Bay and the Boothia Peninsula on a course directly to Resolute Bay, on the 747’s Inertial Navigation System.
When the aircraft reached its assigned flight altitude, the captain and engineer settled it to cruise at 480 knots. At that point the President said, “Give me your ETA for Montreal, Mike, so that I can report as we pass over Albany VOR. When I’ve done that she’s all yours. I’ve got to get back and get to work again.”
The Albany VOR station was Air Force One’s first check-point where, by international flight rules, they were obliged to report to the air traffic control people their position, altitude, and their estimated time of arrival (ETA) at the next check-point.
The captain responded immediately, “ETA over Montreal is 11:35, sir.”
“Check.”
As the big aircraft sliced through the clear air on course and at designated altitude, the President checked his flight director instruments and his radio magnetic indicator needles. Their VOR receivers were tuned in to a frequency of 117.8 MHz, and as the aircraft passed over Albany the RMI needles moved from pointing towards the nose of the aircraft through 180 degrees until they pointed to the tail. Observing this station passage, the President pressed his transmitter switch and spoke into the microphone. “Boston Centre, this is Air Force One. Over.”
The reply was instantaneous. “Air Force One, this is Boston Centre. Go.”
“Air Force One is by Albany at 11:08, flight level 410 IFR, estimating Montreal at 11:35 en route to Resolute Bay.”
“Roger. Air Force One, we read two fast-moving aircraft your altitude at this time, moving your direction on intercept course about 50 miles from you at one o’clock position.”
“Roger,” the President replied. He turned to the captain. “You get that, Mike?”
“Yes, sir, I sure did. We’ll keep an eye open.”
“O.K.,” the President said. “You have control. I’m going to go back to my paperwork. I have to address the nation from this old bird at 12:30, and I’ve got to find out what my staff want me to say. You know how much us Texans like to be told what to say.” The President’s long angular face broke into a grin.
The captain laughed. “I sure do, Mr. President.”
With
