Free Return to Honor by Doug Beason Page B

avionics and maintenance people have all given her the green light.”
    Colonel McGirney grunted and ran a hand along the nose section. “How about the GPS?”
    “Major Laynam cranked it up half an hour ago, sir. The plane knows exactly where she is down to a foot and should get you to Russia with about a ten-centimeter error.”
    “Great. Good job, Mac. Can I bring you anything from Moscow?”
    “Just some more of that Russkie vodka, sir. And Colonel, if you’d pick up a catalog of Russian tea sets for me, I’d appreciate it. I’d like to get something for the little lady next time another one of our birds goes over.”
    “No problem. Just keep the generals happy, Mac.”
    “Yes, sir!” The sergeant pulled up to a salute. McGirney returned it and climbed the aluminum stairs to the flight deck.
    His copilot turned in his seat as McGirney ducked into the cockpit. Major George Laynam twisted a dial above his head and said, “Howdy, sir. All set?”
    “That’s a rog. Crew ready?”
    “Everybody’s up for it. The only problem is that the primary stewards were in an accident late last night. Scheduling pulled two replacements from the pool.”
    “Who are they?”
    Laynam turned to a list and squinted. “Secret Service just okayed these guys: Aquinaldo and Sicat.” He put down the list and turned back to McGirney. “It’s their first trip with us, so things might be a little hectic.”
    “Yeah, I think I met them the other day. Wish I could be there the first time one of them spills coffee on the President.”
    “Right. You’d better keep it down, though, those Secret Service guys can hear through walls.”
    “Good idea.” McGirney stowed his flight bag and moved to the pilot’s seat. They ran down the checklist, finishing up just as the President’s chopper landed a hundred yards to their right.
    As the motorcade approached the plane McGirney jerked his head toward the back. “Let’s start the war—the brass has arrived.” He punched at the mike button.
    “Tower, this is Air Force One requesting permission to taxi once the Frito Bandito is on board.” McGirney used the code word for President Montoya—Mexican cartoon characters, chosen by Montoya himself and his staff to put a little humor into the otherwise dry military procedures.
    The President left his motorcade and trotted lightly up the stairs. A dozen aides, political appointees, straphangers, and Secret Service personnel followed him.
    The radio cackled. “Permission granted, Air Force One. The runway is cleared for your use. Airways are cleared to thirty-five thousand feet, and choose your own heading going out. We’ve got a five-mile radius cleared for you.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “Have a good one, Frito.”
    “Roger that.” Colonel McGirney clicked off the mike and grinned at his copilot. “Ready, George?”
    “Yes, sir. Do you want to take it?”
    “Sure. Make the announcement to the PAX and have the stewards strap in. We’re cleared.”
    “Rog.”
    Engines whining, the plane moved slowly down the taxiway and up to the end of the runway. The tarmac was deserted. They were the only ones around, as all other aircraft had been frozen in place until they had taken off. McGirney waited patiently until Laynam finished with his announcements.
    Once complete, McGirney pushed forward on the throttles and edged the huge jet down the runway. Satisfied that the pressure was holding in the engines, he eased all four throttles forward. Still, the craft seemed to jump out of the starting blocks and bite at the onrushing air. The plane started vibrating, but once they passed eighty knots the ground effect eased the jolting.
    “One hundred … ten … twenty, and rotate.” He pulled back on the wheel, and the plane slipped gently into the air.
    The behemoth seemed to float upward. Laynam pulled up the gears in one fluid motion.
    They continued with the checklist. Reaching twenty thousand feet, they took a short break.
    “Take her on