“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005,” he called, using his tail number. “Do you read?”
No response.
“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005. Please acknowledge. I have been instructed to prevent your entry into American airspace. Please acknowledge this transmission.”
For ten seconds there was no response. Dutch reached with his left hand to flip the master armament switch to ARM and squeezed the trigger, letting a few hundred rounds of 20mm fly in front of KL6051’s nose. The noise of the gun was almost as deafening as the silence that followed.
“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005. Acknowledge!”
Witherspoon’s headset crackled with Rocky’s voice. “Dutch, he’s under four minutes to feet dry. Do you want me to arm hot?”
Witherspoon quickly shifted frequency back to Washington Central. “Whetstone, Bird Dog Nine One arming hot. Is there any change of order?”
“Negative, Bird Dog. Proceed as ordered.”
Major Harrison Witherspoon extended the speed brake and quickly drifted to a position roughly a mile aft of KL6051, his thoughts turning to his wife and her effort that morning to change his mind about flying today. She’d wanted to attend the inauguration celebrations in downtown D.C., but he’d been adamant that he needed to fly. She’d taken the kids on her own and left him to his intention, her silence sufficient evidence of her displeasure.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Whetstone. Engage the target!”
“Roger, Whetstone, locked on target.” The warbling tone in his headset confirmed an AIM-9X lock on target, and the AIM-12 °Cs were set to launch as well. The growling of the missile’s infrared seeker grew louder as it shifted lock directly to an engine.
How often had the Fighting Eagles debated this precise moment in the pilot’s ready room at the squadron? How many variables and no-win scenarios had entered the minds of those pilots assigned to Operation Noble Eagle, commenced after the attack on the World Trade Center? And what were the overall objectives of Noble Eagle? To protect innocent civilians on the ground? By killing innocent civilians in the air? Even his wife, Melinda, had cast her vote. As they lay in bed late one night several years earlier, discussing his new assignment, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, her tears trickling down his chest, she had softly voiced her innermost thoughts. “I don’t understand how they can ask you to do this. I couldn’t stand it, Harry. I can’t comprehend the thought of all those people crashing to their deaths from an airliner that Americans… that you shot down. There’s got to be another way. There’s just got to be.” She lifted her head slightly, shifting her gaze to meet his eyes. “Harry, if you were ordered to… to…”
Witherspoon had pulled his wife closer, kissing her forehead, brushing back her soft, auburn hair, and comforting her in this moment of despair. “It’ll never happen again, Millie.” But his words brought little solace as they drifted toward sleep. It could happen again, and they all knew it.
And now it had.
The moment they had all dreaded had arrived. Dutch had drawn the short straw in this lottery of life and death. He knew he could refuse the order, simply fly away, and someone else would have to make the kill once the airliner had crossed the coast, or Whetstone would shift the burden to Rocky, and he would have to carry out the order. In that split second of vacillation, an indecisive moment born of months of mental gymnastics and personal angst, Dutch realized that he had subconsciously determined the end result long ago. If he ran, he would betray his commitment. His career would also be over. His professional life would be destroyed. And if he obeyed his orders, he was equally dead, politically and professionally speaking. He would forever be the man who killed hundreds of civilians with his Air Force jet, and his missiles would not present a good image on the campaign trail.
In the end, it came down to duty. That’s what the Fighting Eagles had determined in their cavalier approach to tough choices. It was fate. They were as good as dead if they were called upon to accomplish such a publicly abhorrent mission. It would haunt them for the rest of their lives, much as it had Colonel Paul Tibbets, the pilot who had dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan. The Fighting Eagles had come to the conclusion, mostly unspoken, that the only way to view it was to accept that it was combat-kill the enemy and die. There was no other honorable way.
KL6051 thundered on, the vacuum behind the giant aircraft attempting to pull the Raptor closer. Dutch could hear his pulse deep inside his inner ears, his heart heaving and thumping deep in his chest. His years of training took over, and in a practiced reflex action, not taken in reality since his sorties over Iraq, he climbed a few hundred feet to position himself above the airliner and loosed three of his six missiles at the behemoth dead ahead.
“Bird Dog Nine One, fox one! Fox two! Fox three!”
Moments later, the inboard engine on KL6051’s right wing exploded with a direct hit, followed by a slow disintegration of the wing. Hunks of jagged metal streaked below Dutch’s Raptor. The fatally wounded airliner lurched to the left as two larger missiles impacted the tail and fuselage, severing the aft third of the huge aircraft. In the stream of suitcases and clothing that followed, Dutch thought he saw two passengers, still strapped to their seats, tumble past.
KL6051 began a steep dive toward the ocean, trailing thick black smoke from its stub of a wing. Bird Dog Nine One with Nine Two in tow followed the shattered Boeing 767 as it gathered momentum in its downward spiral, continuously spewing litter from the gaping hole where there once was a tail. The impact was tremendous, with the water splashing hundreds of feet into the air. It was as if a pod of dozens of whales had jumped high out of the water and flopped as one. Flaming debris could be seen scattered along the surface as they flew past the gruesome impact site.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Whetstone. Report?”
Dutch hesitated for several long seconds. “Splash one…” he responded, his voice weak and distant.
He made three slow circles over the impact site, observing debris now scattered over a two-mile-wide area as Rocky resumed formation with his flight lead. “Whetstone, debris location is north 3861, west 7479… No survivors seen… Bird Dog Nine One returning to
CAP.”
As the flight of two Raptors began to climb away from the scene of the carnage, Lieutenant Simmons watched as Dutch suddenly rolled his aircraft inverted and pulled back down toward the water. Rocky pursued, trying to maintain formation with his flight lead.
“Bird Dog Nine One, this is Bird Dog Nine Two. Dutch, are you okay?”
Silence filled the air for several long seconds before Bird Dog Nine One, Major Harrison “Dutch” Witherspoon, heir apparent to Virginia’s 1 ^st congressional seat, made his final radio call.
“Rocky, tell my family I love them… and I’m sorry.”
Lieutenant Simmons stopped his pursuit and leveled off, watching in horror as Bird Dog Nine One knifed into the cold grayish water, a half-mile short of the deserted Delaware beach.
White House
Washington D.C.
January
At the moment Bird Dog Nine One entered the ocean, Roger Turnbill, the president’s personal physician for nearly a dozen years and the man who had repeatedly warned him-privately, of course-that his heart would not stand the stress of the presidency, rose from beside the chair which held the remains of the former president of the United States. Four Secret Service agents were now also in the room.
“There is nothing further to be done,” Dr. Turnbill said, placing his stethoscope back in his bag. “This time it was just too massive.”
“Resuscitate him. Put him on life support,” Marilyn Cosgrove demanded.
Dr. Turnbill shook his head. “It’s no use, Marilyn.”
Several staff members had gathered in the room. Secretary Designee Tiarks motioned to one of them, a young woman. “Find the vice president.” Rendered speechless by this moment of history, she just nodded and left the room.
Admiral Barrington, thinking along the same lines as Secretary Tiarks but not confident the young staffer
