pony’ show, if you’ll recall. But the next time you come begging for my vote for your farm subsidies, I’ll make you grovel for five hours-while staying awake.”
With the five members of the U.S. Congress securely seated aboard the aircraft, Mrs. Albertson, still inside the departure area, continued her frantic search for the youngest of her three children. As she pleaded with the United Airlines’ gate attendant to delay the flight while she retrieved the wayward child, Mrs. Albertson’s anxiety level was rising rapidly. Final boarding announcements had sounded in the small airport terminal, located on a flat mesa amid the lush, green, rolling hills west of Salinas.
“We’ve got to make our connecting flight in San Francisco. Please give me a few moments,” the woman pleaded.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” the young female ticket agent replied. “We have another flight at 6:20. That flight will also give you sufficient time to connect, and we have available seating. Perhaps we can locate your child by then, but I have to release this flight.”
“Oh, if you must,” the woman said, exasperation in her voice. “Where in the world can that boy
Given the signal from the ground crew, Captain Anderson started the number-one engine, wheeled his aircraft toward the taxiway, and pulled away from the terminal. By the time they had reached the end of the runway and obtained takeoff approval from the tower, Mrs. Albertson’s youngest child, Benjamin, age three, was located in the rear of the small restaurant facility, happily enjoying a large dish of ice cream. His story of a nice man with “pictures on his arms” giving him ice cream and a stuffed doggie to play with went unheeded. All he earned for his absence was a stern rebuke from his mother for the unnecessary delay.
At the far end of the concourse, Otto Krueger took one last look at the commuter flight departing the gate area and slipped through the revolving doors, content that he had done his requisite good deed for the day.
Jean Wolff and Jackson Shaw drove their golf cart away from the 18th green at Pacific Grove Golf Course and parked beside the cart path. Adjusting the earpiece in his left ear, Wolff commenced to add up their scores while Shaw emptied his pockets of tees, an extra ball, and a sweat-stained golf glove.
“Seventy-eight,” Wolff said, nodding his head. “It seems you’ve had time for a bit more than brigade duties over the years, Jackson. That’s an impressive score for your first time on this course.”
“If not for that sixteenth and the-”
Wolff suddenly held his hand up for silence, pushing the earpiece further into his ear. Shaw waited quietly.
“Wheels up,” Wolff said and started the cart again, driving clear of the trees and looking out over the ocean toward the marina. “About three minutes now.”
Flight 2340 lifted clear of the runway, gaining airspeed and altitude as it flew due west over the ocean and above Monterey Bay. Dozens of yachts, both sail and motor, filled the Breakwater Cove Marina. Representative Mary Elizabeth Hopkins looked down at the scene, her thoughts running to earlier days before her husband’s death. Sailing had been one of their joys and until his untimely heart attack, had provided far more than five hours of pleasurable entertainment. Many times over the years they had sailed south from Marin County and been hosted by friends at Breakwater Cove.
But times had changed. All those people below were lost in a world she had long forgotten, trapped by her congressional duties. The plane banked north, beginning its run up the California coast to where it would cut east just above San Jose and begin the approach into San Francisco International. Perhaps, she thought, looking out the window at the coastline off to her right, once they were able to put an end to this secession business, she would vacate her seat and return to enjoy her grandchildren and to instill in them the same love for the sea their grandfather had possessed. Life was too short for constant political commitment, and her family deserved her attention ever so much more than her constituents, didn’t they? And what about her? Hadn’t she earned some rest after running full speed nearly eighteen years in Congress, all of them without Hank?
Jean Wolff stood beside the golf cart, looking up as United Express Flight 2340 completed its banking turn and leveled at about three thousand feet, heading due north. Approximately two miles from shore, its flight path paralleled the coast line, and Wolff could see the aircraft only by shielding his eyes from the sun as it completed its twilight journey into the sea.
From a pocket in his Titlest golf bag, Wolff retrieved what appeared to be a small transistor radio and extended the antenna. Without a word spoken between the two men, Wolff pressed a small, brown button on the face of the device, and an immense flash appeared in the sky, the sound reverberating some seconds later.
United Express Flight 2340 disappeared from radar scan just as Captain Anderson switched radio frequency to San Francisco control.
“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the Six O’ Clock Eyewitness News. A devastating tragedy has struck our nation this evening as multiple assassinations have occurred throughout California and other parts of the country. Reports are still coming in, but at present we have confirmed that seventeen of California’s fifty-two congressional representatives have been the victims of assassination attempts. Fourteen are confirmed dead, and three are wounded and under medical care, with one in critical condition. All seventeen were party to the class action suit filed with the U.S. Supreme Court last month in an attempt to overturn the secession vote.
“In a call to this network, the Western Patriot Movement has assumed responsibility for the attacks, claiming that these congressmen and women have failed to listen to the will of the people. President Eastman has ordered around-the-clock Secret Service protection for the remaining members of California’s congressional delegation. At the site of perhaps the most devastating single attack, we go now to Sally Todd, at the Breakwater Cove Yacht Club, in Monterey Bay, where dozens of vessels were used in search and rescue attempts, looking for any survivors of a United Airlines commuter flight with five congressional members aboard. Sally, are you there. .?”
“This is Colonel Connor,” Pug said, taking the telephone from his sister’s outstretched hand.
“Pug, it’s George Granata. Have you seen the news?”
“Yes. I’m in Christchurch with family, and we’re watching the Fox News live feed right now. The news is shaky. How bad is it actually?”
“Fourteen dead at the moment, in California and here in Washington. We’ve put the others under close security, but six are still unprotected. We haven’t located them yet. The president called and said it’s time to get our operation in gear. How soon can you make it back?”
Pug glanced at his watch. “It’s just after one, Wednesday afternoon here. I can be on the evening flight out of Auckland. I’ll have my sister call you at home tonight and confirm my departure, but I should be there by tomorrow evening.”
“Good-come straight to D.C. I’ll have two agents meet your flight at National. Do you want them to take you home, or shall I book you a room?”
“I’ll go home, George. I need some different clothing.”
“Fine. The agents will take you, and I’ll ask Wendy to put a casserole in your fridge.”
“Your wife is a saint, George. If she includes a piece of her coconut pie, don’t you dare eat it before I get there.”
“I’ll tell her,” Judge Granata said. “Ambassador Prescott has set up a meeting of involved parties for Thursday morning, and she wants you there as well. The ATF ambush and now this blatant attack seem to be an open declaration of war, Pug.”
Pug glanced at the muted television set and the scenes of floating aircraft pieces being retrieved from Monterey Bay. “It would seem so. See you tomorrow, George.”
At six-thirty Thursday morning, having gained a day crossing the International Date Line on his return from New Zealand, Pug Connor stood on the front porch of his Virginia home and waited for George Granata to exit his house next door. Although neighbors for over a dozen years, it was the first time they had arranged to go to work together. George exited his front door and walked over to where Pug waited.
“Welcome home, neighbor. Did you have a good flight?”
