To the Death

Airline officials fumed, as flights were made late, landings delayed; but the request had come direct from the White House for SAM 38000 to be treated as if Paul Bedford himself was on board. The fact that it was designated SAM 38000 meant he absolutely was not on board, because that is the code name for Air Force One if anyone else is using the aircraft — Special Air Mission 38000.

Dead astern, around five miles distant, flew a smaller Boeing owned and operated by the National Security Agency. This is not an unusual occurrence, because America’s super-secret intelligence system wishes to know every last vestige of information that might be transmitted anywhere near the President of the United States.

It was not the cheapest operation in the world, since Air Force One alone knocks down around $60,000 an hour in costs. But this Admiral Morgan scenario was way beyond mundane matters like expense. President Bedford wanted him kept safe, and he wanted ironclad security. Dollars were not a consideration.

All the way across the Atlantic from Andrews Air Force Base, east of Washington, the operators inside the NSA jet had swept the skies for sign of a tracking device. And Rick Hunter had slept in peace, dining like a king on New York sirloin and apple pie with ice cream.

There were no other passengers on board, and Rick, who had left Lexington at 4 A.M. (local), had been attended by just two stewardesses. The No. 2 crew, who would fly the aircraft home tonight after the refuel, were at the rear of the cabin, as opposed to the presidential suite in which Rick was ensconced.

The ex-Navy SEAL had been told specifically by Lt. Commander Ramshawe that President Bedford would take care of the transportation, and he sure as hell had done that.

SAM 38000 swooped low over the town of Paisley and touched down at three minutes after 6 P.M. The pilot taxied up to an open, designated place outside the international terminal, and a mobile set of stairs was instantly put into place. Rick exited the aircraft and came down the stairs carrying his CAR-15 light machine gun in an olive-drab-colored holder as if it was a group of salmon-fishing rods.

A customs officer was awaiting him, in company with a Royal Navy lieutenant commander, and both men saluted him. The customs officer put a small discreet chalk marking on both the machine gun case and the duffel bag that Rick carried with him.

Just beyond the group was a red Royal Navy helicopter — the high-speed Dauphin 2 which can, if required, fire Sidewinder AIM-9M air-to-air guided missiles. Rick carried his bag and sniper rifle on board and strapped himself in, and the helicopter immediately took off, heading northwest, straight over Loch Lomond to Loch Fyne and Inveraray.

The Dauphin 2, in battle conditions, is capable of flying at almost 200 mph, and this evening it flew very fast, coming in to land on the lawn of the MacLean residence only thirty minutes after takeoff. Rick arrived at precisely the same time as Lady MacLean, who did not have the slightest idea who he was.

She stood outside the house with three policemen and watched the Dauphin take off, heading back to the Navy base of Faslane on the Gare Loch.

“We assume he’s on our side?” Lady MacLean asked the policemen as Rick walked toward them.

“Oh, yes, m’lady,” replied the young constable in a rich Argyll accent. “We’ve been expecting him. He just landed in Glasgow from America on Air Force One, the president’s private aircraft.”

Annie MacLean’s eyebrows rose. “Good Lord,” she said. “Who is he?”

There was no time to answer that, since Rick had very much arrived. He walked directly toward her and surveyed the slim, blonde-haired, sixtyish Scottish aristocrat who stood before him and said, “Ma’am, I’m Commander Rick Hunter, United States Navy. I believe Admiral MacLean is expecting me.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Lady MacLean, hurriedly. “You just took me slightly by surprise. I’ve only just returned myself.”

“Ma’am, in my trade I’m real used to surprising people,” replied Rick.

“Aha,” said Lady MacLean. “Are you the Navy SEAL my husband told me about?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m actually retired. I’m on special assignment.”

“You look a lot too young to be retired,” she smiled, with the practiced grace of the wife of a very senior Navy commander, a wife who had spent a lifetime trying to put young officers at their ease while knowing perfectly well they were terrified of her husband.

“Oh, I had a lot of family commitments,” he offered. “My dad runs a pretty big thoroughbred breeding farm out in Kentucky, and he kinda needed me.”

“Oh, you must tell me all about it,” she said. “But we’d better get inside. I’m already an hour late, and I expect you would like to get rid of your luggage.”

Rick followed her in, through the open French windows and into a large sunlit room that contained a highly relaxed Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, Admiral Arnold Morgan, and Kathy Morgan, old and trusted friends in comfortable surroundings.