Secession: The Storm (18 page)

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” he anxiously broadcasted, just as the front wheels slammed back into the concrete runway. One of the dual front tires exploded on impact, the strut supporting the landing gear snapping in half a fraction of time later. Men no longer controlled the massive machine.

The 757 was nose down, scraping along the runway at over 160 miles per hour. She began to pull right, the forces of gravity and motion turning her into a giant, slow-spinning Frisbee. Her groundspeed was still in excess of 130 mph when her tortured belly vacated the concrete, now skidding across grass and weeds.

She was still doing over 80 when she slammed into the woods that surrounded the airport. The port wing snapped off, a fiery ball of red flame and black smoke exploding as the full tanks of fuel ignited.

Bleeding off velocity, the fuselage began climbing the trees, rather than crushing them, a growing pile of wood, plowed earth, and debris gathering under the body.

Finally, half tilted onto her starboard side, she came to rest.

Despite the spectacle lasting only a few seconds, Abe experienced one of the most intense emotional rollercoasters of his life.

He first flashed with anger, thinking he’d missed both shots. That feeling was quickly replaced with fury… the elevation and distance making it seem like the pilot was actually going to keep the aircraft under control. A microsecond later, when the flames appeared on the wing, he relaxed.

Bliss ruled his heart when the aircraft began spinning down the runway, clearly out of control. Apprehension replaced elation when the stricken plane left his line of sight, shortly thereafter replaced with satisfaction when the huge ball of black smoke and bright flash of an explosion appeared on the horizon.

After experiencing such a broad range of emotions in a matter of seconds, he became rather stoic, lying in his hide, and taking it all in. “I should feel some guilt,” he whispered to the empty attic. “But I don’t. What have I become?”

Realizing it wasn’t the time for deep soul-searching, he began packing his equipment. He pocketed the two discharged shell casings, glanced around one last time to make sure he wasn’t going to make it easy for the authorities, and then proceeded down the ladder.

As his truck calmly passed through the subdivision, he chanced one last glance toward the billowing column of dark ash on the horizon. A smirk crossed his face as he imagined the flames and utter chaos inside the plane.

He visualized piles of charred corpses, unable to resist comparing the scene to that of his father’s house so many years ago. His family members had burned after being torn apart by violence. It only seemed fair, a gratifying eye for an eye.

Waves of pain crashed Heidi’s consciousness like a mighty tempest pounding ashore. The agony surging through her body demanded she inhale, but each lung-full burned like an internal inferno. Opening her eyes commanded similar torture, the cabin’s air thick with smoke.

I’m going to die
, she somehow reasoned through the fog of physical torment.

And then someone was there. She was aware of the touch of human hands followed by a sense of weightlessness. Another throbbing shock rattled her brain when someone lifted her from the seat… and then was carrying her like a small child.

The Secret Service agent who found her was an ex-Division I linebacker, just a hair too slow to make the pros. Mrs. Clifton’s weight was nothing to the stout man, his primary problem being the inundated cabin, boiling-thick with toxic fumes and unbreathable air.

It was a heroic effort, the lopsided passageway, unbolted seats and scattered bodies providing a horrific obstacle course. His muscles pumped with adrenaline-powered determination. The goal was the exit – he had to make it.

Finally, the red sign came into view, its appearance announcing nothing less than a new chance at life.

He set his protectorate down, leaning her body against a pile of crumpled seats. Flames licked at his suit, the jacket-wool on his back beginning to steam with the heat. It felt like someone was holding a blowtorch against his skull.

He identified the emergency handle and pressed it, but it didn’t budge. He kicked with all of his weight, forcing the door to spring on its hinges. He heard, more than saw, the emergency shoot inflate.

Sunlight appeared through the portal, a wisp of fresh air providing relief to the agent’s tortured lungs. He snatched up Heidi, turned to the yellow emergency slide, and jumped.

The steep angle and rapid descent left them in a tangled heap at the bottom. Ignoring the pain of his own injuries, the agent gathered himself and found his feet. He scooped Heidi into his arms, an overwhelming desire to gain distance from the fire driving his legs.

The escape was encumbered by snapped tree trunks, furrowed earth, and hunks of aircraft metal. He climbed, scampered, strained, and fought his way through, all the while carrying the nearly unresponsive woman in his arms.

His muscles finally gave out, the two survivors collapsing in a heap. After several deep inhalations, he looked down to see the candidate staring up with a smirk on her face. “Thank you,” she croaked in a weak voice.

The news outlets got it wrong at first. The initial reports coming from local Houston stations were that a plane had merely skidded off the runway.

Within five minutes, it was being reported that the aircraft had burst into flames. Shortly thereafter, first responders began talking about casualties. That’s when the national stations preempted their coverage.

A technician in a cable newsroom, monitoring the local feed, was the first to notice the charred emblem on the aircraft’s tail. A quick call to his editor led to a hasty confirmation that the scorched plane was in fact Heidi Clifton’s.

Like the firestorm consuming the interior of the plane, the story outside spread just as quickly. The entire nation seemed to pause mid-stride, suddenly glued to the nearest media outlet, waiting to hear the status of the woman who was most likely going to be the next president of the United States. 

Confirmation of Mrs. Clifton’s surviving the crash came from her campaign headquarters. The severity of her injuries was unknown.

Helicopters descended on the now-closed airport, every available airborne ambulance in the city dispatched to the scene. High magnification television cameras zoomed in on the massive streams of foam arching through the air to douse the flames. A sea of red emergency lights blanketed the area. Ambulance after ambulance was shown speeding from the crash site, all of them escorted by police cruisers.

And still America waited, suspended in a torrent of analysis, projections, experts, and file footage. How badly was Heidi injured? Would she be able to fulfill the role of Commander in Chief? What had caused the crash?

Military bases around the globe went on alert, fears of a terrorist attack reverberating through the Pentagon’s commands. Federal and state government offices as well as local law enforcement intensified their diligence. Specifically, the agencies of the Department of Homeland Security went ballistic with activity.

Speculation exploded through the American media. Everything from sabotage to an assassination attempt was discussed, dissected, and dispensed. It was a broadcasting circus on a scale seldom witnessed before.

The first real information regarding Clifton’s health was almost overlooked. A low-level hospital spokesperson released a statement via a medical service that Heidi Clifton had been admitted to the facility’s emergency room an hour before. Apparently, she was undergoing a series of x-rays and other tests to determine the extent of her injuries. Her condition was listed as stable.

Until that point, the facility had been ignored, most of the newshounds favoring the larger medical centers where the majority of the wounded were said to have been transported. Once the communication had been processed, the media’s rush to descend upon the remote hospital produced several fender-benders. Tow trucks from all over northwest Harris County rushed to remove the crumpled vehicles and establish order on the roadways.

Fortunately for the doctors and staff, the Secret Service had arrived first, a considerable security force in place before the invasion of the reporting hordes.

Once it was known that the candidate was alive and seemingly in no danger of losing her life, the media directed its attention to the cause of the crash. Ratings were at stake, billions of dollars of advertising revenue in play, and the conjecture ran unchecked. 

Americans, glued to their television screens, were exposed to the full gauntlet. One cable news outlet went so far as to blame Texans for the incident, Heidi’s recent debate victory and subsequent lead in the polls obviously rankling the Lone Star State to the point of retribution. Another commentator spewed pure speculation, telling her audience it was possible some right-wing mechanic sabotaged the plane… or perhaps some lunatic, radical-Republican air traffic controller had been the culprit.

This, of course, ginned up the leadership on the right. Salvo after salvo of accusation, innuendo, and political mud flew back and forth across the airwaves, deepening the chasm of an already divided American population.

It was early the next morning when an excited FAA inspector showed his supervisor the bullet hole he’d discovered in the plane’s starboard engine. Within an hour, the world knew that someone had indeed tried to assassinate Heidi Clifton.

Not since the attacks of 9-11 had any event shaken America so deeply. Like watching a volcano spewing smoke and ash, the country stood back and held its breath, anticipating a dreadful eruption. They didn’t have to wait long.