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Hercules C-130H with its boarding ramp down. A half dozen people in civilian clothes stood around a stack of equipment, bright lights illuminating the gathering darkness. A detachment of Air Force Special Operations troops guarded the plane. Members of the flight crew were engaged in running up the turbofans, blowing the icy rain and sleet into a knife-edged blizzard. A USAF full colonel in flying coveralls walked over to Morgan. ''Colonel Morgan? From the NSC? I'm Benson." |
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"Colonel," Morgan said, nodding. He was too impatient for pleasantries right now. "How soon can we get under way?" |
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The colonel's coveralls were a blaze of colorful patches, one from the Combat Command Wing at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base in North Carolina. "Hell, I'm not driving the truck. Those are my birds over there." He indicated a flight of four F-15 Eagles with their canopies raised, three pilots aboard, ground crews ready to start engines. |
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"Why do we need an escort?" Morgan demanded. |
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"Don't ask me. I just follow orders. We go as far as the border, anyway." |
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Morgan shook his head in exasperation. The presence of the Special Operations troops and the F-15s betrayed an incipient turf battle inside the Pentagon, Morgan thought, all the better to screw things up. An air force captain with Special Operations Command patches on his flight jacket came trotting over from the Hercules. He asked the Eagle pilot, "Any word yet, Colonel?" He stared at Morgan, at Karmann, back to Morgan. "Are you the White House honcho? The Agency pilot is already aboard. We're almost ready. Any orders?" |
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"Yes," Morgan said. "Get the people on and let's haul. Is there a medical team on board?" |
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"We always carry one," the captain said. |
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Morgan said to Karmann, who stood shivering beside him, "Get aboard. Go with this officer." When the captain hesitated, Morgan demanded, "Well, what now?" |
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