Crash - the Last Rendezvous Read online

  She did not get any further. Jerome Johnson, the second black President after Obama, stroked his wife's thick black hair, which stood in striking contrast to her green trouser suit. "Darling, nobody is going to die. Our pilots are experienced men. The best of the best. And yes, I love you too. I have always loved you, even as a little girl. Don't worry. Everything's going to be OK."

  The President put his wife's head on his chest and gently kissed her hair. He then registered the instruction of his personal special agent, who had lightly coughed to announce his presence and indicated with a gesture that it really was time to fasten his seat belt and sit in an upright position.

  "OK, Larry. Go and find a safe seat."

  "Mr. President …"

  The agent, a giant with serious expression and custom-made dark blue five hundred dollar suit, left and took a last look at the small dog which the President's wife was clutching. It was a poodle. Small and as white as innocence itself.

  The last few moments before landing were silent. Johnson saw through the window that the pilots were bringing the plane, in the remaining speed, into the wind, keeping the rate of descent as low as possible and doing without the landing flaps and undercarriage. A few hydraulic sounds told him that the excess pressure valves were closed to stop water from coming in after impact. The pilots seemed to be speculating on an optimal and 'tail-accented' three point landing and that the breakaway airflow and treacherous wind shear would not interfere.

  Johnson looked out of the window for the last time and a saw a sea of glistening red. From a height of just under a half mile he could not make out if there was a stronger sea movement down there or not. He then folded the upper part of his body forwards and murmured a declaration of love: "I love you, darling."

  A minute later Air Force One hit the surface of the water. What followed was a ride to hell and back that seemed like an eternity to the passengers. In fact it didn't even last twenty seconds. Loose objects started to fly around the cabin, oxygen masks fell automatically from the compartments above. Most of the passengers started to scream, including the President and his wife. The whole plane moaned and groaned, creaking under the powerful load.

  Four extreme convulsions shook the 300+ ton plane to its foundations. All undercarriages heavily bolted to the underside broke off almost simultaneously and left gaping metallic wounds. Thanks to the loss of the engine nacelles Air Force One did not flip over like an enormous rearing whale on the water and kill all those on board.

  The whole performance ended abruptly and silence fell. In the phase that followed the confusion nobody dared to laugh, cry or scream for joy. The noise level began to increase again when unidentifiable sounds, which could only mean trouble under the fuselage of the plane, caused undiluted uproar among the passengers. In a situation that was now threatening to become one of panic it was the emphatically calm voice from the cockpit that reassured them.

  "This is Jack Hunter, your co-pilot. Our Captain is not exactly on top of his game, but still there's no need to worry. Air Force One has been kind enough to build in a couple of extras that have allowed us to stay above water for a time. For the next thirty-six hours. Maybe you'd like to risk a look outside ... "

  All the passengers looked through the double-glazed security windows that looked oval bulls-eyes. Now they could understand the mysterious sounds beneath the fuselage. The sea was bubbling as if there were a subterranean immersion heater switched on. Suddenly, to everyone's delight, huge plastic bags rose to the surface that automatically inflated themselves and stabilized the jet. Some people on board thought at that moment of an old Hollywood catastrophe movie. President Johnson was one of them and he even thought he knew which film: Airport 77. A 747 plunged into the sea until finally – after sagging on the surface – it was lifted up again by huge balloons filled with oxygen.

  A brief crackling could be heard in the cabin loud speakers, followed by the voice of the chief pilot. "Here is your Captain. Our position has stabilized. Everything is OK. I think the President might buy us all a drink."

  Jerome Johnson and the First Lady threw their arms ecstatically around each other. When the President stood up to thank the crew personally, frenetic applause broke out as he went through to the cockpit. It seemed to everyone as if they had been born again on this day.

  CHAPTER 6

  On board the USS George W. Bush

  27th December

  "The President's alive!" The news spread like wildfire on board. Towards midday the men around Jason Miller managed to repair the broken radio equipment provisionally. The exhausted members of the crew could hardly believe their ears when they received a weak signal over the air waves shortly after reviving the radio station. Of course the crew had hoped that somewhere in the wide open ocean intelligent life still existed. But nobody had expected that they would establish contact so soon. In particular, nobody would have imagined in his wildest dreams that the sender of the crackly distress call was the President of the USA in person.

  "Wake up, Ted, we've got radio contact with Air Force One. Full speed ahead, we're going to fish our Commander-in-Chief out of the water." Miller's voice was falling over itself from excitement.

  O’ Brian was thunderstruck when Miller told him the news. The last few hours he had spent hunched over a charred control panel lost in thought, soldering color-coded wires together. He had since heard that there had been drinking yesterday. "You've got to be kidding me. Must be the booze you had last night."

  "Ted, unlike you we can take it. And you really missed something when the old man started feeling generous and the little pick-me-ups began to circulate. Amazing that you just left ..."

  "OK. Maybe I'll make it up."

  "Whatever. Anyway Air Force One identified itself with the secret code. There's no doubt that the President is alive and he's coming aboard later."

  "Right, that'll teach you some manners. How did he survive the catastrophe?"

  "He had Air Force One refuel in the air a few times and they made an emergency landing yesterday two hundred sea miles away from here", said Peter Cain, a PO3 in his first year of service, somewhere out of the mass of cable. Cain's voice was like the voice of an excited child. "Not long ago the 747 was fitted with inflatable floats on both sides of the undersides of the fuselage, which let the plane swim like a fish. With full speed ahead on the surface we'll be there in ten hours. Man, it’s crazy. If only my mom could be here. Her son saving the President of the USA."

  Before O`Brian could react to Cain's reproach, the crackly voice of the Commandant cam over the loud speaker. "Men, when the chips are really down, small miracles sometimes happen. We are not the only Americans who have survived the meteorite. None other than President Johnson with his wife and advisory staff are out there and waiting for us to take them on board. It's a moment of great hope and at the same time an honor for everyone here on board. I hope each one of you is conscious of the importance of this and will make sure that our guests feel comfortable here. It has not escaped my attention that a certain fatalism is beginning to spread and that the replenishment of our supplies has started to produce a certain pleasure cruise atmosphere on board. Of course, the end of the world is an exceptional situation, but we are on one of the best submarines in the world and we now have a mission again. Even if I turn a blind eye to a beer on duty because of the special situation, I expect every one of you to do his duty right up to the last minute and not to receive the President on board stinking of booze. I hope that is clear. And now let's change course and sail full steam ahead to our rendezvous. God bless America!"

  Jubilation broke out and the sound of clapping penetrated the entire hull of the USS George W. Bush in miniature pressure waves. Even O`Brian's mood had lifted noticeably although he still wondered how they were going to find room for a group of passengers from the belly of a 747. Still, he felt uplifted by the new events and decided to take a break and devote himself to his diary.

  The President is alive and we're picki
ng him up at the agreed rendezvous. Hard to believe. What a turn of fate. And, as you know Mariam, I have always admired Jerome Johnson. Like Obama before him. PS: If I can, I'll get his autograph. The world may be in ruins and we're moving towards the final days, but today I'm not thinking about that. I love you!

  On the evening of the 27th Captain Hudson was able to see, through the larger of the two periscopes, a Boeing 747 quietly making its way over the ocean. There was no doubt, they had found Air Force One. The arms of the President of the USA on the fuselage were quite clear. With swelling pride Hudson issued his orders. "Only a few miles and we'll be there. Maintain course, surface and hoist the flag!"

  Nobody wanted to miss this moment. Even O’Brian mingled with the officers. This had not escaped the attention of the First Officer. When Peter Oates discovered him, he said what he had on his mind.

  "O’Brian, I don't want to spoil the fun of our rendezvous, but ..."

  "But?"

  "Have you seriously wondered what if it weren't just the President waiting out there for us? What if the enemy were out there in the ocean? Just take care of the goddamned sonar, will you? The listening devices are not really so important, but they have to be made. That's not a request, it's an order. Is that clear, O’Brian?"

  "Yes, sir, we're doing our best but ..."

  "Maybe your best isn't good enough. Perform a miracle, just for me, but don't just stand around staring at nothing. Dismissed!"

  Same to you, thought O’Brian, when he turned around and disappeared back to his post. Deep in his heart the sonar specialist knew that the First Office was right. But the exaggeratedly patronizing tone offended him. He wondered why Oates had singled him out. As if there were someone out there just waiting for this moment to get the President or the submarine ...

  O`Brian shook his head and went back to his circuit boards. What happened in the next few hours was just a noisy background that didn't concern him.

  It was like Grand Central Station in the whole boat. Officers moving out of their quarters and in with the crew to make way for all the VIPs. Berths were cleared, sleeping bags rolled out, camp beds set up, air mattresses inflated. Everything polished just that little bit extra. The President and his wife took the Captain's cabin, and the Captain took the First Officer's. It was like falling dominos, where everything became topsy turvy from top to bottom.

  The temperature and the humidity meanwhile continued to rise, and as a result a damp film on the walls began to form by condensation. It became gradually warmer on board. Warmer and narrower.

  Crew and passengers both were grateful to hear the Captain's announcement all over the ship that in these hours and days smoking and moderate drinking in designated areas would be permitted. Obviously Captain Hudson and President Johnson wanted to meet a problem head on that those not used to submarines might suffer in the form of panic attacks caused by unusual claustrophobia. O`Brian also suspected that there was an ulterior motive behind this order: being cooped up on an atomic submarine was more bearable when you were a bit mellow. Especially if Armageddon really had broken out over the planet.

  But O’Brian didn't feel like drinking. He began to imagine horror scenarios in which the whole crew drank themselves senseless and all the barriers between the social classes gradually broke down. He began to see conflicts developing, open fights about the last bottle of hooch. Brawls, knifings, the disintegration of decency and morality and the first killings and suicides. The confinement, alcohol, end of the world, a powerful combination that gave him the shivers. He was sitting – like everyone else – on a powder keg, a ticking time bomb. It didn't make matters any simpler that they were on a nuclear submarine. The question was: who would be the first to flip, and when?

  Squeezed under a new circuit board O`Brian was lying headlong soldering on another capacitor. The work he had been given seemed increasingly pointless to him. Coming up against an obstacle in the middle of the ocean seemed pretty unlikely, if not impossible. Still he pulled himself together, remembered his oath of service and the order to observe discipline. Hour after hour went by, and he became even more dogged in his Sisyphus work. He did not want anyone accusing him of doing sloppy work in his last days in the navy – even if everything was turning into a madhouse. Most likely his wife and unborn son were gone - he needed some distraction other than drowning in alcohol. But how long he could keep it up, he didn't know.

  Sometime before midnight he realized that he had lost the battle against the obstinacy of technology on this day too. He gave up and went to sit with his shipmates for a half hour in the dining area. The sight of circulating glasses depressed him. The couldn't-give-a-shit virus was eating its way through the steel bulkhead more quickly than he had feared.

  What the hell ...

  O`Brian got himself a beer. Quickly he poured the cold Budweiser down his desiccated throat. His eyes were burning from the bad air and working in the half-dark.

  The Bud was the best thing he had tasted in a long time. It had a tingling sensation, and above all it was ice cold. O’Brian emptied the bottle in a couple of gulps.

  "Oh, someone's got a thirst. Where were you then when the President came on board?", asked Jason Miller.

  "Repairing the sonar, ran into the First Officer", was the laconic reply.

  "Yeah? Come, have another Paulaner, who knows if you'll get another chance to drink a German beer in this lifetime."

  O`Brian waved it away. But when Miller opened a bottle for him and put it right under his nose, he shrugged his shoulders: "Cheers!"

  "Cheers!"

  After two hefty slugs O`Brian opened up. "What a crap day! I had the sonar working and I could have sworn that there was a contact. But then something burned out and I had to start all over again."

  "A contact? You must be hallucinating? Who do you think is moving apart from us ? If there were someone, he would have made contact by now. Nobody's thinking of war games any more. Anyway before the Big Bang we had practically no enemies: the Chinese and the Indians wanted to sell us their electronic garbage, the Russians were interested in selling us their oil and raw materials. And rogue states like Iran are not likely to have their got their nutshells through."

  Miller was just getting started. The alcohol was visibly working on him. O’Brian saw, but said nothing. "Yeah, who knows what might have been there. A whale, a piece of shrapnel or an echo from the wreck of Air Force One."

  "You OK? Feeling better?" Paul Slazenger butted in. Slazenger had the same rank as Miller and was an easy-going type. His job was the maintenance of the air conditioning system. He was just starting to develop a paunch and a double chin, in spite of his years. As a confirmed bachelor he could not really understand what personal loss and separation from loved ones at home meant. He had never had a relationship that lasted more than a week. He was a nerd who trusted the computer more than people. But he cared for his shipmates. It was a paradox, but there was it was. He worried about everyone on board that had withdrawn into himself. But at least everyone took it seriously. They didn't just dismiss it as making conversation.

  O`Brian signalled with his thumb that everything was OK. Meanwhile Miller just went on chattering away.

  "You really missed something while you had to keep an eye out for the enemy. The President is really laid-back. Actually he's smaller than you think. But he has a way of letting you know that he's the boss. No words. Just gestures and body language and stuff like that."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah, really. But I think honestly speaking that his old lady wears the pants. A real chocolate doll. Not the youngest any more, but wow. Only her stupid white poodle. Yapping little pipsqueak. Totally spoiled. If I'd been in charge of the rescue, the mutt would've drowned, I swear. The little bastard actually pissed off the bridge into the corner. Like in the movie with Gene Hackman and Denzel Washington. That's not right. The old man really had to swallow hard. I'm telling you, he would have just as soon have let the mutt go overboard. But he just gritted
his teeth and didn't say a word. In fact, he asked the First Lady what the little bastard was called."

  "And what is it called?" asked O`Brian, more out of politeness than curiosity.

  "Pinky."

  "Pinky? A lady? Did she at least sit up and beg?", Slazenger wanted to know.

  "'She' is a 'he'!", Miller grinned.

  "No, Jason, you can't be serious?!"

  "I am", said Miller. "A white dog called Pinky. Lucky that he's always protected by the President's bodyguards. He wouldn't get far on the street with a name like that."

  "We'll see how far he gets on the sea. Our provisions will disappear a bit more quickly than we thought with our high-ranking guests on board," said Slazenger, turning the conversation in another more serious direction. As the conversation progressed, he and Miller then started to construct different emergency scenarios.

  O’Brian only drank half of his second beer and left. He still had his bed even though the crew's quarters were tightly packed. While his immediate bunkmate was playing poker with an obviously friendly senator from Chicago, O`Brian preferred to put the day behind him as quickly as possible. As soon as he had undressed and washed, he fell on his bunk into a deep and dreamless sleep. The loud exchanges of his drunken neighbors, who were arguing over a wrongly dealt card, did not bother him. Any more than the beer bottle smashing in the course of the heated exchange.

  CHAPTER 7

  Atlantic Ocean

  North Korean submarine DA BAK SOL

  27th December

  Nam-Chol Pak sat in his small cabin, which had more or less been cleared and dried again. A crew member had spent almost the entire day mopping up the water from the floor and pouring it outside in buckets. Various items of clothing were hanging stretched out on a line so that the dampness could evaporate. Everything that had been wrenched out of its normal position by the tsunami a few days ago was now standing and hanging in the usual places. The narrow room did not exactly radiate hospitable comfort after the sailors had finished, but at least corresponded to what could generally be described as "acceptable accommodation". If the small room had been a hotel room according to western standards, it would honestly have rated only one star.