Page 34 of The Presidents Shadow

IT’S AS SIMPLE as this: I have never been involved in a crisis as challenging and frightening as the one I am about to embark upon.

I assume that the unmarked government plane that takes me and my team from Andrews Air Force Base in Prince George’s County, Maryland, to Western Australia flew with the approval of President Townsend.

When I ask the passenger service coordinator aboard if that was the case, he responds with a smile and a vague statement.

“That could be the case, Mr. Cranston. Meanwhile, what kind of beverage may I get you?”

Well, so much for that. A few minutes later the coordinator brings me a Diet Pepsi. It will be the first of a dozen Diet Pepsis I drink before our landing.

I know that the average flight time between the eastern coast of the northern Americas and the western coast of Australia is twenty-four hours. But I can’t stop drinking soda. I’m chewing the ice from my last beverage when the plane begins its descent.

I check my watch. Wow. This trip has lasted only ten hours.

“What’s the deal?” I ask the passenger coordinator. “I thought this flight was supposed to be twenty-four hours. Are we early?”

“Apparently, sir,” he says.

Ask a stupid question…