Frank's Independence Day

2. Frank: July 2nd, Now

Chapter Two

Frank: July 2nd, Now

“That’s how I met Beat, Agent Beatrice Ann Belfour of the United States Secret Service.” Frank Adams hung tight onto the fold-down arms of his seat aboard the Marine One helicopter. He’d recently learned to despise helicopters.

President of the United States Peter Matthews burst out laughing and Frank, now the head of his Presidential Protection Detail, did his best not to feel foolish. It wasn’t even his usual, engaging, buddy-buddy laugh. The man thought he was being downright hilarious.

“You got into the Secret Service by trying to carjack a Secret Service Agent?” He managed to gasp it out between guffaws like the American public never got to hear on TV.

“It’s not like she had a sign on her damn Beemer saying, ‘Federal Agent, Don’t Screw with Me’.” Frank had to speak up to be heard over the pounding rotors of the helicopter and the President’s laughter.

He’d learned that while this President didn’t swear, he liked the chummy feeling of occasional curse words from others, as long as it didn’t go too far.

The last President had been the opposite, cursing a blue streak in private but expecting no one else to say so much as “darn.” And then only if they’d been very recently shot.

The Presidential White Hawk had better sound insulation than your standard Sikorsky Black Hawk, but it still wasn’t quiet. It also had about two tons more armor than any other helicopter flying, which Frank appreciated since it was his job to keep the man riding in it alive. But he’d rather be in anything than a helicopter, especially a Black Hawk. Frank had barfed his guts out on a simulated-combat flight with the Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the 160th of the U.S. Army’s Special Operations Forces, and hoped he’d never have to fly with the Night Stalkers again. He’d take the Marines in the White Hawk any day.

Out of well-trained habit, he scanned the blue skies outside the helicopter. The New Jersey shoreline lay below, and not much else except the morning sunshine sparkling off the rolling Atlantic. The window was hazy due to the thickness of the bulletproof glass. It would stop anything up to fifty caliber and it would do its best to stop that, too.

They were in transit from D.C. for a meeting at the United Nations. This flight was also way more secure than that training mission had been six months ago. Not only had they been simulating combat, who knew helicopters could roll over and dive upside down, but they’d been far away from the usual bubble that surrounded the Commander-in-Chief. Sure, they’d been traveling with two of the most heavily-armed helicopters on the planet and with Henderson and Beale, the two best pilots the U.S. Army Special Operations Forces had ever created, but still… No one except those on the flight had even technically known the President was aboard and they’d crossed half the country with only Frank beside him.

For this trip, Frank felt much more comfortable. They were Number Two of two in a flight of identical VH-60N White Hawks. The other bird was there to confuse any potential attacker as to which craft the President actually flew in. The pilots had switched the lead several times to deceive anyone trying to track them. A trio of well-armed Cobras flew escort on the White Hawks.

On top of that, air traffic controllers were keeping the skies clear of any other flights for a box that extended five miles behind them and to either side, and ten miles ahead. Any aircraft that entered that box would rapidly receive attention from the Cobras. In seconds more, intruders would also be facing the pair of F/A-18 Super Hornet fighter jets and the F/A-18 Growler, an electronic-warfare version of the Hornet, all flying out of Langley Air Force Base and presently lurking another twenty-thousand feet above the helicopters.

Unlike that training mission, this flight was also unlikely to include any aerobatics maneuvers. Yet another thing to be deeply grateful for the Marines flying this machine.

He was seated backwards in the White Hawk, sitting opposite the forward-facing President. No one else was in the aircraft’s cabin other than the two pilots seated in the cockpit over Frank’s shoulder. Frank glanced behind him, but they both appeared alert and focused forward. President Matthews sat at ease in the narrow, brown leather armchair just like Frank’s own. His hair, the longest of any occupant of the Oval Office in a couple hundred years, clearly marked the youngest President in history. His dark hair flowed to his collar and his deep brown eyes radiated both intelligence and humor. The television cameras just loved this man.

Frank’s wide shoulders didn’t fit the narrower helicopter seats nearly as well as the President’s. And at six-foot-two, the low ceiling of the White Hawk’s cabin was disconcertingly close. He kept his seatbelt cinched tightly for the entire hour flight so that he wouldn’t bang his head if they hit an air pocket.

“So, how did you enjoy being taken, uh, into custody?”

“Well,” Frank scanned out the window again. “I managed to not crap my pants on her nice leather, but it was a close thing. You remember how Tommy Lee recruited Will Smith in Men in Black? The secret world, the bench, the change-your-whole-life lecture, and all that?”

The President nodded.

“It was just like that. When that movie hit after I’d been in the Service for about a decade, it was like a bad drug flashback without ever having done any drugs to earn it.”