The Nightmare begins

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Once Samuel Chambers' advisors had stopped arguing, one of the naval officers—second in command to the air force officer, the ranking military man—had suggested using a Harrier aircraft to travel to Galveston. It could fly low, below radar, was fast, armed, and could land or take off vertically, with the capability to hover, if necessary. Chambers had agreed. The flight from the Texas-Louisiana border area had been short and, Chambers admitted to himself, exciting. The Harrier accommodated only two men, himself and the pilot, and he felt happy that he wasn't too old yet to have been able to stare into the darkness and the rain they had encountered halfway through the trip and fantasize that he had been at the controls himself. He had flown twin engine conventional aircraft for many years, but never a jet. As the Harrier aircraft began to touch down in the Cemetery parking lot just outside Galveston, Chambers felt almost as if now he had flown a jet, and the feeling was good to him, uplifting, rejuvenating—better than the air of depression that he could feel settling over him when he thought of the sad state of affairs on the ground.

Because the plane had been for two men only, he was without his aide, without security. He had armed himself, borrowed a .45 automatic from one of the National Guardsmen, and the pilot was also armed, with a small submachine gun.

As the plane touched down, any fears Chambers had held of security problems on the ground vanished. He could see more than a dozen men in U.S. military fatigues, holding M-16s and coming out of the shadows and toward the landing zone, itself illuminated with high-visibility strobe lights that had been placed there, Chambers understood, just for his arrival.

The aircraft slowed its engines and there was a loud whining noise as it stopped, the landing completed. The pilot scanned the ground, then made a thumbs-up gesture to Chambers behind him and the canopy over their heads started to open with a hydraulic-sounding hiss. The apparent commander of the soldiers on the ground stepped toward the plane, saluting, saying, "Mr. President—we've been waiting for you, sir."

The pilot stepped out and reached up from the wing surface and helped Chambers out of the copilot's seat in the camouflage-painted jet. Chambers climbed out over the side of the fuselage, awkwardly and conspicuously, he thought, then down onto the wing where the pilot helped him to the ground.

Chambers smiled at the army officer—a captain— and then turned to the pilot, extending his hand, saying, "Well, lieutenant—I enjoyed that flight. Got my mind off the troubles we all have for a few moments—it was like twelve hours' sleep and then a date with a pretty girl and a steak dinner all rolled into one!"

The pilot smiled, taking the offered hand, then his eyes hardened, his hand drew back and swept down to the small submachine gun slung diagonally across the front of his body. Chambers spun on his heel, as rough hands smashed him against the side of the aircraft fuselage, then a coughing sound, once, twice, and splotches of blood appeared almost magically on the pilot's forehead and he fell back against one of the wing flaps.

Chambers pushed himself away from the fuselage and started to run from the plane, away from the circle of lights. Looming up ahead of him were several men, all clad like those by the plane, in military fatigues. From behind him, he heard a voice, the English perfect, but odd-sounding when he heard the name the voice spoke. "I am Major Vladmir Karamatsov, Mr. President, of the Committee for State Security of the Soviet—you are under arrest. You are surrounded. You cannot escape. If you attempt to resist, you may only become unavoidably injured."

Chambers stopped running, his breathing hard. He smoked too much, he told himself. He wondered if getting to the pistol under his windbreaker would do any good.

"I assume, sir, you may be armed—I would advise against any attempt to use a weapon against yourself or any of my men. It would only result in needless bloodshed."

"Needless bloodshed?" Chambers shouted angrily. "What about that boy—the pilot?

What about him— major?"

"He was armed with a submachine gun and would have used it—we were protecting your life as well. Since he likely had orders to prevent your falling into our hands."

"Bullshit!"

"Perhaps—but that is unimportant—now, your weapon. You will hand it over—please!"

Chambers surveyed the dark faces beyond the edge of the light, then shrugging his shoulders reached slowly under his windbreaker. He heard the sound of a rifle bolt, he thought, then heard Karamatsov shouting something in Russian.

Chambers produced the gun and held it out from his body. The major was walking across the lighted area toward him, left hand extended, in the right hand a strange-looking handgun with a very long, awkward-looking barrel. The major was saying, "Please do not attempt any useless heroics, Mr. President. You can be of greater value to the American people alive rather than dead—we mean you no physical harm."

Chambers closed his eyes and felt the pistol being taken gently from his hand.