The White House
Washington, D.C.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. President.” General Abram stood at the president’s personal office door. His secret service escort stood behind him and the president nodded the agent away. “Come in, General, sit down,” the president said, and Abram walked stiffly into the small room.
“Alright,” the president asked him, “what have you found out about my Stealth?”
Abram hesitated. “Sir, I wish I had something for you, but we simply don’t know.”
“That’s not what I want to hear.”
“I know, Mr. President.”
“What are the possibilities? Where could our aircraft be?”
The chairman pressed his lips. “Syria, Iraq, Iran, or Afghanistan. Pakistan. The Eastern Med. Somewhere short of that target is our most educated guess.”
“That’s a pretty big chunk of Southwestern Asia, General.”
“Yes, sir, it is. But uncertainty such as this is inherent with long-range bomber operations, especially the B-2. They have such long legs, flying missions that take them from one side of the globe to the other. And being undetectable by radar, there is no means of knowing its position or where they might have gone down.”
“Is it possible the aircraft was shot down?”
“Possible, but unlikely. There are no weapons in the area that are capable of tracking the Stealth, but still we can’t rule it out. We call them golden BBs—random missiles and shells that by sheer luck hit a target—and yes, it’s possible a blind missile or lucky Triple-A shell could have brought the aircraft down.”
The president’s eyes fixed on the window, staring through the bulletproof glass. The Mylar coating, dark and reflective, painted a murkier picture than what was real outside, throwing back much of the illumination from the city lights. The president shook his head. “And the chance of survivors?” he asked sadly.
The chairman thought. If there were any possibility, any possibility whatsoever that the pilots were alive, he would grasp at that straw. But he had to be honest with the president and honest with himself. He took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I am advised by my staff, and I share their opinion, that it is extremely unlikely the aircrew is alive. Ejection seats have emergency beacons our satellites can detect from space, which are automatically activated in an ejection sequence. If either pilot had ejected, we would have know instantly. Additionally, Mr. President, the pilots have personal emergency radios with beacons that are monitored by satellite, as well as having the range and capability to contact our forces in the area. Given this equipment, if the crew were down and alive, we would certainly know. The chance we will find survivors is very close to zero I’m afraid.”
“Alright then,” the president answered, “let’s assume, despite the evidence, the crew is alive. Where do we start to look?”
The general sucked on his teeth. “We don’t think the aircraft went down over Syria or Iran,” he answered. “For one thing, we have enough space-based sensors keeping an eye on these states that we would get some indication if the aircraft went down—smoke, fire, something would show. Additionally, if any one of these nations had our pilots, they would be wagging them under our nose, probably through their buddies at CNN. Which leaves us northern Afghanistan and Pakistan, the eastern Med, and Lebanon and Iraq.”
The president considered. “To search that area would take days,” he said.
“Yes sir, it would.”
“And it is almost certain the crew is dead anyway.”
The general couldn’t help but pause before he answered, “Almost certainly, sir.”
The president sat back and frowned. “I’m sorry, General. I really am,” he said. “But the crew is gone, you know that. It’s a knife in my heart, just like it is in yours, but we have to be realistic and accept the truth.”