47
“Forty-kilometers on straight-in final. Confirm airspace clear.”
Lt. Colonel Brad Whitman focused on flying the Boeing 757-200.
Colonel Abrams, a tank of a guy just like his name, was dealing with Air Traffic Control. A serious plus.
Brad tuned them out.
Thank God it was his last leg.
Air Force Two was a sweet old bird that he typically enjoyed flying. But now it had been a long damn day, night, flight, whatever. Three long legs and two stops already under his belt. It would be nighttime now back in DC, and they’d lifted before lunch. He’d hit his maximum airtime for twenty-four hours, so the next leg of the Vice President’s European tour would be up to the relief crew. He looked forward to just kicking back and enjoying the flights for a while.
The sunrise was a blinding straigh
