AMMAN, JORDAN

"The president of the United States ... is missing."

Even as the words came out of my mouth, I could hardly believe what I was saying. Neither could my editor.

There was a long pause.

"What do you mean, missing?" said the crackling, garbled voice on the other end of the line, on the other side of the world.

Allen MacDonald had worked at the New York Times for the better part of forty years. He'd been the foreign editor since I was in high school. For as long as I had been with the Times — which was now well over a decade — we'd worked together on all kinds of stories, from assassinations to terror attacks to full-blown wars. I was sure he had heard it all in this business ... until now.

"I mean missing, Allen. Gone. Lost. No one knows where he is, and all hell is breaking loose here," I said as I looked out over the devastation.

Amman's gorgeous new international airport was ablaze. Thick, black smoke darkened the midday sun. Bodies were everywhere. Soldiers. Policemen. Ground crew. And an untold number of jihadists in their signature black hoods, their cold, stiff hands still gripping Russian-made AK-47s. Anyone not already dead, myself included, was wearing a protective chem-bio suit, breathing through a gas mask, and praying the worst of the sarin gas attacks were over.

"But I–I don't understand," Allen stammered. "CNN is reporting Air Force One is safe. That it's already cleared Jordanian airspace. That it has a fighter escort."

"It's all true," I replied. "But the president isn't on it."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"There's no chance that you misheard."

"No."

"Misunderstood?"

"No."

"Fog of war?" he pressed.

"Forget it."

"Maybe somebody said it as a tactical diversion, to throw off ISIS or other enemies."

"No, Allen, listen to me — the president is not on that plane. I'm telling you he's missing, and people need to know."

"Collins, if I go with this story and you're wrong ..."

Allen didn't finish the sentence. But he didn't have to. I understood the consequences.

"I'm not wrong, Allen," I said. "This is solid."

There was another pause. Then he said, "Do you realize what this means?"

"No," I shot back. "I don't know what this means. And neither do you. I don't even know for sure if he's been captured or injured or ..." Now my voice trailed off.

"Or killed?" Allen asked.

"I'm not saying that."

"What, then? Missing and presumed dead?"

"No, no — listen to me. I'm giving you precisely what I know.

Nothing more. Nothing less."

"So where do you think he is?"

"I have no idea, Allen. No one does. But my sources were explicit.

Air Force One took off without the president."

"Okay, wait," Allen said. "I'm putting you on speaker. I'm going to record you. And Janie is here. She's going to type up everything you tell us."

I could hear some commotion as he set up a digital recorder, cleared space on his desk, and shouted for Mary Jane, his executive assistant, to bring her laptop into his office immediately. A moment later they were ready.

I took a deep breath, did my best to wipe some of the soot from my gas mask, and checked my grandfather's pocket watch. It was now 3:19 p.m. local time on Sunday, December 5.

"Okay, take this down," I began. "The president of the United States is missing. Stop. Air Force