Skyhook (14 page)

He scrambled out of the seat and almost fell down the Gulf stream’s airstairs in his hurry to leave the hangar as fast as possible. There was a parking lot across the road adjacent to the base exchange and he found a spot and parked, letting the engine idle as he tried to think through the growing puzzle.

Am I being watched? he wondered, glancing around. Why would they lie about the emergency disconnect? Or could the installation just not have been complete? No. If it were incomplete, why send a nervous maintenance guy to snatch the plans away?

He recalled the delay getting admission to the Gulfstream hangar in the first place, and his suspicions coalesced.

Davis! He tried to talk me out of getting aboard because he didn’t want me to find out they’d canceled the disconnect. Davis and Lindsey are in on this together, but do they have anything to do with the renegade lines of code and their disappearance?

Lindsey’s smiling face returned to his thoughts, along with the very pleasant memory of her hair brushing his face the day before, that invigorating wave of femininity now drying into the brittle reality that she had merely been using him. He felt betrayed and helpless.

The memory of the terror two nights before when their jet dove toward the ocean and skimmed the surface returned. That icy fear was all too familiar, like the childhood dream of trying to run from the monster but being unable to move an inch. The memory of those few moments of panic and indecision was enough for a lifetime. Going up again was okay as long as they had the manual disconnect, but without it, and with dangerously unknown lines of code appearing and disappearing in the master program, the possibility that the next test would be fatal was growing at almost the same speed as the conclusion that he was helpless to stop the disaster.

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the lab.

“I’m … really feeling lousy, Gene,” Ben said, keeping his voice even. “Unless you seriously need me back there to look at anything new, I think I’m going to go home and go to bed.”

“Go home, Ben. Nothing new to talk about.”

He punched the disconnect button and put the car in reverse. He had no doubt that he was little more than a pawn now, and just along for the ride.

Could I be wrong? There was little hope of that. But the question of why hung in the air as he put the car in gear and moved out of the parking lot.

WEVe found him, April.”

“Who?” April replied, still fumbling for control of the cell phone she’d yanked from the holster on the side of her purse as she tried to steer.

“An aviation lawyer we can trust. He’s in D.C., and he’s making calls at FAA headquarters to see if he can head off any problems with that inspector Harrison.”

“That’s good news, Grade.”

“No guarantees, but he’s one of the best. He’s spent two decades battling the FAA enforcement division’s demonstrated desire to revoke every pilot license in America, and to the extent they can be scared of anyone, they’re scared of him. He charged a three thousand-dollar retainer, which I’ve already sent.”

“Grade! Thank you. I’ll pay you back as soon as I return.”

“I’m really seriously worried, as you can tell.”

“Dad will deeply appreciate your doing that.”

“So how is our captain?”

April related Dean’s arrival and her trip to the Coast Guard in lieu

of staying at the hospital. “Dean called a few minutes ago. Mom and Dad will be released by four, and we leave for Seattle at six.”

“Tell me about the Coast Guard,” Gracie said.

“Okay. The Coast Guard is a military-style organization placed under the control of the Department of Transportation with a mission that—”

“April!”

“Well, you do that to me all the time.”

“Yeah, but that’s how we’re supposed to do it. You set up the joke and / deliver the punch lines. Okay. Tell me what you found out from the Coasties.”

April outlined the conversation with Lieutenant Jim Hobbs and the fact that he’d called just fifteen minutes before to arrange a meeting. “Gracie, something’s obviously making him cautious. He wants me to meet him at a Starbucks nearby. I’m trying to figure out what that means.”

“Perhaps he likes coffee.”

“No, really. He said he was calling on his cell phone and that he’d have a civilian parka over his uniform, and he said not to mention to anyone that I was meeting him.”

“Well, at least he wasn’t asking you to join him for a serious discussion at the Happy Bottom Motel.”

“He’s married, Gracie.”

“I keep telling you, Rosen. You leave this wide wake of interested males behind you. That’s why I can always find you in a crowd.”

“Where are you right now, O’Brien?”

“Still in my office under a ton of briefs.”

“The legal kind, I assume?”

“There you go again, stealing my lines. You headed over to meet him now?”

“Yes. And are you going to meet us at Seatac when we arrive?”

“Absolutely. But this time I’ll be one of the pathe ic supplicants waiting outside security with the rest of the unwashed masses. Call me after your Coast Guard rendezvous, will you?”

There was a long pause from Seattle. “It may be important to salvage the Albatross, April, regardless of the expense.”

April nodded before remembering Gracie couldn’t see the gesture.

“I know. I have the disturbing feeling that the believability of Dad’s story rests on the broken propeller blade, and if so, we may have no choice.”

^ ieutenant Jim Hobbs was waiting just inside Starbucks when April arrived. He joined her in line and insisted on paying before motioning her to the most remote table.

“Why the cloak-and-dagger routine?” April asked, smiling and enjoying the warm, caffeinated aroma of the place.

Hobbs glanced around carefully, satisfied that no one seemed inordinately interested in them. He met her gaze. “Here’s what I can tell you. Yes, there were ships in the area. Yes, our radar out of Valdez did track what was probably your dad’s aircraft.

But—and I haven’t seen any readouts or copies of what’s on the radar tapes—I’m told the targets did not intersect. The only other thing I can tell you is that I believe those tapes are in the public domain, but you may need to file a Freedom of Information Act request to get them.”

“They’re stonewalling?”

Jim Hobbs smiled thinly and glanced around, mentally tracking the various people in the store. He turned back to her. “Let’s just say this. Even in the most innocuous situations, the Coast Guard is institutionally nervous about letting civilians see their radar tapes. Second, in this case, there’s way too much official interest in the very same tapes for this to be routine, and before you ask”—he held up a hand to stop the question he saw coming—“I don’t know who’s behind that special interest, but it means I’ll deny that I ever talked to you about it. I was never here.”

“Why are you? Talking to me, I mean?”

He smiled nervously. “Because you’re a damsel in distress, and I’m

a sucker for pretty women in need of aid and comfort. I guess that’s why I joined the Coast Guard to begin with. I thought ‘Baywatch’ was an accurate portrayal.”

“Babe watch was in California. This is Alaska.”

“The recruiter lied,” he laughed. “And then I got married,” he said.

By arrangement, April left first, motoring back to the hospital, where her brother and parents were waiting for the trip across town to the airport.

Arlie and Rachel Rosen both refused wheelchairs when they reached the Anchorage airport, but the deep bruises from the crash were forcing Arlie to move with uncharacteristic care as they went through security on the way to the gate, where he insisted on standing in line himself.

“Dad,” April tried, “don’t you want to sit? There’s no shame in that. You and Mom went through a terrible ordeal.”

“I’m fine, honey,” he said, forcing a smile to hide the pain he was obviously feeling. A shaft of light from the low-hanging sun on the southern horizon cut through the glass of the terminal and illuminated his face, and April fought a sudden wave of sadness at how old and weathered he looked. She’d always thought of him as indestructible and ageless, a dynamo who held off the effects of aging by simply refusing to participate in the process.

But the orange Alaskan sunlight was telling another story, and she purposely refrained from glancing at her mother for fear the same truths would be reflected there.

“We’ll start looking this weekend for another Albatross,” Arlie Rosen was saying, as much to himself as to April. “It’ll take quite awhile to re-create the interior, but with the insurance, it should be straightforward.”

“How much recuperation did the doctor say you’d need before you get back on the schedule at United, Dad?” April asked.

Arlie snorted and smiled. “The kid doctor was really serious about

that. He said maybe a month, but he has no idea what he’s talking about. Pilots are tougher than that. I’ll see my FAA flight doc next Monday and get re-cleared immediately.”

“Dad, you told me yourself you have enough sick leave to probably sit it out until retirement. Why not use it?”

Arlie reached out and placed the palm of his hand on her head, his infectious smile riveting her. “Now, once more April, let’s get this concept down. Repeat after me. Retirement is bad.

Retirement is not our friend. Your father does not play well with retired people.”

“You’ve got four years left before—”

He quickly placed his index finger against her lips, shaking his head to expunge any mention of the hated age-sixty mandatory retirement rule. “We don’t use cusswords in this family.

‘Retirement’ is a damn cussword!”

“You just love to fly, don’t you, Dad?” Dean said, joining the exchange.

Arlie smiled and nodded as he snaked an arm around Rachel’s trim waist and pulled her close, bumping hips. “There are two things I love to do more than anything else in this life. When your mother’s too tired, that leaves flying.”

“When was I ever too tired?” Rachel replied, looking mischievous.

April rolled her eyes at both of them. “You two are embarrassing me again.”

“Yeah,” Dean chimed in. “Me, too, for God’s sake.”

Arlie turned to his wife and winked. “Rachel, what say we start making out right here and really scandalize these two prudes we raised?”

“Dad,” April interjected, “no one says making out’ anymore. And … we need to talk about serious stuff.”

Arlie grinned and patted Rachel’s rear as several other passengers turned to look. “This is serious stuff. That’s why I married her.”

“Dad!” April said through gritted teeth. “Okay, look. Admit it, both of you. I’m adopted, right? I was left by gypsies? Gracie’s got to be your natural child.”

Arlie was still chuckling, but wincing involuntarily from the pain around his ribs as he put a hand on April’s shoulder. “You said we need to talk. What about?”

She filled him in on the profile of the Washington lawyer Gracie had retained with her own money.

“I appreciate that,” Arlie said, “but tell Gracie that nothings going to come of that stupid altercation with whatshisname from the FAA.”

“Harrison.”

“Yeah. He’s a bastard, but there’s virtually no evidence I was doing anything wrong, and the NTSB will shoot him down if he tries to allege reckless operation.”

“Grade’s not so sure.”

“Grade’s trained to worry about everything, April. It’ll be all right.”

“You’ve never had an FAA violation, have you, Dad?”

He shook his head, looking mildly startled that his daughter would ask such a thing. “Of course not. Good grief. Not even when I was slipping into alcoholism, which was on my off time. Flying drunk was one thing I never, ever did, for many reasons, not the least of which was my number-one basic fear.”

“You have a basic fear?”

He nodded, the smile fading. “Fear of not flying, April. Fear of losing the right to fly,” Arlie said, his face suddenly gray and his words dead serious. “There’s no way … no way … that I could ever take that.”

eneral Mac MacAdams waved off the offer of a stiff drink and refocused his attention on dialing the secure satellite call he was placing to the Pentagon.

“Would you like a Coke or something then, sir?” the flight steward asked.

Mac shook his head. “No, thanks. Wait… on second thought, do you have a diet version?”

The sharply dressed young sergeant smiled and flashed him a thumbs-up before turning back to the galley momentarily. The diet Coke appeared within seconds, and the line in D.C. was still ringing.

Mac sighed and looked around the interior of the Air Force Gulf stream 5, one of the newest executive transports assigned to the 89th Presidential Airlift Squadron at Andrews near Washington. It was the closest he’d ever come, he figured, to experiencing the type of plush transportation corporate leaders were so used to.

Not that a Gulf stream 5 wasn’t a top-of-the-line corporate-level aircraft, but mere two-star generals had an uphill climb finding major corporate positions after retirement. Board positions in public companies, maybe,

but the real plums required four stars on the shoulders of freshly retired general officers, and he just wasn’t sufficiently political to wait around for, or engineer, the extra promotion.

A female voice answered on the other end and Mac pressed the phone closer to his ear and identified himself.

“Yes, sir,” a secretary was saying. “The general’s expecting your call.”

There was a short wait before the familiar tones of his immediate commander, a four-star general, came on the line.

“What’s the story, Mac?”

“We’re fine, Lou,” he said. “I’m not letting Uniwave know that, of course, since there’s still a test flight they’ve got to make, but I’m ready to sign off on Boomerang.”

“All the problems solved?”

Mac chuckled into the phone. “Not by a long shot, but it’ll clean up nicely. We had a weird problem two nights ago that could have been a disaster, but they found the glitch and Davis and his people have finally explained it to my satisfaction. An internal communications thing.”

“We’ve got to be on schedule with this, Mac. The White House is pressing us hard to get it approved and deployed on time, which is a little strange, given the pure military nature of the program.”