Dancing with the Dragon (2002) (3 page)

Shortly thereafter he traveled to Hereford, England, for training with the Special Air Service Regiment, considered by many military organizations to be the most elite special-forces unit in the world. Originally founded during World War II by British captain David Stirling, the SAS has mastered the art of anti/counterterrorism and operating behind enemy lines on covert missions.

Dalton's training had concentrated on handling special weapons, insertion skills, anti-interrogation tactics, close-target reconnaissance, free-fall parachuting, secrecy and stealth, close-quarter battle skills, and survival, escape, and evasion techniques.

When he heard the cabin door open, Scott glanced at Jackie Sullivan, his new partner in their consulting business. Breathing hard, the former air force F-16 pilot was attired in jogging shorts and a Jimmy Buffett T-shirt that highlighted her slim, athletic figure.

Jackie and Scott had originally met by chance at an elegant restaurant in Georgetown. He had invited her to go sailing with him on Chesapeake Bay and she had graciously accepted. However, Scott left the following day for Buenos Aires, and during his unsuccessful attempt to capture an international terrorist, he misplaced Jackie's name and phone number. After returning to Washington, he went back to the restaurant on a number of occasions but never saw her again.

A year later they were miraculously reunited to work as a team to rescue one of Jackie's colleagues. Maritza Gunzelman, a "civilian" consultant like Jackie, had infiltrated a major terrorist training compound in the Bekaa Valley. The CIA, the Brits, and Mossad had been desperate to debrief her, but the terrorists had become more suspicious of Maritza by the day. She was under close surveillance and essentially trapped in the compound.

When Hartwell Prost, the president's national security adviser, brought Scott and Jackie together for a second encounter, Scott did not immediately recognize her. Finally, it had dawned on him like a load of bricks falling on his head. When they first met, her hair had been longer and she had been wearing a stunning black cocktail dress instead of a flight suit.

Scott had not been aware that she was a clandestine officer with the Defense Human Intelligence Service. Likewise she had no idea that Scott had been a former CIA agent turned troubleshooter for the White House.

After their mission in the Bekaa Valley, Jackie and Scott decided to join forces. Having worked closely with them during the dangerous operation, Hartwell Prost fully endorsed the merger. Although the proposition was inherently dangerous--they would be considered mercenaries if anything went wrong--the upside of the arrangement for Dalton and Sullivan was collecting a veritable fortune in fees. Payment for their extraordinary services was simply deposited in their account at an offshore bank.

The Agency had fully expunged their records. Except for their military jackets, every trace of their involvement with the U. S. government mysteriously vanished, including any information contained on computer hard-drives at the Agency. The Dalton & Sullivan Group maintained a nice office in Washington, had a full-time secretary, and conducted actual safety audits between sensitive assignments and special operations.

The most difficult aspect of their new role was getting used to reporting directly to Hartwell Prost.

"How was your workout?" Scott asked.

"Great." She was still trying to catch her breath after lifting weights in the fitness center and enjoying an invigorating jog around the top deck. She glanced at the silver urn on the cocktail cabinet. "Any coffee left?"

"I think so."

She reached for a cup and saucer and picked up the urn. "How about a massage later this morning?"

"Sure."

The phone rang. Jackie answered it and exchanged pleasantries with their secretary, then motioned for Scott to step inside the suite. "It's Mary Beth."

He nodded and grabbed the phone.

Jackie winked at him. "I'm going to take a quick shower."

Scott barely heard Jackie's parting words--he was already focused on Mary Beth's terrible news. He took the news calmly, asked a few questions, and said good-bye.

He stared blankly at the horizon for a minute and then placed a call to San Diego. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him it was almost 9:00 P. M. in southern California. When Tracy Bonello answered the phone, Scott's heart sank and a wave of grief swept over him. His voice cracked once, but he managed to maintain his composure.

The gut-wrenching conversation was just coming to an end when Jackie walked out of the marbled bath and approached the veranda. She saw his downcast appearance and her smile disappeared.

"Scott, are you okay?"

"I've been better."

"What's wrong?"

"Sammy Bonello was involved in a strange accident during carrier ops off the coast of southern California."

"Is he okay?"

"No, he isn't." Scott's voice caught in his throat. "He's missing at sea and presumed dead."

"Oh, no."

For a few seconds she was at a loss for words.

"I know the two of you became close friends at Kingsville," Jackie said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Weren't you his best man after you received your wings?"

"Yes, I was."

Scott paused as fond memories of Sammy flashed through his mind. "He was flying an F/A-18F. His backseater didn't make it either."

She gently squeezed his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Sammy was a model husband and father--they have three kids."

Scott lowered his head. "Tracy called our office and Mary Beth thought I should know about the accident and the memorial service."

Jackie sat down on the sofa. "Of course you'll attend."

"Yeah. I'll get off the ship in Gibraltar and fly to San Diego. If you want to continue the cruise, we can meet when the ship reaches Barcelona."

"No," she quietly protested. "I want to go with you"--she paused--"if that's okay?"

"Sure, I'd appreciate it." Scott remained quiet for a moment and then met her eyes. "There's something very strange going on." "Strange--what do you mean?"

"Tracy wants me to talk to a reporter from the San Jose Mercury News, a guy named Cliff Earlywine."

"Why?"

"Earlywine was on board the ship when the accident happened. He was doing a piece about carrier flight operations. The navy was giving him the grand tour, the usual show-'n'-tell stuff."

"What does he know about the accident?"

"I'm not sure."

Scott took a moment to review what Earlywine had told Tracy Bonello. "During Earlywine's visit to the combat direction center, he overheard the radio conversations between the ship, the Hawk-eye, and Sammy's flight. According to Tracy, Earlywine has some interesting--disturbing--information."

"Disturbing?"

"Yes. He knew the names of the people in the two Hornets. He said something weird happened during a night intercept of an unknown bogey, and Sammy's plane went down during the encounter."

"Could it have been a midair?"

"It doesn't sound like it. When Sammy's wingman returned to the boat, the navy wouldn't allow Earlywine to interview the flight crew. In fact, the navy hustled Earlywine back to San Diego right after Sammy's wingman returned to the ship."

"Well, I can understand the navy's concern about investigating the accident before someone starts speculating about what happened."

Scott took a breath and slowly let it out. "The navy doesn't know that Earlywine was taping his tour of the ship."

"Aha."

"A few seconds after the accident, Sammy's wingman and the backseater can be heard yelling over the radio, and I quote, 'The bogey fried 'em, blew 'em to hell.' End of quote."

"What were they chasing?"

"I don't know, but Earlywine thinks he has the answer. He hasn't gone public with the story yet, but he told Tracy that it sounded like they were trying to intercept something that no one could see on radar."

Jackie rolled her eyes. "A UFO?"

"That's what she thinks."

"O-kay, but why would it destroy an airplane?"

"I don't know, but Earlywine played the tape for her. Tracy told me she could hear panic in their voices--that it was very evident."

"Pardon my skepticism, but have they found any wreckage, any debris in the water?"

"If they have, they're keeping it quiet. According to the Associated Press, both the navy and the Pentagon reported that the jet disappeared during a routine training exercise. The search effort has been called off, and the names of the crew members are being withheld pending notification of their relatives."

"Obviously, your friend's family and his wife have been notified. What about the other guy's relatives?"

"Both families have been notified."

Jackie paused a moment. "Let's see if I have this straight. We have an unexplained loss of a Hornet and its crew. Then, not aware that Earlywine taped the radio conversations, the Pentagon has thrown a blanket over the accident, calling it a mishap during routine training exercises."

"That's about it."

Jackie gazed at the sea. "I think the Pentagon is engaged in a cover-up because they don't know what they're dealing with."

"Looks that way." He suppressed a sudden feeling of grief and anger. "Tracy was upset and skeptical when Earlywine first contacted her, but he convinced her that he can find out what's behind the stonewalling."

"Let me guess. That's when she mentioned you to Earlywinedoes she know about the Agency?"

"No, she and Sammy didn't know I was with the CIA, and she believes our consulting firm is as advertised."

"That's good."

"Tracy told him I was a former naval aviator who had been carrier qualified, and he wants to meet me after the memorial ser.

vice.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, each contemplating the sudden, awful changes wrought in the life of a young woman and her three children. Scott could visualize Tracy sitting on the divan, her teeth clamped on her lower lip, tears cascading down her cheeks, while she attempted to explain to Sally, Paul, and Sam junior why Daddy wasn't coming home again.

"Well," Jackie said, "we're due to arrive in Gibraltar at one, so we'd better start packing."

"Yeah." Scott stared at the tranquil sea and then reached for the telephone. "I'll make some reservations."

Victoria, Canada

As early morning sunlight began to embrace the radiant city, Dr. Dixon Owens, a celebrated physicist, walked unsteadily to the large window in his suite at the Ocean Pointe Resort. The towers and turrets of the unique hotel made it look like a modern version of Camelot.

Nursing a king-size hangover from quaffing three bottles of Dom Perignon champagne the previous evening, he surveyed the regal Empress Hotel and the boat traffic in the picturesque Inner Harbor. A grossly overweight man of elaborate taste and expensive habits, Owens had always lived well beyond his means.

Now, much to his satisfaction, he could ditch his nagging wife and demanding job. No more endless meetings. No more working on weekends. No more compromises. His future would include chartered jets to exotic locations, lounging in the best hotel suites, drinking fifty-year-old Scotch, clothes tailor made by famous designers, and only the finest wines.

Owens followed the slow progress of a small whale-watching cruise ship until it sailed out of view beyond the harbor entrance. He smiled to himself as he continued to examine the mixed collection of colorful sailboats and graceful yachts.

A few moments later, a bright yellow-and-blue Cessna 185 float-plane swooped low across the harbor and gently splashed down on the mirror-smooth water. Owens checked his wristwatch and realized that he would be pushing the envelope to drive to Ogden Point in time to catch the 7:30 ferry to Seattle.

Deciding it was too late to brush his teeth and shave, Owens quickly threw on his rumpled clothes, packed his bag, and then called the front desk.

"This is Dr. Owens in three-twelve," he said brusquely. "I'm checking out and I need you to get my car from valet parking--immediately," he said, and hung up. He grabbed his luggage and rushed out of the room.

Reaching the elegant lobby of the resort, he walked past the woman at the checkout counter.

"Owens, three-twelve--send me the statement, sweetheart." He tossed his key on the counter.

"Sir, if you would--"

"I don't have time," he said with a dismissive wave.

He hurried outside and handed a single U. S. dollar to the young man holding his car keys.

"Thank you, sir."

Ignoring the lad, Owens tossed his bag in the front seat of the Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph and awkwardly slid behind the wheel. He started the V-12 engine and raced out of the hotel driveway, narrowly missing a horse and carriage.

Mashing the accelerator to the floor, Owens roared across the Johnson Street Bridge and flew down Government Street, passing the Empress Hotel at a high rate of speed. Braking heavily, he turned west on Belleville in front of the Parliament Buildings and followed the waterfront route toward Dallas Road. Pushing the car hard, he had to lock the brakes to make the entrance to the ferry terminal.