Skyhook (35 page)

But the issue wouldn’t leave him alone, and the toll it was taking on his concentration reached a new level when he opened the Anchorage Times and came across the same article Ben had read about the FAA’s alleged overreaction.

Goddammit! Mac raced through the article, fixating on the subtitle and the ending reference to the possibility of a midair.

He put his coffee mug on the counter with a thud and launched himself toward the secure Air Force official phone in the living room of the large, comfortable base house.

“Yes, sir?” a captain at the command post answered.

Mac checked a small notebook for the name. “The test flight manager for Uniwave, Richard Wilcox. Get him on the phone, tell him someone from the command post will pick him up in a staff car in ten minutes. Send someone to do exactly that, get him on a secure line there and call me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sometime yesterday. Understood?”

“Yes, General. Immediately, sir.”

He replaced the receiver and began pacing in a predictable pattern around the living room. His oldest son, who had already graduated from Air Force pilot training, loved to kid him about his pacing, which always aided his thinking.

“Mom? Dad’s flying a holding pattern around the living room again,” Jerry would announce. “Standard right-hand turns, one minute legs.”

Mac stopped and took a deep breath as he planned the conversation he was about to have, wondering if it would be more effective to face Wilcox down in person.

No. / can terrify him on the phone better, he concluded.

He’d had a few contacts with Dick Wilcox and none of them had been a confidence builder. Wilcox was a glib and slightly arrogant man Mac neither trusted nor liked, and the fact that he was a non pilot running a flight test unit exacerbated the impression.

The secure line rang again in twenty minutes and Mac yanked it to his ear.

“General MacAdams.”

Judging by his voice, Mac figured, the civilian on the other end

had been appropriately chastened by the summons and the quick trip to the command post.

“Ah, this is Dick Wilcox, General. I … is there an emergency?”

“You’re the one who’s going to answer that question, Mr. Wilcox.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I had you brought in to use a secure line for a reason. What I’m about to discuss with you is classified, but I also want to warn you very sternly that if the answers you give me are anything but the complete truth, losing your job will be just the start.

Understood?”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, General. I can assure you that threats aren’t necessary to get me to tell you the truth.”

“Okay, here’s the problem.” Mac related the inconsistency in the paint on the Gulfstream’s right winglet and the roughness in the leading edge. “The question is this, Wilcox. Did your maintenance team, or anyone on it, conduct a repair of any sort to that aircraft following Monday’s test flight?”

“Repair?”

“I think you understand the word and the concept, and asking a one-word question like that is a stalling tactic.”

“No, it isn’t! Sir, you really have no cause to be this hostile with me.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Wilcox.”

“No, we didn’t repair anything! At least… I’m not aware of any damage, any repair, or anything in the maintenance log following Monday’s flight that would indicate such. Did you look in the log?”

“Yes, and as we both know, logs can lie.”

“Not on my shift, General. And I professionally resent that implication.”

“Mr. Wilcox, a repair of some sort exists in the history of that aircraft. I need the absolute truth of when and where and by whom it was made.”

“Today, sir? Well… of course today.” There was a tired sigh on the command-post side of the connection. “Okay. I’ll go over there

and get right on it. We’ve owned that airplane for four years, but I may have to delve into the history before we acquired it.”

“Be careful and precise about this, Mr. Wilcox. There is always a possibility something was done without your knowledge, and there is also a possibility that this is a case of planned, plausible deniability. In either case, I will hold you personally responsible for the accuracy of the answer.”

“General, may I ask what this is all about?”

“No. Get to work. I’ll expect a call back by this afternoon.”

Mac replaced the receiver and resumed pacing for a few minutes, deciding instead to go for a walk. The day was overcast and cool, the temperature in the mid-thirties, and he pulled on his parka before telling

Linda he would be out walking for a while. He didn’t have to announce he would be taking his cell phone. He was well known for being all but surgically attached to it.

Should have a damn dog to walk! he thought, regretting once again his long-standing promise to buy a dog for the kids when they had a place big enough to accommodate one. Over an entire career the right place had never happened, and the kids had grown up with cats, ferrets, canaries, assorted rodents, and the eternal hope of a dog at the next base.

Elmendorf Air Force Base was a beautiful place for walking and jogging. Not as beautiful as the tree-lined streets of McChord Air Force Base in Tacorna, Washington, or the old-world elegance of

angley Air Force Base just north of Norfolk, Virginia, but one of his favorites, nonetheless. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and started out in a brisk stride to the south, toward Fort Richardson, letting his thoughts circle around the true nature of the threat presented by the article he’d just read.

With a newspaper interested in the story and an aggrieved pilot and his daughter fighting for justice, the possibility of exposing the project by nosing their way to the existence of Monday’s test flight had grown another notch, and it was his responsibility to make sure

the project stayed black and invisible. Certainly thousands of Alaskan residents and Air Force personnel knew there was a Gulfstream on the base, and many knew Uniwave had offices there.

Uniwave even had a listing in the local phone book. But the cover story had always involved Uniwave’s development of electronic systems for the AWACS aircraft on the base, and there had been very few anxious moments in keeping the cork in the real bottle.

The radar tapes were taken care of, Mac reminded himself. No matter how enterprising any local reporters might be, there was nothing to find, other than a radar target with an innocuous call sign flying with an AWACS, which was wholly consistent with the cover story.

So why am I worried enough to beat up Wilcox? he asked himself as his cell phone began ringing.

Mac stopped and pulled the instrument from a pocket in his parka, barely punching the answer button in time.

“Mac? That you?”

“Yes. Who’s…”

“This is

ou Cassidy.”

The voice of the four-star general he reported to was a mild shock.

“Yes,

ou.”

“What the hell are you doing up there?”

“Excuse me?”

“Mac, we’ve got to maintain reasonably good relations with Uniwave’s people, and I’ve just been gnawed on by their chairman, with whom I play golf. His damn call was inappropriate as hell, but I don’t like what he was complaining about either.”

“What was he chewing on you for, General?”

“About you insulting his man up there a little while ago. I’m told you accused him of performing some illegal maintenance and then lying about it, and that you were pulling rank and being extremely abusive to the man.”

“

ou, that is completely inaccurate—”

“

ook, dammit, it’s Saturday.

Let’s make this brief. Make it go

away, Mac. Uniwave’s chief assured me there was no damage to their airplane, no repairs, no coverups, and no grounds for upsetting their people.”

Mac took a deep breath, his mind racing over the elements of the situation.

“

ou, you’ve never questioned my judgment before based on a civilian contractor’s complaint.”

“Doesn’t sound like you used much judgment, Mac. Or am I missing something. Did you call the man?”

“Yes, I called him, and yes, I’m suspicious, and yes, I’m using the power of my position to hopefully force an honest answer, which I think is critical.”

“About what? Something you haven’t told me?”

“No … at least, right now it’s just a worry. Remember when I was there I told you we had a small glitch on the next-to-last flight test?” He detailed what had happened and his caution about any possible interaction with the lost Albatross.

“Well, hell, Mac. I’ve seen bug strikes that could mess up paint.”

“This wasn’t a bug strike,

ou, nor a bird strike. Something

dented metal and was repaired. I think I’m being lied to, but I’ve got to be sure, and I’ll tell you, the fact that Wilcox would call his chief and the president of the company—”

“Chairman.”

“Okay, the chairman. The fact that the chairman would risk calling you on a Saturday to get you to chew me out makes this even more suspicious.”

“Give it up, Mac. Nothing happened, except that we’re stupidly saying too much on a non-secure line. Fix it.”

“Sir …”

“Goddammit, Mac, fix it! I don’t want calls like that.”

“Yes, sir.”

He heard the Washington end of the call go silent and folded the phone, fighting a flash of anger and struggling to concentrate on any

deeper meaning. Whichever way he looked at it, the implications were disturbing.

This has nothing to do with personal insult. I touched an exposed nerve, and this was the reaction.

He turned and looked back, startled to see his house less than a hundred yards behind him. An AWACS was lifting off from Runway 05

and clawing for altitude, the throaty roar of its engines trying unsuccessfully to distract him.

Mac resumed walking, calculating a path to the jogging trails around the base. He’d been given a direct order to “fix” the upset, which meant apologize and withdraw his demand for information. He could do that on the cell phone in a few minutes, but first there was something more important to figure out. The front-door approach had backfired. The information he needed would now have to be obtained clandestinely and fast, and that meant he needed unofficial help.

He closed his eyes for a few strides, then opened them and picked up his pace as he remembered the presence of a pay phone just ahead.

A pay phone would be a lot safer. He picked up the receiver and dialed a carefully memorized number.

In the master bedroom of her yacht, Gracie O’Brien swam slowly back to consciousness from a deliciously sensuous dream and stretched luxuriously in the king-size bed, letting the feel of the satin sheets she loved extend the fantasy a few more seconds.

The ceiling was arched with rich, oaken beams, giving the central below-decks room an appropriately nautical feel. She’d visited the factory, studied the plans, and knew the beams were fake, but the effect was perfect. She loved waking up to the gentle motion of the yacht in her owner’s stateroom, and loved even more the fun of climbing up to the open flying bridge in the morning with a cup of coffee and the breeze in her face.

For no particular reason, Gracie looked at the phone to the left of the bed, her eyes fixating on it just before it rang.

She reached for it, loving the feeling of sliding her trim body across the sheets again as she caught sight of the time and felt a burst of guilt.

Omigod! Nine already!

The plan had been to get up at seven, exercise, and get back to

work for the Rosens. The possibility that April or Rachel might be on the other end of the ringing phone crossed her mind as she pulled the receiver to her ear and rolled to a sitting position.

“Hello?”

“Grade?” The voice was deep, somewhat gruff, and the owner clearly unhappy, all of the conclusions conveyed in a single word.

“Yes?”

“This is Ben Janssen, your managing partner.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Janssen. Good morning.”

“Well, not so good as all that, Gracie. I’ll be frank. I’m pretty pissed off at you right now.”

She felt a wave of adrenaline course through her bloodstream, mental cautions mixing with conflicting loyalties underlaid with an intense desire not to be in trouble with her firm.

“Why, Mr. Janssen? I mean, I’ll apologize in advance for anything I’ve done wrong, but—”

“

ook, there are protocols in a major law firm, young lady, especially when it comes to asking big clients for favors, and you didn’t just cross the line, you blew across it.”

Gracie fought to keep her voice even and friendly, but she could feel her stomach fluttering, the vibrations threatening to rattle her diaphragm and progress to a shaky voice. “You mean Bernie Ashad, sir?”

“Of course I mean Ashad, for God’s sake. Who the hell told you it was okay to go shaking your cute little tail at one of our most important clients to get him to help you on a completely personal matter? Hell, I ought to can your ass right here, right now.”

“Mr. Janssen, in no way did I—as you put it—shake my tail at anyone, least of all Mr. Ashad. I—”

“I don’t care what the hell you told him.”

“Sir? Please! You’ve launched a full-scale attack on my actions, along with some rather raw sexual innuendos, and I believe I should have the opportunity to defend myself.”

There was momentary silence on the other end and she could hear the receiver being shifted to his other ear.

“All right. Go ahead.”

“Thank you. The facts are, sir, that I had a call from Mr. Ashad on Tuesday wanting to set a time for a conference call between us on the lease for the commercial property in ancaster,

Pennsylvania, I’ve been working on, and one of the times he suggested conflicted with the personal matter you referred to. I had requested and received approval from Dick Walsh to be gone that afternoon, and I requested we set the conference time two days hence. He said that was fine, remarked that I sounded worried, and asked why. We’ve met and had dinner as lawyer and client, and I believe he respects me. I told him in very brief detail about my best friend’s problem—her father’s problem in Alaska—and he kept pressing me for details. I provided those details. I volunteered one thing and one thing only in that call, and that was the fact that I was in need of finding a salvage firm that could raise a sunken aircraft. He said his equipment was too big and far away, but he knew just the man to call in Valdez, and I later acted on that recommendation.”