by Bob Mayer
Boomer spun, embarrassed to have been caught snooping, the picture in his hand. Maggie glanced down at it, then pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it.
Boomer handed her the picture.
“I thought your daughter was killed in the raid on Pearl.” He pointed at the picture.
“There’s a child here, and it looks like the Arizona is sunk in the background of this picture and—”
“It is,” Maggie said. She walked over and took it from him.
“That’s Jimmie, my lover. Or more appropriately at the time of that picture, my former lover. George was at sea as usual when that was taken. And the child is Peter.
Jimmie’s son,” she added.
“Ski’s older brother, half brother to be more exact.”
Boomer blinked, and Maggie gave a sad smile.
“Oh, I ended the affair after the seventh when Grace died. But Peter, he was my answer to all that happened that day. I knew as soon as I found out I was pregnant that it had happened the night of the sixth.
George knew it wasn’t his — the timing and all. But he never said a word and raised Peter as his own.”
She tapped the photo.
“That’s the last day I ever talked to Jimmie. It was about a year and a half after the attack and he was doing something with his new job. We decided it was best if he moved on and we both forgot. Jimmie’s done real well with himself. I guess a lot of people are attracted to him.
He had me under his spell for a long time.
But he forgot and so did I, and I don’t want Ski to know, and, well, now I guess I’m just rambling.
“Peter died in Vietnam in 1966 with the 1st Cavalry Division in the la Drang valley. Like I told you — I lost one generation each way.”
Boomer wanted to know more about Jimmie and Pearl Harbor, but her mood told him it would have to be later.
Maggie took the picture and put it back next to the others on her nightstand.
“All I’ve known is military men, and I’m tired of it.” She led Boomer out of the bedroom.
“It’s just death and more death.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.
“You want to find Ski, right?.”
“Yes.”
“He’s not here, and he won’t be back. If you look out the front window you’ll see a van parked down the street, keeping an eye on the house. I assume you came the back way since I was on the front porch watching the watchers.
Your best bet is to go out that way and go to the campsite in Waiwa.”
“I’ve already been there,” Boomer said.
“Last I spoke to him,” Maggie said, “Ski said he’ll be in and out of there sometime tonight.”
“What’s he doing?” Boomer asked.
Maggie sighed.
“Everything he can to stop these people, son, everything he can. Now you’d better get going too, before they come looking for you here.”
An hour later. Boomer was settled into the vegetation next to the campsite. With night coming. Boomer settled down for a long wait, praying that Skibicki would turn up sooner rather than later.
HONOLULU, HAWAII
5 DECEMBER
5:45 P.M.LOCAL 0345 ZULU
Senator Jordan rubbed a hand across his forehead.
“So what are you trying to tell me. General Maxwell?” he demanded.
Maxwell was not in the best of moods either.
“I have not been able to find where they took Major Watson. I’ve checked his file and talked to his commander at Bragg. He’s got an excellent record. I’ve checked on the information he gave us and as I told you earlier, I can neither confirm or negate it. I’d like to talk to him again.”
“Why don’t you just drop this whole thing?” Jordan asked.
“Because we finally heard something. I received a phone call a little while ago from a Sergeant Major Skibicki. He said that a plane with Major Trace and proof will be arriving sometime after midnight,” General Maxwell said.
Jordan leaned back in his chair.
“All right. I’ll arrange for Major Trace to be met at the airport and for her evidence to be brought here. As for Major Watson, he’s in the hands of the military. He’s not our problem any more.”
HICKAM FIELD, HAWAII
6 DECEMBER
2:00 A.M.LOCAL 1200 ZULU
Skibicki glanced at the glowing hands on his watch and steadied his breathing. Another ten seconds. He checked the rope one last time, even though he had tied the knots himself and was confident they were secure. He looked down into the hangar. The large bulk of Air Force One loomed in the bright lights illuminating the inside of the hangar.
Vasquez tapped him on the shoulder and held up ten fingers.
“Ten seconds, sergeant major.”
Those lights went off exactly on schedule, as did all of Hickam Field and half of Pearl Harbor. Skibicki pulled up the night vision goggles that had been hanging on a string around his neck. He stood, climbed over the edge and carefully lowered himself into the vent, allowing the rest of the rope running from the snap link in the front of his waist harness to fall onto the top of the plane. He leaned back and extended his right arm, releasing the friction brake of the snap link pressure, and he slid down the rope. He’d rappeled hundreds of times, and even with the distorted depth perception of the goggles, he slid all the way, braking in perfect timing, just five feet above the top of the aircraft fuselage. He slowly dropped the remaining distance and landed just in front of the intake for inflight refueling.
Skibicki knelt and looked into the intake. He saw a small, plastic-wrapped package. He pulled off the leather gloves he’d worn for rappeling and carefully felt around the package.
It was covered in adhesive, but there seemed to be no obvious external anti-handling devices. Of course, Skibicki knew, that didn’t mean it might not have some sophisticated device on the inside, but he doubted that. They wanted it to go off once the plane was in the air, which meant the bomb had to be able to survive take off. He figured the odds were that the detonator was set to go off at a predetermined altitude.
It was the way he would have designed it.
Using a knife, Skibicki carefully pried the bomb loose, then tucked it into a small backpack, which he threw across his shoulders. He pulled two chumars off a snap link on the side of his harness and hooked them into the rope. The chumars locked into place, one-way metal devices that he could push up, but then they would hold against downward pressure. Nylon straps were attached to the chumars with loops on the end that he stuck his feet through. He slid the left hand one up as far as he could reach, then stepped up, levering himself up with a leg.
He did the same with the right and began his ascent. A mental clock was counting down in his head. His worst case estimate was that he had ten minutes before the post engineers would find the Junction box with the “electrocuted” snake jammed into it. It was a rare accident but one that was known to happen.
Once they found that, the power would be back on.
Halfway up, Skibicki had to halt, out of breath. He could hear the Secret Service agents down below, yelling to each other, not overly concerned from the tone of their voices.
They could see out the hangar door that the rest of the post was in darkness. Skibicki would have cursed if he had the breath; he was getting old. He was surprised when he felt the rope jerk and then move upward a couple of feet. He looked up and in the goggles he could see Vasquez reach over the edge, grab a fistful of rope, and pull him up a few more feet.
Skibicki grinned, took a few deep breaths, then resumed climbing. He reached the top and and with Vasquez’s help pulled himself over the edge. Quickly they pulled the rope up and resecured the vent top.
They made their way to the edge of the roof and began the climb back down to the ground on the metal rungs bolted into the side of the building. The outside lights flickered on for a second then went off.
Three-quarters of the way down, the lights went back on fo
r almost ten seconds, and Skibicki and Vasquez froze until the lights went out again.
Reaching the grass at the back of the hangar Skibicki paused, Vasquez bumping into him. Off to the left was the safety of the canal, to the right the E4-B the Joint Chiefs had arrived in sat on the tarmac.
Skibicki hefted the back 9 pack and paused. The lights for the airfield came back on and stayed on. Then he made his decision; he still had time before he had to make the rendezvous.
“Wait here,” he whispered to Vasquez.
CHAPTER 24
AIRSPACE, HAWAII
6 DECEMBER
2:30 A.M.LOCAL 1230 ZULU
“They had some problems at the airfield with the lights, ‘ but they’re back up,” Harry reported.
Trace watched the beach along Waikiki glide past as the pilot descended into his glide path. The hotels lining the shore were well lighted despite the late hour. Trace was, startled as the plane banked hard left, further out over the; water.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Harry didn’t answer. He was busy buckling on a parachute that he’d pulled off it’s place on the wall of the cabin.
“What are you doing?”
“Can’t be landing with you, missy,” Harry said.
“The Secret Service and all those type folks will be waiting, and I killed a few people back there in New York. My job is done. It’s up to you now.” He stepped over to her and | grabbed the seat belt, buckling it in around her.
“You be safe now.”
Trace thought for a second, then reached inside her jacket. She pulled out the pages she’d torn from the diary | and thrust them into Harry’s hand.
“Just in case something I goes wrong on my end,” she said, “here’s part of the diary.
I hope to see Boomer soon, but if I don’t, you get this to him.”
i Harry nodded an acknowledgement and stuffed the pages inside his flight suit and zipped it shut. With a roar the back ramp opened, and Harry stepped close to the opening.
When it was fully open. Harry stepped out into the darkness and was gone. The back ramp immediately began to close, and the pilot turned them back on a heading for Hickam Field.
Trace felt like she was in a vacuum as the plane descended, all alone in the back of the aircraft except for the crew chief who had remained quiet for the entire trip. The velocity of the Rsprey slowed considerably. Trace remembered reading that the plane had to land in the helicopter mode as the blades were too big to allow landing with them in the forward position. She glanced out the window as the ground came up. She could make out military aircraft parked along the runway and several Air Police cars with lights flashing waiting to meet them.
There were also two unmarked cars with darkened windows there.
The V-22 touched down and the engines immediately began rotating down.
The back ramp opened, and Trace unbuckled her seat belt. Two men in three-piece suits stepped up in, stopping briefly in surprise at her condition.
“Major Trace?” the lead man asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Special Agent Fielder,” he said holding out his ID card.
“I’m to escort you.” He paused.
“I understand you have a document.”
Trace held up the diary, but pulled it back when Fielder reached for it.
“I’d prefer to keep my hands on it until I see the President,” she said.
Fielder kept his hand out.
“What you prefer is not important right now. Give me the document.”
WAIWA, HAWAII
6 DECEMBER
5:00 A.M.LOCAL 1500 ZULU
A pair of headlights swept up the trail and raked across the open area.
Boomer waited until Skibicki got out before moving. Skibicki must have heard Boomer coming because he knelt and pulled out a pistol, pointing it in his direction.
“Hold it right there.”
“It’s Boomer Watson, sergeant major,” Boomer called out.
Skibicki slowly stood.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Boomer twisted his head as he heard someone getting out of the other side of the jeep. The newcomer was a tall, massively built black man with a completely shaven head.
Skibicki did the introductions.
“Major Boomer Watson, meet Harry Franks.”
Boomer shook hands.
“I’ve heard about you,” he said.
“Thank you for what you did for Trace.”
“My privilege,” Harry said.
“Is she all right?”
“I jumped off the plane before we landed,” Harry said.
“Ski picked me up off shore a few hours ago. Last I saw the lady was fine. She suffered some injuries but she’s in good hands now.”
Boomer looked at both of them.
“We need to do something.
The Secret Service and those close to the President aren’t going to act. They’ve been infiltrated by these fake DIA people.”
Skibicki grabbed his arm.
“You ran away from them?
They don’t know you’re gone?” he asked.
“Oh, they know I’m gone,” Boomer said, remembering the car he’d left in the tunnel.
“You were supposed to warn the President!” Skibicki yelled at him.
“I couldn’t even get close to him!” Boomer said angrily.
Skibicki had no reply to that.
“Have you heard anything new?” Boomer asked in a calmer voice.
“The Sam Houston is lying off-coast. I think they’ll infil tonight sometime. Nothing from the north shore. Trace landed a little while ago, and your friends in the Secret Service have her in tow along with the diary. Hopefully that will make the President act. If not…” He slapped the dive knife he was throwing into a mesh bag.
“There’s a good chance whoever met her isn’t Secret Service,” Boomer said.
“She’s might be in the hands of The Line right now.”
Skibicki shook his head.
“I talked to General Maxwell.
He said he’d make sure she’s safe. Tell me what happened from the time I dropped you off at the hotel.”
“Maxwell was there when they took me away to kill me,” Boomer said.
Boomer laid out the events of the past twenty-four hours starting with meeting Stewart in the lobby through killing the two men at the abandoned ammo depot.
“I don’t think Maxwell’s with them,” Skibicki said.
“I don’t think so either,” Boomer said, “but that doesn’t mean Trace is safe.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Skibicki said.
“So what now?” Boomer asked, looking from Skibicki to Harry.
Skibicki pointed down to the harbor.
“My guess is that they’ll sneak into the harbor probably around four or five in the morning,” Skibicki said.
“Hooker’s on the island,” he added.
“He’s staying at the V.I.P quarters at Pearl.”
“How do you know that?” Boomer asked.
“I have sources,” Skibicki answered as he sat down in the passenger seat of the jeep. Harry sat on the hood.
“What sources?” Boomer asked.
“Listen,” Skibicki said.
“You opened this can of worms. I’m doing the best I can to deal with it.”
“What’s the plan?” Boomer asked.
“Can you at least tell me that — our plan, that is.”
Skibicki had a long, double-edged knife out and was sharpening it on a whetstone. Skibicki checked the edge against the hair on his forearm.
“We go down to the channel entrance around midnight. I’ve got a sonar device that can listen for them coming in on their SDV. We hear them, we go into the water and meet’em.” The hair curled up as the blade slid up his arm.
“Winner walks away. Loser’s shark bait.”
“Did Trace tell you anything about the contents of the diary?”
Boomer asked Harry.
Harry shook his head, but then suddenly remembered something. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out some pages.
“She said to give you this — it’s part of the diary.”
Boomer took the pages and looked down at them. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the note in Trace’s handwriting on the first page.
Boomer: The “fist” doesn’t sound right Trace.
Boomer remembered telling Trace the story of the radio operators jumping into France and how they were betrayed.
Boomer looked over at Skibicki who was still sharpening his knife.
Boomer could clearly see the depression on the side of Skibicki’s head — from the wound he had received serving with Boomer’s dad.
“What about the Vice President?” Boomer asked suddenly.
“It’s taken care of,” Skibicki said shortly, without lifting his eyes.
“It’s taken care of?” Boomer repeated.
“How?”
“Trace got the diary to Maxwell, who will get it to the President,”
Skibicki said.
Boomer wasn’t so sure about that given what had just happened to him.
“Then why are we here?” Boomer asked.
“Why not let the Secret Service take care of everything.”
“Insurance,” Skibicki said.
“I don’t think the Secret Service could handle what’s happening. As you say, these fake DIA guys are all over the place. For all we know Major Trace won’t get the diary to the President.”
Boomer glanced at Harry, then back at Skibicki.
“What’s going on?”
Skibicki kept sharpening the knife.
“Something’s not right with all of this,” Boomer said, tucking the pages into the breast pocket of his fatigues. He leaned forward, looking Skibicki directly in the eyes.
“I want your word, as someone whose life my dad saved, that you’re being straight with me.”
Skibicki’s eyes flickered away for the shortest of moments, then came back to lock into Boomer’s. He pointed down at the harbor.
“To the best of my knowledge there’s going to be an attempt to kill the President tomorrow morning We’re going to stop that attempt. I give you my word on that.”
