High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “If anybody can do it you can,” Glen told him.

  Louis flashed a hard, angry look at his brother.

  “Don’t let it get to you. Take it a step at a time. You’re smarter than they are. You’ve already proved that.”

  “If I can’t figure it out it becomes a moot point. We won’t have anyplace to go.”

  Glen lowered his voice. “You worry about the circuit and let me take care of getting us out of here. Just do it, Louis.”

  “Nothing,” Louis said.

  One hundred thirty-one tones, one hundred thirty-one zeroes. Each of the leads from the monitor to the frame came out exactly as they should if they were doing the legitimate work of keeping an eye on conditions in the engine. Nothing in the circuitry would bring down an airplane.

  “Maybe we should wait until morning to finish up.” It was midnight, and Glen looked haggard. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “All that’s left is the modulated ground wire. We’ll do it now.”

  “Same drill?”

  “Yes.”

  They had tested all but the ground lead three times. The first with a signal from the monitor, down the harness to the plug before it was connected to the frame. A second time with the harness plugged in. And a third with a signal generated, wire by wire from the engine side of the diodes back to the monitor. Each time Glen watched an oscilloscope attached to the leads for a spike, a tone, or a modulated signal, which on the scope looked like the odd shapes the old lava lamps made.

  Louis clipped the O-scope’s leads to four different spots on the frame. If there was any response to the modulated signal sent from the monitor it would show up here. He adjusted the four traces, each at a different potential, from a few millivolts to 1.5 volts, the same as from an ordinary flashlight battery. Glen, his hand resting on the frame, watched intently.

  “Don’t touch the frame,” Louis ordered. “Might screw up the results.”

  Glen did as he was told and Louis walked back to the workbench on the other side of the basement. “Watch the scope.”

  “Right,” Glen called back.

  Louis keyed the decoder, got the trigger pulse, and a few milliseconds later the audio frequency tone went out.

  An intense white light suddenly bloomed in the wine storage room, and an instant later Glen screamed, the inhuman sound torn out of his throat. Louis had to fall back behind his equipment, because the heat blasting across the basement was so intense. He knew what was happening! He knew how it worked!

  Glen’s screams died as abruptly as they’d begun, and the brilliant light faded.

  Saturday morning after breakfast, McGarvey decided to drive back out to Gales Creek to talk with Socrates and Kilbourne about the 2622. Since the Honolulu flight was only eight days away he figured they’d be out there. He wanted to know if the 2622 shared any parts with the 522. Especially engine components that had anything even remotely to do with heat management systems. It would be the perfect plane to knock out of the sky on its first VIP flight. Whatever was sabotaged could already be built into the jetliner, and all their searching on the day of the flight would be for nothing. He suspected that line of thinking would be a dead end because Kilbourne had made the point that the hypersonic jetliner was a brand-new design from the wheel struts up. Nonetheless he wanted to make sure.

  Guerin had put him up in an executive turnkey apartment downtown. Within two blocks after leaving the underground parking garage he realized that he had picked up a tail, a black windowless van alternating with a brown Chevy Caprice. He’d tried again this morning to reach Carrara without luck, but there were automatic traces on all lines to CIA headquarters and to its top deputy directors, so his location had been pinpointed. But it was extreme, even for the General, to cut off all contact and then have him followed. Besides, these guys weren’t very good.

  Instead of heading west out of the city, he stayed in the downtown area between the Hawthorne and Burnside bridges on the west side of the river. When the Chevy was behind him, he slowed enough to be caught by a red light on Salmon Street a few blocks from the World Trade Center. The van was already through the intersection and had to continue with traffic.

  McGarvey got out of his car and walked back to the Caprice. The driver hesitated, then lowered his window. He and the passenger wore dark suits, their overcoats tossed in the backseat. Neither of them looked happy that they’d been made.

  “You’re too obvious to be Company. What are you, Bureau or local cops?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the driver said.

  McGarvey stared at him.

  The passenger pulled out his ID and showed his badge. “We’re FBI, Mr. McGarvey. Could you tell us where you’re headed?”

  “Your office,” McGarvey answered. “Call your S-A-C and tell him to meet us there.”

  It took a half-hour for the FBI’s Portland Special Agent in Charge, Jack Franson, to get downtown. When he came through the door he motioned McGarvey to come into his office, but for the others to remain where they were.

  “I understand you gave my agents a hard time this morning,” the older man said. He wore a USC jogging suit. He took off his jacket and tossed it on the couch, then motioned for McGarvey to have a seat in front of his desk.

  “I don’t like being followed.”

  “Nobody does,” Franson said. He picked up his telephone. “Roger, see if we can borrow Kathy or one of the other stenos from downstairs. Have her come up on the double, please.”

  “Am I being charged with something?”

  “Not at this time, Mr. McGarvey.”

  “Are you investigating me in connection with some crime?”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”

  “Then this conversation ends now,” McGarvey said, coolly. “Before the steno arrives.”

  “Where were you going this morning?”

  “The next time somebody comes up behind me, I’m going to break their legs just below the knees. Then I’ll disarm them. When I find their IDs, I’ll apologize. But the streets aren’t safe these days, and a man has got to protect himself.”

  Franson was unimpressed. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Do that. In the meantime you obviously know who I am, and you know that I’m working for Guerin and what I’m doing for them. So where’s the problem?”

  “I’m not going to discuss that with you.”

  “Somebody in Washington is pulling your chain. Probably John Whitman, unless I miss my guess. He has pals at Langley, the people who are most interested in me. They must have told you something, S-A-C. Warned you. Told you I was dangerous.”

  “Will you answer a few questions?”

  “No. But I will exchange information with you.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Your call,” McGarvey said getting to his feet. “But if you want something from me, all you have to do is tell me what you’re working on. I’ll be happy to give you whatever help I can.”

  “Don’t screw with us, McGarvey,” Franson warned.

  “Tell them in Washington that I’m available anytime for a trade of information. In the meantime I’ve got work to do, so stay out of my way.”

  McGarvey left the S-A-C’s office just as a young woman pushing a court reporter’s typewriter got off the elevator. No one tried to stop him.

  Chance Kennedy had been asleep last night when David finally came home, and waking now she could hear him in the shower. She didn’t know what to say to him, but they could not go on like this much longer.

  Any pretense she might have had about getting information from Yamagata had been dashed by Kirk McGarvey yesterday afternoon. As incredible as it seemed, David somehow knew or suspected she was having an affair. What she couldn’t fathom, however, is why he had told someone. And how many other people had he discussed her with? How could she look any of them in the eye?

  She felt like public property. Like a common tramp. A slut.

  The shower sto
pped, and a couple of minutes later David came out of the bathroom. Chance feigned sleep. She heard him cross to the closet, get something, then go back. She opened her eyes. He was looking at her from the bathroom door.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked.

  She glanced at the clock. It was after nine. “It’s time to get up. Where are you going?”

  “I have to get back to the office.”

  She sat up and propped the pillows behind her back. “Stay home. Let’s do something today. Maybe take a drive.”

  “Sorry, Chance, I can’t. Not this close to the flight. But it’ll slow down afterward. We’ll take a vacation. Europe maybe. How’s that sound?”

  “When?”

  “In the spring.”

  “What about the hydrogen engines?” she asked sarcastically. “Someone will have to keep on top of Rolls, won’t they? You’ll have to make the decision whether to start production. You could end up like Boeing with dozens of planes on the ramp waiting for engines. Remember the problems they had with the 747? And you’ve got a big job ahead of you on the sell-through. What’s your break-even point this time? A hundred airplanes? Two hundred? Three? Lots of travel, David. Meetings. Conferences. Arm twisting. Not to mention keeping the Russians on the straight and narrow. And the Japanese out of your hair.”

  “It’s what I do. It’s my job.”

  Chance could feel tears well up in her eyes. But she didn’t want to cry in front of David. “What about our marriage?”

  “What about it?” he asked.

  “You’re never home!” she snapped, her voice brittle.

  “If I did come home, would I find you here?” he demanded.

  For a second she was speechless. She hadn’t thought he’d bring it up so fast. It wasn’t his style. She figured there would be days or weeks of hints and arguments about every subject but that one. David was something of a prude, and naive. Only once in their marriage had he strayed, and he had been so miserable for so long that Chance had ended up comforting him when it should have been the other way around.

  He stormed into the bathroom.

  Chance threw back the covers and went after him. “What do you mean by that?” she screeched.

  David refused to turn toward her. Instead he faced her reflection in the mirrors above the sink. “Arimoto Yamagata.”

  “I’ve had lunch with the man twice, and dinner with him once. For you and the company.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “He’s here spying on us. He told me that the people he works for back in Tokyo want to buy Guerin and build an airplane factory in Japan. He wants to know everything about us. Especially about you, and about McGarvey. But that’s a laugh.”

  David turned. “What?”

  “McGarvey was here. Warned me away from Arimoto. He’s trying to protect his friend. Did you know that?”

  “When was McGarvey here? What’d he want?”

  “You told him I was having an affair. If you want to discuss our marriage, David, discuss it with me. Not the people who work for you.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” Chance asked, her voice disdainful. But she was frightened that he was willing to take this so far.

  “Sleeping with Yamagata?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. She raised a hand to her mouth. “Why do you think that?”

  “I saw the way you reacted to him at Saunders’ party. I know the signs.”

  “Like what? Have you had me followed?”

  “No need for it. Somebody mentioned to me on Thursday that they’d seen you in Holbrook. You and Yamagata.”

  “I told you I met him.”

  “Lunch and dinner. Not overnight. Are you sleeping with him to get back at me? Is that what this is all about? Tit for tat?”

  “What if it’s true?” Chance blurted, surprising herself.

  “Is it?”

  “Are you going back to that bitch Dominique Kilbourne?”

  David shook his head sadly. “That was a mistake that I’ll never live down. But I didn’t love her then, and I don’t love her now. I love you.”

  “You love airplanes and jet engines and rockets more than you love me!”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I’m trying to help!”

  “Don’t. I mean it. Stay away from Yamagata. These people are out to hurt us, and they’ll do whatever it takes to win. Including using you.”

  “Then stop him!” Chance cried.

  “We’re trying.”

  Stop me, she wanted to say, but he looked away, and after a moment she went back into the bedroom.

  Chance Kennedy got to the newly opened Hyatt Regency Hotel downtown on the riverfront about noon and took a seat in the bar overlooking the water. Her emotions were badly bruised. She wanted to hide in a dark corner somewhere until everything worked itself out. Maybe they would take a vacation in the spring after all. If she could hold out that long.

  David was right, of course. She was out of her league trying to deal with Yamagata. Yet being with him was like nothing she’d ever experienced or even imagined. He was so different. So caring. So knowledgeable. No fumbling, no hesitation, he knew exactly what pleased her.

  She ordered a glass of champagne, and when it came she had to force herself to sip it and not gulp the whole thing down at once. She was being an absolute fool to think that she could outwit the main. The first time she’d laid eyes on him she’d been captivated. And since the tea ceremony she’d not been able to stop thinking about him.

  David was respectful of him, and even McGarvey had warned her away. Which meant he probably had the key to their problems. Break him and they’d have the answers. Sex, after all, was a powerful persuader. She was no slouch. Her breasts were small, and though she often went without a bra, they were still firm. Her tummy was reasonably flat, her ass wasn’t sagging, and her legs were in great shape because of tennis. He wouldn’t get so aroused if she were unappealing. The trick would be to make herself alluring to him. There wasn’t a man she knew who couldn’t be brought around by sex, or the promise of a lack thereof. And when it was over she would make David understand what she had done and why she had done it. Hadn’t he said that he’d never loved Dominique? Well, she certainly didn’t love Yamagata. That was ridiculous.

  When they came out here to see about a position with Guerin, Al Vasilanti had told them that working for an airplane company was more than just a job. Because of the complexity of the product, and because of the religious commitment to safety, building airplanes was a way of life that involved the entire family. Chance would have to be like a doctor’s wife: on call with her husband twenty-four hours a day. At first she thought it was a bunch of macho bullshit, but now she was starting to think that maybe the old fool had something after all.

  Chance paid for her drink and took the elevator up to the twenty-first-floor penthouse with the key Yamagata had given her. The suite had already been cleaned, but he wasn’t there.

  She stood in the middle of the big living room, her heart beating rapidly, torn by two emotions. She was sorry she’d missed him, and yet she was glad he wasn’t here. She was frightened of him. And of herself.

  His clean, sandalwood scent was in the air. She could almost feel his touch, his caress.

  She needed help, but there was no one to turn to. This time she was on her own.

  It was for David, she told herself. Otherwise she would not be here. For David and for the company.

  “The certificate is ready for my signature?”

  “It will be by this afternoon,” the FAA’s Flight Standards Service Director Archie Darden said. “Are you going to stop down, Jay?”

  “Monday morning will be soon enough.”

  “The Renton, Washington, regional office gave the bird a clean bill of health.”

  “This one’s got to be right for them,” Federal Aviation Administration Administrator Jay Hansen said from his house. “And for us too.”

&nb
sp; “Nothing more we can do with this budget. Every time one goes down they scream for our blood. But in the interim they cut our funds so we can’t do the job they expect of us.”

  “That’s called politics. Nothing we can do about it. But if our Northwest office says Guerin’s plane is ready to fly, then I’ll sign off on their recommendation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Darden said. He was in shirt-sleeves, his thick red hair tousled. A 24x30 color photograph of the P/C2622, America painted across her fuselage, was propped up on a chair across the room. She was stunning.

  “It’s my own neck as well.”

  “You flying to Honolulu on Sunday?”

  “That’s right, Archie. So I’ve got a vested interest to watch.”

  “Well, we’ve done our job.” He looked at the photo. “I can tell you that I wish it was me instead of you on that flight.”

  Lieutenant Sattler watched over the radarman’s shoulder as the slow-moving target passed across the very top of the screen. The aircraft was an Orion P-3D on a parallel track just under one hundred miles south-southwest of the Thorn’s position.

  “Fifteen thousand feet at two hundred twenty knots, he’s mushing along up there,” the radar operator said. “He’s not one of ours, L-T.”

  “Japanese?”

  “Not Chinese or North Korean out here. I’d say ASDF. I can try their patrol frequencies.”

  “Go ahead. Ask them if they’ve lost something,” Sattler ordered. He turned to the ECM’s console. “Is he looking at us?”

  “His radar just went active,” the rating said. “He has us. Shall we jam?”

  “Negative.”

  “There’s his IFF. We’ve been interrogated. He wants to know who we are.”

  “As if he didn’t already know,” Sattler said.

  The radar operator looked up. “Negative response on the regular channels. Want me to keep trying?”

  “Stand by,” Sattler said. He called the bridge on the growler phone.