They looked at the sequence again, rolling it back and forth past the same spot until Mac shook his head. “Jon, was the Gulfstream inspected for any damage?”
“I … don’t know, General. I assume they’d find any damage when they got back here and did their normal post-flight inspection, and I assume the pilots would have heard any collision. Metal to metal in an airplane isn’t subtle.”
Mac glanced at him with a smile. “Tell me about it. I survived a glancing blow from pieces of an exploding surface-to-air missile in my F-105 just south of Hanoi in 1973. The memory of that noise still scares the … scatology out of me.” He pulled himself back out of the chair as he glanced down at Anderson. “We’re going over to the hangar immediately. I want inspection stands and lights.”
Jon Anderson stood as well. “Sir, we’d better warn Joe Davis what we’re looking for.”
Mac was shaking his head. “No. No explanations.” He turned to the sergeant. “And no leaks to Uniwave, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. By the way, Sergeant Jacobs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s a real shame, Bill, about that accidental erasure on the Coast Guard tape,” Mac said with a set jaw, looking the man in the eye.
“Sir?”
“I say … it’s a real shame that when that particular tape was returned to the Coast Guard, it had accidentally been bulk erased. Right?”
Sergeant Jacobs’s eyes fluttered open in sudden comprehension. “Oh! Yes. Yes, sir, I’m … terribly sorry about that.”
“Just normal human error, I suppose,” Mac said, giving the man a tired smile, which was tentatively returned.
Lieutenant Colonel Anderson was already in the hallway as Mac paused in the doorway and turned back to the two men. “This isn’t dishonesty per se, gentlemen. Keep that in mind, please. This is a black project, and there are things we have to do that are for solid reasons of national security.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Jacobs, one other thing?”
“Sir?”
Mac motioned him over and issued a verbal order quietly in his ear, outside the hearing of the other man, before waving a quick farewell and joining Anderson, down the hall.
TWENTY
THURSDAY, DAY 4 SEQUIM VALLEY AIRPORT, WASHINGTON 11:20 A.M.
April pulled the tarp from the wings and cockpit of the small Piper Cherokee Cruiser and began folding it as her dad had taught her. Once again she felt a familiar rush of excited anxiety, a feeling that sparkled through her every time she flew, the flash of adrenaline triggered by the knowledge that flying an airplane by herself was a form of tightrope walking in which only she was responsible for the outcome. She inhaled sharply, breathing in the invigorating aroma of freshly cut hay from an adjacent field and remembering so many afternoons of flight training with her dad. Flying, to Arlie Rosen, was a form of breathing, and he’d instilled the same feelings in his daughter, and later on in Gracie. Dean was another matter.
The exhilaration was suddenly overshadowed by a wave of guilt. She was, she realized, getting ready to enjoy something her father could no longer do.
April stepped back a few paces and looked at her father’s four-seat Piper 140, a tiny, basic craft. He was a senior 747 captain, yet he was no longer licensed to fly even something this small.
The nightmare precipitated by the FAA had forced her last-minute decision to fly to Seattle from the small airport in Sequim, a proud little airfield built by a family friend and former Braniff captain named Jack Sallee.
The conversation with her mother had been quick.
“Mom. I’m taking the Cherokee and flying over to confer with Gracie. Dad’s up there sitting on the ridge. I think he needs you.”
Rachel had shaken her head. “I know when he needs me, honey, and it’s not yet. I’m watching.”
April described the scene in the workroom, explaining the broken fifth of bourbon, in part to alleviate the fear her mother might feel if she opened the door and smelled the liquor. She nodded silently.
“Mom? Did you know about the liquor purchase in Anchorage?”
“Yes. It was for the planned party in Sitka and another get-together in Ketchikan.”
“And he wasn’t …”
“No.”
“You were there the whole time, right?”
She nodded, but her eyes had shifted away, and April felt a shiver of apprehension.
“Mom? You were there every minute, right? He couldn’t have slipped?”
“I was there.”
April could see the troubled expression on Rachel’s face. “Mom, what?”
Rachel sighed and studied her hands for a few moments before looking at her daughter. “They won’t believe me, April. I’m his wife. And I was asleep.”
“In flight?”
She nodded. “In the right seat. I kept a pillow up there.”
“You don’t recall the crash?”
“I was asleep until everything began coming apart. It was a blur. But … I’d seen no signs of any drinking.”
“Oh, God, Mom, then he really doesn’t even have an eyewitness.”
“Are you taking your things, April?”
“What? I … hadn’t thought …”
Rachel was nodding. “Take your things. You may need to go back to Vancouver from there. The plane can stay at Boeing Field. I can fly it back later.”
“I,” rather than “we,” her mother had said. It was an acknowledgment of how serious the situation really was.
April borrowed the old jeep to get down the two miles of road to the airport. She hurried now through the preflight, replaying in her head the cell phone conversation with Gracie.
“If I fly over there in a few hours, can you take time to pick me up at Boeing Field?” she’d asked. “We have some things to discuss.”
“Of course,” Gracie had replied. “Call me when you get in.”
“You sure this isn’t jeopardizing your position?”
“I talked to my senior partner this morning, April. He’s approved a certain amount of pro bono work. Not unlimited, but enough to be your father’s basic lawyer. And, I’m working on the salvage thing.”
“You said we had to recover the Albatross, right?”
There was a long sigh from Seattle. “Yes, I think it’s going to be the key, regardless of cost. But we’ve got another potential problem. Until this drinking thing is resolved, I doubt the insurance company is going to pay for the Albatross.”
April ran through the laminated checklist items and fired off the Cherokee’s engine, staying focused on the process of taxiing and doing the appropriate runup before allowing herself to notice how beautiful the day had become. Sequim was often called the banana belt of the Puget Sound area because it sat in the rain shadow of the northeast shoulder of the Olympic Peninsula, which generated more than 240 days of sunshine a year—while the rest of Puget Sound sat more often than not under a veil of gentle fog and mist.
A fresh westerly had cleared the entire region, and the sky was cobalt blue as she stood by the Cherokee and used her cell phone to file a visual flight plan to King County Airport, which was also known as Boeing Field. April loved landing at Seattle’s original airfield. There was always an inherent thrill in settling onto the runway in the tiny Piper in sight of dozens of brightly colored Boeing jets awaiting delivery on the western side. She looked forward now to the same experience.
The Cherokee lifted off at sixty-five knots and climbed steadily, soaring over the blue waters of nearby Sequim Bay, south of Port Townsend, and across the Hood Canal. The runway at Boeing Field kissed the tires of the little single-engine all too quickly, ending a conflicted hour of trying not to enjoy the beauty unfolding before her as she searched for ways to help her father.
With the unfolding legal problems, the physical peril of the crash had been all but forgotten. The bruises her parents had suffered were trivial compared to the emotional blow her dad had tak
en with the complete revocation of his pilot’s license. The potential financial impact alone might be ruinous. Captain Arlie Rosen’s two-hundred-thousand-per-year airline salary would be on hold for however long it took to regain the legal right to fly, and with the evidence that the FAA was amassing and purposely misinterpreting, that might be never.
April had phoned her arrival time to Gracie just before takeoff from Sequim, and, as she taxied in, she could see her longtime friend standing beside another small single-engine, waving as she spotted the familiar Cherokee.
The image brought a smile to April’s face. Gracie was always complaining that she couldn’t attract the male of the species, but they both knew it was a joke. Gracie was an extremely attractive young woman, and a bundle of energy. Her petite five-foot-three frame next to April’s taller five-foot-eight had made them a distinctive team in high school, especially since Gracie insisted on playing every sport her friend took up, including basketball.
April braked to a halt and looked at Gracie’s outfit more closely. Stylish, but pushing the limits for a major lawfirm, April decided. Black heels, a silk blouse tucked into a tweed mini-skirt and a partially opened matching blazer. The male-grabbing visage was topped off by Gracie’s exceptionally full mane of reddish-blond hair blowing in the five-knot breeze.
Gracie came over and carefully climbed up on the wing to open the door as April ran the shutdown checklist and secured the cockpit.
“It’s good to see old Double-Oh-Seven-Whiskey again,” Gracie said, referring to the N6007W registration number of the aircraft she’d soloed in several years back.
“She still flies nice. Slow, but steady.”
“I see my booster cushion is still in the back.”
“Well, you always did insist on seeing over the rudder pedals.”
“You hungry?” Gracie asked.
April shook her head. “I think I had something for breakfast, but I’m not even sure I could tell you what. Not much appetite.”
“Yeah, I hear you. I forgot to eat before leaving the Queen Mary this morning.”
“You’ve named your boat the Queen Mary now?”
“No, no. That’s just how it feels.”
April unfolded herself from the cockpit as Gracie backed down to the ramp, carefully using the toes of her high heels on the boarding stand.
“I wouldn’t mind coffee while you wolf something down,” April said as she followed Gracie off the wing and into the private terminal. She left a fuel order and her cell phone number before proceeding to Gracie’s Corvette. They drove around the field to a faded coffee shop near the Museum of Flight, where they found a booth, and Gracie began pulling things from a small briefcase.
“Okay, April. Here is a briefing sheet with all the information, names, places and potential prices you’ll need to pursue booking a salvage operation, also a floppy disk with the same files on it for your computer, and your airline ticket.”
“My … what?”
“You’re going back to Anchorage on Alaska’s one P.M. flight. You’ll meet this afternoon with the guy I think can do us the most good. Took me a few calls to find him. I’d come with you, but …”
April looked stunned, and Gracie was more or less enjoying the moment.
“I’m flying back to Anchorage? But … I have a job I have to get back to.”
“Already talked to your senior vice-president, Niles Dayton. He said to tell you he sends his deepest condolences. He’s got the two ship arrivals covered and will call if he needs anything, and said to tell you to take whatever time you need.”
“Niles Dayton said all that?”
“He did.”
April cocked her head suspiciously. “And what, exactly, did you tell him to elicit such a gracious response?”
“Oh, nothing much. Actually, I was talking to Hugh Wellsley, and he patched Niles Dayton into the call, and I might have mentioned something about the publicity value for Empress Lines.”
“Publicity value?”
“Sure. Loyal daughter and Empress vice-president embarks on noble mission to save a valuable World War Two warbird from the ravages of saltwater. The Anchorage Times reporter will meet with you tomorrow. He’s excited. Of course, he’ll be more excited when he sees the girl on the other end of the name.”
“Wait just a minute here. You arranged press coverage? Gracie, I’m not sure that’s a wise idea.”
“He loved it. So did Hugh.”
“Hugh? How do you know Hugh?”
“You introduced us at a party last fall, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” April replied, suddenly shaken by the thought that an interview could lead to the drunk flying charge blowing into the public arena.
“We’ve got to get that bird off the bottom, April,” Gracie was saying. “At the very least we have to prove that the prop came off. Ted Greene is ready to march on the FAA the moment we get hard evidence. There are no guarantees of success, but it’s just remotely possible he could talk some sense into the enforcement division.”
“But, you really think … Does he think it’s wise to go public with this?”
Gracie nodded. “Alaska is a rarified aviation environment, and there will likely be a negative backlash against the FAA for moving so fast without evidence. Lots of Alaskans are pilots, as we both know.” Gracie looked at her watch. “There’s more to tell you, but I’d better get you over to Seatac.”
“Gracie, there’s something I have to tell you,” April said, studying her coffee cup before meeting Gracie’s eyes. “The night of the accident, Dad bought some liquor for a planned party in Sitka. That worm Harrison called me. He knows.”
Gracie sat back hard in the booth. “Oh, God, no!”
“Dad wasn’t drinking, Gracie!”
“He might as well have been,” Gracie said slowly. “Because this may kill us.”
TWENTY ONE
THURSDAY, DAY 4 ANCHORAGE, ALASKA EARLY AFTERNOON
The lobby of the Regal Alaskan Hotel had been designed to resemble the interior of a rough-hewn national-park lodge, but the hotel itself was anything but remote. The structure occupied the south end of Anchorage’s Lake Spenard, which each summer claimed the title of the busiest seaplane base in the world.
April alighted from the hotel’s airport shuttle van and unzipped her white parka as she entered the lobby, hardly noticing the array of mounted game trophies on the walls. Deer, elk, moose, and a selection of smaller animals were everywhere, but only the fire burning in the huge river-rock fireplace caught her attention.
She’d tried to fight off depression all the way from Seattle, but the dark bow wave of reality had been slowly winning. Arlie Rosen had not fallen off the wagon. Her mother would have known. She shoved the other disturbing aspects of Rachel’s responses to the back of her mind and tried to close them away.
The phone call she’d made to her mother in flight hadn’t helped.
“He’s taking this very hard, April.”
“Try to get him to go to a counselor, Mom.”
“I am trying. And he’s refusing. He says he’ll handle it, but …” April could hear her sigh deeply on the other end. “I’ve never seen your father this despondent.” The worrisome report had made the short drive to the hotel a blur of thoughts and renewed determination to extricate her father from the FAA-imposed purgatory consuming him, and her. But salvation would only truly come from raising the wreckage of the old warbird. If every one of those Anchorage-purchased liquor bottles could be found still stowed and unopened, the FAA’s case would fall apart.
Okay, where’s my pilot?
April surveyed the lobby, noting the huge, stuffed eight-foot-tall Alaskan brown bear in a glass case by the front desk. The hapless former bear had been posed by a taxidermist in all its grizzly ferocity, and even though it was long since deceased, April realized she was automatically giving it a very wide berth.
She walked toward the fireplace, spotting no one even remotely fitting the description of a bush
pilot. She sat in one of the big chairs adjacent to the roaring fire and reread the note from Gracie.
April—You’ll be met in the lobby by Scott McDermott, whom I hired to fly you in his Grumman Widgeon over to Valdez to meet with a salvage operator named Jim Dobler, who will have a plan figured out when you get there. He’s been recommended by one of our major clients whom I happened to be talking to today by phone to one of his drilling rigs in Venezuela. My client’s a billionaire and very friendly. I know he owns a big ship repair and salvage operation in Mobile, Alabama. He said this was too small a job and too far north for his people to take on, but he said that Dobler’s a trusted friend, and he promised to lean on him to help us, which he did. The object is to get a diver down to position a harness around the Albatross, then use a barge-mounted winch to haul it to the surface and tow it slowly to shore, if it stays intact. He can do all that. Keep me posted. I’ll be in the office late and on the cell. Go, girl. Love ya!
The aroma of something more pungent than wood smoke was assaulting her nose. She recognized it as cigar smoke and turned to track it to the source, a long, Churchill-size stogie a man on the far end of the couch had just fired up. She wrinkled her nose in disapproval, but either he wasn’t looking or was pretending not to notice.
That figures, she thought. He had unkempt sandy hair and an abbreviated handlebar mustache, as well as a weathered brown leather jacket and a dirty, blue, oil-stained parka he’d draped boorishly over an adjacent chair. Your basic bush-class Alaskan, she concluded, rejecting the idea that he was merely some homeless male who’d wandered past hotel security. The ring on his right middle finger and the expensive boots he was wearing leavened the overall impression somewhat.
But to her mind, the cigar was a fatal flaw.
Why on earth would a woman want to get intimate with someone like him? she mused.
April cautioned herself that, objectionable or not, he’d seated himself around the fireplace first. But he’s stinking up the whole place with that thing.
“Excuse me,” April said, giving in to her irritation.
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