Skyhook (40 page)

“But why? Your career hangs in the—”

“Because!” he snapped, instantly raising his left hand and shaking his head in apology. “Because,” he continued, more softly, “I have good reason to believe that if we just hunker down and stop the frontal

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assault, the FAA will reverse their stance without all the efforts.”

“Who told you that?” Gracie pressed.

He was shaking his head. “I can’t tell you, Gracie.”

She looked at him for the longest time, weighing the question she hadn’t wanted to ask, but compelled to ask it anyway. He was the closest thing to a father she’d had, but she forced that reality aside as she looked at Rachel, amazed that she knew without a word. Rachel nodded and left the kitchen, leaving them alone.

“Captain, I have to ask you something. I … don’t want to, but.

. .”

His face hardened and she heard a disgusted sigh. “Was I drinking, right?”

She nodded in lieu of speaking the words, which wouldn’t come.

“You, of all people, Gracie, doubt me?”

“I’m your lawyer now, and … and I …”

“I don’t think I want to answer you. I’m very hurt that you’d have so little faith in me.”

“Captain, please, I just have to be able to say that I’ve asked the question, you know?”

He stood shaking his head, his eyes on the floor, the tension and resentment killing them both.

“What if I was? You believe I was?”

“No. I mean, that’s the last thing I want to believe, but when a guy who’s had the struggle you’ve had with alcohol buys several fifths of vodka …”

“Everyone just naturally assumes he’s fallen off the wagon. As do you. Stupid of me. Next time I plan to crash, I won’t visit a liquor store.”

She took a deep breath. “I love you, Captain. And I’m sorry. Do you want me to withdraw as your lawyer?”

There was another long, painful pause before he replied, his eyes on the other side of the room. “No,” he said quietly.

“Okay.”

“But by the end of the day Monday, Grade,” he said, “I’m formally directing you to withdraw whatever you’ve filed.”

The cell phone had barely succeeded in ringing when Mac MacAdams yanked it to his ear, momentarily puzzled that there was no one there.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled to himself, realizing the electronic ringer that had gone off heralded incoming e-mail messages.

He maneuvered the screen around and grabbed for his reading glasses, spotting the series of numbers he’d expected, and launched himself out of the den chair he’d been in for the past half hour.

“I’m going out for a while,

Linda,” he called, aware that his

wife had been judiciously steering clear of him all morning.

Mac slid behind the wheel of the restored 1963 Corvair Spyder he’d had since pilot training more than thirty-six years ago and headed off the base into the downtown area. He parked around the block from the Hilton and went inside, zeroing in on one of the pay phones. He dialed a number and waited for an interminable number of rings and clicks before a voice came on the other end.

“Hello?”

“This is … ah …” Mac fumbled with a piece of paper, looking for the code name he was supposed to use. “Ed.”

“Of course it is! So, Ed, are you ready to receive some information?”

“Yeah, after I get an explanation of why you selected Ed’ as my code name.”

He heard a hearty chuckle on the other end. “You remember that old TV show about a talking horse, Mr. Ed? Well, you have a lot of horsepower. It fit.”

“I never knew covert ops could be so much fun.”

“Yes, you did. Anyway … bottom line? You were correct that there was damage to the right winglet. It was discovered late Monday night on a postflight walkaround in the hangar, and it was quietly repaired during the wee hours and the paint touched up the following night.”

“Then, that sonofabitch flight test manager was lying.”

“I don’t think so. I doubt he knew a thing. I decided to target the maintenance lead who was on that night instead of him, and it was a good decision. The guy crumbled under the weight of my badge, so to speak.”

“You have a badge?”

“You’d be surprised what I get to carry.”

“You … didn’t beat the man up or anything, did you?” Mac asked.

“Of course not. I merely made it clear what would happen to him if he ever discussed my visit, and he elected to retain the use and possession of his favorite body appendage.”

“You’re all heart. What did he tdl you?”

“It was a towing accident, or so he thought. He’d been threatened with termination before because that very aircraft had been damaged by a poorly trained member of his night crew six months back when they shoved the tail into the back of the hangar. He reported that damage, he told me, but his boss made a huge deal out of it and tried

to hang him. He said when he did the walkaround Monday night and saw the ding on the right winglet, he about expired right there.”

“Figured they’d fire him, huh?”

“Exactly. Managers never learn how little it takes to drive people to lie.”

“He didn’t understand it was midair damage?”

“Still doesn’t. He said two of his guys weren’t paying close enough attention as they towed the plane back in and clipped the edge of a parked maintenance stand.”

“Is he sure? Did he inspect the stand?”

“No. He said the stand was gone when he went back out to inspect it, and he spent the next two hours threatening to kill his tow team, then marshaled them all together to work the rest of the night hiding the evidence.”

“And it worked? Well, of course it worked.”

“You bet. No one noticed during the day Tuesday, and Tuesday night they repainted that section using some portable device to bake the paint on.”

“And by Friday, when I inspected it, it looked fine.”

“You got it.”

“You think he’s telling the truth?”

“Hell, I know he’s telling what he thinks is the truth. That’s why you called me, remember? To get the truth?”

“Yeah, okay. So it might have been the maintenance stand, and then again it might not have been.”

“That’s right. Clear as mud. Was there damage? Yes. Was it secretly repaired in a little hangar conspiracy? Yes. Did anyone see, hear, feel, observe, or inspect the results of the impact from the maintenance stand’s point of view? No. Has any maintenance stand turned up with corresponding damage? Well, not yet. You only called me a few hours ago so I haven’t surveyed the flight line, but you might want to do that. Or I’ll do it.”

“I would appreciate your doing it, Jerry.”

“Oops! Name! Ouch!”

“Sorry! But that’s just your alias, right?”

“Yes. Not to worry. Oh, by the way, two other things.”

“Tell me.”

“First, regarding the beautiful Miss Rosen. Following her was a distinct pleasure. And thanks to the cell phone calls she just made today, I’ve got some information you definitely need to know. Somehow, she returned to the crash site and is telling her family and a lawyer named Gracie O’Brien back in Seattle that the wreckage of her dad’s aircraft has been stolen.”

“What?”

“Not only that, the lawyer intends to file a new complaint this afternoon in federal court to include the FAA and the Navy, and she’s demanding return of the wreckage. She said she intends to, and I quote, smoke out’ whoever else is involved.”

“Wonderful,” Mac said. “That will eventually lead right back to our hangar.”

“Judging from what she was broadcasting on that call, Miss Rosen s had a bit of an odyssey.”

“I knew she wouldn’t quit.”

“Also, I have some really interesting insight into our FAA friend Harrison, and why he seems to want Miss Rosen’s father on the ground.”

“Good. Why?”

“You recall a major cargo airline crash in Anchorage quite a few years back in the seventies?”

“I think so. Remotely.”

“Foreign airline and a contract American captain who was drunk as a skunk. Well, there was an FAA inspector who had tried to ground that very individual sometime before the accident because he suspected the man was flying under the influence. He tried to get his bosses to let him take action, but because there was supposed to be an FAA-approved alcohol rehabilitation program and this guy was

supposed to have been a part of it, they refused and ordered him to sit down and shut up.”

“And his name was Harrison, right?”

“None other. But it gets better. Mr. Harrison not only knew the contract captain, they were bitter rivals during their Air Force years. They both got out after Vietnam, the accident captain got a job with this airline and immediately blackballed Harrison, who was applying there, too. Harrison has been death on wheels to airline pilots since then whenever there’s the slightest hint of a drinking problem, and he’s been officially sanctioned twice by his bosses for trying to thwart airline alcohol program graduates’ return to the cockpit.”

“And our Ms. Rosen’s father flew into his crosshairs?”

“Captain Rosen took the cure ten years back. Zero record of a repeat. Solid history as a pilot, but the moment Harrison saw that on his record this week, it was a foregone conclusion.”

“Which, of course, Washington was never told.”

“You got it.”

“Can you get me hard copy of this report?”

“Yes, master. You ready for the last item? The one you really wanted?”

“You know I hate to do it this way.”

“I know. But sometimes it’s necessary. The answer is yes, I’ve got a file on the guy who rattled your cage. He’s not terribly interesting and there’s nothing felonious, but he’s got some very embarrassing charges on his company credit card that, if you so desired, would be grounds for termination.”

Mac sighed. “Okay. You have the documentation?”

“They’ll be with the package. He’ll be more than willing to apologize.”

“I hate this sort of thing. You have a file on me, too?”

“No, see … you’re one of the squeaky ones that spooks like me hate. I haven’t seen you take so much as a paper clip or evince an extracurricular interest in the opposite sex yet. And before

you’re tempted to ask, same thing goes for your wife. You’re both squeaky.”

“Thank heavens. By the way, I counted six clicks on the line when I called you,” Mac chuckled. “Somehow I got the impression that my call was being rerouted several different places.”

“How clever of you to notice. Yeah, I have a lot of fun with false call-routing games. You may even be talking through a Pentagon line piped through the Anchorage police department switchboard and two drug dealers’ headquarters before being routed through a local whorehouse into my phone.”

“We have whorehouses in Anchorage?” Mac asked. “No, wait. I have no need to know.”

“I would think not. Your wife really is a lovely woman.”

“How would you … never mind. Of course you’d know.”

“My job, Ed. Plus, you two had me over for dinner last year. Am I that forgettable? I even recited ancient Alaskan poetry for you.”

“Bullshit. You recited Robert Service’s Shooting of Dan McGrew.

Hardly ancient. And no, you’re not forgettable. Anything but.”

“Thank you.”

“

ook, please let me know when you’ve surveyed all the maintenance stands at Elmendorf, will you?”

“I shall go and do that, oh great one with shoulder stars.”

“

ord, what I have to put up with.”

“Next time you and the missus feed me, I’ll recite the poem of the perpetually perturbed polar bear. Provided there’s a Guinness in it.”

“You’re on. And … if I haven’t said so in the last few months, I just want you to know how much I appreciate having your help on this project.”

“You’re welcome, big guy. You remember what I told you. As long as I don’t have to march or wear a uniform, I’m happy to help.”

When the call ended, the man on other end began unplugging the communications equipment he’d used as he thought over what had to be done and how to best deliver the package MacAdams needed.

And then there’s the matter of Dr. Benjamin Cole, he thought to himself. I’m glad Mac didn’t ask. Best to leave that subject completely un discussed.

E, WHSHINGTON

3:20 P.M.

Gracie popped open the main cabin door of the Cessna 310 light twin before the propellers had stopped rotating. The man in the left seat finished the last few checklist items and killed the master switch as she reached around to shake his hand.

“Thank you very much, Captain

arson.”

“Please call me Jimmy.” He smiled, enfolding her hand in a huge paw and shaking it gently. “Anything to help out Arlie.”

“Well, two hundred miles per hour really beats the Cherokee’s hundred and fifteen. Please forgive my dashing off. You going back immediately?”

He was pulling his headset off. “After fueling and eating some of Galvin’s popcorn,” he said, gesturing to the main lobby of the flying service whose ramp they were on. “Or, I could stay over.”

She climbed out on the right wing and stood up as he leaned over.

“Gracie, any chance you’d accompany an old retired airline bird man to dinner tonight?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to date me, Captain?” she teased.

He looked startled. “Hey, now there’s a concept. I could use a new trophy wife. I wore out the last one.”

She began backing down the folding steps to the ground. “Okay, now I’m frightened. I’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind.

Besides, I’m going to be amazingly busy working on this thing.”

“Gracie, you do know I’m only kidding, right?”

She looked hurt. “You don’t want to date me?”

He waved and smiled. “In a few years, perhaps. When I grow up.

Good luck with that judge.”

She hurried back to her Corvette in the parking lot and moved into traffic, heading for the office.

The lure of diverting to a nearby Starbucks after parking her car was strong, but her office had a coffeepot and she had several hours of drafting and proofing to do before the amended complaint and the accompanying papers would be fit to present to a federal district judge on the doorstep of his home. She swung through the door of her office feeling strangely out of place, as if Ben Janssen might be waiting for her in abject disapproval.