The Inner Sanctum (10 page)

It was that way for everyone involved. Pierce's wife had no idea where he was. And if today's flight ended in disaster, which was always a possibility given the nature of the business, the coffin his wife buried would be empty--though she would never know that. There was always the possibility that a piece of the plane's top-secret composite skin could become lodged in Pierce's remains for an international grave robber to discover and take back to his government.

But the personal sacrifices didn't bother Pierce at all. He was totally committed to the A-100, to its place in naval history, and to the leaders managing the project. And he would do anything they asked to make certain the plane was brought to full-scale production as quickly as possible. Anything.

Thirty-seven feet long with a seventy-foot wingspan, the A-100 was really nothing but a giant wing, an aerodynamic marvel. Upon design and test completion it was to replace the thirty-five- year-old A-6 Intruder as the Navy's carrier-based workhorse fighter-bomber. The A-6 had been in service since Vietnam, but political wrangling and tight budgets had inhibited the Navy brass from replacing it.

Pierce glanced out the left window at the wing sweeping back away from him. It was a beautiful plane. Responsive, powerful, and practically invisible, it was the finest machine he had ever flown.

He scanned the computer-generated topographical map on which was superimposed an outline of the aircraft, then demagnified the image on the screen several times--decreasing the size of the plane's outline and increasing the scope of the map--and located the runway from which he had just taken off. Four minutes into the flight and he was already fifty miles out.

Pierce increased the scope of the map again and searched for the target--a "carrier box" located on a remote runway in the middle of the Nevada desert where the Navy simulated at-sea landings and takeoffs. The carrier box was a rectangle of white lights positioned on the runway to match the dimensions of an aircraft carrier deck. The box was complete with arresting cables and a catapult.

Pierce located the carrier box quickly. It was slightly over 150 miles out to the north.

The objective of this last mission was simple: to simulate an at-sea landing and takeoff, two of the most dangerous maneuvers Navy pilots had to execute on a regular basis. Land the A-100 within the white lights, then take off via catapult. If he could do so, the contractor could begin production of the plane immediately. And the admirals could kiss his ass from now to eternity.

He glanced at the box on the screen once more, then checked in with Carrier Air Traffic Control for the first time. "Approach, Tiger six two three." In order to limit the number of eyes watching the flight, the CATC would act as Strike, Marshal, and Air Boss--the progression of controllers typically responsible for guiding a jet home after its cycle of operations. Black programs required this kind of job economy to ensure secrecy. "How copy?"

"Loud and clear, Tiger six two three." The CATC's response was terse.

Pierce heard tension in the CATC's voice. Christ, the higher-ups were probably crowded around the poor bastard, making him nervous as hell. Admiral Cowen, Chief of Naval Operations, William Harcourt, Secretary of the Navy, and Jack Finnerty, president of GEA--the defense firm responsible for manufacturing the A-100. All sweating bullets at the command center overlooking the carrier box as they waited for Pierce to guide their little $500 million piece of hardware safely onto the runway in the middle of nowhere.

"Request permission to land."

"Tiger six two three, cleared to land. But could you do me a favor first and turn on your beacon? With all that radar avoidance equipment on board, your damn plane's a bitch to find, and there are people here who'd really like to know where you are right now."

"Roger." Commander Pierce flipped on the beacon. The A-100 would now emit a clear, constant pulse, enabling the CATC's radar to locate him easily. He chuckled to himself. The radar-avoidance equipment on this plane was a thing of beauty. Pilots would be able to fly into downtown enemy cities, drop payloads, and be gone before anyone knew what had happened. "My ETA"--he paused to check the computer--"is eleven minutes and twenty-two seconds."

"Report, see you at ten." The CATC was requesting another check at ten miles out.

"Wilco," Pierce replied. It was the standard naval aviation response, short for "will comply."

At ten miles out, Pierce checked in again, as the CATC had requested. Through the cockpit glass, Pierce eyed the carrier box, now plainly visible through the darkness, the tiny white landing lights perfectly replicating the dimensions of a carrier deck. At this point the box was five thousand feet below him and ten miles to the north.

"Cleared to land."

Pierce descended quickly to a thousand feet, leveled off briefly as he "let down" into pattern, and lined up into a course that would take him due north to the box. After a few moments he throttled back to 350 knots and descended to eight hundred feet.

Two miles south of the carrier box, Pierce slowed to gear down speed--250 knots--then dropped the landing gear. Instantly the cockpit rocked against the air turbulence generated by the now less than aerodynamically efficient shape of the plane.

At a mile south of the carrier box and six hundred feet above the sand, Pierce adjusted the A-100's course one more time and rolled into long final. Now the plane was perfectly aligned with the runway lights running down the center of the box.

Pierce gripped the stick tightly. Landings were nothing but controlled crashes. And no matter how many times you executed them, they were still nerve-racking experiences, especially with the fate of the entire Navy in your hands.

Moments later he was a half mile south of the carrier box. Now he had descended to three hundred feet and slowed to 150 knots. Much slower than just seconds ago, but still incredibly fast to try to stop forty thousand pounds of aircraft in such a short space.

"Call the ball," the lone landing safety officer shouted into Pierce's ear through the radio.

Pierce checked the datum lights--three green lights to the left, three to the right, and a yellow meatball in the middle. These lights indicated to the pilot whether his angle of approach was acceptable for landing.

"Ball!" the LSO shouted again.

Pierce smiled. The LSO was feeling the same stress as the CATC. Usually he wasn't so anxious. "Tiger six two three, A-100 ball, six point five," he intoned calmly, his last phrase a reference to the plane's fuel weight.

"Roger ball, Tiger." The LSO was relieved. "Looking good."

A quarter of a mile. An eighth of a mile. In the glow of the lights Pierce could barely make out the four arresting cables stretched tightly across the runway. A sixteenth. It was always strange when you landed, when you came close to earth, to realize how fast you were traveling. There was no way to truly appreciate the speed at thirty thousand feet, even during the day when you flew through clouds.

Wheels slammed against pavement, and instantly Pierce went to full throttle. If for some reason he missed the arresting cables, he would take off and try to land again. The mission could still be deemed a success for the contractor if he made it the second time--as long as wheels left runway before passing over the white lights at the north end of the box on this attempt.

But there was no reason to worry. Instantly Pierce was thrown forward against his harness. From his run-out he could tell it was the third arresting cable that had caught the plane's landing hook. Quickly he powered down.

Jack Finnerty, president of General Engineering & Aerospace, finally exhaled as he watched the A-100 jerk to a stop on the simulated carrier deck. For several moments he simply stared forward as the full impact of the successful flight washed away the gut-wrenching stress of the past two and a half years. It was almost over. There was just one more test for the plane to pass--a catapult takeoff--and then they could start full production. As soon as the A-100 had lifted off again, he would call the others to relay the good news.

Commander Pierce gave the thumbs-up sign to the deck monkey as the man trotted toward the A-100. Just one more task to complete and the master would be pleased.

It was almost midnight when the woman slipped into the passenger seat of Phil Rhodes's car. She was jittery, constantly glancing out the window to check the darkened side street for anything suspicious.

"Relax," he said gently, trying to reassure her.

She hated his Brooklyn accent. "I can't relax. I don't ever want to be seen with you, and this is too public a place." She opened and closed the glove compartment several times, trying to work off nervous energy. "Why are we meeting?"

"I need the name of Senator Walker's informant at Area 51." Rhodes got to the point immediately.

The woman laughed aloud at the request. "Are you crazy?" She shook her head. "Forget it. I told you. No specific information. Nothing that can incriminate me."

"I gave you money, ten thousand dollars."

"All in cash that can't be traced," she retorted. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciated that money, because I had a need, but it won't get you the name of Walker's Nevada informant."

"I'll ask you one more time."

"And I'll tell you one more time," she replied quickly, her voice shaking in anger. "You aren't getting anything from me." She reached for the door handle. "I think it's time for me to leave. Maybe we ought to forget about this whole thing."

Before the woman could step out of the car, Rhodes reached across her body, slammed the door shut, and dropped a brown envelope on her lap.

Startled, she glanced down. "What's this?"

"Pictures." Carter Webb had been right, Rhodes thought to himself. Everyone was tempted at some point. Everyone had at least one skeleton in the closet. It had taken just forty-eight hours to find this woman's.

"Pictures?" Her fingers trembled as she touched the envelope. She had lived in fear of this moment for a long time, but over the last few years had convinced herself that the pictures were gone, never to resurface.

"Yes. You and another young woman engaged in several acts of perversion Senator Walker and the rest of the world may find interesting. There's bondage, bestiality, and a few sexual aids I'd never seen before. Something for everyone." Rhodes had never done anything like this before, and he felt a pang of guilt, but he kept going. "I've never seen pictures like that, and I thought I'd seen everything. You must have needed money then too."

"I did." She sobbed. "I had nothing. How did you find these?"

"I can find anything."

She wept softly, clutching the envelope of influence.

As rain began to fall gently on the windshield, Rhodes's guilt suddenly evaporated. His goal was to take his relationship with Webb to the next level, and he was absolutely committed to that now. He wanted to be a real player. And if that involved blackmail, so be it. "I'll never show them to anyone," he lied. He no longer cared about her feelings. She was nothing, just a pawn.

"Sure you won't," she said sarcastically, biting her fingernails. How could she have given in to the sleazy man's request for photographs? How could money have been that important?

"I promise I won't show them to anyone. As long as you give me a name."

"Is that all I have to do?"

"Yes," he lied again. It was becoming easier each time.

"Captain Paul Nichols."

Rhodes quickly committed the name to memory.

"Can I go now?" The woman wiped her nose and mouth with a tissue.

"I want anything of importance from Senator Walker's office. Anything that has to do with the A-100 project."

"This isn't going to end, is it?" she asked dejectedly.

"No." Rhodes looked away, then back at her. She was suddenly his disciple, and the power was intoxicating. It had been so easy, as Webb had said it would be. He had simply needed to find her moment of weakness and be willing to exploit it. "You can go now. I'll be in touch."

She opened the door and disappeared into the night.

** Chapter 11

"Hello," Jesse called out loudly as she turned the key and pushed open the front door. It was midmorning and the modest home lay in the heart of a quiet neighborhood, but her mother kept the door locked at all times now that she lived alone. "Where are you, Mom?"

"In the kitchen, sweetheart."

Jesse placed her pocketbook on the hall table and walked toward the kitchen. She had taken her birthday off from work even though she didn't feel much like celebrating. Neil Robinson's death had deeply saddened her. "Oh, excuse me." Jesse stopped short at the kitchen doorway. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting." Father Francis McCord, the priest of Glyndon's Sacred Heart Church, sat at the kitchen table with Jesse's mother, Connie.

"Don't be silly, Jesse," Father McCord said as he rose from the chair. "Your mother and I were just chatting about her fine work at the church." He smiled down at Connie. "She's a tireless volunteer at Sacred Heart, and we all adore her. She's an inspiration to everyone."

Connie blushed at the priest's kind words.

"I really have to go," Father McCord said. "Thanks for tea, Connie, and I'll see you tomorrow at the charity fair."