Still shocked by the deafening explosion, Scott took Jackie by the shoulders and surveyed her from head to toe. "Are you okay?"
She swallowed once, looking dazed. "Yeah, I think so, but I cant hear." Jackie brushed herself off and wiped a trickle of blood from a superficial wound on her forearm.
Wide-eyed, Scott stared at the smoking wreckage for a few seconds, then turned to Jackie. "That was close--Sweet Jesus" He looked around the immediate area. "Any ideas?"
Still coming to grips, Jackie glanced at the wide pattern of smoking debris. "Zheng Yen-Tsung has to be involved."
"Yeah, he doesn't give up easily."
"Are you sure you didn't kill him?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I shot him in the leg."
She recalled an earlier encounter with Zheng Yen-Tsung. "Think about the--what did Hartwell call the bomb under our car in Pensacola?"
"A Wile E. Coyote bomb," he said, in a louder than normal voice. "It would have blown us into the Gulf of Mexico."
"Well, its certainly Zheng's MO."
They walked toward the bystanders gathering around the remains of their rental car. Jackie and Scott noticed another group of people hurrying to assist someone lying on the pavement. Scott glanced down the street. "There's an empty police car parked over there. Where's the cop who belongs to the car?"
"Good question."
A moment later, a young man yelled that a police officer was shot. A woman running toward the scene responded that she was a doctor.
Jackie looked at the downed patrolman. "I don't know how this went down, but he probably saved our lives."
"I'd bet on it." Scott watched while the physician worked to stem the bleeding from the policeman's wounds. "I hope he pulls through."
"Yeah, what a nightmare."
Scott saw another cruiser, lights flashing and siren screeching, pull up behind the empty patrol car. The officer jumped out and ran toward his fallen colleague. Behind the cruiser, a Fox News television van came to an abrupt stop.
Scott turned to Jackie and lowered his voice. "The last thing we need is national news exposure."
"That's exactly what we don't need."
They watched an ambulance race toward the chaotic scene, followed by two fire trucks. The firefighters carefully approached the smoldering car and began extinguishing the blaze. A muffled explosion from the Lincoln startled the bystanders and the firemen.
Jackie opened her handbag and retrieved her satellite phone. "We better let Prost know what happened. The FBI needs to jump on this as quickly as possible, put a lid on it before it goes national."
"You're right." Scott watched the ambulance drive away, lights flashing and siren emitting a piercing warning signal. "Zheng isn't going to give up. He'll try again."
Jackie nodded. "We have to be prepared for him day and night, never let our guard down."
"We better focus on tracking him: get on the offense and stay focused."
"I agree," she said evenly. "We have to take the fight directly to him, keep him guessing and under pressure, force him to make a mistake."
Scott gave her a puzzled look. "Something seems strange, out of focus."
"I'm not following you."
"Why would Zheng risk entering this country again? He knows the FBI and many other jurisdictions are waiting to pounce on him."
"Maybe the guy isn't firing on all cylinders," Jackie offered, handing Scott the satellite phone. "He's like a hubristic little poltergeist, a shadowy ghost we can't seem to shake." She opened her handbag and retrieved a small package of tissues. "Try Prost while I go brush the glass out of my hair."
"What if it wasn't Zheng?"
"Then we have a huge problem." She motioned toward their smoldering car. "That wasn't a coincidence."
Chapter 3.
THE WINSLOW ESTATE
The sprawling European-style mansion in Maryland was home to Hartwell Huntington Prost IV, the presidents renowned national security adviser and close friend for many years. The manicured grounds and immaculate residence reflected the comfortable lifestyle of the owner, one that included Harvard Law, triannual vacations to exotic destinations, and a pristine 82-foot Hatteras motor yacht moored next to a palatial second home in Palm Beach, Florida. Prost s family heritage of wealth and privilege dated back to the early 1800s, when Earl Digby Gardiner Prost founded a banking and investment empire in Boston.
Intelligent and clinically analytical, Hartwell Prost was the president s closest aide and most trusted confidant. Considered a Renaissance man by most of his associates, Prost was a soft-spoken gendeman who appeared to be the quintessential Ivy League college professor. Although he was the consummate well-mannered man, Prost was best known for his unyielding adherence to his principles. When warranted, he did not hesitate to take anyone to task, including the president of the United States.
Wearing his ever-present tam-o'-shanter, Prost sat astride one of his prized Appaloosas. He had just completed a thorough inspection of his 37 acres of property in prime Maryland hunt country After a chat with the groundskeepers, Hartwell gently steered the horse to the private avenue leading to his home. Halfway to the residence his satellite phone rang. He brought Curly to a stop under the long canopy of trees and answered the call.
"Prost."
"Mr. Prost? Scott Dalton."
"Scott, how are you?"
"Could be better." Dalton brought him up to date on the assassination attempt. He told Hartwell that Zheng Yen-Tsung might be behind it, although it was speculation at this point.
"Ill call Jim Ebersole and have him look into it." Ebersole was the current director of the FBI. "Well make sure nothing unfavorable gets into the press."
"Thank you, sir. We appreciate it."
"No problem." Hartwell urged Curly to continue walking. "I must say, the possibility that Zheng might be in the country surprises me."
"Same here. Wouldn't think he'd have a chance of getting in with the increased security."
"Right." Hartwell patted Curly on the neck. "The INS is watching everyone like a hawk."
"Then again, we know he's capable of beating almost any system."
"True, he is well connected." Reflecting on the administrations continuing efforts to suppress international terrorism, Prost elected not to bring Dalton into the loop on the latest intelligence reports. Like everything else, satellite phones could be monitored. "When you and Jackie have an opportunity, why don t you plan to visit me here at Winslow."
"Sure. Is it urgent?"
"Yes, I would say so. We've had some disturbing news, and I'd like to discuss it with the two of you in person. We may be looking at another project in the immediate future."
Project was Hartwell's euphemism for covert operation.
"Yes, sir." Forget Hawaii. "How about late tomorrow afternoon?"
"That sounds fine. Plan on dinner here."
"We'll be there."
After Scott finished his conversation with Prost, he handed the phone to Jackie. "We're clear on the bomb deal, but we may be reporting for duty in the near future."
She rolled her eyes heavenward. "It figures. What's the latest?"
"He asked us to visit him at home."
"When?"
"I suggested late tomorrow afternoon." He braced for the inevitable storm surge.
Her hands on her hips, she didn't blink an eyelash. "Pardon me, but the last time I checked, Maryland wasn't en route to Hawaii."
UI know." Scott raised both palms in a calming gesture. "I suggest we take delivery of our plane, fly to Monterey, have a great dinner, and take in the nightlife. Tomorrow morning we'll head for Baltimore and find out what's on Prost's mind."
In her heart, Jackie knew the request was important. Her voice was tempered with disappointment, but she smiled. "Here we go again. Perfect timing."
"Hey, depending on what happens in Maryland, we can reschedule our departure. That's why we have our own jet. Flexibility to travel whenever we want."
A cool smile ed
ged her lips. "Okay, I'll buy that. We are going to Hawaii as soon as possible, right?"
He smiled in return. "No argument from me, but responsibility is the nature of our business."
"How well I know," she said, resigned to the inevitable. "Did Hartwell say what he wants to discuss?"
"No, no details over the phone, but I would bet it has something to do with the ongoing terrorist situation. Probably some new development we aren't aware of."
Jackie remained quiet for a moment and then shook her head. "I don't know whether to laugh or curse."
"What?"
"Do you realize we don't have any clothes?"
"It crossed my mind."
"We don't have anything except what we're wearing."
Scott tried unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. "All those endless hours shopping with you, the new custom-made luggage, the shoes, the wardrobe update, and the ..." He trailed off, laughing. "And now everything has been incinerated or blown halfway to Dallas."
"I don't think it's funny," she managed to say, before she had to smother a laugh. "You may think it's funny, but our en-route charts and approach plates are charcoaled confetti like everything else. So are our new life raft and the laptop."
"Hey, don't worry about it." He draped a reassuring arm over her shoulder. "Well get new charts at the FBO. Besides, we won't need a life raft this trip."
She raised a brow. "We can only hope."
Scott watched the firemen hose down the blackened, twisted wreck. "Let's grab a taxi and do a little shopping before we go to the airport."
"Yeah, all we need is everything," she deadpanned.
"Let's be thankful for what we have."
"I know." Her grin changed to a wide smile. "I'm a tad short on patience at the moment."
The crowd was dissipating when Jackie and Scott began walking toward Sundance Square to call a taxi. Scott reached into his pocket and tossed something into a trash container. "Sayonara."
"What was that?"
"The keys to our rental car."
When Jackie and Scott arrived at Texas Jet, their gleaming G-100, N957GA, was already sitting on the ramp waiting for them. They paid the cabdriver and hauled their meager luggage to the airplane. Three representatives from Gulfstream walked out of the fixed-base-operator's lounge to meet the new owners.
The aircraft's sleek fuselage and long curved wings reinforced the feeling that the Gulfstream 100 was a hot performer. With the engines mounted on each side of the tail and winglets accentuating the tips of the wings, the G-100 was the picture of aerodynamic efficiency. It could take off at a maximum gross weight of 24,650 pounds on a standard day (mean sea level, 760 millimeters pressure, 15 degrees Centigrade) and climb directly to 41,000 feet.
The wings and the bottom of the long fuselage were bright metallic red. The tops of the cabin, engines, and tail were white, as were the winglets. The side number was emblazoned in red on the sides of the white engine nacelles. The staff at Gulfstream's headquarters had done their job well. N957GA was shining like a diamond with new tires all around.
The spotless interior was stocked with a wide variety of snacks, soft drinks, and adult beverages. The cabin consisted of a four-seat club arrangement with two additional seats and a comfortable couch across from the galley. A totally enclosed stand-up lavatory with hot and cold water taps was located at the back of the cabin.
Jackie decided to stow their duffel bags in the roomy passenger cabin. Along with new clothes, shoes, and toiletries, they also had purchased two laptop computers to replace the one destroyed in the explosion.
Most of the reams of paperwork involved in transferring ownership of N957GA had been completed ahead of time. After everything else was signed in Texas Jets conference room, Scott and Jackie thanked the Gulfstream representatives. They posed for the obligatory photographs next to the jet and shook hands with the smiling company officials.
Jackie ordered fuel, checked the en-route weather, filed an instrument flight plan to Monterey, and completed a thorough pre-flight check of the plane. Scott purchased the charts they would need and called Sporty s Pilot Shop. He ordered a new chart case and a complete set of IFR en-route high altitude charts and terminal procedures publications. The order also included a new top-of-the-line quick-inflating nine-man life raft and nine twin-cell airline-type life vests.
Once they boarded their new jet, Scott activated the electrical power, checked ATIS (automatic terminal information service), and called Clearance Delivery. After he copied their instrument clearance and read it back to the controller, Jackie was ready to start the right engine. She placed the throttle in IDLE detent, placed the fuel switch in AUTO, and pushed the START button. Scott called Ground Control for permission to taxi.
While they taxied to the active runway, Jackie exercised the thrust reversers and set the flaps to 12 degrees. Scott started the left engine and completed the takeoff checklist, including computing their V-speeds, and then called the tower for permission to take off.
After they were cleared, Jackie checked the panel for anomalies and taxied onto the centerline of the runway She rolled her eyes toward Scott. "You ready to rock and roll?" she asked with a grin.
"Flog it."
Jackie pushed the throttles into the takeoff detent. The AlliedSignal TFE-731 turbofans rapidly spooled up, and the rudder was effective almost immediately. The lightly loaded G-100 accelerated almost like a fighter plane. Jackie eased the yoke back at Vr (rotation speed) and placed the nose smoothly in the takeoff attitude. When the jet was safely airborne, the landing gear was retracted, followed by the flaps as the airspeed increased.
The airplane quickly reached 200 knots and Jackie reduced power to level off at their assigned altitude of 3,000 feet. Once cleared to continue their ascent, she set the throttles in the climb detent. Flying at precisely 250 knots, the jet was climbing over 3,000 feet per minute through 10,000 feet.
She glanced at Scott. "Pinch me."
"I feel the same way, keep waiting to wake up."
"Think Til just hand-fly it."
"You re the chief."
The Fort Worth Center controller cleared the G-100 on course and directed them to climb to 35,000 feet.
Scott keyed the radio. "On course and up to three-five-oh, Fifty-seven Golf Alfa."
After Jackie leveled the plane at 35,000 feet, she watched a Southwest Airlines Boeing 737 pass over them going the opposite direction at 37,000 feet. She could not remember a day in her life that had been punctuated with such contrasts. The images flashed through her mind like a slide presentation, ending where it began, with their demolished rental car engulfed in flames. She forced her thoughts back to the present. "What's our plan for dealing with Zheng Yen-Tsung?"
"It may not have been him."
"If it wasn't him, we had better find out who it was, like ASAP."
"Gulfstream Nine-Five-Seven Golf Alfa, climb to and maintain Flight Level three-nine-zero."
Scott keyed the radio. "Up to three-nine-oh, Fifty-seven Golf Alfa."
While Jackie initiated a gradual climb, he organized their charts for Monterey. "Let's see how much information Hartwell and Jim Ebersole come up with, and then we can formulate a sound plan."
She tweaked the altitude select to 39,000 feet. "The sooner, the better."
They were handed off to Albuquerque Air Route Traffic Control Center near Clovis, New Mexico, and then switched to Los Angeles Center north of Flagstaff, Arizona.
Lost in his own thoughts about the car bombing, Scott looked out the side window and took in the beauty of Lake Powell and its surrounding vistas. They remained silent as the jet raced the setting sun. The Gulfstream was slowly losing the contest.
The activity in the cockpit increased when they neared the restricted air space north of Edwards AFB. Los Angeles Center rerouted N957GA down a jet airway to an intersection east of Monterey and then cleared the G-100 for the approach to Runway 28-Left at the Monterey Peninsula Airport.
Located at t
he southern end of Monterey Bay, the historic city is well known for its Monterey Jazz Festival. It is also a favorite retreat for artists and writers. Monterey formed the background for several novels, including John Steinbecks Tortilla Flat and Cannery Row.
With the airport in sight, Jackie canceled IFR and made a visual approach to a soft landing on the trailing link main gear. She taxied the plane to the Monterey Jet Center, a popular quick-turn fixed base operator for corporate jets en route to Hawaii or Asia. The friendly professional staff helped them secure the airplane for the evening and provided them with a complimentary crew car.
After checking into the Monterey Plaza Hotel, Scott and Jackie refreshed themselves and went to the Duck Club Restaurant for dinner. The sun was dipping below the horizon when the couple left the restaurant. Hand in hand, they strolled along Cannery Row, finally stopping at a park bench. They sat down and took in the view of Monterey Bay while the shimmering sun disappeared.
"You've been unusually quiet this evening," Jackie noted, leaning next to him. "What's on your mind?"
"How close we came. ..."
"Same here--can't shake it."
He cast a lingering look at the tranquil bay. "If we assume Zheng Yen-Tsung was the bomber, either he was personally tracking us or someone was feeding him information about our whereabouts."
She turned to him. "I don't want to think about it tonight, okay? We need a distraction."
"Yeah, enough of this," Scott said, rising to his feet. "Let's go find some entertainment."
MONTEREY PENINSULA AIRPORT, CALIFORNIA
Carrying a heavy load of jet fuel, over 9,100 pounds at the threshold of the takeoff roll, N957GA was wheels-in-the-wells the next morning at 7:32 A. M. Pacific Time. Scott had filed an instrument flight plan from Monterey nonstop to Baltimore Washington International. Prior to takeoff, he had made arrangements for a rental car at Signature Flight Support, BWTs fixed base operator.
The 2,130-nautical-mile trip would be a breeze for the Gulfstream 100, especially with an assist from the jet stream. There were thunderstorms brewing over Kansas and Nebraska, but they would not develop fully until later in the day.
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