Sandra slid herself forward and stared into the eyepiece. Metal prongs stared up at her. She had the magnification level at 150X. What were these for? she wondered. Looking up, she picked up one of the other stones she'd laid next to the machine. Turning it over and over in her hand, she ran her finger over the facets. One side was smooth, while the other was rough.
Going back to the microscope, she turned the stone over and looked at it again. There was something there. Pushing her hair back, she reached for the focusing knob and turned it. The blur lessened but didn't bring it to crystal clarity. On the surface of the stone was a definite symbol. She squinted, trying to focus. She thought she recognized it as a scientific notation, but she didn't know what it meant.
"Did Chip have a connection with something scientific?" Sandra removed one stone and replaced it with a different one.
"Why?" Wyatt came to stand behind her.
"There are symbols on these." She replaced the stone again. When she'd seen the third symbol, she rolled the chair back to allow Wyatt access.
“You said they had an identification number on them.”
“They do. They also have a symbol.” She indicated the microscope. “Any idea what it means?”
Wyatt stooped to look. "I haven't the slightest idea what they mean," he said with a sigh.
"Neither do I," she said. "But they have to mean something. I can't accept that they've been put there for decoration."
Sandra was sure they were some kind of instruction, maybe necessary to a specific configuration. She was speculating, knowing she didn't have enough information to form any kind of hypothesis, let alone a theory. She wasn't going to find anything more tonight. She needed to talk to Jeff Taylor, her own computer whiz kid.
Wyatt's eyes were nearly closed when she looked at him. She should suggest he go to bed, and she would, right after she asked one more question.
"Wyatt, I've looked at the stones. I've found the symbols and the chips inside. Now, what do these have to do with my father?"
She watched him swallow heavily. "I think Project Eagle is either part of or the whole top-level computer system being developed by the Defense Department."
Sandra stared at him. She waited for more, but Wyatt didn't seem to be forthcoming. "So," she prompted.
Wyatt didn't want to tell her. For a while longer he watched the play of light in her eyes. He hadn't met a woman in a long time who affected him the way she did, but she was Senator Rutledge's daughter, a woman he'd never know.
"I think your father wants to sell it to the highest bidder."
Chapter 4
Sandra glared at Wyatt over breakfast the next morning. He'd been too tired the night before, she told herself. He didn't know what he was saying. He had to be reacting to the stab wound in his side. Maybe she'd fed him too much medication. She didn't know. She only knew that after she left him she couldn't sleep.
This morning she was calmer, although her mind whirled with questions. Wyatt hadn't said more than good morning, but he looked a lot better. Somehow it angered her that she'd tossed and turned and he'd rested well.
"Would you repeat what you said last night?" she asked, hoping he didn't remember, that he'd been too upset by the stones and his friend's death to think rationally.
"You father is trying to have me killed so he can get the stones and sell them to a foreign government," he said.
Sandra sat still, stunned. He might think she hadn't heard him. She didn't care. Whatever she thought he might say, this was not it. Her father was no traitor.
"You have to be mistaken," she said, her voice calm and controlled, as if she was ordering a ham sandwich on white bread. She got up, brushing past him and folding her arms over herself. She paced the small dining area.
"I'm not mistaken." Wyatt followed her, turning her around and forcing her to look into his face. His gaze was steady.
Sandra knew he was serious, but he was wrong. She snatched her arm free.
"You're accusing my father of. . .of—"
"Treason," Wyatt completed the sentence.
The word stung her. Treason. She'd learned it in school, connected to people like Benedict Arnold and Judas Iscarius, but not her father. He had to be wrong. Bradford Campbell Rutledge was the most honest man in America. He truly believed he could make a difference, that his work in the Senate was the best place for him to exercise change. Doing anything to endanger the safety of the United States just wasn't in him.
"On what information do you base this accusation?" Sandra found her anger rising, but she took a deep breath to try to control it. “You already said you have no idea what those fake stones are for. Saying my father wants to sell them to the highest bidder is a huge leap to a non-existent conclusion.”
"Your father is a member of a very powerful senate defense committee. He's privileged to many secret documents and finances that are not accounted for or controlled."
Sandra frowned, wondering where he was going.
"When I got the stones and the note, he was the first person I confided in, and since that time I've been followed, beaten, stabbed, and nearly frozen to death. My house has been ransacked and I haven't had a moment's peace. All because I mentioned Project Eagle to your father. What would you think in my situation?"
"That's all circumstantial."
"I assure you the knife in my gut was far from circumstantial."
"I'm not talking about a knife," she exploded. "You know my father didn't stab you."
"No, but whoever did was sent by Senator Rutledge.'"
He'd said her father's name as if it tasted of dirt. Sandra didn't like it. He was making no sense and she felt as if she needed to know what had happened to lead him to this conclusion. She knew part of her was attracted to him, and she couldn't be attracted to a man who thought her father tried to have him killed.
"You said you didn't know exactly what Project Eagle was, so why do you think it's important enough to kill over?"
"One man is already dead."
"We don't know that his death is related. Yes, he sent you the stones, but his death could have another explanation."
"Like what?"
Sandra swallowed. She searched her brain for a reason, but she had none. She didn't know Chip Jackson, didn't know his personality or if he had something in his past that would get him killed. She didn't know Wyatt Randolph's, either. He had been stabbed and could have died, so he had a right to be upset, but he hadn't convinced her that her father had anything to do with Project Eagle, Chip's death, or Wyatt's condition.
"I never met Chip," she began. "I don't know what kind of life he led, but he could have had enemies. His death and the diamonds could be totally unrelated."
"And Kwanzaa doesn't follow Christmas."
Sandra continued to hold on to her temper, but she realized she was on a short fuse. "I have a good mind to throw you out of here." She took a menacing step forward. "You come up here in a car that's designed to get stuck in snow. Then I find you, save your stinking life, and you repay me by accusing my father of treason."
"Calm down," he told her. He took a step forward, but when Sandra recoiled. He stopped.
"I will not calm down. I should have left you freezing to death in that car. Then I'd be obliviously studying for my exam and know nothing about you, Chip, or Project Eagle."
She scooped the stones from the table and put them into the small box where she'd stored them. Closing the lid, she determinedly walked to Wyatt and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. "Now get out of here. I never want to—"
"Quiet!" Wyatt shouted above her shrill voice.
"Don't tell me to—"
He grabbed her arms. In one fluid movement he swung her around, clamped a hand over her mouth, and used the other hand to pull her body against the solid wall of his.
Her free arms proved a weapon he hadn't counted on. With her elbow she wrenched it into his gut, forcing the air from his lungs and connecting with the one tender spot in his si
de that sent pain signals to his whole body. Surprised, he released her, his hand reaching toward his side. Taking advantage of his shifting weight, she flipped him over. His body sprawled on the braided rug. Stunned momentarily and unmindful of the pain in his side, he shook his head to clear it, then grabbed her leg and pulled her down to the floor with him. She struggled, but his superior strength won out and he reversed positions until he was lying on top of her. She squirmed under him.
"Listen," he whispered in her ear.
Sandra went still. The unmistakable sound of an engine broke through the silence. Wyatt moved his hand.
"Are you expecting anybody?"
"No," she told him, wrenching around and looking over her head toward the window. "Brian would have called first and—"
"Who’s Brian?"
"A forest ranger." She returned her gaze to him. "He calls a couple of times every day—on the shortwave."
"Would he come to check on you?" The urgency in his voice must have frightened her. He felt a shiver run through her body.
"Not as long as I let him know I'm all right."
"Go call him." It was a distinct order. "Find out if he's up here."
He rolled off her.
Sandra hesitated, then sat up.
"Stay down," he ordered again, his voice a stage whisper, his arm forcing her back to the floor.
"Wyatt, what's going on?"
"Stay away from the windows." Another order, but no answer to her question.
"If you're trying to scare me, it's working."
Wyatt squeezed her shoulder in an assuring gesture. His eyes had a sadness in them telling her he knew he'd involved her in whatever had gotten him stabbed and he was sorry for it. Emotions raged inside her. Suppose he was telling the truth and the men who tried to kill him were outside. She was anything but assured. Why did he have to intrude in her life? Why was she attracted to him and how could he think her father could possibly sell American secrets to the highest bidder?
"He didn't do it, Wyatt," she whispered. Her voice cracked.
Wyatt's head turned slowly and he stared into her eyes. Sandra watched as several emotions vied for dominance, none of them lingering more than a second. He didn't speak for a long moment. Finally he repeated, “Stay away from the windows."
Sandra raised herself up on her knees and crawled toward the radio room.
He left her side to press his back to the wall next to the living-room window like an actor from a spy movie.
"Go," he told her, peering through the curtain.
Sandra's knees were wobbly, but she found they supported her as she moved. She threw the switch, grabbed the earphones and mike and held one in each hand.
"K5895 calling K7950. Brian are you there? Over."
The familiar crackle startled her, telling her how raw Wyatt had made her nerves with his spy tactics.
"K5895, go ahead. Over."
"This is Sandra Rutledge at the top of the mountain. I'm looking for Brian Court."
"Hi, Sandy . . . I'm— Ms. Rutledge, this is Olson Andrews." Sandra knew Olson's father must be close-by. He'd called her Sandy every since her family had first come to the mountain and met them. Their families had become close friends. But Olson's dad was a stickler for the rules and Olson only called her Ms. Rutledge when someone could hear him. "Brian is off today and tomorrow. Is there something I can help you with? Over."
She suddenly remembered Brian telling her he'd be away helping his sister move.
"Olson," she began, controlling her voice. She didn't want to panic if there was no need. All she knew was she heard an engine and Wyatt had gone into severe-caution mode.
"I was wondering if they'd cleared the roads yet?"
"Only the trails, ma'am, and access to them."
She knew business came first. Skiing was a revenue-producing sport for the winter and all catering went there first. It was one of the reasons her mother had bought Star-fighter. In an emergency she had to have immediate access off this mountain.
"I'm afraid it'll be a few more days before we can reach you, unless this is an emergency. Over."
Wyatt came in at that moment. Her gaze went to his face. His features had paled to a dull gray. All tenderness and compassion had left it. Harsh angles showed in the ruthless square of his jaw.
"Do you need immediate assistance? Over."
She looked to Wyatt for the answer. His silent gaze told her he was concerned.
"Olson, I have Senator Wyatt Randolph with me. He's been stabbed—" Wyatt snatched the mike away. The button she'd been holding to speak snapped up and opened the channel to listen.
"Christ! Sandy, did I hear you right?" The unmistakable sound of Olson Andrews, Sr., boomed into the room, reverberating off the walls as if he had brought his bulk in person.
"You heard right," Wyatt said. "We need assistance immediately, unless you have a trawler on its way here."
Sandra could feel Wyatt next to her. Everything about him had changed. He was alert, and a strength exuded from him like a lion poised for battle. Somehow she pushed the fear gathering around her heart away and pressed the speaker button.
"Uncle Olson, we're taking Starfighter. Clear the area. Out."
She didn't wait for the weather report or wind conditions. Instinctively she knew time was limited. They had to get out and get out now! Using as little effort as possible and taking no time to explain, Sandra threw open the closet and took out John's jacket and boots. She didn't give herself time to ask why she'd never thrown them away.
"Put these on." She pushed them into Wyatt's chest. He didn't argue or waste time asking where they were going. In the past few days, he'd seen her ride out on the small snowmobile. It wasn't much of a chance, but it was the only one they had.
***
Wyatt trudged through the thick snow. He was out of shape after being confined for more than a week. His side ached and the brightness blinded him. Used to working out every day, his inactivity showed in his laboring efforts to keep up with Sandra. Even with his heart beating fast, he wondered what Sandra did to keep in shape. She seemed to have no problem with the deep snow. Even carrying the backpack which contained her laptop, notes, and a few books she'd been studying, she easily slipped through the whiteness. All he was carrying was the diamonds.
"We had better hurry," she threw over her shoulder.
I'm trying, he thought but didn't use any of his air to say so. His side split and pain burned up his chest to his armpits. Within sight was the building where she'd parked the snowmobile and his car. He wondered why it wasn't closer to the house. Why hadn't they attached the garage? The place was built within the last twenty years. Attached garages weren't a novelty then. Yet, this shed was several hundred yards from the house and the size of a barn.
Sandra slid a door to the side and disappeared inside. He followed as fast as he could. Behind him the sound of the engine was getting closer. It trudged along. Wyatt wondered what kind of vehicle it could be. It didn't sound like a car engine. He couldn't tell how many RPM’s he heard at this distance. It could be a snowmobile. For some reason it sounded like a—tank. He rejected the idea. What would a tank be doing in the Pocono Mountains?
He entered the building where Sandra had gone. What he saw made the possibility of a tank not so farfetched. In front of him was a helicopter. Looking like a giant bug in the darkened cavern, Wyatt stood frozen in place.
"Damn," he cursed. "And I was thinking about a snowmobile." Relief spread through him. They had an avenue of escape. It had been there and she'd known about it all along.
The helicopter was equipped with both wheels and skids. Sandra was already in the cockpit placing earphones over her ears.
"Can you fly this thing?" he shouted above the noise created by her turning on gauges and flipping switches. His heart began to pound again. Maybe they wouldn't be able to escape. Checking over his shoulder he expected men to suddenly burst through the door, guns drawn, and beg
in shooting. "Can you fly this thing?" he repeated, this time with more urgency in his voice.
"Better than I can perform medical procedures. Get in."
"Are you sure?" Wyatt hesitated. He wasn't sure he wanted to the in a helicopter accident in the snow-covered mountains of Pennsylvania. "That snow trawler is getting closer."
"It's a piece of cake, Wyatt." She glared at him. "This is an Enstrom F-28C. It has a supercharged Lycoming HIO-360 piston engine that generates over 200 horsepower. The engine operates on 100 octane gasoline and it's blue. Feel better?"
"Only if you tell me you can fly it."
"I start the engine, engage the rotor clutch, bring the throttle up to takeoff power of 2900 RPM's, pull the collective until the skid is approximately three to five feet off the ground, use the tail rotor pedals to rotate into the wind, push the cyclic to lower the nose slightly and accelerate to a climb speed of sixty knots. And then I fly. Any questions?"
"None," he said. He couldn't hear the engine of the other vehicle above the chopping sound of the one he was in, but he was sure they, whoever they were, were getting closer.
Swinging himself into the seat next to her, he slid the glass door closed. She pulled a stick forward and the car eased forward. It rolled onto the snow. Wyatt was sure it would sink into the soft powder, but she worked the controls and he felt the heavy machine settle. He knew she had changed from wheels to skis.
"There they are." He pointed to three men trying valiantly to negotiate the elements and get to the helicopter.
Sandra looked in their direction. "They have guns!" she exclaimed as a shot rang out. It missed them, but startled Sandra. She pulled the stick forward, and the chopper lifted off the ground. A flurry of snow churned below them like an explosion of feathers. The men on the ground shot blindly through the cloud. Wyatt raised his hand, warding off possible injury. Sandra raised the metal bird on an angle then banked right, directly over the men chasing them.
Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1) Page 38