Skyhook

by John J. Nance

  April related the entire sequence of events, including the embarrassing experience of being hauled into the state police office with Jim and Scott and being searched.

  “They searched for the tape, then?” Gracie asked.

  “He.”

  “Okay, he. But he found it? You didn’t volunteer it?”

  “The salvage guy—Jim—told him he had several tapes, and he produced, I think, four, but it was obvious the trooper wasn’t going to stop until he found the one the Coast Guard wanted, which was in my pocket.”

  “So, you volunteered it?”

  “Well, I told him I didn’t believe that the State Patrol or the Coast Guard had a legal right to claim that tape, and that I’d turn it over only if we watched it first, and then under protest.”

  “And he, of course, tried to convince you that he didn’t need a warrant.”

  “Yes. Did he need one? I mean, he was nice, but he was threatening arrest.”

  “I’m not sure whether he needed one or not. I don’t even know under what coloration of law he was claiming to act as an agent for the Coast Guard. I’m going to have to think this through and research it quickly.”

  “It was pretty confusing.”

  “I’ll bet. Did he let you watch the tape?”

  April shook her head, her eyes closed, her head full of cotton. “No. He wouldn’t let us look at it. Even when I explained how incredibly important it was.”

  “Well, the other two guys saw it, though, right? As you filmed the wreck?”

  “No. I saw it. They never did.”

  “Are you sure? Where were the other two?”

  “Jim Dobler, the fellow with the salvage company, was up front in the Widgeon with his back to the screen at the moment I saw the aircraft come into view, and Scott—the pilot you hired for me—was in the back.”

  “I see,” Gracie replied, her professional and personal concern painfully apparent.

  “Gracie,” April said, “don’t worry. I can testify that I saw it clearly. The plane’s a mess, of course, but that engine was an indelible image. Frankly, it scares me to say this, but I’m surprised Mom and Dad survived.” She related the details: the right engine hanging off its mountings and cocked to one side, the heavily damaged right wing, the bent propeller blades. “So we can blow the FAA out of the tub on this one. I mean, we need to get those unopened liquor bottles, too, but as for the reckless flying thing, no way could that engine have been knocked off just by impact with the water and still chew up the wing. The props would have stopped instantly.”

  “And … they didn’t?”

  “Gracie, the right wing was shredded metal. It could have collapsed.”

  “Of course, we can expect the FAA to look at it differently.”

  “I don’t give a damn what the FAA says. You can’t argue with facts. I know what I saw. That wreckage is down there right now giving mute testimony to the fact that their charges are ridiculous.”

  “How many blades did you see, April? Two or three?”

  “I don’t know. That I couldn’t make out. I was hoping that once we got back here, the tape would have enough detail to tell us for certain. But we should have enough now, right? I told Dad last night by phone we did.”

  “Enough to exonerate him?”

  “Yes. Not the drinking charge, or at least not yet. But the reckless charge.”

  “Not without that tape, April. I mean, we need to get Ted Greene, the D.C. lawyer, on this immediately. Did the state trooper say why the Coast Guard wanted it?”

  “No. Gracie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re scaring me. Why are you so negative? What am I missing here? I told you I can clearly testify to what I saw even without the taped evidence.”

  “I know, kiddo, but think about it from the point of view of a neutral third party. You’re the loving daughter of the accused, presumably ready to do anything for your dad. Same problem Rachel has testifying he wasn’t drinking. You’re smart, you’re a pilot who knows the ropes, and you’re the one who’s going to swear you saw evidence that would magically clear his record. Unfortunately, it’s evidence that virtually no one else saw, that’s no longer available, and that’s recorded on a tape that may not exist.”

  “Okay. I can understand that kind of prejudice, but the tape does exist and the Coast Guard has it. Can’t we get a court order to force them to hand it over?”

  “If they don’t have a magnetic accident and erase it, or make some claim of national security, which might or might not block us, then probably so. But if there’s something down there on the ocean floor they don’t want anyone to see, and they want to claim that the tapes show whatever that is, then we may never get it back intact. And, April, the more time that elapses between when you shot the tape and when it’s finally sealed as evidence, the more opportunity the FAA has to say that it was electronically altered or even staged.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “No, it’s not. Remember what you showed me on your computer? Even you carry around a computer program that can completely alter a photo.”

  “Well, yeah. A still photo.”

  “Videotapes are just a series of stills, April. And you’re Ms. Electronics. They’d have a field day.”

  April was rubbing her forehead, her attempts to find the lamp switch unsuccessful. She felt like bawling. “Why, Gracie, are we now fighting both the FAA and the Coast Guard? What is this, some sort of bizarre conspiracy to get Dad?”

  “I haven’t a clue why the Coast Guard would come out and harass you and seize the videotape,” Gracie replied. “But suppose they’re testing some new submarine or laying an underwater cable or who knows what?”

  “But these guys are supposed to be on our side, aren’t they?”

  “Sure. ‘We’re from the government. We’re here to help you.’”

  “I mean, just Wednesday I talked to a very helpful Coast Guard officer in Anchorage. Oh, God!”

  “What?”

  “Things have been moving so fast, I completely forgot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember I told you about the somewhat clandestine meeting with Lieutenant Hobbs—Jim Hobbs of the Coast Guard in Anchorage?”

  “Yes. At Starbucks. I figured he was hitting on you.”

  “No, he was trying to warn me, and I didn’t take it to heart. He said there were other agencies interested in Dad’s situation. I asked him for the radar tapes, and he said he was told there was nothing there that would help. I handed him the exact coordinates from the on-board GPS, and then blundered into the area without ever thinking that they might be waiting and watching. That’s what Jim Hobbs was trying to warn me about.”

  “Hey, I would have done the same thing, April.”

  “It’s funny you’d mention submarines, Gracie. Scott McDermott is an ex-Navy pilot, and he was saying exactly the same thing last night—that they may be protecting some Navy operation.”

  “All the more reason to raise that aircraft as soon as possible.”

  “That’s the other problem,” April sighed, relating Jim’s reluctance even to apply for permits, now that the area was supposedly restricted.

  “April, push those two guys hard to help you. I’ll … Wait a minute. I know someone down here in the Coast Guard. Let me see if I can find out what claim of legality they’re using to rope off that area and confiscate tapes. In fact, I’ll recommend to Ted Greene that we just charge into this immediately and file for an emergency restraining order to locate and protect that tape.”

  “My head is so fuzzed up right now, Gracie, I can’t think.”

  “You need coffee.”

  “Yeah. But more importantly, I need something encouraging to tell Dad.”

  They ended the call, leaving April feeling overwhelmed.

  There was no way she should be wide awake at five-thirty in the morning after less than five hours’ sleep, April thought, but she was. The burning desire to finish
the mission she’d come to Alaska to accomplish drove her into the shower and out of the room around six, looking for a coffee shop open for breakfast at that hour.

  “Totem Inn’s the only one, ma’am,” the desk clerk said, pointing the way. She zipped up her parka and trudged the relatively short distance through the quiet, darkened streets of the small town. The temperature was in the mid-thirties, and while winter was officially over, the frigid air cascading down the mountain slopes from the surrounding glaciers kept the town in a constant state of refrigeration.

  April snuggled into a booth and ordered. The coffee tasted far better than it actually was, but the eggs were perfect, and she finished the meal and sat quietly for a few minutes, her eyes on a distant light across the bay, her mind working through the central question of what to do next.

  Scott McDermott was bunking, as he put it, with Jim, and they had agreed to meet in the morning with no clear idea of why. Gracie was right, April thought. She needed their help.

  Okay, she told herself. Focus. What do I want them to do? They can’t steal the tape back.

  It had been a mild torture to lie in the hotel bed earlier with the knowledge that the state trooper who’d waylaid them wasn’t leaving Valdez with her tape until morning. That little cartridge might mean her father’s livelihood and happiness, and it was physically less than two hundred yards distant at the tiny state police office. The thought of breaking in had crossed her mind. There were no steel doors or bars on the windows. It was little more than a portable building, and she could probably gain access with a screwdriver.

  At 1 A.M. April had slipped from beneath the covers, shivering in the cold of the hotel room, and peeked out the window, staring at the nearby building as a Valdez police car motored by.

  Am I crazy? I’m not going to burgle a police station. Like they wouldn’t know who took their tape.

  She’d gone back to bed and fallen into a deep sleep replete with odd dreams of a beautiful mountain field and saddled horses that couldn’t be ridden. She’d chased the unattainable mounts for endless hours in the dream before Gracie’s phone call had shattered it.

  April thanked the waitress for the latest coffee refill and re-focused on the present. She couldn’t steal the tape, and she couldn’t even talk the officer into letting the other two guys see it, and Gracie obviously thought that was a fatal problem. Yet the key to Arlie Rosen’s exoneration was sitting under 250 feet of water just sixty miles south, and even Gracie was afraid something might happen to the wreckage. Full, unopened bottles in the cabin of the Albatross would destroy Harrison’s theory.

  We’ve got to go back out, regardless of the risk, April concluded. She had Jim’s address. She should probably walk there and knock on his door about seven. McDermott might be grumpy, but Jim would be gracious, and she could plead with him shamelessly, the damsel in distress, as Lieutenant Hobbs had characterized her. She hated manipulating, but this was different.

  April paid the check and studied the local map in the tiny Valdez phone book at the café before pushing through the door into the cold. The glow of dawn was already on the eastern horizon as she reached Jim Dobler’s door, surprised to find a light on in what must be the kitchen or dining area. She could see through the window by the front porch that it was Scott McDermott sitting alone over a cup of coffee. She tapped lightly on the glass, surprised when Scott jumped, startled, then smiled when he saw her face through the glass door. He got to his feet to let her in.

  “April! You’re up early.”

  “Yeah. Good morning. So are you.”

  He closed the door quietly behind her. “Jim’s still snoring in his room, and I was just trying to get a handle on the day.”

  “Me too.” She smiled.

  “Would you like some coffee? It’s kind of cold out there.”

  “Love some,” she said, deciding there was no point in discussing her breakfast.

  She sat at the small kitchen table as he handed her a fresh cup.

  “Jim’s got good taste. Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, Millstone … the good brands.”

  “Scott, I need to go back out there and try again.”

  He stopped rummaging through Jim’s pantry and turned toward her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the determination on her face. She saw him sigh and close the cabinet before sitting down, folding his hands, and looking her in the eye.

  “April …”

  “I have no choice. My dad’s career, his financial survival, maybe even his life, are on the line, and the proof that he wasn’t negligent—the proof that can partially end the problem—is right out there.” She pointed to the west and he corrected her, his finger roughly describing the magnetic course to the crash site.

  “Look, I really want to help you with this,” Scott began. “Hell, I could use the money, and so could Jim. But, April, you’ve got to be practical. The Coast Guard will more than likely give you that tape back, so you really don’t need us. I’d have to charge you a small fortune anyway for the risk.”

  She nodded, her face hardening. “I see. We need to set a price, then.”

  “A price?”

  “You, know,” she said, a sharpness creeping into her voice. “How many pieces of silver will it take to get you to help me?”

  “Pieces of silver? What, as in a biblical reference?”

  “Of course. I mean, you’re obviously concerned with money.”

  “Well, hell, lady, I’m not in this for love!” he snapped, instantly regretting it. “Sorry. I’m just trying to run a flying service, and the winters get pretty sparse.”

  “I’m not asking for charity, you know. I’ll certainly pay your tab without fail.”

  “I’m not worried about … Look, I apologize if that seemed mercenary.”

  “It did.”

  He glanced away for a few seconds before meeting her gaze again. “Look, April, if we try to bust through their prohibited zone, either or both of us could end up out of business. They could take Jim’s permits and financially strangle him! And they could cashier my pilot’s license like … like …” He was gesturing uselessly and unable to back out of the reference he now wanted to avoid.

  “Like what they’ve done with my dad’s license?”

  “Well … yeah.”

  “Who the hell is ‘they,’ Scott? Who am I fighting?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, but—and I thought about this last night a lot—it really does have to be something to do with the Navy. I mean, it’s water, it’s military …”

  “What do you mean, military? The Coast Guard is primarily government.”

  “Yeah, but you remember that so-called fishing boat Jim said was faking fishing? Just before the cutter showed up?”

  “I forgot.”

  “I finally remembered where I’d seen that hull before. Adak. I’ve had a few contracts to run in and out of there, and I remember seeing him. That’s a Navy tender based at Adak Naval Air Station. April, we’ve stumbled into a Navy operation and … and it probably is legitimately associated with national security. It’s just unfortunate your dad happened to go down in the wrong place.”

  “I’ll be sure to warn him to do a better job of crashing the next time,” she said, her voice sharp and sarcastic.

  Scott raised his hand, palm up. “I’m sorry—that wasn’t meant to be offensive.”

  April nodded, her eyes on the window as she watched the growing light in the eastern sky, a backdrop glow over a glacier-encrusted mountain bordering the western end of the Valdez inlet. She turned back to him, her jaw set. “Scott, I need help. Name your price. I’m going back out there even if I have to buy the equipment and rent an outboard. If neither you nor Jim will help me, then I’ll go alone.”

  He was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, April. Unless I can get clearance to legally go there, I’m out of this. I’m not nuts.”

  “You’re quitting? Just like that? I said I’d meet your price.”

  “So I get paid and lose
my license. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “You’re the big macho ex-Navy go-get-’em damn-the-torpedoes guy I was told could do almost anything, and you’re running from this? Apparently they were wrong.”

  He was getting agitated, his gestures becoming broader, his face darker.

  “Who is ‘they,’ huh? Who the hell told you I was some sort of testosterone-soaked risk taker?”

  “Synonymous with fighter jock, right? Or was that only the previous generations in ’Nam and Desert Storm?”

  “Hey! I served in Afghanistan before hanging it up!”

  “But this scares you?”

  His voice rose another notch. “Damn, woman, what is it about professional suicide you don’t understand?”

  “I understand that … that … I’m begging for your help, Scott.”

  “Oh? What, now you’re the helpless female begging the macho male to go slay her dragon?” He snorted derisively as he got up from the table and paced to the end of the kitchen, turning, his voice raised. “I’ve been jerked around by some of the best manipulating bitches in the world, and you’re no match.”

  “Fine.”

  “How dare you try to goad me.”

  “Forget it,” she said, looking away, genuinely trying not to cry. She started pawing at her purse, trying to get the latch open to pull out her checkbook, anger mixing in a confusing mélange with a wave of despair. “I’ll write you a check so you can get the hell out of Dodge.”

  Jim Dobler had been leaning against the far entrance to the room in the shadows, listening. He moved toward the table, watching April flipping through her checkbook, pen in hand.

  “Sit down, Scott,” Jim said.

  “Hey, don’t—”

  “Sit, son! For God’s sake, respect your elders.”

  Scott snorted and sank back into his chair.

  “And, April? May I have your attention, please?”

  She stopped writing the check and looked up, then set the pen down. “Certainly, Jim.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long were you standing there?” she asked.

  “Long enough,” he said, settling into a kitchen chair backward. “Long enough.”