Skyhook

by John J. Nance

  What does “contained” mean? Ben asked himself, remembering as well that MacAdams had asked if Ben suspected even him. The two-star general’s words had seemed totally reassuring and even fatherly, and after all, how could a United States Air Force flag officer not be trusted?

  MacAdams can’t be mixed up in anything. I can trust him.

  But Dan Jerrod had told him specifically to discuss his findings and worries with no one at Uniwave and no one in the Air Force, and Jerrod had even mentioned the possibility of a mole. Surely that wouldn’t include MacAdams.

  How do I know I can trust Jerrod? Ben asked himself, remembering that his survival of the final flight and the absence of any new sabotage argued well for Dan Jerrod’s veracity. Maybe MacAdams was right, but the way to find out, he concluded, was to ask Dan Jerrod himself.

  He pulled Jerrod’s card from his pocket again and punched in the number, with no success. There were probably other numbers, Ben thought in frustration, and the guards at Uniwave would surely know how to reach him in an emergency.

  Ben put the car back in gear and headed toward Elmendorf.

  THIRTY THREE

  SATURDAY, DAY 6 ABOARD WIDGEON N8771B 1:20 A.M.

  April pressed the satellite phone to her right ear and glanced at Scott McDermott, who was trying to look disinterested as he sat in the Widgeon’s left seat and nursed a cup of coffee in the dim light.

  “Gracie, can you hear me?”

  “Who’s asking? April? Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me.”

  “Your voice sounds weird.”

  “And you sound like you’re next door. I’m on a satellite phone.”

  “Gad! I was about to launch the Coast Guard again, this time to find you.” Gracie’s voice was tense, April noted, her words coming rapidly.

  “I called that guy Jim, in Valdez, and he said you and that jerk of a pilot who abandoned you flew off in late afternoon and he hadn’t seen you since.”

  “It’s a long story,” April said, glancing at Scott as she tried to reduce the volume on the phone’s earpiece, “but we’re okay.”

  “Yeah? We? But where are you, Rosencrantz?”

  “We’re in Scott McDermott’s airplane right now, floating in a half-frozen lake and waiting for daylight.”

  There was a short chuckle from Seattle. “Only my buddy April Rosen would get herself into a frozen lake at midnight and be telling me about it on a satellite phone. What lake, exactly? And what’s been going on? Were you able to replace the video of the Albatross?”

  April filled in a brief chronicle of the flight, leaving out the harrowing parts over and through the glacier. “We’re going to fly out of here at daylight and try once more to get to the crash site.”

  “How, April? You said the crash site was a secured, patrolled area.”

  “Scott’s friend Jim, the one you talked to, is gearing up to help us. We’ll meet him … at a location I don’t want to mention … and give it another try. What’s up there?”

  “Well, nothing amorous, I can assure you. I’m in my cloistered bedroom on the boat.” There was a long pause and April could hear her sigh. “Your dad called me last night and wanted me to put everything on hold.”

  “WHAT?”

  “That was roughly my reaction, April. I do not understand what’s gotten into him. I’ve never known the captain to be afraid of anything, but he sounded almost panicked. I must have asked him why a dozen times, but all he’d tell me is that he feared for my career and wanted me to stand down.”

  “Have you talked to Mom?”

  “Yes. He came in yesterday afternoon agitated about something, but won’t tell her what.”

  “Gracie, we can’t quit now … can we? Is mere any reason to?”

  “No! And I forgot to tell you that I got the TRO, the temporary restraining order, and we served it almost immediately on the Coast Guard in their offices in the same building. They were very surprised.”

  “I’ll bet, but does that mean we’ll get the tapes back now?”

  “Well, it only means they’re ordered not to destroy them or lose them. We’ve got a show-cause hearing Monday. I tried for Saturday but the judge laughed at me.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, I know. Trust me, it’s not fun to have a federal district judge laugh at you from the bench.”

  “What are our chances of getting the tapes on Monday?”

  “I don’t know, but we’d better try everything else possible, and I’ve got other things working, but since you’re worried about this line, maybe I’d better not say.”

  “Okay. Is it good?”

  “If it works, yes. I called our client back and kind of asked another favor.”

  “Thank you, Gracie. Will it cost much?”

  “Not in dollars, but maybe you can visit me on the Arabian Peninsula, ’cause he said I’ll have to be his mistress for at least a decade.”

  “Gracie, just like Dad said, I don’t want you endangering your position with the firm.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. So far, all I’ve promised the man is dinner.”

  “Good.”

  “In Kuwait.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.”

  “You worry me, O’Brien,” April said, smiling to herself in spite of the intense worry over her father’s sudden change of heart. She wished there was time to relate the details of the wild flight and roller-coaster emotions of the previous day.

  “April, the captain wants you to come home and give up as well.”

  “Not only no, but hell no.”

  “You should call him. You have a number on that satellite phone I can call until you return to civilization?” Gracie asked.

  She asked Scott for the number and then relayed it.

  “April, you’re sure you two are okay out there? Floating around on an Alaskan lake in the middle of the night sounds a bit dangerous, not to mention cold.”

  “We’ve got a heater. It’s actually toasty in here.”

  “And food?”

  “Yep. Even Starbucks coffee.”

  “Okay. Call me as soon as you can from a safe phone, okay? And be careful. And if you get any more insight into what’s spooking your dad …”

  “Yeah, I’ll call,” April said. “In the morning. I know he’ll ask where I am and I don’t want him worrying.”

  “He’s already worried, but I’ll relay to Rachel that you’re okay. Be careful, please, getting out of there. I don’t want to have to break in a new best friend. The darn process takes decades, you know, having to go back through kindergarten and high school, and double-dating, training bras, guys …”

  “Say good night, Gracie.”

  There was an uncharacteristic moment of silence from the other end, followed by a sigh. “April, I swear, if I hear that line one more time from you …”

  “Sorry. I’m just trying to find some humor in things, you know? But seriously, thanks for … well, what I’m trying to say, Gracie, is thank you for keeping tabs on my folks. I really appreciate …” Her voice trailed off as she found herself suddenly choking back tears that had come from nowhere.

  “It’s okay, April. That’s a given. I love them, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  April punched off the phone and shifted her gaze to the front windscreen, aware that Scott had heard almost all of the exchange.

  “As you’ve no doubt figured out, Gracie and I have been best friends since we were knee high to a duck.”

  He nodded, his eyes on the ghostly shapes of ice barely visible in the darkness of the lake. “Not a problem. I like her sense of humor. And yours.”

  The flickering light from a kerosene lantern he’d set up in the aft cabin of the Widgeon reflected off the nearest iceberg, creating dancing images of shadows and silvery white reflecting off the water. The gentle slosh and slap of small wind-driven waves could be heard against the aluminum hull of the Widgeon, but aside from the hiss of the lantern, the quiet was all
but overwhelming, and April felt the silence demanding to be broken.

  “Have you ever overnighted in here before?” April asked, pulling her jacket tighter around her, glad Gracie couldn’t see how chilly it really was with the only heat coming from the puny catalytic heater he’d set up under the open nose hatch.

  Scott nodded, the movement almost synchronizing with the flickering light from behind him.

  “Yeah. Many times. Sometimes to save hotel money. Sometimes just to hear the quiet.”

  “Nice oxymoron.”

  “Hmm?”

  “‘Hear the quiet.’ Beautiful image. In fact, if I wasn’t so wrought up over my dad, as well as completely unable to see how we’ll get out of here without killing ourselves, this would be one of the most beautiful nights I’ve ever spent.”

  “I take that as a compliment.”

  She looked at him and smiled before letting her eyes drift back to the icebergs. “Actually, I was talking about the setting.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “I do appreciate your coming back.”

  He laughed. “If you’re afraid I’m going to take offense at the ‘jerk pilot’ thing, don’t. That was a jerky thing to do, leaving you this morning.”

  “Well, you came back.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  She turned to him, catching his eyes. “You came back to help me, right? Not just to take me to dinner?”

  “You’re very direct, aren’t you, April?”

  “When I’m floating around at midnight in the middle of nowhere in the effective physical control of a male I barely know, darn tootin’ I’m direct.”

  “The answer is, yes, I have no bad intentions. I came back to help you, not chase you.”

  “Good. Because nothing’s going to happen tonight. Understood?”

  “Of course.”

  “Just, you know, so there are no expectations.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean, this beautiful setting and all could lead some guys to …”

  “April,” he said suddenly, smiling at her.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s okay. Calm down.”

  “All right.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes before she heard him stretch. “Tell you what. Why don’t we sleep in shifts? That way you can pull one of the sleeping bags inside the other back there while I make sure we don’t drift between two of these bergs.”

  “What if we do? You can’t physically push something that big away, can you?”

  He was nodding. “Actually, I can push us out of harm’s way. This little bird only weighs four thousand pounds.”

  “Will you wake me up in, what, three hours?”

  He smiled as he pulled himself out of the left seat to retrieve the lantern and put it in the nose section. “Okay. Three hours.”

  There was light in her eyes when April returned to consciousness. She sat up suddenly, recognizing the filtered daylight through an overcast above the lake.

  “Scott?”

  “Good morning.”

  “You didn’t wake me?”

  He shrugged. “No need. I was doing fine up here.”

  She unzipped the bag, feeling the sting of the cold air in the frigid cabin and seeing the extra parka he’d wrapped around himself.

  “That wasn’t the deal, Mr. Macho.”

  “So sue me,” he said, his smile somewhat strained. The remark puzzled her.

  She stowed the sleeping bags as he moved forward to the nose section to fire up a small camp stove, and they sat for awhile when he was done, nursing steaming mugs of coffee and munching on cereal bars. She watched him survey the floating ice around them.

  “So how are we going to do this?”

  “Just watch,” he said evenly. He finished his makeshift breakfast and they began stowing the lantern, stove, and heater to secure the cabin. When everything was back in place, he eased himself into the left seat and handed her the checklist. April began reading the items, checking his fluid responses as he positioned the switches and reached at last for the starter.

  “Cranking number one.”

  The whine of the electric starter struggling with limited power against the engine’s cylinders warbled for a few seconds, then began to fade. He switched off the starter and worked the primer, squeezing raw fuel into the carburetor before trying it again, his face hardening with worry.

  “Starting one,” he said, the words clipped as the propeller began rotating in jerky fashion, its motion slowing until one cylinder fired, then another, followed by silence.

  “Oh, Lord, don’t tell me we’re out of battery power?” April said. She could see him biting his lip. “Scott?”

  “Goddammit!” He peered carefully at the DC voltage meter.

  “We’re screwed, aren’t we?” she asked.

  He got out of the seat without answering, and she turned to watch him rummage around in the back of the cabin and pull out what looked like a tool kit. He lifted out two yellow rectangular devices and came forward, plugging them into the empty cigarette lighter in the lower forward panel.

  “May I ask what you’re doing?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence as he checked the meter.

  “So … what are you doing?”

  “Starting number one,” he said as he worked the primer before turning the starter switch.

  Once more the left propeller began jerking into motion, but this time the cylinders fired with authority and the engine roared to life with a comforting rumble.

  Scott sat back in the seat and exhaled, his eyes on the oil-pressure gauges as they came up smartly to operating pressure. He turned to her finally and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, April. We almost …”

  “Those things are portable battery boosters?”

  “Yeah. Automotive. I’ve never needed them before. I wasn’t sure they’d work.”

  “We used too much battery last night?”

  He looked chagrined. “I left the master switch on too long while you were sleeping. I was checking weather on the radio.”

  He turned back to the task of starting the right engine. Bolstered by the current from the left generator, the right engine started immediately, and they ran through the checklist before Scott brought the props out of the feathered position.

  The Widgeon began moving through the water immediately, and he guided it toward one of the largest icebergs, turning at the last second to let the nose bump into the ice at the angle he wanted. When the prow of the Widgeon had nudged itself firmly onto the iceberg, Scott brought the engine power up, watching the shoreline carefully until he was satisfied the huge iceberg was in motion.

  “So that’s it! You’re going to shove them out of the way.”

  He nodded.

  “And create a runway, right?”

  “It’s worked before,” Scott said. “But it’ll take an hour or so to push enough of them to each side to form a runway, and I’m going to need you up in the nose hatch with that oar to push us away from each one when I’m finished with it.”

  “How much open water do we need?”

  “About twenty-eight hundred feet.”

  “How long is this lake?”

  Scott chuckled. “About twenty-five hundred feet.”

  “What?”

  “But it’s all downhill.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  SATURDAY, DAY 6 ANCHORAGE, ALASKA 6:50 A.M.

  Schroedinger had been trying fruitlessly to awaken Ben for at least fifteen minutes when the telephone rang.

  “Dr. Cole?”

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry if I called too early, sir. This is Jim Lucavitch in security at Uniwave.”

  Ben pulled himself upright on the bed, forcing his mind to accelerate to full consciousness.

  “Yes, Jim.”

  “You were by here last night trying to locate Mr. Jerrod, I understand, and I’ve been following up on that.”

  “Good. Is he in this morn
ing?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Jerrod is out of the country. That’s all I’m at liberty to tell you.”

  “Do you … have any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “No, Dr. Cole, I don’t.”

  “Well, it’s really urgent that I at least speak with him. Can we arrange that this morning? I can come in for security purposes.”

  “No, sir, that won’t be possible.”

  Ben felt himself pass the fully awake point, a slight warning buzzer going off in his head announcing the need for immediate caution. Something was very wrong with this response.

  “Okay, Jim. Let me put this to you as clearly as I can without breaching any security rules or regulations. It is imperative that I speak personally on a secure line with Mr. Jerrod today, and it involves a matter of national security of the highest interest to Uniwave. Understood?”

  “Dr. Cole, I understand, but I’m not a magician. I quite frankly have no idea how to reach Mr. Jerrod at the moment, and all I can say is that we’ll keep trying. If you need some emergency protection, we can come get you in fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s not necessary. It’s not a protection matter. At least, not about protecting me.”

  It was going to be futile to pressure the man further, Ben realized. He terminated the call and sat rubbing his eyes for a minute, working to bat down the hopefully fictional scenarios that could explain Dan Jerrod’s sudden disappearance.

  Schroedinger was making it very clear that a formal charge of feline abuse was in the offing if his breakfast was not served within the next few minutes. Ben gave him a conciliatory head scratching before following the aggravated cat to the kitchen. He made coffee and reached out the front door to retrieve the Anchorage Times, opening it on the center island in the kitchen as he settled onto a stool to catch up with the world. He was into the third section before a small article about a recent plane crash caught his attention.

  FAA ACCUSED OF OVERREACTION IN

  MONDAY’S SEAPLANE ACCIDENT

  Midair Collision Possible

  The Monday night loss of a private twin-engine seaplane some sixty miles south of Valdez has led to cancelation of a senior pilot’s license to fly and resulted in countercharges that local Federal Aviation Administration officials are persecuting the pilot.