Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 8

Entering the empty lobby of the hotel, Merrick felt a gnawing sense of uneasiness as she walked to the counter to check out. Glancing at her wristwatch, she was surprised to see it was almost 4:00 A. M.

"Is there something wrong, Miss Hamilton?" the desk clerk asked.

"No, there's nothing wrong. I've thoroughly enjoyed my stay, but my plans have changed."

"Well, we hope you'll visit us again."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Nervously alert, Merrick checked the accuracy of her hotel account. Satisfied, she folded the statement and slid it into a side pocket of one of her bags. A sudden flash of headlights caught her attention when a maroon Mercury Grand Marquis pulled into the drive.

The car stopped a few yards past the entrance to the lobby and two men got out. Assuming they were FBI agents, Merrick picked up her luggage and walked outside to greet them. As they approached, Merrick had a sudden feeling that something was wrong.

"Are you Miss 'amilton?" the man with the pencil-thin mustache and impish grin asked.

"Yes."

The middle-aged man and his partner, an Oriental man, flashed their official-looking badges.

"Chauncey 'arrington, FBI. We 'ave been instructed to escort you to our district 'eadquarters."

This doesn't feel right, Merrick told herself. The revelation dawned with gut-wrenching clarity when she glanced at their Mercury and noticed the rental-car sticker on the back bumper. Don't panic, for God's sake. These guys are imposters, probably the same ones who caused Earlywine's death. Think before you do anything.

"May we 'elp with your luggage, ma'am?" The mischievous smile remained the same — cheesy and insincere.

Merrick could feel the palms of her hands turning sweaty. Who are these people?" That's okay," she said, remembering that Jackie had specifically told her not to go near her car. Well, I have to take a chance. "I'll just throw them in my car and follow you to your, ah, office."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we 'ave strict orders to-drive you to our headquarters. It's standard policy, you understand."

Merrick was afraid to make a move. How did they know? There must have been a wiretap, a bug in my room. "I can't leave my car here."

The Oriental opened his suit jacket just enough to expose the handgun in his shoulder holster. There was no way out. The hotel parking lot was completely deserted.

I have to do something, but I have to pick the right time. With her heart in her throat, she silently prayed. Dear God, I need some help. "Would one of you gentlemen be kind enough to drive my car?"

"Of course." Harrington looked at his partner and nodded. "If you'll 'and us the keys, we'll be on our merry way."

If I try to run, they could easily shoot me.

"Ma'am, the keys," Harrington said.

With a great sense of trepidation, Merrick fished her keys out of her handbag. She handed them to the silent man and then picked up her two leather bags. With Harrington on one side of her and the other man slightly behind her, Merrick waited for an opportunity to draw attention. Harrington opened the back door of the Mercury and stepped aside as Merrick tossed her bags in the backseat and got in.

"Don't you want to know which car is mine?" Merrick asked, feeling a surge of adrenaline stab her heart.

Harrington's smile faded but quickly reappeared. "Indeed, that would be quite 'elpful, now, wouldn' it?"

"The gray Chevy Cavalier next to the end of the first row." With a wave of his hand, Harrington directed his partner toward Merrick's rental car.

She knew what to do, but it would take some luck. They knew which car was mine.

Harrington got in and started the Mercury. The other man retrieved Merrick's car and drew up behind the Grand Marquis. Leading the way down Highway 101 toward the Santa Ynez Mountains, Harrington remained quiet while Merrick nervously looked for a police car. She had to cause a commotion, anything to draw attention to her plight.

Nearing Santa Barbara, Merrick felt a pain in her chest. She reached inside one of her bags beside her on the backseat. A weight lifter and marathon runner, she would have to use her physical conditioning to escape. "What do you think of your new director of the FBI — what's his name?"

"Don't know—'aven't 'ad the opportunity to meet the gentleman."

Merrick began to ease her hand out of her bag. Wait for the right opportunity. You need to draw attention, not get yourself killed.

The Mercury rounded the curve northwest of the Amtrak train station. Out of the dark, a California Highway Patrol cruiser appeared from behind and accelerated past the two cars. It was time to act. She tightly gripped each end of a sturdy braided belt and flipped it over Harrington's head, then yanked as hard as she could.

He gasped and struggled like a man who knew he was about to die. His feet alternately mashed the accelerator and the brake, resulting in a lurching and swaying ride. Releasing the steering wheel to use both hands to claw at the belt, Harrington choked and gagged. Merrick pulled as hard as she could. Without warning, she felt something snap and he went limp. The Grand Marquis ran off the right side of the highway, dangerously swerving and swaying.

Merrick shoved Harrington toward the passenger side, at the same time desperately grabbing the steering wheel to get the car under control. The Mercury careened back on the highway and lurched to the right again. Merrick struggled to climb over the seat and Harrington's tangled legs. Take control!

An instant later, the cruiser's flashing lights came on. The officer began slowing the car and easing toward the shoulder of the highway. Afraid that he might be rear-ended, he kept moving while the Mercury driver was steering in such an erratic manner.

With one leg twisted behind her, Merrick swerved to miss the cruiser and smashed into her smaller rental car. The Oriental driver made an attempt to pass her and they collided again. Both cars sprayed glass and twisted parts on the highway as the drivers fought for control. The man floorboarded the Cavalier and continued driving, passing the Mercury and the CHP cruiser.

Shocked by the collisions, Merrick stomped on the brakes. She brought the Grand Marquis to a screeching, smoking stop on the right side of the highway. The patrol car pulled in behind the battered Mercury and stopped. The officer radioed a description of the gray Chevy to headquarters, while he kept an eye on the driver of the Grand Marquis.

Feeling the effects of the adrenaline boost, Merrick finally opened the door and stumbled out. Her knees were shaking as she turned toward the patrolman. He must think I'm falling-down drunk.

In the process of running the Grand Marquis's license plate, the officer opened his door. He stepped out of the cruiser and put his hand on his weapon. "Ma'am, step to the back of your vehicle and place your hands on the trunk."

Merrick complied and turned her head toward the patrolman. "Officer, the car I collided with is my rental car."

" Your rental car?"

"That's right."

"Well, after eighteen years on the job, that's a new one."

She looked straight ahead. "It might be a good idea to radio a description of the stolen vehicle — this isn't it."

More curious than concerned for his safety, the patrolman ignored her suggestion. "Ma'am, do you have any weapons on you?"

"No, but the FBI impostor lying in the front seat has a handgun."

"FBI impostor, huh?"

"That's right."

"Well, that's another first."

The trooper cautiously walked toward the driver's door. "Ma'am, have you been drinking?"

"Yes, I have, if you count one glass of wine with dinner about nine-thirty last night."

The officer shone his flashlight on Harrington for a long moment. "Has your passenger been drinking?"

"He was the driver until I saw you, and then I overpowered him. I think he may be dead."

"Overpowered him?"

"Pardon me, but do we have to go over everything twice?"

The patrolman slowly shook his head and cautiously walked to the front passenger door. He kept his light on Harrington while he checked his vital signs, then stepped back.

"You're right about that," he said without taking his eyes off Merrick. "He certainly is dead — looks like he was strangled."

"He was, with one of my belts."

More cautious now, the trooper returned to the back of the Mercury and shone his light in Merrick's face. "Let's start over. Do you have any identification with you?"

"Yes." She squinted at the light. "It's in my handbag in the car."

"Would you mind getting it for me?"

"I'd be happy to," Merrick said, and opened the rear door. She grabbed her purse and then gave the trooper her driver's license and her navy identification card.

He carefully inspected the IDs and handed them to her. "Well, Lieutenant Hamilton, what do you do in the navy?"

With the rush wearing off, Merrick chuckled. "I'm a fighter pilot."

The officer again shook his head. "Why does that not surprise me?"

The sun was barely above the horizon when a U.S. Air Force Titan 4B Centaur booster, carrying an advanced six-ton NRO Orion signal intelligence spacecraft, gracefully lifted off from Complex 40. Launched by Lockheed Martin and the 5th Space Launch Squadron of the 45th Space Wing, the intelligence-gathering spacecraft would be maneuvered into geosynchronous orbit over the equator north of the Solomon Islands.

Once safely in orbit, Orion, with its antenna spanning more than a hundred feet, would be released and parked at approximately twenty-three thousand miles above the earth to monitor communications from most of the Western Pacific.

Two days later, another Orion spacecraft would be parked on the equator north of French Polynesia in the Eastern Pacific. Working in concert with older KH-11 optical-imaging spacecraft and Lacrosse imaging radars, the latest evolution of sky spies would provide wide-area coverage and greatly bolster U.S. intelligence assessments.

The National Security Agency would be the primary user of the Orion spacecraft, with the CIA and State Department aiding in the interpretation of communication intercepts.

With Jackie in the left seat of the Beech A-36 Bonanza, she and Scott listened to the automatic terminal information service. The latest ATIS provided the ceilings, visibility, obstructions to visibility, current temperature, dew point, wind direction, wind speed, altimeter setting, remarks about the airport, instrument approaches, and the runways in use.

Next Scott called clearance delivery and copied his instrument clearance to MCAS Cherry Point, then read it back to the controller. Even though the weather was good, Scott preferred the safety of an IFR flight plan and the accompanying radar coverage. He called ground control and received permission to taxi to runway one-nine-left as Jackie smoothly added power and turned toward the taxiway.

Scott glanced at a sleek new Citation X that was about to land. "Sure beats the airlines."

"Yeah, no comparison."

"Going where you want, when you want." Scott watched the corporate jet touch down. "If everything goes smoothly this year, I'm hoping to move up to a King Air."

"Need a partner — in an airplane?"

"I'd have to think about that."

After reaching the departure end of the runway, Jackie gently braked to a halt. She completed a thorough engine run-up, checked the flight controls for proper response, glanced at the GPS unit, rechecked the trim and fuel selector valve, then looked at Scott. "I'm ready when you are."

"Dulles tower," Scott radioed, "Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta is ready to go."

"Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta, wind is one-six-zero at eight, runway one-nine-left, cleared for takeoff."

"Seven Hotel Delta is rolling."

Jackie turned the strobe lights on, then visually checked for approaching air traffic and taxied onto the active runway. Smoothly adding power, she glanced at the engine instruments while the Bonanza rapidly accelerated straight down the centerline of the runway. Approaching sixty-five knots, Jackie began easing back on the yoke and the airplane gently lifted off the ground.

"It looks like you've done this a time or two."

"Actually, I feel a little rusty," Jackie admitted, raising the landing gear. "I need to fly more often."

After the tower handed them off to departure control, Scott checked in with the controller while Jackie enjoyed hand-flying the Bonanza. Once they had been switched to the Washington Air Route Traffic Control Center, ackie continued the climb to seven thousand feet before engaging the autopilot.

"What a beautiful morning," she said, surveying the countryside. "This is the best time of day to fly."

"We'll have to do this more often."

"Let's plan on it." Jackie scanned the sky for other aircraft. "When are you going to take me flying in your Great Lakes?"

"As soon as we have time."

"Promise?"

"You have my word."

"Seriously, Mr. Dalton, would you consider a partnership in one of your planes — fifty-fifty?"

"That's how guys get into trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"A fifty-fifty partnership with a woman means the woman's in charge. That's how things work on this planet."

"You're incorrigible."

"Wake me when we get there."

"Aye, aye, Captain."

Scott napped while Jackie monitored the instruments, radios, and the GPS moving map. One hour and thirty-two minutes after takeoff, Jackie looked down at the Pamlico River and then studied the Neuse River. A few moments later, she was given permission to begin a descent and contact Cherry Point approach control.

Scott raised his head when Jackie eased the nose down. "When you talk to the tower, see if they'll clear us for a military break."

"Great idea."

"It's smooth this morning," he said. "You can make a shallow descent at cruise power and break at the bottom."

"Are you sure you don't want to fly?"

"You can do it as well as I can."

"Okay, but I don't think we'll get any vapes out of the break."

"If you pull that hard, we'll be landing without any wings."

Jackie keyed the radio. "Cherry Point approach, Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta is with you out of five point five for three thousand, negative ATIS."

While Scott surveyed the familiar terrain, Jackie was handed off to the tower controller. He gave her permission for a right downwind to runway three-two-left and a break over the middle of the runway. Keeping the power on, she flew downwind, turned base, then final.

She keyed the radio. "Cherry Point tower, Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta numbers for the break."

"Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta cleared for the break midfield."

"Seven-Seven Hotel Delta."

Still descending, Jackie crossed the runway numbers at six hundred feet. She waited until midfield and snapped the airplane into knife-edge flight at four hundred feet. After 180 degrees of turn, nailed exactly on four hundred feet, Jackie eased the power back and simultaneously rolled wings level.

"Very nice."

"Thanks."

Slowing, Jackie lowered the flaps and reached for the landing gear handle. She paused and then lowered the wheels. A split second later, a deafening explosion from under the engine cowl horrified them.

"What the hell," Scott exclaimed.

The engine suddenly shook and clattered, threatening to tear itself from the engine mounts.

"Pull the power back!"

"I've got it at idle!" Jackie said, steeply banking the plane toward the runway. "Tower, Seven Hotel Delta has an emergency!"

"Hotel Delta is cleared to land on any runway. You have fire—

there's fire coming from under your engine!"

Scott pulled the mixture knob to idle-cutoff while Jackie turned the fuel and ignition off. The engine shook a couple of times and then quit running, as the propeller froze in place.

"It looks like your nosewheel fell off," the controller said, hitting the alarm to roll the crash trucks.

Jackie kept the turn going while Scott scanned the twisted engine cowling. It was shaking and vibrating from the wind whipping it back and forth.

"Keep the speed up!"

"I'm trying to."

The controller keyed his radio. "You have flames and black smoke pouring out of your lower cowling."

"Copy," Jackie snapped.

"You're lookin' good," Scott said, and glanced at the landing gear handle. There was no indication that the main wheels were down. "Tower, are our mains down?"

"They're down, but I can't tell if they're locked."

"Hotel Delta."

Jackie was desperately trying to stretch the glide, but the parasitic drag caused by the canted engine and mangled cowling was forcing her to keep the nose unusually low.

"It's going to be close," she said. "Real close."

"You're doing great — you're a test pilot now."

"Yeah, what a way to start."

Nursing the Bonanza toward the runway, Jackie was still banking the plane with only a few feet of altitude left.

Scott cinched his seat belt tight. "Hang in there."

"Uh-huh — this is going to be an attention getter."

The left wingtip scraped the runway. She made a play for the centerline. Without warning, the blazing engine ripped loose when the main wheels thudded onto the runway.

Scott braced himself for a sudden stop.

Tumbling under the left wing, the engine tore the left landing gear off. There was a wrenching, agonizing screech of metal as the airplane skidded on the twisted wing.

Jackie tried using right brake and right rudder to keep the Bonanza on the centerline, but the drag of the left wing swung the airplane perpendicular to the runway.

"We made it! You did it!"

"Yeah" — she sighed—"terrific."

Yellow flames licked around the leading edge of the left wing, then erupted in a searing conflagration. The heat was intense. Jackie and Scott clawed at the buckles to free themselves from their restraining harnesses.

"Let's get outta here!" Jackie said.

Scott wrestled the door open and they scrambled out of the wreckage. Seconds later, the first crash truck arrived.

They sprinted to the right side of the runway.

"How're you doing?" Scott asked.

"Okay, all things considered."

They stopped to watch the crash crew extinguish the blazing inferno in a matter of seconds.

"Scott?"

"I know what you're gonna say."

"That was a bomb," she said angrily. "It was rigged to go off when the landing gear was lowered."

Scott stared at the charred, smoking remains of his prized A-36 Bonanza. He swore under his breath and then looked at Jackie. "Hey, partner, at least we're okay."

"Thank God." Her emotions had changed from basic survival mode to open hostility. "Playtime is over for these bastards."

"Yeah, we're going to have to get our environment under control — like today at the latest."

Two firefighters began walking toward them.

"We'll charter one of Greg's Lears," Scott continued, "minus the pilots, and continue to march."

A fellow Marine Harrier pilot and best friend since Desert Shield and Desert Storm, Greg O'Donnell was now a civilian who owned a thriving jet charter company. The growing business featured two pristine Learjet 35As and a single Lear 36A.

"Great idea, one of your best. Just one minor question."

"What would that be?"

"Are you type rated in Lears?"

"Typed and current." Scott glanced at his destroyed plane. "Greg gave me my latest check last month."

"What are we going to do about security?" Jackie asked. "At this rate, our luck is going to run out if we don't get aggressive — like right now."

Before replying, Scott thought about the blanket offer Hartwell Prost had made to them. If the president and his national security adviser want results, we have to use some of Uncle Sam's finest assets.

"We're going to get fangs-out aggressive. I'll call Hartwell and we'll have some SEALs assigned to guard the Lear 'round the clock."

She smiled approvingly. "I'd say that should do it, and you need to tell him what has happened here — don't need the Feds snooping around."

"If you'll entertain our reception committee," Scott said, then activated his satellite phone, "I'll contact Hartwell and Greg."

"Yeah, what a grand entrance."

Scott managed a smile. "Look at it this way — we're legends in our own time, at least at Cherry Point."

"Oh, for sure. This will be a great story for the cocktail circuit."