Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 2

Watching the shimmering sun peek above the horizon, former Marine Corps Harrier pilot Scott Dalton sipped coffee while he relaxed on the private teak veranda outside his luxurious cabin atop Silver Cloud, a yacht-like cruise ship. He felt the balmy sea breeze rustle his hair and then closed his eyes and leaned back in his deck chair. For Scott, nirvana came after a pot of freshly brewed Kona coffee and breakfast alfresco.

The descendant of a Confederate general, and son of a retired. Marine Corps brigadier general, Scott Johnston Dalton was a native of Nashville, Tennessee. A three-year varsity quarterback for the "Commodores" of Vanderbilt University, Scott was six feet even, ruggedly handsome, and had blue eyes that exuded charm and wit.

After his military obligation was complete, Scott joined the Central Intelligence Agency. There he established an excellent reputation for successfully completing complex and hazardous assignments. Scott's daring and courageous feats, following his qualification as a counter-terrorism-strike-force team leader, made him an instant legend in the Agency. As his reputation spread, the White House began calling on his expertise to conduct special covert operations in various hot spots around the world.

Tired of the political infighting within the Agency, Scott finally decided to resign and start his own consulting firm. The news of his departure did not go unnoticed at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Because of his excellent performance during several covert operations, his parachuting experience, his outstanding flying skills, and his Marine Corps training, Scott received a surprising and flattering offer from the White House.

He would conduct special operations on behalf of the national security adviser, completely outside the boundaries of congressional-oversight requirements that encumber CIA-directed covert operations. In his role as a private citizen and aviation safety auditor for U.S. and international corporate flight departments, Scott could circumvent certain obstacles that might prove politically embarrassing to the president of the United States, the Justice Department, the State Department, the Central Intelligence Agency, or to the Pentagon. His primary objective was to leave no fingerprints, no ties to any division or branch of the U.S. government, and no headlines.

Under an assumed identity and rank, Scott attended the army's High Altitude, Low Opening School (HALO) to learn how to infiltrate enemy positions, or land on ships or other moving objects, by falling from high altitude and opening his parachute at low level to avoid being detected by radar or guards.

Shortly thereafter he traveled to Hereford, England, for training with the Special Air Service Regiment, considered by many military organizations to be the most elite special-forces unit in the world. Originally founded during World War II by British captain David Stirling, the SAS has mastered the art of anti/counterterrorism and operating behind enemy lines on covert missions.

Dalton's training had concentrated on handling special weapons, insertion skills, anti-interrogation tactics, close-target reconnaissance, free-fall parachuting, secrecy and stealth, close-quarter battle skills, and survival, escape, and evasion techniques.

When he heard the cabin door open, Scott glanced at Jackie Sullivan, his new partner in their consulting business. Breathing hard, the former air force F-16 pilot was attired in jogging shorts and a Jimmy Buffett T-shirt that highlighted her slim, athletic figure.

Jackie and Scott had originally met by chance at an elegant restaurant in Georgetown. He had invited her to go sailing with him on Chesapeake Bay and she had graciously accepted. However, Scott left the following day for Buenos Aires, and during his unsuccessful attempt to capture an international terrorist, he misplaced Jackie's name and phone number. After returning to Washington, he went back to the restaurant on a number of occasions but never saw her again.

A year later they were miraculously reunited to work as a team to rescue one of Jackie's colleagues. Maritza Gunzelman, a "civilian" consultant like Jackie, had infiltrated a major terrorist training compound in the Bekaa Valley. The CIA, the Brits, and Mossad had been desperate to debrief her, but the terrorists had become more suspicious of Maritza by the day. She was under close surveillance and essentially trapped in the compound.

When Hartwell Prost, the president's national security adviser, brought Scott and Jackie together for a second encounter, Scott did not immediately recognize her. Finally, it had dawned on him like a load of bricks falling on his head. When they first met, her hair had been longer and she had been wearing a stunning black cocktail dress instead of a flight suit.

Scott had not been aware that she was a clandestine officer with the Defense Human Intelligence Service. Likewise she had no idea that Scott had been a former CIA agent turned troubleshooter for the White House.

After their mission in the Bekaa Valley, Jackie and Scott decided to join forces. Having worked closely with them during the dangerous operation, Hartwell Prost fully endorsed the merger. Although the proposition was inherently dangerous — they would be considered mercenaries if anything went wrong — the upside of the arrangement for Dalton and Sullivan was collecting a veritable fortune in fees. Payment for their extraordinary services was simply deposited in their account at an offshore bank.

The Agency had fully expunged their records. Except for their military jackets, every trace of their involvement with the U.S. government mysteriously vanished, including any information contained on computer hard-drives at the Agency. The Dalton & Sullivan Group maintained a nice office in Washington, had a full-time secretary, and conducted actual safety audits between sensitive assignments and special operations.

The most difficult aspect of their new role was getting used to reporting directly to Hartwell Prost.

"How was your workout?" Scott asked.

"Great." She was still trying to catch her breath after lifting weights in the fitness center and enjoying an invigorating jog around the top deck. She glanced at the silver urn on the cocktail cabinet. "Any coffee left?"

"I think so."

She reached for a cup and saucer and picked up the urn. "How about a massage later this morning?"

"Sure."

The phone rang. Jackie answered it and exchanged pleasantries with their secretary, then motioned for Scott to step inside the suite. "It's Mary Beth."

He nodded and grabbed the phone.

Jackie winked at him. "I'm going to take a quick shower."

Scott barely heard Jackie's parting words — he was already focused on Mary Beth's terrible news. He took the news calmly, asked a few questions, and said good-bye.

He stared blankly at the horizon for a minute and then placed a call to San Diego. A quick glance at his wristwatch told him it was almost 9:00 P. M. in southern California. When Tracy Bonello answered the phone, Scott's heart sank and a wave of grief swept over him. His voice cracked once, but he managed to maintain his composure.

The gut-wrenching conversation was just coming to an end when Jackie walked out of the marbled bath and approached the veranda. She saw his downcast appearance and her smile disappeared.

"Scott, are you okay?"

"I've been better."

"What's wrong?"

"Sammy Bonello was involved in a strange accident during carrier ops off the coast of southern California."

"Is he okay?"

"No, he isn't." Scott's voice caught in his throat. "He's missing at sea and presumed dead."

"Oh, no."

For a few seconds she was at a loss for words.

"I know the two of you became close friends at Kingsville," Jackie said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Weren't you his best man after you received your wings?"

"Yes, I was."

Scott paused as fond memories of Sammy flashed through his mind. "He was flying an F/A-18F. His backseater didn't make it either."

She gently squeezed his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Sammy was a model husband and father — they have three kids."

Scott lowered his head. "Tracy called our office and Mary Beth thought I should know about the accident and the memorial service."

Jackie sat down on the sofa. "Of course you'll attend."

"Yeah. I'll get off the ship in Gibraltar and fly to San Diego. If you want to continue the cruise, we can meet when the ship reaches Barcelona."

"No," she quietly protested. "I want to go with you" — she paused—"if that's okay?"

"Sure, I'd appreciate it." Scott remained quiet for a moment and then met her eyes. "There's something very strange going on."

"Strange — what do you mean?"

"Tracy wants me to talk to a reporter from the San Jose Mercury News, a guy named Cliff Earlywine."

"Why?"

"Earlywine was on board the ship when the accident happened. He was doing a piece about carrier flight operations. The navy was giving him the grand tour, the usual show-'n'-tell stuff."

"What does he know about the accident?"

"I'm not sure."

Scott took a moment to review what Earlywine had told Tracy Bonello. "During Earlywine's visit to the combat direction center, he overheard the radio conversations between the ship, the Hawk-eye, and Sammy's flight. According to Tracy, Earlywine has some interesting — disturbing — information."

"Disturbing?"

"Yes. He knew the names of the people in the two Hornets. He said something weird happened during a night intercept of an unknown bogey, and Sammy's plane went down during the encounter."

"Could it have been a midair?"

"It doesn't sound like it. When Sammy's wingman returned to the boat, the navy wouldn't allow Earlywine to interview the flight crew. In fact, the navy hustled Earlywine back to San Diego right after Sammy's wingman returned to the ship."

"Well, I can understand the navy's concern about investigating the accident before someone starts speculating about what happened."

Scott took a breath and slowly let it out. "The navy doesn't know that Earlywine was taping his tour of the ship."

"Aha."

"A few seconds after the accident, Sammy's wingman and the backseater can be heard yelling over the radio, and I quote, 'The bogey fried 'em, blew 'em to hell.' End of quote."

"What were they chasing?"

"I don't know, but Earlywine thinks he has the answer. He hasn't gone public with the story yet, but he told Tracy that it sounded like they were trying to intercept something that no one could see on radar."

Jackie rolled her eyes. "A UFO?"

"That's what she thinks."

"O-kay, but why would it destroy an airplane?"

"I don't know, but Earlywine played the tape for her. Tracy told me she could hear panic in their voices — that it was very evident."

"Pardon my skepticism, but have they found any wreckage, any debris in the water?"

"If they have, they're keeping it quiet. According to the Associated Press, both the navy and the Pentagon reported that the jet disappeared during a routine training exercise. The search effort has been called off, and the names of the crew members are being withheld pending notification of their relatives."

"Obviously, your friend's family and his wife have been notified. What about the other guy's relatives?"

"Both families have been notified."

Jackie paused a moment. "Let's see if I have this straight. We have an unexplained loss of a Hornet and its crew. Then, not aware that Earlywine taped the radio conversations, the Pentagon has thrown a blanket over the accident, calling it a mishap during routine training exercises."

"That's about it."

Jackie gazed at the sea. "I think the Pentagon is engaged in a cover-up because they don't know what they're dealing with."

"Looks that way." He suppressed a sudden feeling of grief and anger. "Tracy was upset and skeptical when Earlywine first contacted her, but he convinced her that he can find out what's behind the stonewalling."

"Let me guess. That's when she mentioned you to Earlywinedoes she know about the Agency?"

"No, she and Sammy didn't know I was with the CIA, and she believes our consulting firm is as advertised."

"That's good."

"Tracy told him I was a former naval aviator who had been carrier qualified, and he wants to meet me after the memorial ser.

vice.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, each contemplating the sudden, awful changes wrought in the life of a young woman and her three children. Scott could visualize Tracy sitting on the divan, her teeth clamped on her lower lip, tears cascading down her cheeks, while she attempted to explain to Sally, Paul, and Sam junior why Daddy wasn't coming home again.

"Well," Jackie said, "we're due to arrive in Gibraltar at one, so we'd better start packing."

"Yeah." Scott stared at the tranquil sea and then reached for the telephone. "I'll make some reservations."

As early morning sunlight began to embrace the radiant city, Dr. Dixon Owens, a celebrated physicist, walked unsteadily to the large window in his suite at the Ocean Pointe Resort. The towers and turrets of the unique hotel made it look like a modern version of Camelot.

Nursing a king-size hangover from quaffing three bottles of Dom Perignon champagne the previous evening, he surveyed the regal Empress Hotel and the boat traffic in the picturesque Inner Harbor. A grossly overweight man of elaborate taste and expensive habits, Owens had always lived well beyond his means.

Now, much to his satisfaction, he could ditch his nagging wife and demanding job. No more endless meetings. No more working on weekends. No more compromises. His future would include chartered jets to exotic locations, lounging in the best hotel suites, drinking fifty-year-old Scotch, clothes tailor made by famous designers, and only the finest wines.

Owens followed the slow progress of a small whale-watching cruise ship until it sailed out of view beyond the harbor entrance. He smiled to himself as he continued to examine the mixed collection of colorful sailboats and graceful yachts.

A few moments later, a bright yellow-and-blue Cessna 185 float-plane swooped low across the harbor and gently splashed down on the mirror-smooth water. Owens checked his wristwatch and realized that he would be pushing the envelope to drive to Ogden Point in time to catch the 7:30 ferry to Seattle.

Deciding it was too late to brush his teeth and shave, Owens quickly threw on his rumpled clothes, packed his bag, and then called the front desk.

"This is Dr. Owens in three-twelve," he said brusquely. "I'm checking out and I need you to get my car from valet parking — immediately," he said, and hung up. He grabbed his luggage and rushed out of the room.

Reaching the elegant lobby of the resort, he walked past the woman at the checkout counter.

"Owens, three-twelve — send me the statement, sweetheart." He tossed his key on the counter.

"Sir, if you would—"

"I don't have time," he said with a dismissive wave.

He hurried outside and handed a single U.S. dollar to the young man holding his car keys.

"Thank you, sir."

Ignoring the lad, Owens tossed his bag in the front seat of the Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph and awkwardly slid behind the wheel. He started the V-12 engine and raced out of the hotel driveway, narrowly missing a horse and carriage.

Mashing the accelerator to the floor, Owens roared across the Johnson Street Bridge and flew down Government Street, passing the Empress Hotel at a high rate of speed. Braking heavily, he turned west on Belleville in front of the Parliament Buildings and followed the waterfront route toward Dallas Road. Pushing the car hard, he had to lock the brakes to make the entrance to the ferry terminal.

Having driven the Rolls to the limits of its performance capabilities, Owens arrived at the Princess Marguerite III less than a minute before the last vehicle was allowed to board the two-hundred-car ferry.

As he parked the luxury automobile on the ship, he caught the glance of a middle-aged man in a crisp nautical uniform with epaulets on his shoulders. Their eyes met briefly, and the man with the pencil-thin mustache gave Owens an impish grin before he turned and made his way to the spacious upper decks.

Relieved to have made it to the ferry on time, Owens removed his keys, heaved himself out of the car, locked the doors, and went topside to tour the well-appointed ship. While the pristine 1,070-passenger Princess Marguerite III got under way, Dr. Owens followed a cheerful crowd of commuters and vacationers to the bountiful buffet. Relaxing and reading the Seattle Times, he drank orange juice, steaming coffee, and devoured a hearty breakfast large enough to feed three average-sized men.

Afterward he wandered into the large, glassed lounge area to take in the beautiful scenery of Admiralty Inlet and Mystery Bay. He found a comfortable chair and sat down with a broad smile on his face. Most of his share of the $42 million payoff was safely stashed in a bank on Grand Cayman Island.

A few minutes later, Owens noticed the first remnants of fog beginning to appear on Puget Sound. The cloudlike mass of water droplets soon became as thick as pea soup. At regular intervals, the ship's foghorn sounded its mournful warning. Owens hoped the thick fog would burn off by noon, their expected time of arrival at Pier 48, Port of Seattle.

He was about to doze offwhen the same middle-aged gentleman with the impish grin and pencil-thin mustache approached him. The man's nautical uniform and epaulets were immaculate. Owens looked him up and down. What does this stooge want?

"Excuse me, sir," the man said with a clipped British accent. "I'm First Mate Peterson, and I couldn't 'elp notice the splendid vehicle you brought aboard this morning."

Owens wasn't quite sure how to respond. "Is there something wrong with the car?"

"Not with your vehicle, sir."

Owens's eyes narrowed.

"On the other 'and, it seems as if we 'ave a bit of a sticky problem."

A scowl formed on Owens's face. "What kind of a problem?"

"Our chief engineer needs to gain access to a machinery space, and your elegant vehicle is obstructing the opening."

"Well, I can damn sure fix that for you." Owens reached into his jacket pocket for the car keys and offered them to the officer. "Do whatever you need to do; I'll be right here."

"Thank you, sir. 'Owever, our insurance company does not permit crew members to drive vehicles that belong to passengers — particularly the likes of a Rolls-Royce." He smiled his impish smile. "Liability concerns, you understand."

"What next?" Owens rose from his chair and dropped his keys in his jacket pocket. "Lead the way."

"We appreciate your kind consideration, sir."

"Okay, let's just get it done," Owens said with a disinterested sniff.

"Yes, sir."

The two men went belowdecks and made their way aft to the area where the Silver Seraph was parked. Owens was surprised to find not a single person in the cavernous parking area.

Then again, he asked himself, why would anyone be down here with so many things to see and do topside? After all, no one is going to steal a car and drive off.

They walked to the last three cars on the starboard side of the ship. Nearing the rear of the Rolls, Owens retrieved the keys and turned to ask which way he should move the car. "Do you want me to back up a few feet?"

Owens saw the blur of the tire iron too late. The staggering blow to the side of his head was the last feeling Dr. Dixon Owens would ever have. He slumped forward, striking his head on the car as he collapsed in a heap. His body twitched with a slight but rapid motion for a few seconds before the final death rattle sounded in his lungs and air passages.

With his skull crushed and his head bleeding profusely, the physicist was unceremoniously stuffed inside the trunk of the Rolls. The man in the sharply creased uniform carefully cleaned Owens's blood off the ship's deck and the exterior of the car, then tossed the soaked rag into the trunk with the body.

When the Princess Marguerite III reached port in Seattle, a middle-aged man dressed in khaki slacks and a green-and-white sweater carefully drove Owens's Silver Seraph off the ferry and away from Pier 48. The dangerous part of the mission was over. Now, following explicit orders from his employer, he had to make Owens's death look like an accident.