Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 3

The mild and refreshing weather was perfect for the outdoor memorial service. The officers and sailors, each with a fresh haircut, were resplendent in their eye-catching dress whites with their colorful military ribbons. Conspicuously absent from the commemorative service were Lieutenants "Ham" Hamilton and Lou Emerson.

At Tracy Bonello's request Jackie and Scott sat beside her. Sammy's father and mother sat on the other side of their tearful grandchildren. Sammy's brother, Tony, tried to comfort his inconsolable mother, but his efforts were in vain. The other members of the family grieved in stony silence while a lone sailor played taps as four F/A-18s flew low over the chapel grounds and executed the traditional missing-man formation.

Tracy's eyes brimmed with tears. Trembling with emotion, she began to softly cry. Scott comforted her and tried with all the self-control he could muster to maintain his own composure. He had attended many other services for fellow aviators over the years, and there was never a dry eye when taps sounded.

After the service everyone went to Tracy's home for a lunch provided by Sammy's squadron mates. By early afternoon the mourners began to thin. The pilots and naval flight officers quietly paid their respects to Tracy and her family, then left to attend the memorial service for Chick Fossett. Later, after spending time with Fossett's grieving wife, and a baby boy who would never know his father, the fliers would rendezvous at the officers' club to get properly inebriated and salute their fallen comrades.

Scott and Jackie waited until Tracy was finally alone with her immediate family before they left for their meeting with Cliff Early-wine at the U.S. Grant Hotel, their residence while in San Diego. Arriving promptly, Jackie and Scott were surprised to see Earlywine waiting for them. Looking more like a muscular college linebacker than a newspaper reporter, Earlywine rose to greet them.

Introductions were quickly made while Scott and Jackie seated themselves. There was an air of expectancy that increased the tension hanging over their table.

While they waited for their drinks to be served, Jackie and Scott set the ground rules about confidentiality. The entire conversation would be off the record, no recorders.

"Cliff," Scott said after their drinks arrived, "tell us exactly what happened after the accident, after you heard the shouts over the radio."

"Well, I could see that everyone was basically in shock for a few seconds, then they all looked at me."

"What did they say?" Jackie asked.

"Nothing at first. Someone, I can't remember who, ordered the lieutenant who was my handler to escort me to that big structure on the right side of the flight deck."

"The island," Scott said.

"Yeah, that's where they took me when I flew out on the COD, so I figured my visit was over."

"Did the lieutenant say anything to you?" Jackie asked.

"Not really. He was a PR type and polite, but he was all business after the accident happened."

Scott lowered his voice. "Did you still have your recorder on?"

"Yes. It's real small — fits in a cigarette pack in my shirt pocket."

"Will you give us a copy of the tape?"

"Yeah, I already made you a copy." He reached into his pocket and handed a miniature Sony tape to Scott. "I have another copy in a safety deposit box."

"What happened next?"

"The other airplane, the wingman, landed and people surrounded the airplane. A few minutes later, here comes the pilot and the guy in back. When they came through the door, I stepped forward to ask them some questions and all hell broke loose."

"Go ahead," Scott said.

"There was a lot of commotion, and the next thing I knew two guys had me by the arms and took me straight to the COD. I was confined there for about twenty-five minutes before they flew me back here."

"Have you tried to contact the flight crew?" Jackie asked.

"At least a half-dozen times. The backseat guy has apparently been transferred to the Pentagon and the pilot, who is now stationed in Pensacola, won't return my phone calls."

Earlywine looked at Dalton. "After I talked with Mrs. Bonello, I figured that you, with your background and all, might be able to get the pilot to talk to you."

"Do you have a name and phone number?"

"Right here," Earlywine said proudly. He handed Scott a slip of paper with Lieutenant Hamilton's phone number. "I have a friend, a lieutenant commander, who owed me a favor."

Scott glanced at the Florida area code before handing the piece of paper to Jackie. "This should be interesting."

"No doubt."

Dalton looked at Earlywine. "If I can get any information, it has to be from an anonymous source. I don't want any names used — not ours or anyone we talk to."

"I give you my word." He presented each of them a business card. "I don't reveal my sources unless I have permission. I just want to know what really happened before I take this to my editor."

Scott nodded. "So do we."

"All I know is something mighty strange happened that night, and I think — no, I'm positive — that whatever happened is being covered up."

"We'll see what we can find out," Scott said, pocketing the tape. "I appreciate it."

When they finished their drinks, Earlywine paid the tab and excused himself. Afterward Jackie and Scott walked into the Grant Grill and were seated at a cozy booth.

Scott waited until they were alone, then leaned closer to Jackie. "Can't wait to play this tape."

"Same here. Maybe we should contact Hartwell and see what he can tell us about the accident."

Scott looked at his wristwatch. "Good idea. We should give him a heads up about Earlywine's story and the tape."

"Yeah. Besides, we'll be better off if we have as much information as possible before we contact the pilot."

"True, but I don't want to have that conversation over the phone. I want to go there, in person, unannounced."

He smiled. "How do you feel about spending a few days in Florida?"

"You call Hartwell," she said without hesitation. "I'll book us on a morning flight to Pensacola."

"Let's do it."

Hartwell Prost sat down in his study to read the first draft of a speech he intended to give at his alma mater. The only child of a wealthy father who oversaw their family-owned investment empire, Prost had surprised his parents by joining the Central Intelligence Agency after graduating with honors from Harvard Law. He became a rising star at the CIA and, in his ensuing years there, an astute power broker and political wizard.

Now retired from his position as director of operations, Prost was the president's closest aide and confidant. On the surface, his soft voice and ever-present tweed tam-o'-shanter cap could lull people into underestimating him, a costly mistake many opponents had made.

On the inside, however, Prost was clinically analytical. Known by many as a Renaissance man, he had little tolerance for the whiz kids who made up the Beltway crowd. He considered most of them to be educated beyond their intelligence.

Although he was the consummate gentleman, Hartwell Prost would not hesitate to cashier someone he judged unsuitable for the task at hand. Scott Dalton had never been in that category, not even close. Scott was the kind of person Hartwell Prost showcased, even to the commander in chief, President Cord Macklin.

When the phone rang, he removed his glasses and reached for the receiver. "Prost."

After a short conversation with Scott, Prost had a firm set to his jaw. "Let me check into this first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

"I sense a smoke screen coming from the Pentagon. In the meantime, go ahead and see what you can find out from the other pilot — the one in Pensacola."

"Okay."

"Oh, one other thing. Keep that tape in your possession until you can give it to me in person."

"Will do, sir."

When Scott returned to their booth, Jackie had their travel itinerary neatly detailed on a small notepad.

"What did he say?"

"He knew about the accident but was unaware of the circumstances. He didn't know that a civilian reporter had been on board the ship and taped the radio transmissions."

"Well, no one else knew either."

Scott paused while a well-dressed gentleman was seated near their table. "It's probably going to land on the president's desk."

"That's going to get his attention."

"You bet it is. Hartwell thinks someone is trying to throw a blanket over the details of what happened."

"He'll jump on that," she said.

"Yeah, he seemed to be miffed that he hadn't been briefed on the details surrounding the crash, especially under the circumstances."

"What did he say about contacting the pilot?"

"He thinks it's fine, but he cautioned me to be careful. He doesn't want us setting off any alarms with the navy."

"We're always careful," she said with mock seriousness. "You've had a really tough day."

He nodded and opened his menu. "After dinner we'll find a recorder and listen to the tape."

Jackie reached for his hand. "How about a martini before dinner?"

"You're on."

High above the Bay of Bengal a U.S. Air Force RC-135S reconnaissance plane was preparing to observe a missile test that intelligence reports expected to take place hundreds of miles inside India. Data from the secret test would be transmitted directly from the Boeing Cobra Ball aircraft to the White House and the State Department. The ongoing conflict over Kashmir was again ratcheting up the tension between Pakistan and India. With no buffer zone between the rival nations, the possibility for a nuclear confrontation was nearing certainty.

Deployed from the secretive 55th Wing at Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska, the sophisticated four-engine Cobra Ball spy plane, call sign Eagle Rock One-One, could instantly detect a missile launch, track the object into space, mark the missile engine's cutoff, then quickly calculate its trajectory and point of impact.

The airplane was equipped with an upgraded sensor suite and sported four large windows on the right side of the fuselage. Made of optical-quality glass, the windows were designed to enhance the capabilities of the Cobra Ball's primary sensor systems. The package included a medium-wave infrared array, a real-time optical system that recorded visible light using a combination of thirteen sensors, and a large-aperture tracking system, which was an optical telescope that provided a clear resolution to small targets.

Long surrounded by secrecy, Cobra Ball's capabilities were well known and feared by the Soviet Union during the Cold War. In order to observe missile testing on Kamchatka Peninsula on Russia's east coast, the RC-135s from the "low-density, high-demand" 6th Strategic Wing at Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska, routinely flew established patterns in international airspace.

A disastrous incident was triggered in 1983 when senior commanders in the Soviet military attempted to shoot down an unarmed Cobra Ball. Instead of destroying the secret reconnaissance aircraft, the Russian fighter pilot mistakenly downed Korean Airlines Flight 007 with a missile, killing all 269 on board. The lone RC-135 was hundreds of miles east of the accident site.

Although night had fallen over the Bay of Bengal, the Cobra Ball crew would be making visual observations and spectral analyses of the fireballs that surround intercontinental ballistic missiles when they reenter the earth's atmosphere. Working with the CIA and the Big Safari reconnaissance program at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio, the Cobra Ball crewmen were expecting India to test a new long-range ICBM in approximately twelve minutes.

Major Dale Kirby, the aircraft commander of the complex spy plane, glanced at the pale crescent moon highlighted in the dark sky and then did a double take. What the hell is that?

"Hey, Gregg, take a look — one o'clock high." Kirby motioned toward a bright, circular, bluish-white object slightly above the moon. "At what?" Capt. Gregg Tyndall asked.

"The bright object passing over the top of the moon."

Moving at high speed in the opposite direction, the strange aberration appeared to be a bright ring of light with a large dark center. The object slowed, then reversed course and began ascending at an astonishing rate of climb. It then abruptly leveled and hovered in place.

Kirby stared in disbelief. "Do you see it?"

"Oh, yeah," Tyndall said, staring intently at the light. "How could I miss it?" He studied the object for a few seconds and let out a slow whistle. "I've never seen anything like that."

"I haven't either." Kirby craned his neck to watch. The eerie object climbed, then began a shallow descent. "It's there, we can see it, and it's being maneuvered by some form of intelligence."

"No question about it." Tyndall turned and glanced aft on the flight deck. Unaware of the strange light, both navigators were working on last-minute preparations for the missile test.

"Hey." Tyndall motioned for the navigators to come forward. "Take a look at this thing."

The captains joined the pilots and quietly stared at the highly maneuverable object.

"We'd better alert the crew," Kirby said. He pressed the intercom switch to inform the mission commander and turned to his copilot. "I'm going to take pictures."

"Maybe it's an advanced UAV," Tyndall said.

Kirby reached for his Minolta. "I don't think we have anything with that kind of performance."

"What about Area Fifty-one and all those black programs?"

"Yeah, but we're over the Bay of Bengal."

"True, but I guess it could've come from anywhere."

"Look at that thing move," Kirby said. "I remember when we were off the coast of China and our mission commander said—" Kirby froze in midsentence, then stared wide-eyed as the bluish-white object rapidly slowed to a halt and descended. Without warning, it changed direction and crossed the flight path of the Ball.

"Holy shit!" Kirby reached for the control yoke. "I don't like this — someone is screwin' with us!"

"It's coming straight at us!"

The object shot past the cockpit, causing the four men to duck. "Son of a bitch," Kirby said.

The light disappeared behind them for a few seconds and then reappeared a few hundred feet off the right wing.

Fascinated and clearly frightened, Tyndall spoke in a halting voice. "It's huge — easily the size of a 747."

Shocked by the close call, the navigators quickly returned to their crew station and strapped themselves into their seats.

The mission commander and the other crewmen in the back of the airplane went into shock. The intercom became a party line when everyone began talking at the same time.

"Get a camera on it!" the mission commander ordered as he initiated voice contact with the State Department and the White House. "We gotta have this on film — hustle!"

"We're getting it," a technician said.

Seconds later, the object accelerated straight ahead and climbed at a sixty-degree angle, then appeared to be coming straight at the Ball. It shot past, made a sweeping right turn, and flashed over the cockpit.

"We need to get the hell out of here," Kirby announced.

The object climbed straight up, appeared to stop in midair, and then turned toward the airplane.

Kirby felt his blood chill. "Oh, shit…" He trailed off. "We better take evasive action," Tyndall said.

Suddenly a bright flash startled the pilots and crew. Seconds later the RC-135S exploded into millions of fragments, lighting the night sky with a mushrooming fireball that arced toward the Bay of Bengal.