Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 4

Scott lowered the Mustang's convertible top, shifted into gear, and drove away from the regional airport.

"You're right," Jackie said.

"Right about what?"

"The climate here really is ideal." The soft southern breeze was tousling her hair and she seemed to be, enjoying it. "I didn't realize what a paradise this place is."

"Yeah, it's hard to beat — once you've become acclimated to the humidity. That's why I've planned to retire here."

"Really? You never told me that."

"You never asked."

"I figured you'd be the type who would have a rustic cabin in the Smoky Mountains, maybe on a picturesque lake."

Scott winked. "There are lots of things I haven't told you."

"Well, now's a good time to fess up."

"First things first," Scott said. He turned north on Tippin Avenue.

"We're going the wrong direction, aren't we?"

"Just a short detour."

Scott jockeyed the Mustang into the flow of traffic. "I thought we'd take the postcard route to the air station."

"No complaints here."

Scott tightly gripped the steering wheel and thrust his head above the windshield. His short hair blew wildly until he plopped into the seat. "This is paradise, no doubt about it."

"The Redneck Riviera."

Scott laughed out loud. "Exactly, and I love it this way."

Jackie was making every attempt to keep Scott's spirits up. After listening to the tape recording of Sammy Bonello's last flight, Scott had been unusually quiet and reserved. Around nine o'clock, he had left the U.S. Grant and gone for a long walk alone. When he returned, it was as if nothing had happened.

His normal effervescent personality remained the same until they landed in Pensacola. Then the memories of Sammy and flight school came pouring out, causing Scott a few minutes of uneasiness.

"We have to come back here for a real vacation," Jackie said, basking in the warm sunshine.

"Count on it."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

"I won't forget." He put on his sunglasses. "We'll get a sweeping view of Escambia Bay from Scenic Highway. It'll only take a couple of minutes longer to get to the air station."

Jackie closed her eyes, allowing the sun to warm her eyelids. "You're the tour director."

They drove in silence until Scott turned south on Scenic Highway. He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Don't turn around."

"What's wrong?"

"I think we're being followed."

"What?" Jackie fought the instinct to look behind her. "There's a white car with two men in it about a quarter of a mile behind us. They're maintaining a constant position."

"Are you sure they're following us?"

"I'm pretty sure."

Scott glanced in the side mirror. "That car — I think it's a Mazda — was parked just outside the airport. The driver pulled in behind us."

"Maybe you're becoming paranoid?"

"Well, I'll tell you what — ninety-nine out of a hundred people wouldn't have taken the route I chose."

He increased his speed and headed south toward Summit Park and Mallory Heights. "They're still with us."

The Mazda quickly matched their pace.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"It may be a coincidence, but I don't think so."

"I agree."

"Why would someone be following us?"

He darted a look at her. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"Maybe they're the prize patrol."

Jackie let her gaze roam until the Mazda came into her periphery. "You're the sweepstakes winner and don't know it."

He glanced at her and then checked the mirror again. "Yeah, I think that's definitely the answer."

"What do they want with us?"

"I don't know, but I have a hunch we're about to find out."

After reaching Cordova Bluffs, Scott was forced to slow down for traffic on the two-lane highway. He checked the rearview mirror. The Mazda remained in formation.

He felt the first spike of pain in his chest. "We need to lose these guys and concentrate on finding Hamilton."

"I'm with you."

"Uh-oh," Scott said.

The white Mazda was rapidly closing on them.

"They're making their move."

"Great — why are you always driving when we get ourselves into one of these situations?"

"Just lucky, I guess." Scott unbuckled his seat belt. "You're the high-speed driving instructor — do your stuff."

He kept one hand on the steering wheel and crawled into the cramped backseat. "It's all yours."

"Get a grip," Jackie said. She quickly slid over the console and into the driver's seat. "This is going to be tricky with all this traffic."

Scott reached for his 9mm Sig Sauer P226. Carrying both FBI and CIA "smart-card" identification supplied to them by Hartwell Prost, Scott and Jackie could carry a weapon on board any domestic airliner.

Alternately glancing in the mirror and checking the road ahead, Jackie was becoming more concerned about being able to escape their pursuers. "We're getting pinned in by traffic in front of us."

"You have to do something."

"I'm doing the best I can."

"Okay, stay with it," Scott said, bracing his six-foot frame. He aimed his Sig Sauer and then lowered it. There were too many vehicles and too many innocent people in the line of fire. "Hang on — they're going to ram us!"

Jackie checked the rearview mirror. "They're crazy!"

With a high closure rate, the Mazda pulled out to the left, then sharply swerved into the left rear of the Mustang. With reckless abandon, the driver of the Mazda kept the throttle to the floor as Jackie mashed her accelerator to shoot out in front and correct the slide.

The kinetic energy generated from the desperate maneuver caused the Mustang to brush the rear bumper of a Nissan Sentra. The driver of the Nissan ran off the road and frantically locked her brakes, sliding sideways to a safe stop.

Recovering from the jarring impact, Scott fired three rounds at the Mazda's right front tire. Jackie braked hard and slammed the Mustang into the right side of the Mazda, forcing the car into oncoming traffic.

The passenger in the Mazda leaned out the window and fired a handgun as the driver swerved to the left to avoid a head-on collision with a Volvo station wagon.

Two rounds punctured the side of the Mustang near Jackie's left knee. Scott returned fire as the Mazda ran off the opposite side of the road and spun out of control, then almost sideswiped an Astro passenger van.

"Pull over," Scott shouted.

Jackie braked hard and swung to the right side of the road. "We need to stop these maniacs!" Scott said.

"They're headed straight at us!"

Jackie swung the driver's door open and started to get out. "Get in the car!" Scott said.

The Mazda was accelerating across the road toward them when Jackie dived into the front passenger seat.

Scott raised the Sig Sauer and held his fire until he saw an arm extend from the passenger's window.

"Okay, we'll play hardball," Scott said to himself. He methodically fired three rounds at the windshield and then ducked and waited for the impact. At fifty-five miles an hour and still gaining speed, the Mazda sideswiped the left side of the Mustang, tearing the open driver's door completely off its hinges.

In stunned silence, Jackie and Scott watched as the heavily damaged Mazda bounced off another car and raced out of sight near East Pensacola Heights. A few seconds later, the angry driver of the Nissan Sentra honked her horn and gave Scott and Jackie the middle-finger-salute as she drove past the Mustang.

"Welcome back to paradise," Scott deadpanned, following Jackie through the gaping hole where the driver's door had been.

"Are you still in one piece?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He headed for the crushed door. "Let's get this off the road before someone gets hurt."

"Look." Jackie pointed to a handgun lying in the road thirty yards in front of the Mustang.

They placed the driver's door in the backseat of the car and hurried toward the 9mm Beretta.

"Jackie, look at this," he said, pointing to the fresh splatters of blood on the road. "The shooter is going to need some medical attention."

"You nailed him." Jackie turned to get her satellite phone out of the car. "I'd better call nine-one-one and get this scene secured."

Both of them involuntarily had a flashback to the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. The image of the hijacked airliners plunging through the twin towers of the World Trade Center would never fade from memory.

"Ah, that won't be necessary." Scott walked to the edge of the highway to flag down an approaching patrol car from the Escambia County Sheriff's Office.

As the car slowed to a stop, Jackie turned to Scott. "What are we going to tell the friendly folks at Hertz?"

Scott shrugged. "We're sorry we broke your car, but we need another Mustang, preferably one with two doors and no bullet holes."

Jackie shook her head. "I can just picture the smiles on their faces."

"Oh, yeah."

Before the sheriff's deputy stepped out of her car, Scott turned to Jackie. "Did you get a look at the shooter?"

"No. I was — how should I say this? — a bit preoccupied at the time. How about you?"

"I got a good enough look to know he's Oriental."

After their statements were taken and the paperwork was completed at the sheriff's office, a deputy contacted the Hertz manager to inform him that the damage to the rented Mustang had been reported to the authorities. Jackie and Scott drove the battered Mustang back to the airport.

The Hertz manager, who observed the driver's door in the back-seat of the car, politely suggested that Jackie and Scott see a competitor for their transportation needs.

Thirty minutes later, they were again on their way to the Pensacola Naval Air Station. However, this time they were in a shiny new Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible from Alamo.

The damaged Mazda, which had been stolen from long-term parking at the Pensacola Regional Airport, was found abandoned near McGuire's Irish Pub and Brewery on East Gregory Street.

Inside the car, detectives found a state-of-the-art walkie-talkie with blood on it and on the seat. A trail of blood splatters ended about nine feet from the Mazda, leading police to believe the men had an accomplice in a getaway car.

Checks of area hospitals and health-care centers were negative for gunshot wounds. The Beretta was registered to a Chicago Laundromat owner who had reported the weapon missing seventeen months before it had been dropped on Scenic Highway.

Scott completed his call to Prost and placed the phone down as he neared the entrance to the interstate. "Hartwell was as shocked as we were. He doesn't have any idea why anyone would bushwhack us in Pensacola — in broad daylight, no less."

"Well, someone was desperate enough to attack us on a busy highway."

Scott accelerated as he smoothly entered traffic. "The question is why were we attacked, and who the hell are they?"

"Maybe it's something about your personal life, like the stuffyou haven't told me about."

Scott grinned. "Is it what we know about the downed Hornet, the mysterious bogey?"

"I don't know, but I want some answers from the Pentagon. Someone, somewhere, knows why we were attacked."

Scott shifted lanes. "Hartwell is going to see SecDef this evening and he'll get back to us as soon as he can."

Concerned about their attackers returning, Jackie took a quick look behind them. "Who do you think they were — any ideas?"

"I don't have a clue, but I think we're in the middle of something that's more than a bureaucratic cover-up by the guys at the Puzzle Palace."

"And?"

"The navy, more likely the Pentagon, is afraid of something. I can just feel it when these kinds of things happen."

"That makes sense, but the last time I checked, the navy and the Pentagon weren't into assassinating people."

"True, as far as we know," Scott said. "Which means we're missing a major piece of the hypothesis."

"Stellar observation, Sherlock."

Scott exited the freeway at Garden Street. "The Pentagon may be trying to sanitize something they can't explain, but the goons who customized our Mustang are clearly not affiliated with the Pentagon."

"I'd say that's a safe bet."

"After our chat with Lieutenant Hamilton, we need to regroup and take a look at this from all sides."

"You're right," she said. "I think we need to tap into the resources that Hartwell can provide — like getting the straight story from the Pentagon."

"I'll second that."

"Like you mentioned, we're not seeing the big picture."

"Obviously not," he said. "We didn't anticipate being run off the road and having our car riddled by bullets."

"How did they know we would be here?" Jackie paused a moment and thought about the strange happenings in the last couple of days. "Where's the common thread between us and the jokers who tried to run us down?"

"My best guess would be Cliff Earlywine."

There was a moment of silence.

"You're probably right," she said. "Someone is watching him and watching us. Someone who has a vested interest in not having this incident revealed."

"I'd like to add one minor correction," Scott said with a pronounced emphasis. "They may be watching him, but they're trying to kill us."

"You make a good point."

"Actually, I'd bet our boys know you and I solve difficult problems for the U.S. government."

"They're efficient, no doubt about it," she said. "They had us pegged in record time — right on top of us."

"Like I said earlier, they were waiting for us at the airport."

"We have to assume that Earlywine doesn't know he's being tailed."

"We didn't know either," Scott said with an embarrassed look. "And we're supposed to be trained observers."

"Emotionally, our guard was down."

"A major mistake," he admitted.

After checking at the bachelor officers' quarters, Scott and Jackie located Lt. Merrick Hamilton at the almost vacant officers' club bar. Hamilton had a pleasant smile, high cheekbones, and piercing hazel eyes. Dark haired and trim, Ham looked like a typical young fighter pilot, except for one obvious difference: Merrick Hamilton was female.

Sitting at the bar in a stylish dress, the Texas-bred Hamilton was quietly conversing with a male officer in uniform. She glanced at Jackie and Scott as they approached, then turned a wary eye toward them.

"Lieutenant Hamilton?" Scott asked.

"Yes."

"I apologize for interrupting you. My name is Scott Dalton, and this is my colleague, Jackie Sullivan."

Hamilton eyed them suspiciously. "How did you know my name?"

"A friend gave it to us."

"What do you want, Mr. Dalton?"

He gave her a friendly smile. "If you could spare a few minutes to visit with us, we'd sure appreciate it."

"Are you selling something?"

"No, absolutely not," he said with a quiet chuckle. "Please allow us a couple of minutes to explain. It's very important."

When Hamilton hesitated, Jackie smoothly intervened. "Scott and Sammy were friends — they went through flight school together."

Hamilton's eyes reflected her pain. She studied Scott for a moment and then softened her stance. "You're a navy pilot?"

"Both of us are pilots," he said. "We're civilians now, but I flew Harriers in the Marines. Jackie was an air force pilot — F-16s — and she learned to fly helicopters as a civilian."

Merrick nodded in open respect and turned to her companion. "Bob, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Sure, take your time."

"So, what do you do now, Mr. Dalton?" Merrick asked, walking away from the lifeless bar.

"We're FBI," Scott said in a monotone as he and Jackie flashed their personal identification. "But we aren't here in an official capacity."

Hamilton grew cautious again. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. Why are you here?"

Scott turned his head away a moment, and then looked Merrick in the eye. "Sammy was my best friend during advanced flight training. Since his accident things have transpired that have been, let's say, intriguing and suspicious. I promised his widow that we would look into it for her."

Merrick took a deep breath and then let it out. "I'm not sure I should be talking with you. I'm not at liberty to say anything about Sammy or the accident — that has been made very clear to me."

Scott nodded. "As I said, we're not here as part of an official investigation team. Anything you discuss with us stays with us. Your name won't be revealed, I give you my word."

Hamilton glanced at Jackie.

"You can trust him."

"Besides," Scott continued, "it may be helpful for you to know what has happened since the accident."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's take a ride and we'll explain."

Once they were in the car and leaving the parking lot, Hamilton unexpectedly opened up. "I feel like I'm being watched — I can't prove it, but I sense it."

"By the navy?" Scott asked.

"I don't know, but I was read the riot act before I left the carrier."

"The riot act?" Jackie asked.

"Yes. I'm not supposed to discuss the accident with anyone. Not even with my immediate family. The admiral made it very clear." Scott glanced at her. "Lieutenant Hamilton, I can assure you—"

"Please call me Merrick."

"Merrick, regardless of what develops, we'll keep your name out of it. I just want to know firsthand what happened."

Jackie turned to her. "Just take your time and tell us what happened that night. Everything you can remember."

Hamilton unfolded the story up to the point of arriving back on the carrier. "When we went to the ready room, it was almost vacant. Our skipper, who was alone, looked very grim. In fact, I'd never seen him look like that — completely down and wouldn't make eye contact."

"What did he say?" Scott asked.

"He asked us if we were okay or something to that effect. He talked to Lou and me for a couple of minutes, then said CAG and the admiral wanted to talk with us."

"That's always good for the blood pressure," Jackie said.

"Lou and I were still in shock when the admiral, CAG, and the skipper of the ship entered the ready room. They asked how we were feeling, then got down to business."

"Down to business?" Scott asked.

"Yes. They were pleasant, but the admiral made it crystal clear that we were not to discuss the accident with anyone, including each other. It came out as an order without the admiral actually having to say it was an order."

"One of those 'Do you understand?' kind of orders," Jackie suggested.

"Exactly."

Scott drove past the National Museum of Naval Aviation. "I'm interested in knowing why the admiral acted the way he did."

"At first I thought it was an overreaction. Many people who have encounters with 'strange things' are labeled crackpots. It can ruin careers, as I'm sure you know."

"A bubble off center," Scott said.

"That's all it takes. In retrospect, I still don't know what precipitated the events that happened next."

"What happened next?" Jackie asked.

"After Lou and I saw the flight surgeon, we had some medicinal brandy and went to our staterooms. About ten minutes later, our squadron skipper called us back to the ready room. That's when Lou and I found out we were being transferred, immediately, to separate commands. No explanation, no questions allowed. Pack your trash and keep your mouth shut."

She leaned back in the seat. "That's all I know. I'm waiting for orders to become a flight instructor at VT-6. Any chance of becoming the first female Blue Angel pilot has gone straight down the toilet."

Scott and Jackie remained quiet, sensing the anxiety and animosity Merrick was experiencing.

"What do you think it was, the object you chased?" Jackie asked.

"I honestly don't know what to think. It happened so quickly — it's like a horrible, chilling nightmare that haunts me day and night. Whatever it was, I can assure you there weren't any humans in it."

"How do you know?" Jackie asked.

"They'd be dead from the G-forces."

Without exchanging a word, Scott and Jackie contemplated what Hamilton had revealed. He politely changed the subject. "Merrick, you mentioned being watched — feeling that someone was tailing you."

"Yes. From the day I arrived here, I've had this, call it intuition, that someone was watching me. Sometimes close by, sometimes at a distance. I keep trying to shake it, but I can't."

Scott turned toward the officers' club. "After our experience today, you may be right."

Caution flashed in Hamilton's eyes.

"Let me explain how Jackie and I got involved in this and what happened to us this afternoon."

Scott related the story, including the evidence Cliff Earlywine had gathered on board the carrier. He explained how they had met Earlywine and what had happened after they left the Pensacola airport.

When Scott was finished, Merrick sat in silence for a moment. "Now I'm really confused. What's going on?"

"We're not sure ourselves," Jackie admitted.

Merrick's normally unshakable demeanor began to crack. "Is my life in jeopardy — is that what you're trying to tell me?"

There was a pause before Scott answered. "Merrick, we don't know any more than you do. We came down here to listen to your version of what happened the night of the accident, and that's all. We had no idea we would be ambushed, and we don't want you to be caught off guard."

Merrick remained silent, void of any expression.

Jackie turned to her. "My advice would be to take some leave and don't tell anyone where you're going, not even the navy."

"I'll have to give them an address and phone contact, but I could be camping in the wilds of Alaska."

Jackie handed Merrick a slip of paper with a telephone number written on it. "That's my satellite phone number. If you want to contact us, we'll keep you informed about our investigation."

"Yes, I do want to stay in touch with you. I have about three weeks on the books and I could use some time off. I'm almost certain I can leave in the morning — hopefully."

"Good," Jackie said.

"I'll let you know where I can be reached."

"Please do," Scott said, approaching the club. "Stay alert and stay with friends until you go on leave. If you notice anything strange, call security."

"I will, and thanks."