Dancing with the Dragon

Chapter 6

With her yellow voile dress blowing softly in the warm Louisiana breeze, Adriana Douville leaned against the ivy-covered balcony railing of her magnificent antebellum home. The pale moonlight accentuated her aqua-blue eyes and creamy smooth complexion. A native of Oxford, Mississippi, Mrs. Douville didn't look like a newly minted grandmother. Trim and soft spoken, she looked like the quintessential southern belle and cheerleader she had been at Ole Miss.

Mrs. Douville took in a deep breath of the humid night air and let her shoulders relax, then gazed down at the lighted fountain and gaily decorated courtyard. Their festive anniversary celebration had been a rollicking success, and she was glad that the last of the dinner guests had finally left.

She sipped her cordial and admired the lush green liriope that bordered brightly colored petunias' and magenta impatiens planted around the old-fashioned gas streetlamps. Beyond the towering, moss-draped oak trees and the ivory magnolias, a classic garden gazebo added the final touch to the vintage courtyard of their distinctive New Orleans residence.

Her quietude was interrupted when her husband, Dr. Lavon Douville, a preeminent theoretical physicist, ascended the softly lighted spiral staircase and transferred his fresh mint julep to his left hand. Tall and chunky, he was the son of a New Orleans cop who had drunk himself to death after his wife ran away with another man. Raised by his fundamentalist grandmother, Douville had been a brilliant student who won a full scholarship to the Georgia Institute of Technology and subsequently received his doctorate at MIT.

"Happy anniversary, Addy," Douville said. He leaned against the wall and raised his glass.

"And happy retirement to you." She extended her manicured hand in a toast. "The party was a huge success, especially the musicians."

"I'm glad you enjoyed them."

"They were so pleasant and professional, not like those ragtag hooligans we had last year."

"Now, Addy, I've apologized for that." Douville downed half his drink. "These fellows are some of the best in New Orleans, the very best you can find in this part of the country."

"They were certainly an improvement." Adriana looked at the small boat floating in the large, round fountain. The candle inside the cabin cruiser had finally gone out. "I can't wait to start decorating our yacht."

"You'll get your chance." Douville swirled the ice in his glass and tossed back the last of his mint julep. "We have to find a permanent captain too."

"What about a cook?"

"Whatever you want, dear. This is going to be our magic carpet. We aren't going to spare any expense."

Mrs. Douville never questioned her husband's financial affairs, but his unexpected retirement and the new motor yacht were certainly puzzling to her. Steeped in southern culture, Mrs. Douville was a traditional wife and mother. Money was none of her concern. Men made the money and women raised the children and, with the help of maids, butlers, nannies, and gardeners, maintained their homes.

"Are you sure our new boat can make it to the Bahamas?"

" Boat? It's a seagoing yacht. We can go anywhere — as long as they have water."

"You know I trust you."

"After thirty-one years of marriage, I certainly hope so."

"It's just that so much has happened so quickly, so many changes we have to make in our lives."

"You'll get used to them." A chorus of katydids serenaded them from the far corner of the yard. "I'm going to fix another drink."

"Here, I'll get it. I'm going to freshen mine too."

"Thanks," Douville said, then looked at the moon. "We're going to see the world and watch beautiful sunsets. We'll do anything we want to do." His last few words were slurred.

She kept her thoughts to herself. For the past eight months, her husband had been drinking heavily during his infrequent trips home. Lost in her thoughts, she walked downstairs to the kitchen.

Dr. Douville shoved himself upright and unsteadily approached the balcony railing. He stopped and placed his hands on it, breathed in the night air, and then turned around and leaned against the railing. There was a sudden snap, followed by a desperate gasp. Dr. Douville plunged backward into the fountain, striking his head on the brick border. A huge wave of water sank the toy boat.

With his head cradled in Adriana's lap, Lavon Douville died four minutes before the ambulance arrived.

Jackie glanced at the groundskeepers as Scott drove up the private avenue leading to Hartwell Prost's sprawling European-style residence. Canopied by stately trees, the approach to the mansion was immaculately manicured. Serenely situated on thirty-seven acres of beautiful hunt country outside Baltimore, the prestigious home featured six fireplaces, a guest lodge, caretakers' cottages, swimming pool, tennis court, and a putting green. In addition, the estate included two stables and landscaped grounds extending to a wide footbridge that spanned a stream leading to a large pond.

"This is incredible," Jackie said. "Truly incredible by anyone's standard — like a movie location."

"I had the same reaction the first time I came out here."

"It reminds me of the gardens of Versailles."

"That it does, especially the flair of Italian Renaissance blended into the theme of Versailles."

He slowed his rare Ferrari 275 GTB Spider to a stop at the center of the huge circular driveway and then checked his watch.

"One minute to three," he said, noticing a white car parked on the far side of the driveway. The driver, a young navy seaman in dress whites, was contentedly reading a magazine.

"It looks like we have company," Scott said, opening his door. "SecDef?"

"I doubt it." Scott climbed out of the handsomely restored car and carefully shut the door. "He'd be in his limo."

One of the oversized doors opened before they reached the top of the steps. They were greeted by a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Dalton."

"Hello, Zachary."

"And this must be Miss Sullivan," the butler said.

"Yes." She smiled.

"Welcome. Mr. Prost will be with you in a moment." He motioned down the hallway and escorted them to a spacious library. "Please make yourselves comfortable."

"Thank you," Scott said.

"You're quite welcome." Zachary quietly closed the door.

They were about to take a seat when Hartwell Prost entered the room through a different door and removed his cap. A young navy lieutenant wearing dress whites followed Prost into the darkly paneled library.

Introductions were made and Hartwell asked everyone to be seated around a large polished conference table. Prost explained to the lieutenant that Scott and Jackie were former military aviators who now handled special investigations for the government.

"Lieutenant Justice was the wingman of the pilot who was lost in the Strait of Taiwan. He was kind enough to fly from the carrier to Tokyo, then catch a commercial flight in order to give the president and SecDef a firsthand account of the event."

Surprised, Scott and Jackie glanced at each other. In his gentlemanly way, Prost was attempting to make the young lieutenant feel at ease. Pilots don't normally report directly to the White House after witnessing an unusual incident.

Hartwell looked at the lieutenant. "Todd, why don't you tell us exactly what happened that night."

Visibly nervous, Justice recounted the entire incident. It was a mirror image of Merrick Hamilton's experience.

"Lieutenant, what do you really think you saw?" Scott asked. "I'm not sure, sir."

"Was there any similarity to other objects you've seen at other times?"

Justice glanced at Prost.

"It's okay, son. You're free to speak your mind."

The lieutenant remained silent for a moment and then looked directly at Dalton. "Sir, what we saw was not like anything I've ever encountered. I would be speculating if I attempted to answer your question."

"I understand. What do you think caused your flight leader's plane to explode — any idea?"

"I've thought about it over and over." He paused, physically and mentally tired. "I have a master's degree in aeronautical engineering, and the only thing that comes to mind is a laser, a very powerful deuterium fluoride laser with pinpoint accuracy."

Justice stopped for a second. "But that still doesn't explain the circle of lights and the abrupt, high-G maneuvers."

"You mentioned a bright flash."

"Yes, sir."

"Deuterium fluoride lasers are invisible to the naked eye."

"I'm aware of that, sir, but there was a bright flash."

"You're sure?"

"I'm absolutely positive. I just don't know where it came from — the surface or the sky."

"Why do you believe it was a laser?" Jackie asked.

"I don't know of anything else that could blow an airplane out of the sky — destroy it completely — other than a missile."

"Did you have any kind of warning?" Scott asked. "A missile lock, or anything suspicious prior to the encounter?"

"No, not a thing."

"And nothing on radar?"

"Not on mine, and as far as I know, no one else was tracking the bogey, whatever it was."

Prost rose from his chair. "Todd, why don't you get some rest and visit with your family and friends. I've arranged ten days of basket leave for you, so relax and enjoy yourself."

"Thank you, sir." He energetically shook Prost's hand and then politely excused himself. Zachary had the front door open before Lieutenant Justice cleared the library.

Hartwell motioned for Jackie and Scott to sit down. "Well, the two of you made a wise decision in Pensacola. One that undoubtedly saved your lives."

"Beg pardon, sir?" Scott said.

"Your rental car, the Mitsubishi convertible, had an explosive charge attached to the underside of the frame. It was fused to detonate when the drive shaft rotated."

Wide eyed, Jackie and Scott glanced at each other.

"The bomb disposal people said it would've blown the car into the Gulf of Mexico — they called it a Wile E. Coyote bomb."

Scott and Jackie remained quiet, contemplating their fortuitous escape from almost certain death.

Hartwell reached for his pipe. "There's a definite correlation between your awareness of these crashes and the attempts on your lives. The driving force behind these attacks knows that the incidents are being officially denied for the time being, but they also know the two of you are conducting an unofficial investigation."

Scott had a question. "Are these events the result of some black program gone askew, some kind of skunk works project so supersecret that an investigation invites murder?"

"I honestly don't have any idea. I had a long session with SecDef and he's as befuddled as everyone else."

"Befuddled?" Jackie asked.

"Yes. The White House, the Pentagon, the FBI, the CIA, the National Reconnaissance Office, the National Security Agency, our entire intelligence community, and the spooks who head the black programs that operate outside the checks and balances of oversight had a coming to Jesus."

Hartwell lit his pipe. "The president thinks we could soon be facing a fire storm of antigovernment paranoia. He pulled no punches during the meeting. He praised everyone for their hard work and achievements, then told everyone to come clean or face possible criminal charges and dismissal."

Prost reached into his shirt pocket to retrieve his notes. "There weren't any surprises, so the spooks quietly went back to their bunkers and secret hangars while the Pentagon — actually, the navy — temporarily went into a state of paralysis."

"Paralysis?" Scott asked.

"For the time being, the navy is going to stand down from night flying operations from their carriers, with one exception. The Hawkeyes will continue to cover the battle groups, while manned and armed fighters will be standing by on the catapults."

Scott slowly shook his head. That's a mistake.

"Secretary Adair is deeply concerned about the strange objects. He doesn't want to take any chances until we know what we're dealing with, unless, of course, we're forced to conduct actual combat operations."

Jackie frowned. "Sir, it won't take long for those who oppose the U.S. to realize that our carrier planes are grounded at night."

"I know. The president wants to keep this, ah, situation as quiet as possible for as long as we can. In order to solve this mystery, we're going to use every resource we have, including your assistance."

"How about launching some satellites with teeth?" Scott suggested. "We need an overview of the carrier battle groups and reconnaissance aircraft like Cobra Ball."

"The president and the National Reconnaissance Office happen to agree with your way of thinking. The air force is going to launch two Orion SIGINT spacecraft into geosynchronous orbit — one over the Eastern Pacific and one over the Western Pacific."

Hartwell looked at his briefing notes. "After the satellites are safely parked, they will monitor communications from the Sea of Okhotsk, Japan, North Korea, China, Indonesia, the west coast of Canada, the U.S., Mexico, and the western fringes of Central America. They will operate in harmony with our other spacecraft to provide continuous eavesdropping over most of the Pacific Ocean."

Hartwell folded his notes. "Scott, I've arranged for you and Jackie to have access to the FBI, CIA, NRO, and NSA. If there is anything you need, including military assets, they will be at your disposal."

Prost handed each of them a piece of paper. "These are the names and private telephone numbers of the contacts at the various agencies."

Scott and Jackie immediately recognized the names of the directors of each of the government bureaus listed.

"If you have any problems, don't hesitate to contact me. The president wants answers, and as usual, he wants them yesterday. Whatever it takes, find out what we're up against."

"Yes, sir," Scott said.

Zachary tapped on the door and hurried into the library. The perpetual smile was missing.

"Mr. Prost, Secretary Adair is on your secure line."

"Thank you."

Hartwell rose and walked to the desk phone as Zachary left the room and closed the door. Jackie and Scott sat quietly while Prost took the call. He mostly listened, then swore softly as he placed the receiver down and turned to his visitors.

"The air force lost a B-2 near Guam. According to the crew of a KC-10 tanker, the bomber was maneuvering into position to refuel when a bright, bluish-white object flashed into view and circled the planes. According to the boom operator, fifteen to twenty seconds later he saw a bright flash and the Spirit of Mississippi blew up, completely disintegrated in a huge fireball. The tanker pilots said the object streaked out of sight in a matter of seconds."

"Does the press know about this?" Jackie asked with some alarm.

"Not yet, as far as we can tell, but they'll know very shortly. It's hard to hide the loss of a two-and-a-half-billion-dollar stealth bomber, especially when foreign intelligence teams keep track of the whereabouts of each one of our B-2s. Later this evening, the Air Combat Command at Langley is going to confirm that a B-2 was lost during a show-of-force training mission to Guam."

Prost cast his gaze at the floor. "According to SecDef, why it went down is going to be left to official investigators. The tanker crew, which has been confined to their quarters at Andersen, has been ordered not to say anything about the crash to anyone."

Hartwell's voice was barely audible. "We have to resolve this crisis before we have a worldwide panic envelop us."

Scott remembered Cliff Earlywine's tape and reached into his jacket pocket. "Sir, sorry to interrupt, but this is the tape I was telling you about."

"Yes," Hartwell said as he eagerly reached for the miniature tape. "Yes, indeed."

"Sir, I'd appreciate it if we could keep Mr. Earlywine, the reporter who made the tape, out of the loop for his sake."

"As far as anyone is concerned, I received it in the mail — anonymously."

"Thank you, sir."

Hartwell rose from his chair.

Jackie and Scott followed his lead.

"We'll be in touch soon," Scott said.

He and Jackie shook hands with Prost and walked toward the door.

"Be careful."

"Yes, sir," Scott said. He reached for the door handle and then hesitated. "By the way, sir, I do have one special request."