Strike Eagle

Chapter 12

“Mr. Vice President … Mr. Adleman.” A hand shook his shoulder.

Adleman rolled onto his side. Light streaming from the hallway shone in his eyes. He blinked; Lieutenant Colonel Merke stood patiently by the bed. An apparition — a beautiful, sultry woman just dying to climb into bed with him … and then he remembered where he was. “I’m awake.”

Merke pursed her lips. “Sorry, Mr. Vice President. You didn’t answer the phone.”

Adleman dismissed the action with a wave. “What’s going on?”

“A call from the Security Council, sir.”

Adleman pushed up. “Bring in a line.”

“They want an encrypted link, sir.”

“The STE should handle it.”

Merke shook her head. “They insist on double encryption, Mr. Adleman, an SCI call. We’ll have to get back to Air Force Two.”

Adleman’s eyes widened; he was really awake now. The fact that the Security Council wanted to bypass the normally secure STE collateral classified phones and discuss Special Compartmented Information smacked of something big.

Adleman swung out of bed, ignoring Lieutenant Colonel Merke’s presence. She was a big girl and could avert her eyes if she wanted. He pulled on his shorts and glanced at the clock: two forty-five. The thirteen-hour time difference put Washington at three forty-five the previous afternoon.

“Any indication what’s up?”

“No, sir. Secretary Acht said it was urgent and insisted that he speak with you.” She nodded with her head to the briefcase she carried. “I have an updated situation briefing you could read on the way to Yokota.”

“Thanks.” Adleman took the hint to hurry. After pulling on his shoes he grabbed a shirt and headed out the door, fully intending to finish dressing in the car.

Adleman looked out the window from the backseat. Although no police cars accompanied them, unmarked and heavily armed Secret Service cars led and followed his limo. At the early hour the streets were nearly empty. Even though the city was settled in for the night, flashing billboards covering the tall buildings still lit up the night sky; advertisements for soft drinks, cameras, stereos, and fast food predominated. It could have been New York, had it not been for the Japanese characters adorning the billboards.

Adleman turned his attention to the situation briefing that Merke had handed him. The title page was a red-bordered sheet with top secret stamped across the top and bottom. He flipped through the pages: a CIA assessment of the Middle East led the briefing; a Russian air show in Dayton, Ohio, followed; all the intelligence traffic looked routine — nothing “hot” to be found.

It made Adleman feel uneasy. He settled back and flipped the briefing material shut. Lights whizzed by as they approached Yokota Air Force Base. The military driver, a young, slim black airman, kept his eyes on the road and didn’t attempt to engage the vice president in conversation. He’s probably scared half to death, thought Adleman. Either that, or he’s had his butt chewed one too many times by some general.

Adleman remembered the touch of paranoia he’d always felt when in the presence of ranking officers he had served with when he was in the military. After ROTC and law school at Brown, his stint as an Army lawyer had filled the square for military service, even if he didn’t go to the Gulf. It was an unstated requirement now for political office — no one was going to be caught dead without serving some real time, not after the Hagel brouhaha.

The limo slowed and pulled up to the gate of Yokota AFB. The guard inspected the driver’s credentials, then snapped to attention and threw a salute when she realized that Adleman was in the car. It took another ten minutes to reach Air Force Two.

Someone shone a flashlight into Adleman’s face for the first time as he approached the 747. The light quickly disappeared.

“Sorry, Mr. Vice President. I had to make sure it was you.”

“S’all right.” Adleman blinked back the blue-and-orange afterimage of the light as he entered the jumbo jet.

“This way, sir.” Merke steered him to the back, toward the Presidential chambers.

Merke shut the door as she left. The room was quiet, except for the faint pulsing of the plane’s electrical systems as air pumped throughout the craft. The chamber was insulated against sound and electromagnetic emissions. Rich, deep-blue carpeting with the presidential seal embossed in the center of the room contrasted with the blue-and-white patterns on the walls. Two phones sat on the desk before him — one white, the other red. The red phone had no buttons.

Adleman moved around the desk and made himself comfortable before picking up the red phone. “Adleman.”

“Bob?”

The voice sounded tinny. “Yes?”

“Francis here.” Even through the digitally reconstructed double scrambling, the Secretary of State’s voice sounded tired. “We’ve got a little problem.”

Adleman tightened his stomach. “Okay. How do I play in this?”

“The President is being taken to Bethesda. His situation has … deteriorated. It doesn’t look good. We wanted to alert you before the press got wind of it, keep it under wraps for another forty-eight hours until you’re in the Philippines.”

“Two days?! Can you keep the press off it that long?”

Acht tightened his voice. “The press is well aware of his condition. He sometimes doesn’t make a public showing for days on end.”

“But why keep it from the press? I knew all along it might come down to this. It doesn’t seem necessary to pull me out of bed for a double-encrypted call—”

“The other reason, Mr. Vice President,” interrupted Acht, with an edge to his voice, “for this double-encrypted call is that intelligence has spotted a terrorist who has surfaced for the first time in two years. This man is extremely dangerous. Yan Kawnlo was behind the attempted Thai assassination two years ago, and has acted as a consultant to terrorist groups throughout the world, from Syria to North Korea.”

Adleman leaned forward in his chair. “How does that affect me?”

“Kawnlo has a reputation for taking promising young terrorists under his wing, turning them into protégés, reminiscent of how bin Landen operated. CIA hasn’t gotten a name yet, but they have verified that a student of Kawnlo is operating out of Manila. The high-profile publicity of your upcoming visit there makes you a perfect target.”

“Are you advising me to stay out of the Philippines? I can’t let a terrorist dictate terms to the United States.”

Acht came back instantly. “No sir. I am not advocating canceling your trip,” he said, emphatically. “It is my opinion, as well as that of the intelligence community, that it would be a mistake to fly into Manila.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Fly into Clark. You’ll have some of the best defenses available in the world. No one will be able to get within miles of Air Force Two when it lands. And from there it’s a simple helicopter ride to the treaty negotiations in Manila. It’s much, much easier to defend against a helicopter than a jumbo jet, Mr. Vice President. We can always change the meeting place at the last moment and have the helicopter take you there, but we can’t change the location of Manila International Airport.”

Adleman pondered the news. Longmire is actually dying, he thought. It was something he had known all along — but until now, he had not felt the weight of this responsibility.

Now every decision he made could become a major policy, every statement, every offhand comment would be dissected and analyzed by an academician trying to glean a shred of meaning.

Would flying into Clark actually work against the U.S.? Would that be interpreted as an American lack of trust in the Philippine government — give the impression that the vice president was not willing to become another Benigno Aquino, landing at Manila only to be slaughtered?

Or would his flying into Manila be viewed as the act of a rash, macho new President, one who probably ignored the advice of his closest associates?

Adleman finally spoke. But when he did, his voice sounded stronger than it had just minutes before. “We’ll go into Clark. But don’t publicly announce the change until my flight is in the air. It’s been years since a vice president has visited the base, so I’ll use that as my ‘last-minute’ excuse for changing plans.”

Secretary of State Acht sounded relieved. “Very well, Mr. Vice President. We’ll keep you updated on the President’s condition.”

“Fine. And please, unless there’s any intelligence data that goes along with the call, I’d prefer an STE.”

“Howdy, Son.”

Bruce Steele glanced up, ready to growl at the person who had dared interrupt as he was getting ready for The Flight. His eyes widened as he caught the gleam of two silver stars shining off the shoulders of the man standing next to him.

“Good … good morning, sir.” Bruce drew himself up. Oh, crap, crap, crap!

General Simone stuck out a hand. “Peter Simone.”

“First Lieutenant Bruce Steele, sir.” Bruce shook the general’s hand. A ream of flight maps covered the table where Bruce stood. The squadron briefing room was empty except for the two of them. A can of Pepsi and a candy bar sat next to the maps.

“Glad to meet you, Bruce.”

“Thanks, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Simone cocked an eye at the young lieutenant. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Let’s see — you had already graduated from the Zoo when I was Commandant, hadn’t you?”

“That’s right, General. You arrived there the year I left.”

“Have you ever flown a general officer before, Bruce?”

Bruce hesitated. He had heard stories about Simone after he had left the Academy and gone to pilot training. “Blackman Simone” had not been the typical commandant, but rather had gotten rowdy with the cadets and thumbed his nose at red tape, paperwork, and bureaucrats. The story was that he was more concerned about his people than his own career. But that still didn’t guarantee Simone was someone to get chummy with. Bruce decided to treat him as he would anyone else. “No, sir. My instructor pilot at Holloman was a major. That’s as high as I’ve gone.”

“Good — no preconceived notions then.” Simone leaned against the preflight table. He looked more like the fatherly Chuck Yeager, “aw shucks” type than Commander of the entire Thirteenth Air Force. “Just remember when we’re up there, you’re the aircraft commander. I was flying fighters before you were born, so don’t feel like you have to hold back because of me. The day I start puking or feeling that I can’t handle a maneuver, I’ll know it’s time to leave the cockpit and do something really useful — like running the commissary service.”

Bruce grinned. He was going to like this guy.

Major Dubois signed the aircraft over to Bruce without blinking. A book sat in the middle of the desk. From the lurid cover, Bruce deduced that he had changed paperbacks, which confirmed that the man could read. Or that he liked to look at covers.

Bruce kept up conversation with the general on the way out to the aircraft. Once they’d reached the flight line, Bruce headed for the backseat of his F-15, while Simone threw his gear in the front.

Mooselips, Bruce’s crew chief, stepped up and accompanied the two.

“Glad you made it back from the jungle, sir.”

“You’re not half as glad as me.”

Bruce flipped through the maintenance log; nothing serious had occurred to the plane over the past two weeks while he’d been gone — with the exception of an upgrade to the avionics. They were all “fly-by-wire,” electrical in nature, so it didn’t concern him much. As long as it worked. He looked up and flipped the log to Mooselips. General Simone patted the airframe and walked around to the back.

Bruce lowered his voice. “Anything I should watch out for?”

Mooselips grinned. “Don’t forget to bring your barf bag. From what I’ve heard the general likes to run his pilots through the wringer.”

“Thanks.” Bruce turned to follow Simone as he walked around the fighter.

Bruce approached Simone with a wry grin on his face. This could turn out to be fun. He pulled out a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth.

“How’s it look, General?”

“Great. This is great.” He drew in a deep breath. “Even the JP-4 smells good, brings back memories.” He slapped the fuselage. “I’d give my left nut to be back in a wing, a line pilot again. Enjoy this while you can, son. These days are going to pass you up and you’ll never get back to them.”

“Sounds like you’re forgetting the bad times, sir. There’s a lot of rinky-dink stuff we put up with down in the trenches.”

“I tell ya, it only gets worse the higher up you get. You’d think commanding an Air Force would give me a chance to change some of that Mickey Mouse bullshit, but I’ve got my hands tied. Sometimes it feels like being in the middle of a tree full of monkeys: When you look down you see the line pilots, grinning up at you; and looking up, it’s the assholes in Washington, crapping all over you.”

They ducked under the twin tailpipes. The roar of a C-5B landing on the adjacent runway rolled over them, drowning out their conversation. The giant transport seemed to barely move; black smoke shot up from its tires as they touched the ground.

Bruce climbed in the instructor pilot position, behind and slightly above the general, where Charlie would normally sit. Tower treated them as just like any other flight, replying to their transmissions with curt answers. But Bruce bet that the “Blackman 1” call sign sure gained some attention.

General Simone and Bruce waited at the end of the runway. Radio calls mixed in with Simone’s chatter. Bruce tried to pay polite attention to the general’s patter, but he also tried to keep alert to everything happening around him. A loud whistling overhead caught his attention — a pair of F-22’s landed, one after the other.

The radio cackled. “Blackman 1, you are cleared for takeoff.”

Simone answered immediately. “Tower, Blackman. Request clearance to twenty thousand.”

“Affirmative, Blackman. There is no traffic to twenty thousand.”

“Thank you, sir.” Bruce heard the click of Simone’s mike, switching to intercom. “IP?”

“Ready, General,” answered Bruce.

It felt like Bruce had been kicked in the butt.

Simone must have jammed the throttles to full afterburners. The fighter leaped forward, continuously accelerating as it rolled down the runway. Bruce kept his eye on the airspeed indicator. In no time they were passing a hundred knots.…As their velocity increased Bruce waited for Simone to announce “rotate,” but nothing came over the intercom. They passed the rotate mark — Simone must be forcing the craft to the ground.

Bruce started to say something, but just as he opened his mouth Simone pulled back on the stick.

Once airborne, the fighter’s attitude kept going up.

“Oh, crap,” muttered Bruce. The fighter continued to accelerate, and soon they were pointed straight up — the F-15 was still accelerating, moving completely vertical. Now Bruce realized why the general had requested clearance to twenty thousand feet. At this rate, they’d be there in seconds.

“Still there, Bruce?”

“Rog, sir.” Bruce gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to say anything until Simone was about to kill them.

Cervante surveyed the site. The one road to the clearing was well guarded, and from all indications it had not had much use. He hopped down from the truck and went around to the back of the vehicle. Seconds later Pompano followed him, walking slowly.

Cervante lifted the tarp covering the rear of the truck. Inside, a potpourri of boxes, cables, and equipment was stuffed into every corner, like a rat’s nest of high-tech gear.

Pompano limped up. Cervante threw him a look.

“What is the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”

“Getting old. These dirt roads are starting to get the best of me.”

“You have been traveling on dirt roads all your life, old man.”

“Not in a heavy truck, loaded down and hitting every bump.”

Cervante pulled the trap from the truck. A crowd of Huks congregated where the road opened up to the clearing. Cervante shouted to them. “Barguyo, run down to the start of the road and help stand guard. The rest of you, set up this equipment.”

Pompano moved around the clearing, poking his nose into where the jungle started, overturning old cans and bottles that were strewn over the area. He called to Cervante. “This place is used by kids — probably to come drink, or use drugs.”

“Americans,” confirmed Cervante. He wiped his hands and joined the older man. “This is the best location I could find this close to the runway. We should not have any problem with children — keeping a guard back down the road will deter anyone from coming here. They do not want any attention brought to them for their drugs … or sex.”

Pompano appeared to chew on his lip, then asked, “How far from the runway are we?”

“A little over two kilometers. At this range, the high-power microwave weapon should be able to disrupt their flight equipment. Not enough to pinpoint where we are, or even determine what we are doing, but enough to aggravate them greatly.”

Pompano craned his neck and looked up; there was a tiny hole in the foliage that allowed him to view the cloudy sky. “Two kilometers?” He waved an arm around. “It can do that much damage?”

Cervante strode to the truck and pulled a thick booklet from the back. He slapped it down on Pompano’s hand. “Here. The cartoons show how far this weapon can be from the target, how to set it up, and how to use it.”

Pompano leafed through the multicolored manual. He glanced at the illustrations of helmeted men setting up the device and operating it. He pointed with the booklet up at the hole in the foliage. The clouds seemed like a kaleidoscope of black-and-white swirls. “What happens if a plane flies overhead, directly above us?”

Cervante stopped. He took the operating manual from the older man and flipped through the pages. A picture of an aircraft spinning out of control, just bare meters above the ground, adorned a page.

“If the plane is low enough, it goes down.…”

Cervante stopped speaking. At that moment, a Pan Am 747 jumbo jet, probably carrying hundreds of servicemen and their children to Clark Air Base, roared not a thousand feet overhead.

Cervante jerked his head up and got a fleeting glance of the jumbo jet before it disappeared. He looked back at Pompano.

The older man had his mouth drawn tight, and remained silent.

For the first time in his life, Bruce started to feel airsick.

In the forty-five minutes since General Simone had shot straight up from the runway at Clark, the fighter had not flown straight for more than twenty seconds. The general continuously slammed the craft through a gagging sequence of high-speed maneuvers, rolls, accelerations, and loops.

Bruce eyed the fuel-indicator through the bouncing gyrations. Simone suddenly spun the craft to the right, then straightened as they soared up through fifteen thousand feet. Bruce keyed the mike.

“Starting to get a little short on fuel, General.”

The craft turned nose-down and Bruce suddenly felt weightless; they followed a neat parabolic path. “We used to run our jets through the wringer like this when they were first delivered to the squadron. Except you can’t fly a Smokin’ Rhino like this.”

Bruce clicked twice on the mike. General Simone was referring to the ancient F-4 fighter, which had been the mainstay of Air Force fighters during the sixties and seventies. Its trail of black smoke could be seen from miles away.

Suddenly the fighter turned up, as Simone brought her out of the parabolic path. Simone’s voice came over the intercom.

“Let’s get our feet wet before heading back, Assassin.”

“Rog.”

Simone pulled the fighter into a backward loop. Blue sky melted into black as they rotated around. Bruce felt as though he should be able to see the stars. As they continued to rotate the black sky turned into blue, until Bruce saw the boundary of water with land miles in the distance. They accelerated straight down, screaming through the Mach numbers. When they swept past ten thousand feet, Bruce started calling out the altitude. Simone gave no indication that he knew how high they were.

Seconds passed. Bruce wet his lips.

“Four thousand … three thousand … minimum altitude, General.”

With no response, Bruce called out, “IP has the aircraft.” He pulled back on the stick and the throttles, trying not to bring them out in too steep of an angle. Simone didn’t say anything — Bruce expected to be blasted by the general for taking away control of the fighter.

The g-indicator rose, moving past six, then seven gs. Bruce grunted, anticipating brownout, but felt no indication even of tunnel vision. The gs dwindled off as he brought the aircraft up. At two hundred feet the jet leveled off. Bruce clicked his mike.

“All right, General?”

Two clicks answered him. “Your aircraft, Assassin.”

Bruce clicked back. “I’ll have to bring it up for ‘feet dry,’ General. Take a last gander before we bring her up to altitude.”

Bruce glanced at the heads-up display, which indicated air speed was right on five hundred knots.

A speck through the cockpit caught his attention — it looked like an old rickety fishing boat, directly ahead of them on the horizon. Bruce immediately broke right and accelerated up. He wasn’t about to capsize the boat.

Overturning a group in a rice paddy was one thing, but sinking a fishing boat miles from shore was an order of magnitude worse.

As they gained altitude, Simone came over the intercom. “That happened to me once years back, Assassin. Never quite forgave myself for strafing an unarmed boat.”

Bruce kept quiet for a moment. Breaking through ten thousand feet, they passed over the beaches on the west side of the island. White sand quickly changed to jungle as they flew toward Clark. Bruce received the necessary clearances as they proceeded on to a landing.

Once down, Bruce removed his helmet and drew in deep breaths of humid air. Clouds covered most of the sky, and a light drizzle had just started to cover the ground.

Simone reached the bottom of the stairs before him. When Bruce climbed down, the general held out a slender ebony hand; his flight suit was soaked with perspiration. He showed evenly spaced teeth when he smiled.

“Thanks, Son.”

Bruce shook his hand. “Thank you, sir — you’re the one who put me through the paces. That was some nice flying.”

Simone picked up his helmet and started for the staff car that waited for him at the edge of the flight line. Sounds of auxiliary power units cranked up in the distance; laughter drifted from a group of airmen playing volleyball on the opposite side of squadron headquarters. Simone nodded for Bruce to follow. Bruce stepped up and kept pace with the general. Simone spoke straight ahead, as if Bruce weren’t even there.

“Flying these jets is a cathartic experience for me; purging my soul of all the humdrum activity that comes with command.” He paused. “Sometimes I think I might even take it too far, Bruce — try to push the limits of what I can do. Some people can’t handle it when I take them up, refuse to fly with me anymore. That’s how I weed out the true pilots.” He stopped and lifted up his sunglasses. He looked Bruce over. “That took balls to take the plane away from me, Bruce. For all your bravado, I think there’s a damn good fighter pilot in you. Stay with it, Son. Don’t let the bullshit get you down and you’ll go far. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you, sir. Ah, are you all right…? I mean when I took the airplane away? Were you okay then?”

Simone dropped his sunglasses back to his face and growled. “I said it was a test, didn’t I?”

Bruce watched the staff car drive away, the flag with two stars on it waving from the front.

“Well, I’ll be dipped,” he said to no one.

Cervante took a final drag on his cigarette before walking over to the HPM weapon. One man was struggling to unfold a dish antenna. The camouflaged parabola unfurled, until it was nearly ten feet across. A collector in the center of the dish stuck out a good three feet. The HPM weapon looked to be nothing more than a delicate dish, a gigantic flower that sat in the middle of the clearing.

As Cervante approached, he could tell that the antenna was only a small part of the weapon. A long pipe protruded from an array of capacitor banks. The pipe was connected to the antenna through a convoluted series of fittings—“mode converters,” the operating manual had called them. From what Cervante understood, the weapon produced microwaves that were a million times more powerful than those found in microwave ovens; although the microwaves literally “fried” electronic components, the beam quickly spread out and was ineffective over long distances.

Cervante paused before the device. “Is it complete?”

“Except for turning it on.” Pompano emerged from beneath the dish. A motorized pointing and tracking unit held the giant antenna in place. He wiped his hands on already grimy pants.

“The manual does say that the setup time should take no longer than two hours. And knowing the average intelligence of the American troops, I had no fear that you should find the tasking easy.”

Pompano ran a hand over the long metal piping that connected the dish to the capacitor banks. He spoke in a low voice. “Do not underestimate those people, my friend. That cartoon operating manual does not reflect their true capabilities — ask any Iraqi.”

Cervante fished a cigarette out of a pack in his sock. “Whatever. But that does not concern me now. What is important to me is using the weapon. When can we start?”

Pompano was silent for a moment. He answered slowly, “We are ready now. It is not difficult to operate — Barguyo already knows how. Basically, all that is needed is to charge up the capacitors, aim the weapon, and set it off. Once the weapon fires, the capacitors recharge so we can use it again.”

Cervante puffed away quickly. “So we can use it now?”

Pompano shrugged. “Of course.”

Cervante threw down his newly lit cigarette. The prospect of finally having this tool so close to the American base excited him. He felt like cranking the dish straight up, pointing toward the hole in the jungle above.

The distant sound of a jet only intensified the feeling.

It seemed as though the dream he had had over the past years was coming to a head, culminating, frothing to a finish. And all it required was “charging and pointing.” It almost seemed too easy.…

And it was.

Cervante realized that if he were to rush, hurry and set off the weapon, he might be tracked. The device would have to be used selectively — only against those targets that would produce the maximum effect.

Gaining access to a list of incoming aircraft should not prove difficult. Cervante smiled amicably at the old man in front of him.

“Perhaps we should not rush with this device. Can your sources obtain a list of incoming flights to the American base? Flights that, if irradiated, would give us maximum political leverage?”

Pompano looked surprised. “I do not see why not.”

“Good. Tomorrow afternoon will be a good time to return here.”

Pompano held up a hand. “I do not know if I can obtain anything for you by then.”

“But at least you should know if the information is forthcoming.” Cervante paused; he had allowed the man to keep his source, and now that Pompano played such an integral role the old man would be sure to come through. “Why don’t we test the device, to make sure it still works after the trip?” He looked around the clearing. Besides the high-power microwave weapon, two jeepneys and one truck were in the clearing. “Aim the device at the truck; it is the most expendable.”

Pompano shrugged and headed for the weapon. Cervante waved for the men to move the two jeepneys out of the way.

Moments later Pompano called out, “Ready!”

Cervante crossed his arms and nodded. The men were lined up behind the dish, now pointing almost horizontal, straight at the battered truck.

Pompano pushed a button. A sharp “pop” ricocheted throughout the clearing. Cervante frowned. Unlike the last test there had been no smoke, no explosion. The truck looked unscathed.

Cervante strode toward the truck. Looking inside, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pushed into the front seat and turned the ignition. Nothing. The engine didn’t even crank.

Pompano pushed his face up to the window. “Well?”

“It does not turn over.”

“What else did you expect?”

Cervante’s brows went up. “Is this it?”

“This is it.” Pompano was silent for a moment. He nodded to Cervante’s watch. “Have you checked that?”

Cervante glanced at his wristwatch. The electronic timepiece was completely blank. There was no sign that the liquid crystal display had ever worked.

And he had been standing behind the weapon.

Cervante smiled.

“What?!” Staff Sergeant Evette Whiltree pushed back her chair in the control tower. The wheeled chair slid across the waxed floor. She had an unobstructed view of the outside — four major runways, F-15s, F-22s, C-5s, C-130s, MH-60s, HH-3s, support vehicles, and almost anything else that the air base had to offer.

The control tower should have afforded her no surprises.

But the blip that appeared on her radar screen seemed to defy all those precautions.

It was as if someone had turned all the power off, then back on again within the blink of an eye.

And if that had happened — an abrupt power failure, for example — then her computerized systems would have undergone an immediate re-initialization sequence.

But whatever had happened, it wasn’t a power failure.

The rest of the control tower acted as if nothing had happened. Evette glanced around — no one else had noticed.

She glanced at her computerized screen. Nothing unusual.

She thought hard. She’d been on the rock now for nearly eighteen months. Another six months and she’d be heading back to the States, back to Travis AFB where she had been guaranteed an assignment. Northern California had it all over the P.I.

And she didn’t really want to jeopardize it by bringing up a questionable incident.

The longer she thought about it, the more it made sense. It had been her imagination.

She pushed back to her screen and donned her headphones.