The Ransom of Black Stealth One

THIRTY-TWO

New Orleans Naval Air Station is not in New Orleans proper, but adjoins the suburb of Belle Chasse some miles to the south. NAS New Orleans sprawled so near the half-mile-wide Mississippi River that Dar Weston, holding a ham sandwich with one bite missing as he stared out the window, could see barges traverse the great waterway in evening shadows. He had been sitting there, with telephones at his elbow, ten minutes earlier when Ben Ullmer had left the room. Dar was still sitting with the same bite filling his cheek when Ullmer returned. He did not react when Ben placed a fresh cup of coffee before him and sighed into a nearby chair.

Ullmer was a man who had spent his life coaxing special tricks from inert materials. He had never claimed expertise with people, certainly not with a mature man whose depression made him forget a perfectly good bite of ham. “Eat,” said Ullmer, nibbling a chocolate chip cookie. “You look like a fuckin’ hamster.”

Dar blinked, looked around, and began to chew. When he had swallowed, he put the sandwich down and faced Ullmer. “She’s alive. I’d know if she weren’t.”

“Then they’ll find her,” Ullmer assured him, “I’ve been over it with the navigator ‘til the poor kid is dizzy, and he’s a trained observer, and he sticks to the same image. He only saw ‘em for a second or two, Dar, but nobody had told him the pilot had dark hair and the hostage was blonde, and that’s what he saw. He still says the cockpit was sitting in the water, moving with the wave motion which can’t be over a few knots. I just wish I knew whether the hellbug could do it.”

“Do what?”

“Land and take off on water. Now don’t get all antsy,” he said, watching Dar’s face, “you heard me talking to Sheppard about it. Sure, the hellbug will float like a cork but without some kind of pontoons—oh, we considered ‘em, but never built ‘em—there’d be water in the exhaust plenum and the nose thrust diverter and I’d stake my rep that nobody, not even Kyle fucking Corbett, could take the hellbug off from water. But Corbett might have landed with minor damage. And if the structure doesn’t break up with wave motion, they could be floating toward shore right now. Almost intact, maybe. Wouldn’t that be something?”

Dar stood up. “Then why aren’t we checking on currents and overflying the area?”

“There’s five thousand men doin’ that right now, better than we could in a P2V. They’ve got a whole squadron of Marine Harriers coming in as well, with IFR capability.”

Dar nodded, thinking about the redoubtable Harriers. With IFR, in-flight refueling, a Harrier could approach near-sonic speeds or hover motionless, for hours. “So the rescue operation is full-bore?”

“They’ll be out there all night in boats, choppers, air-cushion vehicles, you name it. And we’ve pulled in the picket aircraft from Corpus Christi to Florida, to help. Weren’t you listening?”

“I suppose not,” Dar said, slowly resuming his seat. “And that doesn’t say much for my stamina, does it?”

“That stuff isn’t your specialty, all you had to do was nod. And you did a lot of that,” Ullmer added, trying for a joke. “There are a couple of things you can do this evening, if you feel up to it.”

Dar wiped his hands down his face, picked up the coffee cup. “Whatever.”

“The naval exec for Public Affairs has a shitpot of news people on his hands here, howling for a statement. The Navy would like it if somebody faced the cameras for a few minutes and said something the reporters can use, maybe answer a question or two, so they’ll get out of everybody’s hair. I’m no goddamn good at that, but it’s time we said something.”

“And nobody’s saying anything at Elmira?”

“I have a copy of Sheppard’s statement,” Ullmer said, pushing a folded page across the table.

“Right,” Dar said as if to himself, reading it, “and Elmira is there and these media people are here, and I wish the Company were as good as the media at getting information.”

“It could be if you had their budget and their manpower. And we’d have a police state,” Ullmer shrugged, clearly not enchanted with the idea.

Dar took a small gold automatic pencil from his pocket, turned the Elmira statement over, and began printing in neat block capitals. Some people could compose a statement on paper while talking about something else, and Dar was one of them. “I won’t add much to this; no point in giving Bill Sheppard a coronary. You know that every step of the way, Ben, you and I have our butts bare.”

“Mooning the world. I’d like to show my ass to the whole Puzzle Palace when this is over,” Ullmer grumbled. “So many decisions at the top are plain fuckin’ stupid, but when you tell ‘em what they’re doin’ is worse than nothing, they just smile and keep you doin’ it. Now we’ve lost Black Stealth One.”

As if he had lost a child, Dar thought, making a deletion, continuing to print. And I can’t even tell him that the hostage in that damned airplane is my own child “When you spread the power base in a democracy, Ben, committee decisions are what you get.”

“That’s what Dernza is for,” Ullmer growled, “and your Director, and the President.”

Now Dar looked up and smiled. “Still a committee, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it. And it still makes dumb fucking decisions.”

“Well, we cope the best we can. Take a look at this,” said Dar, proffering the printed statement as he stood up.

‘“I’ll read it on the way,” Ullmer said, pointing toward the hallway. “There’s a staff car already waiting to take us to pubic affairs.”

Dar smiled at Ullmer’s pun. “I believe you said there were two things I could do.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, that exec said he’d be grateful for the statement, and I said how grateful, and, uh—how would you like a free ride and a free meal? The exec promised he’d have a beeper on him, in case something turns up while we’re eating in the French Quarter.”

Dar’s smile returned. “I’ll be rotten company, under the circumstances, but I couldn’t face a BOQ room right now. Where did you have in mind: Antoine’s?”

“Better. Brennan’s, they don’t give a shit about ties and ceremony, and they used to have a filet with some kind of wine sauce that would kill my doctor if I told him, so I won’t tell him.”

Dar fell silent again during the ride to the public affairs hall near the edge of the sprawling naval base, dealing with guilt the best way he could. How can you go to a fine restaurant while your only daughter is floating in a derelict aircraft? Easily; you consider your options, and you realize that slashing your wrists in a solitary room is more a real option right now than you ever thought it could be; and you remind yourself that a message of reprieve could come flashing in at any time, and when it does, these people will get it to you. The system works, for the most part. Ben Ullmer is right about the bad committee decisions, but a remarkable number of decisions are good ones. Who decides? Who plays God? Someone has to.

The executive officer, a full commander, looked like a physically fit leprechaun and his walk was almost a dance. “The media is primed, Mr. Weston,” he said as he led the way. “But when they show up here, they always are.”

“Is the Navy prepared to pay our price?” asked Dar, with a fresh stab of guilt that this kind of badinage could lift his spirits.

“The price is Brennan’s, and slow down,” Ullmer complained as he explained.

“It’s in the budget,” the exec bubbled, and led Dar into a room in which media bodies and Kleig lights had begun to overwhelm the air-conditioning. Ben Ullmer melted away, unwilling to mount the podium, let alone stand at a lectern.

There must have been a hundred people present. Some, carrying network television cameras, dressed like stevedores in Tshirts; others, hoping to stand before those cameras, patted moisture from their brows as they stood in blow-dried perfection and thousand-dollar jackets. Most, like the tanned little man in the wrinkled trousers with his tie askew, had their hands full with tape recorders and notepads.

The Commander asked for quiet, asked again, folded his arms comfortably as though prepared to wait until doomsday, and waited until the hubbub dwindled. Reading from a card, he introduced Dar as James D. Weston, Deputy Director for Science and Technology in the Central Intelligence Agency. “Mr. Weston led a task force over the Gulf today in a Naval surveillance aircraft; I’m sure you already know why. He has agreed to make a brief statement for the press, but this will not be a full-fledged press conference. Mr. Weston?”

Dar opened the sheet of paper and began, “A classified experimental aircraft under the cognizance of the Department of Defense was stolen two nights ago from a government test facility in New York State. The aircraft was unarmed in the military sense, but the pilot was believed to be armed. He took one hostage, believed to be a young woman, whose identity is—is being withheld at present.

“The military services, using means that are also highly classified, tracked and finally intercepted the aircraft as it was flying west over the Gulf of Mexico at approximately one-fifteen p.m., Central Daylight Time today. Though the experimental craft was forced down, every precaution was taken to protect the life of the hostage. The stolen aircraft was seen briefly after crash-landing in the Gulf, but we have not yet recovered the wreckage nor—nor the occupants. We do have reason to think that the occupants were forced down unhurt; I repeat, unhurt, thanks to razor-sharp precision by naval aviators.” There, Commander, I’ve paid for dinner at Brennan’s.

“At this hour we are making every possible effort to recover the aircraft and its passengers. The rescue and recovery mission will continue through the night. I have nothing more to report at this time,” Dar ended. The place was bedlam before the last word was out of his mouth: waving hands, shouts, flashbulbs.

As Dar folded the paper and began to turn away, the noise increased as suddenly as in a sports stadium. He faced them again and pointed to a tall, plain-faced woman who looked as if she might be there for better reasons than television cosmetics.

“Louise Gardner, Atlanta Constitution, Mr. Weston. Would you comment on the report that the stolen airplane is actually a new type of stealth weapon system or a CIA airplane like the U-2?”

Some sensation here, but not enough to suggest the idea was new to most of them. “It is not a military stealth aircraft, Ms. Gardner. It is a civilian research craft, something along the lines of NASA’s ‘X’ series which studied flight regimes of interest to the Department of Defense. It was not designed to carry weapons, and it is not a CIA project. Our major concern is for the hostage, not for an ultralight experimental airplane.” Judging that he had dodged that one nicely, he pointed to another hand.

A young man in rimless glasses, with sweat pouring into his eyes, called, “What can you tell us about the hijacker?”

Dar knew that his face betrayed him then. He pretended his reaction was frustration and not hostility. “We simply don’t know enough yet. He used identification of a man known to be deceased; not a very imaginative tactic. But it’s obvious that he was no young thrill-seeker.” As an attempt at wry humor, that last sally failed. Dar pointed toward an exquisite creature with an Asiatic face and an NBC cameraman at her shoulder, but his gesture was misinterpreted by a pale old veteran newsman next to her—probably by intent.

“Garrison Pyle, Denver Post, “said the veteran in a voice like a bullhorn. “We hear the hostage is close kin to someone very high in U.S. intelligence. Care to confirm or deny?”

Dar gave himself a long breath. Then, “I’ve heard it too, Mr. Pyle. No comment at this time.” He chose one of the beautiful people next; this one happened to be male. “Jeremy Cotton, for WWL: can you tell us why the hijacker shot and killed a grocery clerk near Lake City, Florida?”

This has the earmarks of a man who knows less than he shows, Dar thought. Media reporters, like trial attorneys, often phrased questions as “fishing expeditions”; as if they had knowledge, when they had only surmises. “I wasn’t there, Mr. Cotton; I can’t even say with assurance if the hijacker shot anyone.” Though Jeremy Cotton seemed ready to revise his question, Dar had already looked elsewhere. “Time for one more question, ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a long day. You, sir, with the tan I envy. And the loose tie. Yes,” he nodded, doing his best to charm a roomful of ferrets. Maybe he had swivel-hipped his way through this without adding to the Company’s troubles.

Yevgeni Melnik did not identify himself. After all, it was not a formal press conference. “If the aircraft belongs to the Department of Defense, but is not military; and if you are well positioned in science and technology; and if this stealth craft is not CIA: then who did build it, and why did they not trust the CIA to do what it did so well with the U-2 and SR-71?”

In the ensuing hush, Dar heard himself swallow. There it is, he admitted. That swarthy little jerk even reminded everybody of my position; so if I say I don’t know, everyone concludes I’m either lying or incompetent, which is the Company man’s classic dilemma. Well, I haven’t forgotten how to dodge behind an organization chart, buddy. “I’m only one of several deputies. And other divisions work with different government agencies. No reason why the answers would come to my desk until that aircraft was operational.” A lie, but not a palpable one.

“It seems to have operated very well,” said the little man, getting a laugh.

“Not as well as our detection systems,” Dar replied evenly, aware that he was at that moment as much a spreader of disinformation as the Soviets, who invented the word. “Thank you,” he said then, and strode from the room, ignoring the entreaties of fifty other people. I should’ve asked that little fellow what kind of accent he had, Dar thought, now that the time for such a riposte had irretrievably passed. I think I know, and I’m sure he would’ve lied, but he was inviting those other people to go for this country’s throat. At least our media hotshots should get a hint, now and then, who’s issuing the invitations.