Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (25 page)

 
          
“But
DreamStar’s up and flying—that’s a fact. We’ve only tried the ANTARES interface
with a handful of pilots. We can’t give up now.”

 
          
Elliott
nodded. “That’s the argument I used, Patrick. We’ll have our answer on Monday.
Meanwhile, get some rest.”

 
          
Hal
Briggs stayed behind. “J.C. was by to see you, said he’d catch you tomorrow
some time. Haven’t seen much of James since the test flight.”

 
          
Patrick
shrugged. “He likes to get away from Vegas on the weekends.”

 
          
A
somewhat strained silence, then Briggs smiled and said, “You look like two
miles of bad road, Colonel, but it’s good to see you up and around.”

 
          
“I’ve
seen you look better too, buddy,” McLanahan said. “The general getting on your
case?”

 
          
“It’s
beyond Elliott,” Hal said uneasily. “It’s even beyond major command level now.
Air Force and, I guess, the Joint Chiefs want to keep Dreamland open but close
down flight operations for DreamStar—they’re more concerned with the setbacks
in the operations area. The White House thinks Dreamland is a classified
information siphon that flows directly to the Soviets, and they want to close
down the whole outfit.” “Which wouldn’t look so hot for Dreamland’s chief of
security.”

 
          
Briggs
tightened. “Look, I hate lettin’ the old man down— he took a chance on me ten
years ago, and he really stuck his neck out when he made a brand-new major the
chief of security at the Air Force’s most top-secret research center. I’d hate
to repay the guy with a forced retirement because I screwed up.”

 
          
“I
don’t think you’re screwing up, Hal. We’re obviously dealing with very deep,
very professional agents at the highest and most top-secret levels of the
program. It might be a commandwide infiltration, or even a headquarters
compromise, in which case we might never find the ones responsible—”

 
          
“It
has to be here in Dreamland or Nellis,” Hal said angrily, punching a palm with
his fist. “The quality of the stolen material, and the speed with which our
stuff shows up over there tells me it comes directly from here, not through
headquarters of systems command. I have got to plug this leak before the whole
dam bursts wide open.”

 
          
“Well,
keep trying ... but I do have to say I don’t think your idea to plant phony
changes in DreamStar’s design will help.”

 
          
Hal looked uneasy. “You figured that out?”

           
“It wasn’t too difficult to notice
those changes were out of place, Hal. If they’re smart enough to recognize the
changes they’ll be smart enough to see that they don’t make too much sense.
With all the other security crackdowns you’ve implemented, it does smell like a
setup.”

 
          
“If
you don’t mind, I’ll keep it in,” Hal said evenly. “Maybe our spy isn’t as
all-fired smart as you think he is.”

 
          
“Maybe.”

 
          
There
was a rather strained pause, then Hal asked, “How’s Wendy?”

 
          
“Fine.”

 
          
Hal
nodded. “She looked great, really great.” Again a pause. “Something on your
mind, Hal?”

 
          
He
took a deep breath. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but . . . how are you two
getting along?”

 
          
“Jesus
Christ, Hal ...”

 
          
“Dammit,
Patrick, you know why I’m asking, and you know I wouldn’t ask unless it was
important.”

 
          
“So
we’re peeking into bedrooms to find a spy now, is that it?”

 
          
“Easy,
pal. You knew all about Elliott’s orders to expand the search for these
security leaks. I briefed the senior staff and outlined exactly what guidelines
I’d follow and what steps my staff would take. Wendy and Ken—”

 
          
“What
the hell do you mean,
Wendy and Ken
.
. .
?”

 
          
“Do
you know she was seen at Indian Springs Auxiliary Field the other day?”

 
          
“Yes,
I
know.
”

 
          
“With
Ken James?”

 
          
“So
what? This is getting far out—”

 
          
“You’re
getting defensive,” Briggs shot back. “What’s the story?”

 
          
“The
story
is they went to lunch.”

 
          
“At
Indian Springs?”

 
          
“It’s
James’ little hideaway. It was the day of the last air combat dry-fire test. I
was held up by the flight data lab, so James took her to lunch. Apparently he
regularly cons the Dolphin pilot into taking him. Any more questions?”

 
          
Briggs
nodded—that was the same story he’d gotten from the Dolphin pilot. “Patrick,
please don’t make this any tougher for me—”

 
          
“Tougher
for
you?”
McLanahan propped himself
up in bed, was about to get up but paled and decided against it. “What the hell
are you saying? Is Wendy or Ken under
suspicion?”
“Everyone at HAWC is under suspicion, even the Ops personnel—
especially
the Ops personnel. But when
DreamStar’s only pilot starts hanging around with a chief scientist from a
completely different section of HAWC—who also happens to be the very close
friend of the DreamStar project director—a bell has to go off—”

 
          
“She
lives
with me, Hal. Come
on
. . . ”

 
          
“Do
I really have to spell this out? What if you guys were having a major league
argument? What if she left or you told her to? What if. . . dammit, Patrick,
you
know
what the hell I’m talking
about.”

 
          
“I
do, and it stinks.”

 
          
“The
leaks started when she got to Dreamland—”

 
          
“Which
is also when the DreamStar project went operational,” McLanahan interrupted.

 
          
“It’s
also the time Ken James arrived.”

 
          
“Along
with a dozen other people,” Patrick shot back. “You’re spinning your wheels,
Hal. Wendy’s undergone government security background checks since she was a
senior in college. Ken James is an Academy grad. He’s undergone far more
thorough background investigations than just about anyone at HAWC, including
me.”

 
          
“He’s
also had a pretty rough family life . . .”

 
          
“Which
doesn
7 make him a spy. I know all
about his past, his father, his mother’s suspicious death in Monaco while he
was in the Zoo. But the guy’s been polygraphed, examined, questioned,
investigated and scrutinized on a regular basis by a dozen different agencies
since entering the Academy. If he’s got a questionable past it would have
surfaced by now.” “Well, I’ve still got to check every scrap of info that’s not
there, Patrick. You’ll end up hurting security, not helping,” Hal said, not
wanting to press it further at the moment. “Gotta go. I’ll see you on Monday.”

 
          
When
the door to his hospital room closed, Patrick felt more alone, more isolated
than ever before. Mercifully, his body’s total exhaustion forced him to drop
into a deep sleep.

*
 
*
 
*

 
          
Ken James was in DreamStar’s cockpit. He had
no flight suit, no helmet. The canopy was closed and all power was off. He was
trying to decide how to activate his fighter without ANTARES operating when a
brilliant beam of light hit the cockpit from somewhere on the ramp . . . Hal
Briggs was holding a huge spotlight on him. Patrick McLanahan was carrying a
bullhorn. Wendy Tork stood beside McLanahan crying. She was motioning to him to
come out of DreamStar... He lifted the canopy. It weighed only eighty pounds
but it would hardly budge. He had to stand on the ejection seat to get better
leverage. But as he struggled to lift the heavy Plexiglas windscreen, McLanahan
rushed forward, carrying a huge fifty-caliber machine gun. Then Briggs hit him
in the face with the brilliant beam from the spotlight and McLanahan raised the
machine gun. “Hold it right there ...”

           
James’ eyes snapped open. He was
confused, disoriented. Then he heard the sounds of footsteps, coming closer,
only a few feet away . . .

 
          
He
scrambled for the tiny transmitter on the nightstand beside his bed—he had
rigged the wall safe with a remote- control trigger to incinerate its contents
from anywhere in the apartment. With his other hand he felt for the Beretta
automatic pistol hidden under his pillow . . .

 
          
“... Don’t go away, because you ’re
listening to the solid gold voice of the solid gold strip, FM one-oh-two ...”

           
Ken pulled his finger away from the
button just in time. It was his clock radio, set for the station with the two
early- morning DJs with their taped sound effects. The bedroom lights, also
preprogrammed to come on when the alarm clock went off, were glaring in his
face. Swallowing hard, his ears ringing from tension, he carefully held the
hammer of the Beretta with one hand while pulling the trigger, letting the
hammer slowly uncock.

 
          
It
had been another nightmare night, another confused awakening. For the past two
nights he had lain in bed, dressed in shorts, shirt, and sneakers, with one
finger on the remote- control detonator and one hand on the Beretta pistol
beside him. Sleep had been almost impossible. Every noise, every creak, every
voice outside shook him awake in an instant, and he would lie there, listening
for the sounds of police feet pounding up his stairs or the sight of flashing
red-and-blue lights outside his window. Each time he had decided to escape, to
get out of town and head off to Mexico before they came and arrested him for espionage,
but he would always talk himself out of it, out of deserting DreamStar. He
would manage to drift off to sleep, only to be awakened an hour later by
another sound. He had managed only a few restless hours of sleep all weekend.

 
          
Now
he half-walked, half-stumbled to the bathroom. The tension was taking its toll,
all right. He had dark circles under his eyes, his face was pale, his lips
cracked and dry despite the beads of sweat rolling down his face. He turned the
shower on full cold and stepped into it, forcing himself to stand in the icy
water a full minute before feeding in warm water. He stood there, hoping that
it would wash his nightmares away. It did not.

 
          
Still,
once into his morning routine, his mind began to analyze the situation more
rationally. He had holed himself up in his apartment all weekend, afraid to
leave but afraid he would be arrested by military intelligence. The fact that
no one had come to him or called was reassuring. Perhaps no one had noticed
Kramer and Moffitt, the two Russian agents based out of Los Angeles, at his
apartment after all. Maybe Briggs wasn’t conducting round-the-clock
surveillance of his apartment . . .

 
          
His
mood was bolstered later that morning as he drove through Nellis toward the
waiting area for the shuttle bus to the HAWC research area. None of Briggs’ men
made a move for him. There seemed no added security other than the forces that
had been added weeks earlier when the initial crackdown had been started—if
anything, the added security forces seemed more dispersed and less obvious. He
felt relief as he stepped aboard the bus that would take him to Dreamland.
Surely Briggs wouldn’t let him go to Dreamland again if he had discovered his
meeting with Kramer and Moffitt.

 
          
Despite
the outer calm of the place, however, there were a lot of worried faces and
hushed conversation in the hallways and offices of the HAWC research center
when James arrived. He poured himself a mug of coffee and began to go through
his mailbox in the test squadron’s mission-planning room. Among the half-week’s
worth of mail were several notices telling about a Center-wide briefing for all
personnel at eight
A.M.
The topic
was not specified.