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."