Scott glanced at the Florida area code before handing the piece of paper to Jackie. "This should be interesting."
"No doubt."
Dalton looked at Earlywine. "If I can get any information, it has to be from an anonymous source. I don't want any names used — not ours or anyone we talk to."
"I give you my word." He presented each of them a business card. "I don't reveal my sources unless I have permission. I just want to know what really happened before I take this to my editor."
Scott nodded. "So do we."
"All I know is something mighty strange happened that night, and I think — no, I'm positive — that whatever happened is being covered up."
"We'll see what we can find out," Scott said, pocketing the tape. "I appreciate it."
When they finished their drinks, Earlywine paid the tab and excused himself. Afterward Jackie and Scott walked into the Grant Grill and were seated at a cozy booth.
Scott waited until they were alone, then leaned closer to Jackie. "Can't wait to play this tape."
"Same here. Maybe we should contact Hartwell and see what he can tell us about the accident."
Scott looked at his wristwatch. "Good idea. We should give him a heads up about Earlywine's story and the tape."
"Yeah. Besides, we'll be better off if we have as much information as possible before we contact the pilot."
"True, but I don't want to have that conversation over the phone. I want to go there, in person, unannounced."
He smiled. "How do you feel about spending a few days in Florida?"
"You call Hartwell," she said without hesitation. "I'll book us on a morning flight to Pensacola."
"Let's do it."
Hartwell Prost sat down in his study to read the first draft of a speech he intended to give at his alma mater. The only child of a wealthy father who oversaw their family-owned investment empire, Prost had surprised his parents by joining the Central Intelligence Agency after graduating with honors from Harvard Law. He became a rising star at the CIA and, in his ensuing years there, an astute power broker and political wizard.
Now retired from his position as director of operations, Prost was the president's closest aide and confidant. On the surface, his soft voice and ever-present tweed tam-o'-shanter cap could lull people into underestimating him, a costly mistake many opponents had made.
On the inside, however, Prost was clinically analytical. Known by many as a Renaissance man, he had little tolerance for the whiz kids who made up the Beltway crowd. He considered most of them to be educated beyond their intelligence.
Although he was the consummate gentleman, Hartwell Prost would not hesitate to cashier someone he judged unsuitable for the task at hand. Scott Dalton had never been in that category, not even close. Scott was the kind of person Hartwell Prost showcased, even to the commander in chief, President Cord Macklin.
When the phone rang, he removed his glasses and reached for the receiver. "Prost."
After a short conversation with Scott, Prost had a firm set to his jaw. "Let me check into this first thing in the morning."
"Yes, sir."
"I sense a smoke screen coming from the Pentagon. In the meantime, go ahead and see what you can find out from the other pilot — the one in Pensacola."
"Okay."
"Oh, one other thing. Keep that tape in your possession until you can give it to me in person."
"Will do, sir."
When Scott returned to their booth, Jackie had their travel itinerary neatly detailed on a small notepad.
"What did he say?"
"He knew about the accident but was unaware of the circumstances. He didn't know that a civilian reporter had been on board the ship and taped the radio transmissions."
"Well, no one else knew either."
Scott paused while a well-dressed gentleman was seated near their table. "It's probably going to land on the president's desk."
"That's going to get his attention."
"You bet it is. Hartwell thinks someone is trying to throw a blanket over the details of what happened."
"He'll jump on that," she said.
"Yeah, he seemed to be miffed that he hadn't been briefed on the details surrounding the crash, especially under the circumstances."
"What did he say about contacting the pilot?"
"He thinks it's fine, but he cautioned me to be careful. He doesn't want us setting off any alarms with the navy."
"We're always careful," she said with mock seriousness. "You've had a really tough day."
He nodded and opened his menu. "After dinner we'll find a recorder and listen to the tape."
Jackie reached for his hand. "How about a martini before dinner?"
"You're on."
High above the Bay of Bengal a U.S. Air Force RC-135S reconnaissance plane was preparing to observe a missile test that intelligence reports expected to take place hundreds of miles inside India. Data from the secret test would be transmitted directly from the Boeing Cobra Ball aircraft to the White House and the State Department. The ongoing conflict over Kashmir was again ratcheting up the tension between Pakistan and India. With no buffer zone between the rival nations, the possibility for a nuclear confrontation was nearing certainty.
Deployed from the secretive 55th Wing at Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska, the sophisticated four-engine Cobra Ball spy plane, call sign Eagle Rock One-One, could instantly detect a missile launch, track the object into space, mark the missile engine's cutoff, then quickly calculate its trajectory and point of impact.
The airplane was equipped with an upgraded sensor suite and sported four large windows on the right side of the fuselage. Made of optical-quality glass, the windows were designed to enhance the capabilities of the Cobra Ball's primary sensor systems. The package included a medium-wave infrared array, a real-time optical system that recorded visible light using a combination of thirteen sensors, and a large-aperture tracking system, which was an optical telescope that provided a clear resolution to small targets.
Long surrounded by secrecy, Cobra Ball's capabilities were well known and feared by the Soviet Union during the Cold War. In order to observe missile testing on Kamchatka Peninsula on Russia's east coast, the RC-135s from the "low-density, high-demand" 6th Strategic Wing at Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska, routinely flew established patterns in international airspace.
A disastrous incident was triggered in 1983 when senior commanders in the Soviet military attempted to shoot down an unarmed Cobra Ball. Instead of destroying the secret reconnaissance aircraft, the Russian fighter pilot mistakenly downed Korean Airlines Flight 007 with a missile, killing all 269 on board. The lone RC-135 was hundreds of miles east of the accident site.
Although night had fallen over the Bay of Bengal, the Cobra Ball crew would be making visual observations and spectral analyses of the fireballs that surround intercontinental ballistic missiles when they reenter the earth's atmosphere. Working with the CIA and the Big Safari reconnaissance program at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio, the Cobra Ball crewmen were expecting India to test a new long-range ICBM in approximately twelve minutes.
Major Dale Kirby, the aircraft commander of the complex spy plane, glanced at the pale crescent moon highlighted in the dark sky and then did a double take. What the hell is that?
"Hey, Gregg, take a look — one o'clock high." Kirby motioned toward a bright, circular, bluish-white object slightly above the moon. "At what?" Capt. Gregg Tyndall asked.
"The bright object passing over the top of the moon."
Moving at high speed in the opposite direction, the strange aberration appeared to be a bright ring of light with a large dark center. The object slowed, then reversed course and began ascending at an astonishing rate of climb. It then abruptly leveled and hovered in place.