“I need to check it with the colonel,” was Riley’s only reply to her words. “Let’s make a call.”
Sammy followed as Riley led the way over to a pay phone in the terminal. She could hear only his side of the conversation and was impressed that Riley gave his boss just the facts with no editorializing. Most men she’d met had seemed to feel that no matter what a woman said, they could think of a better idea.
“He wants to talk to you.” Riley held out the receiver.
“Mike, it’s Sammy.”
The colonel’s voice rumbled in her ear. “You heard what Riley told me?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I think it’s the only thing we can do,” she replied.
The colonel chuckled. “You sure have your daddy’s smarts. He was always a good one for coming up with some harebrained scheme. The amazing thing was that they usually worked. I’m alive today because a few of his ideas worked when mine wouldn’t have.
“I can’t order Riley to go with you. I’m going to tell him I’ll pay him double his usual salary, but that won’t mean much to him. If he decides to go, it’ll be because he wants to — not for money. That’s all I can do. If he decides against it, I suggest you two come here to my safe house and I’ll try using some of my contacts to sort out this shit storm. Is that all right?”
Sammy knew it was the best she was going to get. “Yes.”
“All right. Put him back on.”
She handed the phone to Riley; he listened for a few minutes, not saying a word. His eyes continually scanned the airport and the parking area outside.
“Talk to you later, sir.” Riley hung up the phone and then looked at her. “The colonel says your dad was in Special Forces. MACV-SOG. And he’s MIA.”
Sammy nodded.
Riley looked over her shoulder at the deserted ticket counters. “We won’t be able to get our tickets until they open up in a few hours. I say we get some sleep in the van before then. I also need to get rid of the gun. Can’t take it with us.”
Sammy held up her hand. “Tickets to where?”
Riley gave a hard smile. “Antarctica. Where else?”
Chapter 8
Bob Weaver was a third of the way through his in box when he came upon the encrypted fax from Falcon. He quickly decoded it and then stared at the resulting message for a few seconds before turning to his computer:
Request ID on Antarctic base, code-named Eternity Base.
Established 1971 by army. Investigative team dispatched P.M.
25th to locate Eternity Base.
Falcon 2200Z/11/25/96
Weaver accessed military records and quickly searched the database. After twenty minutes of fruitless effort, he was convinced of one thing: there was no record in the ISA’s classified database of an Eternity Base.
The Intelligence Support Agency was the military’s secret version of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA). Lavishly funded by the Pentagon’s multibillion dollar black budget and accountable to no one but the National Security Council, it had tentacles in every domestic and foreign source of information. The ISA was more than a gathering agency, though. It also acted on the information it received, implementing numerous covert actions both in the United States and overseas in the name of national security.
The ISA had contacts throughout the business world, men and women in critical places who worked with the ISA to forward the interests of the military and, concurrently, the massive industrial complex that supported the military. The ISA was the covert arm of the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower had so feared, and its power was far greater than even those briefed on its existence dared believe.
Weaver encoded a message and electronically dispatched it to Falcon’s handler, stationed in Atlanta. He had no idea when it would be relayed to Falcon, or even who Falcon was, but that wasn’t his responsibility. He picked up the next piece of paper in his in box and went to work on that.
The hand on her shoulder woke Sammy out of a deep sleep, and she was momentarily disoriented as she took in her surroundings.
“We’re boarding,” Riley said quietly. His eyes were red rimmed from not having slept at all, either in the van or in the terminal.
Sammy stood up and stretched. She had nothing but her wallet and the rumpled and stained clothes on her back. She’d managed to wash off most of the blood on her shirt and jeans in the airport ladies’ room, and since both garments were dark, what remained wasn’t noticeable.
Riley held out a newspaper and cup of coffee. “Not a thing in here about a body being found, so that’s good.”
Sammy accepted the paper and watched as the herd moved toward the boarding gate. “The colonel said you’d been in Special Forces.”
Riley nodded as he sipped his coffee. “I had almost twenty years in.”
“Officer or enlisted?”
“Enlisted, then warrant officer.”
“Why’d you get out?”
Riley looked at her for a second before replying brusquely. “I retired. Is that OK?” He didn’t know what Pike had told her and he didn’t want to talk.
“So you think I shouldn’t ask questions?”
Riley was surprised at her directness. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said. I mean, you asked me why I got out and I told you.”
Sammy relaxed. The loudspeaker in the waiting area announced final call for boarding. Riley pulled out the tickets. “Window or aisle?”
Sammy blindly grabbed one and looked at it. “Aisle.”
Conner threw bags into the back of the pickup truck while Vickers, Kerns, and Lallo carefully stowed the cases containing their electronic gear. It was hard to believe their seemingly never-ending flight from Hawaii was finally over.
Conner didn’t know what to make of Devlin. For some reason she’d remembered him differently. About six foot four, tanned, with blond hair cut in a carefully casual style and rugged good looks, he would have been perfect for one of those beer commercials — kayaking down whitewater rapids while several beautiful women awaited him at the other end. Perhaps that’s what bothered her. He looked as though he came from central casting. She hoped there was more to him than that.
There was a curious intensity about Devlin that was offset by a congenial, perfect smile. Conner had not remembered that smile, and it made her slightly uneasy. She had to give him credit for one thing, though — he ran a very smooth operation. Within forty-five minutes of landing, they had all their gear gathered together, were through customs, and were ready to move.
Conner slid in the passenger side of the pickup while Vickers and Lallo joined Kerns for the ride in the van. They rolled around the perimeter road of the runway until they came to a small hangar.
“Here we go,” Devlin announced, getting out and sliding the hangar doors open. They drove in and parked. Two planes were sheltered inside. Conner got out and joined the rest of her party.
“This is our bird,” Devlin announced, standing in front of the nose of a sleek-looking twin-engine plane. Conner noted the skis bolted on over the three wheels and the extra fuel tanks hanging under the wings. “And this is our pilot, Peter Swenson.”
The pilot, who was toiling over the left engine, acknowledged his introduction with a grimy wave. Swenson looked as though he’d done more than his share of hard living, his graying hair and lined face indicating a life spent in the outdoors. “Swenson was originally a bush pilot from Australia, but he’s done quite a few Antarctic runs for us,” Devlin added. “We’ll leave the gear here. Let’s move into the ready room and get coordinated.”