The committee members stood, gathered their belongings, and silently filed out of the room.
Watson started to leave. Stone stopped him. “Not you, Leaf.”
Watson faced the senator.
Nathan McBride’s father gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat. I’ve been in touch with the president. We have a few things to discuss.”
Nathan and Harv’s flight helmets crackled to life with the approach controller’s voice. “Helicopter Five-November-Charlie, contact Sacramento Executive tower on one-one-nine point five. Frequency change approved. Good night.”
From the left seat, Harv pressed a preset button containing the tower’s frequency and pulled the transmit trigger. “Sacramento Exec, Helicopter Five-November-Charlie is with you with information sierra.”
The tower’s response came back immediately. “Helicopter Five-November-Charlie, radar contact confirmed. Maintain heading and speed for landing on Taxiway Hotel. Advise upon two-mile final.”
Nathan made a slight course correction and eased the collective down a hair. Harv acknowledged the tower’s instructions. Although they could speak to each other any time they liked through the intercom system, Nathan hadn’t felt like talking much. He knew Harv was aware of his mood. There was little he could hide from his friend. He appreciated the distance given at times like this, but sooner or later, Harv would mention it, saying something like, You’ve been a little quiet lately, is something bugging you? Nathan planned on telling his friend what was bothering him, he just didn’t feel like doing it now.
As if on cue, Harv spoke. “You’ve been awfully quiet since we left San Diego. Want to talk about it?”
Well, there it was, out in the open where it belonged. No avoiding it now. “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about Ortega’s grandson, how much time’s passed since his last check-in.”
“You figure he’s been compromised and interrogated.”
“It pisses me off thinking about it. They probably tortured the shit out of the poor kid. Maybe still are.”
“That’s not the only thing bugging you.”
Nathan didn’t respond, didn’t have to.
“It’s how far Greg and Frank are willing to go to save James. You’re wondering why your father didn’t go to the same lengths to find you.”
Harv had hit pay dirt. That’s exactly what he’d been wondering. For many, many years. During his four-day crucifixion, he’d had lots of time to think about it. Hour after hour, then day after day, he kept waiting for the cavalry to arrive, hoping for the cavalry to arrive, praying for it to arrive. Toward the end, his prayers changed and death had been welcome.
“You okay?”
Nathan nodded. “I just don’t like my father knowing of our involvement. It makes this whole thing… I don’t know, seem dirty.”
“Come on, that’s not fair. The CDT is a vital part of the nation’s security. It’s an important job, being the chairman. Of course he’s involved.”
Nathan said nothing.
“Despite how you feel about him, Ortega was right. He is a good man.”
“He’s a politician. It’s all about money. The size of his damned war chest. Kissing babies is total BS. It’s all about campaign contributions. Television and radio time. Mass mailings. What’s the biggest issue facing a career politician? The economy? Crime? Unemployment? Illegal immigration? It’s none of those things. It’s getting reelected to another term. Can you believe he has the balls to send me campaign contribution letters?”
“Come on, that’s not fair either. Your dad cares about all those issues.”
“I suppose you’re right. Sorry, I’m just venting.”
“Your father, he really does that?”
“Does what?”
“The fund-raising thing? He sends you letters?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“I’d call it reaching out.”
“I call it reaching for my wallet.”
“Do you send him money?”
He knew he couldn’t lie to Harv and get away with it. “Yeah, I do. The maximum amount allowed for an individual. Every year.”
“No wonder he keeps sending them.”
Nathan grunted.
“It’s no different than any other profession,” Harv continued. “People want to keep their jobs. It’s hard work being a politician, especially on the federal level. They make a lot of personal sacrifices.”
Nathan knew all too well about the great Stonewall McBride’s personal sacrifices because he was one of them. He had an absentee dad during his childhood. Deep down, he’d come to terms with it, but there was still a sliver of resentment left over, like the smell of an extinguished candle. He didn’t hate his father, he just didn’t feel any kind of familial bond with him. How could he? He hardly knew the man. Diane Ortega’s comment was still fresh in his mind. Your father’s a lot like Frank, and you’re a lot like Greg.
“You should cut him some slack,” Harv said, “maybe try to patch things up.”
“You know, you’re the only person in the world I’d let say that to me, besides my mother.”
“Why do you think I said it? You need to hear it. He’s getting up there.”
Nathan said nothing.
“For your mother’s sake.”
They flew in silence for several minutes.
“Harv?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.” He turned on the Bell’s landing light a little early as a courtesy to the tower. They were now a bright spot in the sky, easy to see. “You did a great job on the radio through LA’s bravo airspace. You want to make the landing?”
“I do, but stay close to the controls, okay?”
“Will do.” Nathan spotted the airport’s beacon and made a tiny course change to put them on a straight-in final. Even as experienced and seasoned as he was, spotting the green-and-white flashing beacon of their destination airport at night was always a welcome sight. “Okay, she’s yours. You’ve got the controls.”
“I’ve got the controls,” Harv echoed.
“I’m on the radio,” Nathan said.
In the distance, Sacramento looked like a million multicolored jewels laid out on black velvet. Visibility was good at fifty miles plus, a positive aftermath of rain. At two miles, Nathan keyed the transmit trigger. “Helicopter Five-November-Charlie’s on a two-mile final.”
The tower gave them clearance to land on Taxiway Hotel.
Harv made a near-flawless approach, handling the two-and-a-half-ton Bell 407 with precision and confidence. His only hitch was slowing the helicopter down a little early. It wasn’t dangerous, but on a busy day with multiple aircraft in the pattern, the tower would probably ask for an expedited landing, meaning get your butt in gear and land. Harv set the ship down near the large white H painted on the tarmac just west of Taxiway Hotel as instructed. Two other helicopters were parked in the transient area, one of them a California Highway Patrol bird, the other a Department of Forestry firefighter. Nathan went through the shutdown procedure, cooling the engine and flipping avionic switches. The four seventeen-foot rotors slowly wound down.
“Nice job,” Nathan said, taking off his helmet.
“Thanks.”
While Nathan went through the shutdown procedure, Harv got out and checked the baggage compartment. He knew his friend was making sure everything was secure. Their duffel bags contained everything they’d need for tomorrow’s operation. Nathan’s Remington 700 was in a separate aluminum case. The duffels held their ammunition, binoculars, spotter’s scope, transmitter detector, woodland MARPAT uniforms, backpacks, bottled water, and perhaps the two most important items, their ghillie suits. A sniper’s ghillie suit was an amazing piece of gear. Once donned, it broke up the sharp-edged outline of a human body by employing thousands of shaggy, tattered pieces of fabric that hung in random disarray from every square inch of its surface. The wearer ended up looking like the Swamp Thing from the classic comic book series. Harv returned with their overnight bags.