'I heard the tape yesterday,' says Tucker. 'Not much to go on there. Dave reported the hydraulics problem about fifteen minutes out of Portland. They were using the civil airport because Munsen had come down for that conference . . .'
'Yeah,' says Baedecker. 'Then he decided to stay another day.'
'Right,' says Tucker. 'Dave went east alone, reported the hydraulics glitch about fifteen minutes out, and made his turn about a minute later. Then the goddamned starboard engine overheated and shut down. That was about eight minutes out, I think, on the way back. Portland International was closer so they went with that. There was some ice buildup, but that wouldn't have been serious if he could have climbed out of it. Dave didn't do too much talking, and the controller sounds like a young asshole. Dave reported seeing lights just before he went down.' Baedecker swallows the last of his Scotch and sets the glass on the liquor cart. 'Did he know he was going in?' Tucker frowns again. 'Hard to say. He wasn't saying much, asking for altitude confirmation mostly. The Portland Center controller reminded him that the ridges ran up to five thousand feet around there. Dave acknowledged and said that he was coming out of cloud at sixty-two hundred and could see some lights. Then nothing until they lost him on radar a few seconds later.'
'What was his voice like?'
'Gagarin all the way,' says Tucker.
Baedecker nods. Yuri Gagarin, the first man to orbit the earth, had died in a crash of a MiG during a routine training flight in March of 1968. Word had spread through the test-flying community of the extraordinary calmness of Gagarin's voice on tape as he flew the flamed-out MiG into an empty lot between homes in a crowded suburb. It was only after Baedecker had gone to the Soviet Union as part of an administrative team a year before the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project that he heard from a Soviet pilot that Gagarin had gone down in a remote forest area and the cause of the crash had been listed as 'pilot error.' There were rumors of alcohol. There had been no voice tape. Still, among test pilots of Baedecker's and Tucker's generation, 'Gagarin all the way' remained the ultimate compliment of coolness in an emergency.
'I just don't get it,' says Tucker and there is anger in his voice. 'The T-38's the safest goddamn plane in the goddamn Air Force.' Baedecker says nothing.
'It averages two goddamn accidents per one hundred thousand hours in the air,' says Tucker. 'Name me one other supersonic aircraft with that sort of record, Dick.' Baedecker crosses to the window and looks out. It is still raining.
'And it doesn't matter a goddamn bit, does it?' says Tucker. He pours himself a third drink. 'It never does, does it?'
'No,' says Baedecker. 'It doesn't.' There is a knock and Katie Wilson enters. Tucker's wife, frizzy-blond and sharp-featured, at first might be mistaken for an aging cocktail waitress with little on her mind, but then one would notice the sharp intelligence and alert sensitivity behind the heavy makeup and southern drawl. 'Richard,' she says, 'I'm glad you're back.'
'Sorry I'm so late,' he says.
'Diane wants to talk to you,' says Katie. 'I made her get ready for bed because I knew she'd be up all night playing the perfect hostess otherwise. She's been awake for forty-eight hours straight, and her due date is in another week, for heaven's sake.'
'I won't keep her up long, Katie,' says Baedecker and goes up the stairs.
Diane Muldorff is in her robe, sitting in a blue chaise longue, reading a magazine. She looks very pregnant to Baedecker. She beckons him in.
'I'm glad you're here, Richard.'
'Sorry I'm so late, Di,' he says. 'I rode up to McChord with Bill Munsen and Stephen Fields.' Diane nods and sets the magazine down. 'Close the door, will you, Richard?' He does so and then comes closer to sit on the low chair near her dresser. He looks at her. Diane's dark hair is freshly brushed, her cheeks pink from a recent scrubbing, but her eyes cannot hide the fatigue and sorrow of the past few days.
'Will you do me a favor, Richard?'
'Anything,' Baedecker says truthfully.
'Colonel Fields, Bob the others they've promised to keep me informed about the crash investigation . . .' She breaks off.
Baedecker watches her and waits.
'Richard, will you look into it yourself? I mean, not just follow the official inquiry, but look into it yourself and tell me everything you find out?' Baedecker hesitates a second, puzzled, and then he reaches across and takes her hand. 'Of course I will, Di. If you want me to. But I doubt that I'll find anything that the Crash Board won't.' Diane nods, but her grip is cool and insistent. 'But you'll try?'
'Yes,' says Baedecker.
Diane touches her cheek and looks down as if suddenly dizzy. 'There are so many little things,' she says.
'What do you mean?' asks Baedecker.
'Things I don't understand,' she says. 'David took the helicopter out to Lonerock, did you know that?'
'No.'
'The weather got worse so he came back in the car we'd stored there,' she says. 'But why did he go there at all?'
'I thought he worked on his book out there,' says Baedecker.
'He was supposed to stop by Salem one night after the fund-raising meeting in Portland,' Diane says. 'Instead, he flew out to Lonerock when the house was all closed up. We weren't planning to stay there until weeks after the baby was born.' Baedecker touches her arm, holds it gently.
'Richard,' she says, 'did you know that David's cancer had returned? I did-n't think he had told anyone, but I thought perhaps he might have called . . .'
'I didn't even have a phone where I was, remember, Di?' he says. 'You had to send that telegram.'
'Yes, I remember,' she says, her voice ragged with exhaustion. 'I just thought . . . He didn't tell me, Richard. His doctor in Washington is a friend . . . He called the day after the accident. The disease had spread to David's liver and bone marrow. They had wanted to do a complete chemotherapy treatment in the spring, using a combination of drugs called MOPP. David had refused. That kind of chemotherapy causes sterility in most cases. Dave had had some radiation and the laparotomy, I knew that. I didn't know about the other . . .'
'Dave told me in October that they were pretty sure they'd caught it all,' says Baedecker.
'Yes,' says Diane, 'they found it again just before Christmas. David didn't tell me. He was supposed to have a flight physical next week. He never would have passed it.'
'Richard!' comes Katie's voice up the stairs. 'Telephone!'
'In a minute,' calls Baedecker. He takes Diane's hand again. 'What are you thinking, Di?' She looks directly at him. In spite of her tiredness and pregnancy, she does not look vulnerable to Baedecker, only beautiful and determined.
'I want to know why he went out to Lonerock when he didn't have to,' she says firmly. 'I want to know why he flew that T-38 by himself when he could have waited a few hours for a commercial flight. I want to know why he stayed in that plane when he must have known it was going down.' Diane takes a breath and smoothes her robe. She squeezes his hand hard enough for it to be painful. 'Richard, I want to know why David is dead rather than here with me waiting for our child to be born.' Baedecker stands up. 'I promise I'll do my best,' he says. He kisses her on the forehead and helps her up. 'Come on now, get in bed and go to sleep. You're going to have guests for breakfast. I may be out early, but I'll call you before I come back.' Diane looks at him as he pauses by the door. 'Good night, Richard.'
'Good night, Di.' Downstairs, Katie is waiting for him. 'It's long distance, Richard. I told them to call back, but they're waiting.' He walks into the kitchen to take it there. 'Thanks, Kate,' he says. 'Know who it is?'
'Someone named Maggie,' calls Katie. 'Maggie Brown. She says that it's important.'