Driver shimmied down into the cockpit of the Covert, pulled down his harness, buckled in, hit the switch to engage the canopy with one hand, and shoved forward on the throttle with the other. The hissing sound of the canopy sealing was drowned out by the deafening roar of the twin Tumanski R-34s blasting to life.
He counted as the EH needles began to climb: 5,000, 7,500, 10,000.
He scanned the indicatorsoil pressure, hydraulicsand waggled the joystick. With no visual RrV, the pulsating green light indicated the reassuring movement in the V stabilizer and the telemetry displays sprang to life.
Mentally he was careening through a sequence that in the F-117 would have been second nature to him. He punched the sequencing switch and saw the fuel-flow pressure gauge level off at 5,000. He dropped his visor, bit down hard, and slammed the butt of his hand against the throttle. His head slammed back against the restraint and he felt the Covert rumble and surge forward. The G force was building.
As the Covert lurched from the hangar, it yawed and began to shudder. He eased back on the throttle and straightened the beast out as it catapulted out into the mercury-lamp-bathed wet tarmac. The taxi strip veered right and the 013 runway was straight ahead. The apron was wide, but the rain had intensified. The washback was blinding.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of Quan's armored personnel carriers hurtling toward him. He twisted the lumbering Covert violently to the right in an evasive maneuver just as the APC opened fire. The opening volley caught the canopy, splintering the Rmq, and the FLIR exploded in a barrage of fragmented acrylic and electronic components. He felt a hot, burning sensation in his shoulder, and through the tinted visor he saw a part of his G suit turn an ugly brown-black as the blood began seeping through. There was fire in his shoulder, and a bolt of pain raced down his arm, numbing the fingers of his left hand.
For Driver it was now or never. He began counting again. "Fifteen thousand, seventeen thousand.'' Pressure up. The indicator light was still red. "Dammit," he screamed, "Full up, you son of a bitch."
A second volley of shells slammed into the fuselage just as the green light began flickering in the fire stage. He slammed his hand against the throttle and plunged it to full stop. The Covert shuddered, lurched forward, and began to roll. The situation display on the CRT indicated alignment as the runway lights were absorbed in the swirling rain. He could feel his body being pinned deeper and deeper into the recesses of his seat as the G forces continued to build and the Covert began hurtling down the runway. Tiny pinpoints of light jetted by and he straightened the joy: flaps, lift, pull back, more throttle. No goddamn control tower on this one. His brain was processing the steady stream of information flashing across the GC–CRT. He was committed. All he needed now was for one of Quan's damned Komiskos to come limping into his flight path. Pull back, punch, lift. The Covert was rolling and vibrating. He could hear the plane shudder. Nose up. He stole glances at the ground-speed indicator and the altimeter. SLP, a steady.0047. Lift. Lift. The radio blared an incoherent stream of fragmented gibberish and static; voices betrayed confusion. The rain pounded against the broken canopythere was no visual, only a pencil-thin streak of light on the horizon. H-DR indicator red light blinking. Malfunction. Fuel pressure. Fuel pressure.
The Covert broke free and he was airbornebut the fuel-flow indicator was plunging. Harry Driver had no way of knowing that one of the shells from the APC had ruptured his fuel line.
Robert Miller stood at the window watching the rush-hour traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue slow to a crawl. It was a gray, overcast day and the light rain on the city served only to slow traffic even further. Behind him, on his desk, was a stack of reports he had been meaning to tackle for several days, and the congestion was a further impetus to get a few of them out of the way before he left for the day.
He had just turned to face the task when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver, slumped down in his chair, half expecting it to be his wife, Betty, wondering what time he would be home for dinner.
"Miller here," he said.
"Agent Miller?"
"You got him."
"This is Major Fanning of base security at Nellis Air Force Base."
Miller straightened in his chair. "Yes, Major, what can I do for you?"
Fanning hesitated. "Lieutenant General Belding, the base commander here at Nellis, suggested that I contact you. But before I begin…" He paused. "Is this line secure?"
"Secure on this end," Miller laughed, "or at least it was the last time we ran a check. Why? What's up."
Fanning was the cautious type. He weighed his words carefully. "You have a Colonel Harry Driver currently assigned to you TDY from 4450th TG?"
"Affirmative," Miller said. "But I'm not at liberty to discuss"
"Inside or outside the ZI?"
"Classified," Miller said. "What's this all about?"
Miller could hear a muffled exchange on the other end of the line before Fanning continued. This time his voice was only slightly less guarded. "What I'm about to tell you is extremely sensitive, Mr. Miller."
"I'm all ears," Miller said, sobering.
"Three days ago the body of a man was discovered some thirty miles from Nellis. The man had no affiliation with Nellis. The authorities believe the man died of a heart attack. During the routine investigation that followed, however, we uncovered certain documents that would lead us to believe the man was acting as an agent for foreign interests…"
"Go on," Miller urged.
"We also found papers that would indicate there has been some sort of ongoing relationship between the dead man and Colonel Harry Driver."
"What kind of relationship?"
Fanning cleared his throat. "Nothing conclusive," he hedged, "but we have reason to believe that Colonel Driver may be acting in the capacity of a foreign agent"
"For Christ's sake," Miller interrupted, "the man's a test pilot at Tonopah. He's been assigned to the F-117 program since the early nineties."
"The dead man was carrying top-secret file photos and classified information," Fanning said. "The file photos, all marked Top Secret, were signed out of FLT-OBS by Colonel Driver."
Miller let out a whistle. "Okay, I hear you, Major. But before I can release any information on Colonel Driver's whereabouts, I'll have to check signals with my superiors. As soon as I do, I'll get back to you."
Fanning hesitated again. Miller could hear him speaking to someone in the room with him. Then he came back on the line. He repeated two telephone numbers and gave Miller the name of the on-duty base security officer.
"Does it look incriminating?" Miller asked.
"Let me put it this way," Fanning said. "If we confirm our suspicions, this could make that CIA agent they caught last year in Washington look like kid's stuff." There was another pause before he said, "Well wait for your call."
Miller hung up and dialed Packer.
The ISA bureau chief answered on the third ring.
"Sorry to bother you at home, Pack, but I thought I'd better get right on this. Just got a call from the security detail at Nellis, Driver is being investigated…"
Packer laughed. "Harry always did have a way of irritating the head shed. What is it this time?"
"I think it may be a little more serious than pissing off the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee. According to the people at Nellis, it appears that our man Driver is suspected of consorting with some guy the folks at Nellis believe is a foreign agent."
"You're hedging, Bob."
"Nothing confirmed yet."
Packer was silent for a moment. "All the same, I think we better let Bogner know. Tell T.C. to keep an eye on him."