Boomer followed the edge of the jungle until he was directly behind Maggie’s house. He hoped no nosey neighbor was watching as he strode directly across her back yard, grabbed a hold of the deck and pulled himself up. The sliding glass door was unlocked as he had hoped, and he let himself in.
There had been no sign of Skibicki or Vasquez in their camp site in Waiwi, so Boomer had continued south. He needed to get a hold of Skibicki and figure out what to do next. Maybe Vasquez could come up with some new information.
Boomer walked through the living room, glancing at the phone. He went down the hall, and the half-open door to Maggie’s bedroom beckoned.
Boomer glanced in and saw a silver-framed picture among several on the table next to the bed. He stepped into the room for a closer look. A much younger Maggie, dressed in a bright sundress was standing with a young man in a Navy uniform, his two stripes of gold braid indicating he was a relatively low-ranking officer.
There was something vaguely familiar about the officer but the man’s eyes were shielded by the visor of his dress hat.
Maggie had a stroller in front of her with a baby in it and she was looking at the camera. In the backdrop, Boomer could see the hills of Oahu and Pearl Harbor.
Something caught Boomer’s eyes and he peered at the background more closely. He could make out Ford Island and numerous cranes on the island, dipping down into the water. There was a metal object poking out of the water and Boomer could swear it was-“Find something interesting?” Maggie asked from the doorway.
Boomer spun, embarrassed to have been caught snooping, the picture in his hand. Maggie glanced down at it, then pulled a cigarette out of her purse and lit it.
Boomer handed her the picture.
“I thought your daughter was killed in the raid on Pearl.” He pointed at the picture.
“There’s a child here, and it looks like the Arizona is sunk in the background of this picture and—”
“It is,” Maggie said. She walked over and took it from him.
“That’s Jimmie, my lover. Or more appropriately at the time of that picture, my former lover. George was at sea as usual when that was taken. And the child is Peter.
Jimmie’s son,” she added.
“Ski’s older brother, half brother to be more exact.”
Boomer blinked, and Maggie gave a sad smile.
“Oh, I ended the affair after the seventh when Grace died. But Peter, he was my answer to all that happened that day. I knew as soon as I found out I was pregnant that it had happened the night of the sixth.
George knew it wasn’t his — the timing and all. But he never said a word and raised Peter as his own.”
She tapped the photo.
“That’s the last day I ever talked to Jimmie. It was about a year and a half after the attack and he was doing something with his new job. We decided it was best if he moved on and we both forgot. Jimmie’s done real well with himself. I guess a lot of people are attracted to him.
He had me under his spell for a long time.
But he forgot and so did I, and I don’t want Ski to know, and, well, now I guess I’m just rambling.
“Peter died in Vietnam in 1966 with the 1st Cavalry Division in the la Drang valley. Like I told you — I lost one generation each way.”
Boomer wanted to know more about Jimmie and Pearl Harbor, but her mood told him it would have to be later.
Maggie took the picture and put it back next to the others on her nightstand.
“All I’ve known is military men, and I’m tired of it.” She led Boomer out of the bedroom.
“It’s just death and more death.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another.
“You want to find Ski, right?.”
“Yes.”
“He’s not here, and he won’t be back. If you look out the front window you’ll see a van parked down the street, keeping an eye on the house. I assume you came the back way since I was on the front porch watching the watchers.
Your best bet is to go out that way and go to the campsite in Waiwa.”
“I’ve already been there,” Boomer said.
“Last I spoke to him,” Maggie said, “Ski said he’ll be in and out of there sometime tonight.”
“What’s he doing?” Boomer asked.
Maggie sighed.
“Everything he can to stop these people, son, everything he can. Now you’d better get going too, before they come looking for you here.”
An hour later. Boomer was settled into the vegetation next to the campsite. With night coming. Boomer settled down for a long wait, praying that Skibicki would turn up sooner rather than later.
Senator Jordan rubbed a hand across his forehead.
“So what are you trying to tell me. General Maxwell?” he demanded.
Maxwell was not in the best of moods either.
“I have not been able to find where they took Major Watson. I’ve checked his file and talked to his commander at Bragg. He’s got an excellent record. I’ve checked on the information he gave us and as I told you earlier, I can neither confirm or negate it. I’d like to talk to him again.”
“Why don’t you just drop this whole thing?” Jordan asked.
“Because we finally heard something. I received a phone call a little while ago from a Sergeant Major Skibicki. He said that a plane with Major Trace and proof will be arriving sometime after midnight,” General Maxwell said.
Jordan leaned back in his chair.
“All right. I’ll arrange for Major Trace to be met at the airport and for her evidence to be brought here. As for Major Watson, he’s in the hands of the military. He’s not our problem any more.”
Skibicki glanced at the glowing hands on his watch and steadied his breathing. Another ten seconds. He checked the rope one last time, even though he had tied the knots himself and was confident they were secure. He looked down into the hangar. The large bulk of Air Force One loomed in the bright lights illuminating the inside of the hangar.
Vasquez tapped him on the shoulder and held up ten fingers.
“Ten seconds, sergeant major.”
Those lights went off exactly on schedule, as did all of Hickam Field and half of Pearl Harbor. Skibicki pulled up the night vision goggles that had been hanging on a string around his neck. He stood, climbed over the edge and carefully lowered himself into the vent, allowing the rest of the rope running from the snap link in the front of his waist harness to fall onto the top of the plane. He leaned back and extended his right arm, releasing the friction brake of the snap link pressure, and he slid down the rope. He’d rappeled hundreds of times, and even with the distorted depth perception of the goggles, he slid all the way, braking in perfect timing, just five feet above the top of the aircraft fuselage. He slowly dropped the remaining distance and landed just in front of the intake for inflight refueling.
Skibicki knelt and looked into the intake. He saw a small, plastic-wrapped package. He pulled off the leather gloves he’d worn for rappeling and carefully felt around the package.
It was covered in adhesive, but there seemed to be no obvious external anti-handling devices. Of course, Skibicki knew, that didn’t mean it might not have some sophisticated device on the inside, but he doubted that. They wanted it to go off once the plane was in the air, which meant the bomb had to be able to survive take off. He figured the odds were that the detonator was set to go off at a predetermined altitude.
It was the way he would have designed it.
Using a knife, Skibicki carefully pried the bomb loose, then tucked it into a small backpack, which he threw across his shoulders. He pulled two chumars off a snap link on the side of his harness and hooked them into the rope. The chumars locked into place, one-way metal devices that he could push up, but then they would hold against downward pressure. Nylon straps were attached to the chumars with loops on the end that he stuck his feet through. He slid the left hand one up as far as he could reach, then stepped up, levering himself up with a leg.