“It was,” Boomer said.
“You just didn’t know that Senator Jordan was pulling the strings through Decker for his own motives.”
“Son of a bitch,” Skibicki muttered.
“Son of a bitch.”
Maggie pulled herself out of Trace’s arms and wiped her eyes with a tissue.
“Will it ever end?”
“General Maxwell, and through him, the President believe it’s over now,” Boomer said.
“They’ve closed the book on this.”
“Who has the diary?” Skibicki asked.
“Senator Jordan,” Trace replied.
“No shit,” Skibicki said.
“It worked just like he wanted.”
Boomer stood.
“Any word on what happened at Hooker’s quarters?”
“Keyes and his men were killed,” Skibicki said.
“Vasquez was killed too.”
“I’m sorry,” Boomer said.
“I’m responsible for her,” Skibicki said.
“I got her involved.
They found her body in there, along with a whole bunch of people at Hooker’s V.I.P quarters. The people in the tunnel have broken everything down. Security folks at Pearl and Hickam are going crazy, what with the attack on the quarters and Looking Glass going down.”
“Maxwell will cover all that,” Boomer said.
“Hooker?” he asked again.
“His body hasn’t been found yet. His jet’s at Hickam.”
“I think they closed the book too fast,” Boomer said.
“If Keyes and his men are all dead, who do they think fired the last shot?”
“If Hooker’s still alive, I want him,” Skibicki said.
“He’ll want to get out of here,” Boomer said.
“Hickam,” Skibicki said, standing.
“Hooker and Jordan,” Skibicki said, glaring out the windshield of his jeep at the Learjet.
“Like you said in the tunnel, they think they’re fucking God. That they can use people, kill them, just to fit whatever plans they dream up.”
The jet appeared to be deserted. They were parked off the end of the runway, about 200 feet from it. Boomer didn’t know — what to say to Skibicki. He himself was overwhelmed with all he had learned and experienced over the past several days. He couldn’t imagine how Skibicki felt after learning about Jordan and hearing about Vasquez’s death.
“He knew about Pearl. Hell, they both knew about it,” Skibicki said.
“Hooker and his pals might as well have been in Tokyo working with the Japanese Imperial staff.
Then Jordan — fucking Jordan — allowed it to happen. He killed my sister!” Skibicki pounded the dashboard with his fist. Plastic splintered and blood seeped out where the skin tore. Boomer remained silent, watching the jet. Trace was in the back seat, but she’d been quiet ever since they’d left Maggie’s.
Boomer tapped the sergeant major as a bus pulled up to the plane and two pilots stepped off. The bus pulled away as the two men began pre-flighting the aircraft.
“Someone’s going somewhere,” Boomer said.
“No they ain’t,” Skibicki vowed. He reached under his seat and pulled out the Calico.
“There’s air police all around,” Boomer warned.
“We’ll have to take him quietly.”
Skibicki didn’t answer. His eyes were two black beads, peering straight at the jet. One of the pilots climbed in. The other removed the chocks from the wheels.
Boomer looked around. A van was coming down the flight line. It stopped to the side of the jet. The driver hopped out and opened the side door. He offered his arm and an old man gingerly stepped out.
“That’s Hooker,” Skibicki said. He started to get out of the jeep.
“Hold it,” Boomer said, grabbing his arm.
“What are you going to do?”
“End it.” Skibicki pulled back the bolt on the Calico.
“This won’t end it,” Boomer said.
“I’ll end part of it.” He looked at Boomer.
“The rest is on you.” He shrugged off Boomer’s hand. He began jogging toward the jet.
“Stop him!” Trace slapped Boomer on the back.
“No one can stop him,” Boomer said. They watched helplessly as Skibicki got closer to the plane.
The driver saw Skibicki first. He had Hooker in his arms.
He pushed the old man toward the stairs leading into the plane, and one of the pilots grabbed Hooker. The driver reached under his jacket for a weapon, but Skibicki, who was now only fifty meters away fired a burst. The rounds caught the driver in the chest, flipping him backwards.
Boomer looked to his right. An Air Police vehicle was racing toward the scene. At the jet, the pilot was lifting Hooker inside. Boomer could hear the jet engines running.
The other pilot was at the controls.
Skibicki was in an all-out sprint now. He fired at the cockpit and Plexiglas shattered. He was only ten meters away and must have been out of ammunition because he threw down the Calico.
The police car screeched to a halt at the wingtip and the two cops leaped out, weapons at the ready.
“Freeze!” they both screamed.
Skibicki ignored them. The co-pilot jumped between him and Hooker, who was leaning against the stairs. Skibicki went through him like he wasn’t there, his fists flailing, the man falling to the ground.
A knife appeared in Skibicki’s hand and he grabbed Hooker drawing him toward him.
“Drop the knife!” the cops yelled, edging closer.
“Shoot him!” Hooker called out.
“I am General Hooker, and I order you to shoot him!”
Skibicki smiled. He drew the knife across Hooker’s throat, and blood gushed forth. The police shot, the rounds knocking Skibicki back against the skin of the plane. He slid down, his body on top of Hooker’s.
Boomer slumped back in the seat. Other Air Police cars were arriving, surrounding the jet.
“We need to get out of here,” Trace said gently.
“Boomer?”
“Yeah.” Boomer pressed the starter for the jeep, put it into gear, and slowly drove away.
They were silent for a while, until Trace spoke.
“Skibicki was right.”
“About what?” Boomer wearily asked.
“About not letting it go. About not letting this disappear into the blackness of secrecy again.”
“Hooker’s dead,” Boomer said.
“It’s over.”
“No, it’s not over,” Trace said.
“What are we going to do?” Boomer asked.
“Whatever we can,” Trace said.
“Whatever we can.”
CHAPTER 31
Having gained sufficient altitude. Senator James Jordan turned on the autopilot of his Learjet 25B and leaned back in the pilot’s seat. He was on his way back to Washington after Christmas break in Vermont. He had returned home to Vermont for Christmas for the past forty-two years.
The jet was his pride, and joy and had almost cost him the election four years ago. His opponent had pointed to it as a sign that Jordan had lost touch with the common man of Vermont. Jordan had been forced to retaliate by trotting out the trip logs for the aircraft proving that his ownership of the plane had actually saved the taxpayers money because he used it for much of his professional traveling at his own expense.
Jordan looked out the right window of the cockpit at the Green Mountains. There was a fresh covering of snow, and he could see skiers sliding down the slopes of Sugarbush.
There was a scraping noise from the back of the plane and Jordan’s head snapped around, staring at the door leading to the main cabin. He frowned as he stood up. Some of his baggage must have fallen over. He hadn’t used the cargo compartment since he had the entire plane to himself.