“Judgment call,” Sheppard said. “But it may be in Canada already, or near the border.” He shifted position to peer at Dar. “Do you know how much I hate this, Weston?”
One of the telephones rang. Before Dar could reach it, Terry Unruh had snaked an arm out. “Ops center; Bumblebee here.”
He’s already given us code names for this, thought Dar. And I don’t even know mine yet. “For the record, the DCI has made the hostage’s welfare the prime factor. I won’t pretend I’m not relieved.”
Unruh, holding the phone against his chest, said, “Mr. Ullmer: Black Stealth One runs on aviation gas?”
“One hundred, one-thirty,” Ullmer nodded. Dar thought he saw something in Unruh’s face: fear, or excitement.
Unruh persisted, “Could it fly from here to Sugar Grove, West Virginia, without refueling?”
Dar’s “Christ! Have they found her?” was lost among two other voices.
Ben Ullmer knocked his chair over getting to the ladder, where he stretched the tape. “It’s an easy reach,” he said over his shoulder.
“Fifteen gallons of avgas were stolen early this morning from the chopper pad up the valley from your own facility in Sugar Grove,” Unruh said. “With your permission, I’m going to call for a microsearch of the area,” he said, looking at Dar.
“Do it,” said Dar and Sheppard simultaneously.
While Unruh spoke earnestly into the phone, Dar strode to the map. He watched Ullmer swing an arc from Sugar Grove to St. Louis, past Memphis, then southeast to Jacksonville, Florida. Then the grease pencil dashed a straight line starting at Elmira, passing through Sugar Grove. The line continued through Tallahassee and, with Ullmer squatting to complete the line, into the Gulf of Mexico.
Dar’s smile was not very convincing as he turned to Sheppard. “Not much to go on, is it?”
“No. Not enough to send us chasing down a grease-pencil line in a Lear,” Sheppard agreed.
Unruh cradled the phone and looked up from his notes as Dar patted his shoulder. “You sent out a query for thefts of avgas, I take it,” said Dar.
“By way of the Feebs,” said Unruh, “I mean the Bureau.”
“Quick thinking,” said Sheppard.
“Very,” Unruh assented, “an hour ago. But not mine. Mr. Ullmer’s assistant, Marie. Said if I didn’t, she’d ask them herself.”
Ben Ullmer had a laugh like a farm pump, and did not use it often. “She would,” he said, subsiding. “Any other suspicious stuff like that?”
“Since early today, only two more reported,” Unruh said. “A holdup for five gallons of unleaded in Queens, and a hot-wired station pump in Algona, Iowa.”
“Hey, wait a minute. That Iowa thing just might be possible,” said Ullmer, glaring at the map.
Unruh: “For diesel fuel?”
Ullmer’s baleful look said he’d been swindled. “Another good call. How’d you know it couldn’t be diesel?”
Unruh blinked. “Well, I didn’t think airplanes used it.”
“Not many do,” Ullmer said grudgingly. “Bill, if it comes to a vote on the hostage”
“Only two votes count here,” Sheppard cut in, checking his wristwatch. His meaning was clear: CIA and NSA. And every second of delay counted against them. Sheppard threw his pencil down and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Weston, I’ll compromise if you will. I’ll reinstate the phrase that prohibits forcing it down.”
“If?”
“If you’ll agree to taking it down, any way possible, the moment we have solid evidence that it’s within a hundred miles of our borders.”
“The shoreline is a border. Fifty miles,” Dar countered. “Solid evidence means visual contact.”
“Would you compromise on seventy-five?”
An agonized pause. “If I must,” Dar sighed.
With a single abrupt nod, Sheppard committed himself. “Agreed. Here, get this thing into the computer,” he said, handing the printout to Ullmer.
“I’ll take it to the Bureau,” Unruh said, waiting for Ben to make erasures. “It goes to everybody with dedicated aircraft, right? Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Coast Guard, Air National Guard units, and state highway patrols.”
Dar nodded and felt a massive weight lift from his shoulders as Unruh darted out. At least he’d bought Petra a little time.
Dar, studying the map, mused, “We may be able to limit the individual states’ involvement to those along the Eastern seaboard. The governors have the power to refuse, you know.”
“That’s what martial law is for,” Sheppard snapped. “It would also let us ground all private aircraft. Make the job a lot easier.”
Dar almost laughed. “You can’t.”
“The hell you say,” Sheppard said, perplexed.
“Ex parte Milligan, Supreme Court decision,” Dar explained quickly. “Martial law can’t be applied where the civil courts are functioning. I hear they’re still in business, Bill.”
“I didn’t know you were a lawyer.”
“I’m not. I’ve just heard the argument in Security Council meetings. Personally I’d declare martial law myself if I could. I guess that’s why the court said ‘no.’”
The telephone buzzed. “What’s my code name on this?” Sheppard asked.
“Christ, I don’t know,” Dar said, and grabbed the receiver. “Ops center, Bumblebee here,” he lied.
Ullmer and Sheppard watched in silence. “My God, that’s wonderful,” he said, closing his eyes as if in prayer. “Certainly didn’t take you long. Any other tidbits? … It’s enough. Well done; you’ve earned a commendation.” He simply could not remain seated, but stood up, stretching, wiping his face to remove the moisture at the corners of his eyes.
“Well?” Sheppard was a patient man, but within limits.
“They’re analyzing fresh human excrement and scuff marks less than a mile from the chopper pad. And they’ve found a piece of duct tape. With right thumb and forefinger prints of the hostage, clear and unequivocal.”
Ullmer was up instantly. “Let’s fire up that Lear and fly down the line,” he said, pointing to the wall map.
“This is my post for the duration,” Sheppard said to Dar. “Weston, this isn’t an official objection butwhat can you do in a Learjet that a squadron of naval aviators can’t do better?”
Dar, without hesitation: “Make decisions about what that squadron does.”
“Well, this is official, from Dernza: we doubt you’re the right man to make those decisions in a midair confrontation. I just wanted you to know.”
“Let’s leave the second-guessing for debriefing, shall we?” Dar’s voice was tight, but steady.
Sheppard, softly: “No offense intended. You’re leaving Unruh here?”
“As my deputy,” Dar nodded, feeling the surge of adrenaline course down his arms and legs.
“And, Ben,” Sheppard continued as the others reached for luggage, “don’t make me ask for frequent bulletins.”
“We’ll keep you in the loop,” Dar said, pausing at the edge of a partition. “I still don’t even know our code names yet. You’ll find Unruh is so efficient it’ll scare you.”
SEVENTEEN
”We’re turning,” the girl said, looking up from the video monitor.
“Can’t fool you for a minute,” he said laconically, easing the stick upright again. With no power-assist for the controls, the craft needed severe steering and more muscle power than Corbett liked. Have to bitch at Medina about that, he thought idly. And he’ll tell me I’m just getting old, and we’ll both be right. He kept an eye on the contrails on his western horizon, four fast jets streaking north at medium altitude.
“Your repartee stinks, Corbett.”
“You’re just browned because you can’t find the paint program either,” he said, and saw her jaw tighten. “Look, I’m sorry; I know it’s frustrating. And we’re turning a few points southeast because there’s usually choppy air over Atlanta.”