Dar opened the sheet of paper and began, “A classified experimental aircraft under the cognizance of the Department of Defense was stolen two nights ago from a government test facility in New York State. The aircraft was unarmed in the military sense, but the pilot was believed to be armed. He took one hostage, believed to be a young woman, whose identity isis being withheld at present.
“The military services, using means that are also highly classified, tracked and finally intercepted the aircraft as it was flying west over the Gulf of Mexico at approximately one-fifteen p.m., Central Daylight Time today. Though the experimental craft was forced down, every precaution was taken to protect the life of the hostage. The stolen aircraft was seen briefly after crash-landing in the Gulf, but we have not yet recovered the wreckage nornor the occupants. We do have reason to think that the occupants were forced down unhurt; I repeat, unhurt, thanks to razor-sharp precision by naval aviators.” There, Commander, I’ve paid for dinner at Brennan’s.
“At this hour we are making every possible effort to recover the aircraft and its passengers. The rescue and recovery mission will continue through the night. I have nothing more to report at this time,” Dar ended. The place was bedlam before the last word was out of his mouth: waving hands, shouts, flashbulbs.
As Dar folded the paper and began to turn away, the noise increased as suddenly as in a sports stadium. He faced them again and pointed to a tall, plain-faced woman who looked as if she might be there for better reasons than television cosmetics.
“Louise Gardner, Atlanta Constitution, Mr. Weston. Would you comment on the report that the stolen airplane is actually a new type of stealth weapon system or a CIA airplane like the U-2?”
Some sensation here, but not enough to suggest the idea was new to most of them. “It is not a military stealth aircraft, Ms. Gardner. It is a civilian research craft, something along the lines of NASA’s ‘X’ series which studied flight regimes of interest to the Department of Defense. It was not designed to carry weapons, and it is not a CIA project. Our major concern is for the hostage, not for an ultralight experimental airplane.” Judging that he had dodged that one nicely, he pointed to another hand.
A young man in rimless glasses, with sweat pouring into his eyes, called, “What can you tell us about the hijacker?”
Dar knew that his face betrayed him then. He pretended his reaction was frustration and not hostility. “We simply don’t know enough yet. He used identification of a man known to be deceased; not a very imaginative tactic. But it’s obvious that he was no young thrill-seeker.” As an attempt at wry humor, that last sally failed. Dar pointed toward an exquisite creature with an Asiatic face and an NBC cameraman at her shoulder, but his gesture was misinterpreted by a pale old veteran newsman next to herprobably by intent.
“Garrison Pyle, Denver Post, “said the veteran in a voice like a bullhorn. “We hear the hostage is close kin to someone very high in U.S. intelligence. Care to confirm or deny?”
Dar gave himself a long breath. Then, “I’ve heard it too, Mr. Pyle. No comment at this time.” He chose one of the beautiful people next; this one happened to be male. “Jeremy Cotton, for WWL: can you tell us why the hijacker shot and killed a grocery clerk near Lake City, Florida?”
This has the earmarks of a man who knows less than he shows, Dar thought. Media reporters, like trial attorneys, often phrased questions as “fishing expeditions”; as if they had knowledge, when they had only surmises. “I wasn’t there, Mr. Cotton; I can’t even say with assurance if the hijacker shot anyone.” Though Jeremy Cotton seemed ready to revise his question, Dar had already looked elsewhere. “Time for one more question, ladies and gentlemen, it’s been a long day. You, sir, with the tan I envy. And the loose tie. Yes,” he nodded, doing his best to charm a roomful of ferrets. Maybe he had swivel-hipped his way through this without adding to the Company’s troubles.
Yevgeni Melnik did not identify himself. After all, it was not a formal press conference. “If the aircraft belongs to the Department of Defense, but is not military; and if you are well positioned in science and technology; and if this stealth craft is not CIA: then who did build it, and why did they not trust the CIA to do what it did so well with the U-2 and SR-71?”
In the ensuing hush, Dar heard himself swallow. There it is, he admitted. That swarthy little jerk even reminded everybody of my position; so if I say I don’t know, everyone concludes I’m either lying or incompetent, which is the Company man’s classic dilemma. Well, I haven’t forgotten how to dodge behind an organization chart, buddy. “I’m only one of several deputies. And other divisions work with different government agencies. No reason why the answers would come to my desk until that aircraft was operational.” A lie, but not a palpable one.
“It seems to have operated very well,” said the little man, getting a laugh.
“Not as well as our detection systems,” Dar replied evenly, aware that he was at that moment as much a spreader of disinformation as the Soviets, who invented the word. “Thank you,” he said then, and strode from the room, ignoring the entreaties of fifty other people. I should’ve asked that little fellow what kind of accent he had, Dar thought, now that the time for such a riposte had irretrievably passed. I think I know, and I’m sure he would’ve lied, but he was inviting those other people to go for this country’s throat. At least our media hotshots should get a hint, now and then, who’s issuing the invitations.
THIRTY-THREE
As long as they flew straight into sun dazzle, its hard brilliance was only an irritant; but after they veered southwest, keeping the endless sandy worm of Matagorda Island off their right wingtip, the sun dominated the horizon in regal splendor, imperceptibly shading to orange as it slid down the sky. Petra allowedwelcomed!the sense of wonderment that began to steal over her as she floated between sky and sea in virtual silence. A lovely sense of power; no, of freedom, as if I might fly into the sun itself if I chose. Perhaps I’m beginning to understand this man, perhaps he has no intention of turning this magical gossamer beast over to anyone, ever. There was only one thing missingwell, perhaps two. “Kyle, would you mind if I flew it for a few minutes?” He had not spoken for a long time, restlessly checking digital readouts, using the scanner in an empty sky, tempting fate in his efforts to hug the water. “What for?”
“You were happy enough for me to do it yesterday, when you were trying to”
“I’m not objecting, Petra,” he rumbled lazily, and from his tone she wondered if he was feeling the same magical timeless sense of peace. “Just asking why.” He pulled up to fifty-foot altitude, checking their fuel counter for the umpteenth time.
“I want to. Humor me, dammit.” She beamed when she saw him nod.
“Steady on,” he said as she pinned her control stick into place. “You’ve got a throttle there, but don’t goose it too much. We’re down to twenty pounds of fuel.”
She knew he watched with a critical eye as she eased the throttle forward but not too briskly, moving the stick, feeling the vast wings respond as Black Stealth One swung to and fro, a stately waltz for a dying sun. Then she eased back, felt the craft settle, and presently realized that if she wanted to come down any nearer to the water, she would have to cut back further on power or force the hellbug’s nose down. “This is ground effect?”