The mechanic ran the tips of his index and middle fingers over a spot at the bottom of the fuselage, closely holding a flashlight on it with his other hand. Then he rubbed the fingers against his thumb and sniffed them.
"Got a whiff of Skydol, and there's some on my finger from outside the actuating cylinder.'.' He pulled his head out from beneath the plane to look up at Gordian. "Can't tell anything from that alone, though, since you're always going to have some minor fluid loss. I'm going to need to get in and check the whole circuit. From the sequence valves to the main system line."
Gordian squatted down beside him.
"I want to know what went wrong, Mike," he said. Then, thinking about Max Blackburn, he decided to follow a hunch. "Do me a favor and check for any signs of tampering, will you? Four people almost lost their lives today because of me. Four of my dearest friends."
Mike turned off the flash, rolled out from beneath the plane, and stood, wiping the fluid residue from his hand with a rag.
"Maybe this is only a groundhog's way of seeing it," he said, "but from what you told me a couple minutes ago, I'd say it was you who saved their lives, sir."
Gordian shook his head.
"It isn't a matter of perspective," he said tersely. "Federal aviation regulations state the pilot in command has ultimate accountability for the aircraft. And for the safety of its passengers. Makes no difference whether they were jeopardized because of a sloppy preflight in San Jose, a mechanical failure in the air, my own judgment, or a combination of factors. I am responsible for everything that happens in the air."
Mike looked at him without speaking.
"I got lucky, Mike," Gordian said, his face tight. "You understand? I just got lucky."
Mike swallowed and gave him a slow nod. "I won't leave this hangar till I've combed over the bird from top to bottom," he said.
Gordian briefly patted his arm. "Thanks. It's appreciated."
He turned to the pair of Sword ops.
"I'd like you to stick around here with Mike. Give him any help he needs."
The two security men exchanged glances.
Gordian could see they were unhappy with his order, which was understandable. Lean and serious and zoned-in, they were professionals whose effectiveness hinged on rigorous discipline. Their assignment was to protect him, and it went against everything in their training and mental conditioning to ease up.
"It's okay, I'll be fine," he assured them. "I'm heading straight to my hotel room and plan to stay there all evening."
"Sir, we received direct orders from Mr. Nimec to stay with you," one of them said.
Gordian nodded. "I know, Tom," he said. "But if you don't tell him you left my side for a few hours, I won't either."
The bodyguard looked pensive.
"It would be best, sir, if we could check in with you over the phone this evening," he said.
"Certainly, but please try not to reach any premature conclusions if I don't answer," he said. "It's been a rough day, and I need a long shower and some sleep."
The bodyguard hesitated a moment, and Gordian resisted a smile. He'd suddenly remembered his paternal angst when Julia was a teenager going out on dates, and found himself amused despite his tension and lowering fatigue.
"Gentlemen, my car's waiting, and the driver must be getting impatient," he said. "I'll see you later."
Tom was quiet another moment, and then nodded, his expression a mixture of chagrin, worry, and vague disapproval.
"Have a good rest, sir," he said.
"I'll try," Gordian said.
And still wrestling back a smile, turned, flapped his arm up over his shoulder in a loose, weary wave, and strode out of the hangar.
"So, Alex, what I'm saying is that it looks like I can get you to dine with the POTUS and the other heads of state in the officers' wardroom."
"Is that what you're saying?" Nordstrum said.
"That is exactly what I'm saying," Stu Encardi said. "Right there in the belly of the beast we call Seawolf."
They were talking over a lunch of quesadillas, cactus salad, and chili at the Red Sage on Northwest Fourteenth, roughly midway between the Kennedy Center and the White House.
"And who's setting this up?"
"Terskoff."
"The Press Secretary."
"The Press Secretary himself," Encardi emphasized.
Nordstrum ate some of his quesadilla. "What's the catch?" he said.
"Excuse me?"
"The catch, the snare, the hook," Nordstrum said. "Whatever it is that's going to sink into my flesh if I take the bait."
Encardi combed back a wave of his lush black hair with his fingers.
"Oh," he said. "You mean President Ballard's request."
Nordstrum looked at him. "Stu, I think you're a decent fellow," he said. "But if you don't stop playing dumb, and get to the point, I'm going to leave this table, stroll into the kitchen, find one of the cactus plants they use for the salads before its spines have been removed, then come right back here and shove it up your ass."
Encardi frowned. "Ouch," he said.
"Yes," Nordstrum said, and speared another wedge of quesadilla with his fork. "Very definitely ouch"
Encardi leaned forward confidentially. "Okay," he said. "All the President requests is that you absent yourself from Roger Gordian's press conference tomorrow. That is, assuming you've considered attending."
"Ah-hah," Nordstrum said, chewing.
"Now don't think the White House is trying to restrict your ability to express your opinions," Encardi went on. "Ballard merely feels SEAPAC is a far more vital part of his agenda — and his legacy — than approving the crypto legislation. And that it's slipped out of the spotlight because Gordian versus Caine makes snappier news copy."
"Ah-hah," Nordstrum said.
Encardi spread his hands.
"Think about it," he said. "You're the one heavy hitter in the press who's reported on SEAPAC from its earliest stages of negotiation to the present. Who's consistently stressed its importance to our regional interests in Southeast Asia. Don't you think it'll further sidetrack the public if they see you with Gordian at the podium? There are already enough things distracting their attention."
"Ah-hah," Nordstrum said, chewing placidly.
Encardi frowned with exasperation. "God damn it, Alec, now who's being incommunicative? You asked me to be right-on with you and I'm doing it. So, please, let's have some feedback."
"Sure," Nordstrum said.
He carefully set his knife and fork down on his plate and straightened.
"I had planned on standing beside Roger Gordian tomorrow and will do that come hell, high water, or sugar-coated coercion from the highest levels of government," he said.
Encardi brushed back his dense swirl of hair again.
"Alec, you could be interviewing Prime Minister Yamamoto over caviar and champagne instead of chowing down in the goat locker with the enlisted personnel. Don't pass up the opportunity of a lifetime."
Nordstrum crossed his arms. "You're annoying me," he said.
"Alec—"
"Don't whine, it makes you look like a schoolboy."
Encardi frowned, wiped his mouth furiously with his napkin, and tossed it down on the table.
"Okay, I quit," he said.
"Good," Nordstrum said. "Anything else you want to ask while I finish eating?"
Encardi looked at him and sighed.
"Yeah," he said after a brief interval. "You ever hear of Diver Dan and Baron Barracuda?"
Nordstrum shook his head disinterestedly.
"Some help you are," Encardi said.
The transcontinental haul from San Francisco to Johor Bahru had been a grueling and seemingly endless affair for Nimec and Noriko Cousins, with a late-night changeover from their 747 to a prop-driven rattletrap in Kuala Lumpur, and, following their jump to JB, a treacherous forty-minute drive over dark, winding, poorly mapped roads in the rental car Nimec had reserved at the airport.