Gracie waited until she heard the click of Rachel’s seat belt, her feelings alternating between the heartache of what Rachel was going through — hurt and apprehension — and her own continuous embarrassment over being chewed out by Ben Janssen a few hours before. All of it, Gracie reminded herself, didn’t compare to the nightmarish pain that had propelled the captain to Hurricane Ridge.
“Hurry, Gracie,” Rachel said quietly, her hand massaging her forehead, her eyes closed. “Please.”.
With the wooden boat hauled onto Jim Dobler’s tug, Scott McDermott looked at his watch and turned to April, who was helping stow the various ropes they’d used.
“You’re sure the pieces you saw were from your dad’s plane?”
“Yes. They had the same colors, and I saw the same piece of cowling before, when the plane was there. They took it. No question.”
Scott fell silent for a few seconds. “I’ve got about four hours’ fuel, and I’m going to use it to check out any ships that went through this area in the past six hours.”
April sighed and wiped her forehead, her parka open in the cool breeze.
“You really think it could have happened this morning?”
“Yes. Yesterday, when we flew by, there were no ships in the area I could see, and whoever did this probably wouldn’t have tried a night recovery.”
Jim had joined them, wiping his hands on an oily rag that was making them even dirtier.
“Am I right, Jim?”
“About a night recovery? Not advisable but not impossible. I think you’re probably wasting your time, Scott. Once someone hauls wreckage like that up on deck, they can take off at ten to fifteen knots and cover a lot of distance. Could be halfway to anywhere by now.” He turned and left to take care of another pre-departure duty.
“I’ve got to try,” Scott said.
“Okay,” April replied, fatigue vying with disappointment. “Let’s go.”
“No. April, I think you ought to go back with Jim.”
“Why? I’m paying you.”
He smiled and nodded, glancing off to sea for a few moments.
“Yeah, well, there are times I like to fly alone, and this one’s on me, okay?”
She cocked her head. “Straight up, Scott, why don’t you want me along?”
“First, I think you’ll be more productive and relaxed with Jim.”
“That’s a smokescreen. What else?”
“Because I may press a few limits and I don’t necessarily want passengers or witnesses, okay?”
April nodded. “That I understand. You have the satellite phone. Can you call if you spot someone churning away with a wrecked Albatross on deck?”
“Immediately.”
“Because, otherwise, I think we’re screwed. Without that tape, or the wreckage, I’ve got zip to convince the FAA they’re wrong about my dad.”
Scott put his hands on April’s shoulders and drew her closer. She looked up at him and started to speak.
“It’s going to be okay, April. I know it.”
“Well… I can hope,” she said. He could see she was rapidly losing the battle to stay composed, the adrenaline and exertion and disbelief of finding the wreckage gone washing past her emotional limits and down her face. She closed her eyes and let him enfold her, her head on his chest. Scott tightened his arms around her and rocked her gently, patting her as she sobbed. There were disturbing feelings there competing for his attention. Knight-to-the-rescue feelings, and more. But they were far too confusing, and he forced himself to shove the deeper emotions aside and concentrate on the mission as he waited for her tears to subside.
The tenor saxophone had been staring him down for weeks, sitting on its stand in the corner of his living room, but Ben had put off trying to play it until the crunch at work was over. That, as he reminded himself, had followed the year-long period of grief and agony over losing Lisa, a year in which all the music in his soul had gone silent.
He sat now on the black leather couch, staring back at the instrument he’d played so well for so long, recalling the times Lisa had pushed him to take it downtown to a restaurant that featured blues and jazz every Sunday where he’d join the paid musicians he knew for a few sets. He’d loved those sessions, all the more because of Lisa’s smiling face looking up at him from the nearest table, her lips mouthing suggestive things only they understood until neither of them could stand it. A hurried trip back home and a trail of clothes from the garage to the bedroom made those wonderful nights so memorable. The saxophone had been the midwife to those evenings. “The joy of sax!” Lisa had dubbed it.
Sometimes, Ben recalled, they hadn’t made it home before their passion for each other overwhelmed them. The memory of several risky sessions in the backseat of their car made him smile.
He knew what she would say now about the sax, if she could peek into his life for a moment: “Play it for me!” she would tell him. “Life goes on.”
And now his last excuse for putting it off was apparently gone.
Ben sighed and got up, intending to pick up the sax and begin the long process of getting back his proficiency as a musician, but a glimpse of his computer screen flashing at his desk in the corner stole his attention.
Later, he mouthed to the sax, turning instead to his desk, where the screen was urgently reporting that new e-mail had arrived.
Ben triggered the appropriate keys, recognizing the communiqué as unwanted spam. He deleted it and began to turn away when an idea flitted across his mind. He triggered a web search engine and punched up his list of favorite websites, scrolling down until he found the one that provided a direct link to the FAA’s command center in Herndon, Virginia, a program that let anyone track any airborne aircraft.
He found the right page and queried the database, pleased to see that he could effectively replay a particular point from the previous Monday evening, and entered the time they had begun plunging toward the Gulf of Alaska.
Seconds rolled by before the screen lit up with the response from the FAA’s computers, and he worked to zoom in on the appropriate area.
He could find nothing with the Gulfstream’s call sign, Sage 10, but there was one for the AWACS listed as Crown 12. He pushed the program forward in time, watching the blip designating the AWACS move steadily toward the east at the very time the Gulfstream, with him in it, would have been diving toward the water.
The article he’d seen in the Anchorage Times hadn’t given a call sign for the lost amphibian, but it didn’t seem to matter. Without a datablock, he couldn’t tell where the Gulfstream was anyway.
I should have known. This is a time waster.
Ben exited the program and got up, then sat down again, wondering if there was a way to get raw air traffic control data from recent days.
There was a possibility, he decided, that an old friend and reformed hacker named Hank Boston might know a path. Hank, whose infamous screen name was Mastermouse, had quit breaking into computers about two steps ahead of the FBI in the late eighties, and had shifted instead to a lucrative business in protecting computers from people like himself. Ben chuckled at the thought that he’d learned more about computing from the University of Mastermouse than from Caltech. The best part was how much Hank loved airplanes. If there was a way to see what the FAA’s radars had recorded, Hank would know how. Any contact, however, might be monitored, which meant he had to be very careful not to reveal too much.
It might as well be in writing, Ben concluded, pulling an e-mail form onto his computer screen and typing in a message. The effort was probably wasted, he told himself. Hank could be on vacation, in jail, or in some public arcade hunched over a computer game, oblivious to the rest of the world while he saved the earth from the fifty-thousandth alien attack he’d repulsed — for a half-dollar per game.