“I’m sorry, Judge Wilkes, I should have handed this over earlier,” Senator Georgette Heyerdahl said. It was a warrant, signed by the Senate Minority Leader. “As you know, the Vice President is overseas, and he turned the gavel over to the Majority Leader. Unfortunately, Senator Collingsworth lost an aunt in the explosion in San Francisco airport last night, and he is on emergency leave. Since the Senate Majority Whip is also out of the country, he allowed the gavel to be transferred to the Senate Minority Leader. Here is his charter for our organization to conduct this investigation.”
Wilkes accepted the letter but did not look at it — she was very familiar with this type of provision, called a “roundhouse.” Officially, the U.S. Senate is never formally adjourned — the gavel, or presidency of the Senate, is always in someone’s hand, day and night, while the Senate is “in recess.” The president pro tern of the Senate (the Vice President of the United States) usually leaves it up to the leader of his party in the Senate to choose who would preside in his stead, but there is a definite “pecking order” in case of emergencies or disaster. Usually the day-to-day presidency of the Senate is ceremonial in nature, but it also conveys a lot of power to anyone who knows the law and who has the guts to use it. Establishing a charter to a Senate subcommittee to begin some work is one such power of the president pro tern, and pulling a roundhouse is a quick way to get it enacted. “The charter is only good for five days or until the full Senate can vote to cancel it,” Heyerdahl added, as if trying to instruct Wilkes on the law, “but it’s in force right now.”
“I’m well aware of the law, Senator, thank you,” Wilkes interrupted. Of course, the Vice President, who was away in Tokyo, could snatch the gavel back immediately just by stepping aboard Air Force Two or into the American embassy — both were always considered American territory— and he could yank the group’s charter away in a New York minute. But at this stage of the game, with a very public press conference just concluded, it was probably not a wise decision. Any hesitancy the Vice President or Wilkes might show toward such a distinguished group as the Project 2000 Task Force might appear like a cover-up.
“As I said, I’ll be more than happy to cooperate with your subcommittee, Mr. Vice President.” Wilkes sighed. No use in trying to fight this anymore, she thought. She had to contact the Justice Department and the President right away and let them handle Martindale and Hardcastle. “An office has been set up in one of the SR-71 hangars for our team, and I’m due to receive a situation briefing as soon as I arrive. You’re welcome to sit in.”
“Thank you, Judge Wilkes,” Martindale said, the famous boyish smile returning. He shook hands again with her, making sure that the press photographers captured the moment.
After the impromptu press conference broke up, Hardcastle noticed several Air Force officers standing by a blue sedan nearby. He walked over to them, extended a hand, and said, “Colonel Vincenti, Colonel Gaspar? I’m Admiral Ian Hardcastle, U.S. Coast Guard, retired.” They shook hands, and Hardcastle was introduced to the public affairs officer and Vincenti’s area defense counsel. “I’m sorry for what happened to Major McKenzie. I know what it’s like to lose a good crewman.” The Air Force officers nodded without saying anything — Hardcastle could easily read the distrust in their eyes. “Colonel Vincenti, tell me about Henri Cazaux.”
“Colonel Vincenti has been advised not to speak with anyone else, Admiral,” the area defense counsel said.
Hardcastle shot her an angry stare, then turned back to Vincenti. “I need to know, Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “I’m a part of a Senate investigation into the incident.”
“Another government investigation,” Vincenti scoffed. “Great. Just what we need.”
“We’re not trying to pin the blame on you, Colonel — I’m trying to pin the blame on where it belongs: on the White House and the Pentagon,” Hardcastle said. “I’m trying to get Congress and the President to act seriously about national defense.”
“I appreciate that, Admiral,” the area defense counsel said, “but we’re still not going to discuss—”
“One question, if that’s okay with your ADC,” Hardcastle said. Vincenti did not respond, but he did not object, either. “You were the hunter, Colonel. You had your prey in your sights. Now tell me about Henri Cazaux.”
At first Vincenti didn’t know what to make of this tall, lean, ghostly-looking man. He had seen Hardcastle on all the TV shows, of course, but when Hardcastle said the word “hunter,” he heard something else. Yes… yes, Vincenti thought. I know what he’s talking about. Al Vincenti knew about the mystique of the hunter.
The hunter, at the moment of unleashing deadly energy against his prey, forms a sort of mind-meld with his quarry. Deer hunters feel it, experience the synergism of minds linked together for a brief instant. Bombardiers sometimes feel as if they are on the ground, watching their bombs fall on their own heads. The inexperienced hunter can’t handle it and gets “target fixation” or the “shakes,” and the spell is broken and the quarry usually escapes. A young or emotional bombardier that feels it turns to the bottle, gets a Section 8, or gets a .45 and blows himself away. Vincenti remembered that Hardcastle had once lined up lots of targets in the sights of his awesome V-22 Sea Lion tilt-rotor interceptors, so he definitely knew what it felt like to search, track, find, pursue, attack, and destroy a target— Jesus, he had done it for real Hardcastle had fired on many real targets. Vincenti didn’t know how many men he had killed, but he knew he had killed before. He knew what it was like. And so did Vincenti…
“Defiance,” Vincenti said. “No fear. Not at any time did I feel fear from Henri Cazaux. Even in his parachute. He was… happy. Satisfied. Ready to begin…”
“Begin what, Colonel?”
“I don’t know, Admiral.” Vincenti shrugged. “I don’t even know what I’m talking about. You asked me what I felt when I thought about Cazaux, and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. I wish I had taken him out. I won’t miss next time.”
As the group headed toward their cars to take them to their first meeting, Lani Wilkes turned and noticed Admiral Hardcastle talking with the F-16 pilot involved in the previous night’s incident, along with his group commander. She excused herself from the former Vice President and the Senator and walked back to them.
Hardcastle ignored her as she approached. “I hope you get the chance, Colonel,” Hardcastle said as Wilkes got closer, a grim, angry expression on her face, “but I rather doubt you will. We’ll meet again. No matter what the press says, remember you’ve got someone on your side—”
“Excuse me, Admiral Hardcastle,” Wilkes said testily, standing several paces away from the group. “Can I have a word with you, please?”
Hardcastle closed his notebook, shook hands with both Vincenti and Gaspar, clasped Vincenti reassuringly on the shoulder, and moved aside with Wilkes until the crowd passed her by, with just a few of Wilkes’ aides remaining. The press had left, and they were alone. The veteran Coast Guard flier extended a hand to Lani Wilkes and said, “It’s very nice to see you again, Judge Wilkes.”
Wilkes put her hands on her narrow hips, sliding her jacket open and slightly exposing a shoulder holster with a small automatic pistol as well as a slender waist and a firm bosom. With her sunglasses now in place against the hot summer sun, her lips red with a touch of lipstick, it was hard not to notice that this tough lawmaker and civil rights activist was a very beautiful woman. But, like Sandra Gef- far, his partner and co-commander of the old Border Security Force and other good-looking female public figures, Hardcastle knew that a very tough woman still lurked under that beauty.