“Cazaux will strike again, Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “I’m convinced of it.”
“So now you’re fuckin’ Kamac the Magnificent, huh?” Vincenti retorted. “What you’re doing here is screwing with people’s lives and careers just for your own political bullshit plans.”
“That was true two days ago when we showed up here, Colonel,” Hardcastle said. “That’s why Vice President Martindale and the rest of them are here.”
“But you’re not?” Gaspar asked.
“Not since I talked to you the first time,” Hardcastle replied. “Not after getting the FBI briefing on Cazaux. He’s deadly and very dangerous. Yes, I believe he’ll strike again. But the government is trying to calm people down by telling them that Cazaux is too crazy to organize another attack, that it was a fluke, that the manhunt will track him down before he can strike again. The FBI’s own profile on him says otherwise. The government is also saying that Air National Guard units will be restrained in their overland operations and that no other military precautions are necessary — there’s even talk of doing away with all continental air defense units completely. We’re giving Cazaux the perfect opportunity to strike.”
“With all due respect, Admiral, you don’t know shit,” Gaspar said. “You’re just guessing.”
“And all your guesses just happen to follow the party line—your party’s line,” Vincenti added. “You’re just as bad as Wilkes and the rest of the Justice Department that are jumping in my shit.”
“I’m trying to keep the government from completely dismantling the home-defense infrastructure of this country,” Hardcastle said. “That’s the truth, and that’s from the heart. You’re a career air defense pilot — you can tell if I’m bull-shitting you or not. Now, you can just sit back and let the Justice Department and the Air Force cut your nuts off and trash your career, or you can cooperate with me and my investigation. If my agenda helps Vice President Martindale and the Project 2000 Task Force, that’s fine, I believe in his candidacy and what the Task Force is trying to achieve. You don’t have to. But I’m running my show the way I want. I’m not a mouthpiece for anyone.”
“No, but you want me to be your puppet, right?” Vincenti asked. “You want to use me as the poor downtrodden sob story while you lambaste the White House and anyone else who gets in your way.”
“I want you to teach me what you know, Al,” Hardcastle said. “You know air defense — I’ve been out of it for too long. Yeah, I’ve got a political agenda, but I’ve also got specific ideas to help the system we have right now, no matter who is in the White House. I need your help to finalize my ideas. In return I can help put you back on flying status, keep your career intact, and help your unit recover from the whitewashing job you’re undergoing right now. I’m not saying you and your unit and maybe the entire air defense community will be toast if you don’t help me, but you can read the handwriting on the wall just as good as I can.”
Vincenti and Gaspar remained silent, defiantly staring at Hardcastle as if trying to recognize any hint of his hidden agenda. Hardcastle let them stare for a moment, then he turned to his aide standing by the door and said, “Marc, show the Colonel here who’s waiting to speak to him.”
Colonel Marc Sheehan, Hardcastle’s aide, unlocked and opened the door behind him, and immediately a throng of reporters tried to muscle their way inside, shouting questions. A few point-and-shoot cameras were poked through the door, rapid-firing at random for pictures.
“I’m not talking to the press,” Vincenti said. “No comment.”
Hardcastle motioned to Sheehan, who not-too-politely pushed back the reporters and closed and locked the door again. “Sure, you keep on with your no-comment routine, Colonel — without my help this time,” Hardcastle said. “You think you look bad on TV now — by tomorrow night’s evening news, you’ll be called either Cazaux’s accomplice or the biggest American military screwup since George Custer.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not talking about you, Colonel — I’m talking about your career, your future, your retirement, the continued existence of your unit, and everything regarding air defense you’ve ever believed in. You can’t fight the Fourth Estate yourself.”
“So now you’re blackmailing me, right?” Vincenti asked. “I either help you or swim with the sharks myself.” “I’ve got work to do, Colonel,” Hardcastle said simply. “You’re a big boy, an officer and a gentleman. You think you can fight your own battles, go ahead and fight. I’ll be fighting too — I just wanted to be fighting together with you, not separately. But I can do it separately. You think you can?”
Vincenti and Gaspar were silent once again. Hardcastle had had enough. He turned and headed for the door. “Have a nice life, Colonel,” he said. “I’ll lead these bozos away from the front door — slip out in a minute or two. But one last word of advice — try not to make it look like you’re running from them. Believe me, you can’t.”
Hardcastle had just reached the door and was about to open it when he heard, “All right, all right. I’ll help you.” The retired Coast Guard and Border Security Force officer turned and nodded at Vincenti and Gaspar. “Hangar Bravo, briefing room, six A.M. tomorrow,” Hardcastle said. “Bring the original gun camera tapes.”
“There are no original tapes. I told you, I told the board — the recorder was damaged.”
“Colonel, save that rap for the flight evaluation board,” Hardcastle said. “I need your honest inputs. Believe me, no FEB will see or hear those tapes — they belong to the U.S. Senate as of right now, and no one in the military below the Secretary of Defense has the authority to demand them.”
“I’ve got to get permission to be excused from the FEB and released from quarters.”
“It’s been done. You’re a special expert consultant and witness in a Senate investigation — your flight evaluation board and your court-martial have been suspended indefinitely.”
“What court-martial? What in hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, that’s right, you probably didn’t know,” Hardcastle said, a wickedly satisfied smile on his face. “Tell him, Marc.”
“Air Combat Command was directed by the Secretary of Defense and the President to convene a court-martial,” Sheehan said. “Dereliction of duty, actions unbecoming an officer, disobeying a direct and lawful order. Regardless of the outcome of the flight evaluation board, you were going to be summarily court-martialed, sentenced to four years restricted duty — probably as a warehouse officer in Greenland — reduction in grade to captain, then given a less-than- honorable discharge, maybe even a dishonorable discharge. We’ve seen the paperwork — it’s been signed and approved.”
“And you were going to just walk out of here and let this happen?” Vincenti moaned, his eyes wide in utter disbelief. “You were going to let me get busted if I didn’t cooperate with you?”
“You seem to think this is a game we’re playing here, Colonel Vincenti,” Hardcastle shot back. “You seem to think you can beat your chest and take everybody on. Let me assure you, it’s not a game. I am deadly serious when I say that Henri Cazaux is going to strike again; I’m serious when I say I’ve got a plan to stop him; and I’m serious when I say I need your help. Now, I didn’t sign those court-martial papers — your fellow blue-suiters did, the ones you dedicated your life to almost twenty years ago. I stopped it from happening. Who are you going to help now?”