And now Garvey had disappeared. Classen had sent his deputy home to get some sleep prior to the final, frenetic prelaunch hours, when things really started hopping. Garvey had left and had never come back. Classen had called his home. Not there. Local hospitals were called. Not there either. KSC Security was notified. "We'll keep an eye out," they promised. In desperation, Classen called the police and highway patrol. "We have to wait seventy-two hours until someone can be classified as a missing person," they said, "but we'll put out a bulletin anyway and let you know if we hear something. "
Despite Classen's frantic search, the dependable, always reliable Garvey couldn't be found. It was as if he'd vanished into thin air. Classen was bone-tired, and unless his deputy showed up, the pad manager was afraid he might collapse before the Constellation lifted off.
Neither Classen, nor KSC Security, nor the police or highway patrol thought to check the employee parking lot outside Pad 39A. Had they done so, they would've found Garvey's Ford Bronco, waiting patientiy for its owner's return.
Whittenberg, Dowd, and Fairchild were alone in the conference room. Whittenberg was talking on the phone from the rollout commo panel beside his chair at the head of the table. Sir Isaac was pouring coffee for the group when the CinC hung up.
"Chet is wrapping things up at the Cape," said Whittenberg. "He'll be flying back to CSOC and will be there in time for the Constellation's lift-off. I ordered him to get some sleep before he left."
Dowd nodded. "Good idea. That guy doesn't know when to quit."
The CinC and Sir Isaac had gotten some sleep and were reasonably coherent. Dowd was starting to fade again and was keeping alert by pumping a constant stream of coffee and Maa-lox into his stomach. The three of them were dealing with a collage of frustration, exasperation, and feelings of impotence. All they could do now was monitor preparations at the Cape and at Vandenberg, and keep an eye on the mysterious satellite.
The conference-room door opened and CM/Sgt. Timothy Kelly walked in, looking incredibly weary. He tossed his cap on the table and plopped into a chair. Not standing on protocol, Sir Isaac poured him some coffee.
"So how was Boston?" queried Dowd.
Kelly scowled. "Complete waste of time," he said after a gulp of coffee. "Major Mulcahey is the quintessential ail-American. I talked with his parents and brother. He was an altar boy, an Eagle Scout, March of Dimes supporter — you name it. I can't believe he could turn; but if it is him, he never left any tracks we'll ever find. Has Major Strand or Agent Tedesco gotten back yet?"
In answer to his question, the door opened and an Air Police security guard appeared, along with the FBI man. Kelly nodded to the AP guard, and he withdrew. Then he introduced Tedesco to the three generals. Whittenberg was amazed at the G-man's resemblance to Mike Ditka.
"Any luck?" asked Kelly.
Tedesco shook his head. "I can tell you that I don't see any possible way it could be Rodriquez," he declared. "I talked with his mother. She said he wanted to join the Marine Corps after graduating from Cal Tech, but she persuaded him to stay in school. No. This isn't the guy. My instincts tell me the same thing, too."
Whittenberg made a sound like a low,growl. "Sounds like you and Tim had the same results. Guess that leaves us with Kapuscinski, and I find that equally hard to believe."
"I agree, General," said Kelly ruefully. "The man holds the DFC and flew over two hundred combat missions in Vietnam. The major said he despised the Russians… " His voice trailed off.
Sir Isaac shrugged. "Looks like we may never know who it is unless the Constellation gets a peek inside the cockpit." He puffed on his pipe and thought about the Stinger missiles being loaded onto the Constellation and wondered if they'd be used. And if they were used, whether they would work… Maybe it had been a bad idea to begin with. He allowed himself a sigh, and reflected that desperate men do desperate things.
The door opened for the third time, and in walked Lydia Strand. She, too, plopped into a chair and was offered coffee.
"So, how'd it go with you?" prompted Kelly.
Strand didn't know what to think. Or report. All she had, really, was the hazy recollection of an old man who might be sinking into senility — a recollection that was over thirty years old. The more she thought about it, the less sense it made.
"I don't know what to make of it." She sighed. "It looks like a total blank to me. I ran into an old man who said he'd been a neighbor of the Kapuscinski family for a brief period over thirty years ago. Nice old guy, but he seemed a little daft. He claimed that Iceberg's father spoke Polish, but wasn't a native of Poland, as stated on the immigration records."
Dowd's brow went into a furrow. "Not from Poland? Then where did he come from?"
Strand reached behind her head and undipped her hair. Damn the regulations, she thought. She shook her head, causing her luxuriant brunette locks to tumble down over her shoulders. None of the generals present voiced an objection. "That's just it," she said in response to Dowd's query. "I asked him that very same question and he said he didn't know where the Kapuscinskis came from. That it was too long ago. It's been over three decades, after all."
"Yeah," agreed Kelly. "Maybe Iceberg's father was just speaking a different dialect of Polish."
"Possibly," mused Strand as she rummaged through her purse. "I went through some old papers and stuff Iceberg had stored in a warehouse in Chicago. The only curious thing I found was this." She passed the leather notebook to Tedesco. "I had no idea what it was. Everything else in the warehouse was junk."
Tedesco carefully thumbed through the delicate pages. Then he shrugged and passed the notebook to the Bull, who thumbed, shrugged, and passed it to Whittenberg, who thumbed, shrugged, and passed it to Sir Isaac, who thumbed, shrugged, and passed it to Kelly, who thumbed but didn't shrug.
"Well, I guess there's nothing more that we can do about it now," lamented Whittenberg. "I'd hoped we could shed some light on who our turncoat was, and maybe why he turned. It might have helped us retrieve the Intrepid somehow. Looks like we've got nothing but dry holes."
There was a depressed silence until Kelly held up the leather notebook and said, "Sir, if you don't mind, I'd like to take this back to my office for a few minutes."
The CinC shrugged once more and said, "Sure."
Twenty minutes later Kelly returned with the leather notebook and a thick tome tucked under his arm. During Kelly's absence, curiosity had started to build as to why he'd left.
"So what've you got, Tim?" asked Sir Isaac.
"Well, sir, I'm not exactly sure." He opened the notebook.
"This handwriting looks like a bunch of mishmash, I know. It's a very heavy-handed style and the paper has faded badly. But what intrigued me was that the handwriting didn't appear to be in any alphabet or language with which I was familiar."
"How do you mean?" asked Whittenberg.
"Well, sir, whatever these pages are, they certainly weren't written in the Roman alphabet."
Dowd chuckled. "I wouldn't be too sure about that, Sarge. You can't tell my handwriting is in English, either."
Kelly nodded. "I understand what you're saying, sir. But if this is not the Roman alphabet, then that means it wasn't written in any of the Romance or Germanic languages — like French, Spanish, German, or Italian. It also eliminates the Western Slavic languages like Czech, Slovak… and Polish." Kelly scratched his head. "Also, this writing is in neither the Greek nor the Cyrillic alphabet, which would preclude its coming from Greece, Bulgaria, Byelorussia, Macedonia, the Ukraine, or Serbia. In fact, this handwriting looks more like Arabic or Armenian than anything else, but I know a little about those two languages and it doesn't appear to be either of them."