“Who gave you that information?”
“Really, Captain,” Rosenfeld scoffed. “Haven't you heard? We don't have to divulge our sources. To anyone.”
“Well, your sources are wrong!” Paul snapped.
“Really?” the young reporter demurred. He swept the area below with his eyes. “With Air Force brass huddling with Park Rangers? With you guys running all over the place in your cute little scouts? With Air Force helicopters churning up the sky? Wrong?”
He contemplated Paul scornfully. “I suggest to you, Captain, that something is going on. Something highly interesting. Something the public should definitely know about. Something I intend to find out about!”
Paul stared at the reporter. He suddenly knew what tack he had to take. He sighed. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. “We hadn't sought publicity on this, you understand.” He shrugged. “Actually, we didn't think anyone would be interested.” He looked at Rosenfeld. “But since you're here, why not? The Air Force can always use some positive public-relations blurbs from you guys.” He was gratified to see a shadow of uncertainty cross the cocky reporter's face. He gestured out over the vast expanse of the valley.
“That's a pretty hostile place, don't you agree?” He waited for Rosenfeld's reaction.
The reporter nodded. He was perplexed. Was the flyboy about to come up with the real poop? Or was he going to hand out some cock-and-bull shit?
“In fact,” Paul continued, “it's one of the most hostile and deadly desert environments on earth. Hot as hell. You know that. A lot of sand and rock and dead brush — and very little else.” He glanced at Rosenfeld. “Don't you agree?”
“So?”
“So… With the international situation the way it is these days, the Air Force believes in being prepared. For anything.” He lowered his voice, injecting just the right amount of confidentiality into it. “We're conducting a survival training exercise,” he said. “Desert survival. What better place to do it than here? Let me give you a little background information, Rosenfeld. Why we chose this place. Did you know it's the hottest and driest spot on earth during the summer? Ten degrees hotter than the hottest African or Middle Eastern desert? It is you know. Ground temperatures up here can get so hot that your feet blister, right through your shoes! So you'd better wear boots. Like you do…”
Paul was enjoying himself. He knew he was boring the young punk reporter to death. It was exactly what he had in mind. He went on.
“Why, some of the Rangers wear gloves. Gloves! Up here. You know why? Because they'd have no skin left on their hands if they didn't! It'd all be stuck to the handles, the steering wheels and ignitions of their vehicles! You saw that Charles Addams cartoon on the brochure they give you down at the Visitor's Center? The one that shows a family driving into Death Valley and passing an open convertible full of skeletons on their way out? Well,
it's only slightly exaggerated. You really have to know your way around the desert if you want to survive. That's why we chose this place.” He looked closely at Rosenfeld. “We want our boys to be as fully prepared as possible. For any contingencies. Don't you agree?”
Sourly Rosenfeld looked at him, a speculative frown his face.
Paul hoped he'd bought it. He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd given the bastard just enough of a story, hoping to satisfy his damned curiosity. He could see the headlines in his sheet: AIR. FORCE TRAINS PILOTS FOR DESERT WARFARE… IS ARMED INTERVENTION IN THE MIDDLE EAST IMMINENT? Hell, it was no worse than the usual muck the yellow press dished up. And it would have no more credence. Most important, the XM-9—and Tom — would be safe.
If the bastard had bought it.
“As a matter of fact,” he said conspiratorially, “if you really want the full story, I suggest you contact Colonel Howell. Colonel Jonathan Howell. At Edwards Air Force Base.” He grinned to himself. Dammit! They deserved each other.
Rosenfeld was staring at him, a calculating but puzzled look in his eyes.
“I can probably arrange for an interview with the Colonel right now,” Paul continued helpfully. “My sergeant has a radio in the scout.” He raised his voice. “Sergeant Hays!” he shouted toward the distant scout. “Over here!”
“Yes, sir.” The voice came from a few feet away. Both men started. Hays stepped from behind the shack. “I thought you might need me, sir,” he said calmly.
“Yes. Fine.” Paul caught himself. “Get the scout, Sergeant. Contact Base. Colonel Howell.”
“Yes, sir.” Hays started off toward the scout.
Rosenfeld glared after him. He turned away in disgust.
“Shit!” he spat. “Who the hell wants to interview a fucking colonel?”
He turned on his heel. He got into his car, slammed the door and took off in a cloud of ghost-town dust.
Paul gazed after the rapidly disappearing car. Perhaps he'd bought some time. For Tom. Enough?
The scout came barreling down the street toward him. Even before it came to a stop Hays called to him.
“Sir!” he shouted. “Get in!” His voice was urgent. “They've found a body!”
4
There were four vehicles pulled off the narrow dirt road that wound its way through the smoldering folds of the Black Mountains: Ward's scout, Stark's jeep, the Ranger “ambulance”—a converted station wagon carrying a stretcher — and a red 1969 Cougar.
Paul brought his scout to a stop behind them. He jumped out and joined the group of men standing at a prominent rock outcropping. Stark and Ward looked up as he approached. Both appeared grim and angry. On the ground, covered with a blanket, a still form lay stretched out. Paul bent down and lifted the blanket.
Someone had closed the young Ranger's eyes. Even so, his face had a disturbing expression of uncomprehending shock. Paul gazed at the young man. Nothing is as certain as death, he thought. Nothing as uncertain as when it will come. He turned to Ward.
“Knife wound in the upper abdomen,” Ward said. “Upward thrust into the chest. He didn't have a chance.”
Paul replaced the blanket. He felt bleak. A life had been lost in the search for Tom. He prayed it would be the only one.
He turned to Stark. “Any idea what happened here?”
Stark shook his head. He looked deeply troubled. “It's very puzzling,” he said. “Someone exchanged pants with him. Emptied all his belongings from his pockets. His wallet is there, but his money is gone.”
“You think the motive was robbery?” Paul frowned the question.
“I don't know,” Stark said uncertainly. “I don't think so. Adams wore a rather expensive wrist watch. It's still on his arm.” He looked off. “His pick-up was found quite a distance from here. Someone — the killer, I suppose — went to quite a bit of trouble to mislead us.”
Paul was aware of strong relief — which at the same time made him uncomfortable. The killing of the young Ranger was a horrifying thing, but obviously it was not Tom's doing. “How was he found?’ he asked.
Stark nodded toward the Cougar. “Couple found him. A Mr. and Mrs. Hastings. They're pretty shook up.” He looked at Paul. “Captain,” he said soberly, “I'll have to report this to the local law-enforcement agencies. You understand.” Paul nodded. “I won't mention your purpose in being here,” Stark went on, “unless it becomes absolutely necessary. No reason to. There's obviously no connection.”
“Thank you,” Paul said. Death Valley was entirely outside the jurisdiction of the Air Force. If the local sheriff or police or what-have-you became involved in the search for Tom, it would effectively negate their efforts to keep the XM-9 crash and Tom's plight from being played up big. He was grateful for Stark's understanding and support. He was lucky to have the man on his team. But of course the killing of Adams had to be investigated.