“You had your orders.”
“Yes. Hunt Tom Darby down — like a wild beast!”
“Has it occurred to you that that's exactly what he is?”
Livid, Paul glared at the Wing Commander. Automatically he clenched his fists. “Tom Darby is the best damned test pilot the Air Force has,” he growled. “Has that occurred to you?”
There was a moment's tense silence. With a conscious effort Howell collected himself.
“Every man on the Base who knows about Tom is rooting for us to get to him. To both of them,” he said earnestly. “That includes you and me. For you it's a simple matter: Get everybody out looking. For me there are other important considerations.”
“I can imagine,” Paul said bitterly. “The latest directions to drop from the bowels of the Pentagon.”
Howell ignored the interruption. “There's the safety of Tom himself—”
“We could have figured a way to keep him from harming himself. And from being harmed.”
“And — primarily — security.”
Paul stared at him. “Security!” he exclaimed. “What security? Sure, I know the F-15 is classified, but there's not one piece of classified hardware left on the damned wreck. It holds no secrets.”
Howell looked straight at him. “No,” he said quietly. “But Tom does.”
Paul suddenly looked disturbed. He stood silent.
“Tom not only flies the F-15 enhancement tests,” Howell continued. “He's involved in the XM-9 project as well. And that is a top-secret project.”
Paul stared at him.
“The XM-9 was aboard Tom's plane. He was testing it. At maximum output,” Howell went on soberly. “He was riding a God-damned missile!”
Paul looked shaken. “I — didn't know…”
“You had no need to know. Tom did. Tom had very special knowledge. And may still have.” He paused. He sounded urgent, grave. “But we can't afford to have everyone know. That's why we had to stick to routine. Or we'd be up to our asses in ‘rescuers.’ From the wrong side of the damned curtain.”
Paul looked up quickly. He was about to say something, but Howell kept on talking.
“We know the Soviets are aware of the Marcus project. We know they're trying to get any information about it they can. We know they've been ‘flagging’ the Marcus name for many months. That's why he's been constantly guarded. Protected. His work — his knowledge — is of the utmost importance.” He paused. “And so is Tom's.” He looked straight at Paul. “I must conduct myself — and the search operation — as I think best.”
“Sir. There's something I—”
Howell overrode him. “If you can't believe that as a human being I'm as anxious as you are to find and help Tom, think of it this way. That plane and that device took better than ten years to develop. Unless Tom can tell us exactly what went wrong up there, those ten years will have been wiped out in ten seconds!”
Paul looked grim. He spoke firmly. “Colonel,” he said, “there's something you should know.”
Howell gave him a sharp look, aware of the man's change of attitude. “Yes?”
“Until just a moment ago — until you told me about the XM-9—I didn't put it all together.”
Howell was suddenly alert. “What is it?” he asked brusquely.
“Three things. First — there was the killing of Ranger Adams,” Paul said. “I have a damned funny feeling that it, in some way, is connected with Tom.”
Howell frowned. “I don't see how.”
“And then this morning,” Paul went on, “near a place where Tom and Randi had been holed up for the night, we found an oil stain on the ground. Fresh. And obviously not a camper. Someone had been parked there. Shortly before. And not one of ours… Who? Why?”
Howell looked grim. “You said three thing?”
“Yes.” Paul fished Wilson's diary from his pocket. “There's also this. It's Airman Wilson's.” He handed the little book to Howell. “Look at it, sir.”
Howell took the diary.
“The front page. Where Wilson has written his name and service number.”
Howell frowned at the diary page. He stared at the handwritten inscription.
“Look at the numeral seven,” Paul said. “It has a little dash through it. That's the European way of writing it. I learned that when I was stationed in Germany.” He looked soberly at Howell. “Where did Wilson pick that up? He's been stationed only at Edwards. And his service record shows no trips abroad. I had it checked.” He bit his lip. “I know it's damned thin, Colonel. But I have a gut feeling that won't quit. Someone outside our own rescue efforts is hunting Tom!”
Howell contemplated the younger man, his face cloudy. “And you suspect that Wilson was a — a foreign agent? He's dead.”
“But not those behind him.”
Howell suddenly felt chilled. An enemy “mole” in the Air Force? A spy? Penetration would be a hell of a difficult job. But — dammit! — not impossible. There had been cases… He recalled two or three from the early seventies.
That Air Force master sergeant — Perkins was his name — who'd been given a slap-on-the-wrist sentence of a lousy three years for attempting to smuggle secret documents to Russian agents in Mexico City… And that fellow Wood, an Air Force sergeant, arrested for treason when he was discovered with a whole damned car full of highly classified material to be handed over to a Soviet agent in New York…
“You're right,” he said. “It is thin.”
“I know,” Paul agreed. “It's no neon sign proclaming Foreign Intrigue! But is it ever?”
Howell nodded thoughtfully. “It is something to be considered, Paul. We can't overlook the possibility that foreign interests are involved.”
“The question then becomes — how?’
Howell looked solemnly at him. “Perhaps,” he said quietly. “Perhaps they are also aware that Tom is our only hope of saving the Marcus project years of work. Years of delay. Perhaps they figure that if the desert doesn't kill him off, they'll finish the job.”
Paul stared at him. He felt suddenly cold.
“I'll start a top-priority internal investigation of Wilson at once,” Howell continued. “Tonight. And I'll have the FBI run a check. In fact,” he said tightly, “I'll give them a whole damned list of names. Everyone involved in this unholy mess, from Stark on down! And as far as we are concerned, we'd better keep our eyes open… wide.” He glanced at Paul. He couldn't let it go. “It kind of puts the lid on your idea of an appeal to the public over the radio,” he said.
Paul nodded bleakly. “Sure does. Be like an invitation to mayhem.”
Howell turned to the wall map. “You realize, Paul,” he said, “whether there are outside forces hunting Tom out there or not, it may already be too late. Tomorrow has got to be the deadline.”
In more ways than one, he thought bitterly. That damned ultimatum by a handful of Congressmen would also reach its deadline then; the threat to blow the whistle. Hell, all those damned foreign spooks had to do was to wait — and what they wanted to know would be handed to them on a silver press release. Wouldn't be the first time. What the hell else could impact the damned operation? On top of everything, they now had to look under every blasted rock for a KGB hit-man.
He fixed his eyes on the map.
“They can't possibly last beyond that,” he finished.
He turned back to Paul “But you're right. We do need help. Dependable help. It is too late for — directives now… I'll contact the National Guard. Get a task force up here. Two company strength should do it. We can spearhead the operation with your Emergency Service Teams from Edwards. We can have everybody up here first thing tomorrow morning. When we spot Tom and Randi, we can ring the entire area where they are and move in. The important thing now is to get to Tom before he kills himself — and his wife — with exposure and privation. And before anyone else gets to him.” He grew wholly business-like. “Now — what's your plan?”