Chopper Ops co-1 Page 2

  “Gone? Gone where?” Smitz asked. “Another room? Another floor?”

  “Gone as in ‘dead,’” Stone told him coldly. “Ten minutes ago.”

  Smitz thought he was kidding.

  “But I only left here ten minutes ago,” he said.

  Stone didn’t blink. “Take a look for yourself,” he said.

  Smitz went through the door and stopped after two steps. Jacobs was gone, as were the tubes and the machines. Only the unmade bed remained.

  Stone was right behind him. He handed him a small white card with an address on it.

  “This is where you can send flowers,” he said.

  Smitz looked at the card and then back at Stone, then at the empty room again.

  Then without another word, he turned on his heel, went out the door, and took a cab home.

  Chapter 3

  Fallon Naval Air Station

  Nevada

  Three weeks later

  It was precisely 0700 hours when the sleek silver-and-blue jet fighter began its takeoff run.

  Engines screeching, the jet roared down the runway, parting an ocean of early morning fog. Exactly eight seconds into his takeoff roll, the pilot yanked back on the stick. A stream of fire exploded from the aircraft’s tailpipes. Suddenly the fighter was airborne.

  It immediately went on its tail, its needle nose pointing straight up into the cloudless sky. The jet accelerated so quickly, it was soon nothing more than a silver speck, twisting its way heavenward. With one last flash of sunlight off its wings, it disappeared from view altogether.

  The airplane’s official name was the YF-17 Cobra. It was an unusual, one-of-a-kind airplane with an interesting lineage. Back in the early 1970’s, the Cobra had lost a fly-off for the Air Force’s new-generation fighter, a competition eventually won by the F-16 Fighting Falcon. The Cobra was hardly a bust, though. Its design was so impressive, the Navy tinkered with it and created the F/A-18 Hornet, currently the Fleet’s premier fighter-attack plane. Hundreds of Hornets had been built over the years. Yet only one Cobra had ever flown—and this was it.

  In the world of military aviation, the phrase goes: If it looks good, it flies good. With its sharp nose, short wings, and twin tails, the YF-17 looked good and flew good. Real good. But for all its elegance, this particular airplane was essentially a flying clown. There was an air show today at Fallon. More than a quarter of a million people were expected to attend. The YF-17 was one of many airplanes performing; in fact, it was due to go on first. That was why the pilot was taking this practice run so early in the day. He had ten minutes to run through his routine, a preshow quickie that would allow him to get familiar with the terrain over which he would be performing.

  The main attraction of the day would be a performance by the Navy’s Aerial Demonstration Team, better known as the Blue Angels. The eight blue-and-gold F-18’s were tucked away inside a secure hangar, one of many at the sprawling high-desert air base. Their scheduled takeoff time was still nearly six hours away.

  There was also a dizzying assortment of military aircraft on static display to entertain the crowds. Mammoth C-5’s, grandfatherly B-52’s, a few hard-luck B-l’s. Also sleek F-16’s, tiger-sharked F-14’s, bulked-up F-15E’s. Even an F-22 Raptor prototype.

  But of them all, no doubt the oddest airplane was the Cobra.

  It appeared again about a minute later, streaking in from the west. Flying no more than two hundred feet off the deck, the Cobra twisted wildly as a long plume of red, white, and blue smoke streamed out of its tail. The patriotic cloud thus laid, the pilot put the aircraft on its tail a second time and once again rocketed back up into the deep blue desert sky.

  When the Air Force decided to put the YF-17 out on the air show circuit, it realized it needed a pilot who was more than the typical ice-water-cool flyboy type. More than someone who could quickly adapt to the airplane’s unique controls and master its nuances, the Air Force needed someone who didn’t mind being a high-tech carnival act, who could handle the rigors of the road and long hours of solitary practicing. Someone who, for want of a better word, had a flair for “showmanship.”

  So the computer at the Air Force’s Personnel Assignment Center at the Pentagon was given the task of finding just such a pilot. As the story went, it took exactly twenty-two seconds for the computer to spit out the file of the man now at the controls of the YF-17.

  He was Major John Thomas Norton IV. Most people knew him as “Jazz.”

  From the start it appeared to be a great match. At thirty- four, Norton was an outstanding pilot, near the top of the Air Force’s performance chart. He’d flown F-15’s for the 16th Fighter Squadron in Langley, Virginia, then F-117 Stealths out of Holliman in New Mexico. He’d seen action in the Gulf War and over Kosovo, and at present was on the very short list for space-shuttle training. If that didn’t come through, his superiors fully expected him to be assigned to flying black projects out of Groom Lake, the infamous Area 51 or some other secret location.

  But what the computer might not have known was that the business of show flying was already in Norton’s genes. True, Jazz’s father had flown F-4’s in Vietnam and his grandfather had driven Mustangs in World War II. But Jazz’s great-grandfather had spent the 1920’s as a barn-storming pilot. He’d been a minor celebrity, famous for doing everything from wing-walking to intentionally flying rickety biplanes nose-first into the sides of old barns.

  The question then was this: If the Air Force had realized that Great Gramps had made a living crashing his airplane for the delight of hundreds, would they still have made Jazz Norton the prime choice to fly the YF-17 when the air show assignment came up?

  No one knew the answer—least of all Norton himself. And in the six months he’d been on the circuit, no one had bothered to ask.

  * * *

  Norton was twisting in the cockpit of the YF-17 now, inverted, looking over his shoulder at the ground below and sucking his oxygen mask like a madman.

  He was a handsome fellow. His sandy hair and tanned face accentuated his movie-idol looks, these inherited from his mother’s side of the family. At five-ten, he was taller than your average fighter pilot. But with his broad shoulders, rock-hard jaw, and steely eyes, he looked like a fighter jock.

  The bright Nevada sun was lifting large clouds of steam off the whole base now, and the visibility on the ground was almost down to zero. This would make Norton’s practice run a little more difficult—and dangerous. For most pilots this would be the beginning of palm-sweating time, and breathing heavy was a natural side effect.

  But this was not why Norton was sucking in oxygen so greedily. He was simply hungover—the lasting effects of a night’s worth of carousing in nearby Reno. Every pilot knew there was nothing like a lot of pure “O” to remedy a hangover. Jazz was simply taking the cure.

  He flipped the Cobra back upright and then began a long twisting dive down. He checked the oxygen-enrichment needle on his environment panel, and turned it all the way up to 100 percent. A series of deep breaths and he felt his head slowly start to clear.

  Despite the fact that getting the YF-17 gig had knocked him out of an assignment of flying really cool stuff at Groom Lake, Norton enjoyed his air show job. He knew all the secrets of the Cobra by now, and under the hood it was a real hot rod. The manufacturer had rebuilt the plane’s power plants shortly before it went out on the air show circuit, and that had enabled the thing to go really fast. In return for tweaking the engines, the airplane’s service reps asked Norton to beat the pants off any F-16 he might meet out on the road—unofficially, of course. There were some long memories in the fighter plane game. Norton promised he’d do everything he could.

  He brought the Cobra back down to two hundred feet now, and leveled off above the steamy runway again. This time down he would practice what he called the TSK—the Ten-Second Killer.

  He could perform it in his sleep by now. On the count of one… begin wagging the wings back and forth. Two… three… hit the sm
oke-release lever. The mist down here was like a forest fire now; Norton was carving through it like a shark through water. At five seconds, level off. Hold for six… seven… OK, kill smoke. Hold for eight… nine… OK, increase throttle.

  Ten! Mark! Go!

  He took another massive gulp of oxygen and yanked back on the stick. He was soon sitting feet up again, eyes straight ahead and climbing back up to the stars.

  He’d kill this hangover yet.

  * * *

  Among the early arrivals at Fallon were two men in a Ford Bronco.

  The vehicle was painted black, inside and out. Even its windows were opaque. Though its license plate said it was from California, this type of truck was not exactly unknown around Fallon, or any other U.S. military air base for that matter.

  It was a Spook-mobile—and these guys were Spooks. Members of U.S. Intelligence. Real-life men-in-black. CIA. DIA. NSA. NRS. Whoever. It didn’t matter. They were Spooks. Pure and simple.

  The truck was a dead giveaway.

  The Bronco was parked next to the main runway, away from several knots of early-bird civilians. The two men were leaning against its hood, sunglasses on, binoculars at the ready.

  They’d watched the Cobra’s spectacular takeoff, and followed it up until they could no longer see it. They had watched its two approaches, flashing through the thick fog, twisting this way and that, spewing out its colored exhaust fumes before disappearing again.

  They couldn’t help but be impressed.

  “Well, they were right,” one of the Spooks said as the jet left the Earth’s grip again. “He can fly the hell out of that thing.”

  “I don’t think we’ve seen anything yet,” his partner replied.

  Suddenly the airplane appeared again. This time it materialized at the north end of the base and began another eye-blistering transit of the main runway. Roaring through the last of the dissipating fog at full power, it rolled wing over wing a dozen times before twisting up and away and ascending into the heavens once again. Between the noise and the speed and the shallow altitude, it was a rather frightening display.

  “I don’t know about this,” the first Spook said to the second. “Should he really be flying like that?”

  The second man calmly lit a cigarette and threw the match on the asphalt of the fuel-soaked taxi area.

  “Ain’t you ever been to an air show before?” he asked. “They all fly that way.”

  They climbed back into the Bronco and began driving slowly to a more populated part of the base. They kept the airplane in sight the whole way, watching it continue its bewildering set of aerial tricks. One time, the plane came across the runway, again at mind-numbing speed—upside down. Another time it went by tumbling nose over end—once, twice, three times before recovering Mach 1 speed and disappearing again.

  “This guy appears to be a little fucking nuts,” the first Spook said. “Are you sure this is wise what we are doing?”

  “Look, we’re just hired hands,” the second man replied. “Let whoever sent us out here worry about that. Besides, maybe he’s still drunk. He had quite a time in Reno last night.”

  The plane came by again. This time it was standing on its tail and barely inching its way forward in a kind of waddling motion. Just when it appeared the jet would fall out of the sky it was going so slow, the engine was lit and it rocketed away again.

  The first Spook took the binoculars and tried to follow the plane as it ascended again. “Did you know his mother was an extra in Hollywood?”

  “No kidding?”

  “She appeared in eleven movies from 1962 to 1978. Since deceased.”

  “Bummer. His father is dead too, I think.”

  “Right. He has no brothers, no sisters, no cousins. Six steady girlfriends in the past ten years but no wife. He has no real family at all. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind flying so crazy.”

  The Cobra reappeared over the main runway and now went into a series of mind-bending turns. It made six quick circles before pulling up and leaving the area with yet another ear-splitting scream.

  The two men in the Bronco were dizzy by now, and stopped watching the airplane altogether. They began driving faster towards the main airplane parking area of the base.

  At the same time the YF-17 appeared once again, twisting crazily as if out of control, the last spectacular stunt. The Cobra’s engines were roaring and fire spouting from its tailpipes. Then, as if it was suddenly transformed, the jet leveled out, reduced airspeed, and came in for a textbook landing.

  In all, its flight had lasted less than seven minutes.

  “From what I can understand,” the first Spook said, “this guy’s whole family has made its living flying airplanes. I’m not sure he’s going to like what we have to tell him.”

  The man in the passenger seat just shrugged. “Well, like I said, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “He has no choice.”

  * * *

  The Bronco was waiting when the Cobra taxied up to its hard stand.

  Norton had already popped the canopy. Now, as he took one last gulp of oxygen, he finally killed the airplane’s big twin engines and jerked the plane to a stop.

  His ground crew appeared and a ladder was fitted to the side of the Cobra. A young airman came up and helped Norton unstrap. This ritual took about fifteen seconds. When it was over, Norton stood up, stretched, and then started down the ladder, taking a glance at the Bronco, parked nearby.

  Black truck. Black windows. Even the tire rims were painted black. Norton had seen such vehicles before.

  Spooks? he thought. Here to see the show?

  That seemed unlikely.

  The two men were walking towards him before he reached the bottom of the ladder. They were both wearing brand-new jeans, Western-style white shirts, black boots, and baseball caps.

  Yep, Norton thought. These guys were definitely Spooks.

  They always dressed the same.

  He met the pair at the bottom of the ladder. Neither one struck him as someone who had seen any military service.

  “Enjoy the show?” he asked them good-naturedly.

  Both men ignored the question.

  “You Norton?” one asked instead.

  Norton yanked off his helmet and smoothed back his ruffled hair. “I am,” he replied.

  Both men flashed their ID badges. Norton thought he saw something like CIA-DIS. Or was it NSA-CIS? He didn’t know, and in the end, it didn’t make much difference. They were just Spooks.

  “We have to have a little talk,” the first man told Norton.

  Norton shrugged. “Here? Now?”

  “Here, now,” the second guy said.

  Norton now gave them a good once-over. What would these two want with him? He had already tip-top security clearance; it was a requirement for his job. Then it hit him: They were here to clear him for his long-pending job at Area 51.

  What else could it be?

  “OK, then,” he said. “Talk…”

  “Where did you learn to fly like that?” the first Spook asked.

  Norton just shrugged again. “It comes naturally,” he said, adding with a pause, “After about five thousand hours in the air.”

  “You can fly anything with your eyes closed,” the second guy said. “Day or night. Through unfriendly skies. That’s what we heard.”

  “Yeah? Who told you that?” Norton asked.

  The Spooks ignored this question as well and moved in a little closer. The first guy lowered his voice.

  “Look, we’ve got a question to ask you,” he began. “Now we don’t know whether you like this traveling-carnival thing or not. But depending on your answer, you can be out of this three-ring circus and into something very heavy inside a minute.”

  “I’m listening,” Norton replied. “Ask away.”

  The first Spook took a deep breath.

  “Ever fly a helicopter?” he asked.

  Chapter 4

  St. Louis International Airport

  One week la
ter

  The airport had been closed for two hours.

  All scheduled flights had been notified of the shutdown days in advance. Many had been canceled or diverted to other airports nearby.

  Roads leading in and out of the sprawling airport had been blocked off for ninety minutes. Dozens of St. Louis city policemen were manning these detours, miserable in a driving rain. Closer in to the airport itself, the secondary terminals as well as all the parking lots were being guarded by Missouri state troopers. The main terminal itself was crawling with Secret Service. By 1625 hours—4:25 in the afternoon on this dreary day—everything was set.

  The President’s plane arrived on schedule, exactly five minutes later.

  Air Force One landed smoothly, its wheels hitting the rain-swept runway with hardly any skidding. The pilots immediately threw the engines into reverse, and the huge airplane began slowing down. It was met at the far end of the runway by a caravan of security trucks. One had its four-way flashes blinking; it began moving towards the main terminal. The giant Presidential 747 slowly followed.

  The heavy rain had forced a small greeting ceremony indoors. Some five hundred people—political types and their families mostly—were now crammed into one corner of the terminal, separated from the unloading ramp by a phalanx of Secret Service agents. Relegated to the far corner of the terminal building was a tight knot of media types. TV and newspaper people, they’d spent the afternoon grumbling about the poor position so hastily assigned to them.

  Air Force One finally jolted to a stop in front of the terminal platform. Outside, the rain came harder and the wind more fierce. A small army of aides burst from the airplane’s main door and trooped down the ramp-way. Finally the President himself emerged. He walked into the terminal building, waved to the assembled locals, posed for a picture with an elderly supporter, and then was whisked away. Down the causeway and out to the rainy street, where he was put into a pre-positioned limousine, which roared off behind a huge motorcycle escort. A fund-raising speech in downtown St. Louis awaited him.