Kitabı oku: «The Doomsday Conspiracy»
Sidney Sheldon
The Doomsday Conspiracy
This is for Jerry Davis
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
PART ONE THE HUNTER
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
PART TWO THE HUNTED
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Author’s Note
Acknowledgment
Books by Sidney Sheldon
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Uetendorf, Switzerland
Sunday, October 14, 1500 Hours
The witnesses standing at the edge of the field were staring in horrified silence, too stunned to speak. The scene that lay before them was grotesque, a primeval nightmare dredged up from some deep, dark depths of primitive man’s collective unconscious. Each witness had a different reaction. One fainted. A second one vomited. A woman was shaking uncontrollably. Another one thought: I’m going to have a heart attack! The elderly priest clutched his beads and crossed himself. Help me, Father. Help us all. Protect us against this evil incarnate. We have finally seen the face of Satan. It is the end of the world. Judgment Day has come.
Armageddon is here … Armageddon … Armageddon …
PART ONE THE HUNTER
Sunday, October 14, 2100 Hours
FLASH MESSAGE
TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR COMSEC
EYES ONLY
SUBJECT: OPERATION DOOMSDAY
MESSAGE: ACTIVATE
NOTIFY NORAD, CIRVIS, GEPAN, DIS, GHG, VSAF, INS.
END OF MESSAGE
Sunday, October 14, 2115 Hours
FLASH MESSAGE
TOP SECRET ULTRA
NSA TO DEPUTY DIRECTOR—
NAVAL INTELLIGENCE 17TH DISTRICT
EYES ONLY
SUBJECT: COMMANDER ROBERT BELLAMY
ARRANGE TEMPORARY TRANSFER THIS AGENCY, EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.
YOUR CONCURRENCE IN THE ABOVE IS ASSUMED.
END OF MESSAGE
Chapter One
DAY ONE
Monday, October 15
He was back in the crowded hospital ward at Cu Chi Base in Vietnam and Susan was leaning over his bed, lovely in her crisp white nurse’s uniform, whispering, “Wake up, sailor. You don’t want to die.”
And when he heard the magic of her voice, he could almost forget his pain. She was murmuring something else in his ear, but a loud bell was ringing, and he could not hear her clearly. He reached up to pull her closer, and his hands clutched empty air.
It was the sound of the telephone that fully awoke Robert Bellamy. He opened his eyes reluctantly, not wanting to let go of the dream. The telephone at his bedside was insistent. He looked at the clock. Four A.M. He snatched up the instrument, angry at having his dream interrupted. “Do you know what the hell time it is?”
“Commander Bellamy?” A deep, male voice.
“Yes—”
“I have a message for you, Commander. You are ordered to report to General Hilliard at National Security Agency headquarters at Fort Meade at oh six hundred this morning. Is the message understood, Commander?”
“Yes.” And no. Mostly no.
Commander Robert Bellamy slowly replaced the receiver, puzzled. What the devil could the NSA want with him? He was assigned to ONI, the Office of Naval Intelligence. And what could be urgent enough to call for a meeting at six o’clock in the morning? He lay down again and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dream. It had been so real. He knew, of course, what had triggered it. Susan had telephoned the evening before.
“Robert …”
The sound of her voice did to him what it always did. He took a shaky breath. “Hello, Susan.”
“Are you all right, Robert?”
“Sure. Fantastic. How’s Moneybags?”
“Please, don’t.”
“All right. How’s Monte Banks?”
He could not bring himself to say “your husband.” He was her husband.
“He’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to be away for a little while. I didn’t want you to worry.”
That was so like her, so Susan. He fought to keep his voice steady. “Where are you going this time?”
“We’re flying to Brazil.”
On Moneybags’s private 727.
“Monte has some business interests there.”
“Really? I thought he owned the country.”
“Stop it, Robert. Please.”
“Sorry.”
There was a pause. “I wish you sounded better.”
“If you were here, I would.”
“I want you to find someone wonderful and be happy.”
“I did find someone wonderful, Susan.” The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. “And do you know what happened? I lost her.”
“If you’re going to do this, I won’t call you again.”
He was filled with sudden panic. “Don’t say that. Please.” She was his lifeline. He could not bear the thought of never speaking to her again. He tried to sound cheerful. “I’m going to go out and find some luscious blonde and screw us both to death.”
“I want you to find someone.”
“I promise.”
“I’m concerned about you, darling.”
“No need. I’m really fine.” He almost gagged on his lie. If she only knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself to discuss with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the thought of her pity.
“I’ll telephone you from Brazil,” Susan said.
There was a long silence. They could not let go of each other because there was too much to say, too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to be left unsaid.
“I have to go now, Robert.”
“Susan?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, baby. I always will.”
“I know. I love you too, Robert.”
And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still loved each other so much.
You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used to say. What had gone wrong?
Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed and walked through the silent living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out Susan’s absence. There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself scattered around, frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the Highlands of Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a Thai klong, riding a carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome. And in each picture, they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly in love.
He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The kitchen clock read 4:15 A.M. He hesitated a moment, then dialed a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker’s voice at the other end of the line. “Hello.”
“Admiral—”
“Yes?”
“It’s Robert. I’m terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency.”
“The NSA? What did they want?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been ordered to report to General Hilliard at oh six hundred.”
There was a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps you’re being transferred there.”
“I can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they—?”
“It’s obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don’t you give me a call after the meeting?”
“I will. Thank you.”
The connection was broken. I shouldn’t have bothered the old man, Robert thought. The admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two years earlier. Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumor was that as a sop, the Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him to work counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such shit. The admiral would have no idea about current intelligence activities. But he was Robert’s mentor. He was closer to Robert than anyone in the world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to talk to someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were living in a time warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension of time and space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing and carefree and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought wearily. Maybe I just don’t know when to let go.
The coffee was ready. It tasted bitter. He wondered whether the beans came from Brazil.
He carried the coffee cup into the bathroom and studied his image in the mirror. He was looking at a man in his early forties, tall and lean and physically fit with a craggy face, a strong chin, black hair, and intelligent, probing dark eyes. There was a long, deep scar on his chest, a souvenir from the plane crash. But that was yesterday. That was Susan. This was today. Without Susan. He shaved and showered and walked over to his clothes closet. What do I wear, he wondered, Navy uniform or civilian clothes? And on the other hand, who gives a damn? He put on a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray silk tie. He knew very little about the National Security Agency, only that the Puzzle Palace, as it was nicknamed, superseded all other American intelligence agencies and was the most secretive of them all. What do they want with me? I’ll soon find out.
Chapter Two
The National Security Agency is hidden discreetly away on eighty-two rambling acres at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two buildings that together are twice the size of the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia. The agency, created to give technical support to protect United States communications and acquire worldwide electronic intelligence data, employs thousands of people, and so much information is generated by its operations that it shreds more than forty tons of documents every day.
It was still dark when Commander Robert Bellamy arrived at the first gate. He drove up to an eight-foot-high Cyclone fence with a topping of barbed wire. There was a sentry booth there, manned by two armed guards. One of them stayed in the booth watching as the other approached the car. “Can I help you?”
“Commander Bellamy to see General Hilliard.”
“May I see your identification, Commander?”
Robert Bellamy pulled out his wallet and removed his 17th District Naval Intelligence ID card. The guard studied it carefully and returned it. “Thank you, Commander.”
He nodded to the guard in the booth, and the gate swung open. The guard inside picked up a telephone. “Commander Bellamy is on his way.”
A minute later, Robert Bellamy drove up to a closed, electrified gate.
An armed guard approached the car. “Commander Bellamy?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your identification, please?”
He started to protest and then he thought, What the hell. It’s their zoo. He took out his wallet again and showed his identification to the guard.
“Thank you, Commander.” The guard gave some invisible sign, and the gate opened.
As Robert Bellamy drove ahead, he saw a third Cyclone fence ahead of him. My God, he thought, I’m in the Land of Oz.
Another uniformed guard walked up to the car. As Robert Bellamy reached for his wallet, the guard looked at the license plate and said, “Please drive straight ahead to the administration building, Commander. There will be someone there to meet you.”
“Thank you.”
The gate swung open, and Robert followed the driveway up to an enormous white building. A man in civilian clothes was standing outside waiting, shivering in the chill October air. “You can leave your car right there, Commander,” he called out. “We’ll take care of it.”
Robert Bellamy left the keys in his car and stepped out. The man greeting him appeared to be in his thirties, tall, thin, and sallow. He looked as though he had not seen the sun in years.
“I’m Harrison Keller. I’ll escort you to General Hilliard’s office.”
They walked into a large high-ceilinged entrance hall. A man in civilian clothes was seated behind a desk. “Commander Bellamy—”
Robert Bellamy swung around. He heard the click of a camera.
“Thank you, sir.”
Robert Bellamy turned to Keller. “What—?”
“This will take only a minute,” Harrison Keller assured him.
Sixty seconds later, Robert Bellamy was handed a blue and white identification badge with his photograph on it.
“Please wear this at all times while you’re in the building, Commander.”
“Right.”
They started walking down a long, white corridor. Robert Bellamy noticed security cameras mounted at twenty-foot intervals on both sides of the hall.
“How big is this building?”
“Just over two million square feet, Commander.”
“What?”
“Yes. This corridor is the longest corridor in the world—nine hundred and eighty feet. We’re completely self-contained here. We have a shopping center, cafeteria, post exchange, eight snack bars, a hospital, complete with an operating room, a dentist’s office, a branch of the State Bank of Laurel, a dry-cleaning shop, a shoe shop, a barbershop, and a few other odds and ends.”
It’s a home away from home, Robert thought. He found it oddly depressing.
They passed an enormous open area filled with a vast sea of computers. Robert stopped in amazement.
“Impressive, isn’t it? That’s just one of our computer rooms. The complex contains three billion dollars’ worth of decoding machines and computers.”
“How many people work in this place?”
“About sixteen thousand.”
So what the hell do they need me for? Robert Bellamy wondered.
He was led into a private elevator that Keller operated with a key. They went up one floor and started on another trek down a long corridor until they reached a suite of offices at the end of the hall.
“Right in here, Commander.” They entered a large reception office with four secretaries’ desks. Two of the secretaries had already arrived for work. Harrison Keller nodded to one of them, and she pressed a button, and a door to the inner office clicked open.
“Go right in, please, gentlemen. The general is expecting you.”
Harrison Keller said, “This way.”
Robert Bellamy followed him into the inner sanctum. He found himself in a spacious office, the ceilings and walls heavily soundproofed. The room was comfortably furnished, filled with photographs and personal mementos. It was obvious that the man behind the desk spent a lot of time there.
General Mark Hilliard, deputy director of the NSA, appeared to be in his middle fifties, very tall, with a face carved in flint, icy, steely eyes, and a ramrod-straight posture. The general was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, and gray tie. I guessed right, Robert thought.
Harrison Keller said, “General Hilliard, this is Commander Bellamy.”
“Thank you for dropping by, Commander.”
As though it was an invitation to some tea party.
The two men shook hands.
“Sit down. I’ll bet you could do with a cup of coffee.”
The man was a mind reader. “Yes, sir.”
“Harrison?”
“No, thank you.” He took a chair in the corner.
A buzzer was pressed, the door opened, and an Oriental in a mess jacket entered with a tray of coffee and Danish pastry. Robert noted that he was not wearing an identification badge. Shame. The coffee was poured. It smelled wonderful.
“How do you take yours?” General Hilliard asked.
“Black, please.” The coffee tasted great.
The two men were seated facing each other in soft leather chairs.
“The director asked that I meet with you.”
The director. Edward Sanderson. A legend in espionage circles. A brilliant, ruthless puppet master, credited with masterminding dozens of daring coups all over the world. A man seldom seen in public and whispered about in private.
“How long have you been with the 17th District Naval Intelligence Group, Commander?” General Hilliard asked.
Robert played it straight. “Fifteen years.” He would have bet a month’s pay that the general could have told him the time of day when he had joined ONI.
“Before that, I believe you commanded a naval air squadron in Vietnam.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were shot down. They didn’t expect you to pull through.”
The doctor was saying, “Forget about him. He won’t make it.” He had wanted to die. The pain was unbearable. And then Susan was leaning over him. “Open your eyes, sailor, you don’t want to die.” He had forced his eyes open and through the haze of pain was staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had a soft oval face and thick black hair, sparkling brown eyes and a smile like a blessing. He had tried to speak, but it was too much of an effort.
General Hilliard was saying something.
Robert Bellamy brought his mind back to the present. “I beg your pardon, General?”
“We have a problem, Commander. We need your help.”
“Yes, sir?”
The general stood up and began to pace. “What I’m about to tell you is extremely sensitive. It’s above top secret.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yesterday, in the Swiss Alps, a NATO weather balloon crashed.
There were some experimental military objects aboard the balloon that are highly secret.”
Robert found himself wondering where all this was leading.
“The Swiss government has removed those objects from the balloon, but unfortunately, it seems that there were some witnesses to the crash. It is of vital importance that none of them talk to anyone about what they saw. It could provide valuable information to certain other countries. Do you follow me?”
“I think so, sir. You want me to speak to the witnesses and warn them not to discuss what they saw.”
“Not exactly, Commander.”
“Then I don’t under—”
“What I want you to do is simply track down those witnesses. Others will talk to them about the necessity for silence.”
“I see. Are the witnesses all in Switzerland?”
General Hilliard stopped in front of Robert. “That’s our problem, Commander. You see, we have no idea where they are. Or who they are.”
Robert thought he had missed something. “I beg your pardon?”
“The only information we have is that the witnesses were on a tour bus. They happened to be passing the scene when the weather balloon crashed near a little village called …” He turned to Harrison Keller.
“Uetendorf.”
The general turned back to Robert. “The passengers got off the bus for a few minutes to look at the crash and then continued on. When the tour ended, the passengers dispersed.”
Robert said slowly, “General Hilliard, are you saying that there is no record of who these people are or where they went?”
“That is correct.”
“And you want me to go over and find them?”
“Exactly. You’ve been very highly recommended. I’m told that you speak half a dozen languages fluently, and you have an excellent field record. The director arranged to have you temporarily transferred to the NSA.”
Terrific. “I assume I’ll be working with the Swiss government on this?”
“No, you’ll be working alone.”
“Alone? But—”
“We must not involve anyone else in this mission. I can’t stress enough the importance of what was in that balloon, Commander. Time is of the essence. I want you to report your progress to me every day.”
The general wrote a number on a card and handed it to Robert. “I can be reached through this number day or night. There’s a plane waiting to fly you to Zurich. You’ll be escorted to your apartment, so you can pack what you need, and then you’ll be taken to the airport.”
So much for “Thank you for dropping by.” Robert was tempted to ask “Will someone feed my goldfish while I’m gone?” but he had a feeling the answer would be “You have no goldfish.”
“In your work with ONI, Commander, I assume you’ve acquired intelligence contacts abroad?”
“Yes, sir. I have quite a few friends who could be of use—”
“You’re not to get in touch with any of them. You are not authorized to make any contacts at all. The witnesses you’re looking for are undoubtedly nationals of various countries.” The general turned to Keller. “Harrison—”
Keller walked over to a filing cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. He removed a large manila envelope and passed it to Robert.
“There’s fifty thousand dollars in here in different European currencies and another twenty thousand in U.S. dollars. You will also find several sets of false identifications that may come in handy.”
General Hilliard held out a thick, shiny black plastic card with a white stripe on it. “Here’s a credit card that—”
“I doubt if I’ll need that, General. The cash will be enough, and I have an ONI credit card.”
“Take it.”
“Very well.” Robert examined the card. It was drawn on a bank he had never heard of. At the bottom of the card was a telephone number. “There’s no name on the card,” Robert said.
“It’s the equivalent of a blank check. It requires no identification. Just have them call the telephone number on the card when you make a purchase. It’s very important that you keep it with you at all times.”
“Right.”
“And Commander?”
“Sir?”
“You must find those witnesses. Every one of them. I’ll inform the director that you have started the assignment.”
The meeting was over.
Harrison Keller walked Robert to the outer office. A uniformed marine was seated there. He rose as the two men came in.
“This is Captain Dougherty. He’ll take you to the airport. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The two men shook hands. Keller turned and walked back into General Hilliard’s office.
“Are you ready, Commander?” Captain Dougherty asked.
“Yes.” But ready for what? He had handled difficult intelligence assignments in the past, but never anything as crazy as this. He was expected to track down an unknown number of unknown witnesses from unknown countries. What are the odds against that? Robert wondered. I feel like the White Queen in Through the Looking Glass. “Why sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” Well, this was all six of them.
“I have orders to take you directly to your apartment and then to Andrews Air Force Base,” Captain Dougherty said. “There’s a plane waiting to—”
Robert shook his head. “I have to make a stop at my office first.”
Dougherty hesitated. “Very well. I’ll go there with you and wait for you.”
It was as if they didn’t trust him out of their sight. Because he knew that a weather balloon had crashed? It made no sense. He surrendered his badge at the reception desk and walked outside, into the chill, breaking dawn. His car was gone. In its place was a stretch limousine.
“Your car will be taken care of, Commander,” Captain Dougherty informed him. “We’ll ride in this.”
There was a high-handedness about all this that Robert found vaguely disturbing.
“Fine,” he said.
And they were on their way to Naval Intelligence. The pale morning sun was disappearing behind rain clouds. It was going to be a miserable day. In more ways than one, Robert thought.
Chapter Three
Ottawa, Canada 2400 Hours
His code name was Janus. He was addressing twelve men in the heavily guarded room of a military compound.
“As you have all been informed, Operation Doomsday has been activated. There are a number of witnesses who must be found as quickly and as quietly as possible. We are not able to attempt to track them down through regular security channels because of the danger of a leak.”
“Who are we using?” The Russian. Huge. Short-tempered.
“His name is Commander Robert Bellamy.”
“How was he selected?” The German. Aristocratic. Ruthless.
“The commander was chosen after a thorough computer search of the files of the CIA, FBI, and a half dozen other security agencies.”
“Please, may I inquire what are his qualifications?” The Japanese. Polite. Sly.
“Commander Bellamy is an experienced field officer who speaks six languages fluently and has an exemplary record. Again and again he has proved himself to be very resourceful. He has no living relatives.”
“Is he aware of the urgency of this?” The Englishman. Snobbish. Dangerous.
“He is. We have every expectation that he will be able to locate all the witnesses very quickly.”
“Does he understand the purpose of his mission?” The Frenchman. Argumentative. Stubborn.
“No.”
“And when he has found the witnesses?” The Chinese. Clever. Patient.
“He will be suitably rewarded.”
Chapter Four
The headquarters of the Office of Naval Intelligence occupies the entire fifth floor of the sprawling Pentagon, an enclave in the middle of the largest office building in the world, with seventeen miles of corridors and twenty-nine thousand military and civilian employees.
The interior of the Office of Naval Intelligence reflects its seagoing traditions. The desks and file cabinets are either olive green, from the World War II era, or battleship gray, from the Vietnam era. The walls and ceilings are painted a buff or cream color. In the beginning, Robert had been put off by the Spartan decor, but he had long since grown accustomed to it.
Now, as he walked into the building and approached the reception desk, the familiar guard at the desk said, “Good morning, Commander. May I see your pass?”
Robert had been working here for seven years, but the ritual never changed. He dutifully displayed his pass.
“Thank you, Commander.”
On his way to his office, Robert thought about Captain Dougherty, waiting for him in the parking lot at the river entrance. Waiting to escort him to the plane that would fly him to Switzerland to begin an impossible hunt.
When Robert reached his office, his secretary, Barbara, was already there.
“Good morning, Commander. The deputy director would like to see you in his office.”
“He can wait. Get me Admiral Whittaker, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
A minute later Robert was speaking with the admiral.
“I presume you have finished your meeting, Robert?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“How did it go?”
“It was—interesting. Are you free to join me for breakfast, Admiral?” He tried to keep his voice casual.
There was no hesitation. “Yes. Shall we meet there?”
“Fine. I’ll leave a visitors’ pass for you.”
“Very well. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Robert replaced the receiver and thought, It’s ironic that I have to leave a visitors’ pass for the admiral. A few years ago, he was the fairhaired boy here, in charge of Naval Intelligence. How must he feel?
Robert buzzed his secretary on the intercom.
“Yes, Commander?”
“I’m expecting Admiral Whittaker. Arrange a pass for him.”
“I’ll take care of it right away.”
It was time to report to the deputy director. Dustin fucking Thornton.
Chapter Five
Dustin “Dusty” Thornton, deputy director of the Office of Naval Intelligence, had won his fame as one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of Annapolis. Thornton owed his present exalted position to a football game. An Army-Navy game, to be precise. Thornton, a towering monolith of a man, had played fullback as a senior at Annapolis in Navy’s most important game of the year. At the beginning of the fourth quarter, with Army leading 13–0, two touch-downs and a conversion ahead, destiny stepped in and changed Dustin Thornton’s life. Thornton intercepted an Army pass, pivoted around, and charged through the Army phalanx for a touchdown. Navy missed on the extra point but soon scored a field goal. After the ensuing kick-off, Army failed to make a first down and punted into Navy territory. The score stood at Army 13, Navy 9, and the clock was running.
When play resumed, the ball was passed to Thornton, and he went down under a heap of Army uniforms. It took him a long time to get to his feet. A doctor came running out onto the field. Thornton angrily waved him away.
With seconds left to play, signals were called for a lateral pass. Thornton caught it on his own ten yard line and took off. He was unstoppable. He charged through the opposition like a tank, knocking down everyone unlucky enough to get in his way. With two seconds to go, Thornton crossed the goal line for the winning touchdown, and Navy scored its first victory against Army in four years. That, in itself, would have had little effect on Thornton’s life. What made the event significant was that seated in a box reserved for VIPs were Willard Stone and his daughter, Eleanor. As the crowd rose to its feet, wildly cheering the Navy hero, Eleanor turned to her father and said quietly, “I want to meet him.”
Eleanor Stone was a woman of large appetites. Plain-faced, she had a voluptuous body and an insatiable libido. Watching Dustin Thornton savagely plow his way down the football field, she fantasized what he would be like in bed. If his manhood was as big as the rest of his body … She was not disappointed.
Six months later, Eleanor and Dustin Thornton were married. That was the beginning. Dustin Thornton went to work for his father-in-law and was inducted into an arcane world he had not dreamed existed.
Willard Stone, Thornton’s new father-in-law, was a man of mystery. A billionaire with powerful political connections and a past shrouded in secrecy, he was a shadowy figure who pulled strings in capitals all over the world. He was in his late sixties, a meticulous man whose every movement was precise and methodical. He had razorsharp features and hooded eyes that revealed nothing. Willard Stone believed in wasting neither words nor emotions, and he was ruthless in obtaining what he wanted.
The rumors about him were fascinating. He was reported to have murdered a competitor in Malaysia and to have had a torrid affair with the favorite wife of an emir. He was said to have backed a successful revolution in Nigeria. The government had brought half a dozen indictments against him, but they were always mysteriously dropped. There were tales of bribes, and senators suborned, business secrets stolen, and witnesses who disappeared. Stone was an adviser to presidents and kings. He was raw, naked power. Among his many properties was a large, isolated estate in the Colorado mountains where every year scientists, captains of industry, and world leaders gathered for seminars. Armed guards kept out unwanted visitors.
Willard Stone had not only approved his daughter’s marriage, he had encouraged it. His new son-in-law was brilliant, ambitious, and most important, malleable.
Twelve years after the marriage, Stone arranged for Dustin to be appointed ambassador to South Korea. Several years later, the President appointed him ambassador to the United Nations. When Admiral Ralph Whittaker was suddenly ousted as acting director of ONI, Thornton took his place.
That day Willard Stone sent for his son-in-law.
“This is merely the beginning,” Stone promised. “I have bigger plans for you, Dustin. Great plans.” And he had proceeded to outline them.
Two years earlier, Robert had had his first meeting with the new acting director of ONI.
“Sit down, Commander.” There was no cordiality in Dustin Thornton’s voice. “I see by your record that you’re something of a maverick.”
What the hell does he mean? Robert wondered. He decided to keep his mouth shut.
Thornton looked up. “I don’t know how Admiral Whittaker ran this office when he was in charge, but from now on we’re doing everything by the book. I expect my orders to be carried out to the letter. Do I make myself clear?”
Jesus, Robert thought, what the hell are we in for here?
“Do I make myself clear, Commander?”
“Yes. You expect your orders to be carried out to the letter.” He wondered whether he was expected to salute.
“That’s all.”
But it was not all.
A month later, Robert was sent to East Germany to bring in a scientist who wanted to defect. It was a dangerous assignment because Stasi, the East German secret police, had learned about the proposed defection and was watching the scientist closely. In spite of that, Robert had managed to smuggle the man across the border, to a safe house. He was making arrangements to bring him to Washington when he received a call from Dustin Thornton telling him that the situation had changed and that he was to drop the assignment.
“We can’t just dump him here,” Robert had protested. “They’ll kill him.”
“That’s his problem,” Thornton had replied. “Your orders are to come back home.”
Screw you, Robert thought. I’m not going to abandon him. He had called a friend of his in MI6, British Intelligence, and explained the situation.
“If he goes back to East Germany,” Robert said, “they’ll chop him. Will you take him?”
“I’ll see what can be done, old chap. Bring him along.”
And the scientist had been given haven in England.
Dustin Thornton never forgave Robert for disobeying his instructions. From that point on, there was open animosity between the two men. Thornton had discussed the incident with his father-in-law.
“Loose cannons like Bellamy are dangerous,” Willard Stone warned. “They’re a security hazard. Men like that are expendable. Remember that.”
And Thornton had remembered.
Now, walking down the corridor toward Dustin Thornton’s office, Robert could not help thinking about the difference between Thornton and Whittaker. In a job like his, trust was the sine qua non. He did not trust Dustin Thornton.
Thornton was seated behind his desk when Robert walked into his office.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Sit down, Commander.” Their relationship had never reached the “Robert” phase.
“I’ve been told you’ve been temporarily transferred to the National Security Agency. When you come back, I have a—”
“I’m not coming back. This is my last assignment.”
“What?”
“I’m quitting.”
Thinking about it later, Robert was not sure exactly what reaction he had expected. Some kind of scene. Dustin Thornton could have shown surprise, or he could have argued, or been angry, or relieved. Instead, he had merely looked at Robert and nodded. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”
When Robert returned to his own office, he said to his secretary, “I’m going to be away for a while. I’ll be leaving in about an hour.”
“Is there some place where you can be reached?”
Robert remembered General Hilliard’s orders. “No.”
“There are some meetings you—”
“Cancel them.” He looked at his watch. It was time to meet Admiral Whittaker.
They had breakfast in the center yard of the Pentagon at the Ground Zero Cafe, so named because it was once thought that the Pentagon was where the first nuclear-bomb attack against the United States would take place. Robert had arranged for a corner table where they would have a degree of privacy. Admiral Whittaker was punctual, and as Robert watched him approach the table, it seemed to him that the admiral looked older and smaller, as though semi-retirement had somehow aged and shrunk him. He was still a striking-looking man with strong features, a Roman nose, good cheekbones, and a crown of silvered hair. Robert had served under the admiral in Vietnam and later in the Office of Naval Intelligence, and he had a high regard for him. More than a high regard, Robert admitted to himself. Admiral Whittaker was his surrogate father.
The admiral sat down. “Good morning, Robert. Well, did they transfer you to the NSA?”
Robert nodded. “Temporarily.”
The waitress arrived, and the two men studied the menu.
“I had forgotten how bad the food here was,” Admiral Whittaker said, smiling. He looked around the room, his face reflecting an unspoken nostalgia.
He wishes he were back here, Robert thought. Amen.
They ordered. When the waitress was out of earshot, Robert said, “Admiral, General Hilliard is sending me on an urgent three-thousand-mile trip to locate some witnesses who saw a weather balloon crash. I find that strange. And there’s something else that’s even stranger. ‘Time is of the essence,’ to quote the general, but I’ve been ordered not to use any of my intelligence contacts abroad to help me.”
Admiral Whittaker looked puzzled. “I suppose the general must have his reasons.”
Robert said, “I can’t imagine what they are.”
Admiral Whittaker studied Robert. Commander Bellamy had served under him in Vietnam and had been the best pilot in the squadron. The admiral’s son, Edward, had been Robert’s bombardier, and on the terrible day their plane had been shot down, Edward had been killed. Robert had barely survived. The admiral had gone to the hospital to visit him.
“He’s not going to make it,” the doctors had told him. Robert, lying there in agonizing pain, had whispered, “I’m sorry about Edward … I’m so sorry.”
Admiral Whittaker had squeezed Robert’s hand. “I know you did everything you could. You’ve got to get well, now. You’re going to be fine.” He wanted desperately for Robert to live. In the admiral’s mind, Robert was his son, the son who would take Edward’s place.
And Robert had pulled through.
“Robert—”
“Yes, Admiral?”
“I hope your mission is successful.”
“So do I. It’s my last one.”
“You’re still determined to quit?”
The admiral was the only one Robert had confided in. “I’ve had enough.”
“Thornton?”
“It’s not just him. It’s me. I’m tired of interfering with other people’s lives.” I’m tired of the lies and the cheating, and the broken promises that were never meant to be kept. I’m tired of manipulating people and of being manipulated. I’m tired of the games and the danger and the betrayals. It’s cost me everything I ever gave a damn about.
“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”
“I’ll try to find something useful to do with my life, something positive.”
“What if they won’t let you go?”
Robert said, “They have no choice, have they?”
Chapter Six
The limousine was waiting at the river-entrance parking lot.
“Are you ready, Commander?” Captain Dougherty asked.
As ready as I’ll ever be, Robert thought. “Yes.”
Captain Dougherty accompanied Robert to his apartment so he could pack. Robert had no idea how many days he would be gone. How long does an impossible assignment take? He packed enough clothes for a week and, at the last minute, put in a framed photograph of Susan. He stared at it for a long time and wondered if she were enjoying herself in Brazil. He thought, I hope not. I hope she’s having a lousy time. And was immediately ashamed of himself.
When the limousine arrived at Andrews Air Force Base, the plane was waiting. It was a C20A, an Air Force jet.
Captain Dougherty held out his hand. “Good luck, Commander.”
“Thanks.” I’ll need it. Robert walked up the steps to the cabin. The crew was inside finishing the preflight check. There was a pilot, a co-pilot, a navigator, and a steward, all in Air Force uniforms. Robert was familiar with the plane. It was loaded with electronic equipment. On the outside near the tail was a high-frequency antenna that looked like an enormous fishing pole. Inside the cabin were twelve red telephones on the walls and a white, unsecured phone. Radio transmissions were in code, and the plane’s radar was on a military frequency. The primary color inside was air force blue, and the cabin was furnished with comfortable club chairs.
Robert found that he was the only passenger. The pilot greeted him. “Welcome aboard, Commander. If you’ll put on your seat belt, we have clearance to take off.”
Robert strapped himself in and leaned back in his seat as the plane taxied down the runway. A minute later, he felt the familiar pull of gravity as the jet screamed into the air. He had not piloted a plane since his crash, when he had been told he would never be able to fly again. Fly again, hell, Robert thought, they said I wouldn’t live. It was a miracle—No, it was Susan …
Vietnam. He had been sent there with the rank of lieutenant commander, stationed on the aircraft carrier Ranger as a tactics officer, responsible for training fighter pilots and planning attack strategy. He had led a bomber squadron of A-6A Intruders, and there was very little time away from the pressures of battle. One of the few leaves he had was in Bangkok for a week of R and R, and during that time he never bothered to sleep. The city was a Disneyland designed for the pleasure of the male animal. He had met an exquisite Thai girl his first hour in town, and she had stayed at his side the whole time and taught him a few Thai phrases. He had found the language soft and mellifluous.
Good morning. Arun sawasdi.
Where are you from? Khun na chak nai?
Where are you going now? Khun kamrant chain pai?
She taught him other phrases too, but she would not tell him what they meant, and when he said them, she giggled.
When Robert returned to the Ranger, Bangkok seemed like a faraway dream. The war was the reality and it was a horror. Someone showed him one of the leaflets the marines dropped over North Vietnam. It read:
Dear Citizens:
The U.S. Marines are fighting alongside South Vietnamese forces in Duc Pho in order to give the Vietnamese people a chance to live a free, happy life, without fear of hunger and suffering. But many Vietnamese have paid with their lives, and their homes have been destroyed because they helped the Vietcong.
The hamlets of Hai Mon, Hai Tan, Sa Binh, Ta Binh, and many others have been destroyed because of this. We will not hesitate to destroy every hamlet that helps the Vietcong, who are powerless to stop the combined might of the GVN and its allies. The choice is yours. If you refuse to let the Vietcong use your villages and hamlets as their battlefield, your homes and your lives will be saved.
We’re saving the poor bastards, all right. Robert thought grimly. And all we’re destroying is their country.
The aircraft carrier Ranger was equipped with all the state-of-the-art technology that could be crammed into it. The ship was home base for 16 aircraft, 40 officers, and 350 enlisted men. Flight schedules were handed out three or four hours before the first launch of the day.
In the mission planning section of the ship’s intelligence center, the latest information and reconnaissance photos were given to the bombardiers, who then planned their flight patterns.
“Jesus, they gave us a beauty this morning,” said Edward Whittaker, Robert’s bombardier.
Edward Whittaker looked like a younger version of his father, but he had a completely different personality. Where the admiral was a formidable figure, dignified and austere, his son was down-to-earth, warm and friendly. He had earned his place as “just one of the boys.” The other airmen forgave him for being the son of their commander. He was the best bombardier in the squadron, and he and Robert had become fast friends.
“Where are we heading?” Robert asked.
“For our sins, we’ve drawn Package Six.”
It was the most dangerous mission of all. It meant flying north to Hanoi, Haiphong, and up the Red River delta, where the flak was heaviest. There was a catch-22: They were not permitted to bomb any strategic targets if there were civilians nearby, and the North Vietnamese, not being stupid, immediately placed civilians around all their military installations. There was a lot of grumbling in the allied military, but President Lyndon Johnson, safely back in Washington, was giving the orders.
The twelve years that United States troops fought in Vietnam were the longest period it has ever been at war. Robert Bellamy had come into it late in 1972, when the Navy was having major problems. Their F-4 squadrons were being destroyed. In spite of the fact that their planes were superior to the Russian MiG’s, the U.S. Navy was losing one F-4 for every two MiG’s shot down. It was an unacceptable ratio.
Robert was summoned to the headquarters of Admiral Ralph Whittaker.
“You sent for me, Admiral?”
“You have the reputation of being a hotshot pilot, Commander. I need your help.”
“Yes, sir?”
“We’re getting murdered by the goddamned enemy. I have had a thorough analysis made. There’s nothing wrong with our planes—it’s the training of the men who are flying them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to pick a group and retrain it in maneuvers and weapons employment …”
The new group was called Top Gun, and before they were through, the ratio changed from two to one to twelve to one. For every two F-4’s lost, twenty-four MiG’s were shot down. The assignment had taken eight weeks of intensive training, and Commander Bellamy had finally returned to his ship. Admiral Whittaker was there to greet him. “That was a damned fine job, Commander.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Now, let’s get back to work.”
“I’m ready, sir.”
Robert had flown thirty-four bombing missions from the Ranger without incident.
His thirty-fifth mission was Package Six.
They had passed Hanoi and were heading northwest toward Phu Tho and Yen Bai. The flak was getting increasingly heavy. Edward Whittaker was seated on Robert’s right, staring at the radar screen, listening to the ominous bass tones of enemy search radars sweeping the sky.
The sky directly ahead of them looked like the Fourth of July, streaked with white smoke from the light guns below, dark gray bursts from the fifty-five-millimeter shells, black clouds from the hundred-millimeter shells, and colored tracer bullets from heavy machine-gun fire.
“We’re approaching target,” Edward said. His voice through the headphones sounded eerily far away.
“Roger.”
The A-6A Intruder was flying at 450 knots, and at that speed, even with the drag and weight of the bomb load, it handled remarkably well, moving too fast for enemies to track it.
Robert reached out and turned on the master armament switch. The dozen 500-pound bombs were now ready to be released. He was headed straight for the target.
A voice on his radio said, “Romeo—you have a bogey at four o’clock high.”
Robert turned to look. A MiG was hurtling toward him, coming out of the sun. Robert banked and sent the plane into a steep dive. The MiG was on his tail. It loosed a missile. Robert checked his instrument panel. The missile was closing in rapidly. A thousand feet away … six hundred … four hundred …
“Holy shit!” Edward yelled. “What are we waiting for?”
Robert waited until the last second, then released a stream of metal chaff and went into a steep climbing turn, leaving the missile to follow the chaff and crash harmlessly into the ground below.
“Thank you, God,” Edward said. “And you, pal.”
Robert continued the climb and swung behind the MiG. The pilot started to take evasive action, but it was too late. Robert loosed a Sidewinder missile and watched it crawl up the tail pipe of the MiG and explode. An instant later, the sky was showered with pieces of metal.
A voice came over the intercom. “Nice work, Romeo.”
The plane was over the target now. “Here we go,” Edward said. He pressed the red button that released the bombs and watched them tumble down toward their target. Mission accomplished. Robert headed the plane back toward the carrier.
At that instant, they felt a heavy thud. The swift and graceful bomber suddenly became sluggish.
“We’ve been hit!” Edward called.
Both fire-warning lights were flashing red. The plane was moving erratically, out of control.
A voice came over the radio. “Romeo, this is Tiger. Do you want us to cover you?”
Robert made a split-second decision. “No, go on to your targets. I’m going to try to make it back to base.”
The plane had slowed down and was becoming more difficult to handle.
“Faster,” Edward said nervously, “or we’re going to be late for lunch.”
Robert looked at the altimeter. The needle was dropping rapidly. He activated his radio mike. “Romeo to home base. We’ve taken a hit.”
“Home base to Romeo. How bad is it?”
“I’m not sure. I think I can bring it home.”
“Hold on.” A moment later the voice returned. “Your signal is ‘Charlie on arrival.’”
That meant they were cleared to land on the carrier immediately.
“Roger.”
“Good luck.”
The plane was starting to roll. Robert fought to correct it, trying to gain altitude. “Come on, baby, you can make it.” Robert’s face was tight. They were losing too much altitude. “What’s our ETA?”
Edward looked at his chart. “Seven minutes.”
“I’m going to get you that hot lunch.”
Robert was nursing the plane along with all the skill at his command, using the throttle and rudder to try to keep it on a straight course. The altitude was still dropping alarmingly. Finally, ahead of him, Robert saw the sparkling blue waters of the Tonkin Gulf.
“We’re home free, buddy,” Robert said. “Just a few more miles.”
“Terrific. I never doubted—”
And out of nowhere, two MiG’s descended on the plane with a thunderous roar. Bullets began thudding against the fuselage.
“Eddie! Bail out!” He turned to look. Edward was slumped against his seat belt, his right side torn open, blood spattering the cockpit.
“No!” It was a scream.
A second later, Robert felt a sudden, agonizing blow to his chest. His flight suit was instantly soaked in blood. The plane started to spiral downward. He felt himself losing consciousness. With his last ounce of strength, he unfastened his seat belt. He turned to take a final look at Edward. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He blacked out and later had no recollection of how he ejected out of the plane and parachuted into the water below. A Mayday call had been sent out, and a Sikorsky SH-3A Sea King helicopter from the U.S.S. Yorktown was circling, waiting to pick him up. In the distance, the crew could see Chinese junks rapidly closing in for the kill, but they were too late.
When they loaded Robert into the helicopter, a medical corpsman took one look at his torn body and said, “Jesus Christ, he’ll never even make it to the hospital.”
They gave Robert a shot of morphine, wrapped pressure bandages tightly around his chest, and flew him to the 12th Evacuation Hospital at Cu Chi Base.
The “12th Evac,” which served Cu Chi, Tay Ninh, and Dau Tieng bases, had four hundred beds in a dozen wards, housed in quonset huts arranged around a U-shaped compound connected by covered walkways. The hospital had two intensive-care units, one for surgery cases, the other for burns, and each unit was seriously overcrowded. When Robert was brought in, he left a bright red trail of blood across the hospital floor.
A harried surgeon cut the bandages from Robert’s chest, took one look, and said wearily, “He’s not going to make it. Take him in back to cold storage.”
And the doctor moved on.
Robert, fading in and out of consciousness, heard the doctor’s voice from a far distance. So, this is it, he thought. What a lousy way to die.
“You don’t want to die, do you, sailor? Open your eyes. Come on.”
He opened his eyes and saw a blurred image of a white uniform and a woman’s face. She was saying something more, but he could not make out the words. The ward was too noisy, filled with a cacophony of screams and moans of patients, and doctors yelling out orders, and nurses frantically running around administering to the savaged bodies that lay there.
Robert’s memory of the next forty-eight hours was a haze of pain and delirium. It was only later that he learned that the nurse, Susan Ward, had persuaded a doctor to operate on him and had donated her own blood for a transfusion. Fighting to keep him alive, they had put three IV’s into Robert’s ravaged body and pumped blood through them simultaneously.
When the operation was over, the surgeon in charge sighed. “We’ve wasted our time. He’s got no more than a ten percent chance of pulling through.”
But the doctor did not know Robert Bellamy. And he did not know Susan Ward. It seemed to Robert that whenever he opened his eyes, Susan was there, holding his hand, stroking his forehead, ministering to him, willing him to live. He was delirious most of the time. Susan sat quietly next to him in the dark ward in the middle of the lonely nights and listened to his ravings.
“… The DOD is wrong, you can’t head in perpendicular to the target or you’ll hit the river … Tell them to angle the dives a few degrees off target heading … Tell them …” he mumbled.
Susan said soothingly, “I will.”
Robert’s body was soaked in perspiration. She sponged him off. “… You have to remove all five of the safety pins or the seat won’t eject … Check them …”
“All right. Go back to sleep now.”
“… The shackles on the multiple ejector racks malfunctioned … God only knows where the bombs landed …”
Half the time Susan could not understand what her patient was talking about.
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