weary sigh, Hackett returned to his seat. “Burke’s actions hit them where they live.”
“Yes, sir, they did.” True, but did Burke actually commit the crimes?
That was the question. Odds were, he had. Yet there was a seed of doubt, that grain of truth. “Colonel, please be frank. Would it be more convenient to discuss this when your schedule isn’t so tight?”
“Yes, it would.” Hackett looked relieved. “I’m due at a briefing with General Nestler.”
His reaction alerted her instincts. He seemed too relieved for the reason to be just postponing a discussion about Burke. There had to be more to it. Tracy stood up. “I’ll phone your secretary, then.”
Hackett watched Tracy move to the door, interested but unconcerned. “That’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” She walked out of his office clutching her notepad so tightly her fingers stung. Her heart hammered against her chest wall, and a sick feeling slithered through her stomach. Hackett had looked relieved. Not angry that Burke had failed him-odd, since the man reportedly denied failure in his men as an option-but relieved that Tracy hadn’t pinned him down on specifics about Adam Burke. What had Hackett been expecting?
Obviously, worse than he had gotten. But who else had suspicions about him that were strong enough to warrant bugging his office?
That bug was damning evidence-at least, in her eyes. She hated to believe Hackett could be involved as Burke had said; hated it with a passion that surprised her. But she couldn’t let that hatred bury the possibility that it could be true. Was Hackett involved? If so, to what extent? Or had Adam Burke lied? The second bug could be unrelated.
With luck, the listening device would ferret out the truth. It wouldn’t provide any evidence admissible in court, of course. No one could know it was there-ever. But it could steer her in the right direction so she knew what to look for, and why she was looking for it, and that search could produce admissible evidence.
Provided Colonel Hackett was conspiring and he wasn’t totally innocent.
Provided Adam Burke had told her the truth.
Provided Hackett didn’t find the bug and have her arrested.
For now, she didn’t dare speculate further; there were too many unknowns. She could only move forward and try to unravel the threads. Take Dr. Kane’s advice and visit Major Gus O’Dell. Maybe, just maybe, she could stir up a little dust.
Half an hour later, Tracy drove down Hangar Row, crossed the flight line, then passed the climate-controlled hangar where tests determined planes’ endurance leavels. The huge red-needle thermometer attached to the outer front wall of the building read minus 28 degrees. They must be running a safety check on icing-probably on F-15s. About a dozen of them sat parked on the flight line, and one had crashed in Greenland due to ice.
She parked and then entered the mammoth metal hangar housing the simulator chamber. O’Dell stood at the far end of it, just outside the actual gaschamber simulator, leaning against a wooden sawhorse, looking disgusted and bored with a group of simulator training attendees. Other than the chamber and its control board, a couple of fire extinguishers and oxygen tanks lined up against the outer west wall, and spare masks and chemical gear stowed on wooden shelves, the huge hangar designed to house several airplanes stood empty of equipment. What was that smell?
Gin?
She cast a suspicious look at O’Dell, and walked over, her heels clicking hollow sounds on the concrete floor. He didn’t look drunk, but he had been drinking. Red rimmed his eyes and the sour smell of alcohol oozed from his pores. He wasn’t heavy-no one in uniform was allowed to be heavy-but he definitely bent toward the far side of acceptable limits on weight for a man five foot nine. His dark hair was threaded with gray, his features were sharp and angular, and his mouth appeared huge stretched open as he bellowed at some young
“Yes, sir, they did.” True, but did Burke actually commit the crimes?
That was the question. Odds were, he had. Yet there was a seed of doubt, that grain of truth. “Colonel, please be frank. Would it be more convenient to discuss this when your schedule isn’t so tight?”
“Yes, it would.” Hackett looked relieved. “I’m due at a briefing with General Nestler.”
His reaction alerted her instincts. He seemed too relieved for the reason to be just postponing a discussion about Burke. There had to be more to it. Tracy stood up. “I’ll phone your secretary, then.”
Hackett watched Tracy move to the door, interested but unconcerned. “That’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, sir.” She walked out of his office clutching her notepad so tightly her fingers stung. Her heart hammered against her chest wall, and a sick feeling slithered through her stomach. Hackett had looked relieved. Not angry that Burke had failed him-odd, since the man reportedly denied failure in his men as an option-but relieved that Tracy hadn’t pinned him down on specifics about Adam Burke. What had Hackett been expecting?
Obviously, worse than he had gotten. But who else had suspicions about him that were strong enough to warrant bugging his office?
That bug was damning evidence-at least, in her eyes. She hated to believe Hackett could be involved as Burke had said; hated it with a passion that surprised her. But she couldn’t let that hatred bury the possibility that it could be true. Was Hackett involved? If so, to what extent? Or had Adam Burke lied? The second bug could be unrelated.
With luck, the listening device would ferret out the truth. It wouldn’t provide any evidence admissible in court, of course. No one could know it was there-ever. But it could steer her in the right direction so she knew what to look for, and why she was looking for it, and that search could produce admissible evidence.
Provided Colonel Hackett was conspiring and he wasn’t totally innocent.
Provided Adam Burke had told her the truth.
Provided Hackett didn’t find the bug and have her arrested.
For now, she didn’t dare speculate further; there were too many unknowns. She could only move forward and try to unravel the threads. Take Dr. Kane’s advice and visit Major Gus O’Dell. Maybe, just maybe, she could stir up a little dust.
Half an hour later, Tracy drove down Hangar Row, crossed the flight line, then passed the climate-controlled hangar where tests determined planes’ endurance leavels. The huge red-needle thermometer attached to the outer front wall of the building read minus 28 degrees. They must be running a safety check on icing-probably on F-15s. About a dozen of them sat parked on the flight line, and one had crashed in Greenland due to ice.
She parked and then entered the mammoth metal hangar housing the simulator chamber. O’Dell stood at the far end of it, just outside the actual gaschamber simulator, leaning against a wooden sawhorse, looking disgusted and bored with a group of simulator training attendees. Other than the chamber and its control board, a couple of fire extinguishers and oxygen tanks lined up against the outer west wall, and spare masks and chemical gear stowed on wooden shelves, the huge hangar designed to house several airplanes stood empty of equipment. What was that smell?
Gin?
She cast a suspicious look at O’Dell, and walked over, her heels clicking hollow sounds on the concrete floor. He didn’t look drunk, but he had been drinking. Red rimmed his eyes and the sour smell of alcohol oozed from his pores. He wasn’t heavy-no one in uniform was allowed to be heavy-but he definitely bent toward the far side of acceptable limits on weight for a man five foot nine. His dark hair was threaded with gray, his features were sharp and angular, and his mouth appeared huge stretched open as he bellowed at some young
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