Category Five (7 page)

“I'll get everyone off.” Michael slid out of the seat.

Donovan nodded at his friend—Michael had read his mind. All he wanted at this point was for Lauren to simply walk off the airplane and vanish. It was what she was good at. He continued securing the airplane, carefully going through each item on the lengthy checklist. Donovan tried to put her out of his thoughts as he waited for everyone to deplane. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Donovan wondered where she was going, who was waiting for her arrival. It was a lonely thought that there wasn't anyone waiting for him. As he gathered up a three-ring notebook to log the flight time for the trip, he heard the cockpit door slowly open. Donovan didn't look up as he continued to write, but in his peripheral vision he could see Lauren's legs as she stood in the doorway. The silence was threatening to suffocate him. What was she waiting for? He finished writing and looked up, ready to face her, but she was gone.

Donovan leaned over and watched as she hurried across the tarmac to the Customs official. The agent waved her through and
she went immediately to the helicopter. Donovan watched as she stopped and glanced up at the Gulfstream. He could see her clearly in the afternoon sunlight; his shoulders slumped at how beautiful she was. She offered him a sad smile and a hesitant wave, then ducked down and boarded the chopper. Moments later the helicopter lifted off and turned east. As the noise from the beating rotor slowly subsided, Donovan knew that as quickly as he'd found her, she'd vanished once again.

He shook off the weight of his sorrow, and walked out of the cockpit and down the airstairs. Aware that Michael was waiting for him, Donovan went in his direction.

“Sorry, buddy.” Michael offered a halfhearted smile.

Donovan nodded. A silent moment passed between the two friends.

“Hey, you want to come over for dinner?” Michael changed the subject. “Susan and the kids would love to see you. We were going to cook out tonight, nothing fancy.”

Donovan shook his head. He was tempted—Susan and Michael's two young sons were the nearest thing to family Donovan had left. Patrick and Billy were a source of great joy. Billy, the youngest, was a hockey star. Though only ten years old, he was a force to be reckoned with on the ice. Patrick, the oldest, was truly a gifted athlete. He excelled at every sport, but his first love was baseball. Over the years, Donovan had spent more than a few pleasurable Saturday afternoons in the bleachers, rooting for Patrick's team. He loved Michael's family dearly, but tonight he felt like being alone.

“Or, I could call Susan.” Michael shifted his tone and gave Donovan a sly wink. “Tell her you and I are going out to get blind drunk. We did have a hell of a day.”

Donovan smiled at his friend, thankful for the concern. “I appreciate the invitation, but I'm fine. I have some work to finish here, then I'm going home. But I'll take a rain check on dinner.”

“Whatever you want.” Michael fell in step beside Donovan as they walked toward the offices. “But you got to admit, the idea of going out drinking wasn't bad. It is a Saturday night, and as you well know, there is an age-old tradition of intrepid aviators reveling until the wee hours. It's more than a birthright, it's a grave responsibility.”

Donovan was forced to smile at the seriousness of the declaration. Michael's credo was always to leave them laughing. In the eight years they'd been flying together, he and Michael had closed their share of bars. The memories of their exploits were like a treasured family photo album.

“I think we've upheld that tradition a time or two.”

“We are perhaps the best that ever lived,” Michael replied quickly, his seriousness reaching a comical level. “But we can't afford to lose our edge. All around us are up and coming young pilots, looking to unseat the kings. It's one of the penalties of our immense talent.”

“You go on home,” Donovan tried to smile one more time. “Give Susan and the kids a hug for me. I'll see you bright and early Monday. Enjoy what's left of the weekend.”

“Call if you change your mind about dinner.” Michael hesitated a moment. “Or if you need anything—the door is always open.”

“I know, and I appreciate it. See you Monday.”

The ground crew had just finished easing the
da Vinci
into its space next to the
Galileo
. Across the polished floor of the immaculate hangar, Donovan spied the man he was looking for. Frank Moretti headed up the maintenance section of Eco-Watch. Frank was always in motion, a nervously energetic Italian. He stood no more than five foot five, his thin wiry frame capped by a bald head, though Frank combed a section of hair from left to right in a feeble effort to disguise the obvious. A toothpick always protruded from the side of his narrow mouth, bobbing up and down as he spoke. What Frank lacked in a physical presence, he
more than made up for with his keen mechanical eye. Donovan had hired him away from a long career at Gulfstream Aerospace. He hadn't come cheap, but when it came to the two modified G-IVs tucked in the hangar, Donovan was convinced there wasn't a man alive who knew more about them than Frank. Each and every one of the Eco-Watch pilots trusted the man with his life.

“Frank,” Donovan called out as he walked closer. “You got a minute?”

Frank looked up from a table. He'd been studying a set of blueprints.

“What's up?” A frown flashed across his already stern face. “You didn't hurt my airplane, did you?”

“No, we didn't hurt your plane. But I do need a favor.” Donovan wasn't going to be the one to tell Frank about the empty drums in Bermuda, or how close they'd come to hitting them.

“Sure.” Frank took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. The afternoon sun was beginning to shine into the hangar. It was getting even warmer.

“That helicopter that met us. Any idea who it belonged to?”

Frank shook his head. “Not a clue. But you want me to find out right?”

“Only if you have the time. I'd also love to know where they were going.” Donovan was counting on Frank's intimate knowledge of the area's aviation community to pay off once again.

“I'll see what I can do,” Frank replied, with a slight glimmer in his eye. “It was a new machine. A Bell 427. It has Pratt and Whitney turbines. I believe their tech rep owes me. Did you by chance catch the registration number?”

Donovan knew he was probably being played. “It was N37808.” He had no doubt that Frank already knew the number, and that he'd also seen Lauren get into the helicopter. One of the drawbacks of working with a small intimate group was what Donovan described as the small town effect. Everyone seemed to
know what everyone else was doing. Despite his best intentions, his past relationship with Lauren probably wasn't a secret.

“Got it,” Frank nodded.

“Is everything going to be ready for Monday?” Donovan wanted to change the subject. He was also curious about the status of the
Galileo
. He and Michael were scheduled out early Monday morning for a high-altitude hurricane reconnaissance flight.

“Yeah. We're almost there.” Frank gestured at the blueprints. “Though I'm convinced the wiring diagram for the new antenna array was drawn by chipmunks. But we'll figure it out.”

“Like you always do.” Donovan glanced at his watch. He had no idea what he was going to do with what remained of his day. A part of him knew if he stopped moving, the weight of seeing Lauren would crash down around him.

“See you Monday.” Donovan knew he should let Frank get back to work.

“I'll be here.” Frank nodded.

Donovan took the back stairs up to his office. It was quiet. All the doors down the carpeted hall were closed. He let himself in, switched on the light, and gently barricaded himself from the world. He opened the small refrigerator and took out a bottle of water. He screwed off the plastic cap and sent it flying across the room, where it bounced off the wall and rattled into the waste-basket. He ignored his desk and sat down on the sofa that lined one wall. He grabbed the remote control for the television and turned it over and over in his hand, debating whether to switch the set on or not. On the shelves he saw his books and the Gulfstream models. There were photographs on each wall, pictures of people and places. His favorite was a shot taken of every Eco-Watch employee gathered around both airplanes on the ramp. It was the day they'd taken delivery of the
da Vinci
. The excitement in the air had been electric. Donovan let his gaze
wander to the photographs of him and Michael, a collage of memories taken all over the globe.

There were also several pictures of ocean-going ships. A small but growing section of Eco-Watch was the marine unit. The foundation had recently allocated funds to expand into the oceanic research arena. There were three ships now, two based in Norfolk, Virginia, the other operating out of Hawaii. Like their aviation counterparts, they roamed the planet gathering data in the name of environmental science. Donovan stood back. The informal gallery represented eight years' worth of Eco-Watch missions. He and his people had been to virtually every corner of the globe.

His eyes darted to the bottom left drawer of his credenza. Inside was a photograph of Lauren. In his mind's eye, he could visualize the snapshot. They'd been on vacation in San Francisco. She'd looked radiant that day, her face a mix of seduction and serenity. Her hair had been tousled by the wind, the sunset filtering through the strands. The picture had given her an angelic quality, almost otherworldly. He knew he should have gotten rid of it long ago, but could never quite bring himself to toss it in the trash.

Donovan thought back to the day's events in Bermuda. His internal battle with the bridge still haunted him. At one point in his life he'd loved the ocean, been at home in and under the water. He had been a strong swimmer and fearless diver. But that person was gone now, swept away by a vengeful sea. What remained was a man terrified at the prospect of being in the water. He'd buried his fear for years, tried to blot out the root cause. But today had dredged it all up. Donovan felt the anguish begin to build. He briefly wondered how long a man could keep losing little pieces of himself and still survive.

At war with his emotions, Donovan reached for the remote control and commanded the television to life. He tuned the set to
the Weather Channel, then took a long pull from his water, the lump in his throat seeming to wash away as he focused on a satellite shot of the Atlantic Ocean. He was amazed at how far Helena had traveled since they'd left this morning for Bermuda. The mass of clouds was churning northeast. The time lapsed images from space easily showed the rotation around the eye. He imagined Bermuda must be getting hammered. Donovan toggled the volume until the meteorologist's voice could be heard.

“The National Weather Service has upgraded Helena to a category three hurricane. Peak winds near the eye wall have been recorded at 115 miles per hour. The eye is now located 79 miles southwest of Bermuda and the storm is moving northwesterly at eleven knots. We'll be right back with the latest projections of Helena's expected track. All of you living on the East Coast stay tuned as we continue to follow Helena's movement.”

Donovan flipped the channel. He knew there was no way they could project if and when Helena might make landfall. Donovan silenced the set. Still feeling wrung out, he went to his desk and sat down. It was as he'd left it earlier. There was a pile of paperwork he knew he should do, but he swept it aside. Instead, he opened the bottom drawer and found the picture of Lauren.

The voice of reason urging him to let her go, he instead drank in the warmth of her smile. He looked into her eyes and relived all the reasons he'd lost her. If he were simply Donovan Nash, Director of Eco-Watch, they'd still be together. He'd lost her because of who he really was. It was the most indefensible reason of all.

Donovan slid the photo back in the drawer. He took a deep breath to try to quiet himself. He'd failed today on so many levels, first with the raging sea, then in his attempts to reach out to Lauren. He knew in his heart that anything he might say and do at this point was probably a waste of effort. She was lost to him forever. His controlled and calculated life had cost him the woman he loved.

I
've explained this to you a dozen times—Donovan Nash's boots were a different style from the ones I saw.” Lauren was growing tired of this game. For the last half hour they'd simply been asking her the same questions again and again. Each barrage focused in on Donovan.

“Dr. McKenna. You were upside down in a wrecked car in the middle of a hurricane. I find it difficult to believe that you could be aware of different styles of footwear.”

Lauren ground her teeth. The helicopter had whisked them directly from Dulles to DIA headquarters. She'd barely had time to change clothes, then call and check in with her mother before being called in to this debriefing. She had a million things to do and these guys were starting to irritate her.

“I'm a woman. I notice things like that,” she remarked coolly. “Look. If Donovan Nash wanted to steal my computer, why did he save my life? It would have been far easier for him to let me drown.”

“Dr. McKenna. What is your relationship with Mr. Nash?”

“He's a friend.” Lauren wished her feelings were as simple as her words.

“You are aware of a previous investigation centered around Mr. Nash?”

Lauren nodded that she was.

“Have you ever passed sensitive documents to Mr. Nash?”

Lauren glared at the agent who had asked the question. “That is perhaps the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You may have a security leak, but it isn't me and I doubt very much if Donovan is involved either.”

“Would you please answer the question?”

“I've never passed sensitive information to anyone.”