The Air Force helicopter organized by General Brokaw was a UH-1Y, out of Vandenberg Air Force Base.
It met Granger’s car at a country club north of LA, in a grassed area created especially for the purpose of providing helicopter transport for the exclusive membership. The motorcycle cop had been skeptical when given a new destination, but when he saw the light gray of the Air Force chopper and heard the unmistakable whoop-whoop-whoop of the Huey and saw the door gunners out each side, he knew that this operation, like he’d been hearing via snippets of news all day, was fast becoming a military one.
“Thank you,” Walker said, shaking Granger’s hand. “You did a good thing.”
“Don’t mention it,” he replied. “Anything else I can do, aside from the phone call?”
“I’ve got your number,” Walker said, patting the guy’s card in his jacket pocket. “If I can think of anything in the future, I’ll let you know.”
Monica climbed aboard the chopper. Walker was close behind.
“Sir, I’m Master Chief Doolan.” He passed over two sets of earphones with mikes attached, and helped them into the bench seat against the rear wall, then plugged in their headsets, and said, “General Brokaw has put us at your disposal.”
Walker nodded. He liked Airmen like Doolan. Good people. Family. Loyal.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Walker, retired,” he said. “This is the General’s daughter, Monica Brokaw.”
“Pleasure, ma’am,” the Master Chief said. “I’m sorry for your brother’s situation.”
She nodded.
Doolan said, “Where to?”
“Palo Alto,” Walker replied. “As central as you can get. As fast as you like.”
“We can do that,” Doolan replied, and he held the mouthpiece close to his mouth as he ordered the side doors closed and moved to a jump-seat behind the pilots and strapped in. The aircraft took off, nose dipped loose as the pilots belted northwest.
“You understand this mission is completely dark?” Walker said into the mike, looking at Doolan as he spoke.
“Yes, sir,” Doolan replied. “The way I see it, someone’s messed with Air Force, and we’re doing what we can to even things up a little.”
Walker gave a thumbs-up.
Monica looked out her window as the green grounds of the country club and golf courses made way for housing estates and strips of desert and highway and the hills and mountains that stretched all the way north. Her hands were clasped in her lap, and when Walker leaned over and put a hand on hers, he was surprised to see they were relaxed. But then, he figured she had been on plenty of flights, on all kind of aircraft, in a lifetime of following her high-ranking father around as a military brat. She let his hand remain there but she neither took it nor squeezed it.
Walker looked dead ahead as the next question rolled around in his mind: why did Paul Conway remain silent about the code? Why . . .