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While the guard examined their IDs, a sailor armed with an assault rifle looked under their car with a mirror and inspected the empty trunk. Once they were cleared, the guard instructed them to drive to a hangar on the south side of the base.
As they passed a row of F-18 Hornets used for training Navy test pilots, Juan marveled at Overholt’s ability to get them into such a highly classified military operation. The photos of the Piranha subs no doubt contributed.
Less than thirty-six hours ago, the Oregon had left the Ciudad Bolívar once the salvage company radioed that they were on the way. Not wanting to risk an encounter with the Jamaican authorities, the Oregon made for Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic. There they off-loaded Craig Reed’s repaired fishing boat and paid for his rehabilitation at the city’s best recovery center.
Tiny Gunderson, the Corporation’s fixed-wing pilot, had been waiting for Juan and Eric at Santo Domingo’s airport with their private Gulfstream jet. Four hours later, they landed at Reagan National and were directed to a hangar that stood only a hundred yards from the shore of Chesapeake Bay. The sun gleamed on closed white doors large enough to engulf an airliner.
A man dressed in a leather jacket and jeans waved for Juan to park next to a side door where an armed
guard in full battle dress uniform stood watch. Juan opened his door to a brisk chill. The civilian, an athletic-looking man with tousled brown hair and a warm smile, greeted him with a handshake. This wasn’t the nerdy engineer Juan had been expecting.
“I’m Tyler Locke,” he said. “You must be Juan Cabrillo.”
“Yes, and this is Eric Stone. I understand you’re the lead investigator conducting the forensic analysis.”
“That’s me. Dirk Pitt told us to expect you and authorized us to share all of our findings. What’s your interest in the case?”
“Douglas Pearson. We want to know if it’s possible that he survived the drone accident.”
“‘Accident’?” Locke said. “I can see we have to get you up to speed on our progress.”
“So you’ve recovered the wreckage?”
“We’ve done a bit more than recover it. I’ll show you.”
Locke swiped a keycard and punched in a passcode at the door’s security panel. An electronic bolt clicked and Locke pushed his way inside.
Juan’s eyes took a moment to adjust from the blazing sunlight outside as he and Eric followed Locke in. When he was able to focus, he took in the incongruous sight of a half-dozen workers reconstructing a boat inside an airplane hangar.
Only the forward part of the vessel was intact. The rest of it had been pieced together like the world’s largest jigsaw puzzle. A steel frame supported the pieces, most of which were blackened and bent out of shape, yet they had been fitted together so precisely that the boat’s former silhouette was easily recognizable.
To the right of the boat was a smaller framework holding the remains of the UAV that had slammed into it. Fewer of these pieces were visible, but the drone’s V shape was apparent.
A muscular black man holding a tablet PC was jotting down notes about the drone. When he spotted Locke and the two newcomers, he stalked over with something between the lumbering gait of a bear and the fluid motion of a panther. The overhead lights reflected off his bald head.
“We got the last of the fragments assembled on the drone,” he said to Locke. “Another hour before we finish on the boat, but it shouldn’t change our findings. For getting the job done so quickly, I told the crew you’d buy them unlimited pale ales and crab cakes at Clarke’s Landing tonight.”
“If you’re included in that offer, I’ll have to take out a loan to pay for it,” Locke said, before introducing Juan and Eric. “This is Grant Westfield, Gordian Engineering’s top electrical engineer and the bane of all-you-can-eat buffets everywhere.”
Eric went slack-jawed as he shook Westfield’s massive paw. “Grant Westfield? You’re kidding! Murph is going to have a seizure when he finds out I met The Burn. We play you all the time in Pro Wrestling All-Stars.”
“I sincerely hope that’s a video game,” Juan said.
“It’s a real honor, Mr. Westfield,” Eric said, ignoring Juan. “I admire your decision to leave wrestling to join the Rangers after 9/11, but it would be fun to see you in the ring again.”
“I’m having too much fun on this job to go back to getting slammed in the head with folding chairs. So Tyler tells me that you have a pressing need to learn the results of our analysis.”
Juan nodded. “It relates to an investigation of our own. The good doctor here implied that this was no accident.”
“No way. The Navy’s initial conclusion was that the drone locked onto the control signal emitted by the boat’s antenna and homed in, but that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because we found that the cable to the antenna was disconnected before the impact. The boat was going over twenty knots at the time and using evasive maneuvers to shake it. The drone should have lost its lock once the signal stopped transmitting, but it hit the boat perfectly amidships.”
“Do you know how it did that?” Eric asked.
Locke produced a charred piece of equipment. “By homing in on this. It’s a beacon that was hidden inside a laptop. We think someone used it to guide the drone no matter what was done to dodge it.”
