Condor

by M. L. Buchman

  She banked her hand back and forth as if fighting for control.

  “Perhaps reporting a pressurization failure or something. Emergency descent.”

  She angled down steeply. The moment her thumb-plane ducked below the table, he took her hand in his and guided it to stay under the table. With his other hand, he made his own thumb plane climb back up above the surface of the table.

  “Recovery from the problem. Reporting control of the aircraft once more. But we’ve switched transponder frequencies between the two planes, so to any radar tech, we’re the same aircraft. Then we just convince them to shoot this one,” he waggled his own hand, “out of the sky. If they shoot it down, they’ll have no real reason to investigate. Perhaps they’ll just write it off as a loss and look no further.”

  He realized that he was still holding Miranda’s hand and let it go.

  “Where do I go?” Miranda’s thumb appeared to be tracking back and forth seeking a new heading.

  “You can stop now, but the idea is you’d escape by staying below radar probably crossing the border in the dark through a lightly inhabited stretch of coastline. At night, they’ll hopefully just assume it’s some practice flight.”

  “And how do we do this without killing the crew of plane Number Two?” Drake was watching her hand as Miranda flew her “plane” back up from under the table, then finally spread her fingers out wide.

  Jon grinned at his uncle. “Satellite-based remote piloting. No one aboard when it goes down. That’s how we fly our drones around the world from Creech Air Force Base now anyway. That shouldn’t be hard to work out.”

  “And where do we get another AN-124 to blow up?”

  “Davis-Monthan Air Force Base.” Baiting the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, even just a little, was getting kind of fun. Maybe Uncle Drake wasn’t only the focused super-soldier commander he remembered as a kid.

  “We don’t have any AN-124s in storage, Jon. You should know that.”

  “I do, Uncle. I also know that we have sixty-four C-5A Galaxy transport jets parked there that we’re unlikely to ever want again. Despite that, several still have a Type 3000 status of ‘Flying Hold,’ which means we could basically fuel them and fly. To fit one with remote pilot capability wouldn’t be hard. Remember, the Antonov AN-124 is largely based on the C-5 Galaxy. If we can keep them from getting a good look at our decoy before they blow it up, we just might pull it off.”

  “And if we don’t? If they find out we’re stealing their satellite? That can’t come back on us. Little thing about possibly starting a war.”

  Jon hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  Apparently Holly had. “If they catch on to the switcheroo, land it in South Korea or Japan and have the pilots ‘jump ship.’ Then the Russians can send someone to retrieve their plane and the satellite. Maybe Japan can gain some diplomatic traction in the process. The pilots ‘defected’ but could never be found. They’ll have a wild goose chase searching for the defectors because they won’t be missing any pilots, we’ll be gone quiet as a wallaby in the night.”

  Uncle Drake stared at him without blinking for over thirty seconds, until his own eyes hurt from matching him.

  Then he glanced at General Lizzy Gray, who nodded.

  When he turned to Miranda, she spoke up.

  “First, I still hate the idea. But we’re no longer seeking to create a plane crash that is proof against investigators. That removes it from my area of expertise.”

  She re-formed her thumb plane and moved it about a few times, watching it as she continued.

  “However, while the logic is reasonable, the logistics will be very complex. Preparation of the C-5 Galaxy will be the least of the issues. We can’t just take over their Antonov remotely. We’ll need our own people on board.”

  40

  Drake blew out a hard breath.

  He hadn’t seen that piece coming. Frankly, he’d been too busy being impressed at Jon’s plan. He’d come up with that solution with a Miranda-like speed. He should have kept better track of his nephew’s career.

  “Okay, genius. How the hell are we supposed to do that?”

  Jon just shrugged. Apparently he hadn’t thought through that part either.

  Holly slouched down on the small couch without falling into the narrow aisle. She rested her boots on his chair arm.

  “Well, mates, let’s start with who speaks Russian. Super fluently.”

  Miranda and Jon both raised their hands.

  Mike waved his hand part way, with an “sort of” waggle.

  “And Holly makes three,” she continued. “Miranda, you’d be no help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not trained for this and we don’t want you ending up dead.” Holly turned to Jon, “You spent ten years flying a C-5 Galaxy. Care to take a crack at flying an Antonov?”

  “What?” Drake knew he was shouting again but couldn’t seem to help himself. “You can’t just send him into Russia to steal a plane.”

  “Oh, no, mate. I figure he’ll need a bit of protection.” She tapped her own chest.

  “Holly! No!” Mike rested a hand on her arm as if he could restrain such a woman.

  “It’s okay, Mike.” She patted his hand (rather than slapping it aside, which appeared to surprise him as much as it surprised Drake).

  A mellowed-out Holly Harper didn’t fit his mental picture of her at all.

  She continued, “We’re gonna keep this circle small enough to sit around a campfire. As you reminded me, this is the kind of thing I do.”

  Jon was nodding slowly. “Takes four to fly an AN-124.”

  “Grab a couple of boys from the 24th STS.”

  Drake agreed with her suggestion on that at least. The combat controllers of the Air Force’s 24th Special Tactics Squadron were one of America’s three special mission units along with Delta Force and SEAL Team Six. They could run a multi-asset air battle—after three days of ground fighting to get there—and then manage air traffic for an entire captured airport from a handheld radio. Also masters at infiltration, they were the most capable people in the Air Force. If anyone could get a team into the heart of Russia, it would be them—and Holly.

  “I’m not convinced yet, but let’s see what it will take to do.”

  “Jeremy,” Holly called out.

  “I’d look at tail numbers 69-0020 or 70-0448,” Jeremy spoke without rising from his chair.

  Drake had completely forgotten he was there. Apparently he was a step ahead of everyone, just like Miranda.

  “They’re the most recent additions to the inventory. They don’t make it easy to see the actual status…” The rattle of more computer keys. “Ah! 69-0020 is a better bet. Remote piloting controls aren’t too impossible a retrofit. We could fly it up to Boeing in Seattle for a paint job at Paine Field. That would also place it well on the way to Russia. They have this awesome paint shed and could easily make it match the blue-and-white pattern of a Russian Air Force AN-124. Even the red flag on the tail. You know the tail section is going to be a real problem: the AN-124 has a standard tail, but the C-5 has a high T-tail. Maybe at least a stealth coating so that it doesn’t look too wrong on radar.”

  The kid was making Drake’s head spin.

  “Make sure the flight, or at least the intercept, takes place at night to hide that and the other differences,” Jon nodded.

  “And how do we arrange that?”

  Holly shrugged. “No worries, mate. We’ll be the flight crew. Have Lizzy track the satellite and the Russian plane for us. We’ll do the switch out over eastern Siberia, just before Vostochny. Still a mess of details, but no big hassle.”

  “That’s got to be the understatement of the year.”

  But Drake looked around the team.

  He’d learned over the years that if you had the right team, they could do anything. And he’d learned to trust his gut. As unlikely as it seemed, this was the right team.

  Last, he looked at Lizzy. Her nod matc
hed his assessment. He nodded back.

  “I hold the right to abort, but… Do it.”

  41

  “Arturo?” Miranda placed the call because Drake was busy discussing details with Lizzy. Besides, she suspected that there was some social obligation she’d been shirking by not calling him before this. Now the call could serve two purposes which had seemed the most efficient use of time.

  “Miranda! I haven’t heard from you in months. Are you in the area?” His voice was clear over the phone despite the roar of a departing jet in the background. He must be on the flight line of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base.

  Jeremy was still looking things up on his computer. “Definitely 69-0020,” he mumbled to her.

  “No, I’m…in Kentucky.” Holly had said to keep her whereabouts private.

  “Oh. When are you coming to see me again? I can come to you.”

  Miranda hadn’t called about seeing him.

  Though Colonel Campos had made it clear during the Thunderbolt investigation that he very much wanted to see her again.

  Socially.

  She hadn’t pursued that because it had unnerved her. She had liked the sound of a relationship. But she hadn’t been sure she wanted it from Arturo.

  Then she remembered Jon holding her hand briefly under the table when she’d been pretending it was an airplane for his demonstration. She was already more comfortable around Jon than she’d ever been around Arturo. Oh, she’d imagined seeing the Davis-Monthan commander again, but the time had never quite seemed right.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been the time that wasn’t right but rather the person?

  She looked around for Jon so that she could gauge her own reactions. Except he was no longer aboard. He’d gone somewhere to place a call. And—

  She had to remind herself that this wasn’t a social call.

  “I need airframe number 69-0020 pulled from the AMARG boneyard at Davis-Monthan and prepared for immediate flight. I also want you to scavenge whatever equipment you need from stored drones or any other aircraft to make it flyable as a UAV.”

  Arturo called out to someone for information and was back on the line a moment later.

  “You want me to set up a C-5 Galaxy as a UAV? We’ve never done anything like that. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sending Jeremy to you. He’ll be there in three hours. I’d appreciate it if everything could be ready before he arrives. Oh, he’ll need a flight crew and enough fuel to reach Seattle. This is—”

  “Miranda! What the hell?” He was shouting at her. “I can’t just do something like that. And turning a C-5 into a drone. It’s never been done. It could take weeks or months.”

  “I need it in three hours.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, woman? Are you even batshit crazier than I always thought you were?”

  Miranda could feel her hand shaking but couldn’t stop it.

  She’d thought about inviting him to her home?

  She knew her brain was broken. Didn’t he understand that? Didn’t anyone besides her understand that? Thinking was no problem, but every time she let her thoughts into the outside world, the world bit and swiped back at her.

  It was all just so…wrong.

  So—

  So—

  She couldn’t seem to connect two thoughts.

  Actually she never could. At the moment she couldn’t seem to even connect one.

  Holly slipped the phone from her nerveless fingers. She kept a firm grip on Miranda’s shoulder as she handed the phone to Drake.

  “Colonel Campos. This is CJCS General Drake Nason. By what I could overhear of your tone, you are damned close to losing your command for behavior unbecoming an officer. You have three hours. If Mr. Trahn arrives and that plane isn’t ready for immediate departure, you’ll have me and then your commanding officer coming after you at three hours and one minute. Trust me, I’ll be the first and worst of your nightmares. If anyone asks any questions, shut them down. This is need-to-know classified and, Colonel, you don’t need to know.”

  He paused.

  “Damn straight you owe her an apology, man. But right now you’re wasting my time. Get your ass moving.”

  He hung up her phone and handed it back.

  Miranda couldn’t seem to wrap her hand around it.

  Holly took it and tucked it back in her vest pocket for her.

  It was backwards. After three tries, Miranda finally regained sufficient motor control to extract it and turn it so that the glass faced inward. It offered the glass better protection and also came into her hand the right way ’round if a call came in.

  “I’m sorry, Miranda,” Drake touched her arm too lightly, but she forced herself to tolerate it and he withdrew before it became too distracting.

  She could only manage a nod.

  Jon stepped back on board. “Jeremy, I’ve got a plane coming for you. It should be here in just a few minutes.”

  Jeremy gathered his big pack, stopping where she’d finally collapsed back onto the couch.

  “I just sent you the first draft of the report on the FedEx 767. Based on the QAR data as well as the length of skid marks and tire wear, we can also ascertain that he was forty-three knots above recommended approach speed. Once he landed on the taxiway, it was physically impossible for him to stop in time. The tower’s flight-tracking data concurs.”

  “Good, Jeremy.” She latched onto the information. This was her job. This was what she understood. “I’ll look it over as soon as I can.”

  “Thanks for the chance, Miranda.”

  Miranda glanced over, but Holly was now having an intense whispered debate with Mike.

  That meant it was up to Miranda to handle the situation. She touched her NTSB ID. Nothing else, just that. It let her confirm the importance of what she’d done in order to be here.

  “Be careful, Jeremy. Remember what Drake said, ‘Need to know.’ We’re trusting you to see through the mechanical process of this flight. But don’t get on the plane after Seattle.”

  “I’ll remember,” Jeremy laughed.

  Miranda figured out why it was funny fast enough to join in the laugh only a little late. She could almost imagine Jeremy getting on the doomed plane just to make sure everything was exactly in place. But he’d heard it as a joke—as a humorous reminder to be careful.

  “I can fly everyone else back to Washington,” Drake announced after Jeremy left. “A good jump-off point for our Russia-bound team. Miranda and Mike, I assume you’ll be with me in DC.”

  “Yes.” “No!”

  Miranda turned to look at Mike.

  “No! This is crazy. You can’t just walk into the most paranoid country outside of North Korea and Eritrea.”

  “I’ve done it before,” Holly was calm.

  Mike collapsed back against the sofa.

  “Spoken like a Spec Ops soldier. But are you sure, Holly? You’ve been out of the service a while.” Drake seemed to echo Mike’s concern. Yet he was supporting her in this?

  Miranda didn’t like the shouting. She didn’t like the mission. And she didn’t like Colonel Arturo Campos of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base.

  What did that say about Major Jon Swift? Did he, too, secretly think that she was broken? He didn’t seem to act that way, but she knew all too well her failings at judging people.

  Holly scoffed. “If I don’t have to grunt a full pack for three hundred klicks across the Great Victoria Desert, I’ll be fine. If this devolves into a shooting situation, well, mate, we won’t be coming back out of it.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” Mike exploded once more.

  She shrugged. “It’s what I was trained for.”

  Miranda knew what she was trained for. Fixing planes. Or at least discovering why they were broken. She moved to the seat where Jeremy had been working. She booted up her laptop and in moments was focused on reviewing his report.

  This she understood.

  She barely noticed when the plane took off.


  42

  “Request permission to kill Colonel Arturo Campos.” Holly felt half-hearted in making the request. What she really wanted to do was get her hands around his throat and shake some common sense into him—even if she had to shake him really hard.

  She knew Miranda had liked Campos.

  Holly had been torn between caution and hope, though she’d never been comfortable with him.

  She’d been right beside Miranda on the couch during their phone conversation and could overhear Campos easily once he started yelling.

  Now she was torn between fury and going to lockup for murder one.

  “Sorry, request denied,” Drake’s voice was appropriately grim.

  “How about if I accidentally tie him to a stake in front of a charging a water buffalo? Maybe have a ’roo, a big red, use him for a bit of kicking practice?”

  “Don’t tempt me. Okay. We’ve got an hour to make a plan. I’ve arranged for a pair of F/A-18F Super Hornet fighter jets to be waiting for you in DC with full external fuel tanks. They’ll have you to Ramstein in Germany in under four hours. There you’ll pick up two combat controllers. After that, I’m afraid that you’ll be on conventional transport, but we’ll hope that it gets you there in time. If not, you’ll just turn around.”

  “You’ll need a decent cover,” Mike grunted. It wasn’t a happy sound, but at least it was something.

  That relieved Holly far more than she’d expected. He’d been really upset at her plans to go behind enemy lines once more.

  “Do you have a death wish, Harper?” He’d demanded the moment she came up with the idea.

  “Not particularly.” He hadn’t taken her attempt to brush him off at all well.

  “God curse it, I’m serious.”

  “Worse ways to go meet the Big Shelia upstairs.”

  Being flippant hadn’t got by him any better. Since that moment to this, all he’d offered her was stone silence.

  There were worse ways to go. She pictured the remains of her team scattered at the bottom of the jagged ravine in a country she could never admit to being in. Or even Mr. Bones aboard the Condor. Right at the center of the primary ignition point, he’d been ended fast.