“Whatever you say, Ma’am. But do you really want to do this without an air traffic control clearance? Some countries get really nasty about that sort of thing.”
She gave him an acidic glance. “When I want your opinion on my strategy, I’ll ask for it,” Kat snapped. “Meantime, do precisely what I order you to do.”
He looked over at her. “I know this probably cuts no mustard with you, Agent, but would you please consider that I might be telling the truth? I was just hired to fly copilot for this trip, and I honest-to-God had no idea what they were doing. I don’t even know where they leased this airplane, since I doubt the Bureau owns it.”
Kat shot him a puzzled, glance. “What are you talking about, ‘the Bureau’?”
“FBI.”
“What?” Kat asked, cocking her head with a pained expression.
“You’re an FBI agent, just like them, right?”
Kat shook her head as if to clear the confusion. She could see Robert leaning forward in the jump seat to looking at Pollis’s face. “All right, Pollis,” she said. “Are you attempting to tell me that the people who hired you to fly this aircraft represented themselves to be FBI agents?”
“You mean they weren’t?” he said, with an expression of pure shock.
This guy is a really good actor! Kat thought. His eyes were now huge, and his voice shook slightly.
“I … Ma’am, they told me they were FBI agents. They had IDs just like yours.”
Robert MacCabe’s left hand lashed out to grab Pollis’s collar, getting a tight grip on it as Pollis fought to keep the aircraft steady. “Hey! You want me to lose control?”
“How long,” Robert began, snarling his words, “have you been working on that stupid story?” He aped a whining, high-pitched voice: “If I’m caught, I’ll just pretend I was hired by the FBI.”
“It’s the truth!” Pollis replied. “Every time I asked what they were doing, the head guy would warn me that I was interfering with a federal operation.”
Robert tightened his grip and shook Pollis hard. “Now what’s the real story, bastard? Who’re you really working for?”
“I told you. I thought they were FBI. But they weren’t federal agents?”
Kat’s eyes were on the instruments and outside the aircraft, searching the sky ahead. She knew his ploy didn’t justify a response, but she couldn’t help herself. “Whatever you might think, Pollis, and whoever you really are, the fact is, FBI agents do not run around the world like CIA covert operatives destabilizing governments, and we don’t shoot down jumbo jets.”
chapter 29
FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.
NOVEMBER 13—DAY TWO
8:00 A.M. LOCAL/1300 ZULU
Jake Rhoades had slept no more than two hours on his office couch when he was jolted awake from a deep REM sleep by a call from Kat Bronsky.
“I hate to ask where in the holy hell you’ve been,” Jake said, trying to adjust his eyes to the ceiling light his assistant had flipped on, “but where in the holy hell have you been?”
“Where do you think, Jake? Taking a city tour of Hanoi?” she asked, sounding slightly hurt.
“I’ve just been worried,” Jake replied. “It’s been hours. What’s your status?”
“A lot of missions accomplished, Boss. In a nutshell, we picked up the five survivors, including Mr. MacCabe and the copilot, and in the process we were fired on by the same people, I believe, who flew the Global Express into Da Nang.”
“So where are you now?” Jake asked.
“Flying the same Global Express out of Da Nang. We’ve left Vietnam.”
Jake transferred the receiver to his other ear. “You’re what?”
“There’s a lot to tell, Jake.” She gave him the details of the rescue and the ambush. “Our Vietnamese helicopter pilot was killed before we lifted off, and then we ended up in a midair collision with the attackers’ helicopter.”
“How’d that happen?” Jake asked.
“I made a mistake and hit him.”
“You … hit him? You were flying the helicopter? How?”
“We were fresh out of pilots at the time, and it was raining bullets.”
“Kat, I didn’t know you could fly helicopters.”
“Neither did I. Funny what you can do when someone’s hosing you down with assault rifles.”
“I know you’re a pilot, but …”
“Actually, I had a couple of hours of helicopter instruction last year. Anyway, the group that was trying to kill us gave chase and kept shooting at us until we collided and they crashed. We don’t think there were any survivors.”
“So naturally … you flew to Da Nang and took their aircraft.”
“Correct. Global Express November-Two-Two-Zero, or at least the bogus version. That’s where I’m calling you from now. But there’s more.”
“I was afraid of that,” Jake replied, rubbing his forehead.
“They left a pilot behind. I arrested him and have him in custody. Actually, he’s flying this aircraft for us under guard, and I’ve left him in the cockpit with one of our survivors holding a gun on him.” She passed on the names of the prisoner and the two men he’d identified.
“Your … prisoner is flying the airplane? No, wait. Don’t explain.”
“It’s complicated,” she said. “He’s told us nothing useful yet besides those two names. You also need to know that I elected to leave Da Nang without authorization or takeoff clearance, which may cause diplomatic problems, and our current status is that we’re in flight in the Global Express headed for Anderson Air Force Base on Guam, where I’m going to need all sorts of coordination.”
Jake had started taking notes furiously. “You’ve been a busy lady,” he said, plopping in his desk chair. “I’m ecstatic you found and rescued the survivors, but I can’t believe you took that jet!”
“Hey, Boss, I’m a federal law enforcement officer recovering stolen property.”
He thought for a second before answering. “Yeah, you’re right.”
She told him about the copilot’s assertion that he believed himself to be working for the FBI.
“That’s absurd!” Jake responded.
“I know it’s absurd, but he claims they represented themselves as FBI, and frankly, I don’t know whether to believe him or not.” She relayed the numbers on Pollis’s passport, pilot’s license, and driver’s license. “The pictures on those IDs match his face,” Kat said, “for what that’s worth, but I want to turn him over to our people in Guam, I want him charged with enough counts of murder to hold him through the next Ice Age, and I want to protect him from any cleanup assassins.”
“We can handle all that, I think. Hold on a second.” Two other agents had been sitting in Jake’s office. He motioned them over to the desk and ripped off the sheet of yellow legal pad on which he’d been writing. “Run a full ID cross-check, and get FAA out of bed in Oklahoma City to do a complete check on this guy’s record as a pilot. Then get me our Senior Resident Agent on Guam.”
Jake put the receiver back to his ear. “By the way, Kat, we matched up the serial number on that jet you’re flying.”
“Oh? And from whom was it appropriated? Is this Warren Buffet’s personal jet, or does it belong to Ross Perot?”
“Close. It’s brand-new, and belongs to a corporation in Dallas. It was in San Antonio for some custom electronics work but disappeared eight days ago. The company in San Antonio thought the owner had taken it early. They’re all a bit upset. The aircraft is worth over forty million.”
“Good grief! Well, it is pretty.” Kat’s voice became low and serious. “Jake, we found something here on this jet that may be a key to the whole mystery”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know exactly what it is, but let me describe it.” She gave Jake a detailed rundown of the odd-looking device.
“Two small tanks, you say?” he replied. “Any idea what they contain?”
“Not a clue, but th
ere is definitely an aperture in the front and a telescopic sight, so this fires something, and since there are no unusual openings on this bird, it has to be fired through the window. You said the Air Force was voting for a phosphorous warhead on a missile guided by some sort of laser target designator?”
“That’s right.”
“My best guess is we’ve found a target designator, the thing that puts a laser mark on a target so a missile can find it. I’ve never seen one, but it fits.”
“How about identification plates?”
Kat sighed. “No names, but a lot of numbers and some cryptic instructions.”
“What language?”
“You sure you want to know? How secure can we consider this satellite phone line?” Kat asked.
“It’s digital,” he replied, “but it’s commercial and not encrypted. Nothing classified should be discussed.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that. Okay. I’ll just tell you this. There are markings on this contraption, but a much higher pay grade than you or I is going to have to decide what the implications are.”
“Go ahead and tell me, Kat. Time is too critical.”
“Okay. The markings are in English, Jake. Whatever this thing is, it looks American, and it looks military, and it looks like a sophisticated piece of equipment, not some one-of-a-kind backroom zip gun.”
There was a long sigh from Washington. “I was afraid of that.”
“We still don’t know where the missile came from, but the copilot confirms the explosion could indeed have been phosphorous. And one last point before I let you go. I can tell you that this organization, whoever they are, are slick and well-financed and very determined. Can I prove all that in a court of law? No. Not yet. Some of this is intuition and extrapolation, but unless they’ve surfaced with demands, I’d say we’re going to lose more airliners before this is over. Somehow we’ve got to find out the rest of the equation, like where they’re getting the missiles and whether that’s what happened to SeaAir.”
“The NTSB doesn’t think so, Kat. They feel SeaAir couldn’t be the same kind of blinding scenario, and they know from the wreckage it wasn’t actually downed by a direct hit from a missile.”
“Well, maybe they’re varying their tactics, but whatever this organization wants, they haven’t achieved it yet, or they wouldn’t be so incredibly desperate to turn off a potential leak like Robert MacCabe.”
“Understood.”
“Jake, maybe the Air Force could scramble an SR-seventy-one to Anderson Air Force Base to take this thing we found back for analysis. That’s the reason for Guam.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, and one other thing. Could you have one of our people check with the NTSB’s investigator in charge of the SeaAir accident and track down whether or not enough of the pilots’ bodies were recovered to analyze the condition of their retinas.”
“Their what?”
“I’m no doctor, but maybe it’s possible to find out whether the pilots’ retinas show any evidence of damage. In other words, can they find any evidence of flash trauma to their eyes. If so, that would conclusively tie these two accidents together.”
Kat disconnected and folded the antenna of the satellite phone after passing on to Jake an estimated arrival time and arranging for an ophthalmologist to meet Dan Wade on arrival. She returned to the cockpit and slid past Robert into the right seat.
They were level at 42,000 feet, flying an odd and unauthorized altitude in order to stay clear of any other air traffic. “We’re probably invisible to all but satellite surveillance right now, because our transponder is off,” she’d explained to Robert out of Pollis’s earshot. “Dan told me how to do it. At worst, we’re a phantom target that keeps appearing and disappearing on various radar scopes.”
She scanned the instrument panel and the electronic flight information system screen, which showed their heading, planned route, and destination, and rechecked the fuel. They had more than enough fuel to make Guam and Anderson Air Force Base, and even enough to make Honolulu, but the West Coast of the U.S. was out of range.
Dallas had come forward twenty minutes before to fill Kat in on the details of what had happened in the cockpit of Meridian 5, as well as the murder of Susan Tash, and the gut-wrenching loss of Britta Franz, whom Kat remembered.
Suddenly, an electronic chirping began somewhere in the cabin, and Dallas came back up.
“’Scuse me, Kat, but there’s a telephone ringing back here, and we’re sort of wondering whether you want to answer it, considering the fact this isn’t our airplane.”
“How far back?”
“Midcabin. You want me to … sit down with Robert and watch things up here while you get it?” Dallas asked, feeling her stomach turn over at the thought of repeating the odyssey she’d been through in the cockpit of Meridian 5.
“Are you okay with that, after what … you know.”
Dallas smiled and nodded. “I’m totally numb. But I’ll be okay as long as you don’t bail out.”
Kat hesitated less than a second before unsnapping her seat belt, wondering whether the phone would keep ringing until she got there.
She recognized the airborne satellite phone as one of the best on the market. The number could be dialed from anywhere in the world, but at considerable expense. Kat reached for the receiver and hesitated, calculating how to handle whomever she encountered on the other end. It could be the real owners, or Jake, or even a wrong number, she thought as she picked it up.
“Yes?”
“Here today, Guam tomorrow, eh, Agent Bronsky?” The voice in her ear was masculine, toxic, and chilling, and the words came at the laconic pace of a death sentence: slow, threatening, and final.
“Who is this?” she asked, trying to sound in command.
“Shall we say, someone who is not appreciative of your sophomoric interference? Or, perhaps, someone who is looking forward to evening the score?”
“Who is this? What do you want?” Kat asked as calmly as possible, his venomous presence and unruffled, emotionless tone sending chills up her spine.
Unhurried and deliberate, the man on the other end hung up the receiver very slowly, the sound of squeaking leather filling her ear as if he had leaned forward in a plush chair, being careful to slowly position the receiver in its cradle—the performance of someone in total control and sending a clear message.
Kat replaced the receiver and looked up to find Robert MacCabe standing beside her, his eyes questioning what had happened. She pulled her hand back to hide the fact that it was shaking, and smiled at him.
“I guess the mastermind doesn’t appreciate our breaking up his plans.”
“What’d he say, Kat? Was it a he?”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah! Smoothest, scariest voice I think I’ve ever heard.”
“What did he say?” Robert asked again.
“He’s rather ticked and letting me know we’re dead meat if we land in Guam.”
“He knows we’re headed to Guam?”
Kat nodded. “Yeah. He used a pun: Here today, Guam tomorrow.”
“How could he know we’re headed there?” Robert asked, his eyebrows flaring.
Kat felt her head spinning slightly. How indeed? She hadn’t made the decision where to go until after takeoff. She hadn’t even thought about it. She snapped her eyes toward the cockpit. “Who’s watching the prisoner?”
“Dallas. But I’ve got your gun.”
“Pollis has been under observation every second, right?”
Robert nodded. “Absolutely. I was watching him, now Dallas is watching him. I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no way he could have communicated.”
“Then it’s pure logic.”
“What?”
“The nearest purely American facility to Vietnam these days is Guam. He was guessing, and I don’t know whether I inadvertently confirmed it or not.”
“But we’re headed to an Air Force base, right? How could they infiltrate a
base that fast?”
Kat was shaking her head. “I don’t know, but they simply can’t be everywhere. If there’s any chance there’s really a threat in Guam, we can’t go there.”
“Where, then?”
“Oh, shit, Robert!” Kat’s arms dropped as she sat back and rolled her eyes.
“What?”
“My satellite call to Jake was intercepted. That’s got to be the explanation!”
“You mentioned Guam?”
“Anderson AFB, everything. Lord. That has to be how he knows.”
“How could they know you have a satellite phone?”
She sat on the armrest of a plush swiveling chair, stroking her chin in thought, vaguely aware of young Steve Delaney in an adjacent seat as he punched up song after song on the sophisticated flight entertainment system.
“No,” Kat said, almost under her breath. “That can’t be right. My phone is digital, and even though we don’t consider them secure, they’re extremely hard to intercept, especially with the new satellite network I’m using.”
“Then we’re back to logic? He figured it out on his own?”
Kat looked up at Robert and thought of another chilling possibility she didn’t want to discuss with him or anyone: the potential for a leak at FBI headquarters.
She got to her feet and headed back to the cockpit, waving Dallas back down when she started to get out of the right seat. “Not yet, Dallas.”
“Kat, by the way,” Dallas said, “they’ve got a galley with food and water and Cokes and coffee on this baby. We all needed to eat something. When you’re ready to get back in up here, can I bring you a snack?”
“A bit later, yeah,” Kat said with a slight smile. She looked over at Pollis. “Can you ask this flight computer questions about the distance to another location without causing a change in course?”
“Sure,” he replied. “What do you want to see?”
She hesitated a second, wondering if he could find a way to communicate any change in destination to his employers. Not if we watch him like a hawk, she concluded. “Program in direct to Los Angeles,” she ordered.
“Ah, that’s much too far.” Pollis punched the appropriate buttons and waited for the result. “There,” he said. “We’re six thousand, two hundred fourteen miles, which would be about thirteen hours, depending on winds. We can’t make it.”
Blackout Page 29