“Those jets are loaded for an air-to-ground mission—no AMRAAMs or Sidewinders. Their only air-to-air weapon would be their internal guns.”
“But that would work, right?” Ryan asked.
“Yes, they’ve all got a full load of twenty millimeter. But they’d have to get close, and that will take more time.”
Burgess said, “There are four more Hornets standing by on theFordas a contingency. They’re configured the same way, but we could unload the bombs and upload a full rack of AMRAAMs and Sidewinders.”
The President closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Midway,” he said.
Admiral Kent nodding knowingly. “World War Two, Battle of Midway. The admirals on the Japanese carriers waffled on how to load their aircraft for the second wave of strikes. In the end, their indecision wasted time and made them vulnerable. It was the turning point in the Pacific.”
“We focus on our best shot,” Ryan said. “If those drones don’t have too big a head start, the airborne Hornets are our best chance of stopping them.”
“I agree,” Kent said. “But there is one other aircraft on theFordwe should launch.” He gave his reasoning and Ryan concurred.
All eyes settled on the big map, attention narrowing to the symbols representing the four Hornets and the Suez Canal. The gap between them looked massive, hundreds of miles of coastline and open water. And somewhere in that darkened void: ten unpiloted aircraft hauling a deadly radioactive cargo.
For a plain-text version of this image, go to this page.
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
Task Force 99 boarded the Ilyushin with tactical precision. Like all spec ops units, its members were well-versed on the nuances of breaching a civilian airliner. They rushed through the entry door in a tactical sweep, then cleared the cavernous cargo bay. They found no one.
That left only the cockpit.
Ding and Hyori led the way, shouldering up to the narrow passageway that connected to the flight deck with rifles poised. Unlike a passenger jet, there was no bulletproof door.
With Ding right behind him, Hyori burst through, his barrel sweeping the compact space. Clark heard Hyori shout in English, “Hands! Show me hands!” He then said it in Russian. Thirty seconds and three sets of flex cuffs later, three men were frog marched into the cargo bay.
The first two conformed perfectly to the situation: they wore pilot uniforms, one having four stripes on his epaulets, the other three. Their eyes flicked between the team members like rabbits surrounded by a pack of wolves.
The third man was different.
He showed neither the sureness of a pilot or the dead-eye stare of a mercenary. He was older, more weathered, with streaks of gray in his matted hair.
All three men were forced to sit on the steel floor, an essential display of dominance. Clark went to the mystery man and took a knee.
He said in Russian, “Who are you?”
“Gamling,” the man replied almost flippantly.
Clark nodded, taking this for a nom de guerre. Which was a clue in itself.
“And who are you?” Gamling asked in return.
“You can call me John.”
“John from America.”
Clark didn’t deny it.
In truth, he was pleased. He had done a lot of interrogations in his day. Physical and psychological torture were not methods he enjoyed, but when it came to saving lives, he had no aversion to their use. He was also familiar with the usual reactions of detainees when faced with such prospects. Silence, insolence, fear-based capitulation. Gamling was exhibiting an unusual fourth path. Casual conversation. This, in Clark’s experience, usually implied a transactional mindset. Clark also had a good radar for lies, and right now it wasn’t pinging. Gamling’s next words, however, explained his composure.
“Well, John from America, you are too late.”
“Because your drones have already launched?”
“I saw your disappointment when you opened the hangar doors.”
