They never contacted Egyptian air traffic control. They couldn’t even if they’d wanted to since they didn’t know the appropriate frequencies. Port Said had not been in their plans when they’d taken off hours earlier.
The sun was breaking the horizon as they lined up with the runway. Lava visually cleared its entire length for traffic. Id landed first and made a midfield turnoff. Lava was right behind him and made the same left turn. Just ahead, he saw Glock 23 and 24 parked on a remote concrete pad. Id taxied clear and shut down next to the number three jet.
Lava didn’t make it that far. He’d no sooner cleared the runway than his engines began winding down. He knew why: fuel starvation. His gauges were on dead zero. He’d been seconds away from ejecting.
He secured his jet on the taxiway, climbed down the boarding ladder, and walked over to join Spanx and Id. Two Egyptian kids were gawking from outside the perimeter fence. He guessed there would be a lot more onlookers soon. Lava was suddenly overcome by exhaustion. He had been up all night, running on adrenaline.Finally, he’d reached the downside. His wingmen would be feeling it as well.
“I guess we cut it a little tight on the gas,” said Spanx as he approached, gesturing to Lava’s disabled jet.
“Tell me about it. But you know what…we got it done, brother.”
“That we did,” Id seconded.
“Where’s Gooch?” Lava asked.
His number three pointed to the jet that was isolated on the far side of the ramp. Lava saw Gooch fumbling under a closed canopy.
“What the hell is he doing?”
Spanx said, “He suspects his jet is contaminated. Says he flew right through a cloud of that radioactive shit.”
“Well…okay.”
“I told him to go one hundred percent oxygen when we were airborne. Figured that would keep him from breathing any nasty vapors.”
“That makes sense.”
“Once we got on the ground, I gave him a little more advice.”
Before Spanx could explain, the canopy of Gooch’s jet motored open. As he began climbing down the boarding ladder, Lava did a double take. Gooch had removed every bit of flight gear. G-suit, helmet, harness. Even his flight suit, gloves, and boots. He hit the ramp wearing nothing but boxers, athletic socks, and sunglasses. Lava saw Id’s lips quiver ever so slightly. And then it happened. The stress of the last hours cracked like a failed dam.
All three pilots broke out laughing hysterically.
And with that, a new call sign was born. “Gooch” went to the dust bin. For the rest of his career, or at least until he did something more embarrassing, James Whittemore would be known in the squadron as Glow.
69
The Kremlin
Moscow, Russia
0722 Local Time
Yermilov couldn’t sit still. He had been on edge for hours—ever since his rancorous call with President Ryan. For a time, the American President’s words had worried him. Now it was the silence that had him on edge.
He checked the clock on the wall, an extravagant Swiss item with gold inlays and twelve diamonds. A gift from the president of Angola to reflect the warm relations between the two nations. It was 7:22.
It should have happened an hour ago!
On the center of Yermilov’s hardwood desk was a mobile phone. The special device was designed to connect with only one other phone on earth. For days it had been quiet, but this morning he was expecting a call. Good news or bad, he should have heardsomething.
The television on the far side of his office was tuned to a Western news channel. The sound was muted, but the crawl at thebottom of the screen was all Yermilov needed. There was no breaking news banner, no notice of an impending special report.
He paced behind his desk and considered who he might turn to for answers. The GRU? The SVR? The Defense Ministry? The answer, of course, was none of the above. This was an annoying constraint of “off the books” operations—you couldn’t use any of the traditional levers of government to determine what was happening in the world. Not without risking leaks.
Yermilov was alone in his office, which had become a trend in recent weeks. Was he becoming too isolated? Had he lost a feel for what was happening in the halls around him? All autocrats suffered such thoughts, and a good crisis only magnified them. This morning’s situation certainly qualified.
The Suez.
