Crash Site
12 Nautical Miles East of Bodrum Airport
Bodrum, Turkey
0604 Local Time
Katie drained the last of her coffee as the SUV pulled into the makeshift parking pad near the crash site. She had raided the coffee station in the hotel lobby, but the tiny cup hadn’t done the job.
“I’ve gotta take a page from your book,” she said to Conza, who was driving. His quart-sized travel Yeti was still half full, and he looked even more wired than usual.
“You need that cup for anything?” he asked, gesturing to her Styrofoam empty.
Katie handed it over, knowing what he was going to use if for. He pulled out a tin of tobacco and opened it one-handed. He pinched a big wad and stuffed it under his lower lip.
Conza pulled to a stop next to a twin vehicle. One of Colonel Carter’s men had approached Katie in the hotel lobby and handed over the key to one of the SUVs. It was now, more or less, their private vehicle.
It wasn’t quite daybreak, the sun still a mere glow in the east. The distant crash site resembled a stage, illuminated by a grid of portable floodlights and generators that had been brought in by helicopter. The Turks had worked through the night, and the perimeter was sealed off by Turkish army MPs.
They walked to the controlled entry point, showed their IDs, and were allowed through. As they trudged over uneven terrain, Katie was impressed that Conza never wavered. Anyone who didn’t know him would never have suspected he was wearing a prosthetic leg. She wasn’t really surprised. Like every operator she’d ever known, Conza met life head-on, a combination of physical intensity and unassailable determination that was hardwired into everything he did. His good ol’ boy facade was exactly that, a smoke screen that concealed his underlying strength.
They topped a hill, and the field of debris came fully into view. The investigation team was already busy, and Katie saw Colonel Carter milling through wreckage. She checked her phone from the high ground before her cell reception degraded. It was roughly midnight in D.C., so she didn’t expect any important messages.
She was wrong.
“I’ll be darned,” she muttered.
“What’s up?” Conza asked before spitting into the cup.
“I just got an answer on that Learjet.”
“Bravo Sierra?”
“That’s the one. Something about it bugged me, so I spent some time yesterday trying to figure out who owned it.”
“Is that what those phone calls you made were about?”
“Yeah, but I hit a wall. I decided to reach out to Bubba for help.” She was referring to Intelligence Specialist Second Class “Bubba” Pettigrew, Conza’s enlisted soulmate back at headquarters.
“He have any better luck?”
“He did. The jet’s airborne right now, on its way back to the States. He tracked the ownership to some obscure holding company, but that turned out to be a dead end. From there, he started making off-the-books calls to buddies at other agencies.”
“The infamous good ol’ boy network. What did he find?”
“Basically, what I expected. It’s a CIA jet.”
“Guess that’s no surprise. But what was it doing here?”
“That’s the big question. When Bubba pressed his buddy at Langley, he was told ONI doesn’t have a need to know.”
“Stonewalled in the back channels? That’s serious as a heart attack.”
“Maybe…but the intel agencies tend to be pretty provincial. Sometimes one department has no idea what the others are up to.”
“Speaking of intel, I did make some headway last night on our Navy officer.”
“The one who was on board SAM 719?”
