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Striker could see the flight path clearly, but shortly after thirteen hundred hours, the plane, which had just crossed into Venezuela near Punta Fijo, seemed to vanish into thin air. He knew the aircraft well, along with the technology onboard—Air Force One had a better chance of disappearing than it had.
“Have you made contact with Venezuelan air traffic?” Striker asked.
&
nbsp; “I’m doing that now,” Mercer answered.
Striker pinged Razor with an SOS. Seconds later he was coming back downstairs.
“Get everyone back down here.”
“Roger that,” he said, turning around.
By the time Mercer hung up, all eyes were on him. “The power grid is completely shut down.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gunner.
“The entire country is dark.”
“That’s impossible.”
Monk was listening to something through the headset. “It’s not. President Maduro just announced a state of emergency. Get the feed,” he said to Striker.
“Here it is,” he said, turning the monitor’s volume up. “Emergency radio,” he explained when nothing appeared on the screen.
They listened as the country’s current president accused Juan Guaidós, the US-backed incoming leader of Venezuela, of sabotaging the power grid.
“They have one fucking grid,” muttered Gunner, shaking his head.
Striker listened to the rest of the broadcast, jotting down key phrases. Everyone in the room spoke Spanish, among other languages, but Striker understood what Maduro was saying between the lines better than the others did. If there were a part of the world more fucked up than the Middle East right now, Venezuela would be at the top of the list.
Razor rubbed the back of his neck. “It doesn’t explain why we lost contact, or why the plane isn’t showing up on the radar. Neither would be affected by one country’s grid.”
“It would if they were diverting and/or blocking signals,” Monk responded.
“What about Jimenéz?” Doc asked Striker.
“My gut is telling me to leave him out of this.”
Doc nodded.
“Anything?” he asked Monk, who shook his head. Striker studied the same monitors the other man was, hoping the plane would miraculously reappear.
Five minutes later, Razor’s voice cut through the quiet of the room. “Is anyone thinking the same thing I am?”
Doc rubbed the back of his neck with his hand like Razor had. “Four of our teammates are on a plane that was last seen in Venezuelan airspace. We know their government isn’t going to do a damn thing to help us find it. We can’t do this alone. We need to contact the agency.”
“I’m not on the best of terms with McTiernan over the Ghafor clusterfuck,” said Striker.
“I’ll engage Cope instead,” said Doc.
While Sumner Copeland worked for the man Striker was at odds with, the fact that K19 had expressed an interest in extending him an offer of employment made him a logical go-between.
Striker looked at Razor, who nodded.
“If we think this plane is down, I’m going in,” said Striker.
“I am too,” said Razor. “Who’s with us?”
