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“Roger that,” he said, turning around.
“The Venezuelan power grid is completely shut down,” said Mercer when the rest of the team gathered in the office.
“What do you mean?” asked Gunner.
“The entire country is dark,” Monk answered.
“That’s impossible.”
Monk put on his headset and held up his hand, signaling everyone to stay quiet so he could hear the broadcast coming out of Venezuela. “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.
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.
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.
“My gut is telling me to leave the ambassador out of this,” answered Striker.
Doc nodded.
“Anything?” Striker asked Monk, who shook his head.
“Is anyone thinking the same thing I am?” said Razor, cutting through the uncomfortable silence.
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.”
“If we think this plane is down, I’m going in,” said Striker, looking first at Monk and then at everyone else in the room.
“I am too,” said Razor. “Who’s with us?”
Monk’s hand went up as did every other hand in the room.
Striker sat down next to Monk. “You tell me. What should we do?”
“Best if we split into teams. One to Bogotá and one closer to where the plane lost contact,” he answered.
“Flying into Maracaibo would make the most sense, but would it even be possible with the power grid down?” Striker asked.
Monk shook his head. “The closest we can get is Aruba.”
“Cope can arrange for aircraft and pilots,” Doc told them after ending his call with the CIA handler.
Monk studied the screen. Fuck. As if this could get any worse. Now there was a goddamn hurricane showing up on the region’s radar. “No one is going anywhere until tomorrow at the earliest,” he said, pointing to a different radar report on the monitor.
While it was late in the season and both Aruba and Colombia were below the hurricane belt, in order to get to either, they’d have to fly directly through the eye of an impending storm.
Not only would it ground them, it would make any search for the aircraft and its occupants exponentially more difficult.
“It’s Cope,” said Doc, looking at his phone. He walked into the hallway to take the call.
“Where’s the fucking plane?” muttered Striker.
