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The crew
nodded and returned to planning as Cabrillo left the room and headed down the passageway to Halpert’s office and knocked.
“Come in,” Halpert said.
Cabrillo opened the door and entered. “What have you found out?”
“I’m still doing research,” Halpert said. “I’m running the various corporations he controls right now.”
“Make sure you cover his personal life and make up a psych profile.”
“I’ll do it, sir,” Halpert said, “but as of now, this guy seems to be a true-blue American. He has a DOD clearance, he’s friends with a couple of senators and he was even invited to the president’s ranch once.”
“So was the North Korean president,” Cabrillo noted.
“You have a point,” Halpert said, “but be assured that if this guy has one bad wrinkle, I’ll find it.”
“I’m leaving the ship. Report your findings to Hanley.”
“Yes, sir.”
CABRILLO WALKED DOWN the passageway and up the stairs toward the flight deck.
George Adams was sitting in the pilot’s seat of the Robinson and dressed in a clean khaki-colored flight suit. He had yet to start the engine, and the cockpit was cold. He rubbed his flight gloves together and finished writing in the log attached to a clipboard.
Flicking on the main battery power switch to check status, he looked up as Cabrillo approached and opened the passenger door. Cabrillo took a bag containing weapons, extra clothing, and electronics and another with food and drinks and placed them in the rear. Once these were safely stowed he looked over at Adams.
“You need me to do anything, George?” he asked.
“No, Chief,” Adams said, “everything’s already taken care of. I have a weather report, a flight plan, and the waypoints are logged into the GPS. If you want to climb in and strap on a seat belt, I’ll get this show on the road.”
Over the years that Adams had worked for the Corporation, Cabrillo had never ceased to be amazed by the helicopter pilot’s efficiency. Adams never complained and never got excited. Cabrillo had flown through some rough conditions with the man, but other than some glib casual comments, Adams seemed unflustered and without fear.
“Sometimes I wish I could clone you, George,” Cabrillo said as he climbed in and fastened the seat belt.
“Why, boss,” Adams said, glancing up from the instruments, “then I’d only have half as much fun.”
Reaching down, Adams twisted the key and the piston engine turned over and settled into an idle. Adams watched the gauges until the engine reached operating temperatures, then radioed the pilothouse.
“Are we into the wind?”
“Affirmative,” the reply came.
Then with a smooth motion he raised the collective and the helicopter lifted from the deck. The Oregon continued steaming until the helicopter was clear. Then Adams accelerated and passed alongside the ship. A couple of minutes later the Oregon was fading behind them in the distance. Now only clouds and the black sea filled the windshield.
“THAT’S WHAT WE have so far, Mr. Prime Minister,” the president said.
“I’ll raise the alert status,” the prime minister replied, “and release a cover story to the press that the reason is that we believe a shipment of Ricin poison is loose. That way the terrorists continue with their plans.”
“Hopefully we can wrap this up soon,” the president said.
“I’ll alert MI5 and MI6 to coordinate efforts with your people. However, once the meteorite reaches British soil, we’re going to need to take over.”
“I understand,” the president said.
“Then good luck,” the prime minister said.
“Good luck to you.”
