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“Yes.”
“Well, stop it. You’re screwing up our weight distribution.”
Rapp stared into the terrified face of Captain Bazzi. “Roger that.”
“Scout Five to command!” The voice coming over Rapp’s headset had turned insistent. “I am awaiting attack orders. Respond!”
Bazzi remained frozen for a few more seconds but finally gave a short nod. Rapp reconnected their mikes to the operational comm.
“This is Bazzi. Colonel Wasem is having a problem with his headset. Until the problem can be resolved, Mr. Rapp will be relaying his orders.”
• • •
The intensity of the wind continued to grow but the unpredictable gusts had died down enough for Mason and his copilot to even out the ride. With Wasem somewhere in the sand behind them, the operation had similarly stabilized. The illusion of control lasted almost ten glorious minutes before being shattered by a panicked voice over Rapp’s headset.
“Mayday! This is Scout Four. We are—”
Then nothing.
“Scout Four, this is command,” Rapp responded. “What’s your situation?”
No response.
Rapp looked down at the laptop and scanned to Scout Four. The blue icon representing it was still glowing to the southeast, but after a few seconds it was clear that it was no longer moving. The ISIS team, on the other hand, was continuing on target, completely oblivious.
“Scout Four, give me a sitrep,” Rapp repeated. After five more seconds of dead air, he used a satellite link to connect to Marcus Dumond at Langley.
“Marcus, are you looking at the same screen I am? We may have lost Scout Four. Can you confirm?”
“Hang on. . . . Okay, based on their GPS signal, they’re on the ground. Landed or crashed, though, I can’t be sure. It’ll be five minutes before we get an updated overhea
d shot of that sector, and even then I can’t guarantee it’ll be worth anything. The blowing sand’s messing with our imagery.”
“Whether it was a crash or an emergency landing doesn’t matter,” Rapp said. “We have to assume they’re out of the game. Contact Riyadh and tell them to get a medevac out there.”
“On it.”
A quick survey of the laptop’s screen, suggested few options. “Fred, is my data right? Are we nine minutes out from target?”
“Give or take.”
Rapp glanced into the perspiring face of Captain Bazzi before returning his attention to the computer screen. “Marcus, are you still with me?”
“I’m here.”
“What if I have Fred drop me off and then redirect to Scout Four’s target? Could he make it in time?”
“Let me check.”
Rapp waited, noting that turbulence was increasing again.
“Marcus? What the hell are you doing? I asked a simple question.”
“Stop yelling at me, Mitch. You know it makes me nervous. We’re trying to factor wind speed and direction into Fred’s travel time.”
Dumond was a hacker who had been on his way to jail when Rapp’s brother brought him to the CIA’s attention. His skills were undeniable—incredible, really—but he didn’t like time crunches or being involved in life-or-death situations.
“I don’t need it down to the second, Marcus. Now kick it in the ass.”
