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“To Langley, where else? I’ve got to be there, showing the flag, working like I don’t have a care in the world. Otherwise, Barrett’s allies in the Agency will tell him something is amiss. I can’t have that.”
“Ma’am, you being in the office is going to be dangerous.”
Hannah gets off the couch. “We’re all in danger today, aren’t we? You be careful at your meet with Kay and get back here as soon as you can. I’ll leave instructions for the additional security officers that will be showing up here to let you in.”
Noa stands up as well. “Director, I need to tell you something. About the president’s threat to rape me or kill me.”
Hannah says, “Is it important?”
“Very important,” Noa says, feeling embarrassed again at the incident, but also strengthened as to what she’s about to say to the director.
Hannah sits back down on the couch. “Then tell me.”
CHAPTER 89
ONCE LIAM IS inside the interior of the large transport aircraft, the door shuts behind him, and the engines start whining into power. Next to him are the short set of stairs leading up to the cockpit, and to the aft—
He’s puzzled.
Where did all the personnel go?
There’s a forward metal bulkhead with a center door here that doesn’t belong, that Liam hasn’t seen on previous trips he’s taken on other C-17s. There’s a narrow row of seats in front of the bulkhead, and the woman who escorted him in is sitting down, buckling in.
“Have a seat, Mr. Grey,” she says, voice loud over the engines.
He puts his bag at his feet, sits down, buckles up, and looks around. Typical C-17 interior with cables, access panels and lights, except for the bulkhead behind him.
“You can call me Liam,” he says, matching her voice’s volume. “What’s your name?”
A slight smile and the briefest hesitation, telling Liam that she’s about to lie to him.
“You can call me Betty,” she says. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks,” he says, surging back in the seat as the C-17 starts rumbling down the runway.
About fifteen minutes later a small red lamp forward turns green, and Betty unbuckles and gets up. “We’re at altitude. Grab your gear and follow me, and for God’s sake, don’t touch anything.”
“I won’t,” he says, and she opens the door to the bulkhead and he follows in, stopping in awe at what he’s now seeing.
The huge storage area of the C-17—eighty-five feet in length and eighteen feet in width—is jammed with personnel at monitoring stations, large cylindrical tanks with hoses running out of their bases, and other workstations and—
In the center, taking up most of the free space, is a small aircraft, the oddest he’s ever seen.
It’s flat and shiny black, with two stubby fins at the rear tail assembly, and a narrow fuselage that ends in a needle point, with thin wings nearly touching each side of the C-17’s fuselage. At the stern of the aircraft is a series of eight rocket nozzles, all in a row. Hoses from the shiny metal tanks are being hooked up to the underbelly of the aircraft by workers in hazmat suits. What looks to be part of a cockpit is resting on the deck.
Betty says, “I’ll find a place for your bag. Go forward and get prepped, and again, don’t touch a damn thing. The leading edges of the wings can cut your fingers off.”
He recalls what he heard back in Director Abrams’s office. “Is this the A-22?”
Betty says, “Aren’t you the informed one. Just a test bed for now.”
Liam walks with her to the front of the aircraft. “Hypersonic, correct?”
“From Point A to Point B anywhere on the globe in two hours or less, or your next delivery is free,” she says. “You need to use the latrine?”
“No.”
“Good.”
