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I leave the contested airspace and land the jet with ten seconds to spare.
It was all a test. The Snow Leopard is still a prototype, but I can feel its fuel coursing through my blood. Not only am I the first civilian to fly the damn beauty, but I’ve also proven that Hartley Marine’s communication gateway and locator installed in that aircraft are working as they should.
General Adler welcomes me back to the ground.
“We could do with higher image res and faster transmissions,” the general complains. He was my commander when I was with the Special Tactics Squadron, and it seems he hasn’t lost his urge to kick my ass.
“Unquestionably, sir, some finetuning is on the cards,” I acknowledge.
He smirks, shaking my hand. “I never thought you’d find that target.”
“Well, our system can track every single sea otter on the planet, and it’s no different with birds in the sky,” I gush about our VesslScope-AV.
The electronic locator onboard the Snow Leopard originated from our maritime radar system, VesslScope. AV is the aviation version of it.
“I meant it when I said I wanted higher res and faster transmissions,” Adler maintains.
We make our way down the tarmac toward the facility’s main building.
“You still look good in sage,” the general comments on my overalls.
“Always, sir,” I reply as my fingers discreetly plump up my helmet-flattened hair.
Adler then rubs his chin, looking at me with a narrowed gaze. “Hey, between you and me. Keep an eye on Fletcher,” he says.
Donovan Fletcher—a man with an ass bigger than the moon. He was our competitor when the military put this project out to tender.
That stray cat thought the deal was in the bag for him. He’s never been a gracious loser, and when Hartley Marine was awarded the contract, he immediately claimed collusion and corruption. Of course, it helps to know people in high places. That’s just the nature of business. But Hartley Marine won the contract fair and square. Adler was one of the many heads we had to convince we were the men for the job. Fletcher might own one of the largest software companies in the country, but the Coast Guard is their ceiling. They’re not cut out for the real sea-sky business.
“What’s up with Fletcher?” I ask.
“He’s been seeking a partner.”
“Are you warning me of a potential new threat?”
“I’m not your business advisor, Hartley.” We take an elevator up. “I’m not warning you, but I have been warning the CIA. Fletcher is seeking partnerships in Southeast Asia. It could be a matter of national security.”
I purse my lips. By Southeast Asia, I know Adler implies China. Fletcher Tech’s financials have been up and down, and perhaps finding a partner in Asia wouldn’t be such a bad move.
“Even Chinese technology is better than Fletcher’s,” I remark.
“His technology may be a few years behind, but in the wrong hands, it might create unnecessary fire. We don’t want another surveillance balloon flying over Montana, do we?” he says as he walks me to the last elevator up. “Just let me know if you hear anything.”
Getting out of the secret basement seems to be the cue for him to lighten the conversation. “How’s Rob?” he asks about my brother.
“He has his hands full.”
“How old is his boy now?”
“Three. And they’re almost there with their second pregnancy.”
“Phew! A handful, all right. Well, send my regards, will you?” Adler shakes my hand again. “So, what’s next for you?”
“A vacation.”
“Clayton Hartley is taking a vacation?”
“Work hard, play hard, General,” I babble as he commands an officer to escort me out.
