Chuckling softly, Gallen remembered how his slightly unprofessional conduct had been rewarded: two weeks after the Basilan snafu he’d earned his second silver bar. Thanks to Bren Dale’s rich-boy lack of respect for fools, Gerry Gallen of Clearmont, Wyoming had made captain in the US Marines.
As he fell asleep, he realised that as much as Bren Dale could annoy him, he owed the man. Owed him a career.
CHAPTER 15
The Escalades stopped on the tarmac in front of the Oasis corporate jet, a white Challenger 850 with two large engines mounted on the fuselage below the tail section.
Gallen was the first out, squinting slightly in the brightness of the dawn light poking over the mountains behind Burbank Airport. He keyed the radio. ‘Kenny, I want you and Ford searching that luggage hold and supervising every piece loaded into it, okay?’
Winter growled his assent. Gallen could see that the Canadian had already emerged from the rear Escalade and was marching down beside Durville’s town car in the centre of the convoy.
Donny McCann joined Winter on the tarmac and then Harry Durville emerged too, his jeans and boots making him look like a paunchy rodeo rider, but one who couldn’t stay off the Black-Berry.
Ushering Durville up the stairs into the air-conditioned cabin, Gallen did a quick search of the Challenger and its toilet/shower area, making sure no one was in the plane. As he came back to the front cabin door, Durville was pouring his first whisky of the morning and, facing the oil man, Florita had the satellite phone cradled on her shoulder.
Ducking into the cockpit, Gallen greeted Captain Barry Martin, whom he’d met on the run down from Denver. He didn’t know the co-pilot. Asking for the man’s ID, Gallen tried to make chit-chat but it was obvious he wasn’t joking.
‘Okay, Jeff,’ he said, handing back the FAA licence and the Oasis Energy employee pass.
The captain gave Gallen a wink as he left. They’d talked about contingencies when they’d met in Denver and Martin had agreed that if he ever had reservations about anything, he’d let Gallen know about it.
On the tarmac, Winter and Ford checked the Durville luggage, looking for listening devices more than bombs. Gallen could see Winter using the wand he’d asked Chase Lang to throw into the pile at the PX. It wasn’t a metal detector of the kind found in airport security; instead, it picked up live circuitry, anything that could transmit a signal.
‘How we doing?’ said Gallen, standing beside Winter as the wand beeped.
‘Something in Senorita’s bag,’ said Winter, unzipping the large Targus business case. Inside was a stack of spare legal pads, cell batteries, pens and what looked like an entire back-up system for the laptop she carried. Pulling out a large Ziploc bag, Winter touched it with the wand and confirmed the signaclass="underline" inside were two spare BlackBerry handsets with batteries and chargers. The woman was thorough.
Resealing the Ziploc, Winter shrugged. ‘Were looking okay.’
‘Let’s get our gear loaded,’ said Gallen, scoping the tarmac, looking for aimless men in coveralls, people looking too interested in a magazine, people talking into a phone but looking at the Challenger.
Gallen took the air stairs two at a time and took a seat at the front of the cabin. He began sorting his notes. The Kugaaruk airport was a tiny strip, closed most of the year due to its location inside the Arctic Circle. A local cab company had contracted to pick up the Oasis team and deliver them to an address where Harry Durville was meeting a local council.
Flipping through the notes provided by Florita, Gallen saw a reference to a group named as the Transarctic Tribal Council, the TTC. Durville was talking with seven of them at a one o’clock meeting.
Florita fetched coffee at the small drinks station and Gallen moved after her.
‘Florita, we got any names of these guys?’ he asked, holding up the notes.
‘Coffee?’ said Florita.
‘Thanks,’ said Gallen. ‘I got mention of a “Reggie” but that’s it. Who are these TTC people?’
‘Eskimos,’ said Florita, pouring. ‘Reggie’s his contact. I don’t have last names. I can ask?’
‘Thanks,’ said Gallen as the earpiece crackled; Winter asking him to look at something.
On the tarmac, Ford, McCann and Winter stood at the loading door for the hold.
‘What’s up?’ Gallen pushed forward to where Winter ran the beeping wand over an opened kit bag.
‘Some kind of tracking device,’ said McCann, inspecting the remote video set from the PX. ‘Lookit.’ He held out a tiny stainless-steel capsule on the tip of his index finger.
‘Got more, boss,’ said Winter, getting a beep from an assault rifle. ‘Looks like someone wants to track us.’
‘Or hone us,’ said the Aussie, which made all eyes turn to him. ‘Just saying, fellers. I mean, we’ve slapped hundreds of those things on building and ships so the fly boys know where to fire their missiles.’
Looking at his G-Shock, Gallen made a decision. ‘Kenny, you and the boys find them, but don’t destroy them, okay? ‘
‘Can do, boss.’
Slipping back into his seat in the cabin, Gallen made a call. ‘Aaron,’ he said, cheerful, as the other end picked up.
‘Gerry. It’s early.’
‘Just a question, Aaron. When did you decide to put collars on us?’
‘Sorry?’ said the American.
‘Tracking transmitters, Aaron. They’re all through the new stuff from the PX.’
‘They’re not tracking transmitters, Gerry,’ said Aaron with a sigh. ‘They’re RFDs.’
‘What?’
‘They’re small electronic tags like the ones that stop you stealing from a shop, or the ones that mean you can’t pass off your company’s computer as your own and try to sell it.’
‘You think we’re gonna sell this stuff?’
‘It’s standard procedure, puts an ownership stamp on Oasis equipment,’ said Aaron. ‘It’s not even my policy, buddy. That would be the accountants.’
‘Maybe,’ said Gallen. ‘But this kind of technology can be used for other things, and I don’t like finding it just before I get on a flight.’
‘Where you off to?’ said Aaron.
‘Hawaii. Where are you?’
‘In transit,’ said Aaron. ‘To somewhere else.’
The plane dipped slightly and Captain Martin’s voice told the cabin that they would be landing at Edmonton International for a quick refuelling. Opposite Gallen, Donny McCann inserted a bookmark and closed his novel.
‘That’s longer than I expected,’ he said, stretching.
Gallen smiled. ‘We’re not even halfway there.’
‘How far is this place?’
‘Twenty-six hundred miles,’ said Gallen. ‘It’s almost longer than crossing the Atlantic.’
Mike Ford alighted from the seat across the aisle and went forward to use the employees’ toilet.
‘How’s the Aussie?’ said Gallen, looking at McCann, but loud enough for Winter to hear.
‘Knows his stuff,’ said McCann. ‘But that accent’ll have to go.’
‘At least he’s funny,’ said Winter.
‘Them Aussies are all funny, man,’ said McCann.