Flynn whistled softly in relief. He’d guessed right about the ship’s probable destination. When the Pléiades satellite made its pass several hours ago, the Iranian tanker had been in the mid-Atlantic, almost exactly halfway between Guyana on South America’s northeastern coast and the tiny country of Guinea-Bissau on Africa’s western edge.
Then he frowned. The Iranian vessel was currently nearly four thousand miles from the closest point on the U.S. mainland — which put it well out of reach of Four’s assault force and its support units. That was especially true considering that his Dragon team was still based here in Central Texas. He studied the map. If they could stage out of Puerto Rico, that would shave off some of the distance, but not enough. He looked up. “Damn it, we still can’t hit those bastards.”
Van Horn nodded. “Not yet, anyway.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But on the other hand, all the missile gurus Fox has consulted peg the likely range of their rocket at somewhere around two thousand miles, assuming they’re going for a high-altitude detonation two or three hundred miles up. So, yeah, you can’t hit the enemy yet, but by the same token, they’re not anywhere close to a possible launch point either. That tanker is going to have to come a lot closer to the U.S. coast. Which should give you and your team time to get into position before the balloon goes up.”
“Let’s hope so,” Flynn said tightly. “But we’ve got another problem. We were all focused on finding the ship in the first place. But just how in heck are we going to keep tabs on it now?” He waved a hand over the map displayed on her tablet. “We were damned lucky to spot it once. But at best, we’ll only get a satellite pass over that part of the ocean once every twenty-four hours. And assuming the Gulf Venture is still making eighteen knots, it could steam another five hundred miles in some other direction before the Pléiades comes back around for another look.”
“Yeah,” Van Horn agreed. “Which is why Br’er Fox and I are working on couple of ways to handle the job.” She tapped the digital map. “Anyway, based on its last known position, we think it’s a safe bet that the tanker will keep heading northwest for at least another day. If it veers too much in any other direction, it’ll end up crossing into busier shipping lanes off South America or Africa — which could blow their cover.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m on a flight to Orlando in a couple of hours. I should be out hunting Gulf Venture by this time tomorrow or even sooner.”
“You can’t just send out a scout plane to track that ship,” Flynn warned. “The bad guys aren’t idiots. They’d be bound to spot a trailer… and then my guys and I are boned.”
She smiled back at him. “Yeah, copy that. But this isn’t my first aerial rodeo, cowboy. Just remember that subtlety is my middle name.”
Flynn acted surprised. “Really?” He grinned crookedly. “Man, Laura, you had some weird parents.”
Before Van Horn could smack him, his smartphone pinged with a new text message. He scanned it quickly and then looked at her. “I need to bum a ride with you back to Austin, if that’s okay.”
She nodded. “Can do. What’s up?”
“Some good news for a change,” Flynn said. “That special hardware I ordered from BMW just came in on an air freight flight. If I pick it up this afternoon, I can get it back here to the ranch by sundown. That should give us enough time for some trial runs with it later tonight and tomorrow morning before we fly out to Florida ourselves.”
“Sweet,” Van Horn said appreciatively. The tiny laugh lines around her eyes deepened slightly. “So Birdman Flynn and his glide boys are going Iron Man after all? You know, I’m kind of sorry I’ll miss seeing the first time you try out these new high-tech gizmos.”
He snorted. “Very funny.” He shook his head. “We sure can use the extra capability this experimental equipment ought to give us, but figuring out how to use it safely and successfully means more practice jumps… right at a time when it seems like the countdown clock is already ticking. Everything we’re planning rests on a hell of a lot of different assumptions — about the range of that rocket, about its probable target, the size of the crew aboard, and all the rest. And if we’re wrong about just one of those assumptions, we’re screwed… along with everybody else in the whole U.S.”
Van Horn’s own expression turned more serious. “I know what you mean, Nick. Basically, we’re in a race now, one where the competition is already well out in front… and we don’t even know where the finish line is.”
Flynn straightened his shoulders. “Then I guess we have to dig down deeper and run even harder, right?”
She nodded. “Just as fast and as hard as we can. And if you’re the praying type at all, that might not hurt, either.”
Thirty-Four
Responding to a summons blared over the ship’s intercom system, Viktor Skoblin hurried out onto the navigation’s bridge’s windswept portside wing. Captain Reza Heidari and his second-in-command, Dabir, were both at the forward railing. Heidari was peering intently through a pair of powerful mounted binoculars at a distant silvery dot high in the blue, nearly cloudless sky ahead of them. White contrails streamed out behind the speeding aircraft as it flew northeastward.
The Revolutionary Guard navy officer turned his head toward the Russian. “Our radar picked up this air contact crossing our course a few minutes ago.”
Skoblin frowned. They were well off the normal commercial flight routes between North America and Europe, and still more than two thousand kilometers east of Puerto Rico. That made this sudden appearance of an unknown plane more worrying. “Could this be someone out searching for us?” he asked guardedly. The closer they came to their intended launch coordinates, the more disastrous it would be to be discovered by the Americans.
Heidari stepped back from the binoculars, making room for the Russian to take his place. “See for yourself, Major,” he said. He shrugged. “But we’re not detecting any surface search radar emissions from that aircraft. Nor has it altered its flight path by even a degree to come any closer to us. I suspect a genuine reconnaissance flight would behave very differently.”
Still scowling, Skoblin bent down to look through the binoculars. He focused on the distant plane. It was a twin-engine aircraft, and it looked significantly smaller than most commercial passenger airliners or cargo jets. In and of itself, that meant nothing, since both the American navy and air force maintained fleets of smaller planes, usually used as VIP transports, that might be pressed into service for visual reconnaissance if necessary. But this aircraft wasn’t painted military gray, he noted. Instead, it was a mix of bright colors — red, green, and white. He supposed it was possible that the Americans could have repainted one of their transports in those hues as a disguise, but such thoughts verged on paranoia. “That’s probably just a business jet,” he mused out loud. “Some rich man’s private plane ferrying him from a vacation in the Caribbean islands back to Europe. Or perhaps the Arab oil states.”
“Yes, that would be my guess as well,” Heidari agreed evenly.
Nettled, Skoblin stepped back from the telescope. If the Iranian had been so sure there was no real threat to their mission, why haul him all the way up here on the double? Was it some sort of dominance game — a chess move to remind him of his subordinate status? “Thank you for informing me of this contact, Captain,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad this turned out to be nothing to worry about.” Two can play games, he thought coldly. He waved a hand at the sea and sky around them. “Perhaps in the future you will make sure your lookouts and radar operators are on maximum alert. We can’t afford any surprises from here on in.”