“Your recommendation is noted, Major,” the Iranian naval officer said gravely. “You can be sure that my crew will do its best.”
“Until later, then,” Skoblin said. He turned on his heel and headed for the ladder leading down toward the compartments reserved for his Raven Syndicate security unit.
Watching the Russian go, Dabir murmured. “That snake will cause us trouble in the end.”
Reza Heidari nodded. “Indeed.” His own gaze was ice-cold. “But not for long.”
Many miles to the north, Laura Van Horn was at the controls of the fast Gulfstream G650 business jet cruising northeast at forty thousand feet. At the moment, she had nothing to do but sit tight, since they were flying on autopilot — behaving just like any genuine luxury private aircraft making a transatlantic crossing. She glanced around the elaborately instrumented cockpit with a pleased smile. This was a heck of a nice ride, night and day from the kit-built BushCat she’d been flitting around Afghanistan, Iran, and Central Texas in. The Quartet Directorate had leased this Gulfstream through one of its front groups.
“How’s it going back there? Any luck?” She called over the intercom.
From the aft cabin, Fox replied. “We’re almost finished, Laura. And yes, we guessed right. That ship out there is definitely the Gulf Venture. There’s no doubt at all.” Four’s American station chief and a couple of vetted contract technicians were manning a long-range tracking camera similar to those used to monitor rocket launches. It allowed them to capture close-up images of the oil tanker more than forty miles away. The clear visibility for this sortie was a plus, but the camera also had an infrared capability, and they also were using it to take detailed readings on the massive vessel’s heat signature. The current forecasts predicted worsening weather over the next day or two. If those forecasts were accurate, the IR scans they were getting could prove vital.
Van Horn nodded to herself. As they’d hoped, the Iranian tanker hadn’t changed course or speed since their last satellite pass. That strongly suggested the ship was heading directly toward a launch point picked out by planners in Tehran and Moscow. Assuming they planned to launch near the maximum range estimated by Four’s experts, that should be a patch of ocean roughly 750 miles due east of Norfolk, Virginia. If so, that would put the enemy a little under four days from being able to fire.
She settled back down to wait as patiently as she could. She couldn’t bank the Gulfstream G650 back toward Florida until they were well beyond the Gulf Venture’s radar and visual horizon. And she’d have to be sure to stay far to the north on the return leg. One pass by a private jet could be chalked up to coincidence by the crew aboard that ship. But two passes by the same aircraft in a matter of hours would undoubtedly alert them that this was enemy action. This was flying a fine line, she thought, gathering just enough intelligence to give Flynn’s assault force a shot at finding the tanker when it steamed into range… without putting the Iranians and Russians on board on high alert.
The Orlando Apopka Airport was a single runway, privately owned airfield about twenty miles northwest of central Orlando. A highway ran along one side of the airport. The other bordered a large twenty-thousand-acre wildlife area around the shores of Lake Apopka, the fourth largest lake in Florida. More than eighty small hangars housed the small private planes based there.
With the sun hanging low and orange on the western horizon, several vans rolled past a brown stone and dark wood building that contained the little airport’s offices and a flight school. At the end of the drive, they turned onto a side road that also served as a taxiway for aircraft. The vans parked on a hard-packed dirt lot next to one of the larger hangars.
Nick Flynn hopped down from of one of the vehicles. He was followed by the rest of his Dragon assault team. A door on the side of the hangar opened, and Fox and Laura Van Horn came out to meet them.
“So, what do you think of your ride?” she asked innocently, pointing behind him.
He turned around and caught sight of a very large four-engine turboprop parked at the edge of the runway. This aircraft completely dwarfed the other private planes — mostly a mix of single-engine Cessnas, Beechcraft, and Pipers of various models — scattered around the tarmac and hanger complex. He whistled in surprise. “Holy crap! A C-130J Super Hercules?” He swung back to Van Horn. “What’d you do? Steal a plane from the Alaska Air National Guard like those Stinger missiles you used in Iran? That’s pretty bold, even for you.”
She grinned. “Nothing quite so piratical this time. This is totally legit.” She nodded toward the big turboprop. “That’s an LM-100J, the commercial version of the Super Hercules. We’re subleasing it from a private aviation company.” Her grin widened. “They think we need it to shoot some scenes for a low-budget made-for-streaming action-adventure movie. When they asked what it was called, we told them the working title was something like Sky Dragons on Spring Break.”
Flynn heard the strangled laughs from the rest of his assault force and matched her expression. “Close enough to the truth, I guess. And at least you know how to fly that thing.”
Van Horn’s smile disappeared. She shook her head. “It won’t be me this time, Nick. I’ll be piloting your backup aircraft, which is waiting on the ground in Bermuda for me now. Because the way I see it, that’s going to be an even trickier gig than getting you all to the target.”
Flynn nodded. He should have figured that would be the case. Coming up with a way to reinforce his team with a qualified crew to sail the tanker if they succeeded — or to rescue any survivors if things went south — had been a difficult problem to solve. As things went, the best idea they’d been able to come up with was still a long shot, one that would require a lot of luck and an incredibly skilled pilot to pull off. “So who’s going to be at the controls of that Herky Bird?” he asked. “Because I wouldn’t have thought Four had a surplus of qualified multi-engine aircraft pilots just waiting around.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Van Horn said enigmatically. She turned and signaled to the hangar.
Flynn stared at the man who walked out to join them. He’d last seen the newcomer more than a year ago in Alaska and in very different circumstances. Back then, Major Jack “Ripper” Ingalls had been the commander of the damaged C-130J that had made an emergency landing at his last duty station. Van Horn had been his copilot. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? An old flight school reunion? Or is everybody in the Air National Guard wearing two hats now, pilot by day, secret agent by night?” Ingalls had the grace to look abashed.
“Actually, sizing up Rip here as a possible Quartet Directorate recruit was my primary mission on that tour of duty. Because as you’ve noticed, we’re kind of short of skilled personnel of all kinds,” Van Horn said. “Snagging you for Four was a bonus.” She smiled sweetly. “But it does seem like one of my better calls, don’t you think?.”
Fox spoke up. “As I told you at our first meeting, Nick, having Laura meet and assess you then was pure serendipity.”
“So I see,” Flynn said dryly. He turned to Van Horn. “Okay, who else have you got stashed in that hangar as a surprise? My mother?”