“Thought about it,” she said cheerfully. “But then I decided that might be pushing things a bit too far.”
Knowing when he was licked, Flynn just shook his head. He glanced back at his team, ignoring their barely suppressed grins. “Why don’t you guys start getting our equipment inside.”
Obeying, they split up and began lugging cases from the vans into the hangar. On his way past, Hynes murmured, “You know, sir, having met your mom, signing her up with this outfit might not be such a bad idea. She seemed kind of bad ass to me. Not meaning any disrespect, of course.”
Flynn shuddered. “There are some things, Cole,” he said sternly, “that are too horrifying to contemplate.” He shook his head. “Maybe we’re not strictly bound by the laws of war, but I’d still draw the line at inflicting my mother on an enemy force — even on a bunch of terrorists.”
Hynes chuckled. “Point taken, sir. One Flynn is a force multiplier. Two Flynns would be a war crime.” Still smiling broadly, he moved off to the back of one of the vans.
Flynn followed Van Horn, Fox, and Ingalls into the hangar. It was empty, except for a row of cots, several long, picnic-style tables, folding chairs, and a couple of portable refrigerators plugged in along one wall. Some of the support staff from Avalon House had also rigged up a portable shower area near the back of the hangar. From now on, the Dragon team would be bunking in here. Looking over the facilities, he nodded in satisfaction. He and his men might not exactly be comfortable, but at least they’d be ready and able to fly out practically the moment Fox could give them a solid bearing on the Gulf Venture. Over on the far side of the hanger, now that they were safe from prying eyes, Hynes, Kossak, McGill, and the rest of the team started unpacking and checking over their assault gear — their wingsuits, parachutes, weapons, and other special items.
Fox ushered Flynn and the others over to one of the tables where he’d set up an improvised command post. It held an assortment of computers, LED displays, and communications equipment. “I thought you’d like to see our assessment of the current situation,” he told them. “It’s based on the data we picked up from our second aerial acquisition of the Gulf Venture, during the Gulfstream pass we made several hours ago.”
Flynn nodded. While he and his men were aboard their commercial flight from Austin to Orlando, they’d been out of secure communication with the reconnaissance group attempting to track the Iranian tanker.
The older man sat down and used a keyboard to bring up a large map of the Atlantic on one of the computer displays. A blinking dot at the end of a long red track showed the projected position of the enemy vessel, based on its last known course and speed. If the estimate was accurate, the ship was now around eighteen hundred miles off the South Florida coast.
Flynn studied the map in silence for a moment. Then he looked over at Ingalls. “What do you think, Rip?”
The former Air National Guard major chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds. “The tanker’s within the range of that LM-100J Super Hercules parked outside — at least if it’s fully fueled and carrying a very light load.” He glanced over at the rest of the Dragon team. “Which you and your people definitely are.”
Flynn nodded. A fully loaded C-130J could carry ninety-two fully equipped paratroops or 42,000 pounds of cargo. Compared to that, this four-engine turboprop would be flying almost empty with just the eight of them in its cavernous aft compartment. He turned back to Fox. “We should go tonight,” he said forcefully. “If we take off after dark, we can be in the air over that ship in a little more than four and a half hours. And the sooner we hit the bad guys, the better.”
The older man shook his head regretfully. “Normally, I’d agree, Nick, but there’s another factor to consider.”
“Ah, crap, the weather?” Flynn guessed.
“The weather,” Van Horn confirmed.
“Show me.”
Fox brought up a weather overlay on the map. It showed a band of storms — with thick clouds, strong winds, and high seas — moving to the northwest across that part of the Atlantic. Inset boxes showed the predicted high-altitude wind speeds inside those storm clouds.
Flynn frowned. “Shit,” he muttered. Fox was right. Weather was always the controlling factor for any airborne operation. And any jump into those conditions would be suicide. Given those winds and the poor visibility, his team would be scattered across miles of ocean. They’d certainly never be able to touch down safely on the Gulf Venture’s deck. Big as that oil tanker was, it was scarcely larger than a grain of sand when compared to the immensity of the sea.
“If there’s any consolation in this situation, it’s that the same factors apply to any sea-based rocket launch,” Fox pointed out. “The same high winds and waves which make it too dangerous for you and your team to drop should also make it too risky for the Iranians and their Raven Syndicate allies to carry out their attack.”
Flynn smiled ruefully. “There are a lot of implicit shoulds and hopefullys in that analysis, Br’er Fox,” he said. “Too many for my comfort.”
The older man nodded. “Mine, too,” he admitted.
“Any guesses on when this bad weather should clear?”
Fox shrugged. “Right now, the meteorologists say sometime in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”
Flynn felt his jaw tighten. Based on the calculations run by Four’s missile experts, the Gulf Venture was already under forty-five hours’ steaming time away from its predicted launch point. This was all coming down to the wire a lot faster than he liked. He took another look at the wall of storms shown on their map and scowled. “There’s another danger we have to consider,” he said darkly. He traced out the band of bad weather. “The Gulf Venture could use the cover provided by this bad weather front to execute a radical course change and vanish again.”
“We’re aware of the risk,” Fox said. “Laura and I have another reconnaissance flight planned for tomorrow around this time. If that tanker isn’t where it’s supposed to be, we’ll still have time to search the area and pinpoint it again.”
Van Horn nodded. “We’re on this, Nick,” she assured him. “From forty thousand feet or more, we’ll have a two hundred and forty mile — plus visual horizon. And the long-range tracking camera and telescope rig we’re using has IR capability. Storm clouds or not, those bastards won’t be able to hide from us. So if they do try to get cute at the last minute, we’ll find them for you.”
Thirty-Five
Flying at fifty thousand feet to stay well above the layers of storm clouds blanketing the ocean below, Four’s leased Gulfstream G650 headed steadily southwest. From this high up, the earth’s curvature was obvious. A faint orangish glow among the towering cloud masses lining the western horizon marked the position of the swiftly setting sun. For this evening’s reconnaissance pass, Laura Van Horn had opted to make a wide loop out to the north from Orlando and then fly well to the east before turning back to cross the Gulf Venture’s projected track. Her filed flight plan listed this extravagant, looping course as a “meteorological and climate change data collection” trip on behalf of the same science nonprofit front organization the Quartet Directorate was using for its Pléiades satellite searches.
Most of the seats had been stripped out of the G650’s aft cabin, making room for the set of rails that allowed their long-range tracking camera to move from window to window down the length of the aircraft as they flew past a potential target. A motorized pulley system provided the power to make these shifts.