The hangar crew had positioned the jet on the tarmac. He started the engines, went through his cockpit takeoff checklist, and then eased the throttles forward. He wiped his brow. Very deliberately, he followed his instructions, got in line behind a Delta commercial jet, and waited. The big Delta's engines roared, and it started down the runway. As it reached the halfway point, Starr heard his radio crackle with his instructions to proceed. He opened the throttles on the modified aircraft. With engines producing more than twice the thrust as the original the plane had been built with, it gained speed with authority. As he saw the big commercial craft in front of him ease into the air, he couldn't help but notice he'd already closed the distance behind it considerably. "This isn't a race," he heard over the radio with a hint of laughter. He gently began the rotation of his craft by pulling back on the wheel.
Suddenly, Starr felt the powerful bird smoothly leave the runway, and he was free of gravity. He was no longer nervous, feeling like a kid who had just mastered riding a bicycle. He could feel the grin on his face.
He was instructed to begin a long, winding turn to his right. He complied. He was now lined up for his flight straight to New Mexico. As he passed four thousand feet, he decided to open up the jet engines even more. Effortlessly climbing at four thousand feet per minute, he reached his thirty-five-thousand-foot flight plan altitude in less than ten minutes. He leveled off, cruising at six hundred miles per hour.
Christman, after returning to the motel with Phillips, was concentrating on the laptop that Starr had previously been watching, which contained a real-time transcript of any conversation taking place in either cabin that Styles had previously bugged.
"Besides sounds I'd really rather not describe, Ellhad told his girlfriend that he had to leave for a bit and would return later."
Phillips acknowledged the information with a wave of her hand, her eyes transfixed on three laptop screens.
Suddenly, a sequenced knock on the door was heard. Christman got up and let Styles in.
"No reports of any plane crashes so far?" Styles asked, only half joking.
"No. Don't worry, he'll be fine. Soon as he gets up in the air, he'll be like a kid in a candy store. He can handle it."
Phillips spoke up. "Langley has been informed that our plane has departed. They've even got the flight plan. There will be an observation team waiting for him in New Mexico. Should we call him?"
"Why not?" Christman suggested. "We'll have him fuel the plane and then come back home. That ought to mess with their heads a bit."
Styles couldn't help but chuckle. He had noticed that even during tense times, the group had become so comfortable working with each other that there was an overall change in the emotional attitude of everyone, including himself.
"Not bad, J. C., not bad."
"What's going on over at that motel?"
Styles turned serious. "Place is crawling with everybody. I didn't see that much, but it looked like the locals were just observing from the parking lot."
"Ouch. That's gotta be pissing them off."
"No doubt about that. The FBI gets pretty damned bossy."
"I'm surprised you've had so many run-ins with them."
"Just a couple of times, mostly just watching. It's their method of operation. They look at the country as their personal sandbox, and they don't like to share. Hell, the only time I've been involved with them was in Iraq — some kind of murder that they thought had been the result of a bombing, so they were investigating; they were total jerks." Styles started chuckling.
"What's so funny?"
"About ten, maybe twelve years ago, I was watching three locals who had been zeroed for me to take out. They were gathering intel on some plan they were hatching. I think they were going to bomb the same place twice. The FBI had sent a team over there to help with forensics, and there was this one guy in charge that was just a total ass wipe. That night, there were about six of them over at a lounge on base. They stayed in civilian quarters there, although they had full access to this particular bar. Well, I happened to catch this jerk in the men's room. I guess I happened to comment about his, uh, lack of professionalism. He started chewing on me, so I stuffed his head in a toilet, one that someone had conveniently forgotten to flush, and no, it wasn't me."
Christman laughed out loud. "I'd have paid money to see that."
"He had it coming. Think his name was Gary or Gore or something like that."
26
Styles decided he should go for a quick run. He hadn't exercised much over the last two days and was getting edgy. Christman had moved over and joined Styles, bunking with him. Phillips had moved into J. C.'s room, leaving Starr to join the two of them when he got back from New Mexico, having to take the couch. The decision had been made for Starr to return around ten that evening. Christman had shown Starr how to change the transponder numbers on the jet so that it wouldn't be immediately identified as the plane that had just previously arrived, the theory being that since it was probably being watched, the changing numbers might cause confusion.
"We'll at least see if the CIA is on their toes," commented Christman. "I think this misdirection was a good idea if it draws just a bit of attention away from us."
Phillips had sat down with the two of them to share what she'd found, causing Styles to hold up.
"I have no doubt that Ryyaki Ali is connected with President Williams. I don't have the proverbial smoking gun, but I've got spent shell casings. I think we need to have a conversation before you kill him," she said to Styles.
"We need to get a time line down. Day after tomorrow is Labor Day. Ellhad is more than likely leaving at some point tomorrow afternoon. He's going to want to travel with people on the road, trying to blend in. I need to catch up to him by the time he reaches Lake Mead; earlier would be better. J. C., you're on standby with the chopper. I'm thinking of having Starr follow Ellhad just in case we have to switch gears. What's the most popular color car on the road?"
"Silver sedan? Maybe white?" offered Phillips.
"I'd go with silver," agreed Christman.
"Get Starr a full-size silver sedan to pick up when he gets back. Hell, might be cheaper to buy a damn car dealership," Styles grumbled.
"Consider it done," assured Phillips.
"How are you going to talk to Ali?" inquired Christman. "It's not like we're going to have all the time in the world."
"I might have to just get medieval on him," replied Styles.
"Up for a suggestion?" asked Phillips.
"Sure."
"Chemicals."
Styles thought about that. "Yeah, I remember your work on Andrew Ladd."
"That was just an example. I'm quite familiar with them, and they can work quickly."
Styles looked out the window. He wanted to get running, but knew this aspect needed to be established. Turning to Phillips, he asked quietly, "You ready?"
Neither Christman nor Phillips was used to hearing Styles using such a soft tone.
"Ready?" she asked.