“Italian flying boat,” said the Navy captain. The backseater had lists of civilian flights to check against.
“Was his call sign filed as Dreamland Playboy One?”
“Unknown. We’re not the FAA here. But it’s definitely on our list. Civilian plane, registered to an Italian fishing and tourist company.”
“Can you give me his last position?”
“No offense, Hawk Leader, but I’m a little busy.”
“That’s why I’m going to double-check him myself,” answered Zen.
Mack steadied his hand on the split throttle, trying to even our the engines. The Piaggio wasn’t particularly difficult to fly, though it did feel weird as hell. It wasn’t so much because the controls and instruments dated from the late 1940’s; they were classic stick and rudder jobs, dials and toggles. You went where you pointed.
But the props were mounted above and behind him, pushing instead of pulling. They sounded like a pair of lawn trimmers, and he just couldn’t seem to get them at the same rpm. No matter how he played with the controls, the plane continued to pull slightly but definitely to the right, pushed by a stronger engine on the opposite side.
Worse, he felt like he was walking over the water. Or crawling. The Italian flying boat went incredibly slow, even though it had two engines.
Walking on the water. The Imam would like that.
The Iranian had been vague about where they were heading, but it was obviously Egypt. Mack guessed the Iranian had made some sort of deal with the Egyptian Air Force to escort them over to the Red Sea if necessary.
Or turkey. Could be Turkey. Plenty of fuel. But Turkey was pretty friendly with the U.S.
Egypt was too, though. Or at least it had been.
Mack had blown it when the Navy plane challenged him, not expecting that the Iranian or Libyans or whoever had set the plane up had actually filed a flight plan. The damn Tomcat pilot was off the air so fast Mack couldn’t think of any way to tip him off.
Dreamland Playboy One. The old call sign had shot into his mind when the Imam poked him in the neck with his gun.
Those were the days, huh?
Would have been easier if the Tomcat had gotten down in his face. Then there might be a chance of getting out of this thing.
Now the best he could hope for was to take the Imam out with him. The question was, should be crash in the water or on land?
Zen found the Italian seaplane hugging the Libyan coast.
“Come on, Bree. Tighten it up,” said Jeff as the meter began sinking downward.
“I’m doing my best, Jeff. We have a hold in the fuselage, remember? And about two thirds of an electrical system. Push it and you’re going to be lighting candles back there.”
“I don’t have candles.”
He eased the throttle back a notch, concentrating on making sure he was well inside the optimum control range. Then he clicked into the frequency the Navy plane had used to hail the Piaggio.
“Dreamland Playboy One, this is Hawk Leader. I am an American fighter monitoring your flight. Acknowledge, please.”
There was no answer.
“Dreamland Playboy One. Identify yourself and give your flight heading.”
“Hawk Leader, Dreamland Playboy One acknowledges. We are following on our filed flight plan. Stand by for compass headings and position, as requested.”
Son of a bitch. There was no mistaking that smooth, full-of-himself voice. Mack was flying the plane.
Jeff clicked the transmit button to dial into the JSTARS command frequency.
Jed had just reconnected with Ms. O’Day when the major did his arm waving thing routine again. Jed asked her to stay on the line this time, then clicked to find his cousin.
“We have Smith,” said Jeff.
“You’re shitting me.”
“Jed.”
“Hang on,” Jed told him, desperately trying to flag down the major so he could patch both lines together.
Turned out all it took was pushing a button near the switch.
“Hawk Leader, please repeat what you told me,” Jed told his cousin when the connection was set.
“We have Smith in a plane heading east over the Mediterranean. We’re not sure whether we can force him down or not, but we can try.”
“Jed, I need to talk to you alone, please,” said Ms. O’Day. “A single secure line. Now.”
He pushed the button quickly and got the knob back, holding on to the D.C. scrambled satellite transmission.
“The plane has to be stopped at all costs,” O’Day told him. “No pilot. No trial in Iran.”
“They’re on it,” he said.
“Jed, listen to what I said. No trial. And this does not come directly from e, do you understand? You’re not running tape.”
“Well, of course not.”
“Hawk Leader probably is.”
“Boss, are you telling me to terminate the pilot?” asked Jed, finally understanding what she had told him.
The National Security Advisor didn’t answer.
“Ms. O’Day?”
“Jed, a trial now will prolong a crisis that you know must be ended quickly.
“I –”
“Why do you think you’re there, Cascade?” she said.
Before he could say anything else, the line snapped clear.
Danny Freah and the rest of the Whiplash assault team practically whooped as they cleared the coast and headed out over the Mediterranean.
The ex-hostages didn’t seem too disappointed either.
“Yo, hold it down,” yelled the pilot. “We got a situation. I’m trying to hear what the hell Raven’s doing.”
Danny got up from the rack seat and made his way forward to the flight deck area. He leaned across the small bulkhead to speak to the pilot.
“We’re still available for SAR,” he told the lieutenant. It was a command, not a question.
“Raven and Hawk One are tracking a seaplane,” said the pilot. “They think Major Smith is aboard.”
“Shit,” said Freah. “Get us there.”
“Captain, hang on.” The pilot pressed his hand against his earphones. “Task force is directing us to an assault ship. It’s about ten minutes away, dead north.”
“Where’s the seaplane?”
“That way,” said the pilot, pointing back toward the coast. “Captain, seriously.”
“Seriously, get us there,” insisted Danny.
“Hey, cousin,” said Cascade, snapping onto the line.
The scrambled line gave voice a synthetic, machine-like sound. Even so, Jeff heard a tremble in his cousin’s voice.
“Hawk here, Cascade,” he said.
“Jeff, I got bad news. That seaplane. It has to be stopped.”
“We’re working on it. Can you verify there are Egyptian fighters en route? Raven has them now maybe thirteen, fourteen minutes away on their present course.”
“Yeah, we got that. they’re not on our side. They are, but not in the way we need them to be.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We need the seaplane stopped. At all costs.”
“All costs how?”
“All costs.”
“Jed – you’re telling me to waste Mack Smith?”
“I’m telling you. I’m telling you there are four F-14 Tomcats en route with orders to shoot it down. I gave them the orders myself.”
“Shit. You gave orders?”
“Cuz, you have your orders.”
“Fuck. Jed what the hell is going on?”
There was no answer. Cascade had broken the circuit.
Mack tried to will his heart to slow down, afraid the thumping would tip off his captor.
Zen’s voice had sounded so foreign, so wild, it had seemed like a hallucination, a last dream before dying. But it was definitely real.
Fate? Allah?
Holy shit. Talk about luck.
Maybe. Could go the other way too. The Imam still had his aura. And his pistol.