Schmitt said, “It’s about time, Achmed. I’m getting thirsty.”
The kid said nothing. He looked put out, angry — then again, what nineteen-year-old boy didn’t? Davis’ mug was empty, but he wasn’t going to stay for another. He hung the chief pilot’s mug back on the rack without washing it, and was halfway to the door when Schmitt called out.
“Hey, Davis.”
He turned.
“Boudreau’s going down range tomorrow. You should go along — you said you wanted to see how we fly around here.”
Davis thought about it. Schmitt was right, in a way. It would be good to see the operation up close. But he doubted that was the real reason for the invitation. After a long hesitation, he said, “Sure, sounds like fun.”
Bob Schmitt smiled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Davis managed three solid hours of sleep and woke at midnight.
He opened the curtains and dressed by the light of a dim half moon. A black pullover, baklava, and desert boots would have been perfect. What he had was a navy blue cotton shirt, brown Dockers, and a scuffed pair of steel-toed work boots. It would have to do. Davis used the stairs to reach the first floor, moved silently down the hallway, and stepped into the night.
The air outside was tormenting. If the desert were blistering hot all the time, one would succumb, not appreciate that there could be anything else. But each night the temperature moderated. Not to the point of being cool or refreshing, but enough to make you dread the next sunrise. That was what Davis felt — the teasing night air.
He walked south on the shoulder of the perimeter road, his boots crunching over stones and sand. Ten minutes out, a vehicle approached, and Davis diverted into the scrub to let a small panel van pass. As soon as it was gone, he went back to his steady pace for another five minutes. Then he turned into the desert.
He began his arc around the FBN Aviation hangar at a distance of half a mile. The moonlight was minimal, but enough for Davis to make his way without stumbling amid the tough-looking stands of brush. In the open desert, the night air seemed more fresh and dry, like the world had taken a deep breath after exhaling the day’s heat. Insects that had been heat-struck during the day were active now, chirping and buzzing — happy that the sun was finally gone. Davis was comfortable with the distance he’d chosen. He doubted there would be any patrols out this far, doubted that Khoury’s people would have night-vision gear to monitor the perimeter. They were going through the motions of safeguarding whatever was inside. Not expecting an invasion. All the same, he moved carefully. The vegetation was mostly chest high, and as Davis edged closer to the compound he found himself crouching lower. Two hundred yards out, he took a knee and made his first detailed observation.
Set away from the main airfield, the compound stood out like a raft of light on a black sea. It was fenced all the way around, nothing that would keep Davis out — nothing that would keep anybody out — but rather the kind of barrier that showed possession. A line in the sand. The hangar was shut tight, though Davis could see light lining the edges of the big entry doors. A handful of vehicles were parked carelessly near the front entrance. None were big enough to carry a Black-star drone with a fifty-one-foot wingspan. There was also a pickup truck stationed squarely at the center of the rear fence. Davis figured this for a makeshift guard shack, probably one man inside. He saw three other men at the front of the compound, all watching and moving, weapons hanging at their chests. He saw scaffolding piled in a heap at one side of the building, and next to that was a digging machine, like a small backhoe fitted with a bucket. Davis watched for a full twenty minutes, largely concentrating on the guards. He noted a few casual conversations, but no cell phones or magazines or catnaps. No clear patterns of movement.
Davis decided that they were reasonably competent. Not in his favor. Also against him was the layout. The perimeter fence would be easy enough to breach, but it was surrounded by a fifty-foot clear area all the way around, so any direct approach would necessitate a lot of time in the open. But there were weaknesses. His favorite was the configuration of the lighting. The floodlights belonged on a maximum-security prison, eight tall poles with banks of sodium lights situated at regular intervals along the perimeter fence. But they had been installed to point inward. Good for a working mechanic, which was probably the original intent. Lousy for security. The lights should have been mounted on the hangar itself and pointed outward. As it was, the guards had to stare right into the blaze. Davis didn’t. Then there was the matter of dogs — he didn’t see any. Tally another in his column.
He began moving again, not getting closer, but circling counterclockwise. Watching, probing. Davis had never been a Special Forces type in the military, but he’d done his share of foot soldiering, so he knew how to find a position with a good line of sight. As he neared the back, Davis saw a man walk around the hangar and swap out with the guard in the truck. He heard a generator humming, and noted that there were no above-ground power lines running to the compound. He tried to think of a way to get inside. In his favor, he didn’t have to extract anything from the building — he just needed one good look. If the Blackstar drone was there, Davis could go back to his room, make a phone call, and that part of his job would be done.
Then a sound made him freeze.
His reaction had nothing to do with military experience, but was rather a caution cued from some deeper, evolutionary part of his brain. A growl, followed by a rabid yelp and a snarl. A dog — no, dogs. Not from the hangar complex, but behind him. Davis whipped around and set his legs in a strong crouch. Ready for snapping jaws, a handler with a machine pistol. Ready for anything. He saw commotion behind a tangle of nearby brush, ivory flashes in the drawn moonlight. Then an intense light stabbed in from behind.
Davis fell flat, his lips kissing sand, as a spotlight from the compound scanned the area. He heard shouts from behind the fence a hundred yards away. The words were in Arabic, but the intonation was crystal clear. Alarm. The light kept moving over the brush, searching for the source of the disturbance. It settled on something.
Davis craned his head until he saw them twenty paces away. Dogs, indeed. Three, maybe four. Coats the color of gray brush, wild eyes glinting red, frozen in the stilled white glow. But not guard dogs. Wild, feral beasts. Coyotes or jackals or dingos — whatever the hell passed for canine packs in this part of the world. They were spinning and snapping at one another, a flurry of mangy fur and sharp snarls. Then an even more alarming sound pierced the night. The crack of a rifle shot.
The report was followed by a yelp. Davis hugged the dirt like gravity had reversed, sinking lower and tighter to the sand. Another crack, and a bullet zinged off a rock not ten feet away. He heard canine whimpering, sensed the pack scurrying away in a rustle through the gnarled brush. A stretch of silence was followed by distant laughing and chattering — the guards in the compound. The searchlight went back to acquire mode, playing back and forth for thirty seconds, a minute. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light extinguished.
Davis lay still for what seemed an eternity. He closed his eyes to focus on sound. Any sound. Would the guards come to the source of the skirmish to investigate? Or was this their nightly sport? A few potshots at the neighborhood pack to break the monotony? Inch by inch, Davis rose to his knees and surveyed the compound. Everything seemed quiet. The lone guard was back in his truck, and Davis didn’t see any posse heading his way. He rose up, haunches on heels and hands on his knees, and took a deep breath. He hadn’t noticed the spotlight. He should have noticed the spotlight. The guards had been quick to shoot. Reckless, almost. Right then, Davis knew he wasn’t going to get into that hangar tonight. He would need better intel, more time to prepare.