Exactly an hour and a half later, a diesel tractor pulled a long black plane out of the hangar. Airmen scrambled out of the way, splashing in puddles of warm water that dotted the runway. Fuel leaked out of the SR-73 Blackbird III’s fuselage, but no one paid the phenomenon much attention; the high-flying airplane expanded by as much as ten inches in flight because of airframe heating. The SR-73 became fuel tight once it was up to speed.
Once out of the hangar, an auxiliary power unit started the Blackbird’s engines. The APU coughed on, filling the air with heavy black smoke and high-pitched whining. Soon after, the white noise of the Blackbird’s engines overshadowed the whining. One airman disconnected the APU from the Blackbird while another waved two orange-covered flashlights over her head, pointing the way for the plane to follow. Once the plane started to leave, the airman snapped to attention and threw the pilots a salute.
Inside the SR-73, Major Kathy Yulok raised a silver-gloved hand and returned the honorific. She clicked her mike. “Ground control, Stella two-niner up and ready. Request permission to taxi.”
“Roger, Stella two-niner. You are cleared to taxi and take off. Skies are clear, you have a window of five minutes.”
“Thank you, ground control.”
Kathy barely increased the throttles, making the engines climb in response. The SR-73 seemed to jump forward with even the small amount of pressure she applied. The flight had been cleared an hour ago, coordinated through the highest channels. As a result, the SR-73 flight was given a priority billing as far as taxi pads, runway, and even air space. Timing was of the essence, and every routine that Kathy had accomplished, up to starting her preflight meal an hour and a half ago, was orchestrated down to the smallest detail.
There was something sexual about it. Kathy felt the anticipation, the rush that accompanied flying the fastest plane in the world. Growing up an Air Force brat, Kathy had been raised in a fighter pilot home, her father a “Smokin’ Rhino” driver — the nickname for the F-4.
She clicked her mike, toggling the switch to broadcast on the intercom. “Ready, Eddie?”
Her navigator, Major Ed Prsybalwyki, came over the intercom. “That’s a rog. Let’s get up and get tanked.”
She clicked her mike twice, affirming Ed’s comment, then switched over to the tower frequency.
“Tower, this is Stella two-niner. Request permission to take off.”
“Permission granted, Stella two-niner. You are cleared, your heading.”
Kathy eased the throttles forward. The SR-73 started shaking. Based on the airframe of the original SR-71 built a good thirty years before, the hypersonic legacy was state-of-the-art. Some of the SR-73s had recently survived an attempt by the Department of Defense to scuttle the aircraft. Congressionally mandated budget cuts had dictated that the manned spy planes be replaced by other, “national technical means” of verification: spy satellites. But after the great sequestration budget fights, the Air Force had clandestinely squirreled away five of the craft.
Kathy glanced over the instruments one last time. The bubble of the high-altitude helmet cut back on her vision, but she forced her eyes to jump from dial to dial.
“Engines, a hundred and four; fuel, ten thousand pounds; oil, pressure looks good.” She clicked her mike. “Let’s do it.”
Without waiting for a reply, Kathy released the brakes and simultaneously punched the afterburners. Two Pratt & Whitney turbojets, each producing thirty-four thousand pounds of thrust, kicked in. The SR-73 takeoff roll was short, and as soon as they rotated Kathy started searching for the KC-10A Extender — the tanker aircraft that would fill them with enough fuel to reach their first checkpoint.
Kathy pulled a map from the clipboard. The Indian border was going to make this trip a long one.
“Hey, Roger — you got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Sabine Aquinette motioned with her eyes to the ceiling. “The cage?”
“Yeah.” Roger Epstein rocked forward in his chair. He placed the message he had been reading in a small safe behind him and closed the inner drawer. Shutting the safe’s door, he twirled the knob and yanked the handle. The safe was the standard Government Services Agency issue, with one additional feature: if a combination was not dialed into the safe before opening the inner drawer, a pool of hydrochloric acid was released onto the papers left inside.
It was a feature Roger Epstein had had nightmares about when he first entered the Agency, but now, as Agency Station Chief, the dual-protection mechanism was second nature to him.
Roger followed Sabine Aquinette up the stairs to the third floor. Decorated in Far East decor, the hallway did not reveal the embedded fine copper mesh just under the drywall. The mesh acted as the first line of defense against electromagnetic emanations that might leak from the building.
A Marine sat behind a desk at the top of the stairs. The young man checked the identification badges of both Roger and Sabine — even though they were only two of ten operatives who had access to the floor. Ever since the Moscow debacle, when the United States Marine Corps had compromised its integrity and security with an alleged “sex scandal,” the Marines had played their detail by the book. Roger thought that there probably wasn’t a cockroach here that hadn’t passed Marine scrutiny.
The “Penthouse”—smaller than the lower two floors and basement by a factor of three — housed Agency operations. Communications equipment, crypto gear, computerized files, and a weapons cache dominated most of the Penthouse. The Penthouse was windowless; steel walls as thick as a battleship hull ensured that information would not be compromised. Not even a terrorist bazooka would disrupt activities.
Sitting in one corner of the room, the main feature in the Penthouse was known simply as “the Cage.” Designed by the renowned antiterrorist specialist Jack Ryan, the Cage had been constructed of a hemispherical weave of copper mesh and sonic absorbers. The copper acted as a Faraday cage, isolating the inside against any electromagnetic probes.
The sonic absorbers prevented the Cage from vibrating with the small but detectable sonic vibrations set up by even a whisper. It was the only absolutely secure place in the entire complex. There had been rumors of sexual tête-à-têtes inside the Cage before Roger arrived as Station Chief — the rumors had stopped, but Roger didn’t know whether it was because of his presence or because they had only been rumors.
Once inside, Sabine handed Roger a folder marked eyes only. Roger tore open the envelope. It was a digitized image of two people. The image looked hazy, as if taken from some distance.
Roger looked up abruptly. “Yan Kawnlo.”
“Surprised?”
“Very.” Roger plopped down on a chair. The man in the picture looked like any elderly man, like the person on a crowded bus going downtown. It was in fact the same man who had successfully eluded the most sophisticated surveillance devices in the world. “He hasn’t surfaced since the assassination attempt. How recently was this taken?”
“Last week.” She paused. “Bangkok airport.”
“Bangkok? Oh, oh, oh.” Roger rocked back.
Sabine looked puzzled. “What’s up?”
Roger studied the picture as he spoke. “Before you got here … Kawnlo was involved in an assassination attempt on the Thai President.” It was Sabine’s turn to look surprised. “We kept it quiet, trying to draw Kawnlo out, but he didn’t take the bait. Turned tail and ran back up to the north.” He tossed Sabine the picture. “As far as we can tell he’s been running a terrorist camp, just inside the North Korean border. Brings in men and women and brainwashes them, turns them into fanatics.”