He suddenly and abruptly reduced his air speed and pulled up at the same time, executing the flying equivalent of slamming on the brakes, lifting his Raptor in the air like a cobra. The MiG flew right under him continuing its original flight path. Then Zombie dropped back to the same altitude with the MiG and cranked up his speed again, falling right on the MiG’s six. He locked guidance on the MiG and yelled, “Yeah, baby, and that’s the way it’s done!”
“Yeah! Tables are turning!” Voodoo cheered.
They had the Backfire bombers in their sights now, and Voodoo locked a missile on one of them, while continuing to fly an evasive pattern, listening to the obnoxious alarm noises from his missile lock warning system.
They were deep into the Alaskan ADIZ, the air defense identification zone, when unexpectedly the two bombers broke formation and separated their flight paths. One of them turned southeast, while the other remained on course, heading straight for the Aleutian Islands.
“Uh-oh,” Voodoo said.
“Grizzly, this is Cub One. Backfire One changing course, new vector 135 to San Francisco. Backfire Two staying the course, vector 115. Advise.”
“Split up and keep eyes on those bombers. Cubs Three and Four should reach you in fifteen seconds.”
They waved and gave each other a thumbs-up, then they split. With their attention refocused on the bombers, the MiGs took advantage and repositioned to reacquire and target them. They flew evasively while remaining near their assigned Backfires.
A few endless seconds later, Lance’s voice came to life in the speakers.
“Cub One, I have you in my sight.”
“Cub Two, I have eyes on you,” Eagle added.
“This is Grizzly. Thirty seconds more and you’ll have Five, Six, and Seven. Do not let those bombers proceed on their paths, do you copy?”
“Loud and clear, Grizzly,” Zombie said, his fingers tensing on the stick.
“Crystal,” Voodoo added.
Zombie pushed his throttle and flew above the bomber, then fell in front of it and turned around, getting in its path in a zigzag pattern. The MiG was still on his tail, his alarm was still beeping, but Lance had missile lock on the MiG, and he had his on the Backfire. As soon as the remaining three Cubs approached the area, the bomber turned widely, changing its vector to 310 degrees.
“Grizzly, Backfire One is bugging out.”
“Backfire Two is bugging out, new vector 355.”
“Bravo Zulu, all call signs. Clean up the area and come home.”
While Grizzly spoke, they could hear background cheering coming from the people in ground control operations.
“Copy that, Grizzly,” Zombie said, “taking the garbage out and then coming home for dinner.”
…30
The doorbell made Quentin jump from his armchair, rubbing his palms together in excited anticipation. His free pizza was here.
He opened the door, took the box, and tipped the delivery boy generously. The boy smiled widely and left with a spring in his step.
He took the pizza box with both hands, almost subconsciously noticing it wasn’t as hot as he’d expected it to be. He set it on the table, grabbed a plate and a napkin, and turned on the TV. Then he lifted the lid to get a slice, but froze mid-gesture, speechless, his jaw dropped.
Several hundred-dollar bill packets, all used currency, lay neatly arranged in the pizza box. Judging by the label on one of the packets, there were eighty-thousand dollars in total. A disposable cell phone was in there too, and a folded sheet of paper, which Quentin grabbed with trembling hands.
It read, “If you wanted a change in your life, well, this is opportunity knocking. I’m offering you a way out of your desperate rat race. Call the number stored in this phone’s memory to talk.”
His knees felt weak and he sat down at the table, unable to take his eyes off the disposable phone. What did that mean — a way out of the rat race?
He knew he had to call… there was no other option. People don’t just send eighty grand and expect nothing in return. He played with the idea of calling the cops for a few seconds, then quickly discarded it. That would really make me deserve my rat race, now, wouldn’t it?
With ice-cold, sweaty fingers, he grabbed the cell phone and retrieved the stored number. He stared at the displayed number for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and pressed the Call button.
…31
Alex pulled in the visitor parking lot and looked at the familiar building. This was where it had all started, just a couple of years before. She remembered her job interview with Tom Isaac, The Agency’s owner; she remembered how scared, self-conscious, and insecure she felt at first, and how exhilarated she was when she had accepted the unusual job offer, without worrying about any of the risks.
She had always considered herself very lucky to land her dream job. Although, in retrospect, knowing what she knew of how The Agency operated, she wasn’t that sure it was luck that made it happen. Tom had fielded her direct questions by saying she had been selected, but never offered a word more.
She was grateful for his confidence, for the opportunity to work with a fantastic team of smart, powerful, and knowledgeable business people. She had a lot to learn from them and she enjoyed it. She was happy she didn’t have to deal with boredom at work; after all, she had to infiltrate a new organization every few months or so, and start a brand new investigation.
Alex was a little worried on that particular day, considering Tom had summoned her to the office. They typically met at his home, where Alex had become a part of the family, welcome any time without announcing herself ahead. Her conscience was bothering her a little too, because she had been unable to focus lately. Tom might have sensed that. Who was she kidding… for sure he had sensed that, otherwise he’d make a very poor observer of people’s behavior, and that was impossible, considering his company’s line of work and record of success.
She braced herself for the meeting, and a wave of sadness came upon her as she walked through the doors. She hated disappointing Tom, or any other member of the team, yet that had been the norm in the past few weeks.
She reached Tom’s office and tapped quietly on the door.
“Alex, come in,” Tom said, getting up from his massive leather chair to greet her. “It’s good to see you! You’ve been a stranger lately!”
“Good to see you too, Tom, and yes, I have. And I’ve missed you, all of you,” she said, averting her eyes.
She turned her back and poured herself a cup of coffee from Tom’s machine, then sat down, sipping it slowly, and inhaling the French Vanilla aroma. All good reasons to avert her eyes some more.
“So, why the absence? What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing much, really, just tired, I guess,” she replied, continuing to avoid his scrutinizing glance.
At sixty-three, Tom Isaac was the father figure in her life: friend, mentor, boss, and a shoulder to cry on when she needed one. He was an amazing man. Very bright and profound, extremely perceptive with people and a keen investigator, yet someone so independent and so motivated by his own beliefs that he had chosen to start a private investigations firm that exclusively handled corporate clients, a unique and challenging business. It was very hard to lie to him.