He took a shower and changed into fresh jeans and shirt. Then he made a quick house survey and dashed out to his truck with duffle in hand. He made good time to Otis air base on the deserted back roads. The jet had already landed. He tucked the truck into a parking space and climbed into the plane’s cabin. The plane was taxiing down the runway for take-off as he buckled himself in.
Quickly gaining altitude, the plane cruised at four hundred miles per hour toward Washington. As the miles flicked by, Hawkins gazed through the window at the sparkling tapestry of cities and towns and tried to slow the thoughts churning around in his head. The would-be killers were not in Woods Hole by mistake. They knew who he was and where he lived. He knew only one reason he’d have a target on his chest.
Someone wanted to torpedo the Prester John mission.
More disturbing was the fact that someone knew about the assignment. So much for hush-hush security.
Borne out of desperation, his aim had been true and he had seen the dive knife strike one of the men in the chest. His eyes grew cold. He had no remorse over the kill. The destruction of property he could brush aside. Attempted murder and attacking a loyal pal like Quisset were not things he could forgive.
He called a number on his cell phone. “This is Hawkins,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, doctor, but I wondered how Quisset was doing.”
“No bother, Mr. Hawkins. I was about to call. They’re wrapping up the surgery as we speak. Your dog will live, but her skull was severely fractured and there may be some motor impairment from the brain damage. She might not be able to function normally. You might want to think of putting her down.”
“Not a chance, Doc.”
“Guess that’s a no. I’d probably do the same thing in your place. We’ll see what we can do to bring your friend up to snuff.”
“Thanks, Doc. Call me as soon as you know for sure.”
The vet started to go into the details of the surgery, but Hawkins had to cut him off. The pilot had announced that the plane was making its approach to Dulles.
The plane bumped down onto the tarmac and taxied past a line of FedEx and UPS cargo jets, stopping finally near a Boeing 747. The words: Global Logistics Technologies were printed in black on the pale blue fuselage. Parked next to the open cargo section of the jumbo jet was the truck that had picked up the submersible and his other gear in Woods Hole.
Hawkins climbed down the gangway to the tarmac and walked over to Abby who was standing near the 747. She was wearing a pale blue jumpsuit that emphasized rather than disguised her feminine curves, and her hair was tucked under a dark blue baseball hat. She noticed that Hawkins had shaved his beard.
“What happened to the chin fuzz?”
“It got caught in a lawn-mower.”
She reached out and stroked his jaw. “I like it. Never went for the werewolf look.” She went back to her iPad. “I was just going over the cargo manifest. We’re in good shape.”
Hawkins swept the long fuselage with his eyes.
“Nice of the President to let us borrow Air Force One.”
“Thought you’d like to travel in style. Global Logistics makes regular cargo runs to Kabul under government contract. I simply tweaked the schedule.”
“Some tweak,” Hawkins said. He was impressed but not surprised.
Abby had honed her talent for precision in the navy. The aircraft carrier she had served on was a moving base crowded with planes and the crews, where the slightest mistake could be fatal.
A cargo crew used a fork lift to load their gear onto a freight platform. Abby watched as the boxes were raised to the open cargo door and turned to Hawkins.
“Where’s Calvin?” she said. “We’re scheduled to take off in thirty minutes.”
Hawkins glanced as his watch. Hayes was running late. He called his friend on his cell phone and asked where he was.
“Hoo-Yah!” Hayes yelled. “ETA is im-mi-nent.”
Two pairs of headlights were approaching. A black Bentley was leading a flat-bed truck across the tarmac. The Bentley stopped next to the plane. Hayes hopped out of the car and waved in the truck, which expertly backed up to the loading platform.
The truck disgorged two men who had physiques like gorillas on steroids.
Hayes directed the unloading with shouts and arm waves. The men rolled the plastic-covered desert vehicle down a ramp at the back of the truck, and pushed it onto the cargo lift. A crew inside the plane took it from there.
Hayes peeled off some bills as payment. As the truck rumbled off, he strode over to Hawkins and Abby who had been watching the fast-moving process with amazement. He gave Hawkins a bear hug.
“Sorry I was late,” Hayes said. “Had to pick up snacks for the trip.” He stroked his chin. “You look different than the last time I saw you, Hawk. More clean-cut. Kinda like the two-toned skin.”
Hawkins was starting to regret having shaved off his beard. “Think of it as natural camouflage.”
Hayes let out a whooping laugh, then trotted over to the Bentley, tucked the car next to a storage shed and threw a protective cover over the top. He grabbed his duffle and joined Hawkins and Abby on the cargo lift. They entered the tunnel-like interior of the plane and walked past the desert vehicle, which had been parked next to stacks of cargo containers.
Abby led the way up a flight of stairs to the big passenger cabin under the fuselage hump. Instead of rows of seats, the cabin had been fitted with comfortable chairs and sofas that could be used as beds. They settled into the seats on either side of a small table. The massive Pratt and Whitney engines cranked into action and after a short warm-up, the plane taxied out onto the runway.
The pilot’s voice came over the speakers, and announced that they had been cleared for take-off. The plane accelerated down the runway and lifted off the tarmac, then climbed to thirty-five thousand feet and headed east at a speed of 565 miles per hour on the route that would take it to Istanbul. With a range of more than seven thousand nautical miles, the jet would need only one fueling stop before heading across Asia to Kabul. The plane would spend around fourteen hours in the air for the seven thousand mile flight.
Hayes volunteered to make breakfast. He pulled some plastic bags out of his duffle and rattled around in the galley. Mouth-watering fragrances soon filled the cabin. Cal served a breakfast gumbo made with potatoes and sausage, and a Cajun omelet folded over crabmeat and rice, all washed down with strong coffee. As they were eating, Abby noticed the bandage on Hawkins’ hand and asked about it.
“Cut myself on some window glass.” Hawkins drained his cup and took in his two breakfast companions. “Thanks for the meal, Cal. And I want to thank the both of you for agreeing to come along on this mission. I couldn’t ask for better back up.”
Hayes stretched his legs out and laced his hands behind his head.
“Hell, Hawk. We should be thanking you. Flying first class on our own jumbo jet. Doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Before you pull out your flower shirt and sandals, I want to warn you that the mission has been compromised.”
He told them about the attempt to kill him, explaining in detail exactly how he had cut his hand on window glass.
“Any idea who these two guys were?” Hayes said.
“Never saw them before. Not even in my nightmares.”
“This is going to complicate things,” Abby said.
“It will definitely make the mission more dangerous. I’m giving you both the option of pulling out. I’ll tell Fletcher there’s been a leak, and tell him to go to Plan B.”