Colonel, U.S. Army; and one Gray, Helen, Special Agent, FBI.”
“Shit,” Peter muttered under his breath. “This come down from the Germans?”
“I wish,” Stroud said quietly. “The order’s signed by the Director of the FBI personally.”
Helen felt her insides knot up. Their worst nightmare had come true.
Their own people were under orders to arrest them.
She clenched her fists tight, forcing herself to think. “Then how do we board that plane?” she asked.
“I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Stroud said. He took one hand off the wheel, reached into his tunic pocket, and handed Peter an envelope. “That contains a letter for the plane commander and another for the base operations officer at Dover — just in case you run into any problems. With a little luck, though, you won’t need to use them. Sam Farrell’s supposed to have somebody standing by to meet the plane.”
“Luck’s not exactly been on our side so far,” Helen commented.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, Mrs. Carlson,” Stroud said. He glanced at Peter. “Remember, Pete, you run into some officious bastard, you ask to see the ops officer. If he’s still on your case after reading the letter, tell him your trip involves CORNICE.
That should clear the way. And if anybody wants to know what you’re doing, just tell ‘em you ‘work for the government.”” This time she and Peter both grinned openly. That was the standard reply given by members of the CIA and other intelligence agencies when they were asked about their jobs.
They crossed the airfield perimeter, passed through the sentries, and drove out onto the hangar-lined tarmac.
Huge Air Force cargo jets — C-5s and C-17s painted a dark, dull gray — were parked along the flight line. People and vehicles moved among them, minnows next to whales. They passed several of the transport aircraft before Stroud found the right tail number.
“Wait here,” the Special Forces officer instructed as he killed the engine and hopped out of the van. He was back in less than a minute, this time accompanied by a senior Air Force enlisted man. He waved them out.
“Chris and Katy Carlson, this is Master Sergeant Blue. He’s the loadmaster for this aircraft — and your personal attendant for this flight,” Stroud said.
Blue, a short, cheerful-looking man with a round face and a crooked nose, looked them over, then said, “Okay, Colonel, I guess you’re right. These two don’t look much like illegal aliens, after all.” He shook hands, first with Peter and then with Helen.
“Who you folks with?”
Helen smiled. “We work for the government, Master Sergeant.”
“Right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Blue said, grinning back. He turned to Stroud and shrugged. “No harm in asking, right?”
The Air Force noncom waved them toward the C-17’s open rear cargo ramp as he headed across the tarmac. “C’mon, folks, let’s shake a leg!
Engine starts in five minutes.”
Helen looked at Stroud. “Colonel, I …” She faltered, unsure of exactly how to express her appreciation.
“You don’t need to thank me,” the Special Forces officer said.
He turned toward Peter. “You take care of yourself. and Mrs. Carlson here, too.”
Peter nodded somberly. “You can count on it, Mike.”
“I will. Now get your ass aboard that plane, Colonel,” Stroud said gruffly. He shook hands with Peter, hugged Helen, and then headed to the van without looking back.
By the time they caught up with the C-17’s loadmaster, the short Air Force noncom was already halfway up the ramp. “This is a cargo-only flight,” he explained. “There’re no spare seats in the plane, but I know a spot where you can both bed down. It’s comfortable and out of the way. Right now, only the pilot and I know you’re riding with us today, and I’d kinda like to keep it that way.”
“Understood, Master Sergeant,” Peter said. “We’ll stay low.”
“Don’t sweat it too much, Mr. Carlson.” Blue grinned again. “Hell, I’ve got room to hide a Brownie troop on board this flying milk wagon.”
The C-17’s cavernous fuselage held row upon row of cases and crates strapped to cargo pallets. The cargo pallets themselves were strapped to the deck. Moving carefully, the three of them picked their way along an aisle on one side, until the loadmaster paused. He plugged in the headset he was wearing, took one last look aft, and reported, “Ramp is clear.”
With a low whine, the rear door lifted off the tarmac and sealed — shutting off their view of the floodlit airfield and the rapidly brightening sky. Almost immediately, the jet’s four engines spooled up, the sound deepening to a full-throated roar that rattled through the cargo compartment.
Blue showed them to a corner of the deck where some mats had been piled and then left, urging them to get some sleep. “By the time you wake up, we’ll be landing at Dover,” he predicted cheerfully, shouting to make himself heard over the engine noise.
Helen settled herself on one of the mats, oddly grateful for the deafening roar of the C-17”S jet engines.
Although the din might make sleep hard to come by, it would also make it difficult to talk. That was a plus. She still couldn’t believe that the Bureau itself had a warrant out for their arrest.
Colonel Peter Thorn woke up fast, immediately aware of a change in the pitch of the C-17’s jet engines and the aircraft’s altitude. They were descending. He looked across the pile of cargo mats they’d used as a makeshift camp bed. Helen was already awake. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes and tried a tentative smile.
Master Sergeant Blue appeared from the front of the plane. “Glad you folks got some sack time.
We’re almost there. We should be on the ground in maybe fifteen minutes or so.”
“What’s the drill once we touch down?” Thorn asked.
“Well, you can’t take the crew bus, so you just wait for a clear spot and then get off this crate,” Blue said.
“Don’t wait too long, though: The crews usually start unloading within fifteen to thirty minutes.”
“Will do, Sergeant.” Thorn nodded. He held out his hand again.
“Listen, I really appreciate this. I just hope it won’t get you in any trouble.”
Blue shrugged. “Colonel Stroud’s an okay guy — for a grunt. If he says what you’re doing is important, that’s good enough for me.” Then the Air Force noncom grinned. “Besides, I got my twenty in already. What’re they gonna do? Retire me so I can loaf around the house or go to work for United Airlines — and pull down twice the money?”
After wishing them good luck, Blue headed forward to strap in for the landing.
Thorn summoned up what he knew about Dover. He’d flown into and out of the base several times. It was a major transshipment point for military cargo going to Europe or being sent back from there. It contained the hangars, workshops, warehouse space, cargo-handling equipment, and personnel housing needed to maintain more than seventy transport aircraft. Over seven thousand people worked on the base full-time, and even in the age of a downsized U.S. military, Dover Air Force Base was huge.
He was counting on that. Once they were off the flight line, security should be much looser. Like all good plans, the essence of his was simplicity. Get away from the plane fast, get off the base faster, and then get back into civilian clothes. And if Sam Farrell’s contact was there to meet them, leaving Dover should be a piece of cake.
The C-17 touched down, bumping heavily on the runway as it slowed and then swung off onto one of the taxiways to the apron. Thorn turned as Helen touched his shoulder.
“Suppose they don’t open the ramp right away?” she asked.
“I can open it if I have to,” he assured her. “Or we slip forward to the cockpit and get out from there.”
Thorn knew the layout of all U.S. military cargo aircraft intimately.
Not only had he ridden them hundreds of times, but, as a Delta Force commander, he’d intensively studied their systems and blueprints — just in case he and his troops had needed to recapture a plane held by terrorists. Of course, he thought wryly, he’d never counted on using that knowledge to smuggle himself back into the United States as a fugitive.
The C-17 shuddered to a complete stop. Its engines spooled down — the sound fading from a dull roar to a high-pitched whine to silence.
