Almost immediately, the rear ramp began opening — flooding the cargo compartment with sunlight, fresh air, and a lot of outside noise.
After so many hours spent in the plane’s dimly lit interior, the sunshine was almost blinding.
With his eyes narrowed against the glare, Thorn led Helen further back — away from the open ramp. He could hear diesel engines outside, and voices. If the Dover ground crews were moving faster than scheduled to unload this plane, he and Helen were likely to find themselves in real hot water real fast. They pressed back between two cargo crates.
After five long minutes counted out on his watch, the voices died away.
Helen nodded toward the opening. “We go?”
“We go,” Thorn agreed.
He led the way back toward the ramp, staying close to the fuselage and in the shadows. The vast stretch of concrete apron behind the transport was empty.
Helen frowned. “No sign of Sam Farrell’s contact?”
Thorn shook his head, still scanning the opening. He could see fuel trucks and other vehicles moving across the taxiway, but they were still hundreds of meters off. If he and Helen were going, this was as good a chance as they were going to get. He shouldered the duffel bag Mike Stroud had given them at Ramstein.
Helen touched his sleeve. “Shouldn’t we wait?”
“Too dicey,” he said. “Maybe Sam couldn’t get through to anybody.
Maybe whoever he did find got cold feet after seeing that “Wanted’ order with our names plastered all over it.”
Thorn led the way down the ramp and out onto the apron, trying to act as though stepping off a cargo-only C-17 were the most normal thing in all the world. Act natural, he thought. Most people zeroed in on strangers who seemed shifty or uneasy. But if you strolled right on by as though you had every right to be there, many people, including security guards, mistook that confidence for a legitimate purpose.
He moved around the side of the massive aircraft, squinted into the morning sun, and then nodded toward a long row of hangars already shimmering in the June heat. “There’s a gate just beyond them. It’s not the normal exit for arrivals, but we should be able to go through—”
“Morning, folks. You mind telling me where you’re headed?” a voice asked from behind them.
Damn it. Thorn turned slowly.
A man in a light blue uniform shirt, darker blue pants, and a matching beret had come around the other side of the C-17. His black boots were polished to the nines, mirrored sunglasses reflected the sun, and he wore a holstered pistol at his side. His name tag read “Thomas” and he wore sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.
Thorn nodded toward the distant line of hangars. “We’re headed for the base, Sergeant.”
“Well, sir, I’m sure you know that everyone’s supposed to go through arrivals processing,” the Air Force security policeman said flatly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the opposite direction. “Which is that way.”
He looked them up and down, and Thorn suddenly felt naked without any rank insignia or unit badge on his uniform.
It was second nature for anyone in the military to scan a uniform for the rank of the wearer, and Sergeant Thomas was coming up dry.
“May I see some identification, please?” The noncom’s tone was pleasant enough, but he wasn’t smiling.
Thorn handed over his forged identification card, mentally crossing his fingers. White-faced, Helen did the same.
Sergeant Thomas studied them for a moment, then looked up.
“Could I see your travel orders, too, Mr. Carlson?”
Double damn. Thorn knew there wasn’t any point in lying.
“We don’t have any travel orders, Sergeant.” Time to pull out Mike Stroud’s promised get-out-of-jail-free card, he thought. He reached into his pocket. “I’ve got a letter here for the base operations officer that explains our presence.”
He offered the folded piece of paper to the other man.
“You sure weren’t headed for the operations office when I found you,” Sergeant Thomas said dryly. He shook his head.
“Nope. I think you two folks better come with me to the security office.”
Triple damn.
Thorn eyed the Air Force noncom closely. Thomas had one hand resting on his sidearm, more to accent his authority than because he expected to use it. Still, he’d quietly taken two steps back, out of easy reach, and he’d positioned himself to face both of them.
Thorn tried again. “I suggest you read this letter.”
“I’ll let my boss read your paperwork,” the Air Force policeman said. “My orders are clear, and I’m not getting my butt fried for letting you two walk off a plane and straight out a gate.”
After a quick glance at Helen, Thorn shrugged, acting far more casual than he felt. “Fine, Sergeant. You want to go by the book, we’ll go by the book.”
The duty security officer was busy. He kept them waiting for thirty excruciating minutes before Sergeant Thomas even made his report. More minutes passed before Master Sergeant Blue and an irritated major wearing a flight suit with pilot’s wings showed up.
Thorn saw Blue shoot him a sidewise glance— a glance he carefully ignored.
The C-17’s pilot and loadmaster were ushered into the security office ahead of them. When they emerged ten minutes later, they didn’t leave.
Instead they plopped themselves down on chairs at the opposite end of the waiting room. The pilot’s irritated expression had now matured into one of near hatred. Blue looked resigned, like a man awaiting execution.
Sergeant Thomas came back out of the security officer’s inner sanctum.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carlson?” He held the door open for them. “You’re up next.”
Captain Forbes, the duty security officer, was a thin, strongjawed man with thick glasses and a sour look. He didn’t waste time with any courtesies. Instead, he crooked a finger. “Okay, pal. Let’s see this mysterious letter.”
Thorn handed it over without comment.
Forbes skimmed the letter fast, then took a more careful look.
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Have you read this?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Air Force captain ignored him. “It’s supposedly signed by a Lieutenant Colonel Gibbs, the operations officer for the 352nd Special Operations Group at R.A.F Mildenhall, in the U.K. He says I’m to cooperate with your efforts to return to the U.S.”
Now, I don’t like this kind of vague, covert shit. Not at all. Not on my post and my watch. You mind telling me what the hell this is all about? Or whether or not Carlson is even your real name?”
Thorn shook his head. “I’m sorry, Captain. I can’t discuss any of that.”
“Naturally.” Forbes tapped the letter for emphasis. “Look, anyone could have typed this damned thing up — even if it is on 352nd SOG stationery.”
Thorn kept his face immobile with an effort. For all he knew, that was exactly what Stroud had done.
“So I’m going to hold you two while I check this thing out. And I want some fingerprints, to verify those ID cards of yours. This whole thing smells.”
Whoa, boy, Thorn thought desperately. Our goose is almost inside that 350 degree oven. He saw Helen’s shoulders slump.
Well, Mike Stroud had given him one last card to play — and it was time to find out whether it was an ace, or just another joker.
He leaned closer to the security officer. “That would be a serious mistake, Captain Forbes. The whole point of this exercise is to avoid leaving a paper trail of our entry into the United States. And we can’t be fingerprinted.”
“Can’t,” the other man challenged.
