interior surface was composed of a soft electroconducting material that completely surrounded her entire body, cushioning her from shock and picking up neural impulses in her body for transmission to the robot’s haptic control computers. Her head fit into a helmetlike device with a breathing mask, communications gear, and an electronic wide-angle multi-function visor.
Moments after the hatch closed, the robot stood up-and it moved as lithely and naturally as a human. “All systems in the green,” Charlie spoke, although her voice was heard as a male electronically synthesized growl. She ran around the B-2 bomber to Casone, curtsied before him, and extended a massive armored hand, its fingers moving as realistically as her own. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Casone.”
“All right, Charlie, stop screwing around,” Whack said. “Put the CID away and-”
Jason’s secure cellular phone rang, and he answered it immediately. “Richter here…who?…General McLanahan…you mean, General Patrick McLanahan? Excuse me, sir, but how did you get this number?” The name got everyone’s attention instantly. Jason looked at Whack, then said, “Stand by, sir.” He held out the phone to him. “It’s Patrick McLanahan. He wants to talk with you.”
Whack smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I should have known he’d be involved with this,” he said, reaching for the phone. “If it has to do with the Tin Men, the CIDs, or big bombers, McLanahan’s got to be behind it, civilian or no.” He took the phone. “Hello, General. Fancy talking to you.”
“Hello, Whack,” Patrick said. “Listen up. We lost a B-1 bomber over the Gulf of Aden. Gia’s plane.”
The smile was instantly replaced with a scowl. “Where and when?” he asked.
“About ten minutes ago, approximately four hundred miles southwest of Salalah, Oman. The Reagan carrier group is en route; fixed-wing searchers should be on scene within the hour.”
“Any 406 signals?”
“No.” A 406-megahertz locator beacon with a GPS receiver built into each crewman’s survival harness automatically sent a survivor’s identification code and position digitally via satellite to rescue coordinators. “She missed the first manual-activation window.” To reduce the chance of location signals being picked up by enemy forces, survivors who could manually activate their beacons were instructed to do it for short periods of time at specific times every hour, based on Greenwich Mean Time. “I heard your mission was scrubbed.”
“You heard? How could you hear that? We just found out a couple minutes ago ourselves!”
“I had a little to do with planning your mission onto Socotra Island.”
That explained a lot, Whack thought-and it was probably a lot more than just “a little.” “We’ve got a badass bomber with four cruise missiles, plus a CID and Tin Man, all dressed up with nowhere to go,” he said. “What do you need?”
“I’m trying to get clearance to press forward with your mission,” Patrick said, “but the White House shut down all air intel and surveillance ops in the region. We have a backup plan to get two of you onto Socotra. A plane’s on the way to take you and your gear to Dubai. You’ll meet up with a CIA guy who’ll get you the rest of the info.”
“You know, General, I’m just a shooter here-you’d better speak to the boss,” Whack said. He handed the phone back to Richter. “McLanahan’s got a backup plan.”
Jason took the phone. “Richter again, sir.”
“Backup plan in progress, Colonel,” Patrick said. “A plane will be taking Macomber, Turlock, and the CID unit to Dubai.”
“How did you know who and what we have here, sir?”
“The same way I got your secure cellular number and codes, Colonel,” Patrick said. “That’s not important right now. The plane will be there in about eight hours.”
“I can’t tell Macomber what to do, sir,” Jason said, “but Turlock is an Army officer under my direct supervision, and she’s not going anywhere without proper orders.”
“It’s just a plane ride to Dubai, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Her orders will be waiting for her there.”
“Sorry, sir,” Jason said. “I don’t know how you’re involved with this-and I’m sure I don’t have a need to know- but until I get orders in my hands, Turlock stays put. You can come get Macomber anytime-the sooner the better.”
“And the equipment?”
Jason thought for a moment: “The Tin Man stuff isn’t the Army’s, so Macomber can take it and wear it for Halloween if he wants to,” he said finally. “The CID unit belongs to the U.S. Army, and I need a valid transfer order before it leaves my hands.”
“Understood,” Patrick said. There was a slight pause; then: “I studied your work with Task Force TALON, Colonel-tough, fast, gutsy, a lot like the Air Battle Force ground teams,” he went on. “And of course I’ve had a chance to work with the CID units on a number of occasions. Fantastic technology. Good work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jason said, “although it’s never been fully explained to me how you as a civilian managed to get them.”
“I’d like the opportunity to explain it to you, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to work together in the very near future.”
“Apparently we already have been, except I didn’t know it,” Jason said. “Exactly what is it you do, sir?”
“Oh…a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Patrick said. “I help out when and where I’m needed.” And Patrick hung up.
SOCOTRA AIRPORT, SOCOTRA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN
DAYS LATER
The Yemeni customs inspection official looked surprised and more than a little indignant as the tall, beefy, white-skinned man carried an enormous blue-and-white nylon bag, a briefcase, and a backpack over to his inspection station. Although this Felix Air flight had originated in the Yemeni capital of Sana’a, visitors to Socotra Island, an oval-shaped, rocky island two hundred miles east of Somalia in the Indian Ocean, were required to have their bags and travel documents reinspected. “Salam alaykum,” he said in his rough, low voice reserved for European visitors, holding out his hand. “Jawaz as-safar, min fadlak.”
The big man fished out travel documents from his backpack and handed them over. The customs officer was pleased to see the man wore a long-sleeved shirt and long pants-they were not as strict about Muslim clothing customs on Socotra Island because it depended so much on tourism, and shorts and short-sleeved shirts were allowed near the water and on hotel properties, but in public, even men and especially women had to cover their heads and bodies. He expected courtesy and respect for Muslim customs from every visitor-at least until they got to the hotel and beaches, where he enjoyed watching scantily clad Western, Asian, and African women just as much as the next guy.
“Wa alaykum as-salam,” the man said in extremely clumsy and heavily American-accented Arabic. He was tall, with closely cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion. Socotra was a remote but popular destination for European tourists, so the customs agent played his favorite game and tried to guess the man’s nationality-German or Scandinavian descent, he figured, although the accent was definitely American, maybe Canadian. At least he gave Arabic a try, the customs officer thought.
“I speak English,” the agent said with a slight thank-you bow for giving his language a try. The passport was American. He had flown to Yemen aboard Emirates Airlines via London and Dubai; the tags on his backpack and large duffel bag verified all the previous destinations. “I am required to inspect your bags, Mr… Wayne Coulter,” he said.
“They told me you might have to do that,” the man named Coulter said.
“It is required.” His documents were all in order, with a visa procured in Washington -getting three-month tourist visas at Yemeni airports was not always reliable, especially with the current hostilities. Flipping through his passport, he found a folded twenty-dollar bill stuck inside. The customs officer locked eyes with the man, then held out the open passport. “That is not necessary here,” he said disapprovingly.
“Sorry,” the man named Coulter said, although he certainly didn’t sound apologetic. He took the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. “I don’t know how that got there.”
“Of course.” The passport was a couple years old, a few trips to Europe and Asia-this was his first trip to the Middle East. “Your occupation, sir?”
“Mechanical engineer. I design industrial robots, you know, to build cars, trucks, things like that. I’m demonstrating a robot to help fishermen.”
