1
Rankin settled into the seat on the upper deck of the Antonov An-22, trying to compensate for the thin padding by adding one of the blankets he’d found in the overhead compartment. He hoped to start catching up on his sleep, though between the seat and the loud snores of Guns and Massette behind him- somehow managing to pierce the drone of the four turboprops on the wings — his prospects were rather dim.
The An-22 the three SF soldiers were flying in had been designed in the 1960s as a long-distance freight hauler for the Soviet military; this particular version had ferried T-62 tanks around the country for nearly two decades before being surplused and then sold — illegally, though its papers demonstrated otherwise — to a small airfreight company based in Germany. The company had gone bankrupt, and one of its creditors ended up with the plane; the creditor had in turn sold it at auction, and within a few months the aircraft belonged to a private company partly owned by a man known to have connections with the Egyptian secret service. These connections were actually a cover for his true relationship with the American CIA, a connection that had allowed Corrigan to arrange for the Team’s transport to Japan relatively quickly.
Though in Rankin’s opinion, delays that would have meant a more comfortable flight and something to eat would have been well worth the time. He hoped they’d be able to grab something in Tokyo before going back to the States. His end of the mission had been pretty much a wipeout. Worse, he knew from Corrigan that Ferguson and Conners had hit pay dirt and was pissed that he had missed it.
The plane hit a run of turbulence and began skittering up and down like a kite. When it finally settled down, Rankin bunched the blanket up behind his head to take another go at trying to sleep. As he closed his eyes, his sat phone buzzed.
“Rankin, we need you in Manila, right away,” said Corrigan. “We’re getting a flight for you into Tokyo.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re still pulling the details together. The assault’s under way, but we have information on a hangar in Manila. It fits with the LA theory. Things are fluid.”
“I’m hungry,” Rankin told him.
Corrigan couldn’t quite compute what the comment meant. He took a shallow breath, then stuttered. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to get some food in Japan,” Rankin told him. “I’m starving.”
“Shit, Rankin, I don’t have time for your crap,” said Corrigan, killing the line.
2
Van Buren didn’t understand what they were telling him at first. There was so much happening around him and on the ground that it was difficult to keep everything in place.
“There’s a plane — it’s taking off,” repeated the Air Force lieutenant. “It’s in the air.”
“What kind of plane?” asked the colonel. The first assault team had just reached the ground. Resistance appeared unorganized.
“A big jet — 747. It’s off — they’re getting away.”
“Tell the escort flight,” said the colonel. “Get someone on him. Tell Ms. Alston.”
Corrine sat at the edge of her seat in the MC-17, listening to Air Force Major Daniel Gray explain what the AWACS data meant. Gray was tasked with coordinating the SF group’s actions with any and all Air Force units that were part of the operation; much of his job involved acting as a translator for the different parts of the mission.
Russian fighters had been alerted to the activity and were now within ten minutes of the Chechen base. They were not answering radio hails. Meanwhile, the aircraft that had taken off from the base was a 747 and seemed to be heading for Iran. More than likely it was an Iranian aircraft being used as an escape plane by the Islamist terrorists.
Or, wondered Corrine, was it loaded with radioactive material?
“Where do you want our warplanes?” Gray asked.
Corrine could send the F-15s to protect her people, or attempt to shoot down the plane; she couldn’t do both.
Doubts and guesses crowded into her mind — what if the 747 crashed in a populated area? She pushed the questions away but hesitated a split second longer.
What would the president do, she asked herself. That’s why she was there — to make the decision he would and take the heat for it.
“I want to talk to the Russian commander,” said Corrine.
“There’s no guarantee he’ll listen,” replied the major.
“I understand that. In the meantime put enough F-15s between the MiGs and our ground force to protect them,” she said. “Tell the flight leader he has my permission to use whatever force he needs to protect our people. He can shoot the bastards down if he has to.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’ll have to commit all four fighters to that intercept,” said the major. “The 747 is going to get away.”
“Send our escort to pursue the plane,” she said.
“We’re pretty far off, and that’ll leave us defenseless. If the Russians decide to come and get us—”
“They’re on their way.”
Scorpion flight leader Major Cliff Salerno put his hand to the throttle and selected afterburner, goosing his F-15C onto the new coordinates. Scorpion One’s Pratt & Whitney F100s punched out roughly twenty-four thousand pounds of thrust, rocketing the plane over the speed of sound. The fierce acceleration slammed Salerno back against his ejection seat, the laws of motion desperate to remind him that he was still under their domain.
The Eagle pilot checked his radar, sorting out what was going on in the air ahead. He was crossing over Armenia headed southeast; the assault team was striking a base to his left. The AWACS controller gave him an intercept vector for a 747-type aircraft, which ought to be roughly 150 miles off his right wing.
“Your instructions are to terminate its flight,” added the controller.
Salerno repeated the instructions, then double-checked with his wingmate, Captain Jed “Patsy” Klein, commanding Scorpion Two. Among the many calculations the two men now began was an assessment of their fuel status — they had to make sure they’d have enough to get back to a tanker or risk turning their multimillion-dollar interceptors into gliders. The 747, which was still too far ahead to be picked up by the Eagles’ APG-70 radars, was over the east coast of Lake Sevan.
Armenia, which had been part of the Soviet Union before the downfall of the Communists, had no air force to speak of and provided very little threat to the American planes. The Russians, meanwhile, were concentrating on the Chechen base; the 747 was theirs — if they could catch it.
The controller gave them fresh data for their intercept, adding that the 747 was flying exceptionally low in the mountains. At present course and speed they should have it on their screens within five minutes.
The two aircraft were at twenty-six thousand feet above sea level, pushing toward a mountain that rose roughly thirteen thousand feet. Both planes were carrying four AMRAAM AIM-120 medium-range air-to-air missiles and two shorter-range ATM-9 Sidewinders. The Eagles were also equipped with 20 mm cannons. Any of those weapons would suffice to take down the airliner.
“Be advised also we have a flight of Iranian MiG-29s operating on the northern border of Iran,” said the controller. “They haven’t reacted, but they’re there.”
“Scorpion One,” acknowledged Salerno.
