eddy of wind. It smacked into pieces on the floor back near the door. Ferguson cursed, then continued to work, managing to get four screws off in the darkness. He tried to shortcut the process by wedging the knife in and hanging off the panel; when that didn’t work, he went back to working at the screws, his weight shifting precariously as he leaned across from the built-up panel at the side. It was almost impossible to move the screws that were tight, but he found that he could push the heads down a little by prying and hanging on the panel. He began to snap them off, one by one.
“How’s it going?” Conners asked.
“We’re getting there. Three more years, and we’ll be done.”
Conners moved his legs, trying to warm them somewhat. He started humming to himself without really thinking about it, falling into “Jug of Punch.”
“Glad you’re feeling better,” said Ferguson.
“How’s that?”
“You’re singing.”
“Just humming. Trying to boost your morale.”
“Go for it.” Ferguson grabbed hold of the side of the panel and put his legs against the edge of the small shelf he’d been perched on. Then he sprang forward, pushing with all his might. The last screws snapped. He tumbled to the floor, the aluminum grate clanging on top of him.
“When you take out the controls, we’ll be goners,” he said. His voice was matter-of-fact.
“Yeah,” said Ferguson. “We got to do it, Dad.”
“I just want to say, you’re all right for a CIA spook.”
“Yeah, we’re not all dicks,” said Ferg, reaching in the blackness for his handholds. “Though we try.”
14
Thomas stared at the screen, which had all of the information he had been able to compile on assets connected to the companies he now saw must be related to bin Saqr. Those assets included a 747 — but it wasn’t the right airplane.
He knew it wasn’t the right airplane because he had tracked through the ID registries and — after an assist by the Boeing people to make sure there was no possibility of a mistake — had found the aircraft in operation just a few days before in India. It was registered to a legitimate Sri Lankan firm, and had made a flight into that country’s airport at Kankesaturai.
But of course that couldn’t be, since the plane was in Chechnya.
Thomas at first resisted the obvious conclusion: that the terrorists were using the Sri Lankan company and owned two aircraft. He searched for more information about the Sri Lankan company and its other holdings: several very old 707s. He thought that the listing of the aircraft with the other firm must therefore be a mistake, since unlike the one believed to have flown from Chechnya this one made legitimate flights.
The company had to be involved, and there had to be at least two planes. But the firm was not on any of the hot lists and had no connection to bin Saqr or any of the terrorist groups associated with Allah’s Fist, al-Qaida, or any other group. Thomas dismissed it once more as a mistake. But as he prepared to ask for a fresh affiliate search from the DCI Counterterrorist Center, it occurred to him that he was merely avoiding the obvious. He was, after all, doing what countless disbelievers in UFOs did — going through contortions to disprove what was right in front of their noses.
Two planes. Bin Saqr had two planes, and access to legitimate identifiers belonging to the Sri Lankan company.
Thomas jumped from his chair His energy grew as he covered his materials; by the time he hit the corridor he was in a frenzy of conviction. He raced downstairs, impatiently submitted to the security checks, then walked so quickly to the sit room that he was short of breath.
“You need a shave, Thomas,” said Corrigan, looking up from the desk.
“Sri Lanka,” Thomas told him. “And I think they may have two planes.”
“Two?”
Thomas started to push his papers toward Corrigan. “Look at these registries.”
“It’s all right, I trust you,” said Corrigan. “We’ll put Sri Lanka on the search list.”
“Kankesaturai,” said Thomas. “The airport there — I have satellite photos of their facilities, and I’ve asked for information on flights out.”
“What about Manila?”
“It doesn’t fit yet.”
Corrigan had taken a shower and a twenty-minute power nap, but he was still bogged down by fatigue. He struggled to focus on Thomas’s data and compute what it meant.
“Would they bomb Sri Lanka?”
“They’re not,” said Thomas. “They’re just refueling.”
“Refueling?”
“It must be. They could fly from there to Manila.”
But they hadn’t bought enough fuel to refuel there. Did the Sri Lankan airline have a terminal at the airport?
Thomas thought it didn’t, but he’d have to check.
“Thomas?” said Corrigan. “What about LA? Is it the target?”
“I don’t know,” said Thomas. “To get to LA they’d have to refuel, so it could be. But they didn’t buy enough fuel for that.”
“What did they buy fuel for?”
“A little water taxi, probably just a cover, a phony company.”
“You sure?” asked Corrigan.
“No. We should check it out,” said Thomas. He was back to his map — Hawaii had been just outside the range of targets from Sri Lanka. “We have to protect Honolulu,” he said.
“Hawaii?”
“Paradise!” Thomas practically shouted the word, realizing now the significance of the NSA intercepts he’d seen the first day he started.
“You sure?”
“Do it,” he said. “And Sri Lanka. We have to check there. And Manila.”
“All right. Take a breath,” said Corrigan, picking up his headset. “Give me the names one at a time.”
15
When Rankin arrived, the airport had been locked down. No aircraft was allowed to land without escort, and none could take off except after a thorough search. U.S. and Philippine military authorities controlled the airspace around the islands, and security was so tight that Rankin and the others had to prove their identities even after an F-16 escorted them to the base.
A temporary joint command task force had been established in an empty hangar, and they went immediately to find the commander. He turned out to be a lieutenant general from the Marines, who took one look at the unkempt men in front of him and demanded to know what the hell they were doing in a military command post.
