Dan cocked his head in puzzlement. “Are you ex-military, John?”
“Yeah. Ex-Air Force master sergeant. I was stationed at Da Nang during the war. How about you?”
“I’m ex-Air Force as well,” Dan said. “I was a forward air controller for two very long years out here.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead again. “Here’s what I need, John. I need you to look on the other side of the map and extract the coordinates for U-Tapao. You’re familiar with U-Tapao, south of Bangkok?”
“Ridiculously familiar. I spent a year there one afternoon.”
Dan paused, thinking that over. “Sounds like a story I’d like to hear later.”
“Yeah.” John chuckled. “I even remember her name.”
Dan smiled slightly. “If you… can plug in U-Tapao and… give me a heading and the time en route at this speed, it will help immensely.”
Walters worked for several minutes with the map and the GPS unit, then scribbled a number on a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and held it out to the copilot, forgetting that Dan couldn’t see it. He looked embarrassed as he pulled his hand back and read the heading out loud.
“You need to fly a heading of two-three-zero degrees magnetic.”
Dan nodded. “So we guessed right. We’ve been on two-two-zero.”
“So, two-three-zero now?” Steve asked.
“Yes. Just make a gentle correction to the right.” Dan turned his bandaged head back to the left. “How far and how long, John?”
“To U-Tapao, four hundred eighty nautical miles and, at this speed, a bit under two hours.” Walters paused, looking at Steve Delaney, then back at Dan. “Are you going to want me to stay up here and help?”
Dan hesitated less than a second in answering. “Yes. Not only to help with the GPS, but I’ve got another mission for you. We’re going to need several people crammed up here reading the instruments out loud on landing. Steve will fly, I’ll listen to the instrument readings, and I need you to be one of the voices.”
“Sure, but… my God, will that work?”
Dan turned his head to the left again.
“It’ll have to, John. We’re out of choices.”
The fact that Meridian 5 was still airborne was classified, but Jake Rhoades made the command decision that Kat Bronsky had a need to know. The telephoned revelation came as a wave of relief to Kat, though it was painfully obvious to both of them that the crisis was far from over, and the cause still a mystery.
“Thank God! You don’t know how… relieved I am,” Kat said, surprised to be fighting back tears. She willed the emotion away before continuing. “In fact, Jake, I’m relieved, but very concerned that we get back one passenger in particular, because of what he may know about the SeaAir crash.”
“Oh?” Jake replied, the caution audible in his voice.
“I’ll have to brief you later.”
“I guess I don’t understand,” Jake replied.
“You will. My main focus right now is what caused this disaster. What I’m sure of is that the Meridian copilot reported some sort of incredibly intense light from an explosion in front of them. I heard the air traffic control tape.”
“And you’re looking into that?” Jake asked.
“Actually, I’m trying to find out why that American business jet crossed in front of a commercial seven-forty-seven while operating as a medical evacuation flight, and then disappeared. They suspect a midair here, but there was no report of an impact. Jake, I need you to have someone get hold of FAA’s Oklahoma City aircraft registration section and find out all you can about Bombardier Global Express November-Two-Two-Zulu: who owns it, who flies it, where’s it headed, and whether it’s been specially modified somehow.”
“You think it’s involved?” Jake asked.
“I don’t know,” Kat said, “but how often have you seen a business jet playing tag with a seven-four-seven? I have no idea what might have happened, but their transponder went off, and they flew dangerously close in front of the Boeing.”
“The theories,” Jake added, “range from a midair collision to a sea-launched missile with a phosphorous warhead guided by a laser designator aboard the business jet. And Kat, we’re way ahead of you on looking up that registration info. I should have it in a few minutes.”
Kat whistled beneath her breath. “Good show, Jake. I’ll be waiting.”
The local manager of the American-owned corporate jet facility had rushed eight miles from his home when he heard an FBI agent was asking questions of his workers at 3 A.M. Once he arrived, his assistance had proven invaluable. With permission to speak, the employees who fueled and serviced N22Z gave Kat a detailed picture of the aircraft, its two pilots, and its two passengers — all male, all close-mouthed and secretive, and all Americans, as far as they could tell.
When Kat was through, the manager escorted her back through the beautiful new private terminal and handed her a plastic bag containing the fuel charge slip.
“Hopefully, it will have some fingerprints for you,” the manager said. “I also had our employee who touched the slip include a plastic sleeve with his fingerprints.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your assistance,” Kat said, smiling warmly.
“Can you tell me what this is all about, Agent Bronsky?” the manager asked.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but not yet. Perhaps next time I’m in town. But this is very important, and the FBI thanks you very much again for your help.”
He smiled thinly and bowed as he held the door open.
Kat was approaching the consulate’s car when the satellite phone in her purse rang. Jake Rhoades was on the other end.
“FAA’s Oklahoma City people have reported in, Kat. The registration number ‘November-Two-Two-Zulu’ is not assigned to a Bombardier Global Express. It’s not even assigned to a jet. The registration number on the plane you saw is definitely bogus.”
“Bingo.” Kat sighed and shook her head. “I expected that. It rather confirms that they’re involved.”
“Really?”
“Jake, there was no midair.”
There was silence in Washington for a few seconds before Jake’s strained reply. “Well, Langley’s convinced there was. What do you know, Kat?”
“I know the radar signature of a small jet with its transponder, and I saw the radar tapes. He didn’t crash. Trust me. He turned away from the antenna and dove to the surface to disappear. We need to know who owns that specific jet.”
“We’ll need the manufacturer’s serial number for that,” Jake said.
“The guys who fueled it here in Hong Kong didn’t make note of a serial number, but then they normally wouldn’t. The registration number was painted on just like it should be, and their credit card was accepted for the fuel. I’ll fax the charge slip after I dust it for prints.”
Kat stopped for a second, realizing she was practically dictating to her superior. “Look, Jake, I know I’m not officially on this case yet, but I think I can make some significant progress before the NTSB gets in position. And correct me if I’m wrong, but the Bureau’s going to be the lead agency on this anyway, correct?”
“If it’s a criminal act, a sabotage or shoot-down, there’s no question, Kat. At least the Air Force agrees with you. They think it was a missile.”
“Are you okay with my pressing ahead?”
“Would it make a difference if I weren’t?” he asked.
“Of course! Am I not your obedient servant, Mr. Deputy Assistant Director?”