In the bunker on the roof of the barracks the seated soldier’s head snapped back and he fell forward on the console in front of him. Next to him the man with the binoculars went airborne as he launched back over a desk, and he landed faceup on the cement floor.
Court did not know if he’d hit all four targets; he figured he would only know for sure if an antitank missile arced into the air and began chasing him across the airfield. He did not wait around for this to happen though; as soon as he fired the rifles, he reached for the detonator and pressed a button.
On the parking apron the third MIG 25 Foxbat in the row erupted in a ball of fire. Seconds later a secondary explosion blew fragments of the fighter plane one hundred feet into the air.
In the motor pool parking lot the truck Gentry had used to get into the air base exploded; a fiery cloud roared straight up into the night sky and shrapnel shattered glass in the base operations building.
Court did not stop to watch this handiwork. He rose to his feet, grabbed the RPK light machine gun off the wet turf, and brought it up to his shoulder. He aimed at the Iranian jet taxiing up the runway, just twenty-five yards away, and he fired three short bursts directly through the cockpit windscreen. He slung the big rifle over his shoulder and knelt back into the grass, then he grabbed the first of the two antitank grenade launchers.
Five seconds later a roar of light erupted from the launch tube, and a glowing rocket shot low over the air base, streaking toward the Russian AN-74. It impacted directly with the fuselage at the wing, penetrated the fuel tank, and the entire aircraft disintegrated in a fireball. The airfield came alive with lights and shadows as the fireball rose over the area.
Court left the second rocket tube in the grass and sprinted toward the JetStar, which was now motionless on the runway.
As he ran he began taking fire for the first time. He assumed some of the sentries in the outer fence positions had seen the rocket launch and were firing in the darkness at his position. He had intended for the massive explosions of the MIG and the truck and the Antonov to distract the guard force away from the center of the airfield, but the crack of supersonic rounds whizzing past told him that at least some of the sentries had not been taken in by the ruse. He was two hundred yards away from the nearest sentry, however, and the incoming fire was inaccurate and sporadic.
Searchlights began sweeping the ground all around him as he ran.
He arrived at the motionless executive jet on the runway, aimed his RPK at one of the cabin portals, and released a long burst of automatic fire, shattering the window and depressurizing the cabin. He attached a small stick-on “hinge-popper” to the cabin door, then he rolled under the aircraft to get away from the blast. As the explosive fired, ripping the door off its hinges, Court pulled a flash-bang grenade from his utility belt, and he tossed it through the now open hatch. Again he ducked down and away, and he dropped the RPK onto the runway. When the bang and the flash subsided inside the cabin, he spun back into the doorway, drawing his Glock 17 pistol and leveling it at the three terrified Iranian men inside.
A long burst of machine gun fire raked the runway, kicking sparks up just feet behind him. Court launched himself up and into the cabin of the aircraft, and shoved his pistol against the forehead of the first Iranian intelligence officer.
“Two seconds! Where are the drives?”
“What? What drives? I don’t know what you—”
Court shot the man in the head, then pulled him to the open hatch and kicked him out onto the runway.
He turned to the next man. “Two seconds! Where are the—”
“They are here!” he shouted, and he pointed to a silver case on the floor by his knee.
“Open it!”
The man did as requested, and Court saw three boxy-looking hard drives.
“Both of you. Take off your jackets.”
The men were wearing business suits. They pulled their coats off quickly, with no small amount of confusion. Outside sirens wailed across the airbase, and the bright searchlights locked themselves on the Iranian jet. No one had fired on it yet, but Court knew he couldn’t wait around for the Ukrainians to decide if they would just blow the aircraft off the runway with an antitank missile.
With their coats off, Court was satisfied they weren’t hiding any more computer drives. He ordered the men to climb out of the broken cabin door. They did as they were told, probably stunned that they were being allowed to live, and then both men raised their arms, waving at the searchlights, imploring anyone out there to hold their fire.
Court crawled to the cockpit now, pulled the dead copilot out of his seat, and started to climb into his place. The windscreen was riddled with holes, but Court ignored the poor visibility, and he pushed the throttle all the way forward.
He had less than half the runway to work with, and he was taking off with the wind instead of against it, but Court had done his math, and he knew he had enough concrete ahead of him to get into the air.
As he picked up speed, he adjusted the flaps for takeoff. Tracer rounds from automatic weapons began sweeping across the night sky in front of the jet, and he tried to lower his body down in the seat, but he did not have much room to work with, so instead just did his best to get his speed up as fast as possible.
A burst of gunfire hit the fuselage behind him, but he kept his focus out the broken windscreen ahead, and he pulled up on the yoke near the end of the runway.
The aircraft lifted into the air and was immediately enshrouded by the thick clouds.
As the damaged jet climbed past five hundred feet, Court left the controls, climbed out of the cockpit, and made his way over the body of the copilot and back into the cabin. The wind screamed through the open door, the black cloudy night pressed right up to the interior cabin lighting, giving Gentry the impression that he was flying inside a bowl of thick soup. He dropped to his knees, took off his backpack, and removed two items.
The first was a small parachute rig. It took up half the size of the backpack, and he was able to put it on in under twenty seconds.
The second item was smaller, just three pounds and no larger than a loaf of bread. The black box had a protective cap on one end, and he slipped his finger under the cap and flipped a switch. He placed the device next to the three hard drives on the floor of the cabin, and then, at an altitude of less than two thousand feet, Gentry rolled out of the cabin of the JetStar and into the wet black sky.
The aircraft continued ascending for another thirty seconds, and then the three pounds of Semtex plastic explosive detonated, obliterating the jet and everything inside it.
Gentry landed in an open field less than ninety seconds after bailing out of the stricken jet.
Russ Whitlock relayed the story he had just heard from Gentry, putting necessary details in the first person. On the other end of the phone, Ali Hussein did not say a single word while the American talked, but when Russ finished, ending the story in the field west of Kiev and telling Hussein that the rest of his exfiltration was none of the Iranian’s business, Ali Hussein finally spoke. “Mr. Gray, I am more than satisfied now. Your version matches perfectly with the testimony of our two surviving operatives. The contract is yours. I only need to know where you would like me to deliver the payment when the contract is fulfilled.”
Russ Whitlock smiled. There had been difficulties, setbacks, but his operation was finally back on track.
“I will send you the account information via text.”
“Very well.”
Russ said, “There is one more thing. When the contract is completed, regardless of the circumstances… my circumstances… regardless what you hear about me… you will pay the money.”