“Good luck, sir,” the plane captain outside said as he removed the ladder, a proud and serious look in his eyes.
Jason waved back, not trusting his voice. The glass canopy descended and enclosed him. He returned a crisp salute from the plane captain.
The engine of the major’s F-16 Fighting Falcon started up next to him. His aircraft fired up next.
The major said over the radios, “Angry 509, Angry 515, radio check.”
“Lima Charlie, how me?” Loud and clear.
The major responded, “Read you the same, 509. You all set?”
Jason said, “Roger.”
“Ground, Angry 515 flight of 2, taxi to runway 19 Right.”
The ground controller responded, “Angry 515 and flight, clear to taxi to runway 19 Right.”
Jason began taxiing his F-16 behind the major’s aircraft. The march towards the start of the runway was painfully slow. The sky above was a deep blue, with a few thick puffs of gray, the seeds of summer thunderclouds beginning to form. He could see commercial airliners on final at Reagan International Airport. He noticed that none were taking off. Had they been grounded?
The major’s aircraft jerked, and Jason pumped his brakes.
The F-16 in front of Jason’s slowed, then unexpectedly came to a full stop about halfway down the taxiway.
Something was wrong.
Morozov had sent only one man to do the job. Like many of the men working in Bear Security Group, he was ex-Spetsnaz. But unlike the others, this man’s expertise was in long-range marksmanship.
The shots would be challenging. The range was almost one thousand meters. The target would be moving at about thirty kilometers per hour, and the sniper must hit it at precisely the right moment. From a suburban rooftop, adjacent to one of the world’s most well-protected military bases.
The sniper had scouted out several locations to take the shot. The woods around Joint Base Andrews were out of the question. He was sure that the Secret Service and base security would have cameras and motion sensors. Even just snooping around there to evaluate the area would likely get him unwanted attention from the US government.
He thought about getting access to the military base. Forging a fake identity or stealing one — and gaining entry for any number of reasons. He could pretend to be a soldier stationed there, or a janitor working at one of the buildings. But there were too many unknowns. What if the base security guard was familiar with the unit the sniper claimed to be from? Taking the shot from the base would also make his escape that much more difficult.
So the sniper had decided on a neighborhood just next to the base. Many of the families who lived on the street were away on vacation for the summer. That was something he had noticed after canvassing the street. He picked the home that was closest to the base. The last home in a circular court. Thankfully there were no nosey neighbors nearby and no home alarm system.
He broke in, quick and silent, climbing through a second-story window in back and onto the rooftop. A small private perch.
He checked his watch. The sniper had been told to expect two pilots to access their fighters. One was a major, the other a captain. He recognized the rank insignia on their flight suits. Through his scope, he watched them enter their aircraft and then waited for the right moment to shoot.
The sniper had been told to fire when they were on the runway, but he thought that to be a stupid idea. What if he missed? Two shots at that range was a tall order. He would fire while they taxied. It was a shorter range to target. And if he missed, he would have several more moments to retry. Great snipers were not just great marksmen. They were smart in their preparation.
He was lucky he’d planned it that way.
Crack.
His first shot missed the front tire of the first F-16. His rifle was bolt-action, and he had another round ready a second later. Sweaty palms. Heart beating fast, but controlled breathing. Trying not to think about neighbors opening their screen doors and looking outside, or dialing the local police department.
Crack.
A hit. The tire of the lead fighter jet burst open, and he saw sparks as the metal of the landing gear drove into the ground. A few seconds later, the jet stopped completely.
He took aim at the second jet, but it was already taxiing around the first. He took aim again and then heard the sound of a siren. He lifted his head up to look but didn’t see where it was coming from. When he looked back, the other F-16 was already making its way down the runway. He had missed his chance.
To hell with it. Morozov would still have one less fighter to deal with. And this part of the mission wasn’t worth spending the rest of his life in an American jail. He packed up his rifle and began his escape.
“509, 515.”
“Go.”
“You aren’t gonna believe this, but I think I just had a tire pop. My front wheel. Can you taxi around me?”
“Affirm.”
“Alright, 509, you’re gonna have to handle this one on your own for now. I’ll radio base and have them get a backup bird ready ASAP. You’ll be fine, just go by the book.”
“Roger.”
Jason taxied his aircraft around the F-16 in front of him and called up the ground controller to change his flight plan from a formation flight to a single aircraft.
He switched up to the tower frequency. “Tower, Angry 509 holding short 19 Right for takeoff.”
“Angry 509, Andrews Tower, you are clear for takeoff on runway one-niner right.”
“Tower, 509, clear for takeoff one-niner right.”
Jason felt the same thrilling rush of adrenaline every time he pointed the nose of an aircraft down the runway, and it was especially exciting when it was an F-16 at Joint Base Andrews.
The thrill wasn’t there today, however. Today it was dread. Dread at the thought of what he might be asked to do. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to shoot down a plane full of civilians.
“Angry 509, Tower, please execute your takeoff without further delay. We have inbound aircraft, sir.”
“Tower, 509, roger.”
Jason pushed the throttle forward. Twenty-five thousand pounds of thrust propelled the aircraft down the runway. As the airspeed reached 120 knots, he pulled back on the stick and lifted up into the air, the ground rapidly falling below him.
25
“Renee.” Max touched her shoulder, whispering her name.
She was sitting down in front of her computer. They were in the corner of the room, out of earshot.
“If the Fend 100 is still airborne,” Max said, “wouldn’t that mean that Morozov’s team is still remote-controlling it?”
“Honestly, I don’t know enough about it. But it makes sense.”
“Would there be a way for you to tell if there’s a signal, and where the signal’s coming from?”
Renee’s eyes grew bright. Sensing that Max didn’t want everyone to hear their conversation, she whispered back, “Yes. I think so. Give me a few minutes.”
“Hey — keep it just between you and me.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
He looked over his shoulder, in the direction of Wilkes and Flynn. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Okay.” She paused. “I’m surprised Wilkes isn’t already working on this.”
“Maybe he is.”
Renee nodded. She began typing — chatting with someone on her computer.
“Okay. I’ll be right back. I’m looking for the best location you can find. Try and get me GPS coordinates.”
She didn’t look up, still typing. “That may be tricky.”
“Just do the best you can.”