Max walked through the exit and into the parking lot. A few HRT men were gathered there. These were the backups — the ones who were left behind when the helicopters flew to Morozov’s yacht.
Max went up to them and introduced himself as DIA.
“We know who you are,” one of them said in a southern drawl.
“Right. I keep forgetting that my mug got sent to every FBI agent.”
“That really you, running from the police in D.C.?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, that was a pretty dumb thing to do.”
“Yeah, well. Live and learn, right? Listen, I think I have a lead — but I might need help. You guys interested?”
The HRT members kept their arms crossed and stayed silent.
Max nodded. “Okay — tough crowd. So the man who’s responsible for all this goes by the name of Pavel Morozov. Are you familiar with him?”
Nods. “We got a brief, yes.”
“And you guys just heard from your team that Morozov wasn’t on the boat, right?”
“That’s right,” one of them answered, sounding curious.
Max said, “What if I told you I might know where he is?”
While they might not have entirely trusted Max yet, he was familiar with the breed. The type of men in HRT were like golden retrievers. Brought down here to play fetch and then asked to sit and wait instead. To them, nothing was worse. Now they sensed that they might get in the game after all. A glimmer of hope flashed in their eyes.
“That would be mighty interesting,” the FBI man said.
Max said, “When will your helicopters be back?”
“Not for a while. The yacht was pretty far south. They just called in. They got fuel at St. Augustine and are about to start bringing people back and forth between the yacht and the airport down there. The local FBI SAC has his men headed down to St. Augustine.”
Max nodded. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, that I get Morozov’s location. How many of you would be able to come with me to nail him?”
The men looked at each other. “Look, man, we’d love nothing more. But we’d have to run that up the chain, you know? Someone in the FBI would have to direct us…”
Max looked back at the Fend Aerospace building. He wasn’t sure whom he could trust in there, but he needed the muscle. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Max walked inside and asked Special Agent Jake Flynn to step into the parking lot with him. He explained what he was trying to do.
Flynn peered down at Max over the rims of his sunglasses. “Come on, Max. What are you trying to pull? You should be just sitting back and thanking your lucky stars I don’t have you in handcuffs right now.”
“Don’t you find it odd that Wilkes isn’t working on this?” Max asked him.
“On what?”
“On finding out where Morozov is, after you didn’t find anyone on the yacht.”
Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “Well, we just found out about that, so… maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”
Both of them looked inside, through the glass door. Wilkes was in a glass-walled office. They could see him in there, walking around, headphones in his ears, talking to someone on the phone.
“Mr. Flynn, I’ve been doing this kind of stuff for a while,” Max said. “It sure as hell looks to me like Wilkes is right hot in the middle of something. And he isn’t involving either of us.”
Renee opened the door and came outside, looking at Max with an eager expression. She stayed quiet, eyeing the FBI man.
“It’s okay, Renee. Let us both know what you found.”
“I pulled some strings with an old friend. Canadian CSE has triangulated the position of a signal that might be what we’re looking for. It has all the right electronic characteristics for the Fend 100 remote-control data transfer. And it’s been broadcasting for the last hour and a half. I think we’ve found it.”
“Where?”
“I just did a quick check, but it looks like it’s near Amelia Island. A mansion up there. Max, do you remember when I looked through the GPS history of Morozov’s SUV?”
“Yes.”
“I think this is a house that was in that GPS history. I can’t be one hundred percent sure. I didn’t write it down, but I saw it on the map…”
“Slow down,” Flynn said. “Tell me what you think, Max.”
“Morozov put his yacht off the coast of St. Augustine. The HRT had a shootout with them. But no one was there, right?”
“Right.”
“The yacht is an obvious base of operations. But it would leave Morozov exposed. I think he kept his yacht as a diversion, close enough for him to get somewhere else he needed to be, but far enough for us not to stumble onto him. I think Morozov and Maria Blount are up at this house Renee just uncovered. Near Amelia Island. That’s where they’re controlling the Fend 100 from.”
“What are their intentions?”
“I’m worried it has something to do with the G-7 meeting. Some of the world leaders have already begun to arrive. The conference is supposed to start tomorrow. I think he’s planning something devastating there.”
Karpinsky came running out. “Special Agent Flynn, I think you need to see this.”
The group ran inside.
“This is our radar controller. He’s been monitoring everything that’s going on,” Karpinsky said.
Wilkes walked in. Renee and Max looked at each other.
Wilkes said, “Fill me in, please.”
“The EADS folks have scrambled an interceptor,” Karpinsky said. “An F-16. And they’ve diverted and grounded all flights on the Eastern Seaboard. Nothing should be airborne except the Fend 100.”
Max could see a TV in the next room. The media was just as far along as they were, it seemed. The headline read:
ALL US-BOUND FLIGHTS DIVERTED. OUTBOUND FLIGHTS GROUNDED. IMMINENT TERRORIST AIR ATTACK POSSIBLE, DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY SAYS.
Max could see the Fend 100 radar track on the screen. It was headed northeast, positioned a few dozen miles east of the Outer Banks.
“Where are they going?”
Flynn said, “I think we should consider the G-7 summit at Camp David a possible target. How long until they get there?”
“Maybe an hour?”
Flynn frowned. “Alright, Max, what are you thinking? Tell me what you want to do.”
Max looked at Wilkes, who was listening now. “We may have a location on Morozov,” Max said. “Up near Amelia Island. I originally thought we could use the helicopters. But they’re going back and forth around St. Augustine… and, frankly I’m not sure we have enough time.”
“So what, then?”
Max looked outside, on the flight line. There was a Cirrus SR22T parked out there — just like the one he owned.
“I have an idea. But I need you to lend me some of those HRT guys.”
26
“Huntress Control, Angry 509, one hundred miles southeast of Andrews at angels twenty.”
“Angry 509, Huntress Control, radar contact, turn right heading 180, maintain altitude and make best speed. We will have a tanker for you up shortly.”
“Roger.”
“509, your contact of interest is due south at approximately two hundred nautical miles.”
“Roger, Huntress Control.”
Captain Easteadt had just checked in with the Eastern Air Defense Sector controller, callsign Huntress. They would vector him towards the Fend 100 aircraft.
He tried to compartmentalize his emotions. To block out any fear or apprehension. But he kept thinking about the people and families that might be on board the Fend 100 flight. What if there were children?
He began to go through his air intercept checklist.
Max, Renee, and two of the FBI HRT men were taxiing for takeoff in the commandeered Cirrus. Max wondered who the owner was. Oh well.