There were other weapons in the case, but since Gant had little idea what was to be expected or what was going to happen next, he shut the lid and retook his seat, the gun pressing up against the small of his back and the body armor tight around his torso, both familiar feelings.
The two men had yet to exchange another word. Not out of any dislike but because neither saw the need for conversation at this point. The sound of the engines filled the silence as the plane taxied and then took off.
Gant didn’t like the idea of someone else being part of this. He worked alone, Nero knew that. The fact that Bailey was bringing in some shrink meant Nero didn’t want him to work alone on this. Thus there was no point in protesting a decision Nero made or even asking for an explanation.
The pilot’s voice echoed tinnily out of a speaker informing them that the plane was on approach for Hilton Head Airfield, less than two minutes after taking off from Parris Island. The wheels locked down and thirty seconds later they were on the ground.
Gant glanced out the small round window and saw a deputy sheriff’s patrol car next to the runway. A tall woman with dark hair pulled back tight got out. To Gant it seemed that not only was her hair pulled tight but every muscle in her body. He guessed her age to be mid-30s give or take. She reminded him in a way of a post-assassination, pre-Onassis, Jackie, both in looks and because she appeared to be bearing some kind of burden. She looked around, checking everything, before walking toward the plane.
Bailey opened the door and helped her in, shutting it immediately. Gant watched his lips and saw that Bailey was introducing himself to the shrink, which meant she was new to the Cellar. The plane was taxiing before they claimed their seats.
“Doctor Susan Golden meet Jack Gant.”
She stuck her hand out and Gant took it briefly without rising. She was directly across from him, Bailey to her left. The small table was between them. There was no one else in the rear of the plane and the door to the cockpit had not opened, nor would it. The engines peaked as they raced down the runway, the nose was up and they were airborne.
Gant leaned back in the seat and waited as Bailey opened the metal briefcase. He could sense the woman’s gaze on him but he ignored her.
Bailey tossed a photo on the table. The same young girl smiling at whoever was taking the picture.
“You know her?” Bailey asked Golden.
“I’ve seen her picture but never met her. Sam Cranston’s daughter. What happened to her?”
Gant clasped his hands together in his lap and waited.
Bailey glanced at a piece of paper. “Emily Cranston was leaving a bar in Panama City, Florida by herself at approximately one twenty yesterday morning. Two men in an Explorer say they passed close by a girl who fit her description. They noticed her because she was alone. She ducked between two cars to get out of their way. They didn’t see her again. When they came around again they noticed an empty space close to where they saw her, because the lot was full. They figured she just left.
“Her roommates arrived back at their condo at about four am. They couldn’t get in because Emily had the only key and wasn’t there to open the door as they’d arranged. They got the rental company to let them in. She wasn’t inside. That afternoon after she didn’t show and they were due to head home, they went back to the club and found her car. One of them called the cops. Who checked the parking lot of the bar and found not only her car but two other things.”
Gant leaned forward.
Bailey put the paper he’d shown Gant on the table.
“What’s this?” Golden asked.
Bailey glanced at Gant.
“An incomplete cache report,” Gant said. He put his finger on the first line. “This is the immediate reference point, the IRP. Then an azimuth and direction to the cache.”
“I don’t understand,” Golden said.
Bailey cleared his throat. “We think that someone has cached Emily Crantson.”
“Why do you think that?” Golden pressed. “How do you even know it’s regarding Emily?”
“As you know,” Bailey said, “Emily’s father is the commander of the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. Where they teach this format as a cache report. Mister Nero is not a fan of remarkable coincidence.”
Golden turned to Gant. “You said it was incomplete?”
“It’s missing four things,” Gant said. “There’s no area designation, far reference point, and azimuth and direction to the immediate reference point. Area gets you in the right part of the world. Say a country or a state. Then far reference point is a specific spot you can find on a standard one to fifty thousand geographic map. A bridge. A road intersection. A mountain top. Without those two, the IRP is worthless because it could be anywhere in the world.”
The report was typed:
IRP: STONE CHIMENY
A/D: 274 DEGREES, TWO HUNDRED AND SIX METERS
Gant now realized the report was missing a fifth part. “It also doesn’t say how the actual cache is put in.”
“Put in?” Golden asked.
“Usually a cache is buried.”
Golden looked slightly stunned at this piece of information.
“So she could be dead already?” Bailey asked.
Gant shrugged. “Normally the idea of a cache is to be able to recover what you put in it in a usable condition.”
“But this isn’t normal,” Golden said.
“I’ve never heard of a person being cached,” Gant said.
“He’s taunting us,” Golden said.
Gant ran a hand across his chin. It had been a couple of days since he’d shaved. “Taunting?”
“If this—“ Golden tapped the cache report—“is about Emily and was left by whoever abducted her, if she was abducted, then it was left deliberately to give us incomplete information. To make us feel the lack of that information. A tease.”
The only lack Gant felt at the moment was the loss of his brother, which he was forcing himself not to dwell on, and whatever Bailey had yet to brief them on. Some of the pieces were falling into place. This shrink apparently knew Colonel Cranston. Whether that was a good thing or bad, Gant had no idea.
“How do you know it’s a he?” Gant asked.
“I’m not positive, but my research indicates it almost certainly would be a man who did this.”
Gant wondered what her research was on. He looked at Bailey. “You said there were two things found.”
Bailey reached in the briefcase and brought out a second piece of paper. “There were two pieces of paper left in the parking lot.” He placed it on the table.
Gant looked at it. Another cache report. An almost complete one.
FRP: NORTHERN TIP LAKE
A/D TO IRP: 46 DEGREES, 8,620 METERS
IRP: ROAD JUNCTION
A/D TO CACHE: 203 DEGREES, 546 METERS
“Still missing the area and condition of the actual cache,” Gant noted, “so it’s almost as worthless as the other one.”
“I know,” Bailey said.
“So where are we going now?” Gant asked.
“The Cellar to wait. The Auxiliary have been alerted. We’ll hear if anything happens.”
Golden’s eyes were dancing back and forth between Gant and Bailey, trying to keep up. “Who exactly are you? And what is the Cellar and who is this Nero fellow? And what is the Auxiliary?”
“Mister Nero is in charge of the Cellar,” Bailey said. “We work for him.”
“And the Cellar is?” Golden pressed.
Instead of answering, Bailey opened the case and pulled out a half-inch thick stack of plastic coated identification cards. He pulled one out and handed it to Gant, along with a leather case holding a silver shield. Gant checked the card. It had his photo and indicated he worked for the National Security Agency.