“So if he went there, he’s hiding right under their noses.”
“Yeah, but you know if we found it this easily, so did they. We’ll keep an eye on it, though.”
“Hey, Sam?”
Fisher ventured back to the SMI table and stood opposite Grim. “What do you got?”
“A crazy thought. What if this whole thing’s a hoax? What if Kasperov staged this event with the government’s help? They’re in on this together.”
“For what purpose?”
“The company’s in bed with the FSB. Maybe there was a breach, and they staged this to contain it.”
“Well, if that’s the case, we’re taking the bait.”
“Or maybe there is a Mayak connection and this is their first stage in dealing with it.”
“Hey, excuse me, but Nadia Kasperov has a VK account,” Charlie said. “I hacked it and her last post was her saying good-bye to Moscow.”
Fisher cocked a brow. “So she bolted, too. If we find her, maybe we’ll find him.”
“Holy shit.”
That expletive had come from the SMI table, where Grim was bringing up Keyhole satellite surveillance footage, along with imagery captured by the U.S. Army’s latest Vertical Take-Off and Landing Unmanned Aerial System dubbed the “Hummingbird.”
Fisher reached the table and scanned the schematics of the drone, displayed on a data bar to his right.
Equipped with the ARGUS array composed of several cameras and a host of other sensor systems, the Hummingbird and her systems were capable of capturing 1.8 gigapixel high-resolution mosaic images and video, making it one of the most capable surveillance drones on the planet.
At the moment, the UAV had her cameras and sensors directed at a rugged, snowcapped mountainside with a long pennon of black smoke rising from it.
“What?” asked Fisher.
“That’s Dykh-Tau,” said Grim. “It means ‘jagged mount’ in Russian. It’s about five klicks north of the Georgia border, and it’s the second-highest peak in the Caucasus Mountains.”
“That’s a pretty big fire down there.”
“That’s not just a fire. Kasperov’s plane just crashed.”
“Was it shot down?” asked Briggs.
“Don’t know,” answered Grim. “No reports of aircraft scrambled, nothing on radar.”
“What’s our ETA over that site?” asked Fisher.
Grim brought up the maps, worked furiously on the touchscreen, and then the SMI drew the line and displayed the data bars. “If we divert from Incirlik right now, it’ll be eighteen minutes at top speed.”
“The Russians will send in some S&R crews. Think we can beat ’em?”
Grim consulted the SMI and pinpointed the locations of the nearest military bases and local authorities equipped with air power. “That location’s pretty remote. You’ve got a shot. But the sun doesn’t set for another two hours, and if you HALO jump right in there, they’ll spot your descent.”
“I know. I’ve got a work-around.”
“What about getting out?”
“That part always gives me a headache. You mind calling us a cab or something?”
Grim rolled her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Fisher hustled away from the table. “Briggs? Come with me. We’ve got a lot of prep and no time.”
The man rose from his station. “Sam, you mind if we make sure our extraction plan’s in place before we . . .” The young man drifted off, and wisely so, because Fisher was already ignoring him—
But he did turn back and fix Briggs with a hard look. “Is there a problem?”
“Uh, no.”
“Good. Because the jump alone might kill you. Let’s go.”
6
PALADIN’S cargo bay had been sealed off from the rest of the pressurized aircraft so that the side door and rear loading ramp could be opened to take on cargo or make hasty departures. The bay was still large enough to stow a small helicopter with the rotors removed but significantly smaller than an unmodified C-17 capable of carrying more than 100 paratroopers and 170,000 pounds of cargo.
Fisher stood near the door, double-checking Briggs’s gear while Briggs did likewise for Fisher. The loadout was always the same, each item meticulously chosen and inspected by Fisher before it was ever stowed on board the plane. They each wore an HGU-55/P ballistic helmet, tactical goggles, an MBU-12/P oxygen mask, Airox VIII O2 regulator, Twin 53 bailout bottle assemblies, tac-suits, gloves, and high-altitude altimeters.
The final piece of gear was, of course, the topic of conversation:
“How do you like that squirrel suit?” Fisher asked Briggs over the radio.
The man extended his arms to reveal the black wings. “I’m proud to wear it.”
“You look like a dork.”
Briggs raised his brows. “That makes two of us.”
Fisher repressed his grin. “Your record says you’ve made a few jumps.”
“A few.”
Fisher nodded. “So . . . two hundred twenty-six miles per hour . . .”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the world record speed for the fastest wingsuit jump. I think we can beat it.”
Briggs’s eyes widened from behind his mask. “Do you mind if we don’t?”
Fisher spun the man around, giving his MC-5 parachute rig a final inspection. The chute added considerable bulk and cut down on aerodynamics but tended to come in handy if they chose to actually survive their HALO—high altitude low opening—jump. Briggs checked Fisher’s suit and flashed him a thumbs-up.
“All right, gentlemen, stand by,” said Grim. “Thirty seconds.”
Fisher levered open the side door, then slid it over until it locked in place. The icy wind whooshed inside and nearly knocked him off his feet. He immediately joined Briggs on one knee to clutch metal rungs attached to the deck. Leaving the aircraft even a few seconds too soon or too late would severely affect their infiltration. Grim was using the SMI to calculate their entire jump, from the second they left the plane until the second they should, in theory, touch down on the surface within a quarter kilometer of the crash site—if not closer. The SMI factored in all the data such as the “forward throw” while exiting the aircraft; the “relative wind”; the air temperature, wind speed, and direction; the barometric pressure; and how much pizza Fisher had eaten for lunch—well, perhaps not that last part.
Out beyond the door, the clouds were backlit in deep orange and red, and the setting sun coruscated off the wing tip. Fisher cleared his mind of the clutter, the past, the pain, the torn loyalties, the nightmares he’d had over that time Grim had shot him in the shoulder, which had been part of her plan to undermine Tom Reed.
On cold days like this the shoulder still ached. But that was okay. He’d told her to do what she had to do. And he was still here, ready to show Briggs the ride of a lifetime.
“Okay, stand by,” said Grim. “Remember, radio blackout once you pop chutes. In five, four, three, two . . .”
The flashing red light above the door turned green.
Without hesitation, Briggs vanished into the ether.
Fisher shivered through a breath, the adrenaline coursing through his chest. No matter how many times you did it, every step into oblivion was a tremendous rush.
The loadmaster was there to shut the door behind him. He gave the young airman first class a curt nod, which she returned, then he threw himself out of the aircraft.
The wind struck a massive blow to his body, wrenching him far and fast. The disorientation was normal and no reason to panic. Reflexes and training took over, muscle memory causing him to extend his arms and legs so the wingsuit would catch air. The roar of the wind deepened as he straightened his spine and pushed his shoulders forward. Since his entire body was now acting as an airfoil, he need only adjust his arms, legs, and head to maneuver deftly through the air.
Briggs was down below, appearing as a black hourglass against a mottled backdrop of snowcapped mountains and an almost imperceptible thin line of smoke. He, too, knew they needed to cover a great distance, so like Fisher, he was now lowering his chin against his neck, rolling his shoulders even farther forward, and pushing the wingsuit into a head-low position downwind while narrowing his arms. Decreasing the amount of drag always increased velocity, and you always sacrificed altitude in order to gain speed. Indeed, HALO jumps were dangerous enough, but a wingsuit insertion from nearly thirty thousand feet opened a whole new world of hazards, including unrecoverable spins that led to blackouts and unhappy endings. Moreover, they hadn’t had much time to pre-breathe 100 percent oxygen beforehand, so the possibility of getting the sort of “bends” that sometimes accompanied scuba diving was still there.