Kasperov rose from his chair and, still staring at the monitors, drifted over to Fisher and muttered in Russian, “This is quite a team you have.”
Fisher nodded. “If you would’ve told me last year I’d be working with them, I would’ve laughed at you.”
“And why is that?”
“Being a team player’s not exactly my MO.”
“I understand. I spent most of my life alone, behind a computer—and now I’m beginning to regret it. But I guess it’s not too late . . . for either of us.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Hey, Grim, there’s a private charter on the ground that’s fueling up right now,” said Briggs. “Flight plan shows it’s heading to Denver.”
“And from there they fly up to Anchorage and on to Russia,” said Grim.
“Flight deck, get us to the Houston Executive Airport,” said Fisher. “Briggs, get ahold of that charter pilot. Tell him I want to speak to him.”
“You got it.”
“Sounds like you have a plan,” said Grim with a gleam in her eyes.
28
TEN minutes later, as twilight washed a pale crimson across the western sky, Fisher and Briggs leapt from Paladin and plunged into the cold air over Houston. After a brief free fall, they popped chutes and floated soundlessly toward the pair of hangars on the airport’s northeast side.
Houston Executive Airport covered an area of about 1,980 acres split by a single asphalt runway designated 18/36 and measuring more than 6,000 feet by 100 feet. The runway ran north–south, and on its west side lay a pair of taxiways joining in a Y shape to form a single road leading to the main hangar/service center and its fuel farm. This, according to the broad placard hanging over the hangar, was Henriksen Jet Center, named after the airport’s founder and owner, local pilot Ron Henriksen.
Fisher took note of the targets below as the pilot’s voice buzzed through his subdermaclass="underline" “Standing by. Final approach on your mark.”
“Roger that,” answered Fisher.
“Sam, Charlie here. Just spoke with the charter company’s owner. He says the Russians are really pissed off. Pilot says he’s not sure he can stall them any longer. Turns out one of the Russians is an airplane mechanic himself and they’re having a hard time bullshitting him about the engine malfunction.”
“Just need another five minutes. Grim, we need to time this perfectly.”
“Understood.”
“Briggs, how’re you feeling today?”
“Feeling pretty dangerous.”
“Good. Just remember. We keep the old man alive.”
“No lead poisoning for grandpa. Gotcha.”
Fisher steered himself behind the hangar and came to a gentle landing fifteen seconds ahead of Briggs.
Leaving nothing to chance, they’d donned their tac-suits and goggles and had brought along both their primary and secondary pistols as well as SIG516 rifles slung over their backs. The rifles had 10.5 inch barrels and were fitted with thirty round magazines of 5.56mm ammo. Better yet, those rounds were factory fresh, not reloaded by Russians whose fingers were covered in peanut butter. The rifles were also fitted with grenade launchers, but said grenades had been replaced by the less-than-lethal sticky shockers like the ones Fisher had used with his crossbow.
They stored their chutes and vanished into the lengthening shadows behind the facility. The pungent scent of jet fuel hung heavy in the air, reminding Fisher of the Kasperov jet’s crash.
Pistols drawn and with Fisher on point, they darted along the hangar walls, moving across the building to the corner, where Fisher hunkered down, signaling Briggs to halt.
Goggles over his eyes now, Fisher zoomed in on the charter jet, a Citation CJ2 that had been fueled and moved to just outside the hangar. A maintenance panel had been opened on one of the engines, and a mechanic in coveralls stood on a rolling ladder, speaking with one of the suited men Fisher had seen in the hotel camera video. Charlie confirmed that he was one of Chern’s accomplices.
Fisher raised his hand and made a circular motion in the air.
Briggs understood and set free one of the micro UAVs, the tri-rotor humming away above the hangar, then slowly passing it as Fisher activated the drone’s camera, patching the image into his OPSAT.
The building’s rolling metal door was wide open, and inside were Chern; a man dressed business casual who Fisher assumed was the pilot; two other of Chern’s associates; and another man, a heavyset guy wearing Levi’s, gator-skin boots, and a Stetson cowboy hat—probably the charter company’s owner.
“Okay, Sam, I see them,” said Grim.
“Call the owner, tell him we’re good to go,” said Fisher.
“Calling.”
“Pilot, you’re clear,” said Fisher.
“Roger that,” answered the pilot. “Coming in.”
The grumbling of Paladin’s engines grew more distinct, drawing the attention of the mechanic on the ladder and Chern’s associate.
Removing his cowboy hat, the fat man took a phone call, then glanced up and waddled out of the hangar, across the tarmac and toward the ladder. He began waving his hand at the mechanic.
Fisher gave Briggs another hand signaclass="underline" get ready.
Just as the mechanic and Chern’s man began descending the ladder, Fisher glanced to Briggs and nodded.
They took off running along the side wall, reached the next corner, then crouched down again, the hangar door just around the corner to their right. They could hear the men now, lifting their voices over the Paladin’s rumble. A glance at his OPSAT showed the group leaving the hangar, peering up, one pointing at the bewinged behemoth on its final approach toward the runway.
“That’s a military craft,” cried one of the men in Russian.
“Do you get military landings here?” Chern asked the cowboy.
“Sure, yeah, all the time. Routine.”
“Bullshit! This is private executive airport,” cried Chern.
At that, all three of Chern’s men drew pistols from concealed holsters. They held the mechanic, the pilot, and the cowboy at gunpoint.
“Okay, we got their attention,” said Charlie.
“Sam, you ready?” asked Grim.
“Yeah,” Fisher answered. “Three hostages, four bad guys, one plane . . . no problem.”
“Come on!” shouted Chern. “We’re taking off!”
Briggs came up beside Fisher, shoved up his trifocals, and said, “Got my targets marked.”
Fisher nodded. “Let’s roll.”
29
AS Paladin’s tires hit the tarmac with puffs of burning rubber and the plane’s hydraulic landing gear boomed as it worked to suppress the massive forces of impact, Fisher and Briggs slipped around the hangar and ducked inside, behind the doorway, keeping to the shadows.
“We’re all going for a ride now,” shouted Chern. He gestured to his men that they take the pilot, mechanic, and cowboy owner into the plane.
Briggs lifted his rifle.
As did Fisher.
Freeing the hostages would require three perfectly timed and placed shots. Even the slightest miscalculation might allow one of Chern’s men to reflexively pull his trigger and kill his hostage.
Fisher hoped that any lingering doubts Briggs might’ve had were already put to bed—because he was taking two shots while Fisher took one, focusing all of his attention on the dark-haired Russian clutching the cowboy.
Meanwhile, Paladin’s pilot was steering the C-17 toward the taxiway with the intent of parking the plane between the two exits, creating a 585,000-pound roadblock.
If for some reason, Paladin had been late or the operation on the ground had gone south and the Russians had managed to get near their jet, Fisher had a pair of EMP grenades tucked into one of his belt pouches. Destroying the electronics of an expensive jet was hardly a consideration when it came to matters of national security, but if they could save the taxpayers a hefty repayment to the cowboy they would. Besides, having the C-17 on the ground would allow them to make a hasty exit with their high-value target. Fisher couldn’t wait to see the look on Chern’s face when he was reunited with Kasperov. They would all need glasses of vodka for that conversation.