Daeniker smiled politely, seeing their expressions. “Do not worry, gentlemen. We negotiated a very good price when purchasing this aircraft from its former owners. And though it may be old, it is still in good flying condition.”
Crown merely nodded, this time working harder to hide his dismay. Like most people without aviation industry experience, Daeniker obviously believed the up-front purchase price for an aircraft was what mattered most. But that was peanuts in the bigger scheme of things. What really counted was how much the plane cost to maintain and operate over time. And on that score, he was pretty sure this 737-200F was going to prove a massive headache. Compared to newer jets, it was a fuel hog. Besides that, keeping the damned antiquated thing flying was going to soak up precious maintenance hours that would have been far better spent on more efficient aircraft. Hell, he was willing to bet that the guys at the regional Chinese airline that used to fly this hunk of junk couldn’t believe their luck when they were offered more than the scrap-metal price.
Engines whining shrilly, the cargo jet taxied off the runway and over toward them.
As the jet rolled to a stop, Ted Locke leaned in closer to Crown. “Jesus Christ, Martin,” he muttered. “They’ve put a fricking gravel kit on this bird.”
Crown nodded, seeing the telltale gravel deflector, shaped like a wide ski, attached to the 737’s nosewheel, and the long, thin vortex dissipators mounted in front of both engines. By protecting the engines from debris kicked up on takeoffs and landings, gravel kits allowed aircraft to use shorter, unpaved runways. In its early days, Regan Air Freight had equipped some of its planes with the same kind of kits so they could fly into rough rural airfields in Alaska and the wilds of northern Canada. But over time, those routes proved totally uneconomical and were dropped. He scowled. Just what were the new owners planning?
Invited by Daeniker to inspect the aircraft more closely, Crown and his team soon realized the gravel kit was the least of its modifications. The 737’s forward main cargo door was now much larger than that of any standard model. Not only that, but the door had been completely reconfigured so that it would slide smoothly back along the fuselage, rather than pop open. In addition, the freighter’s main deck now featured a high-speed overhead cargo handling mechanism and guide rails slotted into the floor.
“What’s the game here, Mr. Daeniker?” Crown demanded when they finished walking through the heavily modified cargo jet. “None of these fancy new gizmos is of any real use in our current lines of business.”
“That is quite true,” the other man said blandly. “But since the company’s owners plan to use this aircraft to explore a new business opportunity, it is also immaterial.”
“What new opportunity?” Halsey Stutz asked, with a sharp edge in his voice. As Regan Air Freight’s chief financial officer, he spent a lot of time hunting for ways to improve the company’s efficiency and market share. Clearly, he found the idea that he’d missed something obvious insulting.
Daeniker offered him a conciliatory smile. “One quite far afield from your current operations, Mr. Stutz. And somewhat untested.”
“Untested, how?”
“Your company’s new owners are interested in ferrying equipment, parts, and supplies to oil and gas fracking operations and wind-turbine and solar-power installations in remote parts of the United States, Canada, and Mexico,” Daeniker said. “They believe there is money to be made out of these new green-energy industries. Significant amounts of money. In fact, I believe they have already recruited a small group of experts who will soon arrive to staff a new division within your company.”
Stutz looked even more worried. “With respect, Mr. Daeniker, where on earth do you think the money’s going to come from to pay for this new venture of theirs? We’re in a very competitive industry here and practically every dollar we make is already fully committed. There is absolutely no way we can expand into a risky new field right now. Not if we want to stay profitable.”
“Relax, gentlemen,” Daeniker said, still smiling calmly. “You need not worry about the costs. The owners fully understand Regan Air’s current financial constraints. They assure me they will fund this experimental endeavor out of their own resources, rather than using profits from your current operations.”
For the first time since the Swiss banker appeared in his office, Martin Crown allowed himself to relax a bit. He could tell the others had the same reaction. If the people who’d bought out old Francis Xavier Regan wanted to risk even more of their own money, more power to them. If nothing else, playing around with this wacky idea of supplying the air freight needs of green-energy projects might keep them busy and out of his hair. And if they actually managed to turn a profit at it, well, so much the better. Facing competition from bigger rivals like FedEx, UPS, and DHL, Regan Air could use every extra dollar it could rustle up.
Standing in the open forward cargo door of the 737-200F, Willem Daeniker watched the American business executives drive away. Gennadiy Gryzlov had chosen wisely in buying this company, he realized. Its executives and employees were used to accommodating Regan’s sudden whims and top-down style of leadership. That rendered them easier to manipulate and less curious about matters they saw as outside their immediate responsibilities.
“Do you have new instructions for us, Herr Daeniker?” a lightly accented voice said behind him.
He turned around. The 737’s pilot, a stocky, fit-looking man in his forties, stood in the door leading to the cockpit. “No, Colonel Annenkov, I do not. Moscow’s original orders stand. Once you’re refueled, you will proceed to the Grand County Airport outside Moab in the American state of Utah and await further orders.”
Colonel Yuri Annenkov nodded. “Ya ponimayu. I understand.”
The former Russian Air Force officer now worked for Major General Kurakin’s “private” military company, RKU. His passport and other documents, like those of the other flight crew aboard, identified him as a German national employed by Regan Air Freight. Under close scrutiny by American law enforcement or intelligence agencies, it was unlikely their cover stories would hold up. Fortunately, Daeniker knew, no such scrutiny was likely as long as they stayed safely aboard their aircraft or inside the newly fenced-in perimeter at the Moab base.
Tall, with the broad shoulders and powerful arms he’d first developed working on oil rigs and now kept through rigorous exercise, John Dalton Farrell strode right out in front of the podium as he came to the finish of his stump speech. “And so, friends, I say: May God bless the United States of America! Now… let’s get to work! Let’s get this great nation of ours moving again!”
With a deafening roar of enthusiasm, the eight thousand people crowding the arena were on their feet — chanting in unison and waving campaign signs and flags. Smiling broadly, Farrell took the brown Stetson cowboy hat handed him by an aide and swung it in lazy circles in the air above his head. The clamor rose even higher.
His big, openhearted smile turned into a wide, toothy grin. Early on in his presidential bid, some high-priced political consultant had tried to dissuade him from wearing that hat in public, arguing that it was too stereotypically Texan. “Hell, son,” Farrell had retorted. “I am from Texas. You hear that drawl? There’s no hiding where I’m from. So I might as well make it work for me.”