“Understood.”
Gerry ended the call, then started to call Clark’s office, but he remembered Clark was in North Carolina tracking down Barry Jankowski. So he called Chavez, gave him the news of the in extremis op, and asked him to notify the others. This done, he contacted Helen Reid and Chester Hicks.
Twenty-five minutes later, the three operators of The Campus carried their go bags up the stairs of the Gulfstream G550, parked on the tarmac just west of Runway 1 at Ronald Reagan National Airport. The cockpit crew was already on board, and the two Rolls-Royce turbofan engines were already spinning. The Campus operators knew only where they were going, not why, or what they would be called upon to do once there.
Nobody liked spending twenty-two hours in the air, but at least they would be traveling in style. The G550’s interior was as plush and luxurious as any aircraft in corporate aviation. There were multifunction monitors around that could display their route in the air, the Internet, or the latest films, and there were cabin chairs that reclined fully, along with a sofa in the back that turned into a bed.
It was nice, but it would be less nice on this trip, and all the boys knew it the second that copilot Chester “Country” Hicks met them just inside the cabin. They had always been met by Adara Sherman, who would take their luggage and their coats, talk to them about the flight, and bring them drinks or help them in any possible way.
But Adara had been given the day off to prepare for the start of Clark’s training program. This meant no warm greeting, no update on flying time, the itinerary, no handling of the hotels and vehicle rentals while en route, no meal choices, and no offers to take their bags for them.
Nope, Country just gave the three a quick nod, told them to stow their shit and to strap their asses down for takeoff.
The trip in the Hendley Associates Gulfstream from Washington, D.C., to Jakarta, Indonesia, was 8,833 nautical miles, and the moment the three men entered the aircraft this fact was noted with looks of resignation when they saw the distance yet to travel on their monitors. They treated the news with slumped shoulders and depressed sighs; they’d be in this luxurious but tiny space together for the entire next day.
Once in the cabin, Dom said, “Hey, Country. I’ll have a Sapphire and tonic, extra lime. And can I get one of those really fluffy pillows?”
Dom was joking, and Jack stifled a smile.
Country gnashed his teeth before saying, “If Clark was here I’d say it to his face. Adara might turn into a fine member of your little outfit, but we are not happy we lost her. She made every part of our jobs better.”
Chavez said, “Gerry knows he needs to bring in a replacement for her. He’s probably working on it already, but this thing in Indonesia has cropped up in the meantime. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of ourselves back here, and we can work out the logistics of our stay in Jakarta while en route.”
Country seemed to calm a little. He nodded to Chavez and Ryan, gave Caruso a half eye-roll, and started back to the cockpit. “There are plenty of frozen meals on board, but I don’t even know how to work the microwave. There’s drinks or whatever you guys want in the front galley. If you make some calls I’m sure you can arrange to have fresh food delivered to the plane when we stop in Van Nuys to refuel.”
He added, “Buckle up. We’ll get through customs and start taxiing in a couple minutes.”
Dom said, “No drink? Really?” He was still joking, already on his way to the galley to make a round for himself, Chavez, and Jack.
They’d been in the air for only twenty minutes when the three operators sat at a table in the middle of the cabin, upon which a speakerphone broadcast the voice of Mary Pat Foley. She gave them everything she knew about the situation in Jakarta, and she sent along several files from Dan Murray, all of which were available on a monitor in the wall by the table.
When she told them she needed to rush them over to Indonesia to stop an unknown man from passing over intelligence material, Chavez asked, “Isn’t there someone at the embassy… Marine security, deputy chief of mission, anybody, who you can just call? They could just get in this guy’s face and say, ‘We know what’s up.’”
“It’s not that simple. We don’t know who the traitor is, and the SIGINT source that we used to intercept the communication isn’t something we want broadcast to embassy personnel.
“We considered just blanketing the pass-off location with Marines, calling in a bomb threat, all sorts of things, but we don’t know the North Koreans won’t communicate with the traitor some way we don’t know about and make other arrangements. The only way we can be sure to stop this from happening is to have someone there able to visually identify the person who shows up to make the transaction.”
Chavez said, “Makes sense. I don’t like the thought of leaping off an airplane after a day of travel and going into an unknown situation, but I recognize the predicament you’re in.”
Mary Pat said, “Dan Murray is having his local agent go to the meeting place and take some video for you; it should help you get an idea of the layout. I’ll send it along in a few hours. That might help.”
“It would help a lot,” Chavez said. “Okay, you know where to find us for the next day. Right here. Please feel free to contact us at any time with updates.”
“Will do,” Mary Pat said. “By the way, where are you with bringing new blood into your team?”
Chavez said, “We’re looking to bring in two new operators. They should fit in nicely with the team once we get them trained up.”
“Former military?”
“Yes, both of them. A lieutenant colonel from the Army, ex — Delta Force, named Bartosz Jankowski. And a former Navy corpsman who deployed with Marine infantry in Afghanistan. Her name is Adara Sherman. She’s been with us for years as the transportation coordinator and flight attendant on our Gulfstream. She’s served alongside us as a quasi-operative on more than one occasion.”
“Excellent,” Mary Pat said. “I’m glad The Campus is growing. Whatever this breach of intelligence is that we’re dealing with, I can see the need for some people outside of the conventional system stepping up and helping out.”
Chavez replied, “We’re at your service. We just ask that we get as much information as you have just as fast as you can get it to us. As this stands now, the bad guys have all the advantages.”
16
Abu Musa al-Matari stood in the rainy evening, looked out over the flat jungle of western Guyana as the lights of the approaching aircraft shone through the darkness.
The plane itself came into view over the trees and under the clouds seconds later, and it touched down perfectly on the runway, a spray of rainwater and loose gravel behind its wheels.
Al-Matari was no expert on aviation, but he had been told the plane was the right tool for the job at hand. The mysterious Saudi had arranged it all, and he explained that this thirty-year-old Antonov An-32 had been purchased by a Bolivian charter airline from a freight company in Lima. The aircraft was larger than what he needed, but its range would get it from this location to his destination, well over 2,000 miles away, with only a single stop for fuel.
Al-Matari turned and looked back over his shoulder. Two of his top lieutenants were here with him, and they’d be going along on the mission to the USA. Both men were named Mohammed, but one was from Libya and the other Algeria, so al-Matari called them Tripoli and Algiers, respectively.
They would serve as al-Matari’s bodyguards, and they had decades of military and insurgency experience that would make them assets to the other cells in the United States. They were both expert bomb makers as well, and their forged driver’s licenses and other papers were good enough to pass scrutiny with American law enforcement, as long as they weren’t challenged too hard.