He packaged the results in an encrypted compressed file and transferred it to a device he kept locked in his drawer. It wasn’t one the university had provided, but it also wouldn’t draw too much attention since the faculty often worked on experiments in their free time. The Ministry had provided the device to him for the sole purpose of transmitting the software update to a dedicated satellite in geosynchronous Earth orbit where it would broadcast to the weapon’s operators.
Once the software package had been uploaded to the device, David shut down his computer and locked up his office. It was a short walk to the Engineering building, where he had access to the Cal Poly CubeSat Lab that had been established over the last several years to develop a complete X-band transceiver to support deep space missions. The device the Ministry had provided him integrated seamlessly into the student project and allowed him to transmit his software updates without even leaving campus.
David ascended from the basement and stepped once more into the fresh air, feeling instantly rejuvenated by the sunlight. Even with his budding excitement, his gait was still relaxed and measured as he walked across the courtyard into the Engineering building. Within ten minutes, his software patch would be uploaded, and his role in the operation would be over. It deserved a celebration, and he decided on a bike ride around campus to commemorate the occasion.
22
Colt sat in the back of the C-2 Greyhound and blinked his eyes against the stinging jet exhaust as it wafted over him. The cargo plane’s upgraded eight-bladed propellers spun in violent arcs on either side of the fuselage in preparation for the flight deck crew to break them down for taxi to the catapult after the event’s fighters launched. Through the open hatch at the rear, Colt saw the air wing’s Super Hornets and Joint Strike Fighters moving under the guidance of plane directors, and he felt a pang of disappointment.
Fighter pilots belonged strapped into ejection seats, not forced to sit facing backward in a cargo plane. He gave a little shake of his head to clear away the negative thoughts, then froze when he saw a sailor in a white float coat leading another passenger onto the COD. She looked odd wearing jeans and a red hoodie with an olive drab horse collar flotation device around her neck and ill-fitting cranial and goggles over her long, black hair.
The NCIS agent.
His heart raced with fear as he wondered if she had come to arrest him for taking the maintenance data without permission. It wasn’t exactly classified but was sensitive enough that he knew he would be treated the same as if it had been. But other than Smitty and the Marines in maintenance control, nobody knew he had it; certainly, nobody who could have tipped off the NCIS with enough time to send an agent out to the boat.
Colt took several calming breaths to try to rein in his pounding heart as he watched one of the Greyhound’s aircrew help the lady agent up onto the cargo ramp and forward to an empty seat next to him. He couldn’t help but notice how out of place she seemed in the back of the cargo plane, and he nodded to her in greeting as she sat down next to him.
With trembling fingers, she strapped herself into the seat, affixing the last buckle when the cargo ramp closed shut, sealing them inside the jostling airplane. Colt recognized the subtle shifts in movement and the sounds reverberating through the fuselage and knew they had been broken down and were being led to one of the catapults. He turned to look at her and saw her eyes pinched shut and lips moving as if she was reciting a frantic prayer.
“You’ll be okay,” he shouted, loud enough to be heard through her hearing protection and over the roaring turbine engines.
Her lips stopped moving, and she turned to look at him with pleading eyes. They made eye contact, and he felt his heart stagger as her pale blue eyes drilled into him. “How do you ever get used to this?”
He grinned. “You don’t.”
Her eyes grew wide in surprise, then narrowed as if he had said something utterly terrifying. At last, she looked away, staring straight ahead at the back of the plane as they neared the catapult. He couldn’t help having a little fun at her expense but admitted there was nothing more uncomfortable than being stuck inside the back of a Greyhound as they were flung off the front of a ship. He hated it, but he had done it enough times to have picked up a few tips to make it at least bearable.
Colt elbowed her, and when she turned to look at him, he gestured down at his feet. He had placed his toes on a ledge at the bottom of the seat in front of him, and he watched her lift her red Vans to mimic him. Then he reached up and grasped the opposite shoulder harnesses with each hand, crossing his arms over his chest. Again, she mirrored him and gave him a questioning look, and he nodded to her in approval.
Finally, he pressed back against the seat’s headrest and braced himself for the catapult shot. Unlike when he flew in the cockpit of a Hornet or Joint Strike Fighter, the passenger seats on the Greyhound faced backward, which meant the thin nylon straps of the seat belt and shoulder harnesses were the only things keeping him in his seat. He had learned that putting his toes on the seat in front of him allowed the use of his legs to help brace against the sudden acceleration, but there was little else he could do to make a catapult shot bearable.
He felt the plane squat and heard the turbine engines rev louder, and he shouted across the din to warn the NCIS agent. “Get ready!”
The plane shook from side to side, his seat vibrating against the force of the twin Allison turboprop engines at full power. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, pressing his head back into the seat as he waited for the holdback to break. He felt a pressure on his thigh and looked down to see the agent’s fingers digging into his leg.
Ignoring his initial hesitation about the agent, he reached down and placed a comforting hand on top of hers just as the catapult fired. In an instant, they were flung forward in their straps as the cargo plane went from a dead standstill to flying airspeed in less than three hundred feet. He tensed his legs against the seat in front of him and noticed her doing the exact same thing.
One potato… two potato…
The acceleration ended abruptly and pushed him back into his seat. She turned to him with a look of terror on her face, and he gave her a reassuring smile. “We’re flying.”
Colt saw her visibly deflate, but she kept her hand on his leg.
He didn’t mind.
A short while later, the C-2 Greyhound touched down on the runway and Colt at last felt the agent relax. Despite his assurances, she had been tensed up since leaving the Lincoln and had kept her hand on his leg. But when the wheels hit the tarmac, she removed her hand and leaned back into the seat, panting as if exhausted from the twenty-minute flight.
“Don’t like flying?”
She turned and gave him a curious look. “Actually, I love it. I just hate being trapped in a tube with no way of knowing if we’re going to crash.”
He smiled and, with a shake of his head, admitted he wasn’t very fond of being a passenger either. He watched the cargo ramp lower as the Greyhound taxied clear of the runway and made its way to the apron in front of the hangar, then pulled out his cell phone and turned it on. He waited for it to establish a connection with the network, gave the NCIS agent a hesitant glance, then dialed the number Smitty had given him.