She rushed to the other side of the cabin to see what was happening—and reacted with the same amazement.
Another plane had joined the chase.
The pilot of the leading Sukhoi adjusted his course to follow the larger jet as it turned. Even though it had followed his instructions and was heading back to land, he still kept the gunsight on his head-up display locked onto it. Where east met west over the Bering Strait, the Americans were always up to something sneaky. This time, they had been caught red-handed—
He flinched at a shocked yelp in his helmet’s earphones—his wingman. “Drop, drop!” the other pilot cried. “Break off!”
Nothing on the radar or threat warning indicator. He looked back … as a shadow fell over his cockpit.
The second Flanker had made a hurried rolling descent—away from the looming underbelly of the large transport aircraft now plunging down at him like a giant’s fist.
“He’s diving, he’s gone!” said Tony, leaning over the pilot’s body to see what was happening outside. He had pressed a gloved hand against the bullet hole in the windshield to block the shrieking wind. The two Sukhois disappeared into the clouds below. “You did it! You scared them off.”
“Not for long,” Adam said grimly as he leveled out. He selected a new radio frequency. “Two-zero-one, do you read me? This is Adam, on an open channel. Do you read?”
“We read you,” came the reply—the pilot of the Global 6000, its tail number ending in 201. “What’s your situation?”
“The situation,” said Kyle, cutting in with enormous relief, “is that he’s just saved our asses!”
“I only bought us a little extra time,” Adam corrected. “Two-zero-one, turn back to the southeast, maximum speed. You’ve got to reach US airspace.”
“Those fighters will catch up again long before then,” the pilot pointed out.
“Just get as far as you can. We’ll do the same. Out.” He banked the Beriev away from the business jet. As he turned, he saw two faces gawping at him through the cabin portholes: Holly Jo and Kyle. He gave them a brief wave, then looked back at the controls.
“They’re following us,” Tony reported as the Bombardier changed course.
“They’re not the only ones.” Although he couldn’t see them, Adam knew the Russian fighters were still out there.
And now they were mad.
The lead Su-35 pilot powered his plane back up through the clouds. He was shaking, both with shock at the near-miss, and with anger. Attacked—by a seaplane! It was almost insulting that somebody in a tub of a Beriev had tried to intimidate him. What made it worse was that they had succeeded.
Now he would show the Beriev’s pilot the true meaning of intimidation.
He activated his fighter’s fire-control systems. The Flanker’s Irbis radar was capable of detecting targets as far as four hundred kilometers away, but the two he was now hunting were only at one-hundredth of that distance. “Bandits at eleven o’clock high, bearing one-one-zero degrees,” he told his companion. “Let’s get them.”
Both Sukhois banked hard, afterburners flaring as they surged in pursuit.
Adam watched the Bombardier overtaking his plane. Even with its two powerful engines, the aerodynamic compromises needed to make the Be-200 amphibious limited its maximum speed to just over five hundred knots. The Global 6000 had almost a ninety-knot advantage.
Not that it mattered: Both aircraft were in a losing race. The Flankers could achieve well over Mach 2, getting on for three times faster.
He switched one of the displays to a computerized map. The plane was now about halfway between the Russian coast and the northwestern tip of St. Lawrence Island. US airspace officially began twelve nautical miles from the land’s edge, matching the limits of its territorial waters.
At the seaplane’s top speed, it would still take more than two minutes to reach it.
And he didn’t have two minutes. “Attention seaplane, attention unidentified seaplane,” said a voice in his headphones. The Russian pilot was speaking in thickly accented English, but his barely restrained fury was clear. “You have committed an aggressive act against military aircraft of the Russian Federation. You will turn to three-two-five degrees and land at Provideniya airport, where you will be placed under arrest. I have missile lock on your plane. If you do not obey, I will shoot you down. You have twenty seconds to comply.”
“Not good?” said Tony, seeing Adam’s expression.
“Not good. They’re going to fire if we don’t turn back.”
The Global 6000’s pilot had already made his decision, the other jet peeling away. One of the Flankers followed it. “I guess that settles it,” Tony said mournfully. “See you in the gulag …”
“You now have ten seconds,” said the Russian. The Beriev was dead center in his HUD, a trilling warble in his headphones assuring him that he had a solid missile lock on his target. “Nine. Eight …”
A new sound, an insistent, piercing shrill. Threat warning indicators flashed red. Someone had locked weapons onto him! But who—
“Russian fighters, Russian fighters,” said a new voice. American. “We have missile lock on both your aircraft.”
The display revealed that the radar beam pinning him was coming from astern. The pilot twisted in his seat to spot its source. He glimpsed an ominous gray shadow against the sky, closing in from behind.
An F-22 Raptor, the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world.
“You will disengage immediately and allow the two civilian aircraft to proceed on their way,” the Raptor pilot continued. “If you do not, we will use all necessary force to protect them.”
“What do we do?” asked the Russian’s wingman, frantic.
The pilot choked back his rage. He had always wanted to know how a dogfight between a Flanker and a Raptor would play out, not believing for one minute the American claims of the latter’s superiority and certain that he was more than a match for any US pilot … but from such a weakened position, any challenge would be suicide.
“Withdraw,” he snarled. “Break off and withdraw.”
Tony was pressed against the window again, watching the Flanker curve away. An F-22 followed it, a hound corralling its prey. “They’re bugging out!”
“Attention two-zero-one and companion aircraft,” said one of the American pilots through Adam’s headphones. “This is Raptor One. You are now free and clear to reach US airspace. Once we’re sure these guys have gone, we’ll escort you to Elmendorf.” A pause, then, pointedly: “Whatever you were doing, I hope it was worth it. There’s gonna be diplomatic hell to pay once you’re on the ground.”
“Thanks for your assistance, Raptor One,” Adam replied. He looked back into the cabin, seeing the RTG still secured to the deck, Bianca near it with the PERSONA cases—and Qasid, bound and under guard. “We got what we came for.”
WASHINGTON, DC, UNITED STATES
The atmosphere in the meeting room was caustic, to say the least.
Gordon Harper sat at one end of the table, glaring at the STS personnel around it with utter contempt. “So. I bust my ass and call in a lot of political favors to give you the chance to follow up on what you found out in Macao. And in return, I get”—he jumped to his feet, banging both hands down on the table as his voice rose to a roar—“a colossal cluster-fuck!” Holly Jo flinched.
“With respect, Admiral,” said Morgan hesitantly, “the operation wasn’t a complete failure.”
“You want to call it a success?”
“We stopped al-Qaeda from getting the RTG,” said Tony, more firmly. “And we have a recording of al-Rais’s persona. The information we get from that—”
“Will be utterly useless!” Harper bellowed. “Because you let him get away! The Russians haven’t caught him, so he’s still out there somewhere—and now he knows we’re on to him, so whatever plans al-Qaeda had in the works, they’ll change.”
“It’ll still be valuable,” Tony insisted. “Al-Rais knows names,
contacts. With that information we can attack al-Qaeda from the top down, go after the captains rather than the foot soldiers.”
Harper couldn’t deny that he had a point, so he switched to another angle of attack. “And speaking of the Russians, do you have any idea of the size of the swirling shitstorm you’ve started at State?”
“Awesome alliteration,” said Bianca quietly.
Not quietly enough. Harper’s searing gaze turned upon her. “I don’t think you appreciate how serious this is, Dr. Childs.” He was somehow more threatening now that his voice had returned to a normal volume. “Not only are three members of the Persona Project dead and two more injured”—he nodded toward Tony, who had a dressing over his head wound—“as a result of the failure of this operation, but it’s caused a major diplomatic incident. The Russians have raised their military alert status in response to what they call an aggressive invasion of their sovereign territory, so we’ve been forced to do the same. The United States is now at DEFCON 3—and the last time it was that high was on September eleventh, 2001. Now do you see how serious this is?”
She nodded, abashed. “Yes.”
“Good. Now the State Department has brought out its chopping block, and it wants to see heads on it. Specifically, all of yours. Convince me not to hand them over.”
Adam spoke up. “We still have the other prisoner, sir—Qasid. I learned from al-Rais’s persona that he knows the identity of a mole who gave away the secretary of state’s route in the Islamabad bombing.”
That produced surprise around the table. Harper flicked through some papers. “Qasid? According to everything we have on him, he’s just some low-level thug.”
“Al-Rais didn’t think so. He considered him one of his most reliable people.”
The admiral didn’t appear convinced, but before he could say anything the telephone in front of Morgan rang. He picked it up. “Morgan … Okay, thank you.” He ended the call and turned to Harper. “Mr. Sternberg is ready at the White House.”
Harper looked less impressed than ever. “Put him through.”
Morgan used a remote to activate the big screen. The national security adviser appeared on it. The camera shooting him was positioned below his eyeline, increasing the impression that he was looming over everyone seated around the conference table. “Good afternoon, Gordon, Martin,” he said apparently not considering anyone else worthy of a greeting. “I won’t mince words—the president is furious about this situation.”
Harper went straight on the attack. “A situation that you recommended to him.”
“At your insistence,” Sternberg countered smoothly. “But at this stage, I’m not here to apportion blame. I just want to know what you’re doing about it. Have we got any actionable intelligence?”
“Not immediately actionable,” Morgan replied. “Agent Gray was imprinted with Muqaddim al-Rais’s persona, but circumstances forced the team to erase it before he could be debriefed. However, we still have a recorded copy of that persona. Our plan is to re-imprint it and get as much information as we can.”
“I thought using the same persona twice was unsafe?”
“Given the circumstances, it’s the only logical option,” said Kiddrick. “We think the risk is minimal.”
“You think the risk is minimal,” Bianca said pointedly.
“All right, Dr. Childs, that’s enough,” said Morgan. “We need that information.”
“See to it,” said Sternberg. “Hopefully we can salvage something out of this mess.”
“We did get the RTG, sir,” Tony reminded him.
“There is that, I suppose. NEST has secured it at Elmendorf. The question now is what we actually do with the thing. I doubt the Russians will ask for it back, considering how much it’ll cost them to make it safe. Anyway, do you have anything else to say at this stage?”
“You’ve been told everything I have, Alan,” said Harper. “As soon as STS gets anything more, you’ll be copied in on it.”
“Good. The president wants to be kept fully informed—after all, he has to smooth things over with our Russian friends. In the meantime, get as much as you can from al-Rais’s persona.” He leaned forward, face filling the screen like a gargoyle before he disconnected.
“Well,” rumbled Harper, “looks like you all get a stay of execution—for the moment. Get to it, then. Re-imprint al-Rais’s persona and get everything you can out of him.”
“I still think that’s potentially dangerous,” Bianca objected.
“You’ve made it very clear what you think, and right now I don’t care. A second imprint isn’t going to kill him.”
“But what about a third? Or a fourth, or fifth?”
“Just get it done,” snapped Harper. He gathered his papers and stood up to leave.
“What about Qasid?” asked Adam.
“What about him?”
“He knows the identity of a mole in Pakistani intelligence, sir. We need to find out who that is.”
“Al-Rais is top priority. You heard the man.” He jerked a sarcastic thumb at the screen. “Let’s gut the big fish before we bother with the small fry.” He turned to Morgan. “Where is this guy Qasid?”
“In holding,” Morgan replied.
“Get a team over here to do a prelim and process him, then render him to Gitmo on the first available flight. Cuba’s the best place to interrogate these people, not DC. Whatever he knows, we’ll find out there.”
Adam started to protest. “Sir, I don’t think—”
“We need to get as much as we can from al-Rais’s persona while the intel is still actionable, Agent Gray! If we waste time and resources on nobodies like Qasid, al-Rais’s people will find new rocks to hide under, and the men who died in Russia will have done so for nothing. Get your priorities straight. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Adam replied emotionlessly.
“Good.” Harper headed for the door. “Keep me posted,” he said without looking back.
Uncomfortable looks passed around the table after the door closed. “Well, that was … pleasant,” said Levon. “And I wasn’t even in Russia!”
“What’s happening about recovering the bodies of our guys?” Baxter demanded.
Morgan shook his head dolefully. “That’s all in State’s hands at the moment.”
“We can’t just leave them there to rot.”
“I know, I know. I’ve already pushed for an answer. But until we get one, let’s get on with the job in hand. Dr. Kiddrick, Tony, Adam, Dr. Childs—use the recording of al-Rais’s persona and start a debriefing. And yes,” he added, raising a hand to block any objections, “I know some of you have problems with that. They’ve been noted.”
“Are they also going to be ignored?” said Bianca.
“Dr. Kiddrick thinks it’s safe, and he’s the senior adviser, so we’ll proceed on that basis. Now, are there any further questions?”
“I had one about hazard pay?” said Kyle. All eyes turned to him, none approvingly. “But … I can put it in an email, I guess.”
“I look forward to reading it,” said Morgan scathingly. “Okay. Let’s get back to work.”
Everyone filed out. In the corridor, Adam was about to follow Tony and Bianca to the lab when Holly Jo stopped him. “Adam?”
“Yes?”
“There’s, er … something I want to say.” She glanced down the corridor to check that Morgan was out of earshot.
“Yeah, me too,” added Kyle.
“What is it?” Adam asked. Bianca and Tony halted, watching with curiosity.
“I know the mission didn’t go all that well,” said Holly Jo. “But you … well, you saved us. When you flew in and scared off those Russian planes—”
“That was absolutely awesome, brah!” Kyle exclaimed. “Seriously, an unarmed seaplane taking on two Flankers? You are …” He was briefly lost for words, settling for raising his right hand in a fist and making a bumping motion with it toward Adam’s chest. “The man!”
&nb
sp; “What he said. Only less Jersey Shore,” Holly Jo added, peeved at being interrupted. “But that really was amazing. And you kept us from a diet of prison borscht and cabbage, so thanks!”
“Anything you need, brah,” said Kyle. “Anytime.”
“Thanks,” said Adam. “But I was just doing my job.”
“Speaking of jobs …,” said the amused Tony.
“Yes, I guess we’d better get back to the Bullpen,” Holly Jo said. “But I just wanted to say—”
“We just wanted to say,” Kyle cut in.
“All right, God! We just wanted to tell you how we felt. Thank you.” The pair headed down the corridor. “You are such a child,” she snapped at Kyle.
“What? What’d I do?” he replied, bemused.
“Looks like you’ve got a fan club,” Bianca told Adam with a smile.
“It’s better than the opposite, I suppose.” He watched Holly Jo and Kyle go, then turned back toward the lab. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
“Bianca.” The word drifted in through a languid fog. “Bianca?”
Bianca jerked awake as something touched her arm. She looked around in startled confusion before awareness fully coalesced, finding herself on a couch in one of STS’s soundproofed debriefing rooms. Tony stood over her, a cardboard cup in each hand. “Oh! Tony, hi. What … how long was I asleep?”
“I’m not sure—I dozed off for a while myself,” he admitted with a smile. “Here.”
He passed her a cup of coffee. Bianca looked at her watch. It was approaching six in the morning. “Where’s Adam?”
“In the Cube. Asleep.”
“I’m not surprised after all that.” She waved a hand at the battery of recording equipment. The interrogation had gone on for over fourteen hours before its participants finally succumbed to exhaustion.
“You sat through most of it with him. You didn’t have to—I said you could have gone back to your hotel as soon as the transfer was complete. Hell, Kiddrick left the second he’d packed up the PERSONA gear.”
“I wanted to make sure Adam was okay.” She sipped the coffee.