The Ransom of Black Stealth One

TWELVE

“They would’ve had him if it wasn’t for those goddamn sirens,” said Ben Ullmer, stepping aside for a shirtsleeved forensics tech. The black Nikes and jeans were the last things Ben had expected on a fed, but the forensics man’s blue windbreaker left no doubt with its huge white FBI lettering across the back. They were all over the hangar by first light, stretching yellow bands of tape to cordon off areas of interest, leaving only a corridor for foot traffic through most of Blue Hangar. “Did you know a guy in the lead car said he saw something big lift off the runway as they were driving past the main gate?”

Dar Weston nodded, blinking away the sensation of hot dust under his eyelids. He had taken the Lear to Elmira after Ben’s call without waiting for details, taking only Terry Unruh because Terry was the one man under him who already knew about Black Stealth One. And how many will know by noon? A thousand? A million? “If he didn’t finish fueling up, he might be safely on the ground by now,” Dar said.

“Count on it,” said Ben, “if he hasn’t augured it in. Since he doesn’t have wet wings, the tank holds only twenty gallons and the hellbug cruises at six gallons an hour. ‘Course, he could stretch his range by loafing along; but I don’t much think this guy’s a loafer.”

For the first time since he stepped from the Lear, the CIA man found a trace of hope. “Without long-range tanks, we still might have a crack at him. With a hostage along, what does that do to his range?”

“Not much,” Ben admitted. “Let me show you on the wall map,” he added, pointing to a section of hangar wall which abutted the offices. A set of air navigation charts had been pasted together, yielding a map big enough to require the ladder that leaned against it.

“Be there in a minute,” Dar said, looked for Terry Unruh’s blond mop of hair and black down-filled jacket, waving as Unruh saw him. The lank Unruh broke off his discussion with a man whose three-piece suit said FBI more clearly than any lettering, and walked quickly to meet Dar. One thing about Unruh, those pale blue eyes could watch a dozen things at once. Damned good man, Terry Unruh, with a Master’s in chem engineering and twenty years in the Company but with two strikes against his rising higher.

Strike one: his involvement with drugs many years before, as an undergrad toying with the kinds of chemicals that could alter your metabolism in funny ways.

Strike two: his lying about it. They’d found out during an annual “flutter,” the polygraph tests given to Company men in the ranks. In the old days, Terry might’ve been fired, especially since he’d passed the flutter on those same questions before. But then the Company had fired Ed Howard, who had gone straight to the Sovs in revenge. These days, a man with Terry Unruh’s old sins might be kept—but not promoted too far.

“How are you getting along?” Dar asked, not loud enough to carry.

“You’d think we were on the Other Side,” Unruh said, with a baleful glance toward the FBI techs who were working the hangar floor over with cordless Dust Busters, changing bags often, inscribing each bag.

“We are, in a trivial sense,” Dar replied. “I don’t have to tell you how long the Feebs have been waiting for a chance to show us up. This is domestic federal crime, so I can’t fault Ullmer for calling them in. Just keep smiling, and bring me any salient detail that turns up.”

“Not to step on any toes, Dar, but the plumbing for this operation has got to change radically, and fast. Won’t we need an ops center for this? It’s going to get big,” Unruh said a bit defensively.

“I know; and don’t be so afraid to tell me when my fly is open,” Dar said, patting the man’s shoulder lightly. “As it happens, we’ve got a good location below that big wall map and we’ve got to share control with NSA. Ben Ullmer won’t complain if you set it up, he’s got more important worries and so do I. Get someone to rig partitions and scrambled extension phones; coffee, tables and chairs, the usual. I’ll trust you to do it right. Just remember I’m going to be mobile as hell.”

That was the way to keep your man happy without promoting him, Dar reflected while walking to the map. Give him his head, let him enjoy the job, and praise him when he does it right. Of course, that presupposed an employee who was both smart and dedicated. Unruh fitted those specs so well it was almost frightening.

Dar could see from reflected glare that the sprawling map, which Ullmer had begun to attack with a felt-tip pen, was overlaid by a thin layer of transparent plastic. Ullmer, his half glasses perched far down on his nose, leaned back on the ladder for a better look and nearly fell.

“Careful,” Dar said, one hand reaching up to push against the NSA man’s buttocks. “This country has never needed you so healthy as it needs you now, Ben.”

Ullmer only grunted and finished drawing an arc, using a hand-lettered tape to define a radius outward from Elmira. “This line is the hellbug’s range from two a.m. to maybe dawn. Four hundred miles,” he said. “Maybe five hundred if he throttled back for minimum fuel consumption. Top speed’s about a hundred and fifty knots, but you save a lot of fuel by throttling back.”

Dar watched the longer arc take shape. “So he could already be in the edge of Ontario, or near the North Carolina border, if he’s really good.”

Ullmer stepped down and folded his arms as both men stared at the map. “He’s the best. He’d have to be, just to get the hellbug out of the hangar and into the air, first time he ever saw it. I would’ve said it couldn’t be done by anybody who didn’t know the hellbug inside out.”

“Are all your people accounted for?”

“We’re tracing a pair on vacation; neither of ‘em flies, so far as we know. If you mean Raoul Medina, shit, he’s in my office getting sweated by our people. He was home in bed—and not alone, either. Mad as hell; can’t much blame the guy. They say he drove like a maniac getting here.”

“We’ve got to blame somebody,” Dar muttered, “starting with me in the Company and Sheppard in NSA.”

Ullmer unwrapped a cigar, turning his head slowly, his voice gruff: “This wasn’t the plan. Or was it?”

“Christ, no! But the Other Side is primed and ready to take what we offered as Black Stealth One. This”—Dar waved toward the forensics men—“may mean they were readier than we thought. Who’s to say the pilot hasn’t already landed in Quebec or on some Russian trawler?”

“Quebec, maybe. Not a trawler; the hellbug’s wings are too long and they’re bonded on. Have to saw ‘em off to get it into a cargo hold, even if the son of a bitch could land it vertically, which I doubt. Even Medina admits she’s a handful to hover. And I tell you for flat-ass certain, Medina hasn’t checked out anybody else. Hasn’t even been here past his usual shift; too busy chasing nookie.”

“Well, we’re all going to be damned busy chasing Black Stealth One, Ben. God knows where I’ll be by this time tomorrow.”

“I’ll be with you. Wife’s already packed my bag.” Ullmer saw doubt in the CIA man’s face and flushed. “I’m no older than you are, Weston, and nobody knows what that airplane can do better than me. Who the fuck else is better qualified to hunt it down?”

Dar held his palms up and out as if warming them with the heat of Ullmer’s objection. “Point taken, Ben. But pretty soon, your runway is going to look like Dulles International and we’re going to have to start looking like a team with a plan. I’m open for ideas.”

“Hell, that’s easy. First thing we do is put the Air Force and ever’body else with a clearance in the air flying tight grid patterns. Also, keep light civilian air traffic on the ground, however we do it. Searchers will need a three-view of the hellbug, something that doesn’t give too much away.” Ben allowed some glum satisfaction to creep into his voice: “Marie’s already putting it together upstairs. Next thing is, we send Raoul Medina by fastest possible means to fly Blue Sky Three to Llano Majado. If the Sovs are busy stealing the fake, they may not be looking for the real one. Of course, if this is a big Sov operation, they may already have both of ‘em. That’s something we need to know, and Medina will have to be ready for an ambush.”

Dar Weston rubbed bristles on his chin, gazing at the wall map. “If it’s a big operation, they may have fuel dumps waiting for a long flight in stages. Make sense?” He saw the NSA man nod and continued: “That’s something we could release under a cover story to state police. Give the Feebs something to do, too. But what if it isn’t? What if this is a singleton, some American or Canadian? Don’t ask me how, I don’t know! We know the man speaks unaccented American English, and the guards seem to think he’s not a young man. It wouldn’t be the first time a freelance thief played for big stakes.”

“I can’t believe a singleton, out there by himself without a support organization,” Ben said, and paused. “Only guy I can imagine who’d have a prayer of flying it like this has been dead for years.” He shrugged as if slipping from under a cloak of memory and turned to face the taller man. “But one thing I do know: anybody who spots the hellbug must take it out right then and there. The longer that fucker flies it, the more likely he is to learn all its stealth systems. No simple close passes, no fuckin’ around. Fly through a wingtip or something, shit, it isn’t armed and it’ll only do a hundred and fifty knots flat-out. You could take it out with a fast chopper.”

Dar Weston was nodding, thinking it over, as he saw Terry Unruh pacing toward them. “There’s the hostage to think about,” Dar said. “But here’s a scenario you might like: it’s not a woman, it’s a copilot in drag. Or in any case, the hostage is on the other side; a fake.” He watched Ullmer chew that cigar, trading gazes with him. “If we take that tack, it might play better when the press gets hold of this—and they will, sooner or later. If we destroy the plane in flight and the hostage turns out to be genuine, we don’t look like uncaring butchers.”

“But that’s what we will be,” Ben Ullmer muttered, shaking his head. “I forgot about the hostage and I’m having second thoughts about this. I know, Job One is to make the bird unflyable. Maybe it can be done without dicing it up in midair. What d’you think, Dar? Fuck the press, I’m not into ordering an innocent woman killed.” He turned, hearing footsteps.

Unruh carried a large sealed bag in one hand, holding it up for inspection. Through the plastic film they could see a slender hardbound book, the color of dried blood, and a stiff card that might have been a credit card. “Had to promise to hold it this way, and give it right back,” he apologized. “They’ve already dusted the stuff and checked the prints by digital link. These were left in the passenger seat of the Ford,” he added, “evidently genuine; they tally with the woman’s ID here. An FBI forensics tech tells me they get faint traces of model airplane cement from the car and other stuff the guy touched. He probably left these to prove he had the woman. Hardly more than a girl, actually. Driver’s license says she’s twenty-two.”

Ben Ullmer stared at the bag, then snorted. “Formulas for Stress and Strain, “he remarked. “Funny kind of book for a girl to be carrying.”

Dar squinted, remembering. “Model cement; we used to rub it into our fingers to fill fingerprint whorls. This guy is using old-fashioned tradecraft but I’ll bet they didn’t get any usable prints from him.”

“Just the woman,” Unruh agreed. “The book has her name in it and an address in Providence, Rhode Island.”

Dar Weston felt a sudden jolt, as if his stomach had been pierced by a meteorite as cold as deep space. Taking his work seriously, he never discussed his family with colleagues except, of course, those few he had known for most of his lifetime. What’s in a name? Terry Unruh had no way of knowing. With unwilling fingers, Dar grasped the bag and stared at the card inside, a Rhode Island driver’s license, and his world narrowed suddenly to a single image, an image of Petra Leigh falling forever in a cloud of debris.