Alpha Kat

Eight

Shortly before four o’clock in the morning, Jimmy Gander turned his F-150 Ford pickup into the parking lot. From the height afforded by the oversized wheels and tires, he could see across the lot to three rows of cars idling in front of the hangar. The violet sodium lamps of the lot cast an eerie glow over everything.

He pulled up in the third row behind Luke Frale’s Buick Regal, and the pickup’s headlights shone through the rear window, illuminating Luke saying goodbye to his wife and three kids.

Shifting to neutral, Gander set the parking brake.

“I thought I was long past being an Air Force wife,” Mollie said.

“Hey, baby, it’s only for a couple of weeks. We hop into one place, hop out, and head for another place. It’ll be over in no time.”

Gander shifted around to face her, leaned forward, held her cheeks in both of his hands, and gave her a kiss on the lips.

“You be careful, James Gander.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it. No risk-taking.”

“You know me, Mollie.”

“You’re damned right I do. That’s why you’ve got to promise me.”

“No risks,” he said.

“Cross your heart?”

“And yours,” he said and did.

He kissed her again, then opened the door and slid to the ground. He fished his duffle bag out of the pickup bed as Mollie closed the door and rolled down the window.

“Tell Timmy goodbye for me.”

“We could have wakened him.”

“He needs his rest.”

“And I need you,” she said. “Remember your promise.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She leaned through the window to kiss him again, then released the brake, shifted into first, and rolled away. The dual exhaust gurgled merrily behind her, and Gander watched after her until the truck turned out of the lot.

Heading for the door, he said hello to wives and kids he knew and greeted the sleepy-eyed men who would be going with them. The atmosphere had a carnival edge to it, and once inside the hangar, away from their families, the male voices picked up tempo and volume. They were off on a happy crusade, a long-promised quest to sell the airplanes and realize some of the gold.

It was a vacation, long overdue.

His cowboy boots clacked on the linoleum as he went down the hall and into the hangar proper. A crowd was gathering near the hangar door, and the chatter was lively and vibrant.

Sam Eddy McEntire stood near the Judas door in the sliding hangar door, and he called out, “All right, you guys! Nobody goes through that door until I’ve checked your passports and luggage. Ain’t no snakes, booze, Gila monsters, or Playboys going with us, so get rid of them now. We’re not taking this trip to offend our hosts.”

“Ah, hell!” somebody called back to him.

“Shed the contraband and line it on up, boys! Let’s get this show on the airways. Command pilots, check in with A.J. first thing.”

Since he was a command pilot for the first leg, Gander sidled through the crowd to where Kimball and Soames stood together.

“Mornin’,” he said.

Kimball grinned at him. “Come on, Gandy, smile!”

“It’s too damned early in the morning. But I’m happy, Kim, believe me.”

“Good deal.”

Soames handed him a thick attaché case. “There’s your paperwork, Jimmy. It’s so pristine, it squeaks.”

“Damned better squeak,” Gander said.

“Main thing,” Soames said, “don’t get nervous when the Customs boys are going through your stuff.”

“I got bogus passports stowed all over the plane, and I got fifteen tons of illegal missiles, A.J. Why should I get nervous?”

“You’re a good actor,” Kimball said, “that’s why you drew the assignment.”

“Never acted in my life.”

“You’re a natural,” Soames said.

“Break a leg,” Kimball added.

Shaking his head, Gander moved over to get in line for McEntire.

When he reached him, McEntire said, “What’s in the bag, Gandy?”

“Shorts and socks.”

“Good enough. Passport?”

Gander handed it over, and McEntire leafed through it, then gave it back.

“You’re all set.”

“You want to trade places, Sam Eddy?”

“I know too much. Luck be with you, Gandy Dancer.”

Gander stepped through the Judas door and crossed the tarmac to the transport. He met Walt Hammond, who was serving as crew chief on the C-141, and they did their walk-around together. They poked their heads into wheel wells and access doors, looked for fluid leakage, and checked for free movement of surfaces that were supposed to be free-moving.

People were clustered around both Starlifters when he climbed through the crew hatch and shoved his duffle into one of the lockers in the crew compartment.

He opened the door into the cargo bay, turned on the overhead lights, and walked through the seventy-foot long space.

The loadmasters, sternly governed by Tex Brabham, had carefully placed the cargo, spreading the weight. Most of the ordnance was tied down near the front end, the specially marked boxes and crates at the bottom of the stacks. There were 30,000 pounds of live missiles, bombs, and cannon rounds under there somewhere, and a like amount was aboard the other C-141. Thirty tons of lethal weaponry on both transports. Just enough to allow them seven sorties, if that many were required. Kimball and McEntire seemed to think they could accomplish the mission with three raids. On top of that in each plane was another twenty tons of demonstration ordnance. The rest of the bay was filled with two startcarts, a tow tractor, missile dollies, big tool chests on casters, crates and cardboard boxes of replacement parts, jerry cans of lubricating oil, water cans, and boxes of Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) in case anyone got hungry along the way.

His plane carried a small portable crane, its boom folded back over its squat body.

There was slightly over forty tons of materiel, near the cargo weight limit for the transport.

The other Starlifter, commanded by Mel Vrdlicka, was provisioned the same way except for the addition of a spare KM-121 turbofan engine on its own dolly. It was the only complete spare engine they had.

As he headed back toward the front, Howard Cadwell stepped through the hatch.

“How’s she look, Jimmy?”

“All tied down, Cardsharp.”

“How come you don’t look proud?”

“If I wanted a bunch of passengers on my airplane, I’d be flying for United. I like a cockpit with just me in it.”

“Ditto.”

They went back to the crew compartment, and Cadwell climbed the short ladder to the flight deck to begin the checklist. From his attaché case, Gander took his passenger manifest and checked off everyone that was supposed to be with him. Counting Cadwell and himself, there were ten.

The count of noses came out right, and Gander said, “Okay, Walt, button her up.”

Hammond secured the hatch, and Gander climbed to the flight deck. George Wagers, known as the “Gambler,” followed him up. Wagers was acting as navigator/flight engineer for the cross-country trip.

Sidling into the lefthand seat, Gander took off his cowboy hat, hung it on a bulkhead hook, and donned his headset. He rested his feet on the rudder pedals. Checking his watch against the chronometer on the instrument panel, he said, “Six minutes after four, gentlemen. We’re already late.”

“We’re late, we’re late! For a very important date,” Cadwell said.

“Ah, shit, Howard. Don’t go quoting literature all the way to Africa.”

“You know Alice?”

“She’s the only one I know.”

“The Alice I like,” said Wagers, “is from Massachusetts. She used to run a restaurant.”

“Goddamn it. This is going to be one damned long trip,” Gander said. “Light ’em up.”

He wished Kimball had assigned him to an Alpha Kat, where he could be by himself.

Since the view all around the compound he called Fragrant Flower was so dismal, Lon Pot had provided his own view. The window wall of the main house looked out upon a garden fabricated by his architects and landscape designers. It filled the entire courtyard of the compound.

Orange trees, Russian olives, pine, and Colorado Blue Spruce had been imported in near full-grown sizes and planted randomly. Gravelled walks meandered through the forest, skirting elevated ponds that spouted miniature waterfalls. Rocky outcroppings had been transposed from the nearby mountains, and their crevices were filled with gold, red, and yellow blossoms.

The garden seemed to flow inside the house, which is what it was supposed to do.

The two-story-high ceiling of the living room and the walls were finished in matte white, and one wall was spanned from one end to the other by a black marble mantel. Centered beneath the mantel was a large fireplace, flanked by sunken bookcases. All of the books were bound in black leather, and their titles were stamped in gold. There were over three thousand books written in English, and although Lon Pot’s reading ability in English was not yet rapid, and he stumbled over many of the longer words, he intended to read them all. He had already read Thackeray, Machiavelli, some of Emerson, one volume of Winston Churchill’s work, and a Harold Robbins’s book called The Adventurers.

He particularly liked Machiavelli.

His living room had been copied from a picture he saw in a magazine in Hong Kong, though many of the touches were his alone. The carpeting was deep and plush and ultra white. The tables and sideboards were of hammered brass and had come from Saudi Arabia. All of the randomly spotted chairs and sofas were upholstered in bright red. The lamps were of crystal, and their shades were covered in pure white silk. Over the fireplace was an oversized copy of a Picasso print.

The room reflected the soul and the essence of Lon Pot, Lon Pot thought. It was progressive, with clean lines, and bright spots of creativity.

There were six bedrooms, with at least four of them occupied at all times by visiting young beauties of Burmese or Thai ancestry.

For guests, there were four guest houses in the compound. Each of his chief deputies were also provided a house.

This compound of houses was a refuge for him and his lieutenants.

It was also an island of solitude on the high plateau, but solitude was no longer what he craved. He had built the compound years before at a time when he might have been considered an outlaw, yet now, in most of the region, he was the law. His words alone directed the energies of thousands of people.

Lon Pot had already achieved his first objective. He was a man of immense wealth, and the accumulation no longer had the same importance it had once had. He had come to realize that he was more than a man, and as such, he had to give more of himself to his people. His existence, his very core, was meant to serve a higher cause.

He had determined that he would help his people, and he would help them in the most efficient way he could. He had read The Prince, after all.

He turned from his contemplation of the garden and faced the four men seated on two of the red sofas. They were his most trusted advisors and subordinates: Dao Van Luong, Micah Chao, Vol Soon, and Henry Loh.

“I feel that soon I must live in a city,” he said.

The four men nodded their agreement.

“Then let us make it so.”

All four men rose from the sofas and left the room to make it so.

Which was the way Lon Pot preferred to accomplish his objectives.

The Kappa Kat, piloted by A.J. Soames, and carrying mechanics Tex Brabham and Elliot Stott along with Conrad Billingsly as air controller, had taken off from Sky Harbor International fifteen minutes before.

The six Alpha Kats were parked in one row, surrounded by their pilots and the ground crewmen who weren’t going along and were therefore understandably sullen. Kimball stood with Sam Eddy McEntire and Susan McEntire next to zero-eight.

“You’re the acting president,” Kimball told her.

“Hell, hon, you’re the whole damned acting corporation,” McEntire added.

“Do I get an acting salary?” she asked.

“You can have mine,” Sam Eddy told her.

“You’ve already borrowed against yours into the next century,” she said, then leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Be very careful, Sam Eddy.”

“Just for you,” McEntire said, gave her a thumb’s up, and headed for Alpha Kat one-five.

Kimball had never been very nosy about relationships, and the ebb and flow of tensions between the McEntires could easily confuse him.

“Watch him, Kim,” Susan said.

“What?”

“Watch him closely. For me.”

“Sam Eddy can take care of himself pretty well, Susie.”

“Please.”

“I’ll watch him.”

“Thank you.”

“May I ask —”

“No,” she said. Emphatically.

Abruptly, she rose on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. There was a lot of heat behind it, and she held the kiss for some time.

Kimball gripped her upper arms to stabilize himself physically and mentally.

She pulled away.

“Most important, you take care of yourself, Kim.”

She spun away, headed for the hangar, but not before he saw the tears spilling down her cheeks.

Jesus. There’s not enough time in a lifetime to understand women.

Kimball swung around to his plane and went up the ladder. Eight minutes later, he was buckled in, hooked up, and turning the turbofan.

Ground control gave him permission to use Runway 9-R, and he led the other five eager fighters into position just off the runway.

“Phoenix, Alpha Kat zero-eight with a flight of six.”

“Got you, zero-eight. Let me get a UPS freighter off, then it’s all yours.”

“Appreciate that, Phoenix.”

“When you get airborne, zero-eight, I’d like a squawk from all of you. All modes and codes.”

“Roger, Phoenix.”

The squawk-ident — or for the military, the Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) — transponders aboard aircraft identified their blips on the screens of ground radars. Depending on the modes set on the transponder, various data, such as altitude, were also displayed. Since they were stealth aircraft, the KAT aircraft mounted modified transponders that also sent a signal that created a radar blip in the first place. The FAA was conscientious about wanting to know what was in the air, especially when it was civilian.

Sixteen minutes after takeoff, they rendezvoused with the Kappa Kat.

In the clear skies over the Arizona desert, with day fully broken at their altitude, Kimball saw the controller craft from several miles away.

He used Tac Two. “Hawkeye, Bengal One.”

“You took your sweet time, Cheetah. I want the lead. Form on me in echelon,” Billingsly said.

“You got it, Papa. Bengals, let’s put the odds on the left.”

Kimball drifted upward until he was slightly above the Kappa Kat and flying behind and to the left of its left wing. Bengals Three and Five formed up on him. The three Alpha Kats with even codenames took up stations off the Kappa Kat’s right wing.

Below, the shadows of the mountains were getting shorter, but they were too high to distinguish the bright colors of wildflowers and cacti.

“Bengals,” Billingsly said, “we’re going to stay at angels two-zero and heading zero-eight-seven. But we’re going to goose it to Mach one-point-two. Everybody stay with me.”

Kimball eased his throttle forward as the Kappa Kat accelerated. He easily maintained his position until the HUD readout, switching from a reading of knots when they crossed through the sonic barrier, displayed 1.2.

He looked over the formation, and he couldn’t help but feel an elevated sense of pride in its appearance. The craft appeared lethal and agile, and he was responsible for that, for the initial design. Others had contributed in many ways: electronics, weapons systems, and engines, but the Alpha Kat was his in her beautiful heart and soul.

The dark bronze tinting of the canopies prevented him from distinguishing the identities of specific pilots, but he knew them all, and he was proud of them, too. They were the kind of men he could trust.

“Okay, Bengals, I’m giving you a data feed. Just in case you missed your naps.”

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for, Papa,” McEntire said.

“Except for Irish. He needs the exercise,” Billingsly responded.

Sam Eddy had picked up the nickname of “Irish Eyes,” not for his surname and his good-humored handsomeness, but also for his reputation with the ladies. In his Air Force days, there had been many waiting for him at every base.

The autopilots aboard the Alpha Kats were rather rudimentary when used stand-alone. They maintained the course, speed, and altitude input by the pilot. When connected to the Kappa Kat by data-link, they were as sophisticated as anything in the skies. The AWACS craft’s navigation system interfaced with at least three or four of the satellites in the Global Positioning System, providing it with navigational accuracy that was within a few feet of geographical position and a few knots of speed. Coupled with input from the Kappa Kat’s radars, the data fed to the fighters provided them with navigational information that was just as accurate.

Kimball activated his primary data-link receiver, the frequencies determined at the pre-flight briefing and set during the cockpit check. He cut in the autopilot and felt the control stick tremble as the computer took over. If he turned on his data-link feedback transmitter, the Kappa Kat could also fly his plane for him. It was considered a backup system. If a pilot became disabled — something none of the pilots talked about — there was a possibility that the Kappa Kat air controller could get him back on the ground in one or two pieces by remotely operating the autopilot.

In the center of the instrument panel was an eight-inch cathode ray tube, and Kimball switched it on, then pressed the keypad for navigational display. Immediately, the screen showed him the seven blips in the formation, all in blue. His blip was in the center of the screen and blinking, and at the bottom of the screen, blue lettering displayed his geographical coordinates. In a tense combat situation, Billingsly’s computer would paint the opposing aircraft red, to help track friend and foe.

“In case any of you are lost,” the AC said, “I’m going to give you a map overlay.”

The Kappa Kat’s computer disk reader would accept mapping information stored on small hard disks, each disk containing data for various parts of the world. That kind of information was good, and often essential, for flying in unknown regions or flying close to the terrain during invasions.

Using data relayed from the Kappa Kat, the screen showed the overlay of map grid lines, each five miles apart. The entire screen displayed the current setting of the Kappa Kat’s ninety-mile scan. Several of the major highways were shown, to aid in orientation. At the top right of the screen, the city of Globe was shown. Globe was east of Phoenix, but on the screen appeared to be north. That was because the top of the screen was always the direction of travel, 087 degrees magnetic currently.

Kimball loosened his harness a bit, took his feet off the rudder pedals, and relaxed. He squirmed a bit to settle into the survival and parachute packs of his seat, then reached between the seat and the fuselage wall and found his leather portfolio. The leather wasn’t as good as that of the attaché case Wilcox had given him, and was scratched and stained from fifteen years of use.

Opening it on his lap, he studied the itinerary that had been finalized only two days before:

Andrea Deacon had had to do some rescheduling when Kimball had finally firmed up the last demonstration dates, for Riyadh and Dacca, but it was all in place now.

In some cases, Susan McEntire had had to secure separate lines of credit from local banks to cover their fuel and other expenses, but there hadn’t been many obstacles. He and Susan had always been compelled to pay enough on the Kimball Aero billings by the time they were due in order to maintain an excellent credit rating.

Below the itinerary sheet were slim file folders containing information about each site’s landing and parking conditions, the hotel and meal accommodations, and other practical matters. Each of the aircraft command pilots had aeronautical charts and local regulations for each stop along the way.

Also in each of the folders in Kimball’s portfolio were profiles and background information on influential members of the nation’s defense ministries and military. They had been compiled by Soames and McEntire, often with information supplied by Ben Wilcox. Wilcox had been very helpful in a number of areas, coming up with arcane information about the bribability and sexuality of many important military and civilian leaders. Kimball had been cautioned to destroy the profiles before landing at each destination.

There were also short summaries of the economic, military, and political climates of each nation.

Kimball pulled the file labeled for Chad and began reading.

The French have long supported administrative and military objectives in Chad, particularly in regard to occasional incursions from Libya. It can be expected that French companies such as Dassault-Breguet will resist the potential loss of sales revenues, and that they will be supported by French sympathizers in the administration.

However, a cadre of new administration and military people is beginning to emerge, and…

At 10:15 A.M., they were on the ground in Atlanta after a three-and-a-half hour flight from Phoenix.

The tanker trucks were nearly finished with the refueling of booth Starlifters.

Gander and Vrdlicka stood near the nose of Gander’s aircraft, out of the mild breeze wafting the stench of JP-4 across the tarmac. The humidity was like a soft, sopping washrag, oozing from the cracks in the concrete. Heat waves flickered over the hot metal of the wings. The sweatband of his Stetson was already permeated.

“Just another measly seventy-five hundred miles to go,” Vrdlicka said.

“It’s a piece of cake, Mel. A piece of boring damned chocolate cake.”

Loaded the way they were, the C141s had a range of 4,500 miles, and straight lines being what they were when the curvature of the earth interfered, they were headed next for England for refueling before taking on the last leg to N’Djamena, Chad. Spain had refused them a refueling stopover.

“You know what Hamilton and Carl Dent are doing in the back of my buggy?” Vrdlicka asked.

“What?”

“They put a sheet of plywood on some crates, and they’re running a ping pong tournament.”

“No lie? Who’s winning?”

“I don’t think anyone is. The ball does funny things when the plane changes attitude.”

Back by the hatchway, Gander’s hitchhikers were standing around stretching their legs. As he looked at them, one of the Customs agents stuck his head out of the hatch.

“Mr. Gander?”

“Yo.”

“You want to come here a minute?”

Trailed by Vrdlicka, Gander walked back and climbed through the hatch.

“Do you have a key for this locker, Mr. Gander?” the officer asked, pointing to one of the tall and narrow hanging lockers for crew use.

Uh oh.

“Sure.”

He shoved his hat back on his head, dug his keyring out of his Levis, and found the one for the Masterlock padlock. The lock popped open readily, and he swung the door back.

Four M-16 assault rifles leaned into one corner of the locker, and two Browning 9-mm. automatics in holsters were stashed on the top shelf. Boxes of ammunition and a dozen loaded magazines were stacked at the bottom.

“What’s this?” the Customs officer asked.

“M-16s and automatic pistols.”

“I can see that. What for?”

“We’ve got a hundred million dollars’ worth of airplanes that are going to be parked in some exotic locations,” Gander said. “We provide our own security.”

“Uh huh, yeah,” the agent said. “You have a clearance for this, of course?”

“Should be in the bunch of paper I gave you.”

“I don’t have anything like that.” He held up his clipboard.

Gander glanced at Vrdlicka standing in the hatchway. Vrdlicka spun away toward his own plane. Maybe he had the damned release.

“Look, Officer, we’ve got a schedule to follow, and we need to get in the air. The flight plan’s already filed.”

“Then you’d better suspend the flight plan,” the man told him.

Gander shook his head in disgust. Damned paper was going to be the downfall of humanity.

Ben Wilcox had a copy of Clive Cussler’s Sahara with him as cover, but he had found himself getting caught up in the story a couple of times, forgetting to keep an alert eye on the activities taking place at the general aviation section of the airport.

He had spent much of his morning on the observation deck level of Hartfield-Atlanta International Airport. Two gooey donuts he didn’t need had already been consumed, and he was on his third cup of styrofoam-encased coffee.

The two C-141s, distinctive with their high-set stabilizers, hadn’t moved since landing. They were a distance away, and the people moving around them looked like oversized ants. The airport’s tanker trucks had departed some time before, and the aircraft engines still hadn’t been started.

Some kind of problem.

He didn’t need problems.

He glanced back at his book. Dirk Pitt was getting roped into something he…

“Mr. Ben Wilcox, please go to a white paging telephone.”

The soft-spoken monotone almost didn’t register until the second repetition. Wilcox got up and looked for a white telephone, carrying his book and coffee with him.

The voice on the other end of the phone told him to call a Washington number.

He found a real telephone on which to dial it.

“Happy Hour.”

“This is Montrose,” he said, providing the code name.

“Donegal reported in.”

“And?”

“Phase One is under way.”

“Damn.” Much earlier than expected. “Did Donegal say it was going the way we’d discussed?”

“Donegal did not elaborate,” the disembodied voice told him.

Wilcox hung up and went back to his seat.

He sipped his coffee and watched the inaction around the transport airplanes. The itinerary that Kimball had faxed him would barely make the deadline that Wilcox had imposed. Now, that deadline may have been advanced.

He couldn’t take many delays.

Especially if Lon Pot had jumped the gun on his starting date.

Just thinking about that made him more antsy. He wished he had talked to Donegal himself.

He looked across the field at the dormant transports and almost decided to interfere.

But he wouldn’t.

If Kimball and his people couldn’t pull themselves out of the crap, the Agency wasn’t going to do it for them. Not from here on in. If or when Kimball got in trouble, the Agency would be looking the other way.

That was the only way it could be.

Nine

Atlanta appeared on the horizon just before eleven, eastern standard time. Kimball had already advanced the secondary chronometer on the instrument panel, as well as his watch. The primary chronometer was always set to Zulu, Greenwich mean, time, so that the computers didn’t become confused.

At Mach 1.2, their flight time from Phoenix was just over two hours.

There was a haze stretched over the verdant countryside that threatened to thicken into an opaque cloud cover by later in the afternoon. The local meteorologists concurred with that prediction, but Kimball intended to be a long way from Georgia before it happened.

“Bengals, Hawkeye. Everybody awake?” Billingsly asked. “I’m taking my data feed back.”

Each of the pilots responded with his number, and Kimball deactivated the autopilot.

The fighters broke away from the Kappa Kat and formed on Kimball.

He contacted Atlanta Air Control on Tac One, and they were put in the stack for landing. Traffic was heavy.

It was 11:20 A.M. when he and McEntire landed as a pair and taxied off the runway.

“The big birds are still here, Cheetah,” McEntire said.

“Could we have expected more, Irish?”

“I guess not, buddy.”

Kimball got on the radio and requested permission to park near the Starlifters for refueling, and the request was promptly granted.

He had the turbofan shut down, the brakes locked, the ejection seat safed, the canopy open, and was mostly out of his gear by the time Gander, Vrdlicka, and three uniformed officials reached the plane. The Customs agents took their time looking the Alpha Kat over.

Kimball got his portfolio from its crevice next to the seat and made his way to the ground. The sweat broke out on his forehead right away.

“Damn, we’re glad to see you,” Vrdlicka said.

“You got a problem, Mel?” he asked.

“Are you Mr. Kimball?” one of the agents asked. He seemed to be in charge, and he took an inordinate amount of interest in the bluish-brown blemish on Kimball’s forehead. The swelling had disappeared.

“Got me.”

“You have weapons on those planes that are not cleared for departure.”

“Oh, shit! You don’t have the releases, Jimmy?”

“Hell, no.”

“Well, let me see what I’ve got here.” Kimball took his time opening his leather envelope and leafing through his file folders.

McEntire came around the nose of zero-eight and joined them. “Good morning, gents.”

“Sam Eddy, have you seen the releases for the security weapons?” Kimball asked.

“Not me. I don’t believe in red tape.”

The Customs agent gave him a sour look.

“Here we go,” Kimball said, withdrawing the two sheets of paper. They had enough Transportation, State, Commerce, Treasury, and Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms counter-signatures on them to start their own government.

The officer looked them over.

“Every serial number will agree with what’s listed there,” Kimball assured them.

The other two agents peered over the first one’s shoulder and gave him nods. He raised his clipboard, signed the two top papers, and passed them to Gander and Vrdlicka.

“I guess that takes care of it, Mr. Kimball.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Now, we’ve got seven more airplanes for you to take a look at.”

“Yes sir, we’ll do that.”

The three of them wandered off for a closer look at the Alpha Kat.

Two more Alpha Kats rolled in from the taxiway and parked in line.

Gander moved closer to Kimball and McEntire.

“Jesus, I was worried as hell. A.J. said we had all the documentation we needed.”

“He did say that,” Kimball agreed. “Except we pulled these, on purpose.”

“What! And put me through all this shit!”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Kimball said. He and Sam Eddy had discussed the tactic in detail.

“It wasn’t a good goddamned idea, not at all,” Gander countered.

“Sure it was,” McEntire said. “You give a guy a little problem to worry about, you think he’s going to worry about a larger problem?”

Vrdlicka laughed and slapped Gander on the shoulder. “Hell, yes! I’d rather worry about twenty pounds than fifteen tons, any day.”

Gander gave him the finger.

Derek Crider was stretched out on the bed in his hotel room when the phone rang.

He rolled over and picked the receiver from the bedside stand.

“Yeah.”

“They filed a flight plan out of Atlanta for the capital of Chad.”

“Chad?” he asked.

But the caller had already hung up.

Crider sat up, made five calls to other rooms in the hotel, then got up and packed his small valise. By the time he got down to the lobby, the others were already in line at the cashier’s counter, checking out.

The six of them took two taxis out to Isla Verde Airport where they went through the immigration checks without one question being raised about the six passports Crider had supplied. He knew very competent people in the passport business.

While Lujan went to file his flight plan, Crider led the others out to the airplane, a Gates Learjet 25B that normally carried ten passengers. This one was modified with two additional fuel tanks in place of four seats in the rear of the passenger cabin.

One could assume that it had seen service between South and North America. Crider was confident that Lujan had vacuumed, dusted, washed, and rinsed the plane inside and out. There would be no traces of prior cargoes to trip them up.

Wheeler opened the swing-down cabin door, and they climbed inside, stowed luggage, and selected seats. All of them were big men, and the space disappeared quickly.

Del Gart opened a small case and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam. He held it up toward Crider.

“I don’t drink on an operation, Crider, but we aren’t starting anything today, are we?”

“Go ahead,” Crider said.

Gart started filling paper cups.

Lujan arrived a few minutes later, his brown eyes excited by the prospect of adventure and money, and clambered up the steps. He turned to pull the doors closed behind him.

“What’s the route, Emilio?” Crider asked.

“We’re goin’ to the Azores, man.”

“Can we make it on fuel?”

“If the wind’s right.”

Henry Loh was a multi-millionaire. His accounts in Hong Kong, Singapore, and Bern kept accumulating higher totals, but he never worried too much about it. He had never had any trouble making money, but he preferred having it in his accounts to flaunting it.

His wardrobe contained nothing worthy of ceremonial or formal occasions. There were two pairs of blue slacks and a couple of white, short-sleeved cotton shirts. A dozen sets of khaki pants and shirts, along with a couple of safari jackets rounded out his closets at the Fragrant Flower compound and at the small flat he kept in Bangkok.

Retirement to an exotic, peaceful island did not enchant him, whether or not he could afford it. Loh was addicted to activity, preferably activity involving aircraft, and Lon Pot had offered him the most attractive deal in his world.

As one of Lon Pot’s four chief lieutenants, Henry Loh received a salary equivalent to one million U.S. dollars a year, paid to him in automatic dollar, franc, baht, kyat, and riel deposits to his accounts. He generally carried with him ten thousand dollars because he never knew when a bribe might be required.

As much as he disdained money, Henry Loh was always ready to accept it when it was offered. It was primarily a way of keeping score, but it did not substitute for his other needs.

Better, to his way of thinking, he was chief of Lon Pot’s air arm. Where else in the world could a poor boy from Taiwan become the general of his own air force?

The air force was spread all over the State of Shan, with two additional bases, Muang and Chiang, hidden in the geography of northern Laos and northern Thailand. The core of the fleet, naturally, was composed of aged transport craft, operating under cover of a half-dozen airline names. The transports could be found anywhere from Rangoon to Bangkok to Mandalay to several dirt strips hacked out of the jungle and the hillsides.

Slowly, however, with careful orchestration of Lon Pot’s ego, and working through foreign intermediaries, Henry Loh had amassed two MiG-23s, two MiG-27s, four Maruts, and five French Mirage 2000s. His helicopter squadron consisted of an Aerospatiale Gazelle dedicated to the transport of Lon Pot, several Super Frelons, and five Augusta-Bell AB 212s, a version of the famous Huey produced under license in Italy.

At nine o’clock at night, Air Force Chief Henry Loh landed his AB 212 in a self-raised dust storm twenty meters from the village administrator’s house in Mawkmai. Loh always took the controls when he was aboard any aircraft, and the helicopter’s regular pilot had assumed copilot duties.

As the rotors wound down, a flight of two MiGs passed overhead and began to circle the village at less than one thousand meters. They were there for emphasis, though they were unlikely to be needed.

Eight men scrambled from the helicopter’s cabin. Six of them were uniformed in camouflaged fatigues, with no badges of rank, but with the authority of new model Kalashnikov AK-74 assault rifles.

Two of the men were assistants to the new village administrator, who was also a passenger.

The last man was Police Chief Micah Chao. He was a small and tidy man, with oiled blue-black hair, and eyes the color of flint. Like his squad of men, he was dressed in fatigues, but he wore a Sam Browne belt… a reincarnation of colonial British oppressors Loh frequently thought… with a holstered Colt .45 automatic that was nearly as large as Chao. Loh thought that if Chao ever fired the weapon, he would find himself rocketed into China.

Loh also thought that Lon Pot’s organization re-fleeted the leader’s mind. A police chief, an air force chief, an army chief, and a finance chief were close to the head of the new government. Posts in domestic and foreign affairs and policy would be designated later, if they became necessary, and would report to one of Pot’s deputies.

He did not care, one way or the other, as long as he headed the air force.

Sliding out of his seat, Loh joined Chao as they walked toward the house. The noise of their arrival had alerted the occupants, and lights were coming on.

“This man may be more difficult,” Chao told him.

Loh shrugged. A few had resisted, but most had not. Throughout the Shan state, helicopter teams had visited the key villages, urged the old administration to step aside, and installed new administrators. It was a warlord society, the custom of generations, and warlords changed.

The least difficult had been in Taunggyi, the capital city of Shan. Lon Pot already owned most of the government officials there, and they had readily signed new oaths.

The transition of power was taking place smoothly and with less bloodletting than Loh had anticipated.

By the end of the week, Shan State would be Lon Pot’s. Within a month, the master anticipated having control of Kachin State in the north and Kayah State, which lay just southwest of this village.

The governments of Burma had been in chaos for years, and neither Lon Pot nor his deputies expected heavy resistance to subtle and unadvertised transfers of loyalty. As the tide of change rolled south, toward Rangoon and the national government, key members of the incumbent armed forces and police would either be converted or terminated.

Loh followed Micah Chao to the door, which opened immediately.

The administrator stood in the doorway and bowed his head in recognition.

Police Chief Micah Chao, whose new title was unknown to the administrator, but whose relationship to Lon Pot was, said, “You have been demoted. You must now collect your belongings and move.”

The man’s eyes widened. They shifted to peer into the darkness beyond Chao’s shoulder and weigh the threat of the armed men. The jet fighters circled, their throttled-back engines still an ominous thunder.

“I have not been advised of this change.”

“You are being advised now.”

“I should contact the capital.”

“Which will tell you the same thing,” Chao said. “You will leave immediately.”

“But my family! It will take time…”

Chao unsnapped the flap of his holster.

Loh was not certain whether the policeman would be able to lift the Colt from the holster. He stayed behind Chao, an observer of one of life’s lesser events.

“I insist upon seeing your credentials and a written order,” the administrator said.

Unfortunately.

The Colt came out of the holster with ease.

Exploded loudly in the night.

And Chao was not rocketed into China.

On the last leg, A.J. Soames moved to air controller in the Kappa Kat’s backseat, and Fred Nackerman, a hazel-eyed, redheaded youngster of twenty-eight years, took over the controls. Nackerman was a New Jersey native, and he had never gotten it out of his speech.

Kimball had set up a rotation schedule for all of the pilots, and not one of them was in the same seat in which he had left Phoenix.

The stopover at Greenham Common Air Base in England had been uneventful, primarily since there was no concern for the import or export of cargo aboard the C-141s. Whatever it was, it was going straight through.

They had refueled the planes and fed the personnel and taken off.

Eleven-and-a-half hours out of Atlanta, at four-thirty in the morning in North Africa, the flight of KAT aircraft was approaching their destination. They had been allowed to overfly France, as long as they stayed above 30,000 feet, but they had had to circumnavigate Libya, flying across Tunisia, Algeria, and a large segment of Nigeria.

Soames estimated that the Starlifters were now about twelve hundred miles behind them. The squadron had passed them just south of Paris.

Tex Brabham was still in the copilot’s seat, having overruled Kimball’s rotation plan because, he said, he didn’t often get such a chance to fly the beast. Nackerman had let him take the controls for a couple hours.

Kimball was in the seat next to Soames, sound asleep.

The stars were crisp and clean in a moonless sky. Soames hadn’t been to Africa in so long that he had forgotten that clarity. They were at 20,000 feet above ground level (AGL), and not much of the terrain was visible in the darkness, but it wouldn’t have been very scenic if he could have seen it. He remembered that.

Jay Halek was Bengal One, and Soames called him on Tac Two.

“Barnfire?”

“I’m awake, Papa.”

“ETA in twenty.”

“I see the lights,” Halek said.

In the far distance, there was a slightly warm glow on the horizon.

“Your eyes are better than mine,” Soames said.

“Nah, Papa, just my anticipation.”

“All right, Bengals, let’s go to work. I’m cancelling data feeds and you’re coming off autopilot. Let’s begin our descent. Take it slow to angels ten,” Soames said, and on the intercom, added, “You want to lead the way, Flapjack?”

Nackerman was fond of big breakfasts, and often ate them for dinner.

“Roger, Papa.”

The steady drone of the turbofans changed pitch, and the Kappa Kat began to settle.

Soames checked the running lights of the fighters off both wings and found them matching the descent.

When he saw starshine reflecting from the surface of the huge Lake Chad, Soames checked his chart under the red map light and dialed in a new frequency on the Tac One channel.

“N’Djamena Air Control, this is Kimball Aero Tech two-two.”

“Two-two, N’Djamena.” The voice was in the upper ranges, with a pronounced British accent. “We indicate a flight of seven aircraft.”

“Affirmative. I have a flight of seven.”

“You are ahead of schedule, two-two.”

“I had nice tail winds. I’m requesting permission for landing.”

“Permission to land is granted. There is no other traffic in the area. Visibility unlimited, winds northwest at five knots, gusting to twelve knots.”

Soames went back to Tac Two and broke off the Alpha Kats, setting them up in landing pairs and spacing them ahead of the Kappa Kat.

At 8,000 feet, he released his oxygen mask and let it hang from the side of his helmet.

The capital of Chad had about 200,000 residents, and the city was sprawled widely around the confluence of the Logone and Shari rivers, which fed Lake Chad. That early in the morning, the lighting appeared dim and the city sleepy as they circled it to the north. The runway lights were bright and welcoming.

The lead pilot in each pair of fighters checked in with the tower, then landed smoothly.

Nackerman brought the Kappa Kat in last, and it

wasn’t until the main gear touched down that Kimball stirred.

He sat up, rolling his head to stretch his neck muscles, and looked out the canopy. Unsnapping his oxygen mask, he licked his lips. The oxygen mixture tended to dry out the mouth.

On the intercom, he said, “Damn, A.J., I didn’t think I’d sleep that long.”

“It’s good for you, boy. There wasn’t anything to see anyway.”

“The Starlifters?”

“It’ll be a couple hours before they get in.”

“Any glitches?”

From the front seat, Brabham asked, “With my birds, Kim? You crazy?”

“It was just a loose thought, Tex.”

“As soon as my equipment gets here, we’ll tear into ’em and see how they fared,” Brabham said. “I don’t think we’ll find much of anything wrong, though.”

A white Toyota pickup was leading the string of fighters down a taxiway, and Nackerman fell in behind them. On the far side of the airport was the commercial terminal. On this side, they passed several large hangars and parked military aircraft, primarily of French manufacture. Soames saw a couple Hueys and several varieties of Cessna and Beechcraft light-twins that had apparently been converted to military use.

“I’m going to uncork us, Flapjack.”

“Go ahead.”

Soames found the canopy control and raised the rear canopy. Desert air, surprisingly cool, rushed in. It felt dry, but after his years in the Southwest, not uncomfortably so.

A couple of Chadians, Soames didn’t know whether or not they were military, directed them into parking places.

“Damn,” Brabham said. “They’re only giving us two helpers? I’m the only mechanic here.”

“But the best one,” Soames reminded him.

“Goes without saying,” Brabham said.

After Nackerman shut down, the four of them unstrapped and took turns descending to the ground.

Brabham rubbed the toe of his polished and worn cowboy boot over the surface of the asphalt. There was a heavy coating of sand on it.

“First thing, I’ve got to get the intakes and exhaust covered. Close the canopies. Otherwise, we’ll be taking this desert along with us.”

The protective covers were aboard the transports, Soames knew.

“You want my flight suit for that, Tex?” he asked.

“Naw. These guys’re bound to have some canvas around somewhere.”

Brabham walked off to meet the Chadians.

Soames stretched his arms out and took a deep breath.

“I may be getting too old for this, Kim.”

“Can’t see it, A.J. You like hot airplanes and strange new air fields too much.”

“I like showers, too.”

Nackerman, Kimball, and Soames started walking back toward the hangars they had passed.

“You’d think somebody would have sent a car or a bus,” Nackerman said.

Soames told him, “You can bet there was a Frenchman in charge of ground transportation.”

At six o’clock in the morning, which was not an unusual time for him to be up and around, Major General Brock Dixon stopped on his way to work at his nearby 7-Eleven. He went inside and bought a large, hot, and black coffee.

He carried it and a morning Post outside, skipped getting into his Buick, and went to the end of the building to lean against the brick exterior. He sipped from the cup and leafed through the first section.

All around him, Alexandria was coming awake. The traffic on the streets was picking up.

At 6:06 A.M., the phone rang, and he reached into the bubble and picked it up.

“Six-oh-six,” he said, checking his watch. It was six minutes after eleven in Chad.

“Cable car,” Crider told him.

“Status?”

“All the players are here.”

“And the condition?”

“I think they all look good.”

“That’s too bad,” Dixon said. “There should be an accident.”

“Fatal?”

“Of course not. But embarrassing would be all right.”

“One embarrassing event coming up,” Crider said and hung up.

Kimball was tired, but not sleepy, and he spent the morning in his hotel having breakfast and getting cleaned up. The hotel was bare bones, but presentable, and the menu had a Continental flair to it.

His room had a telephone and a radio, but no television. The radio lacked a tuning knob, and the station it was locked into broadcast staccato Arabic.

He was rereading his fact sheet in preparation for the afternoon meeting with the defense ministry officials when the phone rang.

He picked it up. The connection was weak, and he found he had to double his volume.

“Kimball.”

“H’lo.” Almost unheard.

“Kimball,” he said louder.

“It’s Susan”

“Hi, boss lady. What’s up?”

“Everything is fine here, Kim. 1 wanted to make sure you’d arrived all right.”

“Now, mother…”

“Don’t give me that. I’m not asking for much, and some of the wives have been calling.”

“All personnel are healthy and present. We went through Atlanta just as planned. Equipment-wise, we had one hydraulic leak, and that was on a Starlifter. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said. He had to strain to hear her. “How’s Sam Eddy?”

She could have called McEntire directly, but Kimball didn’t mention it.

“He’s fine.”

“Good. Call me tomorrow, after the demonstration.” He sighed, remembering his collegiate days, when his mother had insisted on a call a week since he wasn’t writing letters. His parents were both dead now, and every once in a while, he regretted some of those missed phone calls.

Kimball left the hotel at noon, still feeling some of the effects of jet lag, and shared a cab with McEntire out to the airport.

“Susie called.”

“Oh. Any particular reason?”

“Wanted to know if we made it.”

“We did,” McEntire grinned.

“Wanted to know how you were.”

“And you told her?”

“Fine.”

“You’re a terrific observer, Kim.”

McEntire obviously wasn’t going to get into personal discussions, and Kimball wasn’t going to probe any deeper. They talked tactics for the rest of the trip to the airport.

Their space at the north end of the air field had been cordoned off with standards and yellow tape. Two men with slung, and unloaded, M-16s walked the perimeter. The two Starlifters were parked side by side, with their tails pointed toward the row of KAT aircraft. The ramps were down, and people hustled in-and-out of the cargo bays, which were being used as portable workshops.

By the time Kimball and McEntire crawled under the yellow tape, Carl Dent was supervising the uncrating of the first practice missiles. A stack of wood was growing next to the ramp as the crates were pried open with crowbars, and the small portable crane was used to lift the missiles from their wooden cradles and move them to dollies.

A few Chadian pilots were being escorted for sneak previews of the fighters by KAT pilots.

They found Soames in the middle of the confusion, directing it with clipboard in hand. “About time the executives showed up,” he said.

“Where are we at, A.J.?”

He checked his clipboard.

“I’ve got Conrad and the demo pilots at the hotel, sleeping. Ito and Jimmy joined some of our hosts and flew out to the target site by helicopter. They’re going to show them how to best set up their radar and defensive network.”

“Not that it’ll do them any good,” McEntire said.

“Of course not. Howard Cadwell and George Wagers are briefing the Chad pilots who will act as the defenders in tonight’s exercise.”

“It’s not often that the aggressors come in and brief the defenders before an attack,” Kimball said.

“They need all the help they can get,” Soames said. “There seems to be quite a few French advisors tagging along.”

“I’m not going to worry about that,” Kimball said. “In fact, it’d be nice if we could impress them, too.”

“I’m resting the guys every twenty minutes,” Soames said. “It’s a hundred and four degrees on the asphalt, and I sent Keeper into town earlier to buy a few hundred pounds of ice. There’s iced tea and water in the first Starlifter if you want it.”

“I want,” McEntire said.

They climbed the ramp into the plane and got tall paper cups of tea from five-gallon, insulated vats. The shade of the interior was deceptive; the temperature wasn’t three or four degrees less than on the tarmac.

Carrying their iced drinks, Kimball and McEntire ran down Brabham and the three of them toured the airplanes. Brabham assured them that every system hummed.

Carl Dent stopped Kimball and asked for permission to start loading missiles.

Kimball gave it.

Despite the oppressive heat and the heavy work, everyone was in good spirits. Kimball didn’t hear one argument. If someone needed help, someone else jumped to his aid, mechanic or pilot.

At 2:30 P.M., the Kappa Kat and two Alpha Kats took off for the afternoon demonstration. The short daylight exercise was necessary so that observers on the ground could see that the Alpha Kats actually engaged and destroyed an aerial target under the direction and control of the Kappa Kat. The target was one of a dozen weather balloons they had brought along.

The aircraft were back on the ground by 3:30 P.M., Brabham and his technicians swarming over them, sweating profusely in the heat.

At 4:30 P.M., Kimball, McEntire, and Soames gathered their easels and other paraphernalia and carried it the half-mile to the small building near the large hangars that housed the air defense headquarters.

The briefing was scheduled for five o’clock, and they spent the waiting time meeting the officials who were there to attend it. Almost all of them spoke English, and for those who didn’t, there were interpreters available.

The defense minister was there, along with a gaggle of assistants. Most of the officers present carried hats with lots of braid on the visors. There were three French advisors meandering around the conference room.

McEntire, who was KAT’s vice president for public relations, was in fine form. He melted into the crowd, shaking hands and slapping backs and promising grand receptions in the United States, should anyone ever get over there.

Kimball often envied Sam Eddy his ease with people.

He and Soames tended to get locked into serious discussions with people who didn’t understand the first thing about the technologies involved. There was a great deal of hand movement and sign language involved in the dialogue.

At five o’clock, the defense minister achieved silence by raising his arms. The man was almost seven feet tall, and raising his arms almost raised the ceiling.

Kimball moved to the head of the room to start his presentation. McEntire stood next to the easel, ready to flip the charts in coordination with Kimball’s prepared speech. A.J. Soames stood by on the other side of him, holding a thick binder, ready to come up with factual responses to any detailed questions.

Kimball cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, thank you for inviting us to your country. You’ve been very kind hosts.”

The defense minister smiled.

At Kimball’s signal, McEntire flipped up the chart cover, revealing a large, detailed rendering of the Alpha Kat, bristling with firepower, and adorned with the blue, yellow, and red flag of Chad on her canted rudder.

“Please take a close look at the Alpha Kat, gentlemen. As soon as night falls, she will disappear, and try as you might, you will be unable to find her.”