Countdown to Midnight

Thirty-Four

Responding to a summons blared over the ship’s intercom system, Viktor Skoblin hurried out onto the navigation’s bridge’s windswept portside wing. Captain Reza Heidari and his second-in-command, Dabir, were both at the forward railing. Heidari was peering intently through a pair of powerful mounted binoculars at a distant silvery dot high in the blue, nearly cloudless sky ahead of them. White contrails streamed out behind the speeding aircraft as it flew northeastward.

The Revolutionary Guard navy officer turned his head toward the Russian. “Our radar picked up this air contact crossing our course a few minutes ago.”

Skoblin frowned. They were well off the normal commercial flight routes between North America and Europe, and still more than two thousand kilometers east of Puerto Rico. That made this sudden appearance of an unknown plane more worrying. “Could this be someone out searching for us?” he asked guardedly. The closer they came to their intended launch coordinates, the more disastrous it would be to be discovered by the Americans.

Heidari stepped back from the binoculars, making room for the Russian to take his place. “See for yourself, Major,” he said. He shrugged. “But we’re not detecting any surface search radar emissions from that aircraft. Nor has it altered its flight path by even a degree to come any closer to us. I suspect a genuine reconnaissance flight would behave very differently.”

Still scowling, Skoblin bent down to look through the binoculars. He focused on the distant plane. It was a twin-engine aircraft, and it looked significantly smaller than most commercial passenger airliners or cargo jets. In and of itself, that meant nothing, since both the American navy and air force maintained fleets of smaller planes, usually used as VIP transports, that might be pressed into service for visual reconnaissance if necessary. But this aircraft wasn’t painted military gray, he noted. Instead, it was a mix of bright colors — red, green, and white. He supposed it was possible that the Americans could have repainted one of their transports in those hues as a disguise, but such thoughts verged on paranoia. “That’s probably just a business jet,” he mused out loud. “Some rich man’s private plane ferrying him from a vacation in the Caribbean islands back to Europe. Or perhaps the Arab oil states.”

“Yes, that would be my guess as well,” Heidari agreed evenly.

Nettled, Skoblin stepped back from the telescope. If the Iranian had been so sure there was no real threat to their mission, why haul him all the way up here on the double? Was it some sort of dominance game — a chess move to remind him of his subordinate status? “Thank you for informing me of this contact, Captain,” he said stiffly. “I’m glad this turned out to be nothing to worry about.” Two can play games, he thought coldly. He waved a hand at the sea and sky around them. “Perhaps in the future you will make sure your lookouts and radar operators are on maximum alert. We can’t afford any surprises from here on in.”

“Your recommendation is noted, Major,” the Iranian naval officer said gravely. “You can be sure that my crew will do its best.”

“Until later, then,” Skoblin said. He turned on his heel and headed for the ladder leading down toward the compartments reserved for his Raven Syndicate security unit.

Watching the Russian go, Dabir murmured. “That snake will cause us trouble in the end.”

Reza Heidari nodded. “Indeed.” His own gaze was ice-cold. “But not for long.”

Many miles to the north, Laura Van Horn was at the controls of the fast Gulfstream G650 business jet cruising northeast at forty thousand feet. At the moment, she had nothing to do but sit tight, since they were flying on autopilot — behaving just like any genuine luxury private aircraft making a transatlantic crossing. She glanced around the elaborately instrumented cockpit with a pleased smile. This was a heck of a nice ride, night and day from the kit-built BushCat she’d been flitting around Afghanistan, Iran, and Central Texas in. The Quartet Directorate had leased this Gulfstream through one of its front groups.

“How’s it going back there? Any luck?” She called over the intercom.

From the aft cabin, Fox replied. “We’re almost finished, Laura. And yes, we guessed right. That ship out there is definitely the Gulf Venture. There’s no doubt at all.” Four’s American station chief and a couple of vetted contract technicians were manning a long-range tracking camera similar to those used to monitor rocket launches. It allowed them to capture close-up images of the oil tanker more than forty miles away. The clear visibility for this sortie was a plus, but the camera also had an infrared capability, and they also were using it to take detailed readings on the massive vessel’s heat signature. The current forecasts predicted worsening weather over the next day or two. If those forecasts were accurate, the IR scans they were getting could prove vital.

Van Horn nodded to herself. As they’d hoped, the Iranian tanker hadn’t changed course or speed since their last satellite pass. That strongly suggested the ship was heading directly toward a launch point picked out by planners in Tehran and Moscow. Assuming they planned to launch near the maximum range estimated by Four’s experts, that should be a patch of ocean roughly 750 miles due east of Norfolk, Virginia. If so, that would put the enemy a little under four days from being able to fire.

She settled back down to wait as patiently as she could. She couldn’t bank the Gulfstream G650 back toward Florida until they were well beyond the Gulf Venture’s radar and visual horizon. And she’d have to be sure to stay far to the north on the return leg. One pass by a private jet could be chalked up to coincidence by the crew aboard that ship. But two passes by the same aircraft in a matter of hours would undoubtedly alert them that this was enemy action. This was flying a fine line, she thought, gathering just enough intelligence to give Flynn’s assault force a shot at finding the tanker when it steamed into range… without putting the Iranians and Russians on board on high alert.

The Orlando Apopka Airport was a single runway, privately owned airfield about twenty miles northwest of central Orlando. A highway ran along one side of the airport. The other bordered a large twenty-thousand-acre wildlife area around the shores of Lake Apopka, the fourth largest lake in Florida. More than eighty small hangars housed the small private planes based there.

With the sun hanging low and orange on the western horizon, several vans rolled past a brown stone and dark wood building that contained the little airport’s offices and a flight school. At the end of the drive, they turned onto a side road that also served as a taxiway for aircraft. The vans parked on a hard-packed dirt lot next to one of the larger hangars.

Nick Flynn hopped down from of one of the vehicles. He was followed by the rest of his Dragon assault team. A door on the side of the hangar opened, and Fox and Laura Van Horn came out to meet them.

“So, what do you think of your ride?” she asked innocently, pointing behind him.

He turned around and caught sight of a very large four-engine turboprop parked at the edge of the runway. This aircraft completely dwarfed the other private planes — mostly a mix of single-engine Cessnas, Beechcraft, and Pipers of various models — scattered around the tarmac and hanger complex. He whistled in surprise. “Holy crap! A C-130J Super Hercules?” He swung back to Van Horn. “What’d you do? Steal a plane from the Alaska Air National Guard like those Stinger missiles you used in Iran? That’s pretty bold, even for you.”

She grinned. “Nothing quite so piratical this time. This is totally legit.” She nodded toward the big turboprop. “That’s an LM-100J, the commercial version of the Super Hercules. We’re subleasing it from a private aviation company.” Her grin widened. “They think we need it to shoot some scenes for a low-budget made-for-streaming action-adventure movie. When they asked what it was called, we told them the working title was something like Sky Dragons on Spring Break.”

Flynn heard the strangled laughs from the rest of his assault force and matched her expression. “Close enough to the truth, I guess. And at least you know how to fly that thing.”

Van Horn’s smile disappeared. She shook her head. “It won’t be me this time, Nick. I’ll be piloting your backup aircraft, which is waiting on the ground in Bermuda for me now. Because the way I see it, that’s going to be an even trickier gig than getting you all to the target.”

Flynn nodded. He should have figured that would be the case. Coming up with a way to reinforce his team with a qualified crew to sail the tanker if they succeeded — or to rescue any survivors if things went south — had been a difficult problem to solve. As things went, the best idea they’d been able to come up with was still a long shot, one that would require a lot of luck and an incredibly skilled pilot to pull off. “So who’s going to be at the controls of that Herky Bird?” he asked. “Because I wouldn’t have thought Four had a surplus of qualified multi-engine aircraft pilots just waiting around.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Van Horn said enigmatically. She turned and signaled to the hangar.

Flynn stared at the man who walked out to join them. He’d last seen the newcomer more than a year ago in Alaska and in very different circumstances. Back then, Major Jack “Ripper” Ingalls had been the commander of the damaged C-130J that had made an emergency landing at his last duty station. Van Horn had been his copilot. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? An old flight school reunion? Or is everybody in the Air National Guard wearing two hats now, pilot by day, secret agent by night?” Ingalls had the grace to look abashed.

“Actually, sizing up Rip here as a possible Quartet Directorate recruit was my primary mission on that tour of duty. Because as you’ve noticed, we’re kind of short of skilled personnel of all kinds,” Van Horn said. “Snagging you for Four was a bonus.” She smiled sweetly. “But it does seem like one of my better calls, don’t you think?.”

Fox spoke up. “As I told you at our first meeting, Nick, having Laura meet and assess you then was pure serendipity.”

“So I see,” Flynn said dryly. He turned to Van Horn. “Okay, who else have you got stashed in that hangar as a surprise? My mother?”

“Thought about it,” she said cheerfully. “But then I decided that might be pushing things a bit too far.”

Knowing when he was licked, Flynn just shook his head. He glanced back at his team, ignoring their barely suppressed grins. “Why don’t you guys start getting our equipment inside.”

Obeying, they split up and began lugging cases from the vans into the hangar. On his way past, Hynes murmured, “You know, sir, having met your mom, signing her up with this outfit might not be such a bad idea. She seemed kind of bad ass to me. Not meaning any disrespect, of course.”

Flynn shuddered. “There are some things, Cole,” he said sternly, “that are too horrifying to contemplate.” He shook his head. “Maybe we’re not strictly bound by the laws of war, but I’d still draw the line at inflicting my mother on an enemy force — even on a bunch of terrorists.”

Hynes chuckled. “Point taken, sir. One Flynn is a force multiplier. Two Flynns would be a war crime.” Still smiling broadly, he moved off to the back of one of the vans.

Flynn followed Van Horn, Fox, and Ingalls into the hangar. It was empty, except for a row of cots, several long, picnic-style tables, folding chairs, and a couple of portable refrigerators plugged in along one wall. Some of the support staff from Avalon House had also rigged up a portable shower area near the back of the hangar. From now on, the Dragon team would be bunking in here. Looking over the facilities, he nodded in satisfaction. He and his men might not exactly be comfortable, but at least they’d be ready and able to fly out practically the moment Fox could give them a solid bearing on the Gulf Venture. Over on the far side of the hanger, now that they were safe from prying eyes, Hynes, Kossak, McGill, and the rest of the team started unpacking and checking over their assault gear — their wingsuits, parachutes, weapons, and other special items.

Fox ushered Flynn and the others over to one of the tables where he’d set up an improvised command post. It held an assortment of computers, LED displays, and communications equipment. “I thought you’d like to see our assessment of the current situation,” he told them. “It’s based on the data we picked up from our second aerial acquisition of the Gulf Venture, during the Gulfstream pass we made several hours ago.”

Flynn nodded. While he and his men were aboard their commercial flight from Austin to Orlando, they’d been out of secure communication with the reconnaissance group attempting to track the Iranian tanker.

The older man sat down and used a keyboard to bring up a large map of the Atlantic on one of the computer displays. A blinking dot at the end of a long red track showed the projected position of the enemy vessel, based on its last known course and speed. If the estimate was accurate, the ship was now around eighteen hundred miles off the South Florida coast.

Flynn studied the map in silence for a moment. Then he looked over at Ingalls. “What do you think, Rip?”

The former Air National Guard major chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds. “The tanker’s within the range of that LM-100J Super Hercules parked outside — at least if it’s fully fueled and carrying a very light load.” He glanced over at the rest of the Dragon team. “Which you and your people definitely are.”

Flynn nodded. A fully loaded C-130J could carry ninety-two fully equipped paratroops or 42,000 pounds of cargo. Compared to that, this four-engine turboprop would be flying almost empty with just the eight of them in its cavernous aft compartment. He turned back to Fox. “We should go tonight,” he said forcefully. “If we take off after dark, we can be in the air over that ship in a little more than four and a half hours. And the sooner we hit the bad guys, the better.”

The older man shook his head regretfully. “Normally, I’d agree, Nick, but there’s another factor to consider.”

“Ah, crap, the weather?” Flynn guessed.

“The weather,” Van Horn confirmed.

“Show me.”

Fox brought up a weather overlay on the map. It showed a band of storms — with thick clouds, strong winds, and high seas — moving to the northwest across that part of the Atlantic. Inset boxes showed the predicted high-altitude wind speeds inside those storm clouds.

Flynn frowned. “Shit,” he muttered. Fox was right. Weather was always the controlling factor for any airborne operation. And any jump into those conditions would be suicide. Given those winds and the poor visibility, his team would be scattered across miles of ocean. They’d certainly never be able to touch down safely on the Gulf Venture’s deck. Big as that oil tanker was, it was scarcely larger than a grain of sand when compared to the immensity of the sea.

“If there’s any consolation in this situation, it’s that the same factors apply to any sea-based rocket launch,” Fox pointed out. “The same high winds and waves which make it too dangerous for you and your team to drop should also make it too risky for the Iranians and their Raven Syndicate allies to carry out their attack.”

Flynn smiled ruefully. “There are a lot of implicit shoulds and hopefullys in that analysis, Br’er Fox,” he said. “Too many for my comfort.”

The older man nodded. “Mine, too,” he admitted.

“Any guesses on when this bad weather should clear?”

Fox shrugged. “Right now, the meteorologists say sometime in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

Flynn felt his jaw tighten. Based on the calculations run by Four’s missile experts, the Gulf Venture was already under forty-five hours’ steaming time away from its predicted launch point. This was all coming down to the wire a lot faster than he liked. He took another look at the wall of storms shown on their map and scowled. “There’s another danger we have to consider,” he said darkly. He traced out the band of bad weather. “The Gulf Venture could use the cover provided by this bad weather front to execute a radical course change and vanish again.”

“We’re aware of the risk,” Fox said. “Laura and I have another reconnaissance flight planned for tomorrow around this time. If that tanker isn’t where it’s supposed to be, we’ll still have time to search the area and pinpoint it again.”

Van Horn nodded. “We’re on this, Nick,” she assured him. “From forty thousand feet or more, we’ll have a two hundred and forty mile — plus visual horizon. And the long-range tracking camera and telescope rig we’re using has IR capability. Storm clouds or not, those bastards won’t be able to hide from us. So if they do try to get cute at the last minute, we’ll find them for you.”