Nighthawk

25

They parted ways at the airport — Rudi boarding a flight for Washington to put out a growing series of political brush fires, Kurt and Emma boarding the NUMA Gulfstream for a ninety-minute flight to Cajamarca, Peru, where they would meet up with Paul and Gamay.

Joe would follow in the Erickson Air-Crane, but the helicopter’s lumbering pace and the need to stop for fuel along the way meant it would be nine hours before the Air-Crane reached Cajamarca. It was a long delay, but if they were lucky enough to find the Nighthawk—or major pieces of it — they’d need some way to haul it out of the jungle or off the mountains.

Shortly after takeoff, Emma used the encrypted satellite linkup to contact Steve Gowdy and give him a status update.

The NSA chief was blunt from the word go. “So, what was all that business with the fruit bowl?”

“Complimentary gift,” Kurt said. “We send one out to all the VIPs.”

“You’re not helping,” Emma said.

Kurt put up a hand and remained quiet for the rest of the call while Emma explained their new theory and vouched for Kurt’s belief that the NSA had a leak.

On-screen, Gowdy’s eyes narrowed, but instead of anger or defensive bluster, he said simply, “Falconer. I thought we’d determined that to be an unfounded rumor.”

“Listen to the tapes,” Emma suggested. “As they say, dead men tell no lies.”

Gowdy nodded. “I’ll start an immediate investigation. But if there is a mole in here somewhere, then you’d better be careful. Your move to Cajamarca might be front-page news already.”

“We haven’t reported it to anyone but you,” Emma replied. “But we’ll keep our eyes open.”

“You’re going to need more than that. I’m sending Hurns and Rodriguez back down to help you out. Don’t brush them off this time.”

Emma shook her head. “No deal,” she said. “If the Falconer is real and has a contact inside the NSA, it could be anyone. Even one of them, for all we know.”

“They’re field agents,” Gowdy said. “They have no access to Vandenberg. They weren’t even on the project until after the Nighthawk went missing. They’re clean, I promise you.”

Emma sighed and looked at Kurt. He shrugged. With a little luck, they’d have the Nighthawk in hand by the time the two agents arrived.

“I still don’t like it,” Emma said.

“And I don’t care,” Gowdy said. “They can stand by in Cajamarca in case you need them, but I’m sending them.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Fine. Anything else?”

“Just be quick about this,” Gowdy said. “We’re running out of time.”

Kurt saw a look pass between the two of them. Even on a video screen, even from five thousand miles away, it was obvious and intimate — the acknowledgment of something unsaid.

Without another word, Gowdy signed off.

As the screen faded to black, Emma sat quietly.

Kurt looked on. It was now obvious to him that she was concealing something — probably on direct orders from Gowdy — but, as the saying went, a lie is a lie is a lie. And, in this business, the lack of information tended to get people killed, people like Kurt and Joe.

They touched down in Cajamarca thirty minutes later and Kurt stepped from the plane into the brisk mountain air. Cajamarca sat at nearly seven thousand feet. This time of year, the midday temperatures hovered in the fifties. Quite a change from the steamy subtropical heat of Guayaquil. It was also overcast and, as any skier could attest, the difference between clouds and sunshine at high elevations was far more pronounced than at sea level.

Pulling a black sweater over his head, Kurt moved down the stairs and signed a rental car agreement for a burnt-orange four-wheel drive Range Rover Sport. It sat on the ramp beside the plane, where it would be easy to load up. As Emma swept the vehicle for bugs, Kurt walked inside the small terminal, where he spied a pair of friendly faces.

Paul and Gamay Trout had been airlifted in from the Catalina and then flown up commercial, arriving shortly before the NUMA jet.

“Great to see you guys,” Kurt said, giving both of them warm hugs.

“Glad to be back on the A-team,” Paul said. “Not that it wasn’t fun dumping millions of dollars of equipment over the side of the ship, but we’re looking forward to being used as something other than a distraction.”

“Shall we go meet your new friend?” Gamay asked, shouldering her backpack.

“Not yet,” Kurt said. “I have a change of assignment for you.”

The look of suspicion appeared in practiced unison. Gamay dropped her pack. “What is it now? Shopping for alpaca sweaters?”

“I need you to do some research,” Kurt said. “Find out everything you can about the Nighthawk, and I don’t mean the surface-level stuff. They’re hiding something from us, something big.”

“What makes you think that?” Gamay asked. “Other than your general distrust of the NSA.”

“For one thing, they seem on the verge of panic,” he replied. “It’s felt like that to me right from the start. Losing the Nighthawk would be bad, but even at its worst all that would do is give whoever found it technologies they’re probably already trying to develop.”

“It is the most advanced aircraft in the world,” Paul reminded him.

“Was,” Kurt corrected. “The thing has been floating around up in space for three years. And they didn’t design and build it in a day. At best, it’s five or six years old. The plans were probably drawn up a decade ago. Even if the Russians or the Chinese found it in one perfect piece, they’d still have to take it apart, reverse-engineer every component and then build the factories and facilities to duplicate what we already possess. What we possessed years ago. By then, we’ll be on to the next technological leap.”

Paul nodded. “Like stealing a used car and watching the owner get a new model to replace it.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Kurt said.

“It’s still a big loss,” Gamay pointed out.

“If you saw their faces, you’d think it was the end of the world.”

Gamay nodded. Paul did the same.

“And it’s not just our friends at the NSA; the Chinese and the Russians have gone over the top as well.”

“An opportunity comes up to get your hands on the adversaries stuff, you take it,” Paul said. “We always have; can’t blame them for that.”

“I don’t,” Kurt said. “But it’s not done like this. There are unwritten rules to the game. Boundaries that stop it from turning into outright war. None of those seem to be in effect here. The Chinese tried to kill us before we got to square one and the Russians tried to torpedo us twice. The second time, on the surface for everyone to see.”

“So the stakes are higher than they appear,” Paul said.

“Which is interesting, considering how high they seemed to begin with,” Gamay said.

Kurt nodded. “And we’re the only ones in the dark. That needs to change. I want to know what they’re hiding. And I want to know as soon as possible. I need you to find out what you can by linking up with Hiram and Priya on the satellite. I’m sure they can dig something up.”

“And then what?” Paul asked.

Kurt checked his watch; it was a long drive to the archaeological site. “We’ll be out of satellite coverage on the way up the mountain,” Kurt said, “but we should have a signal by the time we get there. That gives you four hours.”

“Four hours to do the impossible,” Gamay said.

Kurt was already on his way back out of the terminal. “It’s more time than I usually give you.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Gamay called out.

Kurt pushed through the door and let it close behind him, crossing to the Range Rover and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Emma was in the passenger seat. “Aren’t your friends joining us?”

“I need them to look into something,” Kurt said. “They’ll fly up with Joe, once he arrives.”

“So, it’s just the two of us on a romantic drive in the country,” she said with a grin.

Kurt smiled and turned the key. The engine came to life instantly, the finely tuned machine a symphony to his ears. “Hope you brought a picnic basket.”

“Of a sort,” she said, opening the lid of a small plastic case.

Kurt peered inside. He saw a night vision scope, a black 9mm pistol and a belt with several spare magazines. Underneath, he saw a survival knife and several small demolition charges.

“You forgot the wine,” he said.

“That’s your job,” she joked.

Kurt laughed. He might not have brought wine, but the back of the Range Rover was filled with hiking equipment and tackle, if they needed it. In addition, he’d brought his own weapon: a Heckler & Koch HK45. The weapon was a lightweight tactical .45 caliber pistol; it had a ten-round capacity, a mini-flashlight on the lower rail and tritium sights.

He had brought three spare magazines, each loaded with a separate type of ammunition. The first carried soft-tipped hollow-points; the second carried a mix of standard shells and mini-tracers, specially fabricated by a gunsmith Kurt knew. The third magazine held solid steel slugs coated with a thin layer of titanium and propelled by a more powerful blend of gunpowder; they traveled at higher velocity, and the titanium jacket kept them together at impact.

Kurt had never used them but was told they could punch through an inch of armor plating or two inches of regular steel. He was also warned that the pistol kicked like a mule when fired. He hoped he wouldn’t have to find out, but they’d already been attacked twice and he wasn’t interested in going a third round without punching back.

He dropped the transmission into drive and pulled away from the aircraft.

“So what’s with the explosives?” he asked, getting his bearings and looking for a spot to exit the ramp.

She closed the lid and put the box away. “If we find the Nighthawk and can’t haul it out of the jungle, I have orders to blow the electronics package and the propulsion system.”

It made sense. But he took everything she said with a grain of salt now. From the size of the charges, he estimated each to be the rough equivalent of a grenade. “Those should do the trick,” he said, pulling through the gate. “Next stop, La Jalca and the Fortress in the Clouds.”

Daiyu stood on a low hill watching the burnt-orange SUV as it left the airport. The color and the metallic gloss made it easy to spot, especially against the gray road and the dusty mountains.

She tracked the vehicle as it passed through the airport’s main gate and moved east. When it shifted into the right-hand lane and moved onto the mountain road, she lowered her binoculars and picked up a radio.

“Target moving,” she said, speaking into the radio. “Route 6A, as expected. We’ll follow at a distance. Be ready at the intercept point.”

“Affirmative,” a voice replied.

She clipped the radio to her belt and walked to a white Audi A8. Jian sat at the wheel, his broad shoulders filling the cockpit of the sleek car.

She climbed in the passenger’s side, slammed the door and nodded. “Go.”