Nighthawk

38

The Russian salvage fleet was now within a hundred miles of the Ecuadorian coast, though they had yet to discover any sign of either Blackjack 2 or the American space plane.

It seemed to Constantin Davidov that the race had been lost. The sudden drawdown in American naval activity suggested they’d found it.

Alone in his cabin, Davidov considered returning to Russia and facing the consequences of failure. A knock at the door startled him.

“Come in.”

It was one of the Admiral’s staff. “A message has come in,” he said. “The Admiral wishes you to meet him in the communications room.”

Davidov hurried to the communications center.

“It’s from the Falconer,” Borozdin said.

“He’s alive?”

“It would appear,” Borozdin said. “And since we’ve found no sign of Blackjack 2’s wreckage, we must assume the crew and the aircraft are fine as well.”

“Then where have they been?” Davidov snapped.

“Maybe this will tell you.”

Borozdin handed him a note. It was all code. The Falconer’s code. Davidov translated from memory and stared at the curious message. It was cryptic even after it had been deciphered. “Is this it? Is this the entire communiqué?”

“That’s all we received,” Borozdin replied. “It came in with the Falconer’s identification marks. The message is from him.”

“That, I do not doubt,” Davidov replied. “The man is nothing if not obtuse.”

He stared at the page again. “The numbers are obviously map coordinates,” he said. “But the message…”

It read:

“Full delivery,” Borozdin said. “Does he mean the Nighthawk itself?”

“I suspect he does,” Davidov replied.

“That seems doubtful,” Borozdin said. “You yourself said the Americans must have it by now. Their fleet actions confirm it. It’s a money grab, pure and simple. He’ll ambush you and take payment for what he could not deliver.”

Davidov rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“RATO,” Davidov said almost to himself. “Rocket-assisted takeoff. It’s a plan we discussed if one of the bombers captured the Nighthawk but was forced to land. A contingency to get it, and the Nighthawk, back in the air together. If he’s requesting RATO, maybe he has the Nighthawk after all.”

Borozdin shook his head. “Only you still believe in him, my friend.”

“I believe nothing,” Davidov said. “But I must not fail, not now, not after all this. Is the satellite sweep of Ecuador and Peru complete?”

“Nearly.”

“And these coordinates?”

Borozdin looked the numbers over and then moved to a computer terminal and typed them in. “Rudimentary airfield on a high plateau,” he said. “Completed by a Chinese mining company three years ago. Abandoned.”

“Do we have a recent pass?”

Borozdin accessed the satellite scan. “Yes,” he said.

“Bring it up and zoom in.”

Borozdin used the cursor to draw a box around the airfield and tapped ENTER. The resolution changed and the photograph resolved. “No sign of the Nighthawk,” he said.

“What’s that?” Davidov said, pointing to a distorted shape at one end of the airfield.

Borozdin zoomed in once more and shrugged. “Hard to tell.”

Davidov disagreed. “It’s an aircraft. A large delta-wing aircraft, hidden beneath a tarp. That’s Blackjack 2. I have no doubt.”

“If it is, then where are the crew? Why haven’t they contacted us?”

“Who knows? It’s a very remote area,” Davidov said. “A miracle they even found that airfield to set down upon.” He stood. “I need to speak with the quartermaster. And, God protect me, I need a helicopter to get me to Peru.”

“You’re not seriously going to fly out there with a suitcase full of gold?”

“I’m going to do exactly that,” Davidov said. “I’ll take four of your commandos with me.”

Borozdin clearly thought the idea was dubious, if not suicidal. But he was a sailor, a man trained to act when circumstances were in his favor and to flee when they weren’t. The intelligence service worked differently — they took chances, enormous and sometimes near-suicidal chances. It was their character and their nature and the whole reason behind the attempt to capture the American spacecraft in the first place.

Borozdin offered a more plodding solution. “We have an Antonov 124 cargo plane waiting in Havana,” Borozdin said. “Why not dispatch it with a hundred men on board? It’s designed for heavy lifting and short fields. It will easily be able to land there, pluck the Nighthawk up and carry it away. And you won’t have to expose yourself to this treachery.”

The Antonov 124 was a four-engine, heavy-lift transport. It would be perfect for the job. But getting that large aircraft into Peru unnoticed would be near impossible.

“You forget the balance of the message,” Davidov said. “The Americans are watching. I have no choice. I will ride in one of your infernal helicopters to the coast. We can charter a small turboprop aircraft to take me from there.”

“And if the Falconer double-crosses you?”

“Others will hunt him down,” Davidov said. “A fact I will remind him of when I see him.”