Private Moscow

Chapter 102

Instead of flying over the continental United States, which would have attracted attention, I tracked the Pacific coast over international waters. Dinara managed a few hours’ sleep, but I was too amped to rest and was running on adrenalin. I disabled the aircraft transponder, but there was nothing I could do about radar except keep clear of known installations and air corridors. I spent a long time studying everything I could find on Ann Kavanagh. Justine had been right; Kavanagh fit the Bright Star profile. A ward of the state, distinguished service in the military, a successful career, a wealthy recluse. She wasn’t often photographed, but the pictures that did exist showed a tall, athletic woman with blond hair, pale, unblemished skin, and wide, flat eyes. There was something ethereal about her, and she looked as though she might have had Scandinavian heritage.

We finally entered American airspace over the Mendocino National Forest, a large stretch of wilderness some 350 miles from Fallon, approximately forty minutes out. My gamble paid off, and we weren’t challenged until we were a hundred miles from Fallon and had started our final descent.

“Unidentified aircraft, this is Naval Air Station Fallon. Identify yourself and state your destination,” a stern voice said over the radio.

“This is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” I replied, giving the tail number of a G650 based in San Francisco. “We’ve run into electrical problems. All our systems are failing intermittently. We’re heading for Fallon Municipal, and will put down there until we can get an engineer out.”

“Copy that,” the NAS Fallon controller said. “Do not deviate from your current course.”

“Understood,” I replied. “Will stay on heading one-three-two.”

Dinara entered the cockpit.

“Better strap yourself in,” I said.

She took the co-pilot’s chair and buckled up.

I switched to Fallon Municipal Airport tower frequency. “FLX Fallon, FLX Fallon, this is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango flying from San Francisco to New York. We’ve encountered an electrical fault and need to land to make repairs.”

“Copy that, November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” a man replied. Calm and measured, he lacked the authoritarian tone of the military air traffic controller. “Are you deadstick?” he asked, using the aviation term for an unresponsive aircraft.

“Negative,” I replied. I didn’t want the airport crash tenders being deployed. “We think it’s a blown fuseboard.”

“Copy that,” the Fallon Municipal controller replied. “Stay on approach one-three-two. Runway thirteen is clear.”

“Copy,” I said, making my final preparations. “We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes,” I told Dinara. “I hope Hector’s there, because when they realize our tail number doesn’t match the one I’ve given them, there’s going to be trouble.”