“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.”
CHAPTER 103
I NEEDN’T HAVE worried. Hector was there waiting in a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee and drove across the airfield to meet us the moment the airstairs touched the asphalt. Hector Lopez had a high forehead, chiseled cheekbones, and narrow eyes that exuded intelligence. He was an approachable man with a strong sense of honor, and I’d warmed to him the instant he’d arrived for his interview. He stepped out of the jeep, wearing a light blue bomber jacket, a navy shirt and black jeans.
“Good to see you, boss,” he said as we hurried over to the SUV. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”
After the freezing cold of Moscow and New York, the sweet, cool breeze of a mild Nevada winter seemed almost tropical. I jumped in the passenger seat, and Dinara climbed in the back. The dashboard clock said 10:51 a.m.
“How did you get on the field?” I asked as he started driving toward the small terminal building.
“I flashed my old Bureau ID,” Hector explained. “I know, I know, it’s a felony to impersonate an FBI agent, but I used to be one, so it’s kind of a gray area. At least in my mind. I told the airport manager that no matter what he heard, this plane was Bureau and it was not to be interfered with.”
I was impressed with Hector’s resourcefulness.
“Hector Lopez, this is Dinara Orlova,” I said. “Hector runs Private Vegas. Dinara is head of Private Moscow.”
“Good to meet you,” Hector said.
“You also,” Dinara replied.
“So where are we going?” Hector asked.
“Naval Air Station Fallon,” I replied. “We need to get inside.”
Hector puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, and a look of disbelief swept across his face. “I don’t think my old Bureau ID will work on those fellas.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ll get us in.”
Hector didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. He flashed his Bureau ID at the airport gate guard, and moments later we were gathering speed on Rio Vista Drive.
CHAPTER 104
THE MUNICIPAL AIRPORT was located northeast of Fallon, and the Naval Air Station was seven miles directly south, on the other side of town. They traveled through a flat, arid landscape, which was broken only by the occasional single story-home. High mountains wrinkled the distant horizon. No one said anything, and Hector Lopez covered the distance in twelve minutes.
Dinara had felt strange being introduced as the head of Private Moscow. She’d appreciated Jack’s gesture, but it had rung hollow. There wasn’t really anything to be head of. Leonid was gone, which only left Elena Kabova. Dinara wondered if the office administrator had been pulled in for questioning, or whether she was sitting in the Moscow office, puzzling over what had happened.
Dinara had slept on the plane, and her kaleidoscopic dreams had been dominated by Leonid’s death. She kept replaying the awful moment, despairing at her inability to save him. She’d slept but she didn’t feel rested, and the flat, desolate, alien landscape made her experience feel even more surreal. She was traveling with one of the world’s most wanted men, and they were about to attempt to infiltrate a high-security military installation.
Dinara studied Jack for any clue to his plan, but he was stony-faced. Did he even have a plan? Or was this simply the last gamble of a desperate man?
“Here goes,” Hector said as he made a left off Pasture Road onto a private driveway that led to a guardhouse. A wedge barrier blocked the road ahead of the guardhouse; then there were a couple of chicanes and finally a gate. Signs either side of the driveway warned trespassers they would be prosecuted.
“Want to tell me what you’ve got in mind, boss?” Hector asked.
“Show your ID,” Jack replied as the SUV rolled toward the wedge barrier.
A uniformed Marine emerged from the guardhouse. He held an assault rifle in the ready position. Dinara could see him looking at Hector’s ID from a distance.
“Just get us to the guardhouse,” Jack muttered.
“Then what?” Hector asked, but the question went unanswered.