“Have a nice flight,” the supervisor said and motioned toward the door with his hand.
Ivan quickly redressed and collected his things before leaving the room. Unbelievable. I’m gonna kill that James Flynn the next chance I get.
Luck seemed to be on Ivan’s side, even when it didn’t first appear so.
He smiled as he headed down the concourse. Let’s go start a war.
CHAPTER 46
FLYNN ENJOYED FLYING in the CIA’s jets, if only for their extensive luxuries. Plush leather seats, a fully stocked bar, flat screen televisions. “If only there was a football game on,” Flynn mused. But then, he couldn’t be distracted by such diversions. With a war looming between two of the world’s most powerful nations, nothing was more important than his mission.
But this wasn’t just another CIA jet. This was the Lockheed Martin QSST (Quiet Supersonic Transport) prototype capable of speeds beyond 1,200 miles per hour. According to Osborne, this one was on loan to the CIA for testing purposes, registered to a French billionaire who also happened to be an agency asset. And today it was the only aircraft that could get Flynn near the Kuklovod headquarters, nestled in the Ural mountains, by early Sunday morning.
The plane’s phone rang, prompting Flynn to answer it. It was Osborne.
“Are you clear about the mission?”
“I think so,” Flynn answered. “But just to be clear, I’m in this on my own—right? Like, there’s no cavalry coming if I get caught and you’ll disavow any knowledge of me?”
“You got it. This one is completely off the books. The only people who know what you’re doing are the pilots, Lauren and me.”
“Lauren?”
“Sure, the sassy handler you met at the hangar? I’m sure you remember her.”
“Oh, yes, how could I forget? She’s the one who told me that I’m going to be jumping out of this plane.”
“Well, yes, I was hoping you were over that, but apparently you’re not.”
“Geez, Osborne. You know how I feel about jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft.”
“Oh, I know. But would you have agreed to go if I told you ahead of time?”
“OK, I get your point—but that doesn’t mean I’m forgiving you anytime soon.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just as long as you stop the Kuklovod.”
“What’s the story in Washington?”
“Sandford is pressing hard to strike the Russians first, while a faction of the President’s cabinet is trying to get him reinstated.”
“Reinstated? Is President Briggs fine now?”
“Not from what I’ve heard, but you never can be sure about the rumors bantered about in the Beltway.”
Osborne paused.
“Listen, Flynn. There’s something else you need to know about this mission.”
“Yeah? What?”
“There’s another variable to take into consideration.”
“What variable?”
“A variable named Sydney Sandford.”
“Sydney Sandford? I thought she was dead. What are you suggesting?”
“We all did. But I think part of what’s fueling Sandford’s rage to strike back at the Russians is a picture he received of Sydney providing proof of life.”
“Well, he’s always hated the Russians. That’s never been a secret, yet the fact that she may still be alive is an interesting development. But do you believe Sandford is willing to start a war over this?”
“Maybe—I can’t be sure of anything except that his hatred is stoked by his bitterness over losing his daughter in Russia and how he perceived that they never lifted a finger to help return her dead body—or as we now know, locate her. But I’m not sure what’s going on with him. He’s a loose cannon. And Sydney may be with these guys. They may use her as a bargaining chip—you just never know. So be careful, OK?”
“You know me.”
“I do—that’s why I said ‘be careful.’ ”
Flynn laughed and shook his head before hanging up. Osborne knew him better than anyone—and it’s why Flynn could handle his personal comments, snide or otherwise. No one else had earned the right to say things in jest like Osborne had. No one.
Flynn checked his watch. It was another couple of hours before he would need to suit up for the Urals’ bitter October weather, where winter had fallen already.
***
ONE HOUR BEFORE THE DROP, Flynn awoke and began checking his gear. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance, particularly when he was jumping out of an airplane. He only trusted himself to properly pack his chute.
Once he secured everything he needed, he checked his watch again. Fifteen minutes to the drop. He felt the jet turn nose down. The plane was to make a descent at 1.6 Mach from sixty-thousand feet to three-thousand feet above ground level (AGL), then slow momentarily to 200 knots so Flynn could make a safe exit from the aircraft. The co-pilot then shouted out a ten-minute warning.
Suddenly, the plane went into a violent 5G turn. Flynn was plastered to his seat.
“What’s going on up there?” Flynn shouted toward the pilots.
“Looks like we’ve got company,” the commanding pilot answered.
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I was jumping out. AWACS says we have two MIG-35s closing fast from our six o’clock. They will be in missile range in fifteen miles. We've got three minutes.”
Flynn started to panic. Three minutes! This wasn’t supposed to happen!
The pilot completed his evasive maneuver, and Flynn unbuckled and ran to the cockpit and seated himself in the jump seat just behind the pilots. He donned his jump helmet and secured his parachute, except for the leg straps. He watched the command pilot order the co-pilot to employ the radar jamming equipment. Flynn noticed the co-pilot reached for the switch but did not actually take the switch out of “standby.” Something wasn’t right. The command pilot was busy employing flares and chaff.
It was still dark but the oblivious co-pilot had not extinguished the position lights. Is he trying to get us killed? Flynn reached for the Glock 26 he had stashed in his leg holster, but not before the co-pilot shot the command pilot in the chest with a small pistol drawn from his coat pocket. The co-pilot then turned to take care of Flynn. He was too late. Flynn shot first—and with precision. He stared vacantly at the two lifeless bodies in the cockpit.
With both pilots dead and the jet in a supersonic dive, Flynn could only react. He unbuckled the command pilot and slung him into the jump seat. He then buckled himself into the left seat and reached across the dead co-pilot to switch on the jamming pod and kill the running lights. Descending to eight thousand feet, the jet’s GPS indicated they were in the target area. Flynn pulled the power to idle and banked the aircraft into a spiraling 5G nose down dive. This would slow the aircraft to a safe speed for jumping.
Flynn watched as the airspeed bled off and the altitude wound down. The air battle manager from AWACS called out a missile launch and the radar warning equipment chirped and blinked, indicating there had been a missile fired at the QSST. Flynn estimated one minute until impact. He hoped the evasive maneuvers would cause the missiles to miss their mark.
At two-hundred knots and three-thousand feet AGL, Flynn rolled out and leveled off. He set the automatic pilot, unbuckled, and scrambled for the emergency exit.
As Flynn got up to leave the cockpit, he noticed the co-pilot’s phone buzzing with a new text message. It was from someone named “Livingston . ” I knew that guy wasn’t a real cop.
He forced open the hatch and jumped into the cold night air. The first missile did miss. Flynn almost yanked at the ripcord but remembered his leg straps were not buckled. The 180 mile per hour wind caused him to tumble as he fumbled for the leg straps. It only took ten terror-stricken seconds to secure them, but it felt much longer than that to Flynn. He then assumed the free fall position, stabilizing the tumbling before pulling the ripcord. He welcomed the swift jolt as the chute opened.
&n
bsp; Flynn had just enough time to lower the clear visor on his jump helmet before his body was pounded with tree branches rushing toward him. He came to an abrupt stop and yo-yoed a few times, suspended about eight feet off the ground in a tree. Nothing seemed to be broken. In the distance the second missile found its mark.
“I wasn’t going to land that bird anyhow,” Flynn muttered to himself.
It was like a magic trick where the magician focuses the audience’s attention in one direction only to be pulling a sleight of hand move in the other. He couldn’t ask for a more covert landing—if he absolutely had to jump from an airplane into the Urals. He experienced the most peaceful few minutes he’d had in the past few days as he lowered himself out of the tree.
Once he hit the ground, he pulled out his satellite phone and dialed Osborne. Flynn filled him in about the dramatic moments over the past few minutes.
“I never said saving the world would be easy,” Osborne quipped.
Flynn growled. “I’d like to punch you in the mouth right now. Do you know that?”
Osborne laughed. “How about I just buy you a beer when you get back?”
“Make it two,” Flynn said.
Osborne then went over a few more details with Flynn regarding the extraction.
“Wait a minute—I thought you said nobody knew about this mission except for the two pilots, you and Lauren. What about this extraction team?”
“Settle down, Flynn. They don’t know yet, but I’m about to fill them in soon enough. I don’t want to take any chances that news of your presence might leak out to anyone.”
“Too late for that,” Flynn said.
“Why?” Osborne asked.
Flynn started running. Gunfire filled the night air—branches were being clipped off all around him as he zigged and zagged through the trees.
“Somebody already knows I’m here.”
CHAPTER 47
“I’M THE PRESIDENT of the United States of America! You better give me a better answer than that!” Sandford growled.
General Timothy Hill of the U.S. Air Force refused to acquiesce to Sandford’s demands.
“I’m sorry, President Sandford, but we can’t skirt protocol. Our intelligence has not shown an imminent threat coming out of Russia, despite what reports you may have read. Is it possible the Russians could fire missiles at us? Yes. Is it likely based on the activity we’re seeing around known Russian military sites? No.”
Sandford grew more incensed by the moment.
“Get your head out of the sand, General. I looked at satellite photos last week that showed covert Russian bases preparing to launch missiles toward the U.S. They are building silos all along Siberia at a rapid rate.”
“I might have my head in the sand, but launching missiles at Russia isn’t as simple as getting a few launch codes,” Gen. Hill replied. Then he got snippy. “With all due respect, sir, perhaps you’ve watched too many Tom Clancy movies.”
If Sandford had been a missile, he would’ve detonated and destroyed half of Washington. He ran off a string of expletives that effectively ended any cordial conversation. When Sandford finished, Hill said nothing.
“When I call back tomorrow, you better have those launch codes for me,” Sandford demanded.
“If you call back tomorrow, sir, maybe we can schedule a meeting with some of the other officers here at the Strategic Command. Your demands aren’t unreasonable if you can divulge some intelligence that we haven’t seen. But for now, we’re going to stick with the protocol.”
Sandford slammed the phone down. It had been a tumultuous Saturday afternoon that now spilled late into Saturday night.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I’m the President! People are supposed to do what I say!
Instead, Sandford found that he wasn’t surrounded by yes men and women. Maybe they were when President Briggs sat in the chair, but not now. Allegiances ran deep to the man who appointed them to their positions. Briggs wasn’t for inciting a war—and neither were they.
Sandford had to figure out a way to change things in his favor.
He picked up the phone and called one of his advisors.
“Jim, who do we know over at Strategic Command? We need to see about relieving a certain General Hill of his duties.”
CHAPTER 48
FLYNN SCRAMBLED UP A STEEP HILL, seeking cover from the soldiers stalking him in the rugged terrain of the Urals. His fingers grew numb from the bold cold air—and he’d only been there less than thirty minutes.
Finding refuge in a cave partially blocked by two large boulders, Flynn found the perfect location to put his long-range sniper skills to use. He quickly set up his rifle’s tripod before putting on his night vision goggles. In his first survey of the valley below, he picked up four soldiers heading toward him. It was easy to detect even the mildest heat from the thick cold that blanketed the area.
They stopped shooting in his direction, but they were still coming. Flynn did what he was trained to do—eliminate the targets. One by one, he fired long-range shots at the oncoming soldiers, dropping them without as much as a yelp.
After the four victims disappeared into the valley brush, Flynn waited, scanning the area for more enemy fire. At least three miles away, large flames from the CIA’s downed QSST jet leapt skyward. A patrol helicopter roared overhead, shining spotlights down into the valley. It hovered in an area for a few moments before moving on. Flynn held his breath, hoping the search party wouldn’t see the soldiers he’d picked off. They didn’t. In a matter of minutes, the helicopter vanished over the closest ridge.
Flynn waited for a few more minutes. Silence. He then fished his phone out of pocket to call Osborne.
“You still alive?” Osborne asked as he answered Flynn’s call.
“Barely,” Flynn said.
“Did you get shot?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Thank goodness. Are you still up for the mission?”
“Yeah, but so much for a stealthy entry and the element of surprise.”
“Oh, you still have all of those when it comes to the Kuklovod. You’ve just got two groups who will be trying to kill you now—the Kuklovod and the Russian government.”
“Are you trying to get me killed?”
“No, of course not. I’m trying to get you to stop a war.”
“Well, I almost single-handedly started one tonight.”
“Look, just stick with the plan and you’ll be fine.”
“Roger that. I’ll check back once I’m all set up.”
Flynn ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. Nothing was going as he envisioned it. But it never really did.
He surveyed the valley one more time, confirming it was clear. After jamming his gear into his pack, Flynn shoved his pistol into the back of his pants.
As Flynn rose to get up, he slumped back to the ground, thanks to a swift knee in his back. He rolled over only to find a gun pointed at his head. His own gun was removed and cast aside as he heard the metal clank against rocks several few away.
“Don’t move, cowboy,” came the husky voice from the person brooding over him. It was the voice of a woman.
Flynn froze, raising his hands in surrender. He squinted to get a better look at her face but couldn’t make out much under the moonless sky.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, slowly sitting up.
“No, no, no. I ask the questions and you do the answering. So—who are you and what are you doing here?”
Flynn tempered his response. “I’m an American here on a hunting expedition in the Urals.”
The woman laughed. “Really? I didn’t know American hunters came here to shoot Russians. This must be a new thing I haven’t heard of before.”
That laugh. It sounded so familiar to Flynn, like he knew to whom it belonged.
“Lexie? Is that you?” he finally asked.
“James? James Flynn?”
Once the two realized they weren
’t combatants but friends, the tone of the conversation changed. The woman lowered her weapon.
Lexie Martin once ran missions with Flynn when they were both in the CIA, but Lexie left the agency a year before he did. Tired of the agency’s grind, she took a job with a private security firm that guarded tech secrets for global companies. When a company suspected corporate espionage might be happening, Lexie uncovered the mole while guarding whatever secrets remained. She loved the new job so much that she tried to coerce Flynn to join her. He refused but stayed in touch, running in to her on occasion over the next year while on various missions.
Flynn struggled to say no to her. She had long dark hair, sultry lips, and piercing blue eyes. Beautiful enough to earn a second look but not so much as to attract the wrong kind of attention.
The two exchanged an awkward handshake that morphed into an even more awkward hug. Flynn wasn’t sure he was initiating or if she was. Nevertheless, it served as an even stranger beginning to their subsequent conversation, despite the fact that Lexie almost killed him.
“I thought you left the agency?” Lexie asked.
“I didn’t really leave—it left me,” Flynn said.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“It’s classified.”
“It’s classified? How can it be classified when you’re not even with the agency anymore?”
“Trust me, it is.”
“Well, how about I declassify it for you since I know why you’re here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I know what you’re up to. I’m guessing Osborne has you on some off-the-books mission to single-handedly take out the Kuklovod’s command center since it took the CIA long enough to figure out where it was.”
Flynn strained to see her piercing blue eyes but couldn’t make them out in the thick darkness still awaiting dawn’s first ray of light.
“How do you know about the Kuklovod? I never even heard about them until a few weeks ago.”
“Yeah, well, they’ve been around a while—but I didn’t learn about them until I had a client ask me to track down the bastards who stole a shipment of their long-range missiles. Turns out, it was the Kuklovod.”
The Warren Omissions Page 15
