Page 123 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight
He zipped the bag back up and tossed a blanket over it, hoping like hell the Bosnian police had no reason to pull him over and do a trunk check. If they did, it would be a guaranteed one-way ticket to the local hoosegow. But getting pulled over was unlikely on a day like today, when all of the cops would be tied up with the Renewal service at the soccer stadium, and the idea of having his own wheels appealed to him. He tossed his suitcase and laptop on top of the blanket, jumped in the car, and plugged the airport address into the dashboard GPS.
Fortunately, he was driving against traffic, so the road was relatively clear in his direction. The traffic flooding into town was clogged with vehicles flying all manner of flags and banners; variations of double-headed Serbian eagles and Orthodox crosses and sometimes both, much the same way American Christians melded church and nationalism together. What really caught Jack’s attention was a flapping red-and-gold banner and the scowling Orthodox Jesus, his eyes dark and disapproving.
Thirty minutes later, Jack pulled into the short-term parking lot and found a spot on the far end. He killed the engine and grabbed his bags out of the trunk. He locked it and pocketed the keys, figuring he’d toss them into the trash inside the lobby.
He made a beeline for the glass doors of the small terminal, the familiar smell of jet fuel in the air and the sound of a turboprop revving on the taxiway suddenly putting him in a traveling mood. There was still enough time to make his 8:42 a.m. flight—but just barely. Before he crossed the parking lot his cell phone rang with Gerry’s distinctive ringtone.
Jack was glad to get the call. He was finally at the airport, and that would make his boss happy.
—
The Gulfstream 550 was making its approach to the Sarajevo International Airport. Following the entry point and radar vector instructions from the air traffic controller, the pilot dropped speed and altitude toward runway 12, the only arrival runway at the small but efficient facility. They were still five thousand feet in the air, but descending quickly through the clear September sky.
“Man, looks like the 110 freeway before a Dodgers game,”Midas said, staring out of the window. “I’d hate to be driving around down there today. What’s going on?”
“The Eastern Orthodox Church is holding some kind of big outdoor religious service in a few hours, according to the local news reports,” Adara said, powering down her laptop for landing. “Orthodox Christians from all over the region are showing up for it, including a bunch of politicians.”
“Good thing we’re just picking Jack up at the FBO hangar, then,” Dom said. “No worries.”
“And then home,” Midas said. “I’m tired of this snipe hunt.”
—
Emir pressed the SA-25 Verba (“Willow”) MANPADS against his narrow shoulder with his gloved hands, his eye fixed to the sight. The Verba automatically acquired and tracked the low-altitude civilian jet, feeding target data to the onboard computer controlling the missile’s multispectrum optical seeker.
Even if the small civilian aircraft carried anti-missile defenses such as flares, decoys, or laser systems like Sky Shield, the Verba’s advanced seeker could discriminate between them and the actual target. The latest Russian anti-aircraft missile could take out high-flying, supersonic NATO warplanes and cruise missiles, making it the most feared portable MANPADS in the Russian arsenal. A low-speed, low-altitude civilian airplane like the one he was tracking was no match against it.
The Verba was just one of the many stolen gifts bestowed upon AQAB by the Syrian captain and his Chechen lieutenant, Dzhabrailov.
He pulled the trigger. The solid-fuel 9M336 missile roared out of its tube, launching the high-explosive 1.5-kilogramwarhead at supersonic speed toward the hapless civilian jet. The missile trailed a long finger of white exhaust as it clawed its way into the air.
Within seconds, the warhead slammed into the aircraft’s thin aluminum skin in a thundering explosion, shattering the fuselage in a fiery cloud of twisted metal.
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Jack whipped around at the sound of the booming explosion of the Verba missile eighteen hundred feet above. Its arcing smoke trail pointed to its launch origin west of the airfield, a mile away, maybe more. The plane’s burning wreckage plunged toward the earth, leaving a trail of smashed luggage and cabin debris fluttering in its wake.
“Dear God,” Jack whispered, his eyes widening.
Broken bodies were tumbling through the sky, some still strapped to their seats.
One of those bodies should have been his.
He fought back a wave of nausea.
It suddenly occurred to him that Gerry’s ass-chewing phone call in the parking lot earlier had just saved his life.
Gerry had instructed him to forget his Vueling flight and instead make his way over to the fixed-base operator hangar, where arrangements had already been made for the Hendley Associates Gulfstream to land and pick him up. Gerry warned Jack that Midas and Dom were instructed to put him on theGulfstream “by any means necessary.” Jack had left the main terminal and come over to this private hangar to wait.
The Gulfstream was still ten minutes out. Then it suddenly hit him. He was supposed to be on that Vueling fight, but he’d purchased a ticket for Aida, too.
Maybe that missile was meant for her?
Jack grabbed his phone and punched in her number, but his phone rang with Dom’s number.
“Jack, it’s me. What the hell just happened down there?”
“Somebody took out a passenger jet. The one I was supposed to be on.”
