Page 70 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
The cabin rippled with laughter.
Someone from the back shouted, “What are we having for in-flight snacks?”
Everybody cracked up.
Dragu? grabbed his crotch and grinned. “I can serve you some of this.”
That made the plane laugh even louder.
Juan and Linc exchanged a glance.
Boys will be boys, even if they are hired killers.
“We will hit it hard starting tomorrow morning. It’s a long flight. The windows are shut to keep the light out. So sit back and get some shut-eye.” As if on cue, the cabin lights shut off, throwing the cabin into relative darkness.
Moments later, the plane took off, smooth as silk.
Unbeknownst to the passengers settling into their flight, the copilot flipped a switch in the cockpit, activating a jammer.
From an electromagnetic perspective, everybody aboard the Beechcraft suddenly ceased to exist.
35
Aboard theOregon
“What do you mean, you’ve lost them?”
Max leaned over Hali’s shoulder at the comms station. TheOregonwas no longer picking up the implanted trackers on Juan and Linc. Every crew member had them in case of emergencies—and to keep tabs on their people in the field.
“They just disappeared—poof.” The curly-headed Lebanese American gestured an explosion with his long, thin fingers. “Either they’ve been surgically removed, destroyed, or jammed.”
“Did we do a check before they left? Maybe the units died.”
Hali pulled up a check sheet on his screen and pointed at it. “Dr. Huxley signed off on them before they left. Signal and power both at one hundred percent.”
“Could there be a problem with the satellite?”
Hali pulled up the satellite tracker screen. It showed the dozens of tracker signals emanating from theOregon.
“It’s receiving and sending just fine. Maybe there’s a weather anomaly.”
“Maybe there’s a tooth fairy, too.” Max was really worried.
The only intel they had on Juan and Linc to this point were the trackers. Did they get on a plane? On trucks? Ruck into the bush? They could be anywhere.
But wherever they were, they were surrounded by at least ten paid killers and there was no way to back them up.
“We’ll just have to wait for them to contact us,” Hali said.
Max stood, his face set in stone.
“Yeah, unless they’re already dead.”
?
Washington, D.C.
Erin Banfield lived in one of Georgetown’s refurbished Federal-style brick townhouses. It was luxuriously appointed and well-furnished, providing her all of the comforts she and her fat, irascible white Persian cat, Winston, required.
