The Warren Omissions (20 page)

Lost in a stupor, Ivan jolted back to reality.

“Me? Did I do something wrong?” Ivan asked.

“Just step this way, sir.”

The TSA agent ushered Ivan to a private room located off the back of the security checkpoint area. He then closed the door.

“I need you to remove all your outer garments so we can do a proper search.”

“What do you mean?” Ivan asked incredulously.

“I mean, take off all your clothes except for your underwear. We found something of a suspicious nature and need to investigate.”

Ivan reluctantly complied, grumbling about the American government under his breath in Russian.

“Is that what you really think about America?” the TSA agent asked.

Ivan looked up stunned. He rarely ran into any Americans who knew Russian, much less some low-level hourly employee like this one.

The agent radioed for extra help in the room.

“What are you doing?” Ivan demanded.

“Sir, you need to calm down and chill out. I have a partner coming in here to join me and make sure you don’t get out of control.”

“I’m not out of control,” Ivan said, raising his voice.

“I think you just need to have a seat, sir.”

Ivan plopped into a chair, humiliated. First, his supervisor. Now, some low life TSA agent. Nothing was going right for him at the moment.
 
Just calm down. It will be all right
 
.

Another TSA agent entered the room, one who appeared to be more important than the man who ushered Ivan into the room. Ivan noted how he spoke with more confidence and with more authority. He then turned to Ivan.

“We found this on you, sir,” the TSA supervisor said, producing an odd pocket knife. “Are you aware that federal regulations prohibit passengers from carrying a blade of this length?”

Ivan had never seen the pocketknife in his life, and wondered if he’d been set up by a passenger or was getting duped by the TSA. Either way, it was apparent that he needed to remain calm if he was going to escape the situation.

“It has the initials J.F. inscribed on the blade,” the supervisor said again.

“Oh, yes,” Ivan said, after a few silent moments. “It’s a knife from my mother’s father—an heirloom passed down. I’m an anthropologist and those things are important to me. It was terribly clumsy of me not to pack it in my luggage.”

The two TSA personnel stared at each other for a moment before the supervisor finally spoke.

“Look, we normally just confiscate contraband like this, but since it’s an heirloom, I’ll let you fill out one of these envelopes here and mail it back to your home address. You OK with that?”

Ivan nodded.

He took the package, a pen, and the knife from the supervisor and began scribbling down James Flynn’s address with his own name at the top. He stuffed the knife inside and sealed it before handing it back to the supervisor.

“Thank you very much, sir,” Ivan said. “I appreciate your kindness and understanding. I won’t let that happen again.”

“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.

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.