Executive Intent (37 page)

“She's pretty, that's for sure,” Charlie said. She touched the almost completely smooth dark gray skin. “Smooth, like a baby's bottom.”

“Yeah, but flying in the Condor is just plain loco,” Jason said. They walked over to the open bomb bays. The left bomb bay had a rotary launcher with two RAQ-15 StealthHawk reconnaissance and strike cruise missiles, designed to loiter for several hours, transmit images and data back to the Spirit bomber, detect and analyze possible targets, then attack with small guided missiles if directed. The missiles were meant to neutralize any area defenses or patrol ships and make it easier to extract commandos on the ground.

The right bomb bay held something entirely different: an MQ-35 Condor air-launched commando insertion and extraction air vehicle. The Condor could carry up to four commandos and their gear. The commandos entered through the Spirit's bomb bay, and the Condor was dropped like a bomb. The Condor could glide for up to two hundred miles and had a retractable landing gear for landing on a hard surface. If undamaged, the Condor had a small turbofan engine that allowed it to take off again and fly up to two hundred miles to safety.

“Almost as loco as flying in space stuffed in the back of those little spaceplanes,” Whack said, “but we've had the opportunity to do that, too.”

The three waited as a weapon-loading crew arrived and downloaded the Condor from the bomb bay. After it was placed on its storage cradle, Charlie opened a hatch on the left side, and the three dragged a large dark gray rectangular box resembling two refrigerators bolted together—but considerably lighter in weight—out and set it on the glossy polished hangar floor. “Hey, Carlo,” Charlie called out to the security officer. “You haven't seen this thing in action yet, have you? C'mon over here.”

“I'm on duty, ma'am,” Sergeant Casone said. “I'll watch from here.”

“Rog.” Charlie turned to the box and spoke, “CID One, deploy.”

At that, the box began to move. Sections of it shifted and popped out, quickly replaced by other moving pieces, until the box became a ten-foot-tall two-legged robot.

“Awe
some,
” Casone exclaimed.

“This is the best part,” Charlie said. “CID One, pilot up.”

The robot squatted down, its left leg and both arms extended backward, and a hatch popped open on its back. Charlie used the outstretched leg as a ramp and the arms as handrails to climb up and wriggle inside the robot. The interior surface was composed of a soft electroconducting material that completely surrounded her entire body, cushioning her from shock and picking up neural impulses in her body for transmission to the robot's haptic control computers. Her head fit into a helmetlike device with a breathing mask, communications gear, and an electronic wide-angle multi-function visor.

Moments after the hatch closed, the robot stood up—and it moved as lithely and naturally as a human. “All systems in the green,” Charlie spoke, although her voice was heard as a male electronically synthesized growl. She ran around the B-2 bomber to Casone, curtsied before him, and extended a massive armored hand, its fingers moving as realistically as her own. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Sergeant Casone.”

“All right, Charlie, stop screwing around,” Whack said. “Put the CID away and—”

Jason's secure cellular phone rang, and he answered it immediately. “Richter here…who?…General McLanahan…you mean, General
Patrick
McLanahan? Excuse me, sir, but how did you get this number?” The name got everyone's attention instantly. Jason looked at Whack, then said, “Stand by, sir.” He held out the phone to him. “It's Patrick McLanahan. He wants to talk with you.”

Whack smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I should have known he'd be involved with this,” he said, reaching for the phone. “If it has to do with the Tin Men, the CIDs, or big bombers, McLanahan's got to be behind it, civilian or no.” He took the phone. “Hello, General. Fancy talking to you.”

“Hello, Whack,” Patrick said. “Listen up. We lost a B-1 bomber over the Gulf of Aden. Gia's plane.”

The smile was instantly replaced with a scowl. “Where and when?” he asked.

“About ten minutes ago, approximately four hundred miles southwest of Salalah, Oman. The
Reagan
carrier group is en route; fixed-wing searchers should be on scene within the hour.”

“Any 406 signals?”

“No.” A 406-megahertz locator beacon with a GPS receiver built into each crewman's survival harness automatically sent a survivor's identification code and position digitally via satellite to rescue coordinators. “She missed the first manual-activation window.” To reduce the chance of location signals being picked up by enemy forces, survivors who could manually activate their beacons were instructed to do it for short periods of time at specific times every hour, based on Greenwich Mean Time. “I heard your mission was scrubbed.”

“
You
heard? How could you hear that? We just found out a couple minutes ago ourselves!”

“I had a little to do with planning your mission onto Socotra Island.”

That
explained a lot, Whack thought—and it was probably a
lot
more than just “a little.” “We've got a badass bomber with four cruise missiles, plus a CID and Tin Man, all dressed up with nowhere to go,” he said. “What do you need?”

“I'm trying to get clearance to press forward with your mission,” Patrick said, “but the White House shut down all air intel and surveillance ops in the region. We have a backup plan to get two of you onto Socotra. A plane's on the way to take you and your gear to
Dubai. You'll meet up with a CIA guy who'll get you the rest of the info.”

“You know, General, I'm just a shooter here—you'd better speak to the boss,” Whack said. He handed the phone back to Richter. “McLanahan's got a backup plan.”

Jason took the phone. “Richter again, sir.”

“Backup plan in progress, Colonel,” Patrick said. “A plane will be taking Macomber, Turlock, and the CID unit to Dubai.”

“How did you know who and what we have here, sir?”

“The same way I got your secure cellular number and codes, Colonel,” Patrick said. “That's not important right now. The plane will be there in about eight hours.”

“I can't tell Macomber what to do, sir,” Jason said, “but Turlock is an Army officer under my direct supervision, and she's not going anywhere without proper orders.”

“It's just a plane ride to Dubai, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Her orders will be waiting for her there.”

“Sorry, sir,” Jason said. “I don't know how you're involved with this—and I'm sure I don't have a need to know—but until I get orders in my hands, Turlock stays put. You can come get Macomber anytime—the sooner the better.”

“And the equipment?”

Jason thought for a moment: “The Tin Man stuff isn't the Army's, so Macomber can take it and wear it for Halloween if he wants to,” he said finally. “The CID unit belongs to the U.S. Army, and I need a valid transfer order before it leaves my hands.”

“Understood,” Patrick said. There was a slight pause; then: “I studied your work with Task Force TALON, Colonel—tough, fast, gutsy, a lot like the Air Battle Force ground teams,” he went on. “And of course I've had a chance to work with the CID units on a number of occasions. Fantastic technology. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jason said, “although it's never been fully explained to me how
you
as a civilian managed to get them.”

“I'd like the opportunity to explain it to you, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Perhaps we'll have a chance to work together in the very near future.”

“Apparently we already have been, except I didn't know it,” Jason said. “Exactly what is it you do, sir?”

“Oh…a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Patrick said. “I help out when and where I'm needed.” And Patrick hung up.

S
OCOTRA
A
IRPORT
, S
OCOTRA
I
SLAND
, R
EPUBLIC OF
Y
EMEN

D
AYS LATER

The Yemeni customs inspection official looked surprised and more than a little indignant as the tall, beefy, white-skinned man carried an enormous blue-and-white nylon bag, a briefcase, and a backpack over to his inspection station. Although this Felix Air flight had originated in the Yemeni capital of Sana'a, visitors to Socotra Island, an oval-shaped, rocky island two hundred miles east of Somalia in the Indian Ocean, were required to have their bags and travel documents reinspected.
“Salam alaykum,”
he said in his rough, low voice reserved for European visitors, holding out his hand.
“Jawaz as-safar
,
min fadlak.”

The big man fished out travel documents from his backpack and handed them over. The customs officer was pleased to see the man wore a long-sleeved shirt and long pants—they were not as strict about Muslim clothing customs on Socotra Island because it depended so much on tourism, and shorts and short-sleeved shirts were allowed near the water and on hotel properties, but in public, even men and especially women had to cover their heads and bodies. He expected courtesy and respect for Muslim customs from every visitor—at least until they got to the hotel and beaches, where he enjoyed watching scantily clad Western, Asian, and African women just as much as the next guy.

“Wa alaykum as-salam,”
the man said in extremely clumsy and heavily American-accented Arabic. He was tall, with closely cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion. Socotra was a remote but popular destination for European tourists, so the customs agent played his favorite game and tried to guess the man's nationality—German or Scandinavian descent, he figured, al
though the accent was definitely American, maybe Canadian. At least he gave Arabic a try, the customs officer thought.

“I speak English,” the agent said with a slight thank-you bow for giving his language a try. The passport was American. He had flown to Yemen aboard Emirates Airlines via London and Dubai; the tags on his backpack and large duffel bag verified all the previous destinations. “I am required to inspect your bags, Mr…. Wayne Coulter,” he said.

“They told me you might have to do that,” the man named Coulter said.

“It is required.” His documents were all in order, with a visa procured in Washington—getting three-month tourist visas at Yemeni airports was not always reliable, especially with the current hostilities. Flipping through his passport, he found a folded twenty-dollar bill stuck inside. The customs officer locked eyes with the man, then held out the open passport. “That is not necessary here,” he said disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” the man named Coulter said, although he certainly didn't sound apologetic. He took the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. “I don't know how that got there.”

“Of course.” The passport was a couple years old, a few trips to Europe and Asia—this was his first trip to the Middle East. “Your occupation, sir?”

“Mechanical engineer. I design industrial robots, you know, to build cars, trucks, things like that. I'm demonstrating a robot to help fishermen.”

“I see.” If this man was an engineer, the agent thought, the sun would certainly set in the east tonight. He was definitely military. Everything looked in order, but he still did a couple of suspicious double takes at the photograph and a few of the pages to see if the man would react. He did not—a very cool customer indeed, he thought, a man trained and experienced in keeping cool. “How has your travel been, sir?”

“Fine,” the man said. “I had to sleep in the airport last night. They canceled a couple flights because of the Chinese and Russians in Aden and because of the weather.”

“I am sorry you were inconvenienced. The monsoons have come early this year, and of course the trouble with the Chinese…
ma sha' Allah
. God's will be done.”

“I hope I can still get some diving in.”

“I think so.” He flipped through the passport. “May I ask the purpose of your visit, please?”

“Demonstrating a machine for the Yemeni Fish Company Limited,” Macomber said. “I want to do some diving, too. I'm told it's like the Great Barrier Reef of the Indian Ocean.”

“God has indeed blessed our island with great beauty, especially under the sea,” the customs officer said idly. He kept the documents in front of him on his desk as he unzipped the big duffel bag. It appeared to contain a gray scuba diver's wet suit, weight belt with weights, gloves, and boots. “Such thick wet suits for the Indian Ocean? I am afraid you may be most uncomfortable in our warm waters.”

“I did some diving in the Irish Sea before coming here, demonstrating my technology,” Coulter said. “This equipment allows me to dive deeper and stay underwater longer.”

“I see.” The customs officer knew the equipment had come from the United States via London, so the Irish Sea story could have been real, but his interest was piqued—these were not typical visitor's scuba equipment. The last item was even more curious—it looked like a cross between a full-face motorcycle helmet and a deep-sea diver's helmet. “And this is?”

“My diving helmet.”

“It is very unusual. I have never seen one like it.”

“It's the latest thing,” Coulter said. “I can wirelessly talk to other divers or to surface crews while underwater, and it gives me readouts of air supply, dive depth and duration, water temperature and current, and even gives my location.”

“Quite remarkable,” the customs officer said, examining the helmet closely. Inside it did seem to have rows of tiny light-emitting diodes aimed at the visor, as well as microphones and earphones. Despite the fact that all this had to have been already inspected and approved in Sana'a, he knew he had to report it to the National Security Organization, or NSO, Yemen's foreign intelligence service—this equipment, as well as this man who claimed to be an engineer, had to be checked out further. He did declare all this equipment, so he was not trying to hide anything.