“Derek—outside. Now!”
For a profession that prided itself on maintaining a calm radio demeanor even when their aircraft was disintegrating around them, the copilot seemed a bit excited. Nash glanced out the cabin window and understood why.
Rapp was crossing the tarmac separating the two airplanes.
A limp body was cradled in his arms.
CHAPTER 87
“KILL the outside lights,” Nash said. “Now.”
To avoid additional attention from ground control or the airfield security forces, as well as give the illusion that their maintenance issue was temporary, the Gulfstream’s landing lights were illuminated. But now those same high-intensity beams were a liability. To his credit, the copilot didn’t wait for confirmation from Derek. The lights extinguished, plunging the taxiway into darkness.
“Extend the airstairs,” Nash said, getting to his feet.
Derek pressed the necessary buttons on a touchscreen located on the bulkhead nearest the Gulfstream’s single entrance. A moment later, the airfield’s ambient noise flooded the cabin as the jet’s door opened and airstairs unfolded. Nash reached for the metal railing, but Derek grabbed his shoulder, halting him.
Rapp was already on the staircase.
Nash reached down to help his former boss into the jet, but Rapp shouldered away his hand. Nash had served with Rapp long enough to recognize the set of the man’s jaw. No one was going to help him carry the dead CIA officer.
No one.
Rapp looked half-feral. His shirt was smeared with blood and his black eyes blazed fury. Nash had to fight the urge to step backward. Rage distorted the air around Rapp like heat shimmering above blacktop on a hot summer day.
Rapp’s wild eyes found Nash.
“I need you to fly her to Bagram. The airplane on the tarmac in front of you is going to follow. Once you both land, get a team of our guys to bag-and-tag the Iranians and sanitize the aircraft. Then send the jet back here. It’s a charter and the pilots are expats and former military officers. They’ll play ball.”
Rapp reverently lowered Noreen’s body onto the leather couch as he spoke. Grabbing a blanket, he shook it out and covered her face.
Then he turned back to Nash.
“Questions?”
“Is the other bird flight-worthy?”
Rapp shrugged. “I think the exact words the pilot used were ‘big plane, little bullets.’ They have a couple new holes in the upholstery, but nothing to keep them from making the hop to Bagram.”
“What about Irene’s question? Did you get the answer?”
Rapp looked over Nash’s shoulder.
The ASF corporal who had accompanied Rapp and Noreen onto the tarmac had long since retreated to his car. This meant that the jet’s occupants were all Agency personnel, but Nash understood Rapp’s reticence. The old Ben Franklin quote about three people’s ability to keep a secret depended on two of them being dead still applied even to CIA officers. The bin Laden raid was classified at the code word level and most of the people in the Gulfstream had neither the required clearance nor the all-important “need to know.”
“Get in the air before you get caught in the shit storm that’s brewing,” Rapp said. “I’ll go direct with Irene.”
Nash flushed. While he’d worked with Rapp long enough to know the man was no one’s idea of politically correct, his friend’s response felt unnecessarily harsh. Then Nash’s gaze settled on Noreen’s shrouded form. “Okay. We’ll be wheels-up as soon as you’re off. Anything else?”
Nash had meant the question as a throwaway.
An olive branch.
Rapp would most certainly turn him down. Irene had raised him to be a lone wolf. Though the agency’s premier counterterrorism operative had come a long way from stalking jihadis by himself, Rapp still believed in planning and sourcing his own operations.
He never asked for help.
Ever.
“I need one of your pilots,” Rapp said, turning from Nash to the cockpit. “Can either of you fly a helicopter?”
Derek looked over Rapp’s shoulder at Nash.
Nash nodded.
“I’m qualified in a bunch of types,” Derek said. “Both military and civilian.”
“You guys were parked over in general aviation, right?” Rapp said.
“Correct,” Derek said, “and yes, I saw the Bell JetRanger for rent at the adjacent flight school. I can fly it.”
“What if someone misplaced the keys?” Rapp said.
Derek smiled. “It just so happens that the CIA’s version of pilot training has an extra class or two that military flight school omits. As long as the bird is topped off with fuel, we should be good to go.”
“Great,” Rapp said. “Grab your shit and follow me.”
For a moment Nash thought that his friend was going to disappear back down the airstairs without a parting word. Then Rapp caught his eye.
