Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“And?” Zhang said excitedly. “What happened? Did the Americans regain control?”

“They tried,” Davidov said. “But our transmission was closer and more powerful than theirs. We overrode their commands. Unfortunately, it becomes difficult to ascertain what happened after that.”

“Difficult?” Zhang crossed his arms. “Did the Nighthawk reach California or not?”

Davidov offered a subtle smile. “You know the answer to that as well as I do, Zhang: the craft did not make it home. But our

team was unsuccessful in tracking it to a final location.”

The two men stood quietly. The tall, lean Russian on one side, his shorter, stockier host on the other.

Davidov was a horseman whose ancestors had ridden the frozen tundra. He had long, flowing limbs and preferred speed and stealth over massed strength—a cavalryman at heart.

Zhang was shorter, stockier. His muscular build, thick neck and heavy hands creating the look of a powerhouse who could break down walls. A bulldog who moved with the grace of a tank, slowly but inexorably, grinding and pulverizing anything in its path.

Neither was superior or inferior to the other, but they were so different as to be opposites, unable to mix for long without combustion. It made everything tense.

“You expect me to believe that?” Zhang said, a practiced edge in his voice.

Davidov sat down. “Not really. Though it is the truth. You had ships on the flight path. Spy trawlers in the area. You know as well as I do that the Nighthawk is invisible to radar.”

“You must have some data,” Zhang proposed, trying to pry anything out of the Russian. “Some suggestion to the ultimate outcome.”

Davidov shrugged. “Perhaps. But if there is anything else, the men in Moscow have not seen fit to share it with me.”

“Then why have you come?”

“To inform you that our partnership is over.”

This time, Zhang seemed surprised. Score one for the swiftness of the cavalry.

“The mission has failed,” Davidov added. “All our efforts have been for naught. So, I’ve been sent to officially dissolve our joint enterprise.”

“Surely we don’t need to part ways so quickly,” Zhang said. “We could talk some more. Smooth out our differences. Over dinner, perhaps.”

“I would enjoy that,” Davidov said. “Except that, as we speak, your salvage vessels continue at flank speed toward the possible crash site.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zhang replied.

“Then I suggest you contact your naval chief of staff.”

Zhang’s posture stiffened. “Perhaps you’re right. It seems this latest bout of teamwork has outlived its usefulness.”

“It was doomed from the start,” Davidov said. “At least this way we have no spoils to argue over.”

Zhang moved to the head of the table and slid some papers together in a folder. In truth, he was pleased. Freed of the Russian shackles, his men could go to work immediately with no need to hide in the shadow of the Bear. “So it’s every nation for itself,” he said. “I assume your ships will be looking for the wreckage?”

“Of course.”

“As will ours,” Zhang replied. “I can only hope there will be no conflict.”

“I wouldn’t expect any,” Davidov said, standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “By the time your fleet reaches South American waters, the Nighthawk will be in a crate on its way to Moscow with a large red ribbon tied around it.”

Zhang scoffed at the boast and pressed an intercom button on the conference table. It buzzed his assistant. “Comrade Davidov will be needing a ticket back to Moscow,” he said. “Make sure it’s first class, China Air.”

Davidov offered a bow of thanks and then turned for the door. Both of them knew he wasn’t going to Moscow.

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