“It’s the only thing that makes sense. We’ve never been abl
e to figure out why the Nighthawk went off course in the first place. One technician noted that Nighthawk was having a problem trying to process conflicting commands. It made no sense at the time. We assumed it was a computer glitch. But the bomber, the Typhoon, the salvage fleets conveniently on the scene—it all suggests the Russians and/or the Chinese reprogrammed the Nighthawk and tried to get it to splash down in the ocean where they could pick it up with ease.”
Rudi said, “But if that’s the case, why wouldn’t their fleets be in the crash zone instead of several days’ sailing from it.”
“Because we brought it back early,” she said. “The storm off Hawaii was tracking toward the California coast. It was expected to hit during the initial landing window. We didn’t want to risk dealing with the weather, so we moved the reentry up five days. Without that change, both salvage fleets would be within a hundred miles of the Galápagos Islands chain just waiting for the Nighthawk to drop out of the sky and into their hands.”
“Even the location makes sense,” Joe added. “Aside from the terrain around the Galápagos, the sea is ten thousand feet deep for hundreds of miles in every direction.”
“And the bomber?” Rudi asked.
“Probably a chase plane,” Emma said. “The Nighthawk is coated in third-generation stealth materials. It’s completely invisible to radar. But coming through the atmosphere, its skin heats up to three thousand degrees. A supersonic bomber with an infrared tracking system could follow it for miles, zeroing in on its heat signature and following it until it slowed to landing speed and parachuted softly into the sea.”
Kurt nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking. But something went wrong. And even though the bomber went down, there might be a clue to the Nighthawk’s whereabouts on the data recorder. A clue we don’t want broadcast to Moscow or Beijing.”
“What if someone has found it already?”
“They haven’t,” Kurt said, “or their fleets would have turned around.”
Emma nodded. “All right,” she said. “Do your magic. Send the data back to NUMA and let’s find out what the Russians were doing.”
Kurt presented the black box. “Can you tap into it?”
Joe nodded. “Dataports look fairly standard. I’ll do some quick tests and then send the information to Hiram. Max will be able to decipher it better than we can.”
As Joe went to work, Rudi stepped out to make a call and Kurt took a seat next to Emma. The color had returned to her face. “You like the game?” Kurt said.
“I like to win,” she replied.
“So do I.”
They sat for a moment. “So what did you give them anyway?” she asked.
“Who?”
“My colleagues, Hurns and Rodriguez. When I lifted that case, there was something heavy in there.”
Kurt leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. “A very nice parting gift. One I’m sure they’ll appreciate on their long flight home.”
The NSA-owned Gulfstream was halfway to Houston before Agent Hurns let his curiosity get the better of him. On this mission he was a courier, assigned to pick up and deliver a package. He wasn’t supposed to open it and have a look, but he couldn’t help himself.
He suggested as much to Rodriguez.
“I’m game,” his partner said.
They left their seats, walked aft and lifted the metal-sided suitcase onto a table. With quick fingers, Hurns popped both latches and opened the case.
His face went blank. “What the heck is this?”
Rodriguez stared over his shoulder. “It appears to be a bowl of fruit,” he said, reaching in for a ripe kiwi.
A handwritten note was tucked in between two oranges. It read:
Feed these to the mole.
Best regards,
Kurt Austin