“Do you believe in monsters?” Cabrillo asked Adams.
“I believe in monster trucks,” Adams answered, “why do you ask?”
Cabrillo pointed to the moving map. The cigar-shaped mark of Loch Ness was just coming into view. “According to Hanley, the Cessna is on a descent for a landing along the east side of Loch Ness.”
In the last few minutes, Adams had been able to catch a few glimpses of the ground before the clouds closed in. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Why not?” Cabrillo asked.
“Too hilly,” Adams noted, “there’s no place for a runway.”
“Then that must mean—” Cabrillo started to say.
“He’s making a drop,” Adams said, finishing the sentence.
AS SOON AS he received Bennett’s call that the Cessna had left the Faeroe Islands and was being followed, the leader of the operation ordered two of the four men waiting at Glasgow to drive north at breakneck speed. The two men had made the hundred-plus-mile trip to Loch Ness in less than two hours, and they awaited further instructions. Ten minutes ago the men had received word to head to the east side of the loch, find a desolate area, and then wait until they were notified. Two minutes ago, a call came in ordering them to light their smoke grenades and wait for a package to be dropped.
The men were sitting in the back of the van with the doors open, watching the smoke being blown about by the rain. The plane was due to arrive any minute.
“Did you hear that?” one of the men asked, hearing the sound of a plane.
“It’s growing louder,” the second man said.
“I thought our guy was in a…”
Bennett fought the controls as the jet wash from the Challenger buffeted the air around the Cessna. Whoever was flying the corporate jet was a madman or an incompetent, he thought. Surely his tiny plane must have been on their radar scope.
“Two hundred feet,” the copilot of the Challenger said. “We lose an engine now and we’re toast.”
“Watch out the window,” the pilot ordered. “I’ll make one pass and then pull up.”
The Challenger streaked above the ground, barely clearing the hilltops. In the jet’s wake, snow was blowing in vortices from the rear. A taller hill dominated the view out the windshield and the pilot pulled up on the yoke then dropped the altitude again when they’d crossed over. They were flying over the loch now.
“There,” the copilot said, pointing to a van on the eastern shore nearest Inverness, “I see smoke.”
The pilot glanced over, then pulled back on the yoke and began climbing into the sky again. “Oregon,” he said once they had reached a safe cruising speed again, “we have a van on the eastern shore with smoke markers ignited. How long until the fighters are due to arrive?”
“Challenger,” Hanley said, “the fighters are still fifteen minutes distant.”
“They’re going to try a drop,” the pilot of the Challenger said.
“Thanks for the report,” Hanley said.
“THEY ARE GOING to try a drop,” Cabrillo said as soon as Hanley answered.
“We know,” he said. “I was just getting ready to call you. The Challenger just made a low-level pass and witnessed a van with smoke markers active along the eastern shore.”
“We just caught a glimpse of the Cessna,” Cabrillo said, “he’s just in front of us. Both of us will be over the loch within minutes.”
“How’s the fuel situation?”
“Fuel?” Cabrillo asked Adams.
“I’ve never seen the gauge this low,” Adams said.
Cabrillo repeated what Adams had said.
“Break it off,” Hanley said quickly, “and land while you still can.”