The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

“Your bank’s shareholders are going to have a very bad day tomorrow” was all he would say.

After ten minutes, Ivana announced, “The virus is uploaded and operating. It should be done in a few hours. I have to say it’s some of my best work.”

While humility was one of Golov’s traits, Ivana, like most hackers, was an incorrigible show-off.

“Excellent,” he said. “Then let’s take care of the cameras.”

/> She logged out, and they all went into the security guards’ observation room. She rapidly found the files she wanted and deleted everything except the segment showing Munier talking to André and then leading both guards to the garage.

With the videos edited, they went back to Munier’s office.

“Well, we’re almost done here,” Golov said, and turned to Ivana. “Are we ready?”

She nodded. “Everything is set up. The car is waiting outside.”

“I suppose this is when you kill me,” Munier said, sounding resigned to his fate.

“Not exactly,” Golov said. “We have other plans for you.”

“But you promised that my family—” Munier protested.

Golov put up his hands to calm him. “You’ve done what I asked and your family will remain unharmed. But it’s not going to be that easy for you, Mr. Munier. You have one more job to do.”

To Munier’s shock, Golov walked past him, reached under the desk, and pressed the button to trip the silent alarm.

FIVE

ALGERIA

“I found a body!”

The shout came from one of Nazari’s men. They’d been digging at the side of the plane for a half hour, trying to find a way into the bomb bay. The bomb bay was directly under the wing roots, which they’d revealed early in the dig.

They had also uncovered the canopy, and none of the three officers who’d been aboard the plane were inside. It was likely all three had survived the crash. A dead man would have been left in his seat while the others waited outside for rescue.

When the Egyptian made his discovery, everyone else stopped digging and rushed to see what he’d found.

Only the head was visible. Even though it had been there nearly sixty years, the mummified features were plainly visible. The skin was stretched and dried, exposing the teeth and empty eye sockets in a gruesome expression. Hair still covered the head.

It was the obvious place for them to find remains. Anyone who’d stayed with the aircraft instead of wandering into the desert would have taken refuge in the shade of the immense wing, which had been sheared off fifteen feet from the fuselage but still provided protection from the intense midday sun.

They all scooped sand away from the corpse to uncover a green U.S. Air Force flight suit. The bars on his shoulder indicated he was a captain. The patch underneath read 369th Bomb Squadron. The name on the man’s chest patch was Robert Hodgin.

Further digging revealed the mummified corpse was still holding a logbook. Nazari removed it roughly from the desiccated hand, flipped through it, and tossed it to Juan.

“Translate that.”

The logbook indicated that Hodgin was the aircraft commander. All of the entries leading up to March 10, 1956, were standard status reports about fuel, heading, and aircraft condition.

On March 11, Hodgin’s script suddenly became the less confident scrawl of a man in desperate straits. While Juan translated into Arabic, Eddie and Linc read the English over his shoulder. The date and precise military time preceded each entry.

March 11, 0905: Ten minutes before rendezvous for midair refueling, aircraft suffered a catastrophic malfunction when struck by lightning during descent through clouds. Navigation and communication systems knocked out by electrical surge. Hydraulics still functional, but control panel magnetized by the lightning strike. Compass useless. Thought we had turned west toward Morocco but realize now that we had headed south. When fuel ran out, there was enough moonlight for a controlled descent in desert.

Captain Gordon Insley, our navigator, and my copilot, Second Lieutenant Ronald Kurtz, were both uninjured in the crash. I must have torn something in my knee, making it impossible for me to walk for very long. Our emergency beacon was also damaged by the lightning. None of us can pinpoint our location. We will wait for rescue here.

March 12, 0813: Our emergency rations are limited. Only enough water for two days, and that’s stretching it. Now I know why we took that survival course, but the Montana wilderness was never this hot. To stave off boredom while we wait, I had Insley and Kurtz check to see the status of our cargo. The carrying cases for the nuclear cores are still intact and the seals tight. No chance of a leak. At least we won’t die of radiation poisoning.

The scrawl of Hodgin’s writing was getting increasingly shaky. Juan continued to translate.