Prologue
February: Over the Persian Gulf
"We've been hit!"
The aircraft commander's words popped like bullets through Senior Master Sergeant J.T. "Tag" Price's headset. Ricocheted around in his brain. Settled with molten-lead heat as J.T. sat in his solitary loadmaster perch beneath the cockpit in the cargo plane.
Not that he even needed the aircraft commander's announcement. The teeth-jarring thump still shuddered through the C-17. Yet up to that last second, he hadn't given up hope of a minor malfunction.
Minor? The wash of warning lights blazing across his control panel told him otherwise. "Details," he quizzed, quick. Brief. Never one to waste words even on a good day.
This sure as hell wasn't a good day.
Aerodynamics went to crap. The craft already rattled, strained.
"Missile hit," the aircraft commander, Captain Carson "Scorch" Hunt, answered from the cockpit above. "Probably a man-portable, fired from a boat, I think."
The plane bucked. Shuddered. His checklist vibrated off the console. "Are we gonna have to put down somewhere bad or can we make it to Europe?"
"We're not going to make it to Europe."
Silence echoed for two seconds, cut only by the rumble of engines taking on a progressive tenor of pain.
Crap.
J.T. pivoted toward the cavernous cargo hold containing a pallet full of top-secret surveillance equipment. The technology could not fall into another government's hands. Beyond that, the stored intelligence from monitoring terrorist cell-phone traffic would give away field agent identities. "Plan of action?"
"We'll have to circle back and haul ass toward the coast to land in Rubistan."
Definitely bad. But not as bad as it could be. Relations with the country were strained, yet not outright hostile. Still, the equipment on that pallet made for a serious time bomb if they didn't offload it before reaching land. "How much longer 'til feet dry?"
"Ten minutes until we make the coastline."
Tight, but workable. Scooping his small black binder off the floor, he flipped through to the destruction checklists. "All right, then. Stretch it if you can while I destroy as much of this crap back here as possible before ditching it in the ocean."
Then pray like hell they didn't end up ditching the plane, too.
"Make it quick, Tag. I can buy you one, maybe two extra minutes over the water, but hydraulics and electrical are going all to hell."
"Roger, Scorch." J.T. unstrapped from his seat. "Beginning destruction checklists. Get the back ramp open."
He pivoted toward the man strapped into a seat two steps away. Spike—Max Keagan—also an OSI agent undercover as a second loadmaster on the flight, another potential land mine if the Rubistanians discovered the man's real job. "Stay out of the way 'til I'm through, then get ready to start pushing."
Spike flashed him a thumbs-up while keeping clear, laser-sharp eyes processing from his agent's perspective. He raked his hand over his head, normally spiked hair now in a buzz cut for his undercover military role.
Feet steady on the swaying deck thanks to twenty-four years in the Air Force and five thousand flying hours, J.T. charged toward the pallet. He flipped red guard switches, started hard drives erasing data about terrorists financing operations by trafficking opium out of Rubistan. And somewhere on their own base in Charleston was a leak. Thus the involvement of the Air Force's Office of Special Investigation.
As he destroyed data, J.T. tried not to think about all the government time and money wasted on the trafficking investigation. He hooked his fingers in the metal rings, pulled while also pushing a small plunger. Foam filled the motherboards, seeping out.
The load ramp yawned open. Wind and light swept the metal tunnel. The coughing drone of wounded engines swelled.
Now to finish the last of the destruction the old-fashioned way. He yanked the crash ax off the wall. Hefted back. Swung.
Hack.
What a helluva way to miss an appointment with his wife at the divorce attorney's office. Sorry I can't make it, babe, but I'm a guest of a foreign government right now.
Or worse.