“Will do,” Terry said. “Might mean they make it another few miles—almost to TAPP intersection if you want to pull that up on the flight map. Still a good twenty to thirty south of Pax River.”

“How long?” Ben asked.

“Two more minutes to altitude and then fourteen minutes,” he said. “I’m squawking 7700, so I can maneuver at will. Sixteen mikes.”

“What does that mean? The transponder code?” Nisha asked.

“It’s the code to notify ATC that I’m a DoD authorized aircraft intercepting a hostile target. With the F-16s beside me, we’ll get no questions asked. And Patuxent River approach will coordinate clearing the airspace.”

“We don’t want to tip them off,” Ben cautioned.

“Colonel Mitchell took care of that for us with ATC,” Terry said. “They won’t notice anything. ATC is clearing flights off the route slowly and subtly.”

“Man, that guy’s everywhere,” Eli said with an admiring smile.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Terry said. “He’s Red Devil One—the lead F-16 in the flight beside us, and the squadron XO is flying number Two.” The pilot tilted his head right, toward the port side of the aircraft. Jed looked out the modern-looking window of the G700 just as sunlight glinted gold off the canopy of the F-16 climbing beside them a hundred yards off their left wing. With that Terry went back into the cockpit to get to work.

Ben fixed his eyes on Nisha. “Nisha, get on the horn with the TOC back home and bring them up to speed. Then see if any of our team can get eyes in the cargo hold. I want confirmation the weapon is inside. You know what kind of confirmation I mean.”

“Roger that,” she said and put on a headset.

“Jed, with me,” Ben said. “You too, Eli,” he added, striding down the wide aisle of the luxury jet toward where a mahogany door separated the main cabin from a conference room.

“Okay,” Jed said, his already-knotted stomach twisting just a little bit more at the tenor of Ben’s voice.

The Shepherd commander ushered them into the jet’s aft conference cabin, shut the door behind him, and dropped into the chair at the head of the table.

“Oh no, I know that look,” Eli said, shaking his head.

“What look?” Jed asked the veteran.

“That look,” Eli said, looking at Ben but leaning into Jed. “It means he has an idea that is completely insane and we’re definitely going to hate. Right, Ben?”

Ben flashed them a Cheshire cat grin. “Yeah . . . and I think you guys are probably gonna want to sit down for this.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

GULFSTREAM G700 N828RP

36,000 FEET, SOUTHBOUND ON V157

CROSSING TAPPA INTERSECTION 44 MILES NORTHEAST OF RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

1617 HOURS LOCAL