Jed leaned against the narrow doorway as he peered over Ben’s shoulder into the cockpit of the high-tech corporate jet. The control panel looked like something out of a science fiction movie, with brightly lit CRT monitors instead of dials and instruments. Gleaming stainless steel throttles were pushed all the way forward, and even the radio panels on either side of the throttle panel looked more like iPads, with touch screens and brightly colored icons. Terry sat in the left seat, his left hand on the joystick controller resembling that of a fighter jet, mounted beside his thigh instead of centered between his knees. The copilot was managing comms from the right seat, and Ben had taken a knee on the floor just behind and between the two seats.

“Here we go,” Terry announced. He reached with his right hand to the twin throttles, pulling them back as he simultaneously moved the stick left. Immediately Jed’s stomach rose as the jet began a steep, spiraling turn to the left. He pressed a shoulder into one side of the doorway and a knee into the other as he hunched his large frame over. He reflexively grabbed Ben’s shoulder to steady them both as the g-forces ramped up.

“Pax River, Red Devil lead, flight of three, in a left turn descending,” the copilot announced into the thin boom mic at his mouth.

“Roger, Red Devil. Maneuver your discretion for the intercept,” came the reply over the speakers, the pilot having pulled his earpiece out to allow Ben and Jed to hear the traffic. “Your bandit—two miles southwest of Tappa level angels 21. Squawking 0427. Mode C indicates twenty-one-thousand-one-hundred-thirty-one feet. We will descend them again to target altitude in thirty seconds. Be advised, the airspace is yours from Tappa to Intersection Colin from angels 10 to angels 39. North of Colin you own the space from the surface to angels 39, but there could be VFR aircraft uncontrolled until the edge of Restricted Area Romeo-four-zero-zero-five with multiple primary contacts below six thousand.”

“Red Devil One, roger,” the copilot replied, then shot them a grin and thumbs-up. “Get ’em down when you can.”

Jed clenched his jaw. Ben’s plan was arguably insane—certainly crazier than anything he’d done as a SEAL or Shepherd thus far, and he’d done a lot of crazy. For the plan to work, they needed the target Boeing jet cruising at or below fourteen thousand feet. They also needed about a hundred other variables to behave reliably and predictably in their favor, something Murphy’s Law had a nasty habit of making sure never happened.

“Can’t they hear your radio calls?” Jed asked.

Terry shook his head. “No, we’re on a secure DoD-only frequency now.”

“Red Devil, your bandit twelve o’clock, dead ahead now inside three miles,” the voice of the controller said. “Descending out of one-nine-thousand for angels 16. Call a visual.”