Their eyes were on the panel again. The landing altitude was set to 310 feet and the cabin pressure indicator, the center dial on the row of three on the bottom, sat on the hash mark for 10—ten thousand feet. He needed to decompress the cargo hold for the plan to work, but Terry had explained that what mattered was differential pressure—the difference between the air pressure inside the plane and the atmosphere outside—which was indicated on the left bottom dial in psi, as the controlling parameter. It was okay for it to be slightly positive. In fact, that would make it easier to open the cargo hatch since the slipstream would be working against them. Too much positive differential pressure, however, would cause an explosive decompression, which would trigger alarms and a reaction from the flight crew and personnel in the cabin with the weapon.

Ben decided to go for as close to zero D/P as possible and compelled the pilot’s hand to the middle dial on the top, spinning the dial from the neutral nine o’clock position to about the seven o’clock. Immediately the bottom-right dial ticked down, indicating a descent in cabin pressure. The change happened quicker than he thought and the pilot’s hand then spun the dial back to neutral.

Thank you, Ben thought into the confused shared headspace. The pilot was a willing partner but had no idea what was actually happening to him.

I don’t trust Smith. He’s up to no good, the pilot thought and his eyes ticked back over to the man scribbling in the gray binder.

Ben affirmed the thought, imagining silent agreement to soothe the man’s uncertainty.

I need to do something . . .

You just did, Ben pushed the thought, then pulled out.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the cabin of the G700 where his body was reclined in the same leather chair as when he’d left.

Jed, who was fully kitted up and waiting, stepped into view. “Well?”

“It’s done,” Ben said, sitting up. Then in a whisper he added, “The weapon is in the middle section of the main cargo cabin on the left side. Multiple tangos present, but I couldn’t get a count.”

Jed nodded. “All right, we’ll get in position.”

His head swimmy, which it always was after trips to the mind space, Ben took a second to steady himself after standing before walking to the cockpit.

“We’re ready,” he said, leaning his head through the open doorway. “D/P is equalized.”

“How do you know?” Terry asked, a confused look on his face.

Ben smiled, wishing he could be more forthright. “We have some powerful tools at our disposal in our task force,” he said, knowing that the familiar mantra of “special task force” would resonate with anyone serving since 9/11. “Trust me—it’s done.”