Chapters (84)
Klein laughed. Probably not at the image but more at the fact that Zellerbach’s contest happened to be very much within his sphere of influence. “That won’t be a problem.”
“No. It’s hard. This challenge has been out there since they repealed don’t ask don’t tell. The security is tough and getting it to hit all the computers at once is nearly impossible. No one’s even close as far as I know.”
“Trust me,” Klein said. “Tell him you’re coming to Granada and you want him to deliver the trophy personally.”
70
70
North of Mitú
Colombia
THERE SHE IS,” RANDI SAID, dropping her duffel on the dirt airstrip and pointing into the jungle.
The plane was a large turboprop but it was hard to tell the exact make through the modifications, rust, and camouflage paint. Smith approached a little hesitantly, looking at holes where rivets should have been and the cracked glass in at least a third of the windows. Zellerbach just stopped dead, suddenly forgetting the cloud of insects buzzing around him.
“This is it? This is the plane you told us about? What’s wrong with the one we flew here?”
His alarm was understandable but there wasn’t much they could do. Dresner had intelligence capabilities so cutting-edge that there was no way to anticipate them. While every effort had been made to ensure that the planes used by Covert-One were completely anonymous, it was impossible to guarantee in a post-Merge world. This plane, though—while maybe not entirely airworthy—could never be tracked back to Fred Klein or the president.
“It’s better than it looks,” Randi said, recruiting Smith to help pull the camo netting from the fuselage. “And my friend left a laptop with a satellite link inside. He says it’s a super-fast connection.”
“I’m not a child you can ply with candy.”
“Suit yourself. Did you bring a magazine? Maybe you could just hang out in the sun and read.”
Zellerbach looked around him at the jungle, at the old truck they’d driven there, at the mosquitoes.
“Come on, Marty,” Smith said, yanking off the last of the netting and opening the door. “It’s got air-conditioning.”
Of course that was a lie—the heat billowing out of the plane felt like a kiln—but it did prompt the sweating hacker to inch closer.
Zellerbach peeked inside and crinkled his nose as Randi made her way to the cockpit. The seats had all been ripped out but, true to her word, there was a card table with a laptop on it near the back.
“There is not air-conditioning.”
“Gotta start the engines first,” Smith promised, lacing his fingers and offering Zellerbach a boost up.
He followed and closed the door, looking back to see Zellerbach on his knees examining something on the floor.