five-mile area. Contact with the sensor is spotty without a GPS-quality position indicator. Are there any questions thus far?”
Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon stroked a thumb over his BlackBerry. “We’re with you so far. Please continue.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Nunez answered, appropriately dropping the lieutenant part of the commander’s rank in conversation, a protocol quirk of military lingo.
Nunez pushed a button on the podium, and the slide changed to an expanded map of Turkey. “With CIA paramilitary operatives already in place and your newly acquired CV-22 tilt-rotor, we plan to combine your latest aerial surveillance technology and the ground intelligence. We’re confident we can trace the enemy’s chain of command and launch a rescue mission.”
Scanlon slid aside his BlackBerry with the barest hint of impatience. “With all due respect, you’re not telling us anything we don’t already know. I sense you’ve got another shoe to drop in your presentation, Agent Nunez.”
“Right you are, Colonel.” The image on the screen shifted to an image of the USO boarding a C-17 back in the States. “The explosion today threw a monkey wrench in our plans. The troupe was supposed to make a one-show stop at Incirlik Air Base before heading on to Iraq and Afghanistan. Now, however, due to raised security concerns, they will be staying at Incirlik until authorities can trace the source of the explosion.”
He clicked to the next slide, a promotional photo featuring a lineup of females performing. Chloe Nelson’s blond mess of curls shone like a beacon from the back row. “Waiting for the USO group to leave Turkey risks too much time for Captain Tanaka, and as of now, no one is willing to cancel the tour altogether.”
Jimmy could see what was coming like an unavoidable crash before Nunez even continued.
“I propose your crew continues to act as their official escort to Turkey, to provide protection for them on that newly extended leg of their trip.” The crash landing just kept powering closer and closer. “This also offers an even more plausible cover story for your stay in Turkey.”
Impact.
The music swelled overhead as if to taunt him.
So much for adios to the Little Mermaid.
Four hours later, Agent Mike Nunez sat strapped in the back of the CV-22 with the USO troupe, the plane bound for Turkey. His groundskeeper persona was now dead to him.
No grieving necessary, though. He’d died more times than he could count. That was his job.
He changed names and identities for undercover ops so often, his body had become a hull to be retooled for each assignment. A hull with one helluva brain packed with intelligence and the skills to keep himself alive for the next rebirth.
Right now, he only needed the brain. The body could hang out in the camo they’d loaned him after he took a quick shower to get rid of the gray coloring sprayed on his hair.
He wasn’t overly enthused about his exposure to the USO troupe as he sat with them in the aircraft’s cargo hold, but ultimately he had confidence in his ability to change his appearance enough that anyone in this cavernous hold could walk past his next persona—Miguel Carvalho—and not recognize him as the dude sitting here now.
But he wasn’t depending only on his own skills.
The four aviators he’d met today could make or break his mission: an air force team from a small dark ops test squadron only a select few even knew existed. The shit these avionics pioneers created and flew was so damn spooky, even their own wives didn’t know where they went or what they did with aircraft, weaponry, defense, surveillance, and sensors that blew even his mind. They tried it all. Most of the technology they used would never be known to the world.
They reported only to the air force chief of staff.
But for the next week, at least, they would be reporting to him. He needed their “toys.” He just hoped they weren’t so accustomed to running rogue
Lieutenant Colonel Scanlon stroked a thumb over his BlackBerry. “We’re with you so far. Please continue.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Nunez answered, appropriately dropping the lieutenant part of the commander’s rank in conversation, a protocol quirk of military lingo.
Nunez pushed a button on the podium, and the slide changed to an expanded map of Turkey. “With CIA paramilitary operatives already in place and your newly acquired CV-22 tilt-rotor, we plan to combine your latest aerial surveillance technology and the ground intelligence. We’re confident we can trace the enemy’s chain of command and launch a rescue mission.”
Scanlon slid aside his BlackBerry with the barest hint of impatience. “With all due respect, you’re not telling us anything we don’t already know. I sense you’ve got another shoe to drop in your presentation, Agent Nunez.”
“Right you are, Colonel.” The image on the screen shifted to an image of the USO boarding a C-17 back in the States. “The explosion today threw a monkey wrench in our plans. The troupe was supposed to make a one-show stop at Incirlik Air Base before heading on to Iraq and Afghanistan. Now, however, due to raised security concerns, they will be staying at Incirlik until authorities can trace the source of the explosion.”
He clicked to the next slide, a promotional photo featuring a lineup of females performing. Chloe Nelson’s blond mess of curls shone like a beacon from the back row. “Waiting for the USO group to leave Turkey risks too much time for Captain Tanaka, and as of now, no one is willing to cancel the tour altogether.”
Jimmy could see what was coming like an unavoidable crash before Nunez even continued.
“I propose your crew continues to act as their official escort to Turkey, to provide protection for them on that newly extended leg of their trip.” The crash landing just kept powering closer and closer. “This also offers an even more plausible cover story for your stay in Turkey.”
Impact.
The music swelled overhead as if to taunt him.
So much for adios to the Little Mermaid.
Four hours later, Agent Mike Nunez sat strapped in the back of the CV-22 with the USO troupe, the plane bound for Turkey. His groundskeeper persona was now dead to him.
No grieving necessary, though. He’d died more times than he could count. That was his job.
He changed names and identities for undercover ops so often, his body had become a hull to be retooled for each assignment. A hull with one helluva brain packed with intelligence and the skills to keep himself alive for the next rebirth.
Right now, he only needed the brain. The body could hang out in the camo they’d loaned him after he took a quick shower to get rid of the gray coloring sprayed on his hair.
He wasn’t overly enthused about his exposure to the USO troupe as he sat with them in the aircraft’s cargo hold, but ultimately he had confidence in his ability to change his appearance enough that anyone in this cavernous hold could walk past his next persona—Miguel Carvalho—and not recognize him as the dude sitting here now.
But he wasn’t depending only on his own skills.
The four aviators he’d met today could make or break his mission: an air force team from a small dark ops test squadron only a select few even knew existed. The shit these avionics pioneers created and flew was so damn spooky, even their own wives didn’t know where they went or what they did with aircraft, weaponry, defense, surveillance, and sensors that blew even his mind. They tried it all. Most of the technology they used would never be known to the world.
They reported only to the air force chief of staff.
But for the next week, at least, they would be reporting to him. He needed their “toys.” He just hoped they weren’t so accustomed to running rogue
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