Страница 6 из 81
Racing down the dock, Harvath brought the Mercedes skidding to a stop next to the resupply boat and leapt out. Taking cover, he aimed his MP7 toward the end of the pier and instructed Sanchez to get the tanker captain out of the car and onto the boat.
Once the captain was safely on board, Sanchez returned with a rag that had been soaked in some sort of chemical. After opening the Mercedes’s gas cap he shoved it halfway in, removed a lighter, and ignited what was hanging out, saying to Harvath, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The two men untied the resupply boat and jumped on. As soon as Pili saw that Harvath and Sanchez were aboard and they were clear of the pier, he spun the craft around and made for the mouth of the harbor. The Shotgun team was right behind and covered their six o’clock all the way out.
The last thing any of them saw were the few surviving pirates who foolishly rushed down the dock firing wildly from their AK-47s. One of them even took a knee, mounted an RPG on his shoulder and was just about to fire, when the Mercedes exploded, taking the pier and everything else with it.
CHAPTER 4
Having reinstated Captain Velopoulos and debriefed the crew, Harvath and his team scuttled their weapons and slipped off the Sie
They were met by a crooked customs official arranged for by the Old Man. He stamped their passports and directed them to a waiting vehicle, which drove them to the airport.
The only deviation from their departure plan was that instead of flying home commercially with his teammates, Harvath was now going back via a private jet that was already waiting for him. Carlton was reluctant to give him many details, even over an encrypted satellite phone. He simply said he needed Harvath back as quickly as possible.
Harvath knew better than to question him. The Old Man was a legend in the espionage business. With more than three decades at the CIA, he had helped establish the Agency’s counterterrorism center before retiring and starting his own private enterprise. If he said he needed him back right away, he needed him back right away.
While Harvath didn’t like the idea of not personally seeing his team safely out of the country, they were all exceptional operators and big boys who could handle clearing passport control and getting on the correct flight. It goes without saying that they hazed Harvath for having his “own private jet” and being “too good” to fly commercial with them. It was nothing more than male chop-busting. None of the men held it against him. They understood that in this line of work, time wasn’t only money—it could mean the difference between saving or losing lives.
Consoling himself with the fact that all his guys had flown private at some point in their lives, that thought quickly faded as he cleared passport control, walked out onto the tarmac, and saw his plane. While his men may have flown private before, he was pretty confident none of them had ever flown like this.
Even Harvath, who had gotten used to being moved from country to country on high-end private jets from Gulfstreams, Cessnas, and Hawkers, to Bombardiers, Dassaults, and Embraers, had never seen anything like it.
With its long, pointed nose and swept-back wings, the Aerion Supersonic Business Jet resembled a smaller, futuristic Concorde that had been designed for private use. A pilot, copilot, and flight attendant were waiting at the base of the air-stairs.
They introduced themselves and the captain gave Harvath a quick tour of the aircraft’s exterior. Designed by an American aerospace firm in Reno, Nevada, the Aerion SBJ had a maximum speed of Mach 1.8 or 1,186 miles per hour and a range of up to 5,300 miles.
The captain explained that while over the water, their maximum supersonic cruise speed would be Mach 1.6; over land, they would have to slow to just under Mach 1.2 in order to continue supersonic travel, but without the boom, or “boomless” as he put it.
The man was full of interesting information and told Harvath everything except to whom the $90 million aircraft belonged. It sure didn’t belong to the Old Man, but it was obviously somehow co
As the captain rejoined the copilot to complete his preflight check, Harvath was handed off to the flight attendant. She was an attractive redhead named Natalie. Her English was excellent, but he picked up on her Swedish accent immediately. His call sign of Norseman wasn’t given to him because he looked like some sort of Viking. In fact, with his brown hair and blue eyes, he looked more German than anything else. The Norseman call sign came from his early days in the SEALs when he had dated a string of Scandinavian Airlines flight attendants. What had started as a good-natured joke had stuck with him throughout his career. He didn’t have any complaints, though. There were much worse things an operator could be named for.
Natalie escorted him up the stairs and into the aircraft. It was luxuriously appointed with large leather seats and intricate burled wood accents. At just over six and a half feet wide and thirty feet long, the cabin more than accommodated the five-foot-ten Harvath.
After showing him the galley, the lavatory, and the area at the rear of the aircraft that could be closed off for a private sleeping compartment, Natalie offered him something to drink. He smiled to himself as he thought about how many buddies of his got on a plane like this and went right for the top shelf of the bar either because they were insecure and wanted to appear like they belonged on a private jet, or because they wanted to take advantage of whoever was footing the bill. That wasn’t his style. He was more than comfortable in his own skin and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. He also knew well enough that the aircraft wouldn’t be provisioned with anything its owners didn’t want him to enjoy.
Having been in the mood for a beer for over a week, that was exactly what he asked for.
“A beer drinker,” Natalie replied with a smile. “I like that.”
Harvath watched as she turned and walked up the aisle toward the galley. There was nothing like a woman in uniform, particularly a flight attendant’s uniform. The scarf tied around the neck was always the coup de grâce for him. It radiated a confidence and sexiness that got him every time.
When Natalie returned with his drink, she explained the meal services, the in-flight entertainment options, and also handed him an iPad that was wirelessly co
He didn’t plan on watching any movies. He pla
Once the plane had taken off and had reached its cruising altitude, Natalie served Harvath a quick meal and then prepared the sleeping area. Despite how incredibly well insulated and quiet the aircraft was, she had left a pair of earplugs along with an eye mask and pair of silk pajamas. Thanking her, Harvath stepped inside and slid the doors closed behind him.
He wasn’t a pajamas kind of guy. Hanging up his clothes, he slid between the sheets and closed his eyes. He was still wound up and no sooner had his eyes shut than a picture of Mukami getting his brains blown out floated across his mind. He had to force himself to think of something else.