Assassin's Edge by Ward Larsen

Author:Ward Larsen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

THIRTY-FOUR

At Sorensen’s direction, Slaton’s next stop was Tel Aviv. Her reasoning was that it would put him closer to where he might prove operationally useful, and also allow him to act as a liaison with Mossad. For reasons that weren’t yet apparent, Israel remained deeply involved in the CIA’s multiple unfolding crises.

To get him there, Sorensen went with speed over comfort. She herself had commandeered the CIA’s only jet in Alaska, so she put in a request with the Air Force for mission support—the movement of one critical operative halfway around the world. Her request was initially denied, a refusal that came as she was briefing the president over a secure line during her own flight back to Langley. After relaying the details of what had occurred on Wrangel Island, and also under the ice in the nearby sea, Sorensen assured President Cleveland that the Special Operations Group was still hard at work before letting slip that her top operator was stranded at Joint Base Elmendorf in Anchorage.

The commander in chief made one call, and ten minutes later a weary Slaton was being escorted by a full-bird colonel through base operations to his new private jet: sitting on the tarmac, a four-engine, half-million-pound, Air Force C-17 Globemaster. The transport, according to the base commander, was being diverted from a repositioning leg back to Travis Air Force Base in California.

Slaton walked to the forward boarding stairs and was met by the crew. The aircraft commander was a tall, thin-haired major, and his copilot a female captain. They regarded him with a jaundiced eye, and it took a moment for Slaton to realize why. He’d taken a navy shower on New Mexico to wash off salt water from the dive, but nothing more. He hadn’t shaved in days, his sandy hair was unruly, and he was wearing the only backup set of clothing he’d brought—tactical pants, heavy shirt, Merrell boots, all topped by the outer shell of a mud-encrusted winter jacket that had gone through a microwar on Wrangel. The two pilots stared at him slack-jawed, as if a stray mongrel had just walked into the Westminster Dog Show.

“Your name Slaton?” the major asked.

“It is.”

A looked exchanged between them.

“And you need to go to Tel Aviv?”

“That would be great.” A pause, before Slaton asked, “Is there a problem?”

The major seemed to lighten up. “No, not at all. It’s just that the way these orders came down, highest priority and all … we were expecting a general. Three stars, at least.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

The captain smiled wryly. “Better this way—flag officers can be a pain in the ass.”

Slaton smiled back. “I promise I won’t be. Truth is, I could really use some rest.”

“You’re in luck. It’s a long flight, but our jet comes with real bunks. You can rack out the whole time if you want.”

The captain led him up the boarding stairs into the aircraft’s wide cargo bay, then made a hard left to the flight deck. Against the rear bulkhead were double-stacked bunks.

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