Page 110

Up forward is man dressed in an orange pressure suit, not unlike an astronaut’s space suit. Two women in plain Air Force flight suitsare checking readouts from the suit—one holding a clear helmet in her hands—and the suited man with close-cropped black hair sees Liam and frowns.
Liam doesn’t blame him.
“Okay,” Betty says, as two other technicians come forward, carrying a similar suit. “Strip.”
Some minutes later he’s helped into the rear of the tiny cockpit. Hoses and communication cables are hooked up, and then a helmet is lowered over his head and fastened on a rigid collar. Liam feels the suit pressurize around him and his mouth is dry, and he’s feeling so out of place that part of him wishes he was still back in the Army, facing the Taliban at night. At least you knew what you’re doing, who and what you were up against. Straps are lowered over his shoulders and tightened.
The pilot is sitting in front of him, with a large instrumentation panel separating the two of them. The cockpit cover is lowered by four Air Force technicians and Liam hears the pilot up forward press a set of switches, shackling it in place.
His earphones crackle in his ear. “Mr. Grey?”
“Yes,” he says.
“I’m Jeff, your pilot,” he says. “You secure back there?”
“I am,” he says.
“Good,” he says. “Just one thing.”
“Don’t touch anything,” Liam says.
A soft chuckle. “You’re learning. Drop-off and launch is in five minutes.”
The dark interior lightens with red light. Just above and forward is a windshield, but it’s less than a foot in height and maybe a yard in width.
Liam says, “One hell of a setup you folks have here.”
Jeff says, “Thanks. Wish I could say I thought of it but no, others figured out that CONUS was getting too crowded for classified flight tests, even in the most remote desert areas. Too many peoplewith cameras and phones. So we hide in plain sight, and when it comes to doing tests, we just fly off to an empty part of the Atlantic and let loose.”
“Makes sense,” Liam says, realizing the tightness in his chest isn’t coming from the tight straps, but from his racing heart.
“Yeah,” Jeff says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to get real busy. Don’t talk to me unless it’s an emergency, and trust me, you won’t recognize an emergency until it’s too late.”
“Roger that,” Liam says.
He blinks his eyes, trying to move his head, but there’s not much room in the helmet. He looks to the instrumentation panel and sees the various dials and screens have been covered. Whatever classified clearance level Liam has is worthless here.
The quality of the light changes, and Liam thinks the rear cargo hatch of the C-17 is opening. He’s going to ask Jeff that and he remembers his orders.
Okay,he thinks.
We wait.
Shuddering gets his attention, and various squeals and whines, and—
A heavy lurch, a sense of falling free.
He can’t see much but he’s sure the A-22 is now free of the C-17.
In the helmet’s earphones Jeff says, “Get ready for a kick in the pants.”
Liam keeps his mouth shut and there’s a heavy, deafening roar, and then he’s on his back, as the classified hypersonic jet leaps into the air. G-forces crush his chest, legs, and arms, and he looks up through the helmet visor and tiny aircraft windshield.
Liam thinks he sees stars up there before he passes out.
CHAPTER 90
CIA DIRECTOR HANNAH Abrams is sitting in one of the conference rooms on the seventh floor of CIA headquarters. Across from her is a man that she thinks was approaching his teens before he could reliably tie his shoes by himself.