Page 31 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

“A plane,” Juan said with a shrug. “So what?”

“Watch!”

Suddenly doors opened up in the belly of the airliner just as a driverless flatbed vehicle slid under the fuselage. Moments later, a block of passenger seats lowered onto the flatbed and it sped off to a far corner. Another took its place and repeated the process. Within minutes at least three hundred seats had been removed and stacked along a far wall.

Mesmerized by the vision of the automated flatbeds, Juan’s attention turned to the fuselage itself as it turned from the Somali Airlines blue and white scheme to all white. A new green, white, and red Tajik Air logo appeared on the tail.

“Electrically charged paint that can change color. Have you even seen such a miracle?” Yaqoob asked.

Juan bit his tongue.Well, yeah, on theOregon.

“So this ‘Vendor’ has a fleet of airplanes that can automatically change their color schemes and logos. I take it he also changes IFF signals?” Juan knew well enough that “identification, friend or foe” transponders identified aircraft primarily for air traffic control. But he also knew they were easy enough to spoof.

“What do I know of this ‘IFF’? The planes come with passengers,the planes go with cargo, the planes come back again with more passengers, or sometimes not. No problems.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Six months. Twelve, fourteen trips so far. All good.”

Juan motioned toward the aircraft. The two fuselage bay doors had converted themselves into a large loading ramp that stretched from the aircraft to the hangar floor.

“Where is this one going to?”

“That is none of your affair. Operational security.”

“Can you at least confirm you are capable of long-distance delivery?”

“Would you want me telling strangers about your cargo and destination?”

“Obviously not.”

“Then you understand my position.” Yaqoob pointed at the aircraft. “Just take a look at that airplane. Do you think it is just a…Wait, how do the Americans say it? Oh, yes. A ‘puddle jumper’?”

“Understood.”

Juan pondered his options. On the far side of the hangar he watched two uniformed Taliban stacking long crates on a pallet. The pallet was already loaded onto the forks of a driverless forklift.

Another Taliban jihadi was wrapping a fully stacked pallet with a roll of heavy clear plastic for load stability. A dozen more stacked and wrapped pallets lined the far wall, but Juan couldn’t make out what they carried.

Juan needed more information about the Vendor and his operations, but clearly Yaqoob didn’t know any more. He wasn’t handling the financial transactions, so there wasn’t any chance to steal bank transfer information from him. Right now, Juan’s only play seemed to be getting on that plane and planting one of his homing beacons on board. Then theOregoncould track the plane to its next destination and perhaps there he could find out more about this Vendor character, his operation’s networks, and maybe even more about his clients—buyers and sellers.

“I want to see inside the plane,” Juan said. He barked it like an order. No point in giving the big man a chance to refuse his request.

Yaqoob unfolded his long legs out of the cramped little trolley and strode toward the plane.

Juan knew there was always a moment in an undercover operation where the agent knew he was on the verge of scoring big. That moment was usually more dangerous than most because it was the easiest way for an agent to accidentally tip his hand. The trick was to keep a cool head and not get too excited and give away the game. Cabrillo had done this long enough to know that he was just moments away from success. All he had to do was take a few deep breaths, look around the aircraft, drop off the homing beacon, and then get the heck out of Dodge.

Juan watched as a speeding automated forklift heading for the back wall skidded to a halt just feet from Yaqoob, its collision sensors signaling a crash warning to its automatic brakes before it could hit the Pashtun.

Yaqoob hardly noticed. Just as he was about to step onto the ramp of the newly transformed cargo aircraft, his phone buzzed in his camouflaged pocket and he stopped. He pulled the phone out and pressed it against his massive head, and answered it by barking his name.

His voice lowered and he turned his broad back to Cabrillo, his words becoming more heated the longer he spoke. Suddenly he quieted, and listened. Cabrillo couldn’t make out the words on the other end or even the language. Finally, Yaqoob sighed. He turned around toward Juan, his face a welter of conflicting emotions.

“It’s for you, Stepan.” He tossed the phone to Juan in a high little arc.

Caught off guard, Juan reached up with both hands and snagged the phone out of the air—taking his eyes off Yaqoob just long enough for the big Afghani to throw a spine-shattering haymaker, cracking the side of Juan’s skull with his anvil-sized fist, and knocking him out cold.

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