Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

Named after the many salt marshes, or kavir, that could be found within it, the Kavir Desert stretched from the Alborz mountain range in the northwest to the Dasht-e Lut, or Lut Desert, in the southeast and took up a land area of about 30,000 square miles. At its heart lay the Great Kavir, a salt marsh over 150 miles long.

“The Manifold site isn’t in the middle of the Rig-e Jenn, is it?” Bishop asked, referring to the large area of the Kavir Desert that did consist of the sand dunes and desolation most people associated with a desert climate. Very few people ventured into the area. The old caravan travelers believed it to be a place where evil spirits waited, and even today, many of the people who lived in the nearby areas of the Kavir avoided it for the same reason.

CJ scoffed. “If it was, we’d never get there. No one has ever successfully explored the place. The closest anyone has come was when that Austrian geographer crossed the southern tail of it in the 1930’s. Gabriel, I think his name was. No, the Manifold site is just over a day’s walk from Hassi, a village just south of the Alborz Mountains. The land is hot and dry, but no sand dunes.”

Bishop smiled. He, of course, knew all along that the Manifold site wasn’t in the Rig-e Jenn. His briefing from Deep Blue had told him exactly where the site was located. He even had the exact latitude and longitude. He was just wondering how much CJ knew. Apparently, the man knew plenty. Was his team investigating the Manifold site, as well?

Since Bishop’s team had gone from Delta to Black Ops, it was certainly possible. For all intents and purposes, Chess Team didn’t exist anymore, so if anyone in power were to investigate Manifold, they would have to use another Special Forces team—one sanctioned by the US government. Domenick Boucher at CIA and General Keasling were supposed to redirect any intel on Manifold to Deep Blue, but there was always the possibility that another Delta team or even a division of the CIA could stumble across something, and act on it, before the higher-ups were informed. Is that what was happening here?

Maybe. But he knew he would never get that information out of CJ. He made a mental note to ask Deep Blue the next time he spoke with him.

“Here we are,” CJ said, turning onto a small dirt road.

At the end of the road, Bishop saw a large metal building with wide doors. From the road, the building was hidden by a large copse of trees, but as they drew closer, it came fully into view. Bishop recognized it as a small hangar. The doors stood open to reveal a tan Cessna 172. The closer they got to the hangar, the more of the plane he could see, and the sight wasn’t as encouraging as he’d first hoped.

The Cessna had clearly seen better days. The paint was faded in more places than not, and the once black stripe along the side was now gray. Several of the panels on the fuselage and wings were a different color than the rest of the plane, indicating they’d been replaced but never repainted, and here and there, he spotted the rough welds of hasty patch jobs. The windows looked dirty, and the whole plane needed a wash. The airframe seemed sound from the car, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he got a closer look. Even then, Bishop was no airplane mechanic. He knew how to fly them and how to jump out of them, and that’s where his knowledge ended.

“Looks old,” he said.

“It is,” CJ replied. “Older than you. It’s one of the first models from back in 1956. Over twenty five thousand hours logged on the airframe. It’s got a new engine, though, and updated electronics. It’ll get us there.”

“You know the pilot?” Bishop asked, still looking at the plane.

“Oh, yeah. I know him real well,” CJ replied. “He’s me.”

Bishop grinned. He might have known.

They came to a stop beside the barn and both men stepped out of the car. Bishop stood looking at the plane, marveling at how something that looked so old and patched could still fly. It sure wasn’t the Crescent.

“How long will it take to get to Hassi?” Bishop asked.

“Not long,” CJ replied. “An hour. Maybe an hour and a half if the wind is against us. The plane looks like a warm turd, but it can move.”

Bishop nodded. “When do we leave?”

“How about right now?”

Nothing like getting right down to business. “All right,” Bishop said. “Let’s move.” He reached up and grabbed the door handle on the Cessna’s fuselage, then pulled it open. It seemed much smaller inside than he’d anticipated. But then again, it had been a very long time since he’d flown in a single-engine prop plane. The Crescent had room for row upon row of computers and equipment, and commercial airliners were huge, if cramped. CJ’s Cessna had enough room for four passengers, as long as they were built like Miley Cyrus. He worked his way around the tiny rear passenger seats until he reached the front of the plane, then he sat in the co-pilot’s spot. CJ came up behind him and closed the cabin door. Then he took his place in the pilot’s seat.