The interior of the very large hangar was dominated by a gray General Atomics MQ-1B Predator remotely piloted aircraft parked on the left side of the hangar. The words CUSTOMS AND BORDER PROTECTION and the agency’s shield were emblazoned on the front side of the aircraft, but this definitely didn’t look like a government facility. Brad went to look it over, but a guy wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying a submachine gun slung in a quick-draw rig on his shoulders moved between him and the Predator and stood with his hands crossed before him, silently and plainly warning him to stay away.
Brad walked back over to Chris Wohl, who had been speaking with the men that were in his SUV and some others. In the half illumination of the hangar he could get a better look at the deep etchings on Wohl’s face, and he could also see skin damage around his neck and on both hands. “What is this place, Sergeant Major?” he asked.
“Someplace safe, for now,” Wohl replied.
“Who are these—”
“I’m not going to answer questions right now,” Wohl said gruffly. “If you’re supposed to know any more, you’ll be told.” He motioned to a cabinet along one wall near the Predator. “There’s coffee and water over there if you want. Don’t go near the aircraft again.” He turned away from Brad and began speaking with the others again.
Brad shook his head and decided to head over to see if they had anything to eat, regretting not taking Jodie up on any of her offers—meals or otherwise. He found a bottle of cold water in a refrigerator, but instead of drinking it, he put it on the side of his head to soothe the impact area where the Russian had clubbed him. A few minutes later he heard an aircraft of some kind outside the hangar, approaching the area, sounding as if it was moving very quickly. Wohl and the other men stopped talking and turned toward the hangar door as the aircraft sounds outside became a bit quieter as the engines were pulled back to idle. Just as Brad was going to go back to Wohl and ask him what was going on, the lights dimmed even further and the bifold hangar door began to open.
After the door was fully opened, a twin-tailed C-23C Sherpa small cargo aircraft taxied inside. It had an American flag and a civil N-number on the tail, but no other military markings, and it was painted jet black instead of the usual gray. It taxied right inside the hangar with its big turboprop propellers turning, and Brad, Wohl, and the others were forced to back away as the aircraft moved all the way inside. Directed by a linesman with a submachine gun on a shoulder rig, it taxied forward until it was signaled to stop, and then the engines cut off. The big bifold hangar doors started to motor closed as soon as the engines began to wind down. The smell of jet exhaust was strong.
A moment later a passenger door on the left side of the aircraft behind the cockpit windows opened up, and there appeared a big soldier-looking guy wearing a suit and tie—and with the noticeable bulge of a weapon under his jacket—followed immediately by a shorter man with a suit but no tie, rather long gray hair, and a neatly trimmed gray beard; at the same time the cargo door/ramp on the rear of the aircraft began to motor open. Wohl and the other men stepped over to the second newcomer, and they all shook hands. They spoke for a few moments, and then Wohl nodded toward Brad, and the second newcomer approached him, unbuttoning his jacket.
“Mr. Bradley James McLanahan,” the newcomer said in a loud, dramatic, very politician-sounding voice when he was still several paces away. “It’s been a long time. You probably don’t remember me. I certainly wouldn’t have recognized you.”
“I don’t remember you, sir, but I sure recognize you: you’re President Kevin Martindale,” Brad said, not trying to mask his surprise and confusion. Martindale smiled broadly and looked pleased that Brad recognized him, and he stuck out his hand as he approached. Brad shook it. “It’s nice to meet you, sir, but now I’m even more confused.”
“I don’t blame you one bit, son,” the former president said. “Things are happening fast, and folks are scrambling to keep up. Then this incident with you in San Luis Obispo popped up, and we had to react.” He squinted at the bruise on the side of Brad’s head. “How’s your head, son? You have a very nasty bruise there.”
“It’s fine, sir.”
“Good. I, of course, asked the sergeant major what we should do when we detected the break-in, and he said extract you, I said yes, and so he did. He is extremely effective at things like that.”
“I didn’t see what he did, but I’m here, so I guess he must be,” Brad said. “If the sergeant major works for you, sir, then can you tell me what’s going on? He hasn’t told me a thing.”
“He wouldn’t tell you anything even if he had a car battery wired to his testicles, son,” Martindale said. “Neither would any of the men in this hangar. I guess I’m the head honcho of this outfit, but I really don’t run it. He does.”