The C-130’s four turboprop engines couldn’t be safely started inside the hangar. That explained the two missing mechanics, who were attaching a ramp vehicle to tow the aircraft outside. Jenn sketched out the interior of the enormous hangar. Besides the mechanics, they counted two Cold Harbor mercenaries guarding the hangar’s interior doors and another pair guarding the exterior access door. Five more huddled at the bottom of the C-130’s ramp. All wore desert camos, but none was visibly armed.
As far as they could tell, Eskridge had indeed played it low-key, relying on the safety provided by Dulles. Still, nine unarmed mercenaries spread out across a hangar this size would be a lot more difficult to control than a roomful of airport staff. And that accounted only for the ones they could see. They had no view of the aircraft’s interior. Calista had insisted that the bulk of Cold Harbor’s personnel had already decamped for North Africa, but Gibson knew from experience how many men a C-130 could hold. If it had more than a skeleton flight crew tonight, they would have some hard decisions to make. Gibson feared that Jenn had already made them. She viewed everyone associated with Cold Harbor as complicit. If they encountered heavy resistance taking the plane, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill them all.
Kill them all or die trying.
Jenn pointed to a man holding a clipboard. “That one is the loadmaster. He’ll have the manifest. We’re going to want to talk to him. The rest look like mercs.”
“That’s a lot of men.”
“Agreed.”
“We need to thin the herd,” Gibson said. “Bring some of them to us.”
“What do you have in mind?”
They both studied the flickering images, looking for an answer. Gibson wanted to avoid a bloodbath if possible. He had an idea.
“The hangar door is closed,” Gibson said.
“And?”
“The master override is computer controlled. I saw it when I was in their system. If we kill the hangar door, someone’s going to have to come check on it.”
Jenn liked that idea. Together they sketched out a plan and went out to the van for her suitcases. She unpacked the gear they would need while Gibson used the office’s computer to lock down the hangar door. Then they waited and watched.
The clock ticked closer to one a.m.
The mechanics finished hooking up the ramp vehicle. One walked over to a control box mounted on the wall between the exterior access door and the enormous retractable hangar door. On the silent monitors, Jenn and Gibson watched the mechanic turn a key and punch a green button. Nothing happened. The mechanic tried it several more times. The two Cold Harbor mercs guarding the exterior access door gathered around and gave it a try. Still nothing. The other mechanic wandered over, and the four of them diligently troubleshot the problem before eventually reaching the consensus opinion that it didn’t work.
One of the men standing at the rear of the C-130 strode across the hangar to find out what was happening. He had the bearing of a man whose schedule was being blown all to hell.
“I know him. Name is Norrgard. He’s the leader and a mean son of a bitch,” Jenn said and leaned in to study his flickering image. “Control him, and we control the room.”
Down in the hangar, a decision had been reached. Accompanied by two Cold Harbor mercs, one of the mechanics hustled across the hangar. They went out a smaller door and into the service corridor that connected the hangars and the Dulles Air Center offices. The man that Jenn had identified as the leader updated the rest of his team on the situation. The second mechanic went back to the ramp vehicle and made himself comfortable behind the wheel.
Gibson reactivated the hangar-door controls.
Then they got ready for company.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The mechanic from the hangar was thicker than Gibson, but his shirt fit passably if Gibson tucked it in all the way.
“How do I look?” Gibson asked.
“Like you shrunk in the wash,” Jenn said.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Relax. You’re a mechanic, not a male model.”
“The mechanic in the hangar will know I’m wrong.”
“He’ll be a hundred feet away. Keep your head down and keep moving. You’ll be fine.”
“I think fine is optimistic,” Gibson said. “Do you think he’ll be on board?”
“No, Eskridge is too smart to be anywhere near this.”
“I meant George.”
“He has to be,” Jenn said with a weariness that reinforced Gibson’s belief that she had reached the end of her line.
They both had.
He thought about what that meant on the long, cold walk down the corridor to Hangar Six. He might die tonight, and he greeted the idea with indifference. If anything, it would be a relief. What little he had left to lose had already been lost. No matter what happened tonight, Damon Ogden and a prison cell waited for him. Knowing there was no way back and only one way forward, he felt weightless and, strangely, free.
Despite Jenn’s reassurances, he was still worried that the mechanic would see him and sound the alarm. Gibson pulled his Phillies baseball cap from his jacket pocket. He ran his fingers across the brim as he did sometimes when he needed good luck.
“Put it on,” Bear said. “Or do you still think you don’t deserve to?”
“It’s complicated.”
They came to the hangar door. He considered the cap again. It would really help conceal his face, but still he hesitated.
“Put it on,” she said again with the gentle lilt of someone coaxing a nervous puppy into the open.
He did as she asked and fitted it low over his eyes.
Bear looked him over with a kind smile. “It suits you.”
“If you say so,” Gibson replied and opened the door.
The cameras hadn’t conveyed the enormity of the hangar. The ceilings soared overhead like a cathedral, and every sound was answered by a faraway echo. Even the enormous C-130, in the center of the hangar, looked insignificant by comparison. There would be nowhere to hide if things went wrong. And he’d be in enemy territory the entire way. As if to remind him of that fact, the two mercs guarding the door stepped into his path.
“Heard you boys broke my hangar,” he said and shook his canvas tool bag for effect. Neither cracked a smile.
“Hurry up,” one said. “We’re running late.”
“You stopped me.”
That observation did little to endear him to them or to move them out of his way. He squeezed between them and walked toward the control panel, which was diagonally across the hangar. It looked like a day’s hike between here and there. Unfortunately, the C-130 sat between here and there. His feet wanted to take the long way around to avoid the three mercs at the bottom of the C-130’s ramp. But he was keenly aware that they were all watching him now, so he forced himself to walk straight toward them. At the aircraft, Gibson glanced up the ramp but didn’t see a platoon of men lying in wait.
“Doesn’t mean they’re not in there,” Duke said pleasantly.
Gibson ignored him.