The connection was slim, but it was all Chavez could find.
The team members would make it to Ministro Pistarini International Airport outside Buenos Aires proper, a full day ahead of Chen, giving them time to sort out customs and immigration details and get accustomed to their rental vehicles before setting up to follow Chen in the ungodly traffic. Their early arrival also allowed them to secure their weapons from the hidden bulkhead compartments aboard the Gulfstream. Argentina was an emerging country, but the extremely rich and the desperately poor lived literally across the street from each other in Buenos Aires, making the place sometimes feel like a powder keg set dangerously close to the campfire.
Chavez watched through the FBO’s picture windows as the Gulfstream 550 turned off the taxiway. He couldn’t help imagining the soft leather seat on board that was calling his name. He tossed the rest of the popcorn in the trash and grabbed his soft-sided bag.
Outside in the predawn darkness the airplane came to a stop and the door yawned open. Gavin Biery held on to the rail as he made his way carefully down the jet stairs. The Hendley IT wizard tugged a huge black duffel down behind him, letting it thunk against one step at a time as he descended, like it was a dead body. Still fifty pounds heavier than he wanted to be, Gavin liked to point out that this was a hell of a lot better than the seventy pounds overweight that he used to be. A cool Texas wind tousled what was left of his graying hair. He dropped the duffel at the door and headed straight for the restroom.
Chester “Country” Hicks, the first officer of the Gulfstream, came in to hit the head as well, while Helen Reid, the pilot in command, stayed outside with her airplane to oversee the refueling for a quick turn-and-burn.
Lisanne Robertson came in next, pulling a large black plastic Pelican case that contained Biery’s technical gear. She offered to help load luggage, but everyone refused, so she took care of the fuel bill with the FBO using her Hendley Associates company credit card. As director of transportation, Robertson not only took care of the logistical minutiae but, when the plane landed, transitioned to security. She wore a white uniform blouse—neat and crisp—and a knee-length navy blue skirt. The skirt didn’t appear to be tactical, but it gave the appearance that the jet was staffed by a pretty hostess. As sexist as it might sound, a friendly smile and a pair of nice legs went a long way toward drawing any attention from the airplane’s actual mission.
That said, there was a lot more to Lisanne Robertson than her looks. She was not officially a Campus operator, but Clark believed in a unified-team concept. Because her duties pulling security for the Gulfstream might very well see everyone, including her, going to guns at the same moment, she needed to spend at least some time training with them. In the weeks since she’d been recruited, the former Marine had demonstrated not just her poise but also her skill with a variety of weapons on the range, and her ability to kick some serious ass in the mat room. She even wore the navy blue uniform skirt during defensive tactics drills, drawing a gun or blade from a holster on the spandex shorts underneath. It was good training for the guys as well. Watching an attractive young woman hike up her skirt to do battle—though they knew full well she was wearing shorts underneath—had a tendency to slow them down a fraction of a second too long. Everyone but Adara got “cut” several times by Lisanne’s chalk blade.
The world travel and enhanced training notwithstanding, other former Marines turned cops might blanch at handling all the housekeeping stuff, but Lisanne seemed to realize that she was an integral part of something much bigger than herself. And it didn’t hurt that Adara Sherman, the last person to hold the job of transportation director, was now a full-fledged operator, hopping a plane to Argentina to hunt bad guys.
Clark followed the team out into the crisp air of early morning. He pulled Chavez aside on the tarmac, just before he boarded the Gulfstream.
“Be careful, son,” he said, grabbing Chavez by one hand and pulling him in for a backslapping brotherhood hug.
Ding grinned. “You too, Mr. C.”
This was about as close as John Clark would ever get to an apology.
Jack, Midas, Adara, and Chavez trudged up the air stairs looking like workers arriving at a gulag factory. The Hendley Associates Gulfstream was well appointed, with a reasonably stocked galley, good coffee, and a bar with the team’s favorite beverages—but none of that mattered at this point. Ryan made his way to the back and stowed his bag before collapsing face-first into the leather couch. The others took positions in the plush seats, reclining and closing their eyes before the two pilots and Lisanne Robertson even made it back aboard to secure the door.
Hicks gave the safety briefing to an airplane full of closed eyelids—warning everyone of possible turbulence on their departure from Dallas.
“We’re looking at a fifty-three-hundred-mile flight,” the first officer said. “Depending on winds aloft, we anticipate eleven hours and thirty-six minutes in the air.”
Chavez, who was seated in the front, nearest the cockpit, opened one eye. He was so exhausted his skin felt like it had been buffed with a belt sander, but as team leader, it was his responsibility to pay attention to the details.
“That’s a long-ass trip. Will we have to stop and refuel?”
“Negative,” Hicks said. “We should be good. We’re well under gross with you guys and full fuel. That gives us a range of better than sixty-six hundred miles.”
“Outstanding,” Chavez muttered. He closed his eyes and pondered the eleven wonderful hours to recharge his depleted internal batteries—but the thought of the long flight made him open them again. “What about you guys?” he said. “You’ve just flown three hours to get here. That puts you in the air . . .” Chavez shook his head, lack of sleep robbing him of the ability to do even simple math. After several seconds, he finally said, “Nearly fifteen hours. Don’t you have an eight-hour limit?”
Hicks turned and put a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone.” He smiled. “Seriously, we’ve thought of that. The autopilot does the heavy lifting, but we’ll take turns napping as needed. We’ve got Provigil up here if it comes down to that.”
Provigil, or modafinil, was a “go pill” medication the Air Force sometimes issued pilots to help them stay alert during critical missions. Hendley Associates pilots rarely used it, but they kept the medication available for times like this.
Chavez started to dream even as he nodded. Unfortunately, he rolled toward his right side and his sidearm dug into his waist. “Well, shit,” he grumbled, pushing the button on his armrest to bring his seat upright.