ABOARD EAST ASIA CARGO FLIGHT 203, OVER SIBERIA
Rankin settled into the seat on the upper deck of the Antonov An-22, trying to compensate for the thin padding by adding one of the blankets he’d found in the overhead compartment. He hoped to start catching up on his sleep, though between the seat and the loud snores of Guns and Massette behind him—somehow managing to pierce the drone of the four turboprops on the wings—his prospects were rather dim.
The An-22 the three SF soldiers were flying in had been designed in the 1960s as a long-distance freight hauler for the Soviet military; this particular version had ferried T-62 tanks around the country for nearly two decades before being surplused and then sold—illegally, though its papers demonstrated otherwise—to a small air-freight company based in Germany. The company had gone bankrupt, and one of its creditors ended up with the plane; the creditor had in turn sold it at auction, and within a few months the aircraft belonged to a private company partly owned by a man known to have connections with the Egyptian secret service. These connections were actually a cover for his true relationship
with the American CIA, a connection that had allowed Corrigan to arrange for the Team’s transport to Japan relatively quickly.
Though in Rankin’s opinion, delays that would have meant a more comfortable flight and something to eat would have been well worth the time. He hoped they’d be able to grab something in Tokyo before going back to the States. His end of the mission had been pretty much a wipeout. Worse, he knew from Corrigan that Ferguson and Conners had hit pay dirt and was pissed that he had missed it.
The plane hit a run of turbulence and began skittering up and down like a kite. When it finally settled down, Rankin bunched the blanket up behind his head to take another go at trying to sleep. As he closed his eyes, his sat phone buzzed.
“Rankin, we need you in Manila, right away,” said Corrigan. “We’re getting a flight for you into Tokyo.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re still pulling the details together. The assault’s under way, but we have information on a hangar in Manila. It fits with the LA theory. Things are fluid.”
“I’m hungry,” Rankin told him.
Corrigan couldn’t quite compute what the comment meant. He took a shallow breath, then stuttered. “What are you talking about?”
“I want to get some food in Japan,” Rankin told him. “I’m starving.”
“Shit, Rankin, I don’t have time for your crap,” said Corrigan, killing the line.