‘You sure this is gonna work?’ Pope asked.
‘It’ll work,’ Mo said over the hands-free on the Taurus. ‘Just get me the gate number so I can reroute the call.’
‘I’ll get it,’ Baptiste assured him, steering the car towards the manned barrier at the entrance to the base.
Pope shook his head. ‘If anyone’s doing the yakking it’s gonna be me, Inspector Clouseau.’
‘Pope, keep your mouth shut,’ Gilmore ordered.
The Australian muttered to himself as a Security Forces officer in light-green fatigues flagged down the car. He was a young black man accompanied by a red-headed officer watching on from the booth.
‘We’ve got gate number D-9,’ Pope said to Mo, before ending the call.
Baptiste wound down his window as he brought the car to a stop. ‘How y’all doing tonight?’ he asked in an impeccable Texan accent.
‘Can I help you gentlemen?’ the officer asked.
‘Sure hope so,’ Baptiste said. ‘We’re with the UN. We’re here to inspect the munitions you have here on the base.’
‘Is this a prearranged visit?’ the officer asked.
Baptiste read off the guard’s badge. ‘Of a fashion, Specialist Williams.’
Williams checked his clipboard. ‘Names, please?’
Baptiste cracked a wide smile. ‘Aw, I’m afraid we can’t give you our names.’
‘Then I’m sorry, sir,’ Williams said. ‘Only authorised personnel are permitted on the base.’
‘Well that’s kinda the whole point, see, it’s something of a surprise inspection,’ Baptiste continued. ‘And it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if we were listed on that little old list of yours.’
‘If you’re with the UN, where are your uniforms?’ the red-headed officer asked, stepping out of the booth.
Baptiste glanced at the second guard’s name badge. ‘Oh, we’re not military personnel, Specialist Trundle. We’re civilian contractors. We’re only attached to the UN. I’m sure you can understand the need for discretion at this time.’
Trundle was insistent. ‘Show us some ID, please.’
Baptiste thought fast. ‘I’m afraid any names we give you aren’t gonna match the ones on our identification. We’ve been instructed to carry out the inspection under assumed personas.’
‘On whose authority?’ Specialist Trundle asked.
‘A General Woodruff, I believe?’ Baptiste replied. ‘If you wanna call the general, be my guest.’
The officers conferred in a whisper. After a brief discussion, Williams stepped into the booth and picked up the receiver.
Baptiste held his breath as Williams made the call. If Mo had done his job right, the call should be rerouting to Gilmore’s number in Rome. If it wasn’t, they would be forced to subdue the guards. And the guards had the upper hand in terms of tactical position.
‘General Woodruff, sir,’ Private Williams said into the phone. ‘Yes, they are here, sir. But they’re not on the list and they don’t have identification.’ Williams recoiled from the receiver, as if receiving a dressing-down. ‘Of course, sir. Right away, sir,’ he said. ‘And sorry for waking you, sir.’
Williams hung up the phone. ‘They’re good,’ he said to Trundle.
Trundle seemed surprised. ‘Well okay, then.’ He handed Baptiste a pair of visitor passes. ‘Please wear these at all times. Follow the road to the right up there—’
‘We know the drill,’ Baptiste said, pulling away through the gate.
‘Where’d you learn to talk like that?’ Pope asked as they drove onto the base.
‘I trained to be an illegal,’ Baptiste said, ‘Thank God they found something better for me to do.’
With the Taurus parked in a visitor spot, Baptiste threw Pope a security pass. They slung them around their necks and roamed the base.
It was vast – unremarkable hangars and long stretches of concrete surrounded by desert and mountain terrain. In the distance, an F16 rose into the air with a whoosh, its afterburners flaming like the devil’s eyes.
‘Night-time manoeuvres,’ Pope said. ‘They’re gearing up for war all right.’
Baptiste and Pope hopped on one of a train of golf carts parked outside a hangar.
‘So what exactly is the plan?’ Pope asked, settling behind the wheel.
‘There’s a plan?’ Baptiste said with a smile.
Pope shook his head and steered them past long rows of stationary jets and carriers. Eventually, they came to a huge white building. The lights were on inside a hangar with engineers pulling a night shift on a stealth fighter, a man in overalls working under the wing, the rev of a high-speed drill piercing the silence.
Pope brought the cart to a stop outside the hangar. ‘We’re getting nowhere. They could be anywhere. Could be up in that jet for all we know,’ he said, pointing at the F16 circling the base.
‘Finally we agree on something.’ Baptiste leaned back in his seat, ‘What would McNeil want with a pair of married air force pilots?’
‘Maybe they’re selling secrets,’ Pope said. ‘Maybe they’re gonna blow up the base.’ He rested his forearms on the steering wheel. ‘Maybe they’re having a threesome.’
As Pope stepped on the accelerator, Baptiste couldn’t help but laugh.
They drove onto the next hangar – and another – until they came to a long row of shipping containers on wheels, with antennas on the roof and doors built into the sides. Pope stopped the golf cart outside a nondescript concrete building.
Baptiste stared ahead at the row of containers. ‘This must be where they fly the UAVs from.’
Pope looked around. ‘What do you reckon, we scope out the building?’
‘Sure, why not?’ Baptiste said, sliding out of his seat. ‘Nothing else to do.’
He and Pope left the cart and walked towards the building. Suddenly, a door opened, a shaft of light spilling across the dark concrete.
A pair of aircrew emerged, zipped up in green flight suits.
‘Over here,’ Baptiste whispered, dragging Pope out of sight around a corner.
‘Shit, it’s them,’ Pope replied, as the couple walked towards the containers.
‘Come on,’ Baptiste said, leading the way at a distance behind the Turners.
The couple held hands as they strolled to a container midway along the row. Baptiste jogged light on his feet with Pope on his shoulder. They hid behind another cabin a few containers down. The Turners spoke outside their container. The husband put a hand to his wife’s cheek and gave her a soft, lingering kiss. They nodded at each other. Riley Turner pulled the door open to the container and they stepped inside. The door closed behind them with a clunk.
Baptiste took out his phone and tapped on Gilmore’s number. ‘We’ve found them,’ Baptiste said. ‘They’re a UAV aircrew, working their next shift.’
‘Take them,’ Gilmore said.
Baptiste ended the call. He drew his sidearm, prompting Pope to do the same. They jogged along the row of containers and came to the one with the number 017 in black lettering up the side. Baptiste grabbed the thick steel door handle. Pope stood ready to enter first. He gave the nod.
Baptiste pulled on the door handle. He pulled and pulled again. It wouldn’t budge. Pope took over. Still no joy.
‘It’s locked from the inside,’ Pope said with a whisper.
‘You don’t say.’
‘So what now?’ Pope asked.
‘We wait until they’ve flown their mission,’ Baptiste replied.
‘And how long’s that gonna take?’
‘Three, four hours?’ Baptiste said with a shrug. How was he supposed to know?
Pope sighed and holstered his weapon. As they set off back to the golf cart, Baptiste made another call to Gilmore. ‘They’re locked in a steel container. We can’t get in.’
‘Then wait until they’re done,’ Gilmore replied.
‘Base security might get suspicious,’ said Baptiste.
Gilmore reacted with all his usual charm and grace. ‘It’s a surprise inspection. Act like it.’
Baptiste hung up the phone. ‘Americans.’
Pope waited on an answer like a dog waiting for its dinner.
‘We wait,’ Baptiste said, slipping his phone away.
Pope groaned in reply.
‘This is why you could never have been a spy,’ Baptiste said. ‘You lack the patience.’
‘Too right I do,’ Pope complained as they walked back to the building the Turners had emerged from. ‘Some people are thinkers,’ he continued. ‘Other people are doers.’
‘Let me guess,’ Baptiste said, ‘you’re not much of a thinker.’
‘Exactly mate.’ Pope missed the sarcasm and slapped Baptiste on the back. ‘So what now, comrade?’
‘We act like inspectors,’ Baptiste replied. ‘Ask to see the flight rosters. Find out when they finish their shift. When they leave the base, that’s when we take them down.’
Baptiste pulled on the handle of the door to the building. This one opened.
‘You reckon they’ve got a canteen?’ Pope asked as they stepped inside.