Four Thousand Pounds of Thrust

109.

“The signal has just now returned, we were down for about eleven minutes, I have the tech rep on the other line trying to figure out what happened,” Drysdale reports in an objective tone. 

“Ask the rep if an active heavy construction area might affect the signal,” I fire back, “and come pick me up at the general aviation FBO gate, looks like we’re going for a ride.”

I watch as the MBI turbo-prop taxis and lifts. 

“What is the GPS showing right now?” I ask.

“Whoa baby, she just strapped a rocket to her back, South South West at almost two-hundred and fifty knots.” 

“Get here fast, I say, they are airborne, destination unknown.” 

I terminate the call with Drysdale and patch Davis into my call with TOM. 

“We should have alerted you to the construction project in the remote case that they might use the material obstruction and radio interference to jam our signal,’ he begins, “apparently they felt another layer of security was necessary to ascertain the complete credibility of The Queen, and perhaps to also ensure they would be traveling alone, un-surveilled,” he says, “in the long game, this might work to our advantage.”

I bite my tongue as I listen to his speculation, disappointed in my performance that has allowed our top priority to slip past us undetected and reach thirty-thousand feet of cruising altitude.

“Anything on MBI?”

“The usual, privately held corporation, donates to Republican candidates, pays little tax on huge International revenue, probably a front for laundering gambling profits, but there is one interesting connection,” TOM pauses.

I see Drysdale pull up and screech to a sideways halt two feet from my position. As I hop in and say “Gulfstream, stat.” I ask TOM what it is. 

“It seems they have several current and active contracts with the Pentagon.” 

“For what?” I ask incredulously.

“All we know at this point is that the job description is labeled as consulting.”

I almost scream: “Consulting? On what?”

“We are tracking that down as we speak, we’ll have more detail shortly.” 

I take a deep breath as Drysdale pushes the big Ford towards the waiting Gulfstream. I thank TOM for the updates. My cell buzzes. The big Ford spits gravel from its steel-belted radials as we slide up to the open stairway of the jet and scramble aboard.

I look at my cell and see the local analyst is holding.

“Mr Muscles and Cyrus are on the move.”

“Tail them from a distance and do not blow cover. Get back to me when you have a fix on their destination.”

“Roger that.”

Four thousand pounds of thrust pins me to the back of my seat as we initiate pursuit.