To Omaha

112.

Drysdale puts the faux porcelain coffee mug on the table in front of me and provides the brief. The aroma tickles my nose almost as much as the news of the suspected landing location jolts like a quad espresso.

Omaha, Nebraska is a college town ripe for harvesting a young, talented and often radical labor force. It is an agreeable combination of collar colors, mixing a strong work ethic with a lively and energetic fabric, industrialized, geographically ideal and boasting myriad warehousing opportunities. I immediately consider the intel pinpointing Tucson and Portland as hot spots, adding the new site to the mix.

I check in with Frenchy, my horn playing pilot pal, to address the potential private landing strips serving the immediate area. He tells me there are several as the topography of the region allows even a medium sized jet sufficient runway length, even a corn field will do in a pinch. TOM is next up with an update and I request ground support from our local affiliates. We are going to need a vehicle waiting on the ground in close proximity if this tail is to continue without additional and unnecessary delay.

From his end there is a pause, longer than normal for the quick-thinking honcho, so I comment; “What are you thinking?”

“Triangulation. Tucson, Portland and Omaha. They create a rather nice geometrical configuration, wouldn’t you say? A triangle of coverage perhaps, perfect striking distances to the entirety of the Western States. We might be looking at the right places for the wrong reasons.” It is now my turn to pause as I consider his intuitive remarks.

“Biological?

“We have no intel to suggest it.”

“Anything from NORAD?’

“Business as usual.”

“DoD?”

“Nothing to report, nothing like the jacked Phantoms and jammed radar from their most recent escapade.”

I suggest that we keep the surveillance tight and allow the Queen of Hearts, hopefully still a viability, to complete phase two of the operation, to infiltrate their network and transfer actionable intelligence back to paint a clearer picture of their plans. My cell buzzes as he agrees, and I hold him to take the call from LA. Once the update has been received I inform TOM;

“It isn’t a triangle, it’s a square, more a rhomboid or parallelogram actually.”

“Explain.”

“Tucson, Portland, Omaha and Las Vegas. Cells joining together like mutations to build a network. But a network of what, and for what?”

I can hear TOM assign the addition of Omaha to the search protocols to an analyst. I wonder if that might be Julie, sitting in the command center with a heat set, six computers and a big screen to share all real-time analysis and projections.

Our connection is ended as we watch the Gulfstream radar indicate that the MBI jet has landed about six miles east of downtown Omaha.

I am silently hoping Julie finds something quick, that Her Majesty is prepared for the unpreparable, that the GPS bug remains active and that an outfitted rig is ready for us as we prep for landing at Eppley Field, less that ten minutes from downtown. Drysdale is watching. I salute his effort with a hoist of my mug in his direction.

‘To Omaha.”

He returns the gesture;

“To Omaha.”