Rogue Commander, Leo Maloney [classic books for 11 year olds TXT] 📗

leaned over the backs between them. He handed Chilly his cell phone.

“Okay, turn on that left-hand computer; then transfer the nav on my cell over to the system. The registry’s stamped on that metal plate on the keyboard.”

“Got it,” Chilly said.

Ten seconds later he had Lincoln Shepard’s tracker up on the big monitor. The blinking yellow dot was just crossing above a wide swath of green and entering a vast area of blue.

“Shit,” Renard said.

“Where are we?” Hot Shot asked as he leaned to the left and watched.

“That western section is mainland China, with Beijing off to the left. That aircraft is headed due east to Pyongyang.”

Hot Shot turned and stared at Renard. “As in North Korea?”

“As in the Hermit Kingdom,” Renard confirmed.

“What’s on that plane?” Chilly asked.

“A precious jewel. Can you tell us what kind of aircraft that is, Chilly?”

“Only if I hack into the FAA, but even that might not do it ’cause it’s international. Might have to break into Geospatial.” Chilly turned and looked at Renard with the biggest shit-eating grin he ever had. “Illegal, nothing, bossman. This is forbidden, prohibited, and criminal, supreme!”

“Chilly,” Renard said. “Remember how much your bonus was last year?”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Double it.”

“Double it?” Chilly scoffed. “Hell, man, I’d pay you for this!” Then he started hammering away at the keyboard.

In the meantime, Renard instructed Hot Shot to bring up his flight simulator. It was one of the best in the business. It was called Proflight, but SR Research and Development had already improved it. Hot Shot’s monitor glowed with the beta version, with maps and landscapes and aircraft in drop-down menus.

“Nice,” Hot Shot exclaimed. “We used one for training sometimes, but nothing like this.”

“Got it,” Chilly interrupted. His monitor had switched over to a different navigation system, which was much more advanced than Shepard’s. It had latitude and longitudinal lines, three-dimensional features and ground altitude markers. The blinking yellow dot had changed to red, beside which a box showed the flight number, altitude, and airspeed.

“Nice.” Renard squeezed his shoulder. “Now give me the remaining distance to Pyongyang, an ETA at the current flight speed, and any air strips between the current location and the target.”

Chilly tapped some more. “It’s five hundred thirty miles, four hundred thirty-seven nautical. Looks to me like they’re a third of the way there. The only airport I’ve got between current and target is that, like, finger of China poking down into the ocean. It’s got a strip called Dalian.”

“Okay, now tell me what kind of equipment that is.”

“Equipment?” Chilly scrunched up his face.

“He means what kind of airplane, dumbass,” Hot Shot said.

“Oh.” Chilly moved his mouse and clicked on the transponder signal. “It’s a Gulfstream G550.”

Renard jabbed a finger at Hot Shot’s monitor. “Call up that model and give me cockpit view.”

The image of a business jet cockpit filled Hot Shot’s monitor. The instruments were “all glass,” meaning state-of-the-art digital. “You can fly that, right?” Renard asked Hot Shot.

“Piece of cake.”

“Okay, boys,” Renard said. “Here’s the hard part. Chilly, can you hack into that Gulfstream’s computer via the transponder?”

“Not from here. Maybe if I backdoor Space Command.”

“Fine. Do it.”

Chilly blew out a breath. “Okay, but it’ll take a while.”

“What’s the time on target to Dalian?”

“Looks about twenty-five minutes,” said Hot Shot.

“Chilly, you’ve got five minutes to turn over the controls of that aircraft to Hot Shot. I’m going to run downstairs and get us some coffee.”

“I don’t do coffee,” Chilly complained. “You got any Red Bull?”

“Will you please just shut up and hack?” Hot Shot sputtered.

Renard had already exited the play room. Hot Shot called out to him.

“Sir? What do you want me to do once I have the controls?”

“Bring it down at Dalian, but don’t crash it,” Renard called back.

Chilly beamed at Hot Shot, his eyes as big as golf balls. “Boy, oh boy, bossman’s gone cray-cray. That’s multiple federal offenses, I don’t know how many international infractions, and maybe a side of manslaughter...”—he raised his eyebrows at his now-literal partner in crime—“that is, if you screw the pooch on landing.”

Hot Shot snorted as he aimed all his concentration on the controls. “Screw the pooch, nothing. This baby’s gonna have beautiful puppies. I don’t know what’s on that bird, but we’re getting it on the ground in one piece, capisce?”

“Cap Peach.” Chilly leaned deep over his keyboard and started to play it like Mozart at his most possessed. “Get ready to fly, a-hole, and fasten your seat belt.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Lily sat in a buttercream-colored, plush leather aircraft seat inside the spacious cavern of an opulent jet. The Gulfstream’s interior was arrayed for fifteen passengers, its fuselage carpeted and polished to a gleam, with drop-down mahogany tables, a full galley up forward, and a water closet with bidet in the back. There was an onyx wet bar, and even a small couch; it was an airborne suite fit for a queen. But Lily’s appearance failed to match the décor.

Her prim gray suit was torn at the shoulders, the buttons all gone, and her tangerine blouse was stained with her sweat. Her dyed-blond hair was unwashed, greasy, and bound in the back with a thick rubber band.

Her wrists lay on her lap, aching and raw from a pair of black handcuffs, and her ankles were bound with thin rope. A Chinese guard at the temporary detention facility in Beijing, who’d attempted to explore her panties, had discovered the power of her legs.

“You realize, Miss Stone, or whatever your name is, that soon you are going to talk.”

Colonel Hyo sat in another chair facing Lily, his back to the galley and the cockpit. His large officer’s cap sat on the table between them, next to a repast of Chinese delights, which he chopsticked languidly while Lily’s stomach growled with hunger and thirst. She looked at his cruel face with her gleaming bloodshot eyes and said nothing.

“Who you work for exactly, is not of interest.” Colonel Hyo raised a glass of white wine, taking his time. “The Americans, the