Free Forged in Fire by Trish McCallan Page A

earth-toned skin, he looked like a bat that had been staked out to dry in the sun.
    Mac tapped the pen against the top of his desk. “Counterterrorism. Out of the Seattle Field Office. I need someone on that line ASAP.”
    “Perhaps you should contact Captain Gillomay first?” Radar offered bluntly.
    Yeah, no doubt he should—the proper channels and all that shit—but then he would have to explain. While Gillomay had heard of Zane’s neat little trick, he hadn’t been on the receiving end of the visions, which meant there would be some convincing to do as well. Rear Admiral McKay, on the other hand, had firsthand experience with Zane’s flashes.
    “There isn’t time. I’ll inform McKay after the FBI’s rolling.”
    Radar’s thin lips pursed, but he merely nodded, pivoted with military precision and retreated into the quarterdeck with his customary economical stride.
    Mac watched him go. He’d inherited the old goat from his predecessor. While he wasn’t completely certain how Radar had earned his nickname, he suspected it had something to do with the old “M*A*S*H*” sitcom. Like his namesake of the television show, his assistant had an uncanny ability to read his mind and know exactly what Mac was going to need and when he was going to need it. If anyone could get hold of a top-ranking FBI official, it would be Richard Anderson, aka Radar, HQ1’s secret weapon.
    As he waited, Mac continued glaring down at his desk. From what Zane had described of the hijacking, it sounded like the same crew who’d grabbed that plane down in South America. Too bad the details had been so sketchy. No description of the men in question, since they’d butchered all the first-class passengers once the ransom had been paid.
    The intercom buzzed and Radar’s raspy voice came through the machine. “John Chastain, Senior Agent in Charge of Seattle Field Office’s Counterterrorism Division, is holding on line one.”
    Mac glanced at the clock above the door. It had taken Radar less than a minute to get someone on the phone. That had to be some kind of record. He snatched the receiver up and punched the button.
    “Agent Chastain? This is Commander Jace Mackenzie, HQ1 out of Coronado. We’ve got a big problem in Seattle. Sea-Tac airport to be specific—Flight 2077, Seattle to Hawaii. We’ve just received intel indicating this flight is about to be hijacked.”
    Dead silence greeted this declaration.
    Mac hardened his tone. “I’m not fucking with you. This is good intel. Fresh as a fucking daisy. This bird is about to be jacked, the guns are already on board and we’re running out of time. Liftoff’s in seventy minutes. Boarding starts in forty. You need to get on the wire, get this flight delayed, and get someone out there to search that plane.”
    He paused, listened for a few seconds, his pen tapping against the desk with increasing frequency. “I’m fully aware of how difficult it is to smuggle guns on board an airliner. I’m also aware that no matter how difficult, it can be done. Those guns are on board. They’re about to be used on a plane full of American citizens. Somebody needs to get their asses out—”
    Breaking off, he tossed his pen onto the desk and threw himself back in his chair. It squawked violently beneath him. “That long ago, huh? You including 9/11 in those statistics? Yeah? Well, maybe you better check with your buddies in DHS before making stupid-ass assumptions.”
    He scowled at the rising voice on the other end of the line and broke in. “A flight out of Argentina was hijacked last year. Our intel indicates it’s the same crew. You drop the ball on this, you go down for it.”
    After listening for a moment, he gave a sharp nod. “Glad to see you’re finally showing some fucking sense.” He barked out a derisive laugh and rolled his eyes. “You go right ahead. Oh, and Chastain? As coincidence would have it, three of my best men are booked on that flight. If anything happens to them