Chapter 43 - The Flight to the Clouds
The twin outboard engines of the interceptor boat roared to life, kicking up a rooster tail of white foam against the black waters of the river. Cold salt spray whipped across Alexander’s face as they blasted north under the skeletal spans of the bridges, cutting through the fog like a phantom blade.
Elena sat in the cabin next to her uncle, Captain Thomas, whose weathered hands gripped the wheel with unyielding strength. "They took off from the private pad at the Sterling Tower ten minutes ago," Thomas barked over the howl of the supercharged engines. "A Sikorsky S-76 and an armed escort bird. They’re running without transponders, heading for an offshore platform past Montauk Point."
"The old weather station?" Elena asked, adjusting the radio frequency on her tablet.
"Worse," Thomas replied grimly. "The Sovereign bought that decommissioned naval testing rig five years ago. It’s fortified like a battleship. Radar grids, surface-to-air countermeasures, and a garrison of private contractors."
Alexander stepped into the cabin, wiping river water from his brow. He looked at the radar repeater on the dash. "If they get Leo onto that rig, an assault by water is suicide. We’ll be blown out of the water before we get within three miles."
"Then we don't go by water," Elena said, her eyes narrowing as she opened an encrypted map overlay on her screen. "There's an airfield three miles up the coast at Calverton. Alexander, do you still have access to the Vance Aerospace prototypes stored in Hangar 4?"
Alexander stared at her, stunned. "The sub-orbital VTOL transport? Elena, that aircraft hasn't finished military certification."
"Can you fly it?" she demanded, grabbing the front of his jacket, her face inches from his. "Can you get us into the upper atmosphere and drop us directly onto that rig’s helipad before their tracking radar can lock onto our thermal signature?"
Alexander looked down into her fierce, beautiful eyes. For three years, he had believed she was a timid, broken woman living a quiet life tending roses in a secluded town. He had pitied her. He had sent covert guards to watch over her, thinking she was defenseless against the monsters he had provoked.
How blind he had been. She wasn't a rose; she was the thorn, forged in fire and patient vengeance.
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"I can fly it," Alexander whispered, his jaw set like iron. "I can land that bird on the head of a pin in a hurricane."
"Good," Elena said, letting go of his jacket and loading a fresh twenty-round magazine into her tactical carbine. "Because Julianna is on that platform. And she thinks she’s holding all the cards."
