Ignition jet, p.1
Ignition: JET, page 1
JET XVIII
Ignition
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2022 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Contents
About the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Excerpt from A Girl Apart
Books by Russell Blake
About the Author
Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of well over fifty novels, including Fatal Exchange, Fatal Deception, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, The Assassin series, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, the JET series, Upon a Pale Horse, the BLACK series, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, Emerald Buddha, The Day After Never series, The Goddess Legacy, A Girl Apart, A Girl Betrayed, and Quantum Synapse.
Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography), How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related, and Expat Secrets of Mexico.
Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.
Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.
Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog:
RussellBlake.com
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Chapter 1
Eilat, Israel
The popular domestic tourist destination’s waterfront boulevard was buzzing with activity on a balmy night, the scorching arid daytime blast off the Negev desert now replaced by a gentle breeze from the Red Sea, whose waves gently kissed the shore with a barely audible lapping, its surface a mirror barely dented by the wind’s stirring. Faint lights twinkled in the distance from Haql, Saudi Arabia, across the Gulf of Eilat, a literal world away from the modern beachfront developments that jutted from along the beachfront promenade.
A spotlight swept the dark sky from the roof of a towering new resort, where a host of glittering beautiful people sipped French champagne and toasted each other while a DJ bobbed and nodded to a pulsing bass beat. The long holiday weekend would see endless such revelry, as the wealthy and privileged from Tel Aviv and Jerusalem mingled in self-congratulatory splendor, the welcome respite from responsibilities to be savored as deeply as possible.
Throngs of scantily clad young women ambled directionless from the hotels along the strand, no special destination in mind relatively early in the evening, the dance clubs and bars not yet packed. Their male counterparts admired them with barely concealed lust, hair slicked back, their expressions equally predatory and hopeful, their body language nonchalant, hours of drinking and banter ahead of them. The air was perfumed by their mingled cologne and perfume, vanilla and jasmine and musk thick as fog. Music from the waterside bistros and the marina yacht club competed with the grinding whine of cranes from the port to the south, its important work never paused, sun-bleached shipping containers lined up in neat rows like troops awaiting battle with an enemy from the sea.
An elderly man made his way down the sidewalk, plodding with the careful steps of someone for whom time is not a friend, and took a seat at an outdoor table in front of a seafood restaurant. Colorful tablecloths and nets and iron diving helmets and sundry fishing gear mounted to the interior walls were visible through the plate-glass window, as was a dark mahogany bar with a shining array of bottles. A shapely hostess materialized with a menu, and a few minutes later a waitress arrived to take his order and place a glass ashtray on the table.
The director ordered the catch of the day and a bottle of mineral water and, when the girl had scurried away, lit a cigarette and took in the lively scene on the promenade. He exhaled heavily, the plume of smoke like a dragon’s breath, and considered the series of events that had led him to a forced vacation in a tourist town at the edge of nothing rather than in his customary place, defending his nation against enemies internal and foreign.
The prime minister had summoned him like a schoolboy and informed him that by executive directive, the Mossad would be making changes – the first being one of leadership. The smarmy politician had thanked the director for his decades of loyal service with the fake sincerity of a Bangkok stripper and announced that a new director was to be selected by committee and that the director would be expected to ensure a smooth transition within the month.
The director had been shocked, but not surprised.
“You’re throwing me under the bus because you took some heat over headlines that turned out to be false?” he sputtered.
“Not entirely true,” the prime minister admonished. “We both know you’ve been in the saddle for a long time. I feel like we need new blood to keep up with changing times, that’s all. And surely you’ve grown tired of living in your office.”
“Our enemies don’t rest. This is what it takes to keep up with them. I’ve never complained. I do what’s necessary.”
“Yes, and again, you have the gratitude of a nation – which a generous pension should go a long way to demonstrate.” The prime minister held up his hands. “But the decision’s been made. I’m telling you because I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
The director grunted. “So you’ve made up your mind. What about our ongoing operations? You can’t just plug in some bureaucrat and expect him to play catch-up. That’s not how things work.”
“We’ve narrowed our candidates down to Noah Greenberg, the head of your Eastern Europe desk. He’ll be replacing you, and he’s more than versed in operational protocols, is he not?”
The director frowned. “Noah’s too young for the job. He doesn’t have the experience yet. Smart kid, but you’re gambling the nation’s safety on a rookie?”
“He’s been with you for fifteen years. He’s forty-three. I’d say that’s seasoned enough.” The prime minister paused. “Weren’t you about that age when you took the helm?”
The director snorted. “I’d led troops into battle on countless occasions and been a field operative for ten years by then. He’s a desk jockey. Like I said, smart, but not street savvy. More book learned than anything. Graduated from Oxford, didn’t he?”
The prime minister’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have an objection to someone with a doctorate running things? Or is your reluctance limited to Noah?”
“My reluctance is being put out to pasture when the world’s never been more dangerous. We have public opinion running against us on the Palestine issue, we’re seeing increasing friction from the American Congress, we have new terrorist groups targeting us daily…this seems a poor time to change horses, is my point.”
“We’re always going to be under pressure. Again, the decision’s been made. Your objections are noted, but they won’t have any effect.” The prime minister strode to the one-way glass window of his office and stared outside for a beat before turning back to the director. “How long do you need to bring Noah up to speed?”
The director thought for a moment. “At least two months. Minimum. We’ll also have to worry about filling his chair on the Eastern European desk.”
The prime minister didn’t move from the window. “You have three weeks.”
The director shook his head. “That’s not nearly enough time.”
“It’s what you have.”
“Then why ask?”
The prime ministe
The director stood. “I appreciate the life counsel, but it’s unnecessary.”
“It isn’t a suggestion. We’re headed into a long weekend. I don’t want to hear about you back in the office until Monday. I can have your access card revoked if you won’t agree voluntarily.”
The director’s eyebrows twitched. “You’re serious,” he said.
“I want you to take the time required to cool down and consider what needs to be done. We can spare you for a few days.”
“Your first mistake is believing that. Or maybe that’s your second. I’ve lost count.”
The prime minister scowled. “Let’s regroup on Monday, shall we? This meeting’s over.”
Now, sitting beachside on his impromptu vacation, the entire discussion seemed surreal and even more infuriating than when it had taken place the prior day. That the fate of the intelligence service was to be decided by a strutting peacock with no germane experience was a slap in the face the director would never get over. That the politician felt he was competent to dismiss the director out of hand and choose his successor without consultation was the final straw.
“Stupid bastard is going to destroy us without even realizing it,” he muttered under his breath, and stubbed out his smoldering butt as he shook another smoke from the pack with his free hand. “With leaders like this, who needs enemies?”
A pair of nymphets barely old enough to drive strutted by in high heels, their long, tanned legs straining their miniskirts to the limits, and threw him a disgusted look. He ignored them and lit the next cigarette, his bad habits his business, not anyone else’s. He’d resisted the urge to order something stronger than water, his mind racing over possible tactics to stymie the prime minister’s directive, and he couldn’t afford to blunt his faculties with alcohol, tempting as it was to numb himself to everything for at least one night.
His fish arrived, and he chewed methodically, the dish metallic to his taste, his thoughts elsewhere. He mentally cataloged his supporters in the administration and resolved to make calls the following day to remind them that he knew where all the bodies were buried and that allowing a transitory figurehead to force his retirement might not be in all of their best interests. It wasn’t so much that he wanted to keep the job as he feared for a hasty transition, and that his replacement lacked the battle scars to make the correct decisions in impossible situations. Noah had never been tested when things were collapsing, always kicking the final call up to the director, as was the protocol. Which the director supposed he was now holding against him, but that was life – unfair, mercurial, brutal, and harsh, and too damned short, with the wolf always at the door.
When he was finished eating, he lit another cigarette and waited for the check. Did the prime minister really believe he would go quietly and putter around his garden or some such nonsense after being responsible for the nation’s security since the pompous little ass had been in diapers? It was so insulting as to cause the director’s breath to catch in his throat, and he had to exert every bit of mental discipline he possessed to calm himself to where he appeared outwardly unfazed.
When the waitress arrived with the bill, he tossed a small pile of shekels onto the tray and pushed himself to his feet. He glanced around at the swarm of youthful humanity going about its mating business without a care, and glared at the ashtray before sighing and beginning the slow march back to his hotel two blocks down the main boulevard.
He had nearly made it to the intersection when a blinding fireball exploded from a storefront just ahead, blowing out the windows of the shops for ten meters in both directions. The blast caught him with its full force and hurled him against a parked car like a rag doll in a tornado. Alarms shrieked and blended with horrified screams as the world spun giddily around him, and the last thing he registered before the night went black was a rivulet of blood streaming along the sidewalk from his head, staining the broken safety glass around him crimson, the shards gleaming with the orange reflection of dancing flames.
Chapter 2
Moscow, Russian Federation
The hall in the long-term critical care wing of Moscow City Hospital was empty at the late hour save for a hulking figure slumped in a chair, the man’s enormous frame barely supported by the rickety seat. The sonorous drone of snoring rose to the stained acoustic ceiling tiles, and the harsh white of fluorescent lights cast otherworldly shadows along the worn linoleum of the long, sparse corridor. Muted beeping sounded from behind the closed metal doors lining the space. A nursing station glowed in the main area in the center of the physician hub, from which patient wings extended like a seaplane’s propellers.
A portly nurse waddled from room to room on foam soles, clipboard in hand, her face etched with disapproving frown lines, her brow perennially crinkled as though she’d tasted something foul in the course of her rounds. She brushed past the sleeping man, eased the door beside him open, and stepped into the room, where a figure lay unmoving on a bed. An IV fed a canula in one arm, a pulse oximeter rested on his left index finger, and a blood pressure cuff on his left bicep connected to a display where his vital statistics blinked on multiple screens by the metal headboard.
She dutifully scribbled the numbers on her sheet and was turning away from the patient when a soft moan escaped his open mouth. The nurse stopped and turned back toward him with a puzzled expression and gasped when his lips quivered in an obvious attempt to form words.
She practically ran from the room back to the nurses’ station and snatched a handset from a phone. The keys clacked as she selected the extension, and when it answered, she had a hushed conversation before terminating the call and making her way back to the moaning patient’s bedside.
Five minutes later a pair of physicians appeared, and the sleeping man started awake in his chair and glared up at them, blinking away grogginess as he lumbered to his feet.
“What is it?” Leonid demanded of the doctors.
“We don’t know,” the first answered. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
They entered as a group, and the physicians moved to the bedside. The smaller of the pair, a lanky man in his fifties with thinning gray hair and spectacles perched precariously on the tip of his nose, leaned in and shone a light into the patient’s eyes and then proceeded to perform a short examination. When he was finished, he straightened and turned toward Leonid.
“He appears to be conscious. Or at least no longer in a coma. Good news overall, but he’s very weak. He needs to continue resting.”
“He’s been resting for months,” Leonid snapped. “What does this mean?”
The doctor pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up, but it’s possible that he can make some sort of…at least partial…recovery.”
Leonid thought for a moment. “When will you know whether or not he can?”
“We’ll return tomorrow morning and evaluate him. For now, we’ll monitor his stats and let him rest.”
“Will you be able to remove the damn feeding tube from his stomach?” Leonid growled.
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” the doctor said. “Let’s see how he’s doing then. But this is an extremely positive sign.”
The doctors departed, leaving Leonid and the nurse in the room. Leonid leaned toward the patient and whispered to him.
“Sergei, it’s Leonid. Your brother. I’m here for you. Can you blink or something to show you understand?”
The nurse put a hand on Leonid’s shoulder. “Don’t expect too much. When a patient comes out of a coma, that’s miraculous enough on its own.”
Leonid shrugged off her hand. “Sergei, I won’t leave your side. You have my promise.”
