Read Online The Perfect Assassin by Ward Larsen - Free Book Online

aircraft ever built. The same basic design had been in production for fifty years, far longer than any other current military aircraft. It was used for airlift, airdrop, intelligence gathering, search and rescue, disaster relief, Arctic supply, command and control, and a plethora of black and gray special operations. The C-130 did it all, and it was hard to find a pilot who didn’t enjoy flying it.
    Major Lev Schoen banked the airplane into a steep left turn on a command from the electronic warfare officer. They were in the clouds, as had been the case for the last two hours, but the conditions were irrelevant. This search was electronic, not visual.
    “Roll out heading one niner zero,” came the scratchy instruction over the intercom.
    “I’m glad we found it right away,” Schoen’s co-pilot commented.
    “Right where they said it would be,” said Schoen.
    The crew had been rousted out of bed, straight into a nine-hour flight from Israel to Rota Air Base in Spain. After a short rest and refueling, they continued southwest over the open ocean. All had hoped it wouldn’t be an extended search and, luckily, after twenty minutes on station the faint signal had begun to register.
    Schoen said, “Two more passes and we’ll head back to Torrejon.”
    The loadmaster’s voice came up on the intercom, sounding sleepy — no surprise since the only cargo today was a single pallet of electronic gear. “How long did you say we’ll have in Madrid, skipper?”
    “Twenty hours, unless someone changes their mind. Then we head back home.”
    “Twenty hours!” Schoen’s co-pilot remarked to the loadie. “You’ll have time to get drunk twice, Kroner.” The two pilots laughed. Sergeant Kroner had a reputation for getting out of hand on layovers.
    Kroner replied crustily, “And it’ll take more than that candy-ass veen rooge you sip on lieutenant.”
    Ten minutes later the EWO made the announcement they’d all been waiting for. “Fourth pass confirms. We’ve got it down to a gnat’s ass.”
    “Good, let’s go home,” Schoen declared. “Rudi,” he said, addressing the EWO, “fire up the sat-com secure. Send in the position you plotted.”
    “Roger.”
    As the plane sped northward, albeit a relative term for the big Hercules, it was still enveloped in layer after layer of high stratus clouds. It took another hour before they began to break out of the weather. Late afternoon sun filtered onto the flight deck, warming bodies and spirits all around.
    Soon after finding clear skies, Kroner’s husky voice came excitedly over the intercom. “Hey skipper! I see a boat down low on the port side. Maybe we could go down for a titty check?”
    Schoen looked out his side window and spotted a small sailboat three or four miles off, headed north. Kroner always pressed for a low pass on pleasure craft to get a look at any unsuspecting, partially clad females who might be frolicking around. He claimed a success rate of one in four. While Schoen doubted that statistic, Kroner carried a camera with a telephoto lens to document any triumphs, and some of his more well-endowed targets had their pictures plastered on the squadron bulletin board.
    “Sorry Kroner. Even if there were vixens aboard, it’d be way too cold for what you have in mind.”
    “But skipper, I’ve seen ’em tanning their—”
    “ Not today , Sergeant.” Schoen’s voice gave no room for argument.
    The loadmaster went silent, no doubt fuming.
    Major Schoen looked over at his co-pilot and smiled. “He’s such a pervert.”
    Christine’s body ached from the stillness she’d forced. Laying with him, their torsos remained meshed — his relaxed, hers rigid. There was no way she could ever sleep under these conditions. Her rest would have to come later.
    He had stirred periodically over the last three hours, though never actually waking. At one point she’d heard an aircraft, and Christine wondered if it might be searching for survivors from his ship. Since