McTavish lay in the shrubbery on the hillside, observing the airport through binoculars. The rain blurred his vision, but he could see the runway lights, the outline of the control tower, and the faint shadow of a transport plane landing in the distance.
"All groups, report your positions," he whispered into the encrypted radio.
"Group A in position, below the control tower."
"Group B in position, at the third cargo zone."
"Group C in position, perimeter patrol route monitored."
"Group D in position, clear view of the anti-aircraft position."
Rory beside him, his young hands trembled but tightly gripped a silenced HK MP5 submachine gun. "Angus, are we really doing this? Hijacking a military transport plane..."
"We're not doing it," McTavish said. "They're doing it. We're just... spectators and extras."
