24
Michael noted that they weren’t quite on fumes, but Claudia was well into the extended-range gas tank by the time they slid into Karachala Airport eighty kilometers southwest of Baku. Kara Moretti confirmed no flights inbound or outbound from the small airstrip. It had no commercial flights at all, and only a few private craft were parked there. The airport was a Soviet holdover used by few and nearly forgotten.
But not totally, which Michael had been counting on since his buddy at the SAS had happened to mention it as a quiet, out-of-the-way spot he knew if someone—oh, he had no idea who—might want to land a plane there.
Kara circled her Gray Eagle Tosca from six miles high down to three—low enough to confirm no human-sized heat signatures at the airport, though she did spot a small
