Chinook

by M. L. Buchman

  Up at the fence line along the runway were VIP sitting areas, lots of standing room to view the field, and a food court that was already smelling pretty good despite the breakfast in bed they’d shared just a few hours ago.

  Over McChord’s two-mile-long runway was a rotating aerial display. There would be massive cargo drops, the Air Force Thunderbirds show, search-and-rescue demos… It was more than could be seen in two days, never mind the one they could spare before they finally had to return to DC. Their attempts to stopgap their honeymoon with an hour teleconference here and there wasn’t going to cut it any longer. The mountain of work that awaited him back in DC was—

  Lizzy slipped an arm around his waist, breaking the downward spiral of that train of thought.

  He kissed her on top of her head and vowed to focus only here for the rest of the day. “I’ve jumped out of a lot of these planes, but they aren’t really in my blood like they are for you.” Drake watched the Army’s Golden Knights elite jump team descending over the airfield with elaborate parachute antics and streaming smoke that they wove into elaborate red, white, and blue knots. He’d been a good jumper, US Rangers had to be, but never as good as these guys.

  “Look again. I flew single-seat F-16 fighter jets. JBLM is all about transport and rotorcraft. That’s why this is so amazing; I have no experience with these aircraft. Let’s go sit in the C-5 Galaxy’s pilot seats.”

  They headed over to the biggest transport jet of them all. The rear clamshell doors were open and the lower ramp down. The nose was also raised, turning the plane into a giant tube for easy loading and unloading. They joined the queue walking ten abreast up the ramp and into the cavernous interior.

  He saluted the flight crew hanging out at the head of the ramp. They returned the salutes cheerily enough even though he and Lizzy were in civilian clothes.

  “So what can you fit in here?” Drake asked. It was fun playing tourist.

  A chief warrant grinned, “What do you want to carry?”

  Drake almost suggested the fuselage of a KC-135 Stratotanker, but that had been a top-secret mission that Miranda Chase’s team had pulled off for them last year.

  “How about some helos?” Lizzy joined the game.

  “Three Chinooks, six Black Hawks, or a dozen Apaches. And those last two we can carry after just folding their rotor blades. They come back together so fast that the first ones can be flying before the last ones are unloaded.”

  “A pair of Abrams Main Battle Tanks,” a tech sergeant chimed in.

  “Two of these can carry the entire Presidential motorcade of over thirty vehicles, including the three Beast limousines, along with all of their support staff.” The last one, a senior airman not to be outdone by his superiors, pointed up at the rear stairs presently raised up to the ceiling. “Plus, there’s a whole aircraft worth of seating tucked in the curve of the hull up there.”

  “Nice,” and Lizzy offered them one of her lovely smiles.

  Drake wanted to ask why they thought the airplane had only a sixty-percent mission-capable rate. He’d heard the excuses from all the generals, but these were the guys who lived with the planes. The fact that few of the military’s aircraft were over seventy-percent mission capable at any one time, and several were consistently in the forties and fifties, was an endemic problem. One that no one had yet figured out how to fix.

  Lizzy distracted him by taking his arm, thanking them, then effusing, “Let’s go, Drake. I still want to go sit in the captain’s seat.”

  One of the men looked at him, then startled in surprised recognition.

  Drake sighed; his wasn’t a common name.

  The senior airman whispered to his buddies, who all snapped to attention and saluted sharply.

  Lizzy returned the salute when he did, which surprised them again. He didn’t know whether to be pleased or pissed that everyone underestimated General Elizabeth Gray. The bias about her gender should be long gone but, alternately, he liked that she was a little bit stealth.

  Lizzy held a finger up to her lips to silence the flight crew, “Shh. We’re just being civilians today.”

  “Glad to have you aboard, sir, ma’am. Under any circumstances.”

  They escaped and had made it to the base of the ladder that went up to the cockpit when his phone beeped with a message.

  “Shit! I told them not to bother me unless it was a major emergency.” Drake stepped them out of line and checked his phone, but there was no message.

  Then he pulled out his personal phone and hoped that there was nothing wrong with either of his boys. Both were overseas at the moment, and a call didn’t bode well.

  Except it wasn’t one of them. Nor his daughter, who—God help him—had followed in her murdered mother’s footsteps into Doctors Without Borders. Thankfully, she had accepted his once-in-a-lifetime parental veto and had promised not to go to Southwest Asia, where al-Qaeda had killed Patty for vaccinating children. Besides, she was in DC at the moment for meetings. Maybe she’d shift over to administration. He could always hope.

  It wasn’t any of them.

  It was a blocked number.

  And the message was short: JBLM AWE – Chinook.

  31

  “Ah, Drake, my old friend.” Zhang Ru could feel him arrive just by the tidal wave of fury Drake exuded, scattering the crowd to either side.

  Chen Mei-Li had long ago insisted that he work hard on his English if he wished to climb any higher in his career. He’d never thought about it easing his way speaking with Drake, but now it would be very useful.

  He and Mei-Li had watched many American movies together to help. At first with Mandarin subtitles, but she’d eventually switched them to English subtitles, which had been an entirely different challenge. He could read American military documents now without having to look at imperfect translations very often, as long as he didn’t have to write any words down himself.

  He kept his attention on the old US Army Chinook helicopter, parked last in the row of rotorcraft, like a lonely cousin. A long line of people streamed into the rear loading ramp, like cattle overeager to board it and sit in the cockpit seats.

  He was content to admire its proud military squat from in front of the broad windshield, though he’d sent Mei-Li into the fray. He wanted to greet Drake alone.

  “Ru! What the fuck are you doing on our soil?”

  Ru ignored him. “I think we miss important thing when we do not copy this helicopter. Instead my counterparts in rotorcraft insist that bigger was better. ‘We must have the size of the Russians’ Mil Mi-26 Halo.’ Sadly, our AVIC Advanced Heavy Lifter is gigantic machine but has lower capacity than your CH-53 Sea Stallion. And all the problems. Though it is new program, we have losed…lost even more of those than you have of Sea Stallions, without the wars of Southwest Asia as excuse—that information is just as embarrassing as it is highly classified, of course.”

  Finally he turned to Drake. The man’s jaw actually twitched with how tightly it was clenched. Good. Ru turned to the woman by his side.

  “You must be his lovely wife that he told me not about. A niceness to meet you, General Gray.” Drake managed to look even angrier, but she didn’t blink.

  He shook her hand and noted her fine fingers. The slender Eurasian, at least half Japanese, had aged well; her slender body splendidly nice and tight. You chose well, my friend, even if she is a xiao riben guizi—a little Jap devil.

  “Ru!” Now Drake’s teeth were audibly grinding.

  “His is not good moodiness to introduce an old friend.” He kept hold of Gray’s fine hand just because he knew it would irritate Drake all the more. “You call me Ru. I traveling under another name, but—”

  “General Zhang Ru of the Chinese Central Military Commission.” She kept a tight hold on his hand, as if she was the one in control. There was a reason he didn’t like these American women. “The one… Ah. The one who lost a Shenyang J-31 Gyrfalcon over Chengdu Province.”

  He yanked his hand free. />
  “I had your word,” he hissed to Drake. That unfortunate incident was supposed to be strictly between them.

  “Underestimating my wife is not a mistake I ever make. Even when I don’t tell her something,” Drake’s smile was dangerous. “Now answer the damned question.”

  “I actually escorting my grandniece,” yes, that was best, “to her first day at your American University of Washington. We see there is airshow, and she very eager to see it.” He waved to indicate where she had just sat in the cockpit of the Chinook. Yes, his timing was most fortunate.

  “And you just happened to know I was here and texted me. Cut the bullshit.”

  “Is he always so coarse?” Ru turned to General Gray.

  “He was only a US Ranger. I’ve tried to teach him, but…” she shrugged easily.

  Patience. Yes. It was not a virtue he’d ever enjoyed either. Ru took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he watched Mei-Li chatting with the helicopter’s pilot. Her smile could open any door. Right this instant, the pilot would fall upon her in sight of everyone at the least invitation.

  Yes, he must keep calm if any of this was to work.

  “My friend, Drake, we—”

  “You can cut the bullshit, Ru. I haven’t seen you face-to-face in twenty years; not since we were both mere attachés in at the meeting in Geneva. Why now?”

  “My friend, Drake,” he at least could be civil, “we have mutual problem. One that I could not trust to a phone, no matter how careful encryptionated. A problem neither of our country can solve alone.”

  That shut him up.

  32

  Mei-Li’s hands itched to act.

  Ru stood directly in front of the helicopter’s nose.

  But when she asked, Captain Simeon informed her that the Chinook had no missiles to fire at him, no machine guns accessible from the pilot’s control.

  Nothing with which to blow Uncle Ru off the face of the Earth.

  But she dreamed of so much more than merely destroying Zhang Ru, so he must be allowed to live—for now.

  “We’re a cargo helicopter, ma’am; the very best. However, our defense is three machine guns aft, but mostly the gunships we fly with.” He was patient and cheerful, though she was perhaps the hundredth person this morning to sit here and ask naive questions.

  His patience allowed her to extend their conversation about his helicopter and his career. It also allowed her to observe the interaction on the other side of the windshield.

  Ru had made sure that she had access to the full Internet, not merely the Chinese government’s preferred slice.

  She had studied every aspect she could of the American’s military hierarchy; it was impressive how much was available even on Wikipedia in the West. Every photograph and article about their military was something they called public domain—free. Paid for by their tax dollars, so it therefore belonged to the people.

  The Chinese military was hidebound and reclusive from the public eye. The CMC itself was shrouded in mystery, and she was probably one of a very few who had actually met all seven members of the commission without being one of them. And she knew more than just names and faces; she knew details.

  For Zhang Ru, she had researched each member in depth, uncovering every aspect of their past and present that could be used to leverage their support as needed.

  For herself, she had done even deeper research about Zhang Ru and his benefactor Li Zuocheng, one of the commission’s two vice-chairmen. Her lover Mui was his granddaughter. Zuocheng might be just as ruthless as Ru, but he lacked the cruelty and avarice of his protégé. She hadn’t even found any affairs—Zuocheng was still married to the match arranged in his childhood.

  Her “uncle,” however, was even dirtier than she’d thought.

  It had taken much maneuvering to discover her supposed-uncle’s closest held secrets. She had no doubts that if he knew how much she had learned, her life would be over.

  So many backs you have trodden on, Uncle. It is good that you are useful, or I would give your past to someone who would not understand the power of patience.

  Instead, she had watched for the little signs.

  The next clue came when he’d turned her attention to the Americans. As she fed him précis after précis of the top tiers of their military, he’d shown no interest in the most powerful one of all, their four-star general, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Drake Nason.

  And yet, when she’d happened to mention that he’d recently married, Zhang Ru had demanded every detail about her.

  That meant that Uncle Ru knew General Nason. Knew him well enough to not need the details of his past, but not well enough to know about his marriage.

  It hadn’t been hard to find General Nason’s itinerary—in America as in China, men at that level did not move unpredictably. And feeding that information to Uncle Ru had brought them together.

  They had talked long enough to cover old times. She saw suspicion give way to surprise on General Drake Nason’s face.

  Now, it was time.

  She thanked Captain Simeon.

  Then she eased out of the cockpit to move everything to the next step.

  33

  Staff Sergeant Bob Wang.

  He stared at his own signature but didn’t recognize it.

  Over the years he had signed Form 1352, “Aircraft Inventory, Status and Flying Time”, before thousands of flights. Like his trainer before him and those he now trained himself, he’d tried to instill that it was more than a scrawl at the end of a standard report.

  No, this form, one that they completed many times every day, was their promise to the flight crew that a particular aircraft was mission-ready to the very best of the ground crew’s abilities.

  His initials in Column E, FMC (Fully Mission Capable) was a point of honor—his guarantee that this aircraft was functioning at a hundred percent.

  Except this time it was a lie.

  A promise broken.

  In exchange for a promise kept.

  Damn the old man to hell!

  Bob hadn’t cleared base until late last night due to a balky hydraulic system flush. The trivial twenty-minute job had taken three hours. After that, all he’d been looking forward to was a cold beer and a quiet hour with a nuked burrito and a Seahawks football game.

  Instead, he hadn’t even made it to the shower when there’d been a knock on the door.

  An old Chinese man had stepped in as soon as he’d opened the door. A young woman of impossible beauty had seemed to float along in his wake.

  “Your parents visiting in China,” the old man had begun without introduction. His accent was thick, and his English awkward, but it was better than his own Mandarin. “It is two in the afternoon in the village of Yehou in Anhui Province. They walk on the Chao Lake beach with your grandparents.”

  “I don’t—”

  The woman held out a phone so that he could see the picture.

  The video.

  The surveillance video.

  Two couples walking along the beach.

  Instantly familiar, he had walked it many times himself. They were just past the turn that hid the small family home from view.

  Grandfather’s stiff gait, distinctive from arthritis in his right hip. Grandmother stooped just so with age, her favorite shawl resting easy on her shoulders—one he’d bought for her while on a training mission to Hawaii. Covered in great bursts of vibrant tropical flowers like she’d never seen, there was no mistaking it. Mother and Father—

  The girl turned off the phone but remained silent.

  “You have a choice, Wang Bob.”

  He almost laughed. Even his grandparents didn’t invert his American name like that. One look at the old man’s face and Bob lost even that brief sense of the ridiculous.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  But it was.

  One side of the equation was obvious without further words.

  The State would charge two generations of his fa
mily with something—anti-state rhetoric? It didn’t matter. They’d live out the rest of their short lives in terror and pain.

  The other option?

  The old man explained…such a small thing.

  A thing that would turn Bob’s signature into a lie.

  Ruining everything he’d spent a decade building. Something that had given so much pride to his immigrant parents.

  He should turn the old man in…but to who? He didn’t even have a name. Some untouchable Chinese security spook. And if he did…again, that answer was known.

  Turn himself in?

  That wouldn’t save his family either. Perhaps save them from a slow death with a fast one, but no more than that.

  He forced his gaze up from his lie of a signature as Captain Debbie Smithey came up to him.

  “We good to fly, Bob?”

  Unable to speak, he turned his clipboard to face her.

  She didn’t even glance at it as she signed her name in the bottom right corner.

  “So, Bob Wang. When are you going to proposition me for real?”

  It was a joke she made before every flight.

  He managed to deliver the next line…almost normally.

  “Soon as you go Navy.”

  “Never gonna happen!” She had the greatest laugh. The spark was absolutely there. But they were sergeant to captain in the same Night Stalkers battalion, so it wasn’t going to happen. Though he was in the Aviation Company rather than her Heavy Assault Company…

  She waved her crew aboard.

  Now, it definitely wasn’t going to happen.

  As soon as they were clear of the hangar, he’d set down his clipboard and tool belt.

  “Need five,” he called out to his crew as they moved on to the next bird. He headed out the hangar’s side door.

  He couldn’t bear to look as he strolled past the hangar where the crashed Army National Guard Chinook still lay. Debbie had looked grim after retrieving that one from the wildfire yesterday.