The Chinese Agenda

by Joe Poyer

  `What in hell is going on here . .. ?'

  The officer pushed Jones back and pointed. Instantly, four soldiers sprang forward to grasp each of them by the arms. Four more stepped in front of Jones and looked him up and down.

  Àmerikanet?'

  Jones glanced around at the other three and nodded vigorously.

  'Yeah, yeah . . . Amerikanets

  . Amerikanets . .

  The officer nodded. 'Da, Amerikanets . . . Amerikanets. Shpion.'

  'Like hell:. Jones shouted, and fumbled through his long-forgotten college Russian. Nyet, nyet Amerikanets shpion, drug K Rossii.'

  The Russian officer merely snorted at that and motioned to the soldiers, who closed in tightly and began herding them toward the hangar. Gillon managed a glance over his shoulder in time to see the pilot stop, halfway down the ramp, beside the co-pilot, mouth open in surprise. A rifle barrel jammed painfully into Gillon's back was as good as a command in English to face forward and he did so, promptly. The officer, who had jumped back into his jeep to follow, climbed out again as they reached the building and pushed ahead to shove open the door. They were shoved inside and, with gestures, the officer made them understand that they were to sit down along the wall.

  Stowe jerked his arm away and shook his head. 'Like hell I will!' he shouted.

  His guard reversed his carbine and swung it hard to his midsection, but Stowe stepped to one side, parried the swinging weapon and kicked the soldier neatly in the back of the left knee. He went down in a heap and several soldiers rushed Stowe. The soldier he had knocked down, a short, thickset Tartar by his deep complexion and slanted eyes, got slowly to his feet and started toward Stowe, who stood waiting, shoulders hunched against the pressure of the arms that held him immobile. Gillon took a deep breath, forced himself to relax and eyed his guard warily, estimating his chances of jumping him; from the corner of his eye he saw Jones and Leycock tensing.

  The officer snapped a command and the soldier hesitated. The officer spoke again, his voice cold and flat, and the Tartar stepped back, hitching his carbine sling and glaring at Stowe, suggesting plainly that the incident was by no means forgotten.

  The officer, hands behind his back, stepped forward. 'Very much . . . regrettable . . .' he stuttered in heavily accented English. 'No permission . . . here . . . war base.' He waved at the floor again.

  'Sit . please.'

  When they still hesitated, the officer lost his patience and they were shoved down against the wall by the soldiers. Three remained, rifles ready, while the others withdrew to the far side of the room. At a brief word from the officer, they relaxed, dug, cigarettes out of their parkas and lit up. One of the soldiers, a corporal from the markings on his hat, stepped forward and tossed a pack across the room to Leycock.

  Leycock looked at Jones, who shrugged. Leycock dug one out and handed the pack to Gillon, who took one and motioned to his pocket for a match. The soldier shook his head in warning and produced a small box of wooden matches, which he tossed across the room. Gillon caught it and lit the thin, flattened tube and inhaled the heavy, greasy smoke, thinking that the cancer potential must be fantastic.

  Stowe, still angry, hurled the cigarettes back across the room.

  'Damn it, this is ridiculous. There's got to be somebody in the place who speaks English

  . . . or something besides Russian. This is nothing more than a lousy Communist stall . .

  'Shut up, Stowe, before you get your head blown off. These people aren't fooling.' Jones sat back against the wall and stretched his legs out comfortably. But Gillon noticed that the hands he shoved into the parka's pockets were shaking slightly.

  'You might as well make the best of it, because until someone comes to bail us out ..

  'Maybe you think so . . .' Stowe started to get to his feet. The racketing blast of a carbine smashed through the room and splinters burst from the wall above Stowe's head. He sat down abruptly. The Tartar soldier that he had knocked down lowered the muzzle until it was pointing directly at Stowe's head, smiling in expectation.

  Gillon relaxed slowly and settled back against the wall, being very careful that he made no sudden moves. Jones, too, half on his knees, hands pressed against the floor to spring, subsided as the machine gun waved in his direction. Stowe leaned forward slowly, then turned back to stare at the line of splintered bullet holes just above his head. For once, he was completely speechless. The Soviet officer had been halfway across the room when the firing started; now he turned slowly, as if afraid of what he might see. His gaze raced over the four Americans and he exhaled in relief as he realized that the shots had been fired in warning. Before he could react further, the door on the far side of the narrow room was flung open and a second Russian officer strode in. He took in the room in one quick glance and without breaking stride, walked across to the young officer. His voice was quiet enough as he spoke in Russian, but it was too carefully controlled, his anger too obviously suppressed. The soldiers, surprised by the sudden shots and the even more sudden entry of the officer, were galvanized into action. The one with the carbine snapped to attention and the others retreated as fast as they could to the far side of the room. The first officer came quickly to attention, his face burning as he tried to explain.

  Apparently, he was successful, as far as Gillon could tell, because the newcomer nodded and snapped a single word. Both the soldier and the young officer were visibly relieved as he turned and strode across the room to stare down at the Americans.

  `You are Americans?' he asked abruptly.

  Jones nodded. 'Yes, we are Americans.'

  Ànd what are you doing in the Soviet Union?'

  Gillon could detect no trace of accent in his well-modulated voice. He could have grown up in any one of the northern mid-western states; the only fault Gillon could detect was the too exact pronunciation.

  `What the devil do you mean, what are we doing in the Soviet Union? We are on a top-priority joint mission and our orders require us to report to a Colonel Andre Dmietriev.'

  `There is no such person here,' the officer stated firm-

  ly. 'You are American military personnel? You arrived in an aircraft belonging to the United States Air Force?'

  Jones shook his head. 'No, we do not belong to the military, the aircraft was ,

  `Not military,' the Soviet officer interrupted smoothly. 'If not military, then what?'

  `Look, this is ridiculous,' Jones stammered. 'If we didn't belong here, why did you let us land? Our pilot had clearances for this airfield, clearances that were issued in Moscow.

  We received permission to land from your own control tower! '

  'And what would you do if a strange aircraft appeared on your radar screen? We sent fighter aircraft in pursuit but before they could make contact, you had asked for permission to land. Since you did not take evasive action when my aircraft appeared, we decided to let you land and then find out why.'

  'Nonsense,' Jones snorted. 'If you had any doubts at all, you would have shot first and asked questions later. You are too damned close to the Chinese border for any other action to be considered.'

  'We are friendly with the People's Republic of China and would have no cause to show alarm if one of their aircraft accidentally strayed across the border.'

  Gillon laughed at that and turned to Jones. 'Brother, this guy is worse than a divorce lawyer. It looks to me like your people have fouled up this mission from the word go.'

  Jones turned on him, an angry retort ready, but Gillon ignored him and studied the Russian.

  'All right, buster, there's one way that you can find out what's going on here. Either your people don't think you can be trusted' – he paused to see if the Russian would take the bait – 'or they forgot to send you the message . . . that is, of course, assuming that it ever left Washington.'

  'It did,' Stowe answered abruptly. 'My people are in charge of liaison. I sent it out myself and got a forwarding acknowledgment before I left for Rome.'

&nb
sp; Jones, completely baffled, stared hard at Stowe, then sat back and began whistling tunelessly.

  'All right then, something happened.' Gillon felt his

  patience ebbing fast. 'Get on the radio or telephone or drums or whatever the hell it is you people use to talk to one another and find out what the devil is going on.'

  'And who would you suggest I ask?' The question was logical but the tone of voice was quite sarcastic.

  'Start with the GRU,' Gillon replied coldly.

  The officer straightened in surprise. 'The GRU .. . why should I contact them?'

  'Because,' Gillon snarled, his patience exhausted, 'we are supposed to be co-operating with them, or with one or another of your silly intelligence units. If it isn't them, they can tell you which other agency. If your people spend as much time checking up on each other as ours do, they'll know.'

  The officer studied him for a long moment, as if not quite sure that Gillon was serious.

  Angrily, Gillon stared right back.

  The Russian took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead and eyes in weariness. 'Your suggestion will be taken into consideration,' he replied slowly. 'For the moment, you will remain under arrest since you have crossed the borders of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics illegally, landed a foreign military aircraft in a restricted area, resisted arrest and imported weapons in violation of Soviet laws. You will be placed under guard. I must warn you that any attempt to escape will he dealt with swiftly and harshly. I have given my men orders to shoot to kill. You must realize that you are very lucky that you were not shot down and killed during your landing attempt.'

  With that, he stepped back and motioned the soldiers forward. Jones's face reflected his shock and anger, but appreciating the uselessness of further argument, he remained silent.

  The two officers conferred Russian for a moment and then the colonel turned and left abruptly and the lieutenant sauntered over and stared down at them in scorn.

  'Look your fill, sonny boy,' Leycock growled. 'As soon as your boss gets his signals right, I'm going to wipe your feet with your silly face.'

  The lieutenant pursed his lips at Leycock. He may not

  have understood the English, but the meaning was clear enough. He nodded and four soldiers came forward and, at gunpoint, they were herded back out into the icy cold of the Siberian morning and then marched toward a ramshackle building standing well back from the apron. What little paint had once coated the wood had long since peeled away under the onslaught of winter cold and summer sun. The walls were almost the same gray as the bare concrete apron. They were marched up to the door and the lieutenant hurried up the steps to push it open. It resisted, and, suddenly angry at being made to look foolish, he bent and slammed it open with his shoulder. The door thudded back against the wall and the guards motioned for them to enter. One by one they climbed the rickety steps.

  The interior of the building was almost as cold as the exterior. A guard hurried to the stove, a battered old potbellied affair almost completely red with rust, standing in the center of the room, and shoved in several sticks of wood, crumpled some sheets of newspaper and doused it all with kerosene. He stepped back and tossed a match into the stove and the fire lit with a loud, soft pop.

  The two-story building was constructed in the clapboard style that Gillon had seen used on World War II-vintage military bases the world over. Interior walls were screened off by thin panels of fiberboard ending several inches short of the ceiling. The floor was tiled with crumbling rubber squares whose edges had curled through years of winter cold and summer heat. Gillon stumbled on one and received another jab with a rifle for his clumsiness. They reached the stairs at the far end of the barracks and were motioned up to the second floor. Puzzled, Gillon followed the others up the steps. As far as he could see, the building was completely unoccupied and had been so for years. There was no reason to take them up to the second floor, until he remembered the pipes radiating from the stove. Two went to the ceiling and since hot air rises, presumably the second floor would warm faster. Very strange, he thought to himself. Why should they care whether we are cold or not?

  At the top of the stairs, one of the guards pulled open the door of the first room in line and motioned Leycock inside. He hesitated a moment, then shrugged and grinned.

  I guess we really don't have much choice, do we?' He stepped inside and the door was closed and they watched as the guard attacked a padlock and snapped it shut.

  The guards shoved them on down the corridor to the next room, where Stowe was detached and the process repeated. Jones was next and the last room, at the end of the corridor, was for Gillon. As he stepped inside, he saw a soldier dragging a chair to the head of the stairs. Obviously, they were going to be watched very carefully.

  The door was pushed shut behind him. It stuck in the jamb and Gillon heard a muffled curse and a heavy boot kicked it shut. A padlock snapped into the hasp and footsteps walked down the corridor. The soldier paused at the head of the stairs and spoke with the guard, then clattered down to the first floor and a door slammed. In the sudden silence that followed Gillon shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced about the room. It looked like it was going to he a long day.

  Shivering, he walked over and pressed his hand to the register set into the wall at floor level. He felt only the barest stirrings of hot air and stooped down to examine it more closely. The register was almost closed and when he poked at it with a finger, it resisted and he concluded that it was rusted shut. Extracting the thin-bladed throwing knife from his hoot top, he considered it thoughtfully, the Russian guard, the layout of the airfield and his chances of reaching the aircraft after dark. He concluded that they were pretty good, but that the chances of flying the Jetstar out of the Soviet Union were next to nil.

  With over four hundred miles to go to reach the Afghan border, the nearest . . . if China was excepted . . . they would be after him in minutes. And the Jetstar, fast as it was, did not have the turn of speed necessary to outrace a Mach 2 fighter-interceptor. He shrugged and used the point of the knife to push open the register, then slipped it back into the boot top and stood up.

  It was strange, he thought, that the Russians had not bothered to search them. Gillon did not believe for one minute that the Russian officer did not know why they were in the Soviet Union. Soviet Air Force lieutenant generals were not sent to NATO briefings in Rome for curiosity's sake. And then to allow things to be screwed up at some backwater military base was more than he could believe possible.

  Gillon wandered over to the lone, dirty window. He shook a cigarette out of the half-empty pack and lit it, staring thoughtfully at the airfield below. There were very many things • about their treatment that puzzled him besides the fact that they had not been searched. For instance, the Jetstar. Right now he could see the Russian lieutenant strolling across the apron. The pilot saw him too and a moment later appeared in the hatch, hesitated, then climbed down and walked to meet him, hands waving in expressive gestures. The two met, and started back to the aircraft, deep in conversation. Gillon grunted; either the pilot spoke Russian or the lieutenant spoke better English than he had acknowledged. How interesting.

  At the foot of the ladder, they were joined by the co-pilot and radio operator. The pilot waved at the barracks, the lieutenant shrugged. The pilot ticked off points on his fingers, the lieutenant shrugged. The copilot yelled, the lieutenant shrugged. The lieutenant spoke for some minutes, shrugged again and started back to the administration building. The co-pilot gestured obscenely while the pilot glanced towards the barracks, then shrugged himself. Empathetically, Gillon shrugged with him and grinned at his own reaction. All very strange. Apparently the Russians were making no move to lock up the flight crew.

  A few minutes later, a ground support truck drove up and the co-pilot superintended the coupling of the nose gear to the trailer hitch. The truck then drove away, towing the aircraft with it and Gillon watched as it was pulled around to the far side of the hang
ar and parked. The truck uncoupled and disappeared and the flight crew apparently remained inside the aircraft. After a

  few minutes in which nothing else happened, Gillon lost interest.

  The TU-144 had completed loading by now, had left the terminal and was now waiting at the far end of the runway. A green light winked in the distant control tower and snow boiled off the runway behind the tail as the roar of the engines, running up for takeoff, reached him. The aircraft rolled ahead, gathered speed down the runway, lifted smoothly and disappeared into the morning sky in a northwesterly direction. The slow rumble of the aircraft's engines faded. The snowplow had finished its task and disappeared. Nothing else moved on the field. The winter stillness of bright sun and burnished cold closed down.

  Gillon turned away from the window to survey the drab, bare room with distaste. A steel-frame bed covered with a thin blanket and thinner mattress stood against one wall. Other than the bed, there was not another stick of furniture in the room. It was, though, he rioted with some gratitude, beginning to warm up as the fire in the stove on the floor below gained ground on the entire winter's cold.

  He walked to the door and knocked loudly, then listened, hearing nothing but the noise of the guard shifting in his chair at the far end of the hall. He knocked again. First a groan, then footsteps started down the hall, pausing at each door. Gillon knocked again and the footsteps hurried to his door and stopped outside. The padlock clicked, then a rifle's safety catch. The door was pulled, stuck, and pulled again, harder. It swung open and the guard stood framed outside, carbine pointing into the room.

  Gillon smiled at him in what he hoped was a friendly fashion.

  `How about something to read?' he asked, not really expecting the guard to understand and pantomiming the flipping of magazine pages. It took a moment or two but finally he made the soldier understand and as a final touch, pantomimed smoking a cigarette. The soldier understood that right away and he pushed the door shut and hurried off down the hall.