Jackson and Chalmers would be closing in fast along NASA Road 1, coming to take Fraley back into their custody.
Fraley still hadn't moved from kneeling upon the ground, and he hadn't stopped blubbering. "Oh my God, how could I have done it? How, dear Lord, how?"
Disgust snaked through Galt. "Ask Him when you see Him. In the meantime, here's a message from the astronauts on that space shuttle." He slapped the side of Fraley's head with the pistol hard enough to knock Fraley out cold. Fraley pitched onto his face. Galt holstered the pistol. He left Fraley where he was and returned to the Cherokee.
A mild Texas wind had picked up.
Chapter Eleven
North Korea
Ahn Chong knew that something was wrong even before he reached the cave. The sun was in the sky, but it was what the chilly sunshine did not reveal that troubled him. He crouched behind a tree, viewing the camouflaged cave entrance. He saw the rocky, craggy outcrop of boulders where foliage overgrew the narrow fault in the stony surface just behind some dense thickets. He did not see a lookout. The astronauts would surely have had one of their number posted as a lookout, thought Ahn. Yet he sensed no human presence awaiting his return to the cave where he had left the Americans. It was troubling. He advanced from tree to tree, taking a circuitous route to the cave entrance.
He had discreetly left the village, while the other residents went about their daily chores. They allowed him this freedom out of respect for his years. He left carrying a sack of picked vegetables and soy cakes, taking care to make certain that he was not followed. About dawn, the rumblings of helicopters had ceased. Ahn could guess about the air traffic. The commander of the air base had blanketed the countryside with patrols, searching for the shuttle. Ahn had taken longer than he would have preferred, following a winding route from the village to the cave, avoiding the main trails, so as to elude the foot patrols that would be searching the region. His intimate knowledge of these mountains continued to serve him well. From his long years as a hunter, he knew every inch of the area. He knew of the bandit, Chai, of the fortress from which Chai's private army enriched itself by attacking communities on both sides of the border with China. In this region, often no one knew with certainty where the border was, one of the reasons why the Korean government did not generally protest the routine encroachment by Chinese patrols along these trails.
Ahn could only hope that he was doing the right thing, helping the Americans. He had no wish to bring hardship upon his village. The American government would draw on every resource at their disposal to retrieve the shuttle. What would happen when an American military presence also established itself in these mountains? A second Korean War? He only knew that he would never forgive those in power in his country who had allowed things to deteriorate to such a condition that his beloved wife had to succumb so painfully to her cancer because treatment was denied. He had vowed upon Mai's death that the enemies of his country's leaders would be his allies, although never in his most fanciful imaginings could he ever have foreseen being thrust into a situation such as this. He was an unschooled mountain peasant, at the heart of a simmering world crisis. His stomach was in a knot of anxiety.
He made a final survey of his surroundings from what he hoped was a position of concealment. He seemed to be alone. Birds sang from bare tree branches that rattled together, from the frigid mountain breeze that was ever-present. He dashed across the clearing to brush aside the thicket-covered entrance and stepped into the cave that was now illuminated with some slanting shafts of daylight.
The cave was empty except for the inert body of the woman, in much the same position as Ahn had last seen her when the other woman astronaut had cared for her so humanely. Of course the body was stone cold. Touching her forehead with the back of his fingers was like touching marble on a cold day. His memories were abruptly summoned of the terrible day when he discovered his wife's dead body, the day that he began living life alone. There was nothing he could do for this American woman here today. He began to step back outside into the sunshine, and then paused when he heard the rotor sounds of a helicopter. Remaining concealed by the thicket at the cave entrance, he peered out.
A gunship with North Korean military markings roared past, very low overhead on a northeasterly course, angling at a rate of descent that meant it would touch down near the cave. This area was dotted with open meadowlands large enough for a helicopter to land. The gunship disappeared beyond the treetops. The rotor sounds diminished, then could be heard no more.
Sometimes there had been armed engagements between the military and the mercenary force led by the outlaw, Chai. The military had been unable to root out Chai's "army."
Ahn wondered if the bandits had found the Americans and then taken them away. . . .
He left his place of concealment behind the thicket at the cave's entrance. The familiar, rich smells of earth, still damp from last night's melted snow, mingled with the scent of the pine trees, whose green sharply contrasted with the crisp blue morning sky. With a last look in the direction the helicopter was touching down, Ahn withdrew from the knoll, using the same degree of caution as in his approach.
Sergeant Bol Rhee stood with Colonel Sung and surveyed an ugly scene.
Bodies had been zippered into black plastic bags that were stretched in an orderly line alongside the trail. The bark of surrounding trees was scarred from pulverizing bullets. Splashes of blood splotched the frosty ground.
Colonel Sung's uniform was smartly starched, as always. His boots were spit-and-shine polished as if he were in his headquarters office, not here on the cold side of a mountain. "I was told this was an ambush. A massacre is more like it."
A bandage encircled Bol's head. The field dressing was already stained red where the bullet had grazed his hairline, leaving a three-inch-long gash that felt as if someone had ripped open his head with a rusty trowel. "It was a massacre, sir. You'll get no argument from me there, sir."
"Tell me again what happened."
It was the third time Bol had related what he remembered. In fact, he did not remember much. He remembered ordering his men to dive for cover, and returning fire, and losing consciousness when he was wounded. When he regained consciousness, he was alone on this desolate trail, alone with the dead and dying of his unit.
Other survivors were wounded far worse than Bol. They'd already been airlifted for emergency medical treatment. He had insisted on staying behind to await Sung, whose helicopter had touched down minutes earlier in a nearby meadow. Sung and his headquarters staff had hiked in the rest of the distance, and had not seemed in a hurry to do so.
The radio had been smashed during the ambush, but a matchbook-sized device Bol carried in his breast pocket had survived. One such homing device had been supplied to the NCO of each patrol. The press of its single button had transmitted Bol's location. He wondered about the technologically sophisticated electronic device. And he thought of the helicopter with Japanese civilian markings, not military, which he'd witnessed landing and departing from the airfield on several occasions under cover of darkness. Could Colonel Sung be operating without his superior's knowledge? And if he was not taking orders from Pyongyang, who was Colonel Sung receiving his orders from?
When Bol concluded his report, Sung stared at the line of body bags. "Bandits did this. The Chinese have not had time to reach this sector, Sergeant; we will locate that arrogant son of a dog, Chai." Sung spat the name as if it were an epithet. "The man you saw running toward you, before the shooting began. . . you're right, he could only have been one of the Americans. Chai has the crew of astronauts."
There was a pause, and so Bol said, "Yes, sir."
Sung pondered for a moment. "We will begin, I think, with the peasants."
"Sir?"
"A private army, the size of the one said to be commanded by Chai, cannot exist in a vacuum. There will be at least one person among the local civilian population who knows where his base is. We will find that person, who will then be
persuaded to divulge the information we require. By any means necessary."
Shenyang Province, China
The provincial military headquarters was a depressingly drab collection of brick buildings surrounding a parade ground, as ugly as General Li remembered it from having served here at the beginning of his military career in the Chinese military. Frontier duty. It had been patrols along the border—grueling and dangerous duty. For many peasants, the People's Liberation Army provided the only avenue to acquiring skills and prestige. Li was no exception, being of humble origins, born twenty kilometers from here. And yet he was greeted upon his arrival with the deferential respect due the visiting third tanking member of the Politburo.
The provincial commander, Major Kwan, made Li think of himself at that age: Cantonese, intense, energetic and highly efficient. Major Kwan was also nonplussed when the general ordered up a column of armored personnel carriers within five minutes of his arrival.
The Soviet-made BTR-40s now idled in a row. Each had a heavy machine gun mounted at the top of a forward armored hull, where the enclosed cap ended and the open portion of the carrier began. A soldier stood behind each of the .50-calibers. Each vehicle was filled to capacity with troops in full combat gear, their AK-47s locked and loaded.
General Li hoisted himself up into the passenger seat of the cab of the lead vehicle. He looked down at Kwan and jerked a thumb back in the direction of the column. "I suggest that you find yourself a seat, Major." The general raised his voice to be heard above the racket. The stink of the trucks' murky diesel exhaust fumes filled the air.
"May I respectfully say, General," Kwan called back, "that the region sector you have designated will constitute an incursion into North Korea. We patrol the region, of course. But a column of this strength will be considered more than routine by the Koreans."
"If we are found out," countered Li. "You are conscientious to bring this to my attention. This will be duly noted in my report to Beijing."
Kwan replied, "Thank you, sir."
"That said, rest assured that I have arranged for sufficient air cover and reinforcement if the North Koreans are foolhardy enough to engage us. Do not worry, Major. I was commanding incursions like this into Korean territory while you were still at your mother's breast. Now look sharp. We're moving out." He indicated the terrain looming around them. "The Americans have lost a space shuttle in these mountains. We will find it." Li's visage grew stern. "And we have no time to lose."
Kwan saluted, and trotted up to board the cab of the second BTR-40. The column began rumbling forward.
Chapter Twelve
Galt rode in the seat behind the pilot, wrapped in the powerful drone of the F-15 in flight, en route from Houston to Washington.
The flight sounds and the bright sunshine radiating in through the jet's cowl combined to lull Galt into a catnap, which he allowed to happen because he thought it would be refreshing. It was a trick you learned working covert ops in hostile territory, when the team just flat-out couldn't push on any farther due to fatigue, or maybe daylight was setting in and you had to lie low until nightfall to avoid detection. A security perimeter would be established, and then the men of the team could take turns catching some shuteye; enough to recharge, while the senses remained attuned to dangerous surroundings, to come completely awake at the slightest sound. Galt retained a conscious awareness of where he was, enveloped there in the steady whine of the jet, but he slipped deeper than he intended into the gray area between awake and asleep.
He dreamed.
He knew it was a dream, but somehow that awareness did not diminish its immediacy, the reality of the images unfolding in his mind.
It was lovely, at first.
Some national holiday. The schools were out. He'd scheduled the day off so he could take his little family to the shore. The sand blazed almost as brightly as the sun. Kate lounged on a blanket beneath a beach umbrella with their youngest, Annie, playing in the sand nearby. In his dream, Galt and eleven-year-old Amy were swimming together in the ocean. His daughter had always been a fine little swimmer. Still, when the water reached his shoulders, he instructed her to turn back, although they were no more than a dozen meters from the shore. But Amy wanted to keep swimming with him. She did not want to return to safety. She wanted to stay at her father's side.
He came awake with a start, bathed in clammy perspiration. He blinked against the sun. He and Katy had no kids. There had been the two miscarriages.
The pilot was patching through a call to him from Wil Fleming. Galt was wide awake.
"The president has asked me to convey a 'well done,' along with our appreciation for getting the job done so promptly." The chief of staff's voice imparted a respect that hadn't been there before. "Uh, by the way, do you mind if I ask how you got Fraley to confess so quickly, when trained FBI interrogators couldn't break him? I'm told there was a minimal amount of damage to his face, but no signs of any physical torture. How'd you do it?"
"As a matter of fact," said Galt, "I'd rather not say."
Fleming chuckled uncomfortably. "I get the picture. Anyway, now that the FBI has the leverage of Fraley's confession to use on the Yota woman, we're confident we'll be able to backtrack her to the next link in the chain, to whoever initiated the NASA sabotage."
"What if she's telling the truth?"
"I beg your pardon?" Fleming's frown was practically audible across the connection being bounced to the jet from a satellite somewhere in outer space.
"I mean," said Galt, "what if Connie Yota really doesn't know the identity of her control offices? What if the investigation dead-ends with her and Fraley?"
"That will be someone else's concern. Your job in this matter is done, no matter what happens next. You wanted a piece of this, and the president gave you an important one. But he has directed me to tell you that you're to return to the White House for your regular duty assignment beginning tomorrow."
"Any number of good men could pinch-hit for me." Galt closed his laptop computer. "I've just downloaded and reviewed the latest intel and analysis on the Liberty situation."
"Something's wrong with this connection." Fleming's tone was testy. "I've just finished telling you that what the president—"
"The connection is fine," said Galt. "I also downloaded a supposedly unconnected piece of trivia from our defense system satellites."
"Do tell." Fleming's tone dropped a few more degrees.
"Uh huh. Seems that a covert U.S. tracking station over there has monitored North Korean and Chinese troop movement along their border."
"Galt, you know damn well that there's been routine Chinese incursion along that border from both sides since the border was drawn, for Chrissake. No one cares, including the countries involved. China and North Korea are allies, more or less."
"There's also a new airfield with an unusually big landing strip in Hamgyong Province. Those are remote mountains with no strategic value, a real backwater. There's no reason for an installation like that with a runway big enough to land a space shuttle. The CIA received intelligence on it from a contact they have on the ground as soon as the regional military command went to work constructing it, and our spy satellite flyovers have confirmed. That airfield is right in the sector where the shuttle went down."
Fleming's expression changed, the irritation softening. "Look, as of now intel from the ground is nonexistent on this. We do not want to get into a hot war with North Korea and China. North Korea has its army on full alert. South Korea's defense minister has his army on alert. Our military forces are at Charlie Threat Level. We've got pilots in fighter aircraft ready to take off within ten minutes of the president issuing the command. This could very easily tumble into a major confrontation, and I am talking nuclear."
"I'm in charge of covert operations," said Galt, "remember? We need a presence on the ground over there, and right now. Hook me up with General Tuttle. He and I could—"
"You will follow your president's orders and return to your
office and your official duties no later than oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow," stated Fleming flatly, as if that settled that.
Galt's response was to end the conversation. He reopened his laptop and fingered a sequenced code that provided a connection so secure that even his own pilot was out of this loop.
Meiko answered on the second ring. Her caller ID would not register the source of this call. "Yes?"
He heard something wrong immediately in her intonation. "It's me."
"Trev, it's my father." There was a vulnerable sadness to her words. "I just heard from Tokyo. He's dead. He's passed away, as you say here."
He hadn't expected something this personal, and he heard himself mouthing the obligatory "Meiko, I'm sorry." He'd known of her father's reputation before he met her. Kurita Industries was one of a surviving handful of mega-corporations that had gone global during the Japanese boom of the 1980s. Under the stewardship of Kentaro Kurita, K.I. had grown to prosper into this new century with dynamic ties to European and United States makers and shakers. But the only insight Galt had ever had into Meiko's family situation was gleaned from his monitoring random, passing, offhand comments now and then, from which he'd drawn the conclusion that she did not like her stepmother, whom Mister Kurita had married seven years after the death of his first wife, Meiko's mother. Meiko and Galt related compatibly in the here-and-now on a number of levels, but families were not discussed. Meiko's soft voice interrupted his mental wandering.
"Trev?"
He processed this information he'd just received, a confluence of circumstances that could not be ignored. "If you're flying back to Tokyo, I'd like to go with you."
"I was sort of hoping you'd accompany me," she said. "I'm taking a four-fifteen flight this afternoon to L.A." Her voice across the crystal-clear connection was fragile and small. The keening whistle of the F-15 in flight barely penetrated Galt's helmet. "Are you sure about this, Trev?"
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