High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Absolutely, but as you pointed out, two airplanes have crashed.”

  “Find out what could have caused those crashes.”

  “There could be any number of causes.”

  “Right,” McGarvey said, hiding his triumph. He’d known that the Brit would be a hard sell, but once the old man was convinced he would go to the ends of the earth to find the reason for the crashes. He was an engineer. Cause and effect were his raison d’être. “Think like a saboteur. You want to bring down Rolls-powered Guerin airplanes in such a way that the best investigators and engineers will not be able to figure out how.”

  “Could well be an exercise in futility. You cannot imagine how complicated our machines have become.”

  “No more complicated than human beings,” McGarvey said. “I’m asking you to make one assumption—that both crashes were the results of sabotage, whatever the reason. Go from there. Figure out how it could happen.”

  “A big assumption.”

  “Not so big, I think, considering the consequences of doing nothing about it.”

  Sir Malcolm took his pipe out of his mouth and studied McGarvey. “What about you?”

  “I’ll continue to marshal my forces.”

  “Gary Topper was here this morning, you just missed him.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Essentially the same thing as you. He’s in London. You should get together.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Then what?” the Brit asked.

  “My job is to irritate people until they make mistakes.”

  Sir Malcolm smiled tiredly. “A job at which, I suspect, you are eminently successful.”

  Louis Zerkel was exhausted. He’d worked around the clock for a solid week, only catching catnaps when he could not continue. Except for the one essential test, which he could not conduct until his brother and the German brought him the engine sensor frame and wiring harness, he was finished with the hardware. All that remained was the signal train. He planned on initiating seven wire transfers of money from the Bank of Tokyo into InterTech’s San Francisco account. Before the signals reached InterTech’s account, however, they would be shunted through the company’s mainframe computer, which would in turn spit out the properly encoded signals to the seven repeaters Mueller would hide at the seven airports around the country. A few milliseconds later the trigger pulse would be sent, and Guerin airplanes would start falling out of the sky.

  The date had not been set, but Louis had a definite idea when it would be, and he planned on talking to Mr. Reid about it. He’d been busy working on the circuitry, but not so busy he missed the major television news broadcasts. Especially CNN, which did a special two days ago on Guerin’s new hypersonic airplane. The plane was to make its first subsonic test flight, Portland to Honolulu, in two weeks. What Reid and Mueller did not know yet was that the P/C2622 was equipped with the same heat monitor subassembly as the 522s. The Vice President and a lot of other VIPs would be aboard that test flight. The eighth repeater was ready, and eight, rather than seven, wire transfers could be sent from Tokyo. The results, he thought, would be more than impressive.

  “What do you think about that?” he muttered.

  His computer screens were turned low, and for the first time all the printers were silent. He stood at the bedroom window across the hall looking at the lights of Dulles Airport in the distance, and he felt a terrible surge of loneliness in his gut. He’d been a loner most of his life, but only on rare occasions did he feel lonely for company. He missed his mother, he supposed, but most of all he missed his father. He was glad that his half-brother had found him. Over the past week he had come to appreciate the adage that blood is thicker than water.

  “Louis,” Glen said from the doorway. “Are you okay?”

  Louis turned. “I thought you and Mueller were already gone.”

  “We’re leaving in the morning. Are you finished for the night?”

  Louis nodded. “Everything is ready. I just need the frame and harness.”

  “Then you deserve a break.”

  “What … ?”

  “You’ve done a hell of a job, brother. Mr. R. is very pleased. Even Mueller respects what you’ve done.”

  The compliment felt good, and Louis managed a tired smile. “I’m not quite finished yet.”

  “But you’re close, so tonight’s yours.”

  “I don’t understand,” Louis said.

  His brother stepped aside, and a young woman came into the bedroom. She was tall with a decent figure, and a round, wide-eyed face. She wore a halter top, a very short mini-skirt, black fishnet stockings, and spike heels. She smelled of perfume.

  “Hi. You must be Louis. I’m Tracy.”

  “I … yes,” Louis mumbled.

  Her smile was dazzling. “They said you’re a genius. How about you teach me some things, and I’ll teach you.”

  Louis’s face felt hot.

  “I’ll see you in the morning before we leave,” Glen said, grinning, and he closed the door.

  Gary Topper was staying at Claridge’s. McGarvey met him in the darkly paneled bar. The lunch crowd was gone, and except for a couple of businessmen at the end of the bar they had the room to themselves.

  “You look like shit, McGarvey,” the Guerin vice president for sales said.

  “Sir Malcolm was kinder.”

  “I wondered how you tracked me here. Nobody’s heard from you, and Kennedy is getting a little tense.”

  The barman came to them. They ordered martinis, dry. When they got their drinks, McGarvey glanced at the businessmen. They were out of earshot.

  “Something’s come up?” McGarvey asked.

  “You know a guy named Phil Carrara?”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “CIA?”

  McGarvey nodded.

  “According to David your friend is not making friend-noises. They want you in Washington. If you refuse they’ll arrest you.”

  “They don’t have the authority.”

  “Your friend mentioned the FBI. David said he sounded serious.”

  It was starting faster than McGarvey thought it would. “Did he mention anything specific?”

  “David didn’t say.”

  “Did someone from Washington talk to Vasilanti?”

  “I don’t know,” Topper said. His eyes were dark and serious. Like everyone at Guerin whom McGarvey had met, the VP was consumed not only with making a success of the new airplane, but with keeping Guerin’s safety record intact. “You’ve been to Tokyo. Considering the line you’ve been touting, that was a pretty gutsy move.”

  “That’s why I was hired.”

  “Except for pushing us into handing a wing assembly plant to the Russians-which was a nifty bit of business—just what have you done for us?”

  “Proved your suspicions. Mintori is trying to take you over, and someone is sabotaging your airplanes.”

  “Did Sir Malcolm buy into that? He wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “He’s agreed to help.”

  Topper sipped his drink. “The Honolulu flight’s a go in about two weeks. Anything happens between now and then, we’ll go down the tubes.”

  “It will.”

  Topper’s expression got hard. “I’m serious, McGarvey. Another one of our airplanes goes down, we’ll be fucked. This goddamned administration in Washington doesn’t know its ass from a hole in the ground. They’re letting the Japanese take the initiative while selling us down the tubes. A couple of Toyota plants in Kentucky or wherever doesn’t compare to us. Can’t they add and subtract?”

  Topper wasn’t the idealist that Kennedy was, but he was still relatively naive. “It’s always been that way, Gary. The last President figured the way out of the deficit was raising taxes and tightening belts. This one thinks the way out is in the international marketplace.”

  “The same thing the Japanese are saying.”

  McGarvey agreed. “Puts us on a collision course.”

 
“They don’t like us very much.”

  “The feelings are becoming mutual.”

  “Shit,” Topper said into his drink. “Maybe it’s time to get out. This isn’t fun any more.” He looked up. “When I started all I could think about was flying. Making flying machines that wouldn’t fall out of the sky. Bigger, faster, better. Everybody respected that. Excellence. Look what Boeing has done. Safety first and profits second.”

  “Same as you guys.”

  “So what’s happened all of a sudden?”

  “The end of the Cold War,” McGarvey said.

  Topper looked startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “When it was just us and the Soviet Union, we were the boss of this hemisphere and they were the boss of theirs. Except for Vietnam and Afghanistan, most of the skirmishes were controlled by us or them. It’s different now.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “But not so different from the twenties and thirties. Everybody shooting at everybody else. All the old animosities are out in the open again. But this time the weapons are a hell of a lot more plentiful and more sophisticated.”

  “We won the Cold War.”

  “Yeah,” McGarvey replied tiredly. “Just like we won the First World War.”

  Topper looked away in frustration. “Are you telling me that it’s going to start all over again? Shit, man, if that’s the case, we might just as well sandbag our borders and say the hell with everyone else.”

  “Didn’t work then, won’t work now.”

  “War?”

  McGarvey shrugged.

  “I think you’re crazy,” Topper said. “Or at least I hope you are.”

  “Me too,” McGarvey said. “Meanwhile there’s work to be done.”

  “Are you returning to Portland?”

  “Yes. Then Washington.”

  “You can fly back with me. I’ve got a company plane.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Now is as good a time as any.”

  Representative John Davis sat across the table from Reid at the Four Seasons Hotel, a troubled expression on his deeply lined face. It had been thirty-six hours since Reid had asked the Appropriations Subcommittee chairman for help. Like a lot of others in Washington, Davis owed Reid a favor or two. His last campaign, which he’d narrowly won, had been almost entirely financed by Reid, illegally so, a fact that the portly Maryland Republican was acutely aware of. But Washington always had been and always would be a town of special favors and influence. A White House staffer had once commented that lobbyists were to congressmen what television commercials were to the public—a window overlooking a field of possibilities.

  “Did you find out something for me?”

  “The Bureau wasn’t happy. But Harding agreed not to buck my request over to the AG if I promised to keep what I was told strictly confidential.”

  “Hardly the object of this exercise, John,” Reid said.

  “I’ve stepped on some toes, that’s all. What else is new? But I’m not the enemy.”

  “The Bureau doesn’t think so either. But your name is apparently being linked with some people who are. What I mean to say is that the Bureau is conducting an investigation, and your name has popped up in a couple of places. Might be coincidental, Harding told me. Could even be a case of mistaken identity, but they’ve taken notice. Especially since someone from State has asked them to back away from you. The White House, by the way, agreed.”

  “Nice to know I have friends,” Reid said. He took a drink to mask his uneasiness.

  “You do have friends in this town, Edward,” Davis said. “But you’ve also got some powerful enemies, especially over your stand on the Japanese.”

  That was an understatement, Reid thought. But once Guerin was brought stumbling to its knees and the crashes blamed on the Japanese, Washington would be like a hornet’s nest. “Is that what all this is about? I’m surprised the White House backed me up.”

  “Only partially, but I didn’t get all the details except that it involved the French Action Service. Someone over there is looking for a former East German assassin and a retired West German intelligence officer.”

  “Where’d my name come into play?” It was all Reid could do to control himself. His hands shook so badly he was afraid to pick up his drink.

  “Apparently the West German telephoned someone here in Washington and mentioned the East German’s name along with the name Reid.”

  “I can’t imagine who this German could be.”

  “It wasn’t your telephone number, nor did he use your first name. But Harding did mention that you’d been stationed in Germany.”

  “A long time ago, John.”

  “Well, both Germans have disappeared, and the French asked for our help in finding them.”

  “Here in Washington?”

  “Apparently.”

  “What’s that got to do with Japan?” Reid asked.

  “Harding was even more sketchy about this part, and I had to press him a little. The East German assassin’s name is Bruno Mueller. He was a colonel in the Stasi, and when the wall came down he got involved with a group of terrorists that shot down an airliner full of people taking off from Paris.”

  “So what?”

  “One of the passengers was the girlfriend of a former CIA officer who apparently has one hell of a reputation. This guy works for Guerin Airplane Company now and is in the middle of some sort of an operation with the Japanese.”

  Reid’s chest was tight, and he was having trouble catching his breath. Christ, did this idiot have any idea what he was saying? If Mueller were here, Davis would be a dead man. “Where do I come into it?”

  Davis looked sharply at him. “You don’t directly. Are you okay, Edward?”

  “Frankly I’m annoyed. I think this should be sent over to the AG’s office. Harding’s way off base here.”

  “Nobody’s accusing you of a thing,” the congressman said.

  “Then where’s the connection? Who is the CIA officer?”

  “Former officer. Kirk McGarvey. Name mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  “The only connection, according to Harding, is that Mueller might have come here looking for McGarvey. Since the name Reid was mentioned, and both you and McGarvey are involved with Japan, it got them wondering.”

  Reid allowed himself to relax a little. Neither Schey nor Mueller had mentioned the CIA or McGarvey. As far as he was concerned that would be a dead end for the Bureau. “I’m not involved with Japan, John. On the contrary, I’m arguing for disinvolvement with them.”

  “Not a popular view at the White House.”

  “Then why did someone over there tell Harding to back off when it came to me?”

  “Maybe they’re giving you enough rope hoping you’ll hang yourself.” Davis sat forward. “Seriously, Edward, watch your step. These are difficult times.”

  Yes, they are, Reid thought. But nowhere as difficult as they would become. No matter what happened, the Japanese would have to be dealt with sooner or later. The last time we’d waited too long despite all the warning signs, and the Japanese navy had attacked Pearl Harbor. The same warning signs were back. Japan was flexing its economic and its military muscles, and sooner or later the economic bubble between us and them would burst. The mere fact that the electronic device Louis had discovered aboard the Guerin airplanes had been designed by the Japanese was all the proof that Reid required. The dirty bastards were at it again. This time he wasn’t going to let the United States wait for another Pearl Harbor. This time he was going to wake up the White House, and the entire nation before it was too late.

  Whoever the hell McGarvey represented—Guerin or not—Reid decided he was no threat to their plans. If need be, when it was over, he would send Mueller out to settle whatever old scores there might be between them. Might even kill two birds with one stone.

  No, Reid assured himself, nothing to worry about yet.

  On the way acr
oss the Atlantic, Topper wanted to call Kennedy on the company frequency to tell him who was aboard, but McGarvey stopped him. Even though the message was scrambled it could be monitored and decoded with the right equipment.

  “What about customs?” McGarvey asked.

  “Not until Portland, unless you want to leave the plane when we refuel in Detroit.”

  McGarvey thought about it for a moment. Dominique was there at her brother’s house. “Portland will be soon enough.”

  “Won’t be a reception committee if they don’t know you’re coming.”

  “That’s what I figure,” McGarvey said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “We wouldn’t get away with another fire,” Mueller said, looking out the window at the arid countryside.

  He rode in a rental van with Glen Zerkel on Interstate 10 southeast of Tucson, the sun setting in a fantastic multicolored swirl behind them. There was nothing like this in Germany. It was as Mueller imagined Africa would be, except that here were strip malls, swimming pools, and the ubiquitous McDonald’s. He was still amazed with the vastness of the country. Japan did not have a chance against the United States. None of them ever had.

  “That’s what I thought. And if we lifted one of the units from Guerin they’d miss it. Wouldn’t take them long to figure out what’s going on,” Zerkel said.

  “How did you know about this place?”

  “It’s pretty much general knowledge. But I read something a while back about what used to be the Strategic Air Command mothballing some of its squadrons when the Soviet Union collapsed. Some of the planes are Guerin 522s. I checked it out at the library.”

  “They’ll be intact?”

  “Sealed up but ready to fly. They’re too valuable to cannibalize. It’s why they mothball them down here. Weather’s hot and dry. Nothing will rust. Louis told me how the frame is probably bolted in, and what we’re going to have to do to pull it and the wiring harness out. If we do it right nobody will notice the stuff is missing until they recommission the plane.”