High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Gentlemen, there’s no longer any doubt who’s behind this attack on us,” President Lindsay said after the NSA call. “It means Enchi is lying.”

  “He might be in the dark just like we are,” Secor suggested. “Could be some faction other than his government. He’s had trouble with the Democratic Socialist Party since the beginning.”

  “He would not have placed his military at DEFCON TWO.”

  “Mr. President, the FBI is sending someone to InterTech. I think we should wait to see what they come up with.”

  “In the meantime, how much more damage will be done to us? How many more lives will be lost?” the President demanded. “I want all Japanese Self Defense Forces held to their home waters and air space.”

  “Considering what’s going on north of Hokkaido, they might not back down,” Secretary of Defense Paul Landry cautioned.

  “I’ll call Enchi and tell him what we’re doing and why. If he’s not part of whatever the hell is going on, he’ll take steps to stop it. If he is part of it, he’ll understand that I mean business.”

  Mueller had no doubt that the GMC was an FBI surveillance unit. But he couldn’t think who was in the Toyota, except they were interested in Reid or perhaps the young woman who’d shown up in the Corvette.

  He screwed the can silencer on the end of the Beretta. He could not afford to walk away, but neither could he afford to attract any attention. Holding the pistol out of sight at his side, he stepped around the corner and headed for the Toyota. Most people would be at home, glued to their television sets, watching the unfolding drama of America’s greatest air disaster. The chances that someone would be looking out a window were slim, but present. This would have to be done quickly.

  For the first moments the advantage would be his. Most cops on stakeouts had tunnel vision. They were focused on the object of their surveillance. It made them vulnerable. In addition, most of the cops he’d ever met had little or no imagination. The unexpected froze them. They saw what they expected to see.

  As he approached he could see that no one was behind the wheel. The driver had crawled into the back. It confirmed his suspicion that it was a surveillance unit. Their attention would be directed elsewhere.

  Reaching the van, he opened the passenger door and climbed inside. Two slightly built men were in the back. One of them wore a headset, the other was looking out the rear window through a pair of binoculars. They turned in surprise.

  Mueller shot them both in the face, driving their bodies backward, blood splattering the banks of electronic equipment.

  They were Japanese. But it didn’t surprise him. America’s intelligence services leaked like everybody else’s. No doubt there was a pipeline back to Tokyo from the CIA and the FBI’s counterespionage division. The only thing that bothered Mueller was the extent of their knowledge. He did not want to spend the rest of his life running from them as well as the Americans. In many respects the Japanese were a more efficient, more patient people than Americans.

  He eased the Beretta’s hammer down and stuffed the gun in his belt as he checked the GMC in the rearview mirror. Even if they’d been watching, they could not have seen what had gone on inside the van. But he did not want to give them time to think about it.

  He got out of the Toyota, waited for a cab to pass, then walked across the street and down the block. As he approached the GMC, he held his open wallet up as if he were a cop showing his ID.

  Someone powered the passenger door window down, and Mueller lowered his wallet. “I need to use your radio.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the FBI agent asked suspiciously.

  “I’ve got two men down in the Toyota, and I need a Technical Services unit from Langley over here pronto. Will you guys call it in for me? I’m Tom Rheinberger, Operations. Tell them it’s Scarlet Ribbon.”

  “What’s going on, Kris?” someone asked from in back.

  “A guy says he’s CIA.”

  “Look, I don’t want to blow your operation, pal, but if Reid happens to look out his window and see us having a powwow we might as well all pack it in. Either call Langley for me, or let me do it. But make up your mind.”

  “I don’t know if we’ve got your frequency,” Wentworth said.

  “You gotta have it,” Mueller said, opening the door. “I’ll show you.”

  “Just a sec,” Wentworth said. He turned to the back.

  Mueller pulled out his pistol and climbed in behind him, pushing him down. The second FBI agent reared back as Mueller shot him point-blank in the face. Then, as Wentworth tried to get free, Mueller shot him in the back of the head just behind his left ear.

  “What do you think about that?” he said to himself.

  McGarvey waited below the wooden walkway for McLaren to come down the driveway. Kennedy’s footprints crossed the parking area to the walk where they were joined by another set. There were no signs of a struggle, nor was there any blood. They’d seen him coming, and they’d taken him. Simple. He didn’t think they would shoot another lone man, apparently unarmed, approaching the house on foot. But they’d sure as hell come out to challenge him.

  Coming through the woods from the highway, McGarvey had spotted one of the closed-circuit television cameras trained on the driveway and had sent the FBI agent back.

  “Are you wearing a vest?”

  “Yeah, but it hurts like hell to get shot,” McLaren said. “If it comes to that, don’t miss.”

  “I won’t.”

  “No, I don’t expect you would.”

  McLaren, his coat buttoned and his hands in plain sight at his sides, came into view at the end of the driveway. He stopped a moment, as if he were studying the house, and then followed the footprints toward the walkway around the side.

  A Toyota van and a gray Lexus were parked in front of the house. They’d not been moved since the last snow. Unless Yamagata and whoever he had with him had another way out of here, they were still inside.

  McGarvey lay still and watched as McLaren climbed the steps to the walkway and again hesitated a moment before starting toward the front of the house. Before he got halfway, a Japanese man dressed in a Cal Tech track suit, armed with a Glock-17 automatic, came around the corner.

  “Who are you?” the Japanese asked.

  McLaren stopped, his hands out. “Hey, take it easy. I’m looking for Dave Kennedy. I was told he was here.”

  “You’re mistaken.”

  McGarvey eased the Walther’s hammer back and switched the safety catch off as he rose from his hiding place. “Lower your weapon now, or I will shoot you.”

  The man’s eyes flicked to McGarvey, but his aim never wavered from McLaren. “We wish you no harm, Mr. McGarvey. In fact, we were expecting you.”

  “Is Yamagata here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then put your gun on the railing and step back.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Hayai,” quick, McGarvey said.

  The man’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

  “Ima!” Now!

  The Japanese intelligence officer carefully placed the big handgun on the snow-covered railing and stepped back a pace.

  McLaren pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the Japanese. McGarvey climbed up on the walkway and retrieved the man’s weapon.

  “How many others besides Yamagata are inside?”

  “One,” the Japanese responded.

  “If you’re lying, I’ll kill you, and there’ll be no honor in it.”

  “One,” the man said. “But they are seeing and hearing everything that is happening here. So be very careful. No one wishes to kill or be killed.”

  “I hope you’re sincere, because I am in a very bad mood.”

  “Hai,” the Japanese said.

  McGarvey and McLaren followed him around the corner to a broad veranda that ran the length of the house. A sliding glass door was open. They went inside to a huge living room with a central fireplace.

 
Yamagata was seated on the arm of a long couch, Chance Kennedy next to him. David was seated near the fireplace, another Japanese intelligence officer behind him, pointing a gun at his head.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. McGarvey,” Yamagata said seriously. “We have a lot to discuss this afternoon if we are to avert a horrible tragedy between our countries.”

  “It’s already happened.”

  “It is not our doing.”

  “But your design,” McGarvey countered sharply.

  McLaren moved to the left so that he had a clear shot at Yamagata, who was unarmed.

  “We can discuss that later,” Yamagata said, eyeing the FBI agent. “For now you must tell me who you suspect, and together we will prove it to our governments. Believe me, Mr. McGarvey, I do not wish a war between our countries.”

  “Are you all right, David?” McGarvey interrupted.

  “I’m okay, but the bastards did something to Chance. Drugs, I think.”

  “Nothing more than a mild sedative,” Yamagata said. “I assure you we mean no harm.”

  “They tortured me,” Chance cried, her voice strangled.

  “You sonofabitch!” Kennedy roared.

  “Wait!” Yamagata shouted.

  McGarvey motioned for Kennedy to back down. “Listen to me, David. I want you to take Chance back to the highway. There are some FBI agents up there waiting for you.”

  “We won’t hesitate to kill you, assassin,” Yamagata warned. “There are considerations at stake here that are beyond your comprehension. Put your guns down now, or we will start the killing.”

  McGarvey switched aim and fired one shot, hitting the Japanese behind Kennedy in the forehead just above his left eye, killing him instantly.

  The other Japanese grabbed McLaren’s gun hand and swung him around toward McGarvey. But he was too late. McGarvey stepped inside his guard, and reaching over the FBI agent’s shoulder, fired point-blank into the Japanese intelligence officer’s face.

  Yamagata jumped up, dragging Chance to her feet. He held her head in a vise grip. “I’ll break her neck!”

  “Then I’ll kill you,” McGarvey replied stepping to the right.

  McLaren disentangled himself from the dead Japanese. He was shook up.

  Yamagata looked at them. “It’s not Morning Star. I swear it.”

  McGarvey inclined his head very slightly, and Yamagata’s eyes narrowed. He’d caught the gesture. “Step away from the woman. McLaren can take her and David back up to the highway.”

  “No fucking way,” McLaren burst out.

  “Give me ten minutes,” McGarvey said, watching Yamagata. He was struggling to keep his anger in check.

  “Goddammit, McGarvey.”

  “You owe me.”

  “You know what the fuck is going on! You know what they’ve done to us!”

  “Ten minutes,” McGarvey said evenly. “Then you can bring Franson and the others down here. The Bureau will take the credit.”

  McLaren looked at him in amazement. “You cocksucker.”

  “Do it!”

  Yamagata released Chance and moved aside. He held his hands away from his body so that there would be no mistake that he was reaching for a weapon.

  Kennedy got to his wife before she could collapse.

  “Get them out of here,” McGarvey ordered.

  McLaren hesitated several moments longer, but then he lowered his gun and backed off. “No shit, McGarvey. Ten minutes and we’ll be back for some explanations. A lot of fucking explanations.”

  McGarvey waited until they were gone, and then he lowered his gun and eased the hammer down. “Did you torture her?”

  “I needed to get her husband here, and through him you,” Yamagata said. “It was the only way.”

  McGarvey almost raised his gun and shot the man. But he continued to hold his anger in check. “How were you planning on getting out of here?”

  “Helicopter. It’s parked under a covering on the other side of the house. But you knew that.”

  “Who’s the pilot?”

  “I am.”

  “Then we have ten minutes to make our escape. You can tell me about Morning Star on the way. Maybe we can avert a war after all.”

  “Delta 142, this is Oakland Approach Control. I repeat, we are closed to all traffic including emergencies. Suggest you divert to San Francisco International, immediately.”

  Captain Mark Quade had been in some tough spots in his flying career, especially as a young pilot at the end of Vietnam, but never anything like this. “I understand, but we have unknown damage to our hydraulic system and backups affecting our ailerons and rudder. I need a straight in. We’re fifteen miles south of you over Dumbarton Bridge, requesting an emergency landing on three-three-left.”

  “We are closed. Divert to San Francisco International.”

  “I can’t turn this fucking airplane around. I either land at Oakland, or I put it in the bay.”

  “Stand by.”

  The Delta flight was a Guerin 522, and it was in trouble. Ron Herring was picking up transmissions on the VHF walkie-talkie on his hip. He was checking one of the satellite dishes on the roof of the Oakland Airport Commission building with a field-strength meter. When the FAA’s warning had come through, he’d started looking for anomalies in their own equipment. Something, anything that might help. He couldn’t get the picture of Tom Reston’s eyes out of his head. The man was a killer. He should have been able to see it.

  They were picking up a low-frequency spike from somewhere. It was showing up on their equipment downstairs. But it wasn’t a fault in one of the dishes, or in the on-site amplifiers up here.

  Which meant what?

  Since he’d talked to the FBI he’d become a driven man. Reston had murdered Bill White in cold blood. But he’d been here, looking the place over, and for the past three days Herring had tried to find out if he’d done anything to sabotage them.

  The signal was coming from somewhere. If not up here, and not in the equipment in the office, the only place left was the basement.

  Herring got up. He’d shown Reston the equipment down there! Shit!

  “Oakland Approach Control, this is Delta 142. Have you got that runway clear for us?”

  “Roger, Delta. We have emergency equipment standing by. Suggest that you shut down your port engine.”

  “Negative. We’re having enough trouble steering as it is.”

  “Roger that. Good luck.”

  Herring pounded downstairs to the basement and fumbled with his security card to get the door open. He switched on the lights and stood for a moment looking at the racks of monitoring equipment.

  The only place they saw the signal was in the equipment upstairs that monitored transmissions between ATC and aircraft. But the tower had come up totally clean.

  Which meant that the signal had to be coming from here, but not from within their own equipment.

  He switched on the field-strength meter and immediately picked up the spike. He walked forward slowly, the signal strength increasing … but not from the front of the racks. He raised the meter toward the ceiling, and the signal strength decreased.

  To the left. Behind the equipment.

  He crouched in the dim light behind the rack and for a moment he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. It looked so ordinary. A trap to catch cockroaches, and maybe other bugs. A small brown cardboard container.

  Herring pointed the meter at it, and the indicator went to maximum.

  “Sonofabitch.” As soon as he picked up the Roach Motel he knew what it was. The damned thing was far too heavy.

  His walkie-talkie hissed. “Delta one-four-two reporting ten miles out. I have the runway in sight.”

  Herring ripped the brown paper covering off the small, open-ended box to reveal a small circuit board. Again he was stopped by the simplicity, and genius, of it.

  “Roger,” approach control radioed.

  Herring pulled the circuit board away from the box, and yanked it free o
f its connecting wires. He checked the field-strength meter, but the spike was gone. Then he sat back on his heels to listen to his walkie-talkie until the Delta flight was safely on the ground.

  FORTY-ONE

  “In five minutes I’ll call the President,” Roland Murphy said. “What do I tell him?”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt in light of NSA’s intercept from Tokyo Bank,” Ryan answered.

  They met in the conference room adjacent to the DCI’s office. Besides Murphy and Ryan, Danielle had come from down the hall, and Tommy Doyle and Adkins had come from downstairs.

  “Circumstantially we can build a pretty good case against some Japanese group, but anyone could have initiated that signal train from Tokyo,” Adkins cautioned.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dick,” the Company’s counsel said. “The evidence is overwhelming. The bastards are overrunning Seventh’s headquarters in Yokosuka. Admiral Ryland is transferring his flag to the George Washington.” He turned back to Murphy. “It’s probably not Enchi’s government. He’s lost control. But their actions are definitely directed.”

  “Tommy?” Murphy asked his deputy director of intelligence.

  “It looks bad, but I think Dick has got a point. The Russians have their Abunai network in Tokyo. It’s conceivable that they could have gotten into Tokyo Bank’s computer system. Hell, my fourteen year old says he can get into just about any computer anywhere with his PC, and I believe him.”

  “Those airplanes were sabotaged in this country,” Ryan argued. “That takes resources and long-term planning.”

  “Agreed,” Doyle said. “I’m just saying that we don’t know all the facts yet.”

  “Lawrence?” Murphy turned to his deputy DCI.

  “We might have the damage contained for the moment …” Danielle said, and Ryan interrupted.

  “The death toll will top two thousand, including the Vice President, who, need I remind you, was en route to Tokyo.”

  “If the Russians hadn’t made their move at the same time by attacking the Japanese, I might agree without reservations,” Danielle said patiently.