High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “By rioters?” Enchi asked. “Why hasn’t something been done?”

  “The crowd is very large, possibly more than twenty-five thousand people, and already there have been many deaths. We can only hope to contain them. In the dark, there is too much confusion.”

  “For the moment we cannot assume that President Lindsay will offer any assistance, other than his offer to help us recall our forces,” Hironaka said slyly.

  “I can at least partially understand their position,” the Foreign Minister said. “The United States is under attack by terrorists.”

  “Not us,” Hironaka responded angrily.

  The foreign minister shrugged. “We have not heard from Kamiya or Kobayashi. This could have been engineered by them. I think there is little doubt in this room about that.”

  “What information are we receiving from our intelligence operations in the United States?”

  “Beyond the fact of the crashes and the high death toll, very little that is of any use to us at the moment,” Nobunaga said.

  Enchi looked down at the table for a response from his other advisers. Besides MITI there were a dozen or more specialized intelligence-gathering agencies in Japan. Among them were the Public Security Agency; the Police Guard Division and Agency Research Association; the Cabinet Investigation Board; the Defense Agency’s First and Second Research Intelligence Divisions; the Security Bureau’s Research and Foreign Affairs Divisions; the Ministry of Justice’s Public Security Investigation Agency (which dealt primarily with subversion); the Foreign Ministry’s Intelligence and Research Organization; and the Self Defense Forces individual military intelligence units. But there was no intelligence-data clearinghouse such as America’s Central Intelligence Agency.

  “There were no legitimate advance warnings,” the Foreign Minister explained delicately. “With time …”

  “We do not have time,” Enchi interrupted impolitely. “The Russians would not have done this, nor did the Americans do it to themselves. That is unthinkable. Which leaves Kamiya and his Zaibatsu, or an as yet unknown organization whose purpose we can only guess.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Prime Minister, but we are still left with two intolerable situations,” Hironaka warned. “We are under attack in the north, and despite your formal request to President Lindsay, the Americans have not responded. In fact the Seventh Fleet is making a run for the open sea.”

  “Can we hold the majority of the fleet to the bay without firing shots?”

  “A diversion can be arranged. Say an emergency between one or more of our ships.” Hironaka sat forward. “But if the Americans chose not to respond, our commanders would have to be given clear orders.”

  “When the time comes I will consider those orders,” Enchi said. “I will call President Yeltsin.”

  “He will lie.”

  “I will tell him that we mean to defend Hokkaido with everything in our power. In the meantime we will continue our efforts to reach President Lindsay and Admiral Ryland.”

  “For now it’s a waiting game,” Nobunaga mused. “Who will blink first?”

  Marvin Amundson called from Fort Meade.

  “Mr. President, NSA has another update from our Japanese Intercept Division. Two separate orders have been issued from their C-and-C, presumably under Prime Minister Enchi’s authority. The first was to their Forty-first Destroyer Division at Cape Mirua—that’s the mouth of Tokyo Bay—to do whatever is necessary to hold the majority of the Seventh Fleet from breaking out.”

  “Hold on,” Lindsay said. “Have they been ordered to shoot at our ships?”

  “That’s not clear, Mr. President. We only have a partial decryption and translation. But it was a flash-designated message, which means they’re serious. They want to box Seventh inside the bay.”

  “All right. What’s the second message?”

  “Their military forces in the north have been ordered to Defense Condition One, which gives their local commanders unlimited weapons release authorization. That means they will shoot anything within their national boundaries.”

  “That includes all of Soya Strait?”

  “Yes, sir. Presumably this is a clear message to the Russians to back off.”

  The President looked down the table at his advisers.

  “That means us as well when Ryland sends help up there, or if Third Air Force responds from Misawa,” Secretary of Defense Landry said.

  “What about our telephone circuit to Enchi?”

  “There is no technical trouble at our end, Mr. President,” Amundson said. “But we’re still working on it.”

  “Goddammit, are you sure?” John Whitman swore. “What the hell were those guys thinking about?”

  “I don’t know, but they were shot to death in the back of the van. Looks like maybe Kris put up a fight, but neither of them pulled their weapons.”

  “I don’t believe this. What about Reid? Have you got the sonofabitch?”

  “He’s gone,” Special Agent Irving Newton said. “But there’s more, Mr. Whitman. Whoever did our people also did a couple of guys parked across the street. White Toyota van, registered to an invalid address in Rockville. They’re Japanese. The van is equipped with some sophisticated surveillance gear. But it was the same deal. They didn’t put up any resistance. Might have known who it was.”

  Whitman was numb. This just wasn’t happening. “Any witnesses?”

  “We’re working the neighborhood. But we got a name on the yellow Vette parked in front of Reid’s. Belongs to Dominique Kilbourne. Address in the Watergate.”

  “Any sign of her?”

  “No, sir. But if you want a quick turnaround here, we’re going to need some help.”

  “Nobody left,” Whitman said. “Use the D.C. cops.”

  “President Yeltsin, I am told that your submarines are still in the vicinity of the Soya Strait, well within Japanese territorial waters.”

  “These things take time, President Lindsay. I assure you that the situation in the strait is being resolved. Since our submarines are submerged, we can only communicate via ELF. It is very slow. But the Japanese fired the first shot.”

  So far NSA had intercepted no such message from the Russian’s Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok. But the system was not one-hundred percent accurate, nor did Lindsay wish to reveal that capability to Yeltsin.

  “Japanese military forces in the region have gone to Defense Condition One. Your ships are in their territorial waters!”

  “I am aware of this. We are taking every precaution. But we will defend our withdrawal. I have told Prime Minister Enchi this.”

  “You spoke with him?” Lindsay asked, surprised. It was the first ray of hope.

  “Two minutes ago. But he seems, how shall I put it, agitated. I don’t know if he completely understands the situation that we are facing. That all of us are facing.”

  “I appreciate your candidness, Mr. President. Let me be equally candid. Since we are still not sure who attacked us, I am sending some aircraft to inspect the situation in the strait. I want no misunderstanding between us. We merely want to monitor what is going on.”

  “Then allow me to repeat myself, President Lindsay. Our warships will be instructed to defend their withdrawal.”

  “We will shoot only in self-defense.”

  “So will we, President Lindsay,” Yeltsin said.

  “What the hell does the sonofabitch mean?” Secor demanded when the connection was broken. “His forces have already exchanged shots with the Japanese.”

  McGarvey poured a brandy from the airplane’s liquor locker and sat down. Yamagata had recovered much of his poise, that much was clear from his expression, and from the way he sat back in his seat. But there was something else hidden behind his eyes. Wariness. An Oriental cunning.

  “By now the situation is becoming serious,” McGarvey said.

  “I’m glad that you understand,” Yamagata replied mildly. “Kennedy did not.”

  “Fourteen airplanes are d
own. That’s a lot of dead people. Countries have gone to war over a lot less. Is that what you want?”

  “It wasn’t us.”

  “Funny you should say that, when everything points to Kamiya and Mintori Assurance.” McGarvey tossed back the drink and set the glass aside. “When I asked him about trying to ruin Guerin, he said it was only part of a much larger operation called Morning Star. Does this mean anything to you?”

  “Yes, it does. But over the past few days I’ve come to the realization that Sokichi Kamiya is insane. His plan was brilliant, and actually would have worked, I think, had it not been for a happenstance.”

  McGarvey said nothing. He’d always had trouble dealing with misplaced arrogance.

  “Business is war, and unless Japan acts soon, it is a war we will lose.”

  A muscle in McGarvey’s left leg began to jump.

  “You Americans are innovators. You have the ability to see things differently than we do. You are individualists. It’s what you do best. While we Japanese are manufacturers. We can take your innovations, improve on them, and then produce them for a profit. As partners we could be unstoppable. No country on earth, not Russia with her resources, not China with her population, could compete. Do you understand this much?” A note of sarcasm had crept into Yamagata’s voice.

  McGarvey focused on keeping his temper in check. He’d seen the defeated look in Chance Kennedy’s eyes, the anguish in her voice.

  “The original idea was to engineer a small war between our countries. But only after we were established at Subic Bay, and after your military installations were removed from our soil. Then, once the shooting had begun, an immediate cease-fire would have been called. We are trading partners. Supposedly equal partners. It is something Americans cannot see yet. You are guilty of the worst kind of racial prejudice. Against the blacks as well as us. In your mind we are an inferior race.”

  McGarvey thought about how Korean and Vietnamese immigrants were still treated in Japan. It was an issue that the Japanese government had sidestepped for years. As it had sidestepped the treatment of the Chinese during the war, and of our own prisoners in the Pacific.

  “We were going to destroy Guerin. It was to be another indication to the world that American technology and manufacturing were flawed. No one would want to fly in a Guerin airplane. They would be unsafe.”

  “Bringing fourteen airplanes down at once was extreme.”

  “It wasn’t us,” Yamagata said, vexed. “Our plan was to create a series of accidents throughout the world over a period of several years. To slowly destroy confidence in the company.”

  “InterTech was yours?”

  Yamagata smiled. “It was clever of you to figure out at least that much.”

  “The entire fleet has been sabotaged?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the crash in 1990? Was it a mistake?”

  “It was a test.”

  “But one of your people was killed.”

  “I gave him that honor,” Yamagata said matter of factly.

  “You had a remote-control device?”

  “Yes. I waited on the ground south of the city until the plane was overhead.”

  “What about the Dulles crash?”

  Yamagata’s expression darkened. “It wasn’t us. Someone else has discovered what we’ve done and has taken advantage.”

  McGarvey almost went across the aisle, but he willed himself to remain in his seat.

  “It’s too soon, but between us we’ll find out who it is and stop them. We’ll share information. A partnership.”

  “What about the war?”

  “We were going to create a number of incidents that would increase the tension between us and Russia, as well as America. A new Cold War, if you will, in which the Russians would finally launch an attack against us. It would give us a reason to rapidly build up our military without Washington forcing us to back down. Sooner or later tempers would run high, and the war would erupt. We would be defending ourselves, nothing more.”

  “To what end?” McGarvey asked.

  “Either take us seriously as full and equal business partners, or get out of our way in the western Pacific so that we can develop our own markets.” Yamagata pointed a finger at McGarvey for emphasis. “Faced with the same choices Japan is faced with—continue to expand or starve—the United States would do the same thing. And has done the same thing in the past. Any nation would to ensure its survival.”

  “Chance Kennedy?”

  “I needed her to get to her husband and then to you. But she’ll live. In fact her marriage will probably be all the better for her experience.”

  “You made a mistake by not running when you had the chance,” McGarvey said dreamily.

  “It wasn’t us. We think a man named Edward Reid may be involved.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I want to make a deal,” Yamagata said.

  “Do you?” McGarvey asked.

  “Yes. I’ll cooperate with your government to put a stop to this nonsense, and your government—or you personally if Washington won’t or can’t help—will give me Mintori Assurance.”

  “I’ll need to know everything. All the details, including names.”

  Yamagata grinned. “You won’t believe the names I’ll give you. Do we have a deal?”

  “Sure,” McGarvey said. “I’ll give you a deal.”

  “Tell me more about your Mr. McGarvey. He sounds like an interesting fellow,” Mueller said conversationally.

  Dominique had to pretend that she was not too frightened to drive, even though she wanted to curl up into a ball and retreat within herself. Reid, lost in his own thoughts, sat in the Probe’s passenger seat. He’d been drinking from a whiskey bottle since they’d left Georgetown. The German was in the back seat. They were heading toward the Pennsylvania state border on Interstate 83 north of Baltimore. The afternoon had become cold and gray.

  “I don’t know very much about him,” Dominique answered, trying to keep her voice even. She’d had fifteen minutes alone with Mueller, and it had seemed like an eternity in hell. He’d been so perceptive, so reasonable and rational that she’d nearly fallen under his spell. It was like being in the presence of a mass murderer and kidding yourself into believing that at heart he was a good person. Kirk had warned them about people like Mueller, but she hadn’t believed him until now.

  “Don’t be coy. I think that you have fallen in love with him.”

  Dominique glanced at Mueller’s reflection in the rearview mirror. His eyes locked into hers, and she shuddered. “Do you have a wife?” she asked.

  “Oh, dear me,” Mueller laughed pleasantly. “No, I have no wife. But do you believe that Mr. McGarvey will ask you to marry him?”

  No one could possibly know where she was. Even if they found her car in front of Reid’s it wouldn’t give them a clue. She figured her only chance of survival was to attract some attention. The only way which she could do that, without making the German or Reid suspicious, was by driving too fast. Since Baltimore she’d slowly increased her speed. Maryland was tough on speeders.

  “I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “With the truth, of course. Isn’t it every little American girl’s dream to marry a strong, handsome boy?”

  They passed an eighteen-wheeler, and Mueller leaned forward so that he could look over Dominique’s shoulder. A half-mile later they passed a fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed-limit sign. “You are driving too fast. Please slow down to sixty.”

  “The speed limit will change to sixty-five any minute now,” Dominique said.

  “Slow down.”

  Dominique glanced into the rearview mirror again in time to see a police car, its lights flashing, catching up to them. She increased their speed.

  Mueller looked out the rear window. “I admire your courage, Ms. Kilbourne. But if you wish to survive the next few minutes, you will do exactly as I tell you. Believe me, I will not hesitate to kill you and the police offi
cer.”

  “You’ll never get away,” Dominique told him, and her threat sounded dumb even to her.

  “We’re discussing your survival now.”

  There was no way out. She was so stupid. “What if he wants us to get out of the car?”

  “You’ll convince him that’s not necessary.”

  Reid turned ponderously to look back. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of alcohol. “We’re not going to get out of this one.”

  “Hide the bottle and keep your mouth shut,” Mueller ordered. “Slow down, Ms. Kilbourne. There is no reason for you to throw away your life so soon.”

  “You bastard,” Dominique swore. “I swear to God I’ll see you dead if I have to do it with my own two hands.”

  The patrol car was nearly on them when Dominique slowed down and pulled off to the side of the highway. The cop pulled in behind them.

  “Take your driver’s license out of your purse, and lower your window. Smile, Ms. Kilbourne. Your life depends on it.”

  She did as she was told. She could see the Maryland Highway Patrol car in the door mirror. The trooper got out, put on his campaign hat, checked the traffic behind him, and came forward. He was alert, but not on his guard. Dominique wanted to warn him, but her insides were churning.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. May I see your driver’s license and vehicle registration?”

  They hadn’t thought about the registration. “It’s not my car,” Dominique said, flustered.

  Something was wrong. The trooper’s attention had switched to Mueller in the back seat, recognition and fear dawning on his face. He stepped back as he fumbled for his service revolver.

  Dominique started to turn around as Mueller powered down the rear window. “No!” she screamed.

  The trooper had his gun out and was bringing it up, when Mueller fired two shots, both of them catching the cop in the chest, driving him off his feet onto the highway.

  “Drive, Ms. Kilbourne,” Mueller ordered calmly. “At the speed limit, please.”

  Dominique dropped her driver’s license out the window, slammed the car in gear, and pulled away without bothering to check for oncoming traffic.