“We are not attacking Japan,” Zagorsky said, keeping his voice as even as possible.
“At least three Russian submarines remain within a threatening position in the Soya Strait. No communications have been detected from Pacific Fleet Headquarters in Vladivostok ordering the withdrawal of those warships, despite President Yeltsin’s promise to do so.”
“There are technical difficulties at the ELF transmitter.”
“Inform your government that a continued refusal to withdraw your forces will be considered an act of aggression against Japan, and, as our allies, against us.”
“Mr. President …”
“That’s all,” Lindsay said coldly.
“They should have been here by now,” McGarvey said, looking at his watch.
Lawton got in his squad car to use the radio. “Two-Seven-Baker, this is Lawton. Where are you?”
“We’re coming up on the Mount Morris exit. Have they reached you?”
“No,” Lawton said.
“They turned off,” McGarvey said. “Get your people on the other side of the park and block those roads. In the meantime I need to borrow one of your cars.”
“We’ll do this my way—”
“If you crowd him a lot of your people are going to get hurt. This guy is a professional.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Lawton demanded angrily.
“You don’t want to know,” Whitman said. “Give us a car and a driver who knows the area.”
“Is the FBI taking over this case?”
“We’re here to assist,” Whitman said. “We want to take Mueller and the others alive. How about a car? We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Goddammit,” Lawton swore. He got out of the car. “Alger,” he shouted.
One of the highway patrol cops came back. “Lieutenant?”
“Take these guys down to Mount Morris,” Lawton said.
“Block the roads out,” Whitman advised.
“You’ve got one shot, then I’m sending my people in,” Lawton warned.
The Marine VH-3 helicopter landed a few yards from the Sikorsky parked in the median strip. Ryan and his two domestic operations officers hurried over to where Lawton was radioing orders to his people.
“You in charge here?” Ryan interrupted.
“Now who the hell are you guys?” Lawton demanded.
Ryan showed him his CIA identification. “Where’s McGarvey?”
“Mount Morris,” the cop said. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”
“We’ll need a car and driver.”
“Of course.”
“Mr. President, I think you should call Yeltsin and explain to him what we’re doing,” Secor suggested.
“He knows what we’re doing,” Lindsay replied. “When an ELF message is sent from Vladivostok ordering their warships out of the strait, and when they actually leave, we will stand down. Not until then.”
“Captain, you have permission to launch,” Admiral Ryland said from his chair on the bridge.
Benson relayed the order, and within fifteen seconds the first of the six Lockheed S-3C Viking ASW jet aircraft lifted off the deck of the carrier. The Vikings would be followed by eight F/A-18L fighter/interceptors from the Peregrine Squadron. Their job would be to maintain air superiority over the strait so that the Vikings could find the submarines and kill them if necessary. Twenty minutes ago they had launched an E-2C Hawkeye early-warning aircraft, designated Sugar Hill, to provide over-the-horizon contact information. It would take up station at thirty thousand feet fifty miles out.
The George Washington’s diminished battle group consisted of one Aegis cruiser, two guided missile destroyers, and two ASW frigates. The rest of the fleet was playing catch-up out of Tokyo Bay and deployed with the Thorn in the East China Sea north of Okinawa. They were too spread out to be an effective force, but Ryland hoped he wouldn’t need the entire fleet. If that were the case a lot of people would be killed, and peace would be a long time coming. It would not be another hundred-hour war like they had pushing Iraq out of Kuwait.
They were a little under three hundred miles from the strait. The F/A-18s would make that in less than fifteen minutes, but it would take the much slower Vikings thirty minutes to get on target.
It seemed like an eternity to Ryland. Like all rational fighting men he abhorred battle. But when one was imminent he wanted to get it over as soon as possible.
“I have contact,” the Strelka’s ELINT officer Lieutenant Bychokov reported. “Wakkanai is still on the air.”
They’d slowly risen to one hundred meters from where they’d sent up an extremely low-profile intelligence-gathering buoy capable of receiving on a broad band of frequencies. Connected to the sub by a long wire, the device was practically undetectable by surface ships or aircraft.
“Anything from Pacific Fleet?” Lestov asked.
“Nyet.”
“Very well. Cut the buoy loose and come left to three-zero-zero degrees. Make your speed fifteen knots.”
“Aye, aye, coming left to three-zero-zero degrees, make my speed fifteen knots,” Savin acknowledged the order. “The buoy is away.”
“Sound battle stations missile.”
A Klaxon sounded throughout the boat, and one by one the watertight doors were closed and dogged. Lestov’s plan was to gain as much sea room as possible before turning and firing.
“Sonar, conn. Anything ahead of us?”
“Two contacts, bearing two-one-five degrees … range fifteen thousand meters and slowly closing. Type signature looks like a pair of Yamagumo-class destroyers. Designate Sierra-Thirteen and Fourteen.”
“Have they got us?” Lestov asked.
“Nyet.”
“Keep a close eye on them, Vladi. They’re in a position to cut us off.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
They spotted the green Ford Probe abandoned in front of a metal barrier gate on the park road a hundred yards from Highway 408. The highway patrol cop slammed on the brakes, slewing them sideways half into the ditch.
McGarvey leaped out of the car and drew his gun as he raced the rest of the way on foot, keeping to the trees at the side of the road in case Mueller had set a trap for them.
Three sets of footprints in the freshly fallen snow disappeared in the darkness down the road into the park.
Whitman, his gun drawn, joined him. “Are they gone?”
McGarvey held up his hand for silence. He cocked his head to listen. In the distance someone was shouting, or crying something. A woman’s voice.
“He’ll know we’re coming, so watch yourself,” McGarvey said.
“He might suspect …”
“He’ll know.”
Whitman nodded.
“You take the left side of the road, I’ll take the right. Whatever it takes, I want Reid and the woman alive.”
“I want to take Mueller in too.”
“It’ll never happen,” McGarvey said. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s the best the Stasi ever fielded. If you see him, shoot him immediately. If you hesitate he’ll kill you.”
“Hold up, you guys. Help is on the way!” the cop shouted.
“Christ,” McGarvey swore softly. “Tell him okay.”
“Okay, we’ll wait,” Whitman called to the cop. When he turned back, McGarvey was gone.
Ryan rushed over to the squad car half in the ditch. “Where the hell are they?” he shouted, holding up his CIA identification.
“I tried to stop them, sir,” the flustered highway patrol officer explained. “They went into the park on foot.”
“Let’s go,” Ryan told his two bodyguards.
“Mr. Ryan, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Hughes warned. “We stumble around back there in the dark somebody could get shot.”
“You wait here then,” Ryan instructed. “Give me your gun.”
“Sir, he’s right. You shouldn’t go after them. New York H.P. is right behind us,” Pratt said.
Hughes took out his Colt 10 mm automatic. “Safety’s on the left side.”
“Right,” Ryan said. He snatched the gun and raced down the road into the park.
Lieutenant Paul O’Neil’s Peregrine Able Flight lined up with the four Hornets of Lieutenant Bill Gifford’s Baker Flight, and they hit their afterburners rapidly accelerating to Mach two, passing above the much slower Vikings already on their way to the strait.
Their flight path would take them along the northeast coast of Hokkaido, over Japanese air space, which under normal conditions would be no cause for concern. But everyone was on their toes this morning. The ASDF was at DEFCON ONE, which meant a lot of nervous fingers were on a lot of cocked triggers.
For this mission the F/A-18s were armed with two AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missiles with a range above seventy nautical miles; four air-to-air AIM-9/L Sidewinders, which used the Argon-cooled Indium Antimonide Sensor that was extremely sensitive to infrared emissions of a hot jet exhaust; as well as the 20 mm Vulcan cannon, capable of shooting one hundred rounds per second.
If the Russians decided to send MiG-31 Foxhounds from their bases on Sakhalin Island, or the Sukhoi-27s from Khabarovsk on the mainland, they would be in for a nasty fight. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind who would hold air superiority over the strait.
O’Neil’s threat receiver pinged. He was being illuminated by several ground radars. “They’ve got us, Bill,” he radioed Baker Wing leader. “Squawking eight-seven-seven-seven.” The 8777 transponder signal identified them as friendlies to Japanese ground radar.
They crossed the coast at Akkeshi, but nothing rose from the ASDF base at Misawa seventy miles away, and O’Neil allowed himself to relax a little. They’d passed the first hurdle. For sure he didn’t want to get into it with the Japanese like the Thorn had. Their orders were very clear. If they were illuminated by Japanese aircraft weapons radar and were warned off, they were to bug out immediately. The Russians were their targets.
“Conn, sonar. I have a possible submarine contact, bearing three-five-five degrees, approximately twenty thousand meters, and below us.”
“Is it one of ours?” Lestov looked across the attack center at his XO. So far as they knew, no American submarines should be in these waters.
“Hard to tell, Captain. It’s very quiet. I think it just went into drift mode … wait. Da. I have it now. She’s one of ours. Definite Sierra class. She just turned right, speed under ten knots, and she’s on her way up.”
“It seems as if we’re not alone after all,” Lestov observed. “What about Sierra-Thirteen and -Fourteen?”
“Twelve thousand yards now, same course and speed, bearing two-six-five degrees.”
“Our other sub must be hearing them,” Savin suggested.
“Providing our comrades know where we are and what we’re up to, we’ll be okay.”
“Conn, weapons. Report tubes one and two loaded and ready to fire.”
“Aye,” Lestov replied. He walked over to the plotting board. “If the Japanese destroyers continue on their same course and speed, they’ll find our submarine.”
“It looks like it,” Savin said.
“Then let’s be quick about this.”
“Sugar Hill, Able and Baker Wings on station,” O’Neil radioed. The clouds toward the Siberian coast were thick, but above the strait the skies were clear. Hokkaido was off his left wing, and the Russian-held Sakhalin Island rose ruggedly on his right. He was being illuminated by many ground radars, including the one array at Wakkanai that was still transmitting. He could see smoke rising from the installation twenty miles away.
“We show contacts to your south. One commercial transponder heading away, the others look like MSDF Orions from Otaru.”
“Paul, ten o’clock low,” his wingman radioed. “Two on the surface.”
“Stand by Sugar Hill,” O’Neil told the Hawkeye controller. He turned his Hornet into a shallow diving turn to the left. His look-down-shoot-down radar picked up the targets almost immediately.
“I got ’em,” Bill Gifford radioed. “Japanese destroyers, just coming around the cape.”
Moments later O’Neil’s AAS-38 FLIR—Forward—Looking-InfraRed pod—produced a clear image on the Master Monitor Display on his panel.
“Sugar Hill, this is Able Leader, we have two Japanese destroyers making for the strait around Cape Soya.”
“They’re hunting. Stand by.”
“I have two additional submarine contacts, both definitely ours … Sierra class. Bearings zero-one-five and zero-nine-zero degrees … range on both targets is above thirty thousand meters.”
“Course and speed?” Lestov demanded.
“They’re both making forty knots, course two-seven-zero.”
It was immediately obvious that both submarines were closing on the two destroyers. But they were making so much noise that their presence would be detected.
“The destroyers have gone active,” Bychkov reported excitedly. “They’re turning toward our submarines.”
The Strelka’s tubes one and two were fitted with the conventional high-explosives version of the SS-NX-21 cruise missile. Once they were launched, however, and until they struck their targets, they would be indistinguishable from the nuclear-tipped version. It was a very dangerous game they were playing by trying to teach the Japanese a lesson in vulnerability and humility.
“Open doors one and two. Prepare to launch on my order,” Lestov said.
“Able and Baker leaders, this is Sugar Hill. The friendlies are in acquisition of two submerged targets. Spread out at flight level twenty-five to provide air cover. Eliminator Squadron will be on station momentarily.”
“Roger,” O’Neil responded. “Bill, go north, we’ll take this end.”
“Roger.”
Eliminator Squadron had the six Viking ASW aircraft. If the Japanese missed, they wouldn’t.
Mueller had lost his sense of urgency. Escape was becoming increasingly unlikely, especially dragging Reid and the woman with him. They stood in the darkness just outside the pool of light cast from a window in the house adjacent to the park’s visitors and information center. Parked beneath a carport was a four-wheel-drive Jimmy.
“I can’t go any farther,” Reid wheezed. He slumped down into the snow.
Dominique, her eyes wide, stepped back.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison,” Mueller said mildly.
“I don’t have much life left,” Reid looked up, and shook his head. “The Japanese will be blamed. I’ve accomplished at least that much.”
“They’ll know it was you.”
“The equipment was of Japanese design. The message is clear enough.”
Mueller shifted his gaze to Dominique, and she flinched. He’d always had to fight this detachment in himself, the feeling that he’d rather stand back and watch events unfold than take action. It was a sense of inevitability in him that had increased since the collapse of the Soviet Union and the dismantling of the GDR. And the walls came tumbling down, the line crossed his thoughts. America was Joshua’s seven trumpet-blowing priests. Her time in history had come.
“Remain here. I’ll get us a car,” he told Reid.
“You’re going to kill the park ranger,” Dominique said.
Mueller shrugged.
“For God’s sake stop!” Dominique cried. “Hasn’t there been enough killing?”
Mueller smiled despite himself. “My dear little girl, hasn’t your Mr. McGarvey told you that the killing never stops? It’s our nature.”
“You’re not human!” Dominique started for him.
Mueller raised his pistol. “No, I’m not.”
Dominique stopped.
“If you cry out, I shall come back and kill you,” Mueller said matter of factly. “Do you believe this?”
“Yes.”
Mueller turned and crossed the road to the ranger’s house without looking bac
k. He knocked at the door, and moments later a man dressed in a sweater opened it and Mueller went inside with him.
A muffled pistol shot came from somewhere ahead, and moments later Dominique came running up the road.
“Don’t shoot!” McGarvey shouted to Whitman, who was in the woods across the road.
“Mac?” Dominique screamed.
McGarvey rushed out to her and pulled her back into the safety of the woods. She was all over him, crying and babbling incoherently.
“Where’s Mueller?” McGarvey shouted her down.
“Back there! He’s killed the ranger, and he’s going to steal the car! Reid’s back there too!”
Whitman came across the road in a dead run. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“McGarvey!” someone shouted from behind them.
“Jesus Christ, it’s Howard Ryan,” McGarvey said. “Stay here with Dominique,” he told Whitman. “And try to stop Ryan. He’s going to get himself killed.”
“No,” Dominique cried, but McGarvey pulled away from her and moved off.
He kept to the side of the road. Just now it was snowing much harder, which reduced visibility to thirty yards. Mueller had made very few mistakes to this point. Nor had he made a mistake allowing Dominique to escape. He had created a diversion, hoping to slow them down. Or he had sent a specific message, targeted to one man. It would explain why he’d taken Dominique in the first place, and not killed her at Reid’s. The thought was chilling.
The woods ended abruptly at a wide clearing across which was a large log building, and beside it a low ranch-style house, lights in the windows.
McGarvey stopped at a picnic table. He could just make out what appeared to be a figure of a man sitting in the snow at the side of the road. He switched the Walther’s safety off and raised the gun.
High Flight Page 86
