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Authors: David Hagberg

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BOOK: High Flight
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“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 across 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.
“
W
e 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.”
They'd gone over this on the flight down. “I'll give you the time if you think you can do it.”
“I can. But if something goes down it could blow the whole deal.”
“Leave that consideration to me,” Mueller said calmly.
Zerkel glanced over at him. “I mean it. If we have to fight our way out of there, they'll check to see what's missing.”
“Not every component of every airplane.”
“That's right …”
“Leave no outward traces.”
“I see what you mean,” Zerkel said. He should never have doubted the German's ability or judgment. Mueller was a professional. It gave Glen pause thinking about going head to head with the man if and when the need arose. But for the moment he was glad to have Mueller on his side.
 
Commander Hanrahan returned to the bridge after a quick lunch alone in the officers' mess. The sky was covered with a thick overcast, and the wind and seas were beginning to build.
“What's our friend doing, Red?” he asked his exec.
“Same as before. Drift and run.”
“Still nothing from Yokosuka?”
“It's only been six hours since our last radio contact.”
“Shit,” Hanrahan grumbled. He stepped closer to the windows and watched the bow rise and fall on the increasing waves. Meteorology was not predicting any weather more serious than this. Yet he was uneasy. “Same baseline since the strait?”
“He runs in a random zigzag pattern, and when he drifts it's back toward us. But his baseline is still south-southwest.”
“Okinawa. What's his SOA?”
“About two knots. Maybe a little less.”
“Two weeks, Red, before he crosses Okinawa's inner defense perimeter. Unless he speeds up. In the meantime we babysit.”
“Not much we can do about it, Skipper.”
Hanrahan faced his XO. “I told you before that I wasn't going to stay out here following that bastard all over the East China Sea indefinitely.”
“I hear you. But if he doesn't want to play, there's not much we can do about it. Seventh has set the rules of engagement.”
“That they have,” Hanrahan picked up the growler phone and called Sattler in CIC. “What are you painting, Don?”
“He's six thousand yards off our starboard bow, making ten knots, course two-seven-zero.”
“Straight west this time. What's his depth?”
“Two hundred feet. But when he drifts he comes up about fifty feet. Soon as he goes active we pick him up at about one-fifty. Takes him fifteen minutes to level off at what he's using as a cruise depth.”
“We lose him in drift.”
“About a half-hour each time.”
“He's going to have to come up to recharge his batteries sooner or later.”
“That's the point, Skipper. He should've done that by now. He's not a nuke. Whatever he's using for electricity
must be damned good. Better than anything I've ever heard of.”
“Me too,” Hanrahan replied, thinking about it. The days were long gone since the U.S. shared its technology with the Japanese, and even longer since Japan shared with the U.S. The
Samisho
was state of the art. He wondered how good her weapons were.
“When's he due to drop off our scopes again?”
“About an hour from now.”
“Half-hour duration each time?”
“That's been the pattern so far, Skipper.”
“Next time he shuts down I want to continuously ping him. Set up a firing solution for a pair of harpoons, and we'll close the range to a guaranteed no miss.”
“That'll get his attention. How long do we keep it up?”
“Until he makes a move, or until he comes out of the drift mode.”
“Half-hour of that racket will drive him nuts. You know how he reacted last time.”
Hanrahan chuckled. “That's the idea, Don. We'll go to battle stations each time. Give the crew some practice—”
“Wait!” Sattler interrupted. “Skipper, we have two incoming jet aircraft from the northeast about three miles out, just subsonic! Altitude four hundred feet! Right on the deck!”
Hanrahan put it on the speaker. The targets were showing up on the bridge radar. “What type of aircraft?”
“Looks like fighter/interceptors. F/A-18 Hornets. I think they're Japanese out of Tanegashima. We're being lit by their radars.”
“Switch our after Phalanx to automatic,” Hanrahan ordered.
“Mike, these are not enemy aircraft,” Ryder objected.
“Then they better stay the hell out of my envelope,” Hanrahan turned on his XO. “Do it now!”
“Aye, aye,” Ryder replied, and he gave the order.
Moments later the jets responded to the threat, climbing sharply out of the limited range of the
Thorn'
s
Phalanx system radar, one left and the other right. Then they passed directly overhead, standing on their tails, the noise from their engines aimed directly at the bridge.
“Bastards,” Hanrahan shouted. The bridge radar showed their tracks converging as they swung back to the northeast. He got back on the growler to Sattler. “What'd they get from us, Don?”
“They covered every frequency range we monitor, including infrared. Probably took pictures too. We did.”
“We're showing them out of here.”
“Us too, but they're dropping back to the deck, so they'll be over our radar horizon in about a minute and a half. Should we send up a chopper to see where they're headed?”
“We couldn't see any markings. Were they definitely Japanese Air Self Defense jets?”
“We got a good look up their tails. Definitely F/A-18JDs. Only country in the world has that class of Hornet is Japan.”
“No need for the chopper. We know where they're going. What about
Chrysanthemum?”
“Still ten knots on two-seven-zero.”
“Did he launch a comms buoy by any chance?” Hanrahan asked.
“If he did we missed it, Skipper.”
“Any chance of that?”
“Not at this range.”
“Keep a sharp eye, Don. I think they just sent us a message.”
“What's going on?” Ryder asked.
Hanrahan smiled knowingly. “Someone just told us that the
Samisho'
s skipper is probably not a rogue after all. They're starting to pay attention in Yokosuka.”
“Maybe in Tokyo too.”
Hanrahan ignored the comment. “Message Seventh. I think the rules have changed.”
 
They parked the van behind a small school off Valencia Road a half-mile from the Pima Air Museum on the
extreme south edge of Davis Monthan Air Force Base. To the northwest the lights of Tucson were bright in the night sky, and directly north, the tower beacon rotated white and green. Here, however, they were in darkness. The school could have been abandoned. Shutters covered the windows. In any case no one was likely to come around until morning.
In addition to the 9 mm silenced Beretta, Mueller carried a long, razor-sharp stiletto in a sheath across his chest. Zerkel carried his tools, including insulated wire cutters and a set of battery jumper cables, as well as a sling to carry the sensor frame and harness.
They headed across the desert, keeping well away from the road that went up to the museum. They had to cross a concrete-lined drainage ditch and then the Southern Pacific railroad tracks to reach the tall, electrified fence that marked the air force base boundary.
Mueller dropped down behind some low bushes and motioned for Zerkel to do the same. They were less than twenty-five yards from the fence. Directly north they could see the end of the main runway, but in the distance to the east Mueller could see row after row of vague shapes that could have been buildings in a darkened town.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“Just the edge of it, I think,” Zerkel whispered. “There's ten thousand airplanes parked here.”
Mueller looked sharply at him, trying to gauge from the expression on his face whether he was joking. But he was serious. “That's a significant portion of your air force.”
“Some of those planes are World War II vintage.”
“Why haven't they been scrapped?”
“The article didn't say.”
“But they're guarded.”
“Probably,” Zerkel said.
“Incredible. There must be tens of millions of dollars worth of equipment out there.”
“Yeah. Impressive, ain't it?”
Mueller didn't reply, turning inward to what he'd learned since joining Reid. Even in the early days of the Cold War he'd been enough of a realist to know that the Soviet Union's military strength was being exaggerated in the West. They'd all assumed that Soviet estimates of NATO's strength were similarly overestimated. That was not the case.
At 11:30 P.M., the lights of a vehicle worked its way up and down the rows of mothballed aircraft. It turned back to the north a half-hour later.
“Might be another before dawn,” Zerkel said.
“We'll watch for it.”
At the fence Zerkel connected the jumper cables across a five-foot section, and carefully cut it away with the insulated wire cutters. If there were security alarms on the fence the break would not show up. And they were far enough away from the nearest road that the opening likely would not be spotted by a passing patrol.
They headed in a brisk pace across the desert to the nearest rows of parked airplanes, keeping a wary eye for approaching lights from the north. The night was utterly still. Even the light breeze earlier had died to nothing.
Airplanes of all sizes, shapes, and vintages were parked in orderly ranks and files for as far as the eye could see. Some had their engines removed, others were propped up on cradles, their landing gear missing, but most were intact.
It was after 1:00 A.M. before they chanced upon a row of twenty-seven Guerin 522s, which the Air Force had designated C-7C Globelifters. The engines were in place, but sealed, as were the windshields and windows along the sides.
“Keep your eyes open,” Zerkel whispered. “If someone comes, knock twice on the hull. I'll hear it.”
“Four hours,” Mueller warned. “If you're not finished by then we'll return tomorrow.”
“Right,” Zerkel said, and he scrambled up onto the nose wheel and disappeared into the landing-gear well.
Mueller moved back into the shadows and took up
position behind the main gear on port side of the big jetliner. From where he stood he could see the road, but he would be practically invisible from anyone passing in a vehicle.
There was the sound of metal scraping against metal from inside the airplane, and then a muffled thump. Mueller waited for more noise, or for Zerkel to call out for help, but there was nothing.
When these planes started falling out of the sky it would be the most devastating single day in the history of the United States. Mueller knew that he would probably spend the next several years on the run, and that he would be lucky to survive. The authorities would not soon give up the chase, unless they were misdirected from the start.
BOOK: High Flight
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