High Flight (92 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: High Flight
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“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 of 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.
“
I
n 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.
“Which means?” Murphy asked.
Danielle shrugged. “Kirk McGarvey may have something after all.”
“Please!” Ryan said.
“If Bruno Mueller is involved, as the FBI thinks he is, it could implicate the Russians. He was trained by them.”
Murphy held Ryan off. “What's your point?”
“Tell the President to go slow until we have more facts. Could be a Japanese faction. Could be a Russian plot to embroil us in a shooting war with the Japanese.”
“For what reason?” Ryan shot back.
“I don't know, but both possibilities are, I think, worth considering. As is a third—that another independent organization is behind this. Every airplane that crashed was a Guerin 522. That means something. As does Phil Carrara's murder. He was working with McGarvey, and McGarvey is—or was—working for Guerin.”
“He went to Japan.”
“Yes, and to Russia,” Danielle answered, tiredly. “Whatever your problems with him are, Mr. Ryan, I have known Kirk since he first started for us. He is a good man.”
“Did you know his parents well?” Ryan countered.
“I don't want bickering,” Murphy said finally. “Where is McGarvey?”
“Portland. The FBI has him,” Ryan said.
“Have him brought here as soon as possible.”
“We'll try. But it seems that every time we make a
decision, he finds out about it faster than I can write a memo.”
 
“Mr. President, it's my understanding that you have ordered a blockade against the Japanese navy leaving its home waters,” Murphy said. “That may not be the best course of action.”
President Lindsay could hear the hesitation in his DCI's voice. It was uncharacteristic, and unsettling. “We don't have many options, General. I assume you've seen the latest NSA intercept.”
“Yes, sir. But there's a possibility—it's remote but still possible—that something else is going on here. We just don't have all the facts yet. It's too soon.”
“What other possibility?” Lindsay asked, looking down the table at his advisers. They listened on the speakerphone.
“A former East German intelligence officer could have something to do with the crashes.”
“Mr. Doyle mentioned the possibility.”
“He was trained by the Russians, Mr. President. And it seems too coincidental that the Russians have picked this moment to attack the Japanese.”
“They attacked because of the Tatar Strait incident.”
“Yes, sir. But isn't it odd that a Russian frigate was blown out of the water so easily?”
“Are you saying that the Russians sacrificed that ship?”
“No, Mr. President. I'm saying that it is one of many possibilities that we must consider. The Japanese are our allies.”
“Somebody brought down those airplanes for a specific reason, General. It was no act of random violence.”
“I agree,” Murphy said. “Could be a group in Japan. Could be a Russian group. Or it could be a third, as yet, unknown organization with an unknown motive.”
“That's no help to me, Roland,” the President said firmly. “Based on all the available information to this point, can you say it's not the Japanese?”
“No, sir. But I can't say it's not the Russians.”
“Then I have to go with that until you can bring me some additional information.” The President sat forward in his chair. “Nobody is going to war with anybody, Roland. I merely want the situation contained long enough to find out what's going on, who is behind it, and why.”
“I'll get back to you, Mr. President,” Murphy said.
“Do that, General.”
 
Ryan walked into Dick Adkins' office on the third floor and set a portable cassette player on his desk. “We're placing you under arrest at this time, Mr. Adkins. As an attorney, I can advise you that you have the right to remain silent. Security is waiting in the corridor.”
“What's the charge?” Adkins asked calmly, as if he had expected this.
“Violations of the National Secrets Act.” Ryan switched on the tape recorder. The first voice was Adkins'.
“ …
NSA is reading heavy traffic from the Japanese embassy here to their Ministry of State in Tokyo. Some of it has to do with the crashes.”
“I'll be on the ground in a few minutes
,” McGarvey said.
“Have the general convince the President to hold off for as long as possible.”
Ryan switched the tape recorder off.
“I see,” Adkins said. “Who's going to run Operations?”
“I am,” Ryan replied smugly.
 
The MSDF naval and naval air station at Otaru in Hokkaido's western bight had been on continuous alert for seventy-two hours. During that time ninety percent of its ASW ships and planes were at sea or in the air. Lockheed/Kawasaki P-3C sub-killer, tail number 4417, was given vectors to the Soya Strait where the Russian destroyer
Sovremennyy
had been sunk.
“Looks like they've sent a submarine,” the pilot told his weapons officer. “The bastards.”
“We'd better call for more assets. Where there's one, there's probably another.”
“The
Aukumo
and
Akiqumo
are en route from the 23rd. We just need to buy them some time.” The two ships were destroyers.
“At least the American Third Air Force at Misawa is staying out of it.”
“For the moment,” the pilot said, a fierce expression on his face. “This is our country. Our fight.”
 
The seas were rough in the Soya Strait. Nevertheless, Captain First Rank Lestov figured he would be able to spot the orange distress markers sent by survivors of the
Sovremennyy
. But nothing showed up in the scope after two sweeps.
“Nyee-cheh-vaw nyet,”
he said. Nothing.
“Conn, ELINT. Wakkanai is still sending on at least one of her arrays. The others are apparently down.”
“We'll see about that,” Lestov said.
 
The Russian's Pacific Fleet Far Eastern Reconnaissance Center at Vladivostok was fully staffed. Lieutenant Arkadi Papyrin watched the thermal imaging down-link terminal from the RORSAT satellite currently making a pass over the Japanese north island of Hokkaido and the Soya Strait.
He keyed his comms. “Major, I have an update at Zebra-Two.”
Major Ivan Isakov walked over from his command console. “Have the Americans at Misawa responded?”
Papyrin enhanced the region from Otaru north. “No, but there is a new image in the air in addition to the two MSDF jets. Looks like a P-3C ASW aircraft. Almost over the
Strelka.
But look there, just south of Rishiri. Two destroyers, maybe an hour out.”
“The
Strelka
is still near the surface?”
“Da.
He's probably looking for survivors.”
“Send it to them,” Isakov ordered. “But in case he misses the message, we'll send it out on ELF as well.”
 
“I have him on the MAD.”
P-3C 4417 pilot Lieutenant Togame Muto corrected his course to the right and reduced throttle to bring them closer to the surface. The night was black. “How deep is he?”
“Kan-cho,
he's just below the surface,” the ELINT officer reported. “Stand by. Radar is picking up his periscope and snoophead.”
“Is he looking for survivors?”
“Maybe, but his radar is lit. He's headed toward Wakkanai.”
“Do we drop a fish on him?” the weapons officer asked excitedly.
“Prep a pair of Mark-50s,” Muto said. “And get that off to base and to the
Aukumo
and
Akiqumo
.”
 
The message from Pacific Fleet came at the same moment the
Strelka's
own sensors detected the presence of the Orion ASW aircraft.
“Presents us with an interesting problem, Viktor,” Captain Lestov told his XO. He lowered the periscope. “Do we wait to see if they attack, or do we dive now and launch a sub-sea missile on Wakkanai, which would pinpoint our position, or submerge and wait to see what other assets they bring up, which would tell us how serious they are?”
“I think there is no question of their seriousness, Captain,” Savin replied.
Lestov smiled sadly. “We have no business being here.”
“No, sir. But we have our orders.”
“Indeed.” Lestov looked at his crew. Good men and true. “Mr. Savin, crash dive the boat. Make your depth three hundred meters. Sound battle stations missile.”
 
 
“The target is diving,” the ELINT officer reported. The P-3C 4417 was on her outbound pass, the Russian submarine behind them.
Muto hauled the big four-engined airplane in a tight turn to the left. “Do we have a weapons release authorization?”
“Stand by,” his comms officer said.
“Weapons, do you have a positive lock?”
“Hai, Kan-cho.”
“Launch on my mark,” Muto said, fighting the low-altitude turbulence.
“We have weapons release authorization alpha.”
“Stand by,” Muto said. The nose of the Orion came around to one-hundred-eight degrees. “Weapons lock?”
“Hai!”
“Fire one and two!”
The moment the two torpedoes—each weighing in excess of three thousand pounds—were released, the P-3C's nose came up sharply. Muto compensated.
“One and two away.”
“Time to impact?”
“Estimate nine-five seconds,” the weapons officer reported.
“Prep torpedoes three and four. Launch sonobuoys on my mark,” Muto said. They crossed over the submarine's submerged position, and he banked the P-3C hard to the right to bring them around for a second pass.
“I have sounds of bubble making,” the ELINT officer reported excitedly. “Many decoy buoys in the water.”
“Time to impact?”
“Four-zero seconds.”
Out of the corner of his eye Muto could see fires burning at Wakkanai ten miles to the south. It made his blood boil. Almost certainly there were dead comrades down there. The shame of it was almost impossible to bear.

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