by James Codlin
Dubronski turned his head and saw a white-faced Dennis Prinn standing behind the flight engineer, held up by Gina Ishikawa, whose lower lip was trembling.
“Thanks for flying ass-buster airlines—we look forward to you flying with us again,” Dubronski said, grinning broadly.
*
Takashi Ishikawa returned the salutes of Captain Roberto Fujiwara and Lieutenant Jorge Flores.
“Thank you for coming on short notice,” the president said. “Is the aircraft ready?”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot said.
“Are you both fully briefed on the situation in Kourou?”
“Yes, sir,” Fujiwara replied.
“Captain Fujiwara,” the president said, changing from Portuguese to Japanese, “I knew your father—we were classmates together.”
“Yes, sir, he speaks of you often,” Fujiwara replied, executing a bow from the waist.
“Your father is a very good man,” the president said. “He is, like me, a man of the past in many respects. A man who understands the customs of Japan.”
“Yes, Ishikawa-san. My father taught me many things about… the old ways.”
“Did he talk about bushido?”
“Of course, Ishikawa-san.”
“Then you know what must happen when a man dishonors himself and his cause?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand that sometimes, in order to expiate shame, a man must have another act in concert with him—doing together with him that which he cannot do by himself—so that he may take the honorable course of action?”
“Perfectly, Ishikawa-san.”
“I will see you on board in five minutes, Captain Fujiwara,” the president said, bowing slightly. He ascended the roll-up stairs, entered the presidential Boeing 737, and took his seat.
Four minutes later Captain Fujiwara came through the door and bowed to the president.
“It will not be a problem flying the aircraft by yourself?” the president asked.
“I am fully trained and qualified,” the young captain answered. “Lieutenant Flores will regain consciousness in about twenty minutes. He was not seriously harmed.”
“Your father will be proud, Fujiwara-chan,” the president said, using the familiar form of address.
“Yes, Ishikawa-san,” Fujiwara replied. He bowed once more, turned, and let himself through the cockpit door.
Chapter THIRTY-ONE
Dubronski stood in the cargo compartment looking at the wrecked taxi. He turned to the taxi driver and said in English, “Nice driving, my man,” and gave him a high five.
Lenin translated what he said and the driver grinned broadly, then replied, “Pensé que el avión se iba a estrellar!”
Lenin chuckled wearily. “He thought you were going crash the plane.” Lenin paused. “To be honest, I did too.”
Dubronski laughed wryly and gestured back at the taxi. “Maybe so, amigo, but my plane still looks a hell of a lot better than his cab!” Dubronski didn’t bother to wait for Lenin to translate, turning the conversation back to the task at hand. The cabbie peered back at his taxi, his grin slightly dampened as he tried to figure out whether he had just been insulted.
“Professor, we are heading directly for San Juan Diego,” Dubronski said. “Are we going to get the same warm reception there?”
“I’m hoping that if Gina Ishikawa talks over the radio the Latino Union won’t shoot us down,” Lenin said.
“Yes, that would ruin our whole day,” Dubronski said. The pilot climbed back up the steps to the cockpit.
Gina sat on the web seat next to Martín. She studied him as he stared blankly ahead. She struggled to think of anything to say to him now that they were alone with each other.
He shook his head several times and then turned toward her. Using only his fingertips, he touched her, beginning with her forehead and then moving his fingertips slowly down over her eyelids, then her nose, and around her cheeks. He touched her lips and stroked them gently. Finally, he traced her chin and neck.
“It really is you,” he said, tears filling his vacant eyes.
“Yes.”
There was a long silence.
“I recognized your voice right away,” he said, and after a pause, “But I couldn’t believe it… I couldn’t trust it. There were so many memories one on top of another. So hateful, so crushing, so…”
“But you did what I told you to do.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you remembered the compass rose.”
Gina smiled, but looked at him with a questioning expression. Then she realized he couldn’t see her facial features. She took his hand.
He sighed. “I’ve been through hours—days—of pictures, words, videos, nonstop… about you, by you, directed at me. They were true… but not quite. Accurate… but not quite. Believable… but not quite. Still, I was sliding in that direction, beginning to believe that you hated me. All those scenes seemed completely real and were pulled directly from our life together. But only you were with me that night on my boat. Only you could have known about when we talked about the compass and the compass rose, and how together they would keep us safe.”
Gina touched a finger to his lips.
“I think I’m getting some of my vision back,” he said, squinting fiercely. “No features at all, but I can see light much better than before.”
“I’m glad for you,” she said. “What do you think we should do now?”
“Go to your father and get him to join us in exposing Carlos and Pius.”
Gina considered that. “He’s such a proud man. He’ll lose a lot of face doing that. His career and legacy will be in shambles.”
“He’s also a responsible man, and an intelligent one. He’ll know that’s the only reasonable thing left to do,” Martín said.
Gina remained silent for a moment. “Martín, I’m so sorry about Nico—”
“There are many things we will have to mourn…” Martín interrupted, “when we have time. But I do need to know something, Gina. Did you mean what you said to me through the earpiece when you were guiding me?”
“Yes.”
“Even after I didn’t take you with me from Brazil?”
“You can’t know how much that hurt me,” Gina said.
“Gina, that was my evil twin,” Martín said weakly. She let out a small, wounded, laugh. “I couldn’t seem to make myself move—to say to you what I wanted, what I felt. But I’ve thought about nothing else since the night I saw you at Lenin’s house, and I know I want us to be together—if you’ll still have me.”
Gina smiled. “I believe you.”
Martín realized that her answer was non-committal, but he responded only by squeezing her hands. Right now, it was more than he could have ever hoped for.
*
The Russian radio operator sat Gina Ishikawa at the console and put his headset on her, and she made a radio transmission to the Latino Union Command Center. She identified herself and suggested they check her voice against the computer voiceprints that were maintained in an electronic database. The command center accepted her authenticity. She asked to speak to her father.
After thirty seconds of silence, her father was on the radio.
“Father,” she said without preamble, “I’m with Doctor Lenin, Dennis Prinn, Alejandra Rojas, and Martín Ibarra. We require safe passage to San Juan Diego to meet with you, and to bear witness.”
“I am not in San Juan Diego right now,” her father replied. “Stand by for a moment.”
A minute passed, and then the president rejoined the line.
“Gina, I have made arrangements with a trusted friend in the military, and he will assure your safe passage to land in San Juan Diego. From there, he will make sure you are protected and that you are brought to help deal with the persons responsible for this madness.”
“Father, where are you?”
His voice came back with a dreamy quality. “You and Lenin we
re right—I know it now. It is up to me to expunge this threat to the world. I am responsible, so I must act.”
Gina was speechless for a moment. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You may not be aware, but the rocket in Kourou appears to have been fitted with a nuclear warhead.”
“No!” Gina exclaimed. “Father—”
“Please, my daughter,” the president said quietly. “I have enough information to believe that this threat is real, and that I am at least partially responsible for its existence. You must understand that though I do not believe the rebels will actually launch the rocket—it has far too much value as a symbolic threat—I cannot let them terrorize the world and jeopardize millions of lives.”
A long silence followed while Gina collected her thoughts and emotions. “Yes, I understand,” she said.
Gina heard her father sigh over the radio. “You have made me very proud, my daughter… my Gina. I love you.” There was an almost imperceptible click on the line as the connection was terminated.
*
Colonel Celso Kobe looked up at the large screen where the image from the radarscope on the Latino Union EC-10 airborne combat control center was projected. He saw a square around the Guiana Space Centre at Kourou, and crosshairs on what the colonel knew to be the Ariane rocket. Bright blips circled lazily off the coast of Guiana—radar transponder signals from two Brazilian R-5 Relâmpago fighters. Colonel Kobe had repeatedly queried the joint chiefs, requesting the codes needed to validate his orders to guide the fighters in to attack the rocket on the launch pad. Each time the joint chiefs had told him to stand by.
The communications officer turned to Kobe. “Encrypted transmission from President Ishikawa.” Kobe watched the officer isolate the circuit so that Kobe was the only one hearing the conversation.
“Mr. President, this is Colonel Kobe speaking.”
“Colonel, I need you to leave the command center to complete a special assignment for me. My daughter is critical to the destiny of the Latino Union. She is flying toward San Juan Diego in a chartered transport aircraft, and if you don’t prevent it, the plane may be destroyed by conspirators within the military and the government. You cannot let that happen. Arrange for loyal fighter escorts to protect that plane as it arrives, and then you and only your most trusted military policemen must escort Gina and her companions to safety. Can I count on you?”
“Yes, sir,” Colonel Kobe said. He ordered Lieutenant Colonel Lisboa to take over as duty officer and left the command center.
*
Waro Moto raged over the phone.
“How is it possible that such a large airplane arrived undetected, landed without the knowledge of your defense control system, and now the passengers have already disappeared into the city?”
He listened for a moment, and then continued. “And what about President Ishikawa? You let him walk out of the palace and get on his plane, and now you don’t even know where his plane is or where it is headed?”
Another pause.
“Mello, you are the stupidest…”
He cut the call off, then dialed another extension.
“Do you have a transcript of that encrypted call you detected?”
“No, sir,” was the reply. “It was directed onto a special circuit, bypassing the command center’s recorders. I heard the live transmission, but because of the encryption, it was unintelligible.”
Moto threw the phone across the room. His panic-stricken aide scurried over to retrieve it.
Pope Pius wrung his hands as he watched Moto storm back and forth. “Things are not going as planned,” he said to Carlos. “Perhaps we should call off—”
Heavy vibrations thudded in the air. Moto went to a window and pushed the curtain aside. “Our helicopter is here. It’s time to leave,” he said.
The king’s neck snapped around. “Leave? What are you talking about? As of tonight, this palace belongs to me! The imposter president has already abandoned it, and we have the head of the LU military in our pocket. I am not going to leave in my moment of triumph! My address—”
“Will go on as planned,” Moto grunted. “I ask you though, Your Highness, whether you would rather be here in San Juan Diego with rebels and their unstable leader holding a nuclear weapon and delivery system, or thirty thousand feet in the air, ready to land as soon as the situation in Kourou has been resolved in our favor? I, for one, prefer to be cautious while variables I cannot control play out. Particularly after seeing how that debacle you called an auto-de-fé went. And that’s without considering that there may be factions here in San Juan Diego that are still loyal to the president and might try to imprison us here.”
“But,” the king protested, “we paid the rebels and the joint chiefs of the Union an enormous—”
“And you can either take comfort in that while you are sitting here, at what is potentially ground zero, or from the safety of my plane. Your choice. I am leaving now.”
Moto strode from the room without looking back, his aide trailing behind him. The wide-eyed pope watched the Japanese industrialist depart, looked at the king apologetically, and then followed Moto with the Spanish cardinal in tow.
Exasperated, the king stood up and took in his surroundings. The palace and its furnishings gleamed with its newness. He patted the edge of the sofa. So be it, he thought. When I return, it will be the world’s heads of state who will sit in this room, waiting for me to grant them an audience.
The thought gave him great satisfaction.
King Carlos strode defiantly from the room and headed to the helicopter pad, where he boarded with the others and departed for Moto’s private airplane.
*
The presidential jet skimmed over the Amazon River basin at treetop level, with Captain Fujiwara gently handling the yoke. The president sat strapped into the copilot’s seat looking out into the blackness, scarcely sensing the dense forest rushing beneath the plane.
“We will have no problem avoiding radar detection at this altitude,” Fujiwara said. “When we get within twenty miles of Kourou, I’ll ascend to thirty thousand feet, put us into a holding pattern, and await your instructions. My only comment, Ishikawa-san, is that we have the civilians to consider.”
The president remained silent, once again contemplating the calculus of the lives of the few, weighed against the many.
*
Colonel Celso Kobe, surrounded by a president’s daughter, a professor, a television technician, an architect, and a law student, sat in darkness inside the armored personnel carrier that rumbled along the boulevards of San Juan Diego.
“Nice ride,” Dennis said, gesturing to their steel surroundings.
“It gets you there and back,” Kobe said. “Bad gas mileage, though.”
“When we get there, how do we get in?” Gina asked.
Kobe smiled back at her. “Special delivery,” he said, and banged his fist on the metal wall of the transport.
Colonel Kobe left the group of civilians and walked to the front of the vehicle, a radio pressed to one ear, talking to the APC driver. The personnel carrier had slowed, but still clanked its way toward the presidential complex. Kobe came back and said to the others, “We’re almost there. Make sure those harnesses are tight.”
The APC slowed to a crawl. They all leaned into a sharp turn. The interior clanged with reverberations that sounded like tin cans bouncing off the skin of the armored vehicle, and it accelerated. There was a sharp impact, and the passengers lurched toward the front. The APC crawled forward, tilting at a crazy angle. Colonel Kobe pulled a sidearm from his holster, threw open the rear hatch and looked out.
“We’re inside the palace!” Gina said.
Kobe listened intently to his radio. Two shots were fired, and then there was silence. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Lenin, Alejandra, and Gina helped Dennis and Martín climb out the rear hatch and down to the marble floor. Soldiers in full battle dress lined the stair
way while others went room to room, kicking doors open. The four followed Kobe up a staircase, where three soldiers were leading away a small contingent of soldiers who had their hands placed on top of their heads.
“Where are we within the palace?” Martín asked as he was led along.
“In one of the state guest quarters,” Gina said.
The group walked ahead, with Gina leading Martín. Dennis limped, leaning heavily on Lenin. They came into a living room where a butler stood wringing his hands. Dennis eased himself onto a couch, grimacing. Lenin sat next to him, catching his breath.
“Where are they?” Colonel Kobe asked.
“Gone. They simply left,” the man answered with a high-pitched voice.
“With Moto?” Kobe asked.
“Yes,” the man answered.
“Now what do we do?” Lenin asked.
Gina looked thoughtful, and turned to Dennis. “There’s a communications center for use by visiting heads of state. I think it’s about time to let the world know what’s going on. Alejandra, Professor, how long will it take you two to get set up?”
Lenin looked pensive. “We did some preparation in Mexico City, but it will take a while to piece everything together in a methodical way that will endure the burden of proof required. As my fellow academician Carl Sagan once said, ‘extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.’”
Alejandra unshouldered her bag and produced a thumb drive. She tossed it to Dennis, who reached up from his seat on the couch and caught it.
“On there is a PowerPoint presentation I finished putting together while you all were busy playing with guns and lasers in Mexico City. Give me and the professor an hour with Gina and Martín and we’ll have a rundown of all the high points we’ll want to hit for the initial broadcast. The rest we can improvise.”
Dennis beamed. “Fair dinkum! Just get me to the studio and we’ll get you set up and ready to air!”
Lenin looked around at the group with mounting panic in his eyes. “Improvise? But we’ve got to ensure our citations to the documents will pass muster, and…”
For the first time in her life, Gina ignored her mentor. “Follow me, everyone. Let’s get ready to talk to the world.”