He returned to the freeway and, to make sure while keeping an eye on the traffic flow presently surrounding him, he again overshot his exit, using the next off-ramp and this time driving a zigzag route through a residential neighborhood. He satisfied himself that he had lost the tail, whoever they were. He was curious as hell to know who'd been following him. It could have been anyone from the Japanese authorities to U.S. spooks to representatives of those very forces, whoever they were, that he had come to Tokyo to unearth as a means of getting to Kate and the Liberty. But to that end, his top, his only, priority at this point was to make his scheduled rendezvous with General Tuttle, which is why he had passed on the opportunity to waylay whoever was in the Toyota and find out who they were. He did not want to keep the general waiting or, worse, somehow miss their connection.
He took a cross-town avenue to hook up with ten-lane Nihonbashi Street, which he followed, as he'd initially intended, in the direction of Shinjuku Park near the Olympic Stadium grounds. It was slow going at times. It was a sunny day but that didn't mean much in Tokyo, where the smog was worse than any city Galt had ever been to. Tokyo basked in sunlight filtered through a gray overcast that made the sun a dull red ball as if seen through gauze. Several times, while he sat stalled in traffic, Galt's nostrils distinguished the delicate, tangy scent of Japanese cooking, drifting on the air from restaurants, mingling with the acrid, metallic taste of automotive exhaust.
After being all but leveled by the Allied bombing raids of World War II, Tokyo has been rebuilt in a mixture of styles more Western than Japanese. The dense, sharp contrast of old and new, East and West, is everywhere. Bright, modern business buildings stand side-by-side with tiny shops offering the products of ancient arts. Neon signs of every imaginable shape, size and color, in English as well as Japanese ideographs, flicker, jump and whirl. This was the Ginza Strip in midtown Tokyo, centered around Ginza Street, which runs northwest to southwest. This, the main shopping section, is dominated by only the very best department stores, subway stations and flashy neon signs. Ginza Street also passes through the financial district before reaching the city's red-light section.
He had the car's radio tuned to the English-speaking news station, and that's how he learned that the Liberty's disappearance had been made public.
Moreover, the news had engulfed the global media. Galt was not surprised. It had only been a matter of time, and he was impressed that the administration had been able to contain such a potent story as long as they had. The world was in on it now. As for Galt, he heard nothing on the radio that he hadn't known the night before.
He paid to park the car in a crowded lot across from Shinjuku Park, Tokyo's version of Central Park. It was only a short walk from the lot to the Meiji Shrine. He passed through a landscape of public gardens, of little bridges surrounded by hazelnut bushes, aspens, beech and maple, and a wall of oak trees that muted the vendors' cries, the bicycle bells and the unending bustle of street business interwoven with the roar of nearby traffic. There were peddlers of all sorts selling lucky amulets, souvenirs, food; soba sellers with wheeled carts, dispensing soup; stalls offering smoked eels and sushi, noodles or rice. But like Aoyama Cemetery, the park's expansive grounds were for the most part a green oasis of serenity and tranquility amid the urban landscape of neon, concrete and constant noise. Narrow gravel walkways wended across rolling lawns of half-hidden ponds and quiet, secluded teahouses. There were other Westerners here and there.
At the Meiji Shrine, as per Galt's request as relayed through Barney Markee, General Clayton Tuttle stood waiting directly beneath the curved horizontal top of the torri, the enormous redwood pillars and beams that form the gateway that distinguishes Shinto shrines. The area around the shrine was crowded with people in meditation, tourists snapping photographs and lovers strolling by.
Tuttle was doing his best to fit in, to look like an everyday tourist in mismatched polyester and not like the spit-and-polish ranking military man that he was. But strutting back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, an unlit cigar poking from the corner of his mouth, he needed only a swagger stick to make him the spitting image of Douglas MacArthur inspecting the troops. At first sight of Galt, Tuttle ceased his pacing. He glanced irritably at his wristwatch, much as he had greeted Galt with a glance at a stopwatch on their previous encounter during the training exercise aboard a yacht anchored on the Potomac.
"Goddammit, man, I get your call in the middle of a staff briefing at the Pentagon, fly halfway around the world to rendezvous with you here on time, and you stand me up for fifteen minutes."
Galt couldn't help but smile at the crusty old salt, and practically had to restrain himself from saluting. "Sorry, sir. I took a wrong turn getting here. Thanks for coming."
"Well, the cat's out of the bag." Like Galt, like most desk jockeys in covert ops, Tuttle was a seasoned field operative. His eyes panned their surroundings. "By the end of this day, everyone we're looking at right now in this park is going to be discussing the missing American space shuttle. Oh, and by the way, you do know that you're on the Washington shit list, right?"
"Goes without saying, I'm not proud to say. That's why you got my SOS. I'm in serious need of a military liaison I can trust implicitly, with intel background and Asian contacts. That would be you, sir. You're not only at the top of my A list, you are my list. I've, uh, been on the move for the last few hours, General. But I need to know what you know."
"Let's get the small stuff out of the way first," said Tuttle. "That turncoat NASA engineer will be spending the rest of his life in custody and is presently under a twenty-four-hour suicide watch. That little Japanese tart who sex-trapped him into selling out has been a tougher nut to crack. She was a stripper in a yakuza-owned joint that went out of business months ago. These guys were backtracking and covering their tracks big time."
"That would put me at the top of "Wil Fleming's shit list," Galt conceded. "The chief of staff told me yesterday that the stripper was sure to turn on whoever sent her. Fleming's a wet-behind-the-ears pup. That girl was sent over, operating on a strictly need-to-know basis.
They gave her Fraley's name and address and told her to go to work on him. The money was good enough, and she was street-smart enough, to do everything they paid her to do without asking any questions about who she was working for, or their motives."
"And so we move to the big picture," said Tuttle. "We're on top of all Chinese and North Korean electronic communication, as no doubt they're listening in on a lot of our traffic. No one seems to have a fix on Liberty as yet, although a Chinese force has made an incursion across North Korea's borders and their commander is confident that he's close enough to call in an armored column. The North Koreans, on the other hand, appear to be clueless. Their regional commander in the area where Liberty may be is a guy named Sung, who seems to operate with pretty much complete autonomy, given the fact that no one in Pyongyang gives a damn about Hamgyong Province . . . until now."
"What about a CIA ground intel in the region?"
Tuttle jerked the unlit stogie from the corner of his mouth. "His name is Ahn Chong, and what I'm about to share with you all comes from his single coded transmission thus far. Here it is, Trev. We have confirmation from our ground contact inside North Korea that some of the Liberty crew has survived. The shuttle is more or less intact."
Galt's heart skipped a beat. "The hell you say. Kate . . . is she—"
"We don't know yet." Tuttle's gruffness could not conceal his own concern. He said, "A North Korean mountain bandit named Chai Bin claims to have possession of the shuttle and the satellite and the crew survivors, and they're for sale. Guy calls himself a warlord. The CIA has routed me pertinent b.g. which, unfortunately, isn't much. The North Koreans want to nail him. He's been a thorn in everyone's side for years in that region. He's elusive, well entrenched and has his own private army."
"Just the same, we've got plenty if this Ahn Chong knows the exact location of the shuttle."
"We'll have plenty when Ahn tells us," Tuttle countered. "But so far he's only relayed what I've told you. Our warlord is playing it cagey to see what our response will be."
"Our first response ought to damn well be me. So it's the North Koreans, the Chinese, the United States and a warlord. Warlord. Jesus. Sounds like an Indiana Jones movie."
"Make that a five-way play," said Tuttle. "You forgot to include yourself."
"I thought I was on their shit list."
"You are. That doesn't mean you don't have a part to play. We all have our parts to play."
"Shakespeare, General?"
"This may or may not surprise you, but I have tasked top priority authorization to get an Army Ranger special operations package in-country ASAP. And I have your mission orders."
"Is that right?"
"That's right. I was on their shit list too, for taking your call and for walking out on a staff briefing." Tuttle chortled. "And for trying to give them the dodge. I should have known better."
"Mission orders. Is that right?"
"I was contacted en route after Chai Bin dealt himself in. As for you and me, all has been forgiven from on high, considering what's at stake and how fast things have to get done."
"Specifics, sir, if you don't mind."
"I've been handed point position on this operation," said Tuttle. "I have been assigned to honcho a tactical covert ops strike into North Korea once we get target acquisition on Chai Bin's position. Since you have already taken the personal initiative of, er, uh, inserting yourself into the theater of operations, you, my headstrong friend, have been assigned as my right-hand man to advise and help organize."
Galt grimaced. "Advise and organize. We may be in the field, sir, but that sounds like a desk job to me."
"I'm not crazy about the notion either, but for a different reason."
"And that would be?"
"Your personal stake in this, plain and simple. But I'd say you've heard that from others."
Galt nodded. "Including from the president."
"I should have known. So what the hell weight would my opinion carry, right?"
"Plenty, sir, in most cases," Galt assured him. "But this situation is real different, for the reason you just stated."
"It's different for a lot of reasons." Tuttle nodded. "And the bottom line, whether they like it or not, is that you are the best man for the job. So the hell with idle chitchat. Let's get to it before they get any more of us."
Galt hesitated. "Sir, you just got ahead of me. Who have they gotten?"
Tuttle's demeanor softened. "Sorry, Trev. I, uh, was saving the worst for last, from your personal point of view. It's your buddy, Barney Markee."
Galt felt his stomach muscles tighten. He thought, Oh no. Oh no!
"I've been tied up with personal matters since I saw Barney. What happened?"
Tuttle sighed. "He's dead. Car bomb. They caught him coming out of his club this morning after closing, on his way home. Happened about an hour ago. Your friend and his bodyguard were killed instantly."
"Did they get who did it?" Galt realized the question was an automatic response, and added, "Do we have any leads on who did it?"
"No names," said Tuttle. "Someone saw a white Toyota speeding away after the explosion."
"A Toyota with a dent in its right front fender?"
Tuttle's expression clouded. "That's right. How did you know?"
Galt felt a bitter taste in his mouth. "Because I just went through considerable effort to evade them before coming here. They took out Barney and then came after me. If they took Barney with his bodyguard, the boys in that Toyota are a hot ass hit team."
"Why did they hit your friend?"
A chill started at the base of his spine and spread to his stomach, which cramped like a ball of ice. "Because I'd asked Barney to do some checking for me on Connie Yota, the stripper from over here who ended up leading that NASA guy astray in Houston. There's some sort of yakuza connection, because the woman's last address before Houston was a strip club here in Tokyo that was owned by the yakuza. Barney was going to look into that for me."
"Looks like he got too close to the wrong people." Tuttle emitted the sigh of a man who had lost men under his command in combat. "I'm sorry it happened to your friend, Trev, but here's the spin for now. Since the Tokyo cops hopefully know nothing about us, they will write Barney's murder off as some sort of turf war in Little Texas, and that's good for us because it will keep them distracted and buy us the time we need. I'll see that we get a background package on the local yakuza organizations." Then Tuttle did something that utterly surprised Galt. The general extended an arm and placed a hand on Galt's shoulder. "I do feel bad about losing your friend."
"Sir, if I have to shake this corner of the world to its roots, I will find our space shuttle and the ones who brought it down, and when I do, I will kick some serious ass."
"Glad to hear it," said Tuttle. "Let's get started."
Chapter Twenty
North Korea
A desk and a plaster bust of the North Korean president dominated Colonel Sung's small office. Since 1945, castings of the president, and heroes of the People's Army, had displaced the prior tradition of religious sculptures depicting Buddha. Sergeant Bol was ushered into the office by an orderly. He found his commanding officer staring at the telephone on his desk, as if contemplating a troubling conversation that had just transpired.
Bol saluted. "You sent for me, sir?"
Sung absently returned the salute. His uniform was heavily starched and pressed as ever, but there was about him an air of distraction. He did not take his eyes from the telephone. His eyes were filled with displeasure.
"Sergeant, in my years as an officer I have never been reprimanded as severely as just before you walked in."
Bol was taken slightly aback, wholly unaccustomed to anything resembling personal dialogue with his commander.
"The shuttle?"
Sung raised his eyes, regaining his standard arrogant aloofness. "But of course. What else would so concern the Central Committee in Pyongyang at a time like this? They are displeased because we have failed to locate either the shuttle or Chai Bin and his cutthroats."
"Sir, patrols are continuing the search."
"But without success." Sung rapped his desktop with a clenched fist, a most unusual show of emotion from him. "At least the Chinese have not found it. I spoke with General Iota and he informs me that Chai Bin has approached the Americans. We have no details on how he accomplished this, but I would suppose that this was done through a CIA contact among the local population. It seems apparent that Chai has located the shuttle."
"It could be a trick," said Bol. "Chai is ruthless and not to be trusted in anything. It could be a bluff to extort money from the Americans."
Sung nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps, but I don't think so. Sergeant, I have been ordered to locate and secure that space shuttle without delay. Should we fail, I can assure you that the consequences will be most grave for everyone involved, including this command." He leaned both elbows upon his desk, pyramiding his fingers to pensively stroke his chin with his fingertips. "The Americans, the Chinese and North Koreans, sworn enemies, are converging militarily on a technological treasure that is somewhere near here, within a radius of mere kilometers, within our grasp—and I do mean you and I, Sergeant. We must initiate extreme measures without delay."
"I'm afraid I don't understand, sir."
"1 remain unconvinced that those villagers we interrogated were telling the truth about not knowing anything about the shuttle. At least one of them knows."
"The old man," said Bol. "Ahn Chong. He said he was at his wife's grave at the time the shuttle went down, that he saw or heard nothing."
"He is lying," said Sung. "I want him put under surveillance. Have the village watched from a distance. It is vital that the old man not know that he is being watched. Have him followed. Whenever he leaves his village, I want his movements reported to me on t
he half-hour. Who knows what else he could tell us? I intend to find out. Now do you understand, Sergeant?"
"Yes, Colonel."
"Then see to it. There is no time to lose."
The convoy of troop transports crawled along barely maintained, at times nonexistent, roads, forging ahead through mountainous, feral wilderness.
As military commander of Shenyang Province, this was Kwan's first visit to the frontier separating his country from North Korea. He rode in the cab of the truck, behind the point vehicle where General Li rode in the cab. It had been hours since the last sighting of a civilian. The "road" was presently no more than a game trail. The weight of the soldiers riding in the rear of each vehicle helped stabilize the trucks during the rough ride, but Kwan ached from the heavy jouncing of the BTR-40. Its mighty engine labored like a determined ox, struggling along a particularly steep mountainside. Kwan was studying a map, trying to correlate landmarks amid the looming mountain peaks and valleys they traveled through, so as to determine if they were in China or had in fact entered North Korea.
His driver tromped the brakes, jolting Kwan, who almost hit his head against the windshield.
Kwan looked up with a curse and started to reprimand the driver, when he saw that his driver had stopped so sharply to avoid colliding with the general's vehicle. Then Kwan saw what General Li had seen. Smoke was curling skyward, visible over the treetops from less than half a kilometer ahead. The general's stocky, compact form leaped sprightly to the ground from the cab of his truck, and Kwan quickly joined him.
"What do you think it is, sir?"
"Trouble, Major."
"I hear no gunfire."
"We will investigate. Send in one squad. I want that area secured, no matter what they find."
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