Critical Mass

by David Hagberg

  And, if the assembled bomb was to be installed aboard the ship, it would probably be done under cover of darkness. Except for the people on the bridge, and the man he’d fought with, the ship had been deserted.

  The time was now. The bomb was going to be put aboard tonight. In the morning the regular crew would come aboard and the Grande Dame II would sail east; perhaps for San Francisco, where a nuclear explosion would wipe out TSI Industries. Perhaps Honolulu, as a reprise of the start of World War II. Or perhaps even the Panama Canal, which would isolate the Pacific Basin, making an eventual Japanese takeover more feasible.

  Once the body was found just outside the engine room, however, there was no telling what Fukai would do. Obviously he would have to change his plans.

  The elevator door rattled slightly with a change of air pressure inside the shaft. McGarvey again put his ear to the door, and this time he could definitely hear the car coming up.

  He sprinted down the corridor and slipped back into the electrical distribution cabinet, softly closing and latching the mesh gate, then easing farther into the shadows.

  A minute later the same technicians and guards came down the corridor with the motorized cart, but as they passed McGarvey’s hiding place he got a good look at what they had brought up. It was an oblong metal container about the same size and shape as the one they’d brought down. But this unit was marked in English: HYDRAULIC DISTRIBUTION SYSTEM— SECONDARY, beneath which were the letters TBC. The Boeing Company? It was a Boeing 747 they’d seen parked on the ramp to the north of the headquarters building.

  Perhaps the parts had arrived by boat, and would be leaving by plane.

  The group turned right, past the freight elevator, and disappeared from McGarvey’s view down the opposite corridor. As before, the Geiger counter went crazy, but unlike earlier, the guards were not so jumpy. As they’d passed the electrical distribution cabinet McGarvey had gotten a close look at them. They’d been wary, alert, on edge, but definitely not jumpy. They’d learned something in the past half hour. What?

  McGarvey waited a full half minute then carefully opened the gate and stepped out, his pistol still in hand. At the corner he flattened himself against the wall and eased around the edge.

  This corridor was in darkness too, the light fading thirty yards away. One of the guards switched on a flashlight and led the way. Within a minute or so they had disappeared in the distance. And unless it was an optical illusion, McGarvey thought that the corridor sloped upward at a very slight angle.

  Like the other wing, no doors led off this corridor, and within seventy or eighty yards he came again within sight of the four men. He slowed down so that he just matched their pace, keeping well back so that even if they did stop and turn around, he would be outside the range of their flashlight and would have plenty of time to get back to his hiding spot.

  But they didn’t turn or alter their pace and fifteen minutes later McGarvey thought he could see the first faint glimmers of light from somewhere well ahead.

  He figured they had come at least half a mile or more from the freight elevator, which had to put them at the edge of the main building, and probably near the airfield. He was also certain that the corridor was sloping upward at a gentle angle, and what he had guessed at before was not an optical illusion.

  An assembled nuclear device was going to be loaded aboard a Fukai jetliner, probably one of his 747s, which would take him to Paris via the West Coast of the United States. When they stopped for refueling in San Francisco, the bomb would be off-loaded and stored at an in-transit warehouse, timed to explode after Fukai was well clear of the area. Possibly even days later.

  But Fukai was too brilliant to leave anything to chance. The bomb would probably be equipped with some sort of a proximity detonator, or certainly a tamper-proof firing mechanism. It could possibly even be fitted with a remote control, the triggering impulse sent by radio, or perhaps cellular telephone.

  The problem was there would be no way of knowing any of that for certain without actually being aboard the airplane.

  McGarvey stopped fifty yards later when he could make out the end of the corridor, which seemed to open into a large room or open space of some sort.

  The technicians turned left through the opening and disappeared, leaving McGarvey alone in the dark corridor. It struck him again how simple it all had been, getting off the ship and following the technicians here. Almost as if they had been expecting him, and this was a setup.

  He glanced up at the light fixtures on the ceiling. They were spaced every fifteen feet or so, and had they been lit the corridor would have been so brightly illuminated he could not possibly have followed the technicians this far.

  But it changed nothing, he thought, tightening the grip on his pistol. He still had to find out what Fukai’s exact plan was, and he didn’t want to back off until he had extracted his own revenge for what they had done to Kathleen, and especially to Liz.

  Also, when it came down to it, he too had been backed against a wall and left for dead. It was no love of country (though he thought he loved his country) that motivated him. Nor, he supposed, was it simply revenge.

  He had been in this position before, where backing off would have been the most sensible option, but where each time he not only hadn’t turned away, he found that he could not.

  In the end it was shame, he supposed, that made him who he was. Who he had become. Though he seldom had the courage to admit it, even to himself.

  The sins of the fathers shall visit their sons, from cradle to grave. That would be chiseled on his tomb should the truth ever be known.

  “Good evening, Mr. McGarvey,” a man’s voice came from an overhead speaker.

  McGarvey stepped back against the wall as the corridor lights came slowly up.

  “It’s all right, no one will harm you for the moment,” the man said. His English was heavily accented with Japanese, but clearly understandable.

  “What do you want?” McGarvey asked, again looking back the way he had come. The corridor was fully illuminated now, and he could see no one back there.

  “For you to be my guest this morning. We’re flying to Paris, and it would only be correct of me to take you as far as San Francisco.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “We’ve been following your progress all evening, Mr. McGarvey. The only time you had us confused was when you slipped into the electrical distribution box. Our motion detectors lost you. But we figured it out. Now, come along please.”

  76

  TWO FUKAI AIR TRANSPORT DIVISION CREWMEN, ARMED WITH Ingram Model 11 submachine guns, relieved McGarvey of his pistol and the Geiger counter, then stepped aside and motioned for him to go first.

  The corridor opened onto a broad balcony that looked down into a vast aircraft hangar, easily large enough to accommodate two 747s. One of the gigantic airplanes was parked three-fourths of the way into the building, with only its tail section outside. Its hatches and cargo bay doors were open and from what McGarvey could see it looked as if the plane were in the final stages of being loaded and readied for takeoff.

  A jetway connected the front passenger door of the plane to a spot one level below this balcony. The armed crewmen motioned for McGarvey to cross to an open freight elevator just at the end of the balcony, five yards from the corridor.

  Dawn was only a couple of hours away, and from here McGarvey could smell the odors of the sea and even the mountains. Freedom.

  Below, on the floor of the hangar, there was no sign of the white-suited technicians and the cart containing the bomb, but there was little doubt they were already aboard, or soon would be, and by the time morning came they would be well on their way east, into the rising sun. It would be a dramatic moment; fitting, in Fukai’s mind, after forty-seven years of waiting for revenge.

  The crewmen let McGarvey ride alone down the one floor. They were taking no chances being with him in such a confined space. He had hoped for such an opportunity, but h
e hadn’t thought they’d be that dumb.

  Two other armed crewmen waited for him on the lower balcony, at a respectful distance, and they motioned for him to proceed down the jetway into the airplane.

  He hesitated only a moment before complying, and they followed him the thirty feet or so to the hatch. He wondered at what point they had spotted him tonight. Getting off the ship, perhaps. Which meant they’d followed his every move.

  The flight across the Pacific to the West Coast of the United States took nine or ten hours. He didn’t think they would kill him until they were almost there, which would give him time for an opening.

  He smiled grimly to himself, his gut tightening. There would be an opening. He would make sure of it.

  Traditional Japanese music played softly from loudspeakers aboard the airplane. A pretty young Japanese stewardess dressed in a flowered kimono smiled demurely and bowed slightly.

  “Welcome aboard, McGarvey-san,” she said in a lovely sing-song voice. “If you will please take your seat, the others have been waiting for you for some time now.”

  A crewman armed with an Ingram blocked the stairs up to the flight deck. He wore shoulder tabs with three stripes. The copilot, no doubt, doing double duty for the moment.

  To the left, in the area that was normally laid out as business-class seating, a door was ajar, and McGarvey could see what appeared to be an extensive communications console. Wherever Fukai went in the world, he would have to be connected with his business enterprises, via satellite. Just then, however, no one was seated at the console, though its lights and gauges were lit, indicating that it was functioning.

  “Just this way, please,” the stewardess prompted, pointing aft. The armed guards from the balcony stood at the open hatch.

  “Dom arigat,” McGarvey said pleasantly, and went aft, the young woman opening a sliding door for him.

  The main cabin was furnished Japanese ultra-modern, in soft leathers and furs, muted tones, delicate watercolors, and beautifully arranged living plants.

  A compactly built Japanese man dressed in a three-piece business suit was seated next to a stunningly beautiful white woman. They both looked up when McGarvey came in, and the man got languidly to his feet. He did not smile, nor did he seem pleased. But he definitely did not appear to be concerned, and he wasn’t holding a gun.

  “Ah, Mr. McGarvey, we have been waiting for you,” the man said.

  “You have me at the disadvantage,” McGarvey said conversationally. There was something about the man that reminded him of a cobra.

  “You may call me Mr. Endo.”

  McGarvey nodded and turned to the woman, knowing who she was even before Endo said a word, and he had to hide his almost overwhelming urge to step across the cabin, pull her off the couch and snap her neck.

  “Liese Egk, permit me to present the infamous Kirk Cullough McGarvey,” Endo said dryly. “I believe you two have much to talk about.”

  McGarvey controlled himself, although he was shaking inside. “You were at the monastery on Santorini with Ernst Spranger and the others?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But I’m surprised to see you here so soon. We all thought that you were dead, or close to it.”

  “Spranger isn’t aboard yet?”

  “I killed him,” Liese said.

  “That’ll make my job so much easier, then,” McGarvey said, sitting down across from them.

  Endo warily took his seat. “Although you are not armed, I believe you still constitute a threat to the safety of this aircraft, Mr. McGarvey. Be advised that I am armed, and quite a good shot. In addition, you are being watched at all times by at least one of our crewmen, also armed, and also an expert marksman.”

  A stewardess came in, took McGarvey’s drink order, and until she came back with it, Endo and Liese said or did nothing except stare at him, as if they expected him to jump up at any moment and strike at them.

  When the young stew returned with his cognac, Endo said something to her in Japanese. She replied politely and then left.

  “We will be taking off within the next few minutes,” Endo said.

  “The bomb is already aboard, I presume,” McGarvey said.

  Endo ignored the question. “If you make no untoward moves during the flight, no immediate harm will come to you. But again I warn you that you are being watched.”

  McGarvey rudely crossed his legs and sipped his drink as Endo talked, his eyes on the woman.

  “What did you mean?” Liese asked. “What job of yours will be so much easier now that Ernst is dead?”

  “Killing you, of course.”

  “Rich,” Endo said. He got to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll see to our final preparations.”

  Liese was about to say something, but then bit it off as Endo turned and left the main cabin.

  McGarvey sat absolutely still. He’d spotted the armed crewman at the partially open sliding door.

  Nervously, Liese reached for her purse and took out a small automatic; what looked to be an Italian-made .32-caliber. Probably a Bernadelli Model 60, McGarvey thought. Very effective at close range. She pointed it at him. “Buckle your seatbelt.”

  He put down his drink and complied. “If you’re going to shoot me, I suggest you do it now. If you’re using steel-jacketed ammunition, or if you miss when we’re at thirty-five thousand feet, you might kill everyone aboard.”

  “I use soft points, Mr. McGarvey, and I don’t miss,” she said, more confident now that the odds, at least in her mind, had tipped in her favor. “I am really surprised to see you here.”

  “Not staying to make sure I was dead was the second biggest mistake of your life.”

  “What was my first?”

  “You know,” McGarvey said, his voice suddenly very soft.

  Liese flinched. “You mean the little girl? Your daughter? You and she have talked?”

  McGarvey could feel every muscle in his body tensing. He had buckled his seatbelt, but he had made certain the latch hadn’t caught. He could be out of his seat in a split second. She would fire, and miss, and he would be on her before she could recover, her body blocking any shot from the crewman at the door. But he continued to maintain his control, though the effort was costing him dearly.

  “Yes,” he said, still softly, his eyes locked into the woman’s.

  She began to shiver, her nostrils flared, color coming to her bronzed, high cheeks, and a blood vessel throbbed at the side of her neck. McGarvey figured she was on the verge of firing and he got ready to spring.

  The sliding door opened all the way, and an old, but very well built, almost athletic man came in. He wore a light polo shirt, slacks and Western-style loafers. Endo, a Heckler and Koch pistol in hand, was right behind him.

  “That won’t be necessary just yet, my dear,” the old man said.

  Slowly Liese dragged her eyes away from McGarvey’s, and looked up. “He is a very dangerous man, Kiyoshi-san. He means to kill us all.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  McGarvey made himself relax. “A pleasure to meet you … Nakamura-san,” he said.

  The old man’s expression darkened.

  “You do understand, of course, that my government will block you because they know your true identity … Isawa Nakamura, a favored son until the defeat in 1945.”

  77

  DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF INTELLIGENCE TOMMY DOYLE KNOCKED once then stepped into the darkened room just off Roland Murphy’s seventh-floor office. The general was asleep on the cot that had been brought up.

  “Mr. Director,” Doyle called from the doorway.

  Murphy looked up immediately. “What is it?”

  “Fukai’s 747 took off thirty-two minutes ago and headed east as it climbed to altitude. The pilot filed a flight plan direct to San Francisco.”

  The DCI sat up. “What time do we have?”

  “Coming up on one-thirty in the afternoon,” Doyle said. “Three-thirty Tokyo time.”

  “What’s their ETA in San
Francisco?”

  “Another nine and a half hours would make it eight tonight, their local.”

  “All right, it gives us a little time.” Murphy shook his head and looked up. “No word from Kelley Fuller about McGarvey?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Tell Phil to pull her out of there right now. Bring her back here to Washington. Then have my secretary call the President for me. We’ll get the FAA and, I suppose, the Air Force started.”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Director, but I have a better idea. Their ETA over Honolulu is around six this afternoon, local. It’ll still be daylight. Why don’t we have the Navy send up an intercept from one of their carriers out there? Seventh Fleet. The Carl Vinson is five hundred miles west of the islands right now.”

  “You’ve done your homework,” Murphy said. “I’ll check with the President first. But he’s going to want to know what happened to McGarvey.”

  “Yes, sir, we all want to know.”

  “Who was Kiyoshi Fukai, or was that just a fictitious name?” McGarvey asked conversationally.

  They had raced east into a brilliant sunrise, after which the two stewardesses served them breakfast of tea, steamed rice, fish, raw eggs and other delicacies, which everyone but Liese seemed to enjoy. The dishes had just been cleared.

  “Actually he was my chauffeur, Mr. McGarvey,” Nakamura said. “A loyal, if somewhat unimaginative fellow, who was killed in Hiroshima in the atomic blast.”

  “You would be well advised to curb your tongue, McGarvey,” Endo warned, the automatic on the couch at his side, but Nakamura held him off with a gesture.

  “Actually I am curious about one thing. Perhaps Mr. McGarvey will tell us how his government has supposedly uncovered our little adventure. If they have.”

  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” McGarvey replied.

  “I don’t think that’s the case,” Nakamura countered. “If the CIA had its proof we would not have been issued clearance to land at San Francisco, or to overfly the entire continent. No, I think that you were here for two reasons: To get the proof, and for revenge.”