by Jim DeFelice
Part Six
UNFORGIVEN
Chapter 1
Of all the people Howe might have expected to greet him in the dimming light as he stepped down from the F/A-22V after arriving in Alaska, Jemma Gorman rated close to the last.
“Colonel Howe.”
“Colonel Gorman.”
“You can call me Jemma.”
“Yeah,” said Howe.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“Privately.”
Howe looked around. The nearest person, one of the airman tasked to look after the jet, was a good fifty feet away and wearing ear protection besides. But Gorman was already walking down the ramp.
Elmendorf, the large air base near Anchorage that served as the home drome for the 3rd Wing, was overflowing with units associated with the tests. Because of that, Howe, Timmy, and the RC-135 had been sent farther north to a somewhat sparser base that once prepared spy planes for flights near — and in a few cases over — the old Soviet Union. The base now housed a hearty squadron of F-16s, A-10As, and assorted support and reconnaissance craft, as well as accommodated a variety of transients and the occasional stray. It didn’t seem particularly busy at the moment, and in fact most of its resident aircraft were off participating in an exercise with RAF and Canadian aircraft.
Though it was summer, the air temperature was dropping through the forties; even seventy would have been a severe shock after Florida. Howe followed Gorman along the edge of the tarmac, curling his arms in front of his chest as the chill started to eat through his flight suit.
“The plane that went down in China, during the Indian-Pakistani exchange. I don’t believe it had the Cyclops weapon in it,” said Gorman.
“Fisher said that.”
“Yes, well, even Mr. Fisher is occasionally correct.” Gorman continued to walk. “I know you’ve been assigned to look for laser emissions during the ABM tests,” said Gorman finally. “I want to work with you. We’re not technically part of the ABM tests, but I want to make sure that the laser plane doesn’t show up — or, rather, if it does, that we know about it.”
“That’s not up to me,” said Howe.
“That’s true,” said Gorman. She stopped, seeming to find something in the distance interesting. “I still think it’s likely the Russians took the airplane. But we have no evidence, and while Mr. Fisher’s conspiracy theory appears to be yet another of his wild goose chases, I have to admit that it cannot be easily dismissed.”
Her words could be interpreted as trying to talk him out of the theory that Fisher had: that the laser had been stolen by an “inside” group. Then again, they weren’t necessarily wrong. It still made more sense to Howe that a “traditional” enemy had taken the weapon: China if not Russia, even Pakistan or India, someone with considerable resources. He knew from McIntyre that the CIA people also still thought that.
“My mission is to recover the weapon, wherever it is,” said Gorman. “It doesn’t matter to me where it is or who took it. I want to get it back.”
“Me too.”
Her hands bounced as she emphasized her point. “I have broad authorization to carry out my mission. I can shoot down the plane if I see it, or do what I have to to capture it. I can go anywhere—anywhere—to get that done. I can call on just about the entire military if I have to.”
“Uh-huh,” said Howe.
“I want you to work with me voluntarily,” she added.
“Doing what?”
“Coordinating your search. I’ll have support assets, fighters, whatever else we need.”
“The plane probably isn’t going to show,” said Howe.
“We can’t take a chance.”
Howe could see her breath in the cold air. Her face behind it was blocky, not attractive in the least. She was very different from Megan.
If this was a guy standing in front of him, would Howe consider how ugly he was?
No. He wouldn’t be thinking about Megan, either.
“Look, Tom, we want the same thing here. Andy — Mr. Fisher — he comes up with these conspiracy theories all the time. He goes off on a tangent, gets burned, comes back. Occasionally he’s right, but more often he’s wrong. In the meantime he wastes a lot of time and resources.”
“I’m going ahead with the monitoring during the test,” said Howe. “I have orders.”
“Yes, I agree.” Gorman pitched the top half of her body forward. “Some people might interpret what you and Mr. Fisher did in Washington as an end run around me — around my task force and my authority. A political move.”
“I’m not interested in politics.”
“Everybody’s interested in politics.”
“I’m not.”
Gorman studied his face. “Okay. I’m going to be part of the operation.”
“It’s not my call,” said Howe.
“That’s right. Look, we can do more than just sound the alarm if the light goes on in the dark. I want to make sure you have the resources to get the job done,” she told him.
“Usually when somebody talks to me about resources, my budget lines get cut.”
“I want to plan the operation together.”
Howe shrugged.
“All right. Have it your way. I can play hardball too.”
Chapter 2
Brooklyn, New York, was in many respects exactly the same as Alaska: It had a colorful cast of exotic animals, the natives were eccentric though in general tolerant, and the scenery could be breathtaking.
“So you got on the wrong plane?” said Karl Grinberg. The special agent was an expert on the Russian Mafia and, in times gone past, the KGB. “I would’ve thought the taxis gave it away.”
“They have taxis in Alaska,” said Fisher. “It’s just their drivers actually speak English.”
“Old joke, Fisher. If you really do have to catch a plane, get to the point.” Grinberg glanced up at the waitress, motioning for more of the muddy dregs they claimed was coffee. “I for one have to get some work done today.”
“Here’s the thing — you figure Borg would miss?” asked Fisher.
“Never.”
“You think he would work for the Russian government?”
Grinberg started to laugh.
“That’s funny?”
“Well, Borg would kill anybody if there was money in it.”
“So he would?”
“No fuckin’ way. He hates the Russians.”
Borg was, of course, Russian. He was also one of the top four or five contract killers in the country, and he’d been tracked as the probable shooter in Fisher’s bank parking lot. Through a rental car, no less.
“How about if it were a renegade group, old-line commies or something?”
“Only thing he hates worse than the Russian government are Russian commies.”
Fisher leaned back in the seat as the waitress poured the coffee into his cup. He reached into his pocket and took out the digital photo from the bank’s surveillance camera, which Doar had politely faxed to him.
“That him, you think?”
“Jeez, Fisher, if you can even ID this as a human being you get points.”
“I don’t think it was really Borg.”
“Not if he missed.”
“Well, he might have been paid to miss. Thing is, I don’t have much time, and I want to track him down.”
“You’re out of your mind. He’ll chew you up.”
“You have an address?”
“I can give you a couple of hangouts. Fisher, seriously, Borg’ll have you for lunch.”
“Hope the food’s better than here.”
* * *
Rostislav had been a duke of Moravia in the ninth century, but why he had given his name to a social club in Brooklyn was unknown, even to Grinberg. Nor had the FBI special agent supplied Fisher with much information about the club itself, except for the obvious.
Then again, Fisher would have gone in through the kitchen anyway, especially wh
en he saw the only thing between him and the open doorway was a barbed-wire fence. He scaled it, flashed a laser pointer at the video surveillance camera to blind it, and then walked in, nodding at a man in checked chef pants who was sipping a drink near the burners. A kid with some kitchen garbage and a large knife turned near the door but froze as soon as he caught sight of Fisher’s Bureau ID, which he was holding out in his hand.
That, or the pistol in his other hand.
The kitchen opened into a dining room on the left and a hallway to the right. Fisher went to the right, pushing open the second door on the left and entering the bar. There he found himself eye to eye with a six-foot-six bartender who had a blackjack in his left hand.
“Magnum,” said Fisher, holding the.44 Ruger under the man’s nose. “I’m just here to talk.”
The bartender said something in Russian regarding Fisher’s ancestry.
“Actually, I was adopted,” said Fisher. “Borg, I need a word.”
A dozen eyes in the dimly lit room were blinking at him. For a second Fisher feared his Hollywood entrance had been totally wasted on a collection of Mob honchos.
“Da.Who the fuck are you?”
“Guy you tried to kill.” Fisher stepped past the bartender, his pistol still aimed at the man’s head. That probably didn’t bother Borg much, but the hit man wouldn’t kill Fisher without giving him a chance to clear up the slur on his reputation.
Then, of course, he’d kill him.
“No one I try to kill lives,” said Borg. He was short, five six or eight at the most, and looked more like an out-of-work accountant than a paid killer, undoubtedly one reason he was so successful.
Fisher pulled out the photo of his would-be assassin. “This son of a bitch wants me to think he’s you. He used one of your pseudonyms and a credit card from a job you did to rent a car. That’s the license plate. You can run down the paperwork yourself.”
Fisher slid the paper along the bar.
“There was another hit a few days back near D.C., not quite your style,” said Fisher. “I thought you might have some ideas about who did it.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, I think it was probably this asshole,” said Fisher. “And for another, I hear you’re a nice guy who always cooperates with federal agents.”
Borg snorted.
“Looked like an accident,” said Fisher. “Like a guy got out of a tub and slipped. But it was definitely a hit.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Dead man’s name was Bonham. Mean anything?”
“Nyet,”said Borg.
“Accident thing remind you of anybody?”
Borg shook his head.
“Well, all right,” said Fisher. “I’d like to stay for lunch, but I have to get going.”
As Fisher was talking, the bartender had started sidestepping toward the end of the bar. He was now about two feet from the door.
“You know, the thing that pisses me off is the paperwork involved if I shoot this thing,” said Fisher leveling the pistol. “I mean, I shoot one bullet, I empty the gun, just about the same amount of work. I shoot you or I shoot everybody, I still have to fill out a fistful of paper. Kind of pisses me off, you know what I’m talking about? At least the bullets make nice big holes.”
The bartender stopped. Fisher pushed up the panel at the far end and walked toward the door at the front of the room that led to the street.
“You decide you know who that is, let me know. My number’s on the paper,” he said. “Thanks are not necessary.”
Chapter 3
Within two hours of their conversation, Jemma Gorman had managed to tug her connections hard enough to get a terse directive sent directly to Howe, designated for his eyes only: COOPERATE w/TSK GP.
It was signed by the head of the Air Force.
Was Gorman just protecting her turf? Or something else?
Bonham’s death, Megan, Gorman pulling strings…Who could Howe trust?
Himself. Timmy.
Fisher?
Not necessarily, but maybe.
Not Gorman, certainly.
McIntyre?
Maybe McIntyre. Although it might be possible that the shoot-down and rescue had all been set up.
It was a snake maze, one question suggesting a dozen others.
Howe tried to push away the questions and doubts, concentrating on planning the mission. With the tests now roughly twenty-four hours away, he presided over a briefing session to go over the basic layout of his plan with Gorman and her team leaders. The main furniture in his borrowed office consisted of a pair of desks that seemed to date from the discovery of aluminum as a workable metal; he pushed them together as a crude map table and had the others crowd around while he outlined his skeletal game plan. Gorman, flanked by two stone-faced intelligence officers, stared at the map impassively, listening as he went over the main points of the mission.
One thing he had to give Gorman: She had serious resources at her beck and call. All of the assets she’d amassed for the surveillance around Russia were available for the mission. That meant not only a radar plane and a full squadron of F-15s but three air tankers and assorted support personnel. She also had Army Special Forces units ready for any contingency.
Definitely a first-team operation, though whether it was on his side or not was an open question.
They set up the mission carefully. The RC-135 and F/A-22Vs, along with any support craft detailed to them, would be part of the overall test operation, though their actual role was “covered” by a story that they were conducting tests of the F/A-22V radar systems in conjunction with the missile firings, not looking for lasers. The cover was unlikely to fool anyone who knew much about the aircraft, or what was going on, but given the fact that Cyclops One had not even been officially “found” in China yet — or Canada, for that matter — it would at least give a spokesman something to tell the press if asked.
In summary, the plan was extremely simple: The RC-135 with its monitoring gear would fly a figure-eight pattern around an arc at the northwest side of the test area, which Howe had concluded would be the most likely place for a laser plane to fly, given the location of the Navy ships launching the cruise missile targets and monitoring the tests. Gorman’s two telemetry gathering aircraft would also be airborne, positioned to cover a northern approach to the test site.
“I want a Special Forces strike team in the air with you, ready to follow the aircraft,” said Gorman when he finished going through the highlights. “The laser plane has to land somewhere. We take it as soon as it lands.”
“What if it goes back to Russia? Or China?”
“Then we’ll take it there.”
“It’s not going to be in Russia. Or China.”
Howe looked up from the table. Andy Fisher had arrived and was standing at the door with one of Gorman’s security policemen, looking as if he’d just wet his pants.
“Tell my buddy here he’s not getting detention, Jemma,” said Fisher.
Gorman nodded and the man retreated.
“You don’t have to worry about Russia or China,” said Fisher, coming over to the map.
“So where should we be?” Gorman asked sarcastically.
“Jeez, Jemma, you want me to do everything for you? Hey, Colonel,” Fisher said to Howe. “Sorry I couldn’t answer your phone calls — I was too busy getting shot at. Crimped my schedule.”
“Another satisfied ex-lover,” said Gorman, “or just someone who objected to you smoking?”
“Act still needs some polish, Jemma, but you’re getting there.”
Fisher bent over the map, putting his nose so close to the paper he could have sniffed it. He studied it for a long time, then looked up. “That dotted line there is you?” he asked Howe.
“Yes.”
“Long flight, no?”
“It is,” said Howe.
Fisher snapped back up straight so fast, Howe thought he’d get a nosebleed.
“You’re goi
ng to fly around out there the whole time?” Fisher asked.
“Pretty much.”
Without saying anything else, the FBI agent left the room.
* * *
Of the many human activities Fisher did not fully comprehend, the insertion of polished steel into cork surely rated among the most mysterious. The preliminaries themselves were relatively transparent: One wound up the body with appropriate consumption of alcohol. But the unleashing of the steel — what was this, some primitive throwback to prehistoric hunting?
As a trained detective, Fisher knew only one way to discover the secret of this arcane art: He went to the dart line in the base club and asked one of the participants to explain.
After getting his attention by tapping his back.
“Shit, you made me miss the dartboard completely,” said the man, a Special Forces captain named Kenal Tyler.
“Guess I owe you a beer,” said Fisher. “Come on and I’ll pay up.”
“Damn it,” Tyler groused as the Air Force major he’d been playing retrieved the darts and went to the line. He nonetheless walked over toward the bar, where Fisher was catching the attention of the airman who served as bar-keep.
“Make it a pitcher,” said Tyler. “I have to keep my boys happy.”
“Not a problem,” Fisher told him. “I’m Andy Fisher. FBI.”
“So?”
“You’re leading one of the assault teams tomorrow. I want to come with you.”
“What?”
The bartender came over with the glasses of beer Fisher had ordered, then went back to get the pitcher. Tyler’s “boys”—all sergeants who looked to be in their thirties and older than the captain — drifted over to see what was going on.
“I was looking at the way they plotted out the mission, and you guys are going to make the arrest,” said Fisher. “So I want to be there.”
The captain gave him a dubious look, then left to take his turn at darts. One of the sergeants — a tall, skinny black guy with a Midwestern accent named Daku — asked if Fisher was the Fisher.