Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  Mazie handed the report back to Carroll. “It fits the pattern,” she told him. “Kang builds up his supply base and attacks. When the supplies run out, he stops fighting and regroups.”

  “That explains the long quiet spells,” Carroll added. “Why do you see a major change in the pattern?”

  “Kang and the central government in Beijing are locked in a power struggle. Beijing has maintained the upper hand by withholding supplies and money.” She paused and then plunged ahead. “But Beijing has a much stronger counter. They are relying on Zou Rong and the New China Guard to keep Kang preoccupied.”

  Carroll frowned. “Are you saying—”

  “Yes, sir,” she interrupted. “Beijing has been secretly encouraging Zou to play him off against Kang.”

  “This is getting Byzantine,” Carroll mumbled.

  “Actually, the Chinese are acting like Chinese,” Mazie corrected.

  “You said the situation will go critical in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir. Kang is winning the power struggle. He’s getting tanks, fuel, and ammunition. The CIA calculates he’ll have what he needs to open a new offensive in two to three weeks.”

  “Any good news?” Carroll muttered.

  “Kang is acting more and more like a warlord. That gives Zou the moral high ground.”

  “Mazie, the moral high ground doesn’t count in this game.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Come on,” he grumbled. “Don’t do that to me.” His fingers drummed a tattoo on his desk as he thought out loud. “We’ve got some time … let’s use it … we need a conference … with all the players … maybe Hong Kong … it’s quiet now… that would send a signal of our intentions …”

  “Not Hong Kong,” Mazie said, thinking of her narrow escape from the mob. “It’s too unstable and Kang has sent hundreds of agents there to engage in wet operations. Did you know he tried to assassinate Pontowski?”

  Carroll shook his head no. His fingers stopped their drumming. The decision was made. “Tokyo,” he announced. “It’s safe and the Japanese will see it as Mohammed coming to the mountain.”

  “It will certainly get their attention,” Mazie said. “But I’m not sure if Toragawa will buy into an increase in aid.”

  “He will,” Carroll predicted. “The old bastard’s an imperialist at heart.” Mazie agreed with him.

  Friday, September 6

  Near Nanning, China

  The crying baby woke Kamigami. He lay on the pallet for a few moments listening for the thunder of artillery. It was quiet and only the fussing baby broke the ghostly silence of the village. He heard May May crooning to the baby in the next room. He rolled to his feet and picked up his boots, careful not to disturb Jin Chu, and walked outside.

  A moon had risen over the Pearl River and laid a path of light across its smooth surface. He walked to the riverbank and sat on a low levee.

  A rare feeling of accomplishment claimed him. He had fought a tactical retreat, forced Kang to a standstill, and made the PLA disengage. Kamigami was not an introspective man and preferred action to thinking. Yet, lately, he did little else but think. He knew he was changing. He had a makeshift family of sorts, with Jin Chu, May May, and the baby. Two women, he mused to himself. What would his old buddies think? And my family travels with me, sharing the danger, always there to comfort me. What a strange way to fight a war, he thought.

  A soldier appeared out of the shadows and saluted when he recognized him. “What is your company?” he asked the man.

  “Horse Company,” the soldier replied.

  Kamigami recognized his voice. “Sergeant Wan Yan Fu,” he said, recalling the man’s name, “what are you doing at this hour?”

  “I was checking on my sentries,” Wan replied. “They have fought well and are very tired.” There was pride in his voice. He would tell his officer of the chance meeting and that the general had remembered his name. It was one more piece of the legend that was building around Kamigami.

  “What are your men talking about?” Kamigami asked.

  “They know we must fight again. Miss Li has said we will win when the dragons are at peace. Miss Li is good luck. But they worry when she is near the fighting.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Wan. I will tell your captain that you were looking after your men.” Wan saluted and disappeared into the night.

  He tensed at a soft rustling sound behind him. Jin Chu appeared out of the dark and sat down beside him. “I was dreaming,” she said.

  “Did you dream of fires?” he asked.

  “No.” Her voice was drowsy. “It was a good dream. You were sleeping with May May and I was watching, holding Mai Ling.”

  “Mai Ling?” Kamigami asked.

  “The baby. It is time we named her. Mai Ling means Beautiful Bell. It is a very popular name.”

  “Are you going away again?”

  “Not for a while,” she answered, half asleep. “I’ll go when you tell me.”

  Kamigami relaxed. Her sensitive emotional antenna was still working. There would be another lull in the fighting and they would have some time together. When would he send her away? Probably when the fighting started again. It had been touch and go during the retreat from Wuzhou and like his soldiers, he had worried about her. It was a distraction he didn’t need.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

  “You go,” she replied. “May May is waiting for you. I will take care of Mai Ling.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Monday, September 9

  Over Osaka, Japan

  The Japanese copilot squeezed out of his seat on Hiro Toragawa’s Gulfstream business jet to make the announcement in person to the five passengers. “General Trimler,” he said, addressing the highest-ranking person, “we have been diverted into Gifu Airport. We will be landing in ten minutes. I am sorry for the change and hope it doesn’t inconvenience you. No reason was given.” Then, in the way of the Japanese, he put the best face on the change. “The scenery is most beautiful in this part of Japan.”

  Pontowski looked out the window and agreed. The air was unusually clear and they could see for sixty miles as a beautiful sunset played out over the mountains to the northwest. “I wonder why the change?”

  “Who knows?” Hazelton answered. “Actually, I don’t like Tokyo. Any place would be better to hold a conference. Not so many distractions.” Ray Byers grunted his displeasure. He had planned on doing some wheeling and dealing in Tokyo. It was his kind of town. Little Juan Alvarez was still asleep.

  The pilot treated them to a spectacular view as they descended over Kyoto and passed Lake Biwa. The landing at Gifu was routine and as they taxied in, Pontowski counted numerous guards and security vans. Trimler was also aware of the increased security and shot Pontowski a meaningful look. The meeting was more than it seemed. Behind them, a Boeing 727 taxied in. The crimson and gold flag of the Republic of Southern China was painted on the fuselage. “Zou Rong is here,” Trimler said. “That’s why the change.”

  Three dark sedans were wasting for them as they stopped in front of a large industrial hangar, well out of sight of the main terminal. A large smile spread across Hazelton’s face when he saw Mazie and Miho. The two Junkyard Dogs, Ray Byers and Little Juan Alvarez, were the last to exit the Gulfstream. “Nice,” Alvarez allowed when he saw Mazie and Miho.

  “Lay off,” Byers muttered. “I don’t need you screwin’ deals up by screwin’ around.”

  Mazie explained why they had landed at Gifu. “We received a report the Yakuza are very interested in this meeting.”

  Byers stiffened at the mention of the Yakuza but it meant nothing to Pontowski. “The Yakuza,” Miho explained, “is the largest criminal organization in my country. They can be very dangerous. My grandfather offered his country home and Mr. Carroll accepted.” Neither woman would reveal the source of their information—the PUSIO.

  The Public Security Investigation Office, or PUSIO, was the Japanese equivalent of the FBI and produced excellent intelligence. A highly p
laced informant in the Yakuza hierarchy had passed a tip to the PUSIO that Chinese agents had approached the Yakuza with a hit contract on someone attending the meeting. The informant did not know the name of the target but after checking with Toragawa, the PUSIO assumed it was Zou Rong.

  The samurai in Toragawa welcomed the challenge and the old man responded with a vigor and will that his subordinates had not seen in years. He came alive, issuing orders and laying plans. Toragawa’s face was frozen in its normal steely reserve, but he could not hide the joy in his voice at the chance for doing battle with the Yakuza, a formidable enemy. At the last minute, he selected the battlefield—his country estate on the Kiso River above Inuyama. Only the Imperial Palace in Tokyo matched his estate’s security systems.

  Mazie took charge and organized the small group. “Colonel Pontowski,” she said, “under the circumstances, it would be best if you rode in the last car.” Miho’s hand darted to her mouth to hide her smile as Pontowski climbed into the rear seat.

  Shoshana was waiting for him. Without a word, she was in his arms. “How?” he whispered.

  “I pulled strings,” was all she said. Her lips were trembling as they touched his. The driver raised the privacy window between the seats and followed the first two cars out of the airport. A minivan fell in behind.

  The young motorcyclist saw the small caravan the moment it turned onto the main highway leading to the southwest. He was puzzled because Toragawa’s estate was in the opposite direction. He briefly considered breaking radio silence to report the change but decided against it. His instructions had been very clear—remain undetected. He did not relish chopping off a finger, the normal penance demanded by the Yakuza for a mistake. He waited until the security van had passed and then followed at a discreet distance.

  Suddenly, a large truck pulled out in front of him, blocking his view. It was a minor irritation common in heavy Japanese traffic. He twisted the throttle to accelerate around the truck but a car flashed up on his right and cut him off, forcing him to stay behind the truck just as it braked to a halt. The motorcyclist hit his brakes, skidded his bike around, facing in the opposite direction, and reached for a handful of throttle. But he was facing yet another truck. He was boxed in with nowhere to go.

  Toragawa’s men had trapped him. He pressed the radio transmit button that was built into his motorcycle’s dimmer switch and told his control he had been made. He killed the engine and sprang off the bike, ready to go down fighting.

  A technician in the minivan behind Pontowski’s car monitored the radio transmission and immediately broadcast orders to the vehicles blocking the motorcyclist. They had no further use for him. Doors sprang open and two men approached the motorcyclist. They oflèred their apologies for the near accident. The driver from the lead truck came around to the back and joined in the conversation. Everyone was most polite and within minutes, it was over. The men returned to their vehicles and the motorcyclist roared off into traffic, looking for the three cars he had been trailing. He had lost them and a finger.

  Toragawa was told of the incident three minutes later. The intercepted radio call confirmed the Yakuza knew the meeting had been changed and were still very much interested in his business. He actually smiled.

  Zou Rong sat at the conference table and forced himself to concentrate. He was still on an ego rush and savoring the deference being paid him. He had come to expect it in China, but this was different. He was the guest of honor at the estate of the most powerful man in Japan, the national security advisor to the president of the United States was courting his opinion, and representatives from Singapore, Taiwan, South Korea, and Great Britain were seated below him.

  He decided to speak. “My goal is a simple one,” he said in Cantonese. He could have as easily spoken English as Toragawa, but his position demanded they listen to him in his native tongue and his words be translated. “I will give my people their voices and lead them into the twenty-first century.”

  He considered his next words. “But I am opposed by an evil man, General Kang Xun. It is easy to forget in this day how thin the veneer of civilization is and how readily men can slip into barbarism.” He motioned to an aide and the room darkened. A large TV flickered on and the screen filled with scenes of violence and carnage. “This is the city of Pingnan after Kang’s army reoccupied it. He butchered half of its population—man, woman, and child. There was no mercy.” The even tone of his voice set a harsh contrast to the brutality on the screen. “This is what I oppose,” he said in English. The screen went blank.

  During a break in the conference, Carroll cornered Pontowski, Trimler, and Mazie. “I can’t believe the size of the military aid package Zou is demanding,” he said. “What does he really need?”

  “I’ve got a shopping list of essentials,” Trimler answered. “Antitank missiles are at the top.”

  “The AVG is down to seven Mavericks and we need support aircraft,” Pontowski said. He listed the other aircraft he wanted.

  “We’ll be lucky to get you some more A-10s,” Carroll said. “I don’t think the Pentagon will release the AWACS and KC-10s to you.”

  “How about I touch base with some old family friends in the D.C. area?” Pontowski asked.

  Carroll thought about it for a moment. Private arm twisting often solved a problem and Pontowski had the connections to apply the torque. “Be my guest,” he said. “Mazie, how’s the supply pipeline on your side doing?”

  “Thanks to Toragawa and the Japanese, it’s stuffed. The problem is corruption on the Chinese end. Half of it ends up on the black market.”

  “Maybe it’s time for some economic advisors from Singapore and Taiwan?” Carroll ventured. He liked the idea and decided to work it when the conference reconvened.

  “This is so beautiful,” Shoshana said to her husband. “I never realized Japanese gardens were so—” she searched for the right word, “exquisite.” The conference had recessed and they were walking in Toragawa’s gardens. She led Pontowski down a narrow path and into an area landscaped with small boulders and bonsai trees. She pointed to a gnarled dwarf. “The gardener said that one is over three hundred years old and the most famous bonsai in Japan. It is priceless.”

  “I don’t think Toragawa worries what things cost,” Pontowski said. “Look at this place.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments as the garden worked its magic. “You seem pleased with yourself,” Shoshana said.

  Pontowski allowed a tight smile. “The conference is going well and I did something today I never thought I’d do. I called Cyrus Piccard and told him we needed AWACS, J-STARS, F-1 5s, KC-10s, and C-130s to support the AVG.” Cyrus Piccard had been his grandfather’s secretary of state and was still considered one of the most influential power brokers in Washington, D.C. “We’ll get what we need.”

  Shoshana changed the subject. “I love this place,” she told him. “It is so peaceful and serene.” The path ended in a grove of willows on a small hill that overlooked the Kiso River Valley. Ahead of them, Toragawa and two old women were sitting in the grove watching the sunset. They were dressed in traditional kimonos and mute as statues at the spectacular panorama before them.

  With a sureness he seldom experienced, Pontowski knew why Toragawa had chosen this place for his country estate. Shoshana pointed at the two other figures sitting to Toragawa’s right. Mazie and Miho were also dressed in kimonos. He was struck by the doll-like beauty of the two younger women. A sense of tranquility swept over him as they stood there, Shoshana holding his arm, equally at peace.

  They ambled down a path toward the river. “They call this river Nihon Rhine, the Rhine of Japan,” Shoshana said. “It’s a favorite spot for honeymooners.”

  “It’s much more scenic than the Rhine,” he allowed. “Where are we going?”

  She smiled and led him into a bathhouse. “There’s a hot springs here.” Inside, a middle-aged woman attendant bowed them into a dressing room and pointed at the wooden pegs on the wall. The
y undressed and the attendant sat them on small stools while she scrubbed them down with hot soapy water and a sponge. When she reached Pontowski’s groin, she handed him the sponge and said, “Hai, dozo.” Yes, please.

  “You’ve got to be squeaky clean before you get in the water,” Shoshana said. He complied and the attendant gestured gracefully to a door. They entered a steam-filled rock grotto and stepped down into greenish-tinted water.

  “Wooo,” he gasped, “this is hot!”

  “Don’t be a baby,” she chided as she slipped into the water. Shoshana was a big woman, yet her breasts were surprisingly buoyant and floated just below the surface. She glided into his arms, threw her arms around his neck, and locked her legs around him. She held him tight before breaking free. “Rub my back,” she said. He sat on a ledge and she leaned forward as he massaged her back and shoulders. He stroked her waist. “That feels good,” she whispered, her voice deep and throaty.

  She twisted around and pressed against him as her mouth sought his. He felt her hand squeeze between their bodies, reaching for him. “Hai, dozo,” she whispered.

  After they had dressed, the attendant held the door open. She smiled gently as she bid them “Sayonara.”

  “I think she knows,” Pontowski said.

  “Well, you did make enough noise,” Shoshana said. “I almost drowned in there,” he protested.

  “I am proud of you.” Laughter caught at the edge of her words. “All that and you still managed to keep your end up.

  The six men swam up the Kiso River and came ashore slightly after three in the morning. It had been a difficult swim against the current and they lay motionless for a full six minutes regaining their strength. Only when their breathing was under full control did they spring into action.

  They were little more than moving shadows as they stripped off their wet suits and pulled waterproof equipment bags open. Quickly, they donned dull-black clothing and equipment belts. The Uzi submachine guns were already loaded and charged. The men froze when a safety clicked off. The noise was not audible twenty feet away, but to them, it was as loud as a clap of thunder. Night vision goggles were donned and hand signals flashed before the men moved up the path, past the bathhouse, and into Toragawa’s gardens.