Dark Wing

by Richard Herman

  When they reached the willow grove, a bright light flashed and their night vision goggles flared, blinding them. In the same instant, figures emerged from hiding places and the six men died as silently as they had come.

  Toragawa was furious when his chief of security woke him with the news that six assassins had managed to penetrate as far as his gardens before being stopped. The chief of security explained how the men had penetrated their detection net by swimming upstream, through the rapids.

  “How far did they swim against the current?” Toragawa asked.

  “A kilometer.”

  Toragawa was impressed by the feat of strength and honored them by having their bodies and equipment returned. “Tell Morihama,” he growled, “that I have no quarrel with the Yakuza but it is a matter of honor that my guests be safe.”

  The conference ended late that afternoon and the seven Americans gathered in the large guest suite Toragawa had provided for Carroll. The national security advisor paced the floor as they recapped what had been accomplished. Pontowski found it easy to split his attention and follow his own thoughts as Carroll talked. What a strange group, he thought. And a stranger situation.

  Then it came to him—this small group was involved in world-shaking events. But they were normal people who could be his neighbors. As the national security advisor to the president of the United States, Bill Carroll was one of the most influential men in the world. Yet he reminded Pontowski of a high-school teacher in his mid-thirties. Mazie Kamigami looked and acted more like a young college coed starting out in the business world. And Wentworth Hazelton was the classic East Coast establishment preppie moving down a gilded road smoothed by family connections and driven by an ambitious mother. What had Shoshana said about Hazelton? He’s in love with Mazie but hasn’t screwed up the courage to admit it to himself—yet.

  None of them had sought power and influence, but it had come to them by virtue of their jobs. He and Bob Trimler had found homes in the military, although for very different reasons. Trimler was the perfect example of a southern boy from an impoverished background who had found a career and promotion in the U.S. Army.

  What about Ray Byers and the Junkyard Dogs? How did they get here? Because of me, Pontowski admitted. I wanted some hustlers who knew how to short-circuit the system and get a job done. What a bizarre set of circumstances that brought us all together.

  Pontowski filed that thought away when Carroll turned to a new subject. “I wish I could figure Toragawa out,” the national security advisor said.

  “He’s enjoying himself,” Mazie replied.

  “How can you tell?” Hazelton asked.

  “Miho told me,” Mazie replied.

  “I got the distinct impression he didn’t like Zou,” Pontowski said.

  “He doesn’t trust him,” Mazie said, “and neither do I.”

  “Still,” Trimler added, “we got most of what we needed.”

  “We’re still hurting for Mavericks and TOW missiles,” Pontowski reminded them.

  Ray Byers dropped the remnants of the greasy cheeseburger he was eating. “I know an arms dealer,” he said. “His name is—”

  “I don’t want to know about this,” Carroll interrupted. He walked out of the room and motioned for Mazie to follow.

  “What the hell,” Byers muttered. He went back to eating his cheeseburger.

  Mazie came back in with a strange look on her face. “Ray, fill me in on the details,” she said.

  “Well,” Byers began, “the Saudis bought a bundle of Mavericks and TOW missiles after the Gulf War. We’re talking a whole shitpot full. I met the guy in charge of the program in a poker game in Tokyo.”

  “Is he a Saudi?” she asked. Byers nodded. “But Islamic fundamentalists have taken over Saudi Arabia. What makes you think we can buy the missiles from them?”

  “Saudi Arabia,” Byers explained, “is so screwed up right now that you can’t tell the players from one day to the next without a program. The fundamentalists and the royal family are going for each other’s balls, the radicals run euthanasia drills on both of them, and during time-outs, the moderates are scurrying around to pick up the pieces. My poker-playing buddy has the keys to more ships, airplanes, warehouses, and weapons storage igloos than he can count. All he wants to do is make a fast buck while he can. Like any good Arab, he’s good for anything as long as he doesn’t have to work.”

  Hazelton was incredulous. “Look here, Byers, Saudi Arabia is my area of expertise”—he realized he was sounding like a pompous bureaucrat again—”and the fundamentalists will not sell us those missiles.”

  “We pony up the money,” Byers said, “and use a front man.”

  “Who?” Hazelton asked.

  Mazie knew the answer. “Toragawa,” she whispered. Miho had told her the old man was having the time of his life and had even given up the poker games he loved so he could devote all his time to what everyone was now calling “the Japanese Connection.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Byers said. “Maybe we can borrow one of his planes. A big one.”

  The Gulfstream business jet was waiting at Gifu Airport when the dark sedan approached. Trimler hopped out to give Pontowski a few moments alone with Shoshana. “Hug Little Matt for me,” Pontowski said, “and tell him I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  Shoshana touched his cheek. Her hand was warm and soft. “He doesn’t understand but acts very brave,” she said. “Just like his mother.”

  She didn’t pull her hand away. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered. “As always.”

  “I’ll be back,” he promised. How many times have I said that? he thought.

  She answered in the same old way. “I know.” Her lips brushed his and then he was gone.

  Trimler made light conversation as the Gulfstream taxied out. “I heard you mention R and R in the car,” he said.

  “That was Shoshana’s idea,” Pontowski explained. “She’s going to stay here for a few days to arrange a rest and recuperation program for the AVG where the families or significant others can come over from the States.”

  “R and R is great for morale,” Trimler allowed.

  Sunday, September 15

  Narita Airport, Japan

  Shoshana Pontowski would never grace a fashion magazine because she was too big. Yet she captured attention as she moved down the main concourse of Tokyo’s Narita Airport. Her lustrous black hair was pulled back off her face and accentuated her high cheekbones, doe eyes, and full mouth. She was a tall woman and stood six feet in high-heeled shoes. Childbearing had given her figure a mature, sensual look and she would never be thin. But constant exercise had toned her body and she moved with the feline grace of a lioness.

  A blue-uniformed maintenance worker motioned to his assistant when he saw Shoshana and the two disappeared into a service gallery. “Is the Toragawa bitch with her?” the leader of the two asked. A sharp jerk of the head answered him. The leader keyed his radio and ordered the other two members of his team to join him as they ran down the narrow corridor.

  They skidded to a stop outside a service closet and unlocked the door. The leader knelt beside the inside wall and felt for a seam. His hand blurred in a rapid chopping motion as he cut the wall away. Inside were four Uzi submachine guns and eight fragmentation grenades that had been hidden years before. He pulled the weapons out as the other two members of his team joined them.

  “I’m sorry you can’t stay longer,” Miho Toragawa said. They were sitting in a VIP lounge near the gate for Shoshana’s flight.

  “I love Japan,” Shoshana said, “and I’ll be back. But many of the wives suggested Hawaii as a possible spot for R and R. I need to see what can be arranged there.”

  Miho blushed. “My friends tell me Hawaii is very romantic.” The hostess interrupted and told Shoshana she could board her flight any time. The two women stood and the hostess held the door open for them.

  A vague, uneasy feeling tickled at Shoshana as they walked toward the gate. At
first, it was merely an annoyance and she disregarded it. An old warning from her distant past came back—believe your senses, even when everything appears normal. The warning opened a floodgate and all the memories from the time she served as an agent of the Mossad, the Israeli version of the CIA, burst free of the dam that held them hidden in darkness. But were the skills still there? And what was wrong?

  She looked around with a new awareness, searching for telltale signs. You are so stupid! she raged. Miho’s ever-present bodyguard was gone and she should have caught it immediately. She drew Miho behind a pillar. “Wait,” she commanded. Every sense came alive as she slipped out of her shoes. Behind, she saw a blue-uniformed maintenance worker walking toward them. A little too fast. She stepped clear of the pillar and did a quick visual sweep of the concourse. Three more maintenance workers were converging on them but were much further away. The man coming from behind was almost to the pillar. She saw his face. It was frozen.

  Shoshana pushed Miho behind her as he raised a small tube of aerosol spray. It should have been an easy kill. But Shoshana knew. With a speed the man could not credit, her left hand grabbed his wrist while her right hand knocked the deadly aerosol tube out of his grasp. Automatically, he kicked, aiming for her knee. It wasn’t there. She stepped into him and drove her knee into his groin as her right hand jabbed into his throat, just above his Adam’s apple.

  He was going down. She grabbed his hair and twisted, forcing his body around as a shield. But she couldn’t see the other three. They had disappeared into the crowd, which was scattering in confusion. A hand grenade rolled along the floor toward her. She kicked at the back of the man’s knee and he collapsed to the floor. She forced him to lie flat on the grenade and threw herself onto his back, pinning him to the floor. The grenade was trapped under his belly. For a moment, nothing happened. She banged his head against the floor, feeling the gun that was hidden under his shirt, tucked into the back of his waistband.

  The explosion knocked her back.

  “Run!” Shoshana yelled at Miho as she jerked the Uzi out of the dead man’s clothes. Shock masked the pain, but she knew some of the grenade fragments had cut into her legs. Could she move? Her legs responded and she darted for the safety of the pillar, leaving a trail of blood. Thank God, an Uzi, she thought. She charged the weapon as another blue-uniformed figure ran at her. She cut him down with a short burst. The Uzi was an old friend.

  A grenade rolled across the floor. She kicked it back and pressed against the pillar. Another explosion was followed by more screams. Her head bobbed around the pillar and pulled back. It was enough. She had seen the body of the third man. Was Miho safe?

  She turned to look in the direction Miho had run. Her last conscious thought was of a blue-uniformed man firing at her with an Uzi. Pain exploded over her. Automatically, she fired back.

  Her training had held.

  Sunday, September 15

  Over Siberia

  The silver Boeing 747 arced steadily across the vast Siberian taiga, toward Japan. The Toragawa logo on the tall tail glowed in the fading light as the huge airplane crossed the Ob River. The cargo deck was full of TOW and Maverick missiles Toragawa had purchased from the Saudis. Hazelton excused himself from the poker game with Toragawa and Byers and walked across the upper deck of the huge cargo airplane that had been converted to a VIP suite.

  “I had no idea Russia was so big,” Hazelton told Mazie as he settled into the captain’s chair beside her. In unison, they pivoted and gazed out the window. Below, the forest was dark and the lights of Novosibirsk could be seen far to the south. “Toragawa made dealing with the Saudis seem easy,” he said.

  “The Saudis are very anxious to do business, any business, with him,” Mazie said. She looked across the cabin toward Toragawa and Byers, who were still playing poker. “How’s the game going?” she asked.

  “Toragawa’s a tough teacher, and I’ve learned not to draw to an inside straight.” He swiveled so he could see the card players. “Look at Byers. He looks like he should be playing in a bar in Las Vegas.” Mazie agreed with him. A cigarette dangled from Byers’s mouth, his sleeves were rolled up, and a half-consumed glass of bourbon sat beside his poker chips. “I can’t understand why Toragawa likes him.”

  Mazie didn’t have an answer. Instead, “Byers is a stereotype. What you see is what you get.”

  “Mazie, remember when this all started? Why did Mr. Carroll leave the room when Byers started talking about buying missiles from the Arabs?”

  She looked out the window. How should she answer if he didn’t understand? Didn’t he remember the Iran-Contra affair from the mid-1980s? They were wheeling and dealing for missiles in the shadowy world of the international arms market and could not afford to get caught. She dropped the thought, not wanting to think about the consequences. Bill Carroll had insulated himself by not knowing and letting her run with the ball. He could always fall back on credible denial and claim he knew nothing about it.

  Mazie glanced at her watch. “Five hours to go. I wish I could sleep on planes.” A pilot came off the flight deck and handed Mazie a long message. She paled as she read it. She walked over to the card table and spoke to Toragawa. “I am so sorry to tell you of bad news,” she said in Japanese. She chose her words carefully as she told him what had happened at Narita Airport. Toragawa’s eyes were almost closed and he said nothing. “Miho was unharmed,” she said.

  Toragawa bowed his head to Mazie and spoke in Japanese. “I am most grateful for what Mrs. Pontowski did. I will be forever in her debt.”

  Toragawa’s words were spoken quietly and without passion. His facial muscles never betrayed the raging emotion coursing through his body. Yet Byers and Mazie moved back from the anger radiating from the old man. He stood and walked to a window where he remained standing, his back a rigid spike, until they landed at Gifu Airport in Japan.

  Monday, September 16

  Near Guilin, China

  A golden-red sunset framed the row of peaks the pilots called the Dragon’s Teeth and cast a diffused light across the expanse of rice paddies and the Luoqing River. A beautiful world at rest, Pontowski thought as he waited for the last flight of A-10s to check in. He was with Trimler on the ground, observing the New China Guard’s Tenth Division on its first full-scale training maneuvers with his Warthogs. “So far,” he said, “the Tenth is doing okay.”

  “Barely,” Trimler corrected, thinking about Kamigami’s First Regiment.

  Pontowski heard a low rumble coming from the gorge formed by the river cutting through the Dragon’s Teeth. “Sounds like they’re flying up the Gullet,” he said. “They’ll pop out in a minute.” Two A-10s flew out of the river gorge and established radio contact with the Tenth’s ASOC. The Chinese officer skillfully handed them off to an air liaison officer on the ground who was in contact with the make-believe enemy.

  “There is hope,” Trimler allowed.

  A low-flying helicopter approached from the north, the direction of Guilin. “Looks like the Junkyard Dogs’ Huey,” Pontowski said. The two men watched as it came in for a smooth landing. Pontowski cracked a smile when he saw Sara Waters climb out and duck her head to miss the whirling rotor. A natural but unnecessary reflex.

  She walked briskly up to them and saluted. “Colonel Pontowski, may we speak in private?”

  “Lighten up, Ripper,” he said, waving a salute in return. He immediately regretted saying it. She was very upset. Oh, my God! he thought. Someone’s bought it. Another casualty. He followed her as she walked to a quiet spot.

  She turned to face him, the tears now streaking her cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, handing him a message. “I’m so sorry.”

  He scanned the message. Then, to be sure, he reread it. For some reason, he had to reread it a third time. He carefully folded the paper and buttoned it into his chest pocket. He turned and faced the sunset. Waters waited, not moving. The two Warthogs were joining up to return to base and they could hear the crackle of the
UHF radio as they checked out. Then it was quiet. The sky streaked with red and gold as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

  “I’ve lost her.”

  The pain in his voice touched a deep memory in Waters. She had been there. “You haven’t lost her. You just won’t see her again.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Tuesday, September 17

  Inuyama, Japan

  Pontowski walked slowly, matching his pace to Miho’s as they made their way through Toragawa’s garden. Both were silent, not disturbing the early morning peace. Ahead of them, he could see the grove of willows that overlooked the river below. A lone figure sat on the bench. Toragawa. “He has been here all night,” Miho said. “Please wait.”

  She kneeled in front of her grandfather, bowed her head, and spoke quietly. Toragawa stood and Miho motioned Pontowski to come. She rose and left, no longer able to mask her worry. The two men faced each other, one tall and lanky, the other short and stocky. The warmth of the rising sun beat on Toragawa’s back, warming him as it framed Pontowski’s face.

  A generation and different cultures separated the two men, yet they were bound by a shared code of conduct. Duty and honor hold little value in the modern world, but for these men, duty was the touchstone of their existence and honor the moral gyroscope that guided their actions. Both had engaged in combat, one in business and the other in the profession of arms, and had ruined and killed other men. They had not done so out of a killing lust or insatiable greed, but because the choice between duty and honor or submission to a lesser ethic was forced on them. No matter the twisting and turning of their paths, they had held constant and both had reaped the rewards of success. Now, they were paying the price.