High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m coming across the river from Arlington. I could be at your house in ten minutes. Please, will you see me? Before it’s too late?”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

  “There’s nowhere else for me to go. Nobody will listen to me alone. But together we can convince them. Dear God, you must help me!”

  “Do you know where I live?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know where I live, Ms. Kilbourne?”

  “I just do, Edward. I’m not stupid. It’s my job to know people in this town. Powerful people.”

  Reid hesitated again. “Very well. In ten minutes, then.”

  “You won’t regret it, Edward,” Dominique said. She hung up and concentrated on her driving, her rage solidifying. The fact that Reid was safely at home, not aboard Air Force Two as he was supposed to be, was one final check of Kirk’s warning. Whatever lingering doubts she may have had were shattered the moment Reid answered his phone. Somehow he was involved with the destruction of fourteen airplanes and the deaths of hundreds of people.

  She reached in her purse on the passenger seat and touched the reassuring bulk of the 9 mm Bernadelli automatic pistol. Reid would talk to her. There was no doubt about it.

  David Kennedy parked his Range Rover on the beach at Cape Meares seventy-five miles west of Portland, unable for the moment to drive. It was happening just as McGarvey warned it would. Fourteen airplanes down now. All of them Guerin. All of them because of port engine failures. It looked as if the Vice President would survive. But hundreds of others would not. Aboard the other thirteen airliners there had to have been two thousand passengers and crew. Many of them dead, blown out of the sky. Others dying, trapped in piles of burning wreckage of what had minutes ago been the most sophisticated jetliners to fly anywhere in the world.

  He closed his eyes as he listened to the radio. By now America was well out over the Pacific on its way to Honolulu. The flight crew would be hearing the news. But there was nothing they could do about it. Even McGarvey, for all his skills, was powerless to stop what had already happened, what was happening. They had not listened to him.

  “Okay,” he said, looking across the beach at the big waves rolling in from Japan. Vietnam had proved that we were vulnerable. That we could lose. Granada, Panama, and the Gulf War had not done as much to erase that image as the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger had done to prove our technology was flawed. But if this was another Pearl Harbor, they’d badly underestimated the American will again. As a nation, we’d screwed up the post-Cold War, just as he had failed Guerin and his marriage. But that was about to change, he thought. The bastards would be sorry they ever started something.

  The caller-ID system on Nancy’s phone provided the number Chance had called from. And one of the data crunchers downstairs in Processing had hacked the telephone company’s reverse directory to come up with an address. It was a place on the beach between the towns of Cape Meares and Oceanside listed under the name East View, which was a Marvin Saunders company. It was at the developer’s Oswego home that he and Chance had been introduced to Yamagata. The bastard had taken them all in.

  Kennedy pulled out of the scenic overlook parking lot and swung back onto the coast road heading south. There was no other traffic in either direction. When he’d driven through Cape Meares the town had seemed all but deserted. These were primarily summer places, isolated in the winter.

  The mailbox marking East View was a mile south on the right. A chain stretched between two thick wooden posts blocked a paved driveway that led through a thick stand of trees down toward the beach. Kennedy parked off the road. Hunching up his coat collar against the sharp wind, he got out and walked down to the driveway. The chain was secured with a padlock. There was no way to drive around the posts. The roofline of what appeared to be a large house was just visible through the trees. Kennedy thought he could smell wood smoke. Chance had called from here less than two hours ago, in trouble.

  He went back to the Rover and got the tire iron from the back, then stepped over the chain and started down the driveway. It had snowed last night, but there were no tire tracks or footprints on the driveway, which meant Yamagata had brought Chance out here sometime yesterday. The thought of what might have gone on during the past twenty-four hours hardened his already strong resolve to take it back to the sonofabitch. He could envision breaking the man’s arms and legs with the tire iron, and then starting on the rest of his bones, one at a time.

  The low, expansive house was perched on a jumble of boulders fifty feet above the water. A gray Lexus sedan and a green Toyota van were parked in front. Kennedy hid behind a tree and watched. Nothing moved except for the smoke from the chimney and the tree branches in the breeze.

  Kennedy tightened his grip on the tire iron and started toward the north side of the house. He hoped to find an unlocked door or window so he could get inside without raising an alarm. If he could surprise Yamagata and whoever was with him, he’d have a chance of overpowering them. At least he’d give it a good shot.

  He reached a wooden walkway that led around the boulders to the front of the house. A small window was cranked open a couple of inches. He could hear music playing softly.

  A slightly built oriental man armed with a large handgun came around the corner from the front of the house. “Mr. Kennedy, please throw your weapon to the side.”

  Kennedy stepped back. “I came for my wife.”

  “Yes, we know. If you will please disarm yourself I will take you to her.”

  Kennedy hesitated.

  “Mr. Kennedy, I do not wish to shoot you, but I will,” the Japanese said calmly.

  Everything in Kennedy’s soul wanted to rush forward and beat the crap out of the bastard. But he wouldn’t get two steps, and he knew it. He tossed the tire iron over the rail, and it clattered down onto the rocks. “If you’ve hurt my wife, I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  Edward Reid sometimes thought he lived in a vacuum, and when someone or something intruded on his life he was surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be. He’d purposely run his car off the highway on the way out to Andrews. By the time he’d informed the White House he wouldn’t be flying to Tokyo, had AAA pull him out of the ditch, and had gotten home, he’d been exhausted. He’d been watching the frantic news bulletins on CNN, knowing he should be doing something, when Dominique Kilbourne’s call had come out of left field.

  He stood at the window of his second-floor bedroom looking down at the street. He was conscious of his beating heart, of the breaths he drew, of the fact he’d not had a drink yet today.

  They’d done it. They’d actually pulled it off. But it was happening faster than he’d thought it would. Now it was up to him to deal with the aftermath. It was something, he supposed, that he hadn’t considered as carefully as he should have. Secretly he never believed it would happen. Or he hoped that it wouldn’t happen. But the young woman’s call had brought him back to reality. Through her, he’d somehow have to deal with McGarvey. And before the night was out he would have to write the first of his Lamplighter bulletins. Try to pull something out of the ashes.

  Reid was more frightened than he’d ever been of anything in his life. As long as he could keep his wits about him, however, he knew he could pull it off.

  Takushiro Hatoyama stood facing Major David Ross in the twenty yards of no-man’s land between the crowd and the police line, a dozen other protesters with him. The marine, Hatoyama noticed, was unarmed, though he was dressed in battle fatigues. When he’d come out from behind the armored personnel carriers, an uneasy hush had fallen over the crowd. But it’d taken time to spread to the rear. People were pouring in from all over the city. Similar gatherings were occurring across the country. It was time for Japan to take her rightful place among the family of nations unoccupied by foreign forces.

  First they would have to deal with this base. Make it so uncomfortable, so dangerous for
the authorities that they would have to fire into the crowd. There would be many casualties, but they would serve the cause well. They would become martyrs.

  At thirty-two, Hatoyama was a full professor of history at Tokyo University. He had a wife and two children, and every morning when he kissed them goodbye a deep shame filled his chest. To bear what you think you cannot bear is really to bear. Honor. Patience and forgiveness. It was bu-shi. But the kamikaze was blowing across the land, and his shame would be assuaged.

  Two large ships had already left the docks. He could see their superstructures, bristling with antennae and radar dishes moving away. The entire fleet would probably head to sea because of the DEFCON THREE. Hatoyama was going to see to it that they had no base to come back to.

  “My name is David Ross. I’m chief of security here. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes I do, Major,” Hatoyama replied. “It is required in Japanese schools. Do you speak Japanese?”

  “Nihongo o amari hanashimasen.” I don’t speak very much Japanese, Ross said. “It’s possible that we can come to some agreement if you will tell me why you have come here.”

  Hatoyama smiled politely. “We have come to arrest Admiral Ryland for crimes against Nippon.”

  “What crimes?”

  “He has brought nuclear weapons to Japan.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is,” Hatoyama said.

  Ross glanced over his shoulder at the line of Japanese police. They looked very nervous. “It would appear that your government doesn’t agree.”

  Hatoyama drew a pistol. “Then it is up to you and me to convince them.” He fired a single shot, hitting Ross in the chest, just above his flak jacket.

  The protestors surrounded the Marine’s body before it hit the ground.

  McGarvey watched from America’s cockpit as they came to a halt in front of the prototype hangars. Dozens of emergency vehicles were on the field. Several buses were parked along the ramp to whisk the VIP passengers back to Portland. Four Guerin LX-17B turbojet transport helicopters had also been brought out.

  Callahan had been on the radio to company operations, who said that Kennedy should have been aboard the flight. In the confusion no one had missed him.

  The problem would be sidestepping the FBI long enough to find out where Kennedy had gone. For the moment the FAA was doing the correct thing by closing the eight airports. If everyone did their jobs, there would, hopefully, be no more crashes.

  He could not get through to the CIA again, which by now would be on an emergency footing. Even if he talked to Adkins or to Doyle, he didn’t think they would listen to him. From the news reports they were monitoring, the media was convinced that the Japanese government was responsible for the crashes. It was going to take time for him to prove otherwise. Yamagata was one of the keys, and it was a fair bet that Kennedy had gone after him. But that was over an hour ago.

  “No trouble, Mr. McGarvey?” McLaren asked hopefully.

  Boarding ramps had been trundled up to the three exits, and the passengers were already streaming off the airplane.

  “Save the handcuffs until we get out of here.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  McGarvey glanced at Socrates and nodded. “Have a car pick us up at the forward boarding ramp. I don’t want to be paraded across the field.”

  McLaren motioned for his partner to arrange it. “Are you armed?”

  “If I was, you’d try to take it away from me and someone would get hurt. Let’s just say for now that I’ll cooperate.”

  The FBI special agent didn’t like it, but he’d read McGarvey’s file. “I guess I’ll live with that. But I hope you understand there’s a lot of twitchy people out there.”

  “Are you taking me to Portland?”

  “For now. But I’m sure they’re going to want you in Washington, ASAP.”

  “I’ll get the word out to the fleet,” Socrates said. He looked pale.

  “Watch yourself around anyone from InterTech,” McGarvey warned. “It’s going to take me a few hours to make them listen.”

  “Have to prove it first.”

  Joyce came back. “The car is here.”

  McLaren checked McGarvey’s jacket and gave it to him. “We’ll do this nice and easy,” he said. “No sudden moves.”

  There hadn’t been enough time to bring up a prisoner transport van so Portland S-A-C Jack Franson, who’d started back to the city after America had taken off, returned with a brown Chevy Caprice sedan. “I told you not to screw with us,” he said when McGarvey climbed into the back seat with McLaren.

  Joyce got in front, and Franson headed away from the ramp.

  “I guess you were right, sir,” McGarvey said, when they’d cleared the Guerin facility. He twisted around to look out the back window.

  McLaren grabbed for him, but McGarvey managed to pull the Walther out and cock the hammer as he swiveled back to the front. He jammed the muzzle of the gun into the base of Franson’s skull. The S-A-C almost ran off the road before he straightened the car out.

  “Goddammit,” McLaren swore, reaching for his own pistol.

  “Back down!” McGarvey ordered. “McLaren, hands on the back of the front seat! Joyce, hands on the dash!” McGarvey jabbed the pistol hard against Franson’s neck.

  “Shit,” Franson said.

  “Now!” McGarvey said, jabbing the pistol into Franson’s neck again.

  The two special agents did as they were told, and although Franson had slowed down, his driving was no longer erratic.

  “Every cop in the country will be on your case if you kill us, you sonofabitch,” Franson promised.

  “I’m not going to kill you. I need your help.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll explain on the way. For now you’re going to have to do as I tell you.”

  “I swear to Christ, I’m going to nail your ass.”

  “I need to talk to Kennedy’s secretary. Try his office first.”

  Franson’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, but he motioned for Joyce to make the call.

  “Easy,” McGarvey warned.

  Joyce made the call. When he had her on the line, he put it on the speakerphone.

  “Nancy, this is Kirk McGarvey. I want you to listen very carefully because this is important. Chance Kennedy has been kidnapped, and I think David knows where she’s being held. If he’s gone after her, he’s put himself in a great deal of danger. Did he say anything to you this morning? Do you know where he went?”

  “Dear God,” the woman said. “He wasn’t aboard America?”

  “No.”

  “I was afraid of that. Mrs. Kennedy called here this morning. She sounded like she was in trouble. We got the number from the caller-ID system. Mr. Kennedy doesn’t know that I know, but he used that to get the address from someone downstairs in Processing. It’s called East Wind, on the coast highway between Cape Meares and Oceanside.”

  “Does he have a gun?”

  “I don’t know,” Nancy said breathlessly. “What’s going on, Mr. McGarvey? We’re watching the news. Is it the Japanese?”

  “We’re trying to find out. I want you to stay there. If David calls, tell him not to go near Yamagata. No matter what he thinks is happening, tell him to come back to Guerin.”

  “I’m frightened.”

  “I know,” McGarvey said. He nodded for Joyce to end the call. “Do you know where this place is?” he asked Franson.

  “I can find it,” the S-A-C replied, puzzled.

  “I think you’d better call for backup. We might need it.”

  The police line was moving forward into the roiling curtains of tear gas to merge with the crowd. So far, except for the one pistol shot, the mob had not fired back, but the noise was getting ugly, out of control. People continued to stream down to the waterfront, most of them armed with shovels and rakes and kendo-staves. But a lot of them had guns, which in Japan were almos
t impossible to get. The entire city was coming alive. Whatever was going to happen was on the verge of happening. From the Marine position behind the armored personnel carriers in front of the main gate it was hard to tell what was going on, except that it appeared as if the police were being absorbed into the crowd. As each one disappeared, a cry of triumph went up. Lieutenant Green was worried that he could no longer see Ross. The major had been unarmed. If the Japanese wanted to take him, they’d do it easily. And if the police line disintegrated, as it was starting to do, there’d be nothing stopping them from overrunning the base except for one augmented platoon of definitely nervous jarheads.

  “All right people, look sharp,” Green told the line. Unlike the police his men were not equipped for riot control. Their job was security, which meant keeping unauthorized people out.

  “Are you going to give the order to fire on Japanese nationals, L-T?” his platoon sergeant, Ingrid Wentz, asked.

  Green still wasn’t used to working with women in combat units, but he had to admit that Wentz knew her job. He would put her up against any man in the unit and bet even money on the outcome.

  “Ross said the admiral would give the order,” Green replied, studying the situation through binoculars.

  “The major isn’t here,” Wentz said.

  “Jones, raise base ops,” Green shouted.

  “Yo,” the radioman responded.

  “We either try to hold them or step aside,” he told Wentz.

  “Big decision either way.”

  “Yeah,” Green said.

  “L-T, it’s Captain Byrne.” Jones handed him the handset.

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Otis Green, baker platoon at the main gate. Looks like Major Ross is down, and the Japanese police line is folding. In about two minutes we’re going to have ten thousand Japanese nationals coming at us. What do we do, sir, stand and fire, or get out of the way?”