High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Hang on a second, Mr. Whitman,” Franson said. He motioned for McLaren to back off. “I’ve had all I’m going to take from you, Mister.”

  McLaren snatched the phone from the S-A-C and bodily shoved the man away. “This is McLaren. McGarvey is heading to Washington. He’ll probably get an airplane at Gales Creek. Have ATC monitor all their outgoings. If Dulles is closed, they’ll try for Baltimore.”

  “How did you guys lose him?” Whitman demanded.

  “It’s a long story. Just cover Dulles and Baltimore. Phil and I will make it as fast as we can.”

  “I’ll notify Portland National Guard. What the hell is he trying to do?”

  “According to him, prevent World War Three.”

  FBI Headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue between Ninth and Tenth streets was on full emergency footing. All of official Washington was. Whitman was too impatient to wait for the busy elevator, so he ran up three flights of stairs to the director’s office. John Harding’s personal secretary was expecting him.

  “They’re waiting inside for you, Mr. Whitman,” she said. She was upset. The television in the corner was tuned to CNN, showing an aerial view of the carnage at Los Angeles International.

  Harding and his assistant director Ken Wood were watching another bank of television sets all reporting on the disaster. They looked up.

  “Word from the West Coast?” Harding asked.

  “Looks like we’re getting a handle on at least part of this,” Whitman said. “The signal was definitely being shunted through InterTech’s computer system from Tokyo Bank out to one of its satellites. We managed to shut it down. Colberg’s people are starting to round up the company’s officers, but it looks like a lot of them left the country.”

  “That nails it,” Wood said.

  “Not quite, Ken. InterTech might not have known about the signal relay.”

  “You said its people are leaving the country.”

  “Could be they headed out at the last minute when they realized what was happening. Means that it came as just as big a surprise to them as it did to us. But that’s not all.”

  “Go ahead,” Harding prompted.

  “The signal was downloaded from the satellite to devices that were hidden at the eight airports, plus Andrews. Thing is, those repeaters were definitely not made by the Japanese. At least that’s the opinion of two engineers who’ve seen the things.”

  “Russian?” Wood asked.

  Whitman spread his hands. “They just said not Japanese.”

  “Could Colonel Mueller have been behind the attack on InterTech?”

  “It’s possible, Mr. Director. It has a lot of his earmarks, although if it was him, it beats the hell out of me why.”

  “What about McGarvey?” Wood asked. “Is Franson bringing him in?”

  “Not quite,” Whitman said. “But he’s on his way here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He managed to get away from our people and commandeer a jet and Guerin pilot from Gales Creek. They’ve filed a flight plan for Dulles, if it opens by the time they get here, or Baltimore as an alternate.”

  “Then we’ll have him finally,” Wood said.

  Whitman nodded. “Sure will, Ken. Along with a man by the name of Arimoto Yamagata, who’s probably a spy for Japan.”

  The phone system was still jammed. McGarvey tried twice to get through to Dominique’s office and apartment and to Reid’s Georgetown home and Lamplighter office, without luck.

  “It would appear that we are incommunicado for the next few hours,” Yamagata said. He’d found the liquor locker and calmly sipped a glass of white wine.

  McGarvey stood just aft of the open flight-deck door. “What’s our ETA?”

  “Seven our time, ten Eastern,” Topper said. “They’ll know you’re aboard.”

  “Will we have to refuel?”

  “If the winds hold out of the west we’ll make it.”

  McGarvey glanced back at Yamagata, his muscles bunching up. He handed his pistol, and the one he’d taken from the Japanese intelligence officer, to Topper. “I’m going to have a talk with our friend.”

  Topper grinned viciously. “If you close the door, I probably won’t hear a thing.”

  An odd expression came over Yamagata’s face. He put down his glass.

  “Okay.” McGarvey closed the flight-deck door.

  Platoon Sergeant Wentz knew that they would run out of time before help arrived. She had never quite understood why American troops were still stationed on Japanese soil, especially since the Soviet Union was no longer a threat. But she was a Marine, and she knew how to follow orders. She also knew how to fight.

  She’d sent Jones and ten of the admin types to the roof while she and the remaining seven navy personnel covered the two stairwells. If their fifth-floor position was overrun, which she figured it would be in a couple of minutes, Jones and the others would be able to hold out a while longer.

  It was a delaying action until the choppers arrived, or until the Japanese authorities managed to get through.

  “They’re civilians,” one of the desk jockeys said, nervously. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

  “Defend ourselves,” Wentz said.

  There was a tremendous racket from below.

  “Here they come!” someone shouted.

  Both stairwell doors crashed open, and the first of the mob poured into the corridor. For a long second nobody fired Some of the Japanese were women, many of them dressed in kimonos.

  “Fire! Fire!” Sergeant Wentz shouted, and she opened fire with her M16 on full automatic, spraying the west corridor and stairwell door.

  People in the mob began firing back.

  Sergeant Wentz took two hits to her chest, her flak jacket saving her life, but the force of the blows spun her sideways, her arms flying out. She took a hit to her armpit, and two to her legs, before a round caught her in the neck just below her helmet’s chin strap, the bullet angling up through her throat into the base of her brain.

  Director General of Defense Hironaka telephoned the communications supervisor downstairs. “Takefumi-san, do you recognize my voice?”

  “Hai.”

  “We are experiencing difficulty on the direct circuit to the White House in Washington, D.C.”

  “What is the nature of this difficulty?”

  “We believe that the circuit is no longer secure. An impostor has someow broken in. The information we are receiving can no longer be considered valid.”

  “That is a grave situation.”

  “Cut the circuit for now, until we can determine who is doing this to us.”

  “Hai.”

  “Why hasn’t the White House responded?” Prime Minister Enchi demanded.

  “They asked for time to confirm what we’ve told them,” Nobunaga cautioned. “They may not have a satellite in position.”

  “Or they’re stalling,” Hironaka said, coming in and sitting down. “We must consider all possibilities and act accordingly.”

  “By attacking the Seventh Fleet?” Enchi said angrily. “That’s suicide.”

  “Without honor.”

  “We’re not discussing honor here. We’re talking about lives.”

  “Then we must do something, Mr. Prime Minister. Surely you can see that.”

  “But what?”

  “Show them that we are willing to defend ourselves, of course.”

  “Could the Japanese have built these repeating devices in such a way as to disguise who built them?” Lindsay asked.

  “Anything is possible, Mr. President,” Murphy admitted. He’d listened to the call from the FBI. “But there’s no reason for it. Everything else points their way.”

  “Too much.”

  “Sir?”

  “Everything they’ve supposedly done to this point has been highly sophisticated. But now I’m being told that these devices were probably constructed by an amateur. It doesn’t fit. We’re missing somethi
ng.”

  “I’m afraid I have more bad news for you,” Murphy said. “National Reconnaissance confirms that there are at least three Russian submarines in the Soya Strait. All of them are within Japanese territorial waters.”

  “This is insanity,” Lindsay said heatedly. “Get Enchi on the phone.”

  “Sir, that circuit is down,” one of the technicians said. “Their relay people say they are having some sort of technical difficulties.”

  Lieutenant Fred White steadied the P-3C ASW patrol aircraft against the low altitude wind gusts as they searched for the Samisho. The Barbey and Cook were slowly closing on the crippled Thorn’s position, and White had the feeling that the Japanese submarine was lying in wait for them. The sonofabitch was crazy. There could be no other explanation.

  “Skipper, we’re going to have company,” their ELINT officer, Ensign Carl Gifford, radioed.

  “What have you got?”

  “We’re being lit by many radars. The Doppler shift on two of them is really moving out. Looks like fighter/interceptors. Incoming.”

  “Roger. Get that off to Flag and to Foster.”

  Admiral Ryland’s helicopter was on final vectors for the CVN George Washington. The call from the White House was patched through the carrier’s communications center while they were still twenty miles out. It came on the heels of the update from the Orion on station above the Thorn and from the SAR units off Yokosuka who reported that they’d lost contact with the Marines cornered in base headquarters.

  “Admiral, you have a difficult situation coming your way,” Lindsay said. “And there’s not much we’re going to be able to do for you from here.”

  “We’re all in the dark here, Mr. President. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Prime Minister Enchi has formally asked for our military help against a Russian attack in the north.”

  “It’s a retaliatory strike, sir. The Russians won’t take it any further. We have no assets up there. But if need be the Air Force at Misawa should be able to help out, though I’d advise against it.”

  “It may develop into something more, Admiral. They’ve brought at least three nuclear submarines into Japanese territorial waters already. We’re waiting for updates, but we’ve already seen increased activity throughout the Pacific Fleet.”

  “What can I do, Mr. President?” Ryland’s stomach was sour.

  “How much of your fleet is still within Tokyo Bay?”

  “Sixty percent.”

  “The Japanese may try to blockade them from breaking out.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what my people tell me.”

  “You’re not to force your way out, unless you get personal word from me. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “If the situation warrants action I won’t hesitate. Are you clear on that as well?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ryland was beginning to wonder if he ever knew anything about military or political strategy.

  “Very well. How soon can you have your carrier battle group in striking distance of Soya Strait?”

  “With mid-air refueling we can go now. Give me eight hours and we can do a more accurate job.”

  “I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, Admiral. But time is critical. Eight hours may be too late.”

  “I understand, Mr. President.”

  “Godspeed, Admiral.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You too.”

  “It belongs to the Bureau,” District of Columbia cop Luis Vasquez said, looking up from the squad car’s computer.

  “So it was a crank call. These guys can take care of themselves.” Vasquez’s partner, Steve Shockley, looked across the street at the van. “Wonder what they’re doing here?”

  “Maybe I’ll ask, just in case it wasn’t a fruitcake.” The precinct had received a tip from an anonymous caller that there’d been a shooting off R Street near the Oak Hill Cemetery involving a GMC van.

  “If they’re on surveillance, they’ll tear you a new asshole.”

  “What else is new?” Vasquez asked. He got out of the squad car and walked across the street to the driver’s side of the GMC. No one was in front. He opened the door.

  “Yo, anybody home?”

  He cautiously stuck his head inside and recoiled at the sight of all the blood. “Shit!”

  FORTY-TWO

  The Samisho had eleven hours of battery power remaining before she had to surface. Less if she pressed the attack. Captain Kiyoda walked back to his compartment, locked his door, and then opened the door of a small cabinet beside his bunk. It was his Shinto shrine. He bowed before it, and thought about kami, nature, and what it meant to his life. He asked for benevolent treatment and protection for his boat and all who sailed in her, and for all who would fight and might soon die.

  To bear what you think you cannot bear is truly to bear.

  He thought about his sensei whose idea it was to place the rock, “future” and “hope,” in Yamagata-san’s garden. A haven for the body as well as the spirit.

  Your primary duty will be loyalty. Obedience to the call of duty. The sacrifice of everything for the emperor. For the laws and the state.

  A veil descended over Kiyoda’s eyes, and in the darkness a billion stars passed overhead, surrounded him, penetrated his body to the farthest corners of his soul. He smiled cruelly, his thin lips pulled into a grimace.

  Two years ago there’d been an incident at kendo in which he’d been carried away by the match and had nearly beaten his opponent to death before his comrades had pulled him away. Afterward he’d questioned his own sanity.

  Not to mar the pleasure or serenity of another by expressions of our own sorrow or pain is self control. He shows no sign of joy or anger. This is stoicism.

  His opponent had understood this and had said nothing about the incident. A few days later Kiyoda had put it out of his mind.

  Chi, jin, yu. Wisdom, benevolence, courage.

  Someone knocked at his door. Kiyoda slowly withdrew from his reverie. “Hai.”

  Minori came in. “Pardon me for interrupting you, Kan-cho.”

  “What is it?”

  “We are experiencing difficulties with one of our battery banks. Lieutenant Owada recommends that we shut down that cell and isolate the entire compartment.”

  “How will it affect our endurance?”

  “If the cell remains on line, power from the other batteries will be dissipated very rapidly. Perhaps two hours. If we follow Owada’s suggestion he can give us eight hours.”

  “Less if we attack?”

  “Hai, Kan-cho.”

  “More if we shut down every non-essential system, except for passive sonar, and reduce our life-support systems to fifty percent.”

  “We can operate with a skeleton crew, and the others can stay in their bunks. That will give us additional time. But at some point the CO2 levels will impair our abilities.”

  Kiyoda thought about it for a moment. A picture of his wife, Moriko, came into his mind’s eye, and he smiled again, this time gently.

  “Break out the emergency re-breathers from the escape trunks and issue them to all duty personnel.”

  Minori’s eyes widened slightly. “Hai, Kan-cho.”

  “The crew will understand.”

  “Shall I instruct Owada to isolate the bad cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well.” Minori started to withdraw.

  “Matte,” Kiyoda said. Wait.

  “Kan-cho?”

  The veil was completely lifted from Kiyoda’s eyes. He buttoned his tunic. “What is happening on the surface?”

  “Sierra-Zero-Four and -Five have slowed their speed of advance, and Sierra-Zero-Nine has begun to circle again.”

  “What of the fourth target?”

  “It is dead in the water. Drifting downwind.”

  A threat or not, Kiyoda wondered? Or an innocent vessel caught in the middle of a … storm? “What of the circling action?”
r />   “They are still wary of us.”

  “But we have not been discovered by their sonar?”

  “No, Kan-cho. Sierra-Zero-Nine is ten thousand meters out, the other two much farther. They have not found us. But they know that we are damaged. They may be waiting until we have to surface.”

  “Or until they find us.”

  “Hai,” Minori replied.

  “Other than the batteries, how is damage control coming along?”

  “The flooding has been stopped, and we still have weapons systems integrity.”

  “Then we are still a fighting ship.”

  “Hai.”

  “Then that is what we shall do, Ikuo,” Kiyoda said. “Return to your duties. I will join you in the conn momentarily.”

  “What do you mean, technical difficulties?” Enchi demanded. “I have personally asked President Lindsay for help, and now you say that the direct circuit to the White House is inoperative? Who is at fault?”

  “I cannot say, Mr. Prime Minister,” Hironaka admitted. “Our technicians are working to resolve the problem, if indeed it is one of a technical nature.”

  Enchi ignored the innuendo. The full Security Council had finally arrived. In addition to his cabinet, which included Hironaka and Nobunaga, also present were the ministers of foreign affairs and of finance, the chairman of the public safety commission, and the director general of the Economic Planning Agency. Businessmen, like himself. None of them had ever been involved in the planning or execution of an actual war, and yet the fate of Japan rested on their shoulders.

  “Has there been any response from the U.S. Third Air Force at Misawa?”

  “No,” Hironaka said. “Nor has there been any word from Admiral Ryland. It’s believed that he is no longer at his headquarters in Yokosuka. He’s probably already aboard the aircraft carrier George Washington, well off shore.”

  “The American naval base has been overrun,” the public safety commissioner said.