In nearly twenty years of service Trooper Douglas Schultz had never been shot. But his luck had finally run out. He felt weak, his insides loose and watery, as if he had a serious case of diarrhea, but he marveled that there was no pain. He almost laughed out loud.
From where he lay on his back, his head turned to the side, he could see that he was on the highway with traffic coming his way. It’d be a hell of a note, he thought, to survive being shot only to be run over.
Holding his chest and gut with his right arm, he managed to turn onto his side and lever himself up to his knees.
The Probe was speeding away, too far to shoot even if he could aim. It was a bitch. He’d catch hell from the lieutenant for not wearing his vest, but the damned thing was uncomfortable. And Peggy was going to get on his case big time to quit the force.
“First things first, Doug,” he told himself, getting shakily to his feet. The entire world was spinning around, and the overcast seemed to have deepened in the past sixty seconds. At least traffic was slowing down.
He stumbled back to his patrol car, his legs impossibly long, his feet clumsy. He slumped against the side of the car and reached inside the open window for the microphone. “This is Three-Alpha-Seven, on eight-three north just past the Heresford exit. I need assistance. I’ve been shot.”
“Three-Alpha-Seven, roger, help is rolling.”
“It was the German the FBI is looking for. Bruno Mueller. He’s in a ninety-seven green Ford Probe, Virginia six-niner-zero-Zulu-Mike-Tango, northbound on eight-three. Woman is driving, thirty to thirty-five, short dark hair, dark eyes, wearing a black leather coat, a light color sweater or blouse beneath. Front-seat passenger is a man, late sixties, maybe seventy, large build, white hair, red complexion. He may be drunk.”
Schultz realized he was sitting on the pavement, his forehead resting against the side of his car. He felt a fluttering in his chest, but he was too tired to think anything about it. A little sleep was all he needed until help arrived.
“Mr. President, we’ve finally intercepted an ELF message from Vladivostok,” Amundson said from Fort Meade. “The decryption just came up. They are not calling for a withdrawal of forces.”
“What was the message?” Lindsay asked.
“Four code groups, sir. Directed specifically to the SSN Strelka. She’s a Sierra-class attack submarine. They warned her that the MSDF is bringing assets into the strait.”
“Yeltsin was lying,” Secor said.
“It would appear so,” Lindsay replied. “Have any shots been fired since the initial attack on the radar base and the sinking of the destroyer?”
“There may have been a torpedo launch from one of their ASW aircraft. But we’re still waiting for confirmation.”
“None of the Russian submarines has been withdrawn?”
“Not so far as we’ve been able to determine, sir.”
“Keep me informed,” Lindsay said.
“Is our ETA holding?” McGarvey asked.
“So far, so good,” Topper said. “Did you get anything from our guest?”
“He’s admitted that every 522 flying has been sabotaged. He brought down the American flight in ’90. They wanted to test the system.”
“Sonofabitch,” Topper swore softly. He looked over his shoulder at McGarvey in the doorway. “Why? Just to get control of an airplane company? We would have sold them all they wanted. Al Vasilanti was right all along. They haven’t changed since Bataan.”
“It’s not that easy, Gary. Someone else got in the middle.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“I want you to try to get through to the FBI. Talk to a man by the name of John Whitman. Tell him who we’re bringing in. He might have to talk to Adkins at Langley, but have them meet us when we touch down. And make sure the fleet is grounded. Worldwide, Gary.”
“Will do.”
“Is there a cassette recorder aboard?”
“There might be one in the locker aft of the head,” Topper said. “Do you suppose he’s telling the truth?”
“I’ll ask him.”
McGarvey started to turn when something hard smashed into the side of his neck just behind his right ear, the force of the blow driving him to his knees.
“Amerikajin,”Yamagata snarled. He grabbed McGarvey by the throat and dragged him to his feet. “I would have given you everything.” He shoved McGarvey back against the bulkhead and drove a knee into his groin.
It was a mistake. McGarvey had been momentarily stunned by the first blow, and his air supply was cut off so that he was seeing spots, but the sudden excruciating pain was like a shot of adrenalin. He tore Yamagata’s hand away from his throat and smashed his forehead into the Japanese’s face, just above the bridge of his nose, driving him backward.
Yamagata recovered quickly enough to sidestep McGarvey’s charge, smashing a rock-hard fist into McGarvey’s side, breaking three ribs, before he danced away.
“Mac! Here!” Topper shouted. He held out the Walther.
McGarvey glanced at the gun, then turned back to Yamagata, who had dropped into a karate stance, and was watching warily. A trickle of blood came from his nose.
“Just fly, Gary.” McGarvey closed the flight-deck door.
“It’s still possible to make a deal,” Yamagata said. “You can’t know what’s at stake.”
“Tell me again about Chance Kennedy,” McGarvey said, feinting left.
Yamagata threw his right hand over his defensive left, but instead of fighting by the rules and trying to deflect the strike, McGarvey reached up and caught the Japanese’s fist in mid-air, pulling the man off-balance against the seats.
Once again Yamagata recovered fast enough to pull away, expecting McGarvey to hesitate for just a split second, as most fighters would. Time enough to reverse direction and get inside the opponent’s reach.
Yamagata turned back at the same instant McGarvey’s roundhouse blow hit him squarely on the chin, breaking his jaw and knocking him nearly off his feet.
Still he had no real idea what he was up against. He managed to bat McGarvey’s left jab away and tried to kick for the kneecap, when McGarvey smashed a karate blow to the bridge of his nose, shattering the bone and tearing the cartilage loose.
“Iie!” Yamagata screamed, blood and bits of teeth expelling from his mouth.
“I don’t like bullies,” McGarvey growled, and he smashed the heel of his right hand upward against the bottom of Yamagata’s nose, driving the broken bones and cartilage into the Japanese’s brain, killing him instantly.
“The advantage could turn out to be ours,” SUR Director Karyagin told President Yeltsin. “But the situation is extremely fluid.”
They were alone for a moment in an antechamber outside the Kremlin’s situation room. Karyagin, who’d just arrived, was agitated.
“This was not the response we expected,” Yeltsin said. He’d approved the attack on Wakkanai against his better judgment because he’d seen the military logic of the situation. The Japanese were at long last starting to flex their considerable military muscle. Each success would spur them to greater adventures. Each failure would give them pause. For more reasons than anyone could count, the Russian Pacific Fleet was a shadow of its former self. There was much at stake including national honor and prestige.
“Because we didn’t have all the facts, Mr. President.”
“What have you learned?”
“The Japanese want war with the United States.”
“Nonsense!”
“On the contrary, Mr. President. In fact, it has already started under the code name Morning Star, and we have played a vital role toward ensuring Japan’s success.”
Yeltsin tried to find the advantage Karyagin was seeking with such a preposterous lie. But he couldn’t. “What do you mean?”
“Our Tokyo asset Abunai figured out that the attack against the American air traffic control system was just one element of a much larger plan. President Lindsay and his adviser
s believe the Japanese did it, but they have no hard proof. It enables Prime Minister Enchi to deny any involvement.”
“But the Americans will suspect he is lying.”
“For the moment,” Karyagin said. “But as soon as any serious fighting erupts between them, the Americans will call it off. They still have guilty consciences over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And President Lindsay is a moderate.”
“You’re not making sense. The Japanese could not possibly win.”
“But they can and will, Mr. President. All they want is a concession from the United States to leave the western Pacific to Japanese business, and the Japanese navy. Not such a big price to pay for peace. Lindsay will agree.”
“What part are we playing in this scenario of yours, Aleksandr Semonovich?”
“The Japanese forced us into attacking them so that they would have an excuse to mobilize their defense forces.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Press the attack against Japan.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We’ve served Japan’s purpose by striking against one of its radar stations. Now we’re supposed to back off. I think we should attack in force.”
“Then the Americans will help them.”
Karyagin shook his head. “I would agree with you, Mr. President, except for one overriding consideration. The Japanese navy has been ordered to contain the U.S. Seventh Fleet within Tokyo Bay. It is a clear act of aggression.”
“But why would Enchi give such an order?”
“Because he does not know who his enemies are. He is simply defending his country to the best of his abilities.”
“It is confusing.”
“Yes, Mr. President. And the confusion can be turned to our advantage. If Japan is forced to relinquish her plans for expansion, it will give us at least twenty years of breathing room in which to consolidate and strengthen the commonwealth.”
“You recommend that we attack Japan,” Yeltsin said.
“Yes, Mr. President. While the advantage is still ours.”
The P-3C ASW patrol aircraft climbed out of five thousand feet over the East China Sea so that it would be well above the surface clutter that might confuse a targeting radar. They wanted the oncoming Japanese fighter/interceptors out of Tanegashima to be crystal clear that they were heading away from the area.
They were running low on fuel, so it was about time to turn back to Foster anyway. But Fred White felt odd about ducking a fight, even if it involved an ally. Something screwy was going on. One of their ships was in trouble on the surface, but all Seventh ordered up was a single sub-killer with no backup.
“They’re turning away,” the ELINT officer said.
“Did you establish comms?” White asked.
“Skipper, we tried, but they didn’t answer on any of their tactical frequencies.”
“Okay. Keep a sharp eye.”
“What the hell is going on?” White’s co-pilot, Lieutenant, j.g., John Littlemore, asked.
“Beats me. I’d just like to see us start kicking some ass.”
“Yeah, right. Against the Japanese.”
Tony Benson, skipper of the George Washington, and his XO, Lieutenant Commander Paul Horvat, were waiting in the captain’s ready room when Admiral Ryland and his chief of operations, Tom Byrne, arrived. The nuclear aircraft carrier had turned into the wind, ready to launch her aircraft when the order was given.
“We’re at minimums, but the weather is supposed to hold or improve slightly over the next six hours, so we should be okay,” Benson said. He was a slightly built wire-haired terrier of a man.
“What’s the latest from Mike Hanrahan?” Ryland asked. Horvat handed him a cup of coffee.
“He’s been damaged, but he says he’s still operational. Can you tell me what the hell is going on, Al? The ASDF scrambled at least four Hornets out of Tanegashima and chased one of our Orions off station. Gene Hagedorn is waiting for word. He wants to put up a squadron of sixteens. It’d been screening for Okinawa. Can’t say as I blame him.”
“We’re not going to war with the Japanese,” Ryland said. “But we are going to defend ourselves.”
“The MSDF on Hokkaido has been ordered to DEFCON ONE.”
“What about their air force?”
“Intel couldn’t say, but I’m assuming the order included all their northern commands.”
“Makes sense if they’re expecting further attacks from the Russians,” Horvak suggested.
“Any answer from Admiral Shimikaze?”
“No,” Benson said. “But in about fifteen minutes the majority of our fleet is going to come head to head with the Forty-first. What do we tell them?”
“They’re to proceed unless challenged, in which case they’re to stand by.”
Benson raised his eyebrows.
“We’re going to stabilize that situation first, before we do anything else, Tony,” Ryland said. “In the meantime I want you to make best speed possible to the north. In a few hours we can be in position to carry on operations from Tokyo Bay all the way north to the Soya Strait.”
“Like I said, Al, what’s going on?” Benson said.
“I don’t know yet. I don’t think anybody does. So we’re going to wait until we find out. In the meantime, I want another Orion on station over the Thorn, and tell Hagedorn he can scramble one squadron, but I want them to keep station fifteen minutes out from the Thorn.”
Horvak lifted the phone on the desk and issued the orders.
“How about some breakfast?” Benson asked. “We won’t be needed on the bridge for several hours.”
“Just coffee,” Ryland said. “I talked to the President.”
“How’d he sound?”
“Confused, but in control.”
Benson managed a slight grin. “That’s something anyway.” He got serious. “I heard you lost some people at HQ.”
“Tony, that’s the part I understand the least. I think that no matter what happens it’s time for us to get out of Japan.”
“I hope it doesn’t become a moot point, Al.”
“Bridge, sonar, we have a positive contact,” the Thorn’s chief sonar operator Ed Zwicka said. “Depth two hundred feet, bearing zero-eight-five. I have hull popping noises … she’s on the way up. Turning now inboard … bearing changing to zero-eight-zero … speed six knots.”
“Roger,” Hanrahan said. “CIC, bridge. Don, how’s it look to the north?”
“The bogies are gone, but so is the Orion. Seventh advises us to stand by.”
“Is the admiral aboard the George Washington?”
“Last word I got, he was en route.”
“Means we’re on our own out here for the time being.” Hanrahan glanced over at his XO braced against the plotting board. They had a job to do, and he was going to do it. “Prepare to launch ASROC one and two on my signal.”
“Goddammit, Mike, are you sure about this?” Sattler demanded.
“Give me a firing solution, Don, or relieve yourself of duty.”
Ryder and the others on the bridge were looking at Hanrahan. The growler phone was silent. Sattler finally answered.
“Aye, aye, Skipper. Recommend we turn right to new course one-niner-zero.”
“Kan-cho, we have Target Motion Analysis on Zero-Nine,” the Samisho’s weapons control officer, Lieutenant Shuichiyo Takasaki, said.
A great serenity had come over Kiyoda. His crew could see it, and they were at ease. They understood.
“Open doors one and two.”
“Yo-so-ro, opening doors one and two,” Minori answered.
“Check weapons visually.”
“Yo-so-ro.”
They would be firing on the way up from a depth of under thirty meters. Since the Samisho’s mast-mounted sensors and periscopes were inoperative they would rely on the SQS-36 attack sonar for final range and bearing to target. The data would be entered automatically into the Japanese-designed GRX-2(2) torpedoes’ guidance systems.
“Weapons in place and armed,” Minori reported.
“Very well. Ping once for range and bearing, and a second time for verification, then launch. No further authority necessary,” Kiyoda said, his gut tightening despite his resolve.
The sonar went active for two pings.
“Target data entered,” Takasaki said. “Launch one. Launch two.”
The Samisho shuddered as the two torpedoes were launched.
“Bridge, sonar, two torpedoes incoming,” Zwicka shouted. “GRX.”
“Give me a bearing,” Hanrahan replied.
“On our port bow, low, on the way up!”
“Helmsman, make your rudder amidships.”
“Aye, rudder amidships.”
“Ring for all ahead slow.”
The Japanese torpedo was very fast and accurate, but its warhead was small, less than one hundred fifty pounds of high explosive. With a hit on the Thorn’s heavily plated bow they stood a good chance of surviving. The torp had one other weakness: it was guided by its own sonar.
“Launch sound-producing canisters aft,” Hanrahan ordered. “Bridge, sonar. Go active with the bow unit. Hit them with everything we’ve got.”
“Sonar, aye,” Zwicka responded. “Time to impact ten seconds.”
“Brace yourselves,” Hanrahan shouted. “Prepare to launch ASROC one and two on my order.”
“If we lose our bow sonar we’ll be blind,” Sattler warned.
“Time to impact, seven seconds.”
“The Barbey and Cook can give us targeting data,” Hanrahan said.
“We’re bow on,” Zwicka reported. “One of the torps is turning away … it’s definitely taking the bait! Now four seconds to impact on two.”
Hanrahan wedged himself against the radar console. The explosion hammered them, shoving their bows fifteen feet to starboard and momentarily stopping them dead in the water
“Damage reports,” Hanrahan shouted.
High Flight Page 82