‘It’s going to be close,’ Sohn said, arriving at the answers at the same time as Chun. ‘Do we have charts for Sakhalin? Are there mountains between us and Dolinsk-Sokol? When we cross the coastline we’ll have about 5600 feet of air under our wings.’
‘If we still have wings,’ said Kim behind him. ‘And no, we have no charts for Sakhalin.’
‘Sohn, take the controls,’ Chun commanded. ‘It’s time to inform the passengers.’
‘I have the controls,’ the first officer confirmed.
Chun lifted the handset off its cradle, turned the switch to ‘Announcement’ and increased the volume. ‘This is Captain Chun Byung-in speaking. A bomb has been detonated in the cabin just behind the wings. You can be assured that we have the aircraft under control. Please don your life jacket and follow the instructions of the cabin crew, who will now prepare for an emergency landing. We are confident of having you all on the ground safely in thirty-one minutes.’
The radio suddenly crackled to life: K*** *** **ro zero se**. Tokyo R***
Air traffic control in Tokyo was trying to raise them. The message was faint, garbled. KAL 007 was very low and far beyond range.
Chun replaced the handset and constructed the reply in his head before sending it. ‘Tokyo Radio. Korean Air zero zero seven.’ He waited for a response. There was none.
‘Tokyo Radio. Korean Air zero zero seven,’ he repeated.
Silence.
Sending a radio message was futile. He glanced at Sohn. KAL 007 was now completely on its own.
‘Tokyo Radio. Korean Air zero zero seven.’
‘Korean Air zero zero seven, Tokyo.’
‘Zero zero seven . . . ***fifteen thousand** . . . holding with rapid decompressions. Descending to one zero thousand . . .’
If there had been any doubt in Yuudai’s mind about 1300 being KAL 007, the radio message edged with fear clarified it. He put out of his mind the earlier bizarre radio call from 015 claiming to be 007 cruising along on Romeo 20.
The Chosa Besshitsu radar operator watched as 007 accelerated vertically downward from 35,000 feet, the altitude numbers attached to the blip tumbling away. He saw it all on the screen, the blood thumping in his temples, keenly aware that he was witnessing hundreds of men, women and children hurtling to their deaths.
But then he realized that perhaps he was seeing something else. If the plane was falling out of the sky, the descent rate would be much higher. He scrutinized the numbers with renewed interest. And hope.
And then, miraculously, the numbers slowed and steadied at 15,100 feet. The airliner had pulled up at a breathable altitude. The 747 had not suffered a catastrophic failure of its systems or airframe as a result of the missile attack. He examined 007’s heading. It was now on 220 degrees. The Russian fighter pilot had launched his missiles and one or more had struck home, but the big jumbo had survived the hits—at least for now. On his screen, he could see that the fighters had bugged out, low on fuel, the pilots certain their quarry had been obliterated.
The aircraft was continuing on its heading, now in international airspace, but far from land. How badly had the missiles damaged it? Obviously, there was something seriously wrong with the plane—it was flying very slowly, crawling along. What were the pilots’ intentions? They hadn’t broadcast a mayday call.
The radar return on his screen began to turn to the north around tiny Moneron Island. It was a descending turn, a rapid one. The target continued through 360 degrees. ‘Bikkuri shita!’ he murmured. Damnit! 007 was circling the island. Were they intending to ditch into the sea? If so, where was that mayday call? The airwaves were silent.
The aircraft proceeded to turn around the island, losing a lot of height. Yuudai shook his head. Ditching was not a good option. What were the pilots thinking?
‘Keep turning,’ he whispered, willing them to take the only real course of action open to them. The blip circled the tiny, wind-blasted island, losing more height and very rapidly. Was he witnessing the plane’s final moments? And then it suddenly straightened its course and maintained altitude. A new heading of thirty-two degrees. Yes! The pilots were backtracking toward Sakhalin, into Soviet airspace.
The speaker crackled to life, the Russian Deputat controller vectoring two new fighters to search for the plane. Yuudai saw their radar returns appear on his screen as they climbed within range of the powerful Wakkanai facility, but the Korean plane had departed the area.
‘Korean Air zero zero seven. Tokyo Radio.’
The only response was static.
‘Korean Air zero zero seven. Tokyo Radio. That’s unreadable. Radio check on one three two decimal eight.’
Tokyo Radio was trying to raise Korean Air Lines 007. There seemed to be some response, but it was unintelligible. Perhaps it wasn’t 007 that had tried to respond, thought Yuudai. Tokyo Radio tried again several times but without success. And still the blip on Yuudai’s radar screen flew on.
The 747 had lost around 6000 feet of altitude as it spiraled over Moneron, but now it had leveled off and the island was miles behind it. Extrapolating the heading, Yuudai could see its probable destination: the military base at Dolinsk-Sokol on Sakhalin Island.
‘There is a runway there,’ he said, his lips barely forming the words.
KAL 007 was managing around 220 knots, very slow by a 747’s standards. It was barely making four miles per minute. On the aircraft’s current heading it would be over the coast of Sakhalin in just under eight minutes.
For every agonizing second of those minutes, Yuudai watched the airliner limp toward Sakhalin. The Russian fighters were continuing to search for it, but in the wrong place. The airwaves were completely silent now, the 747’s VHF and HF radio out of range, too low to be picked up by anything other than perhaps Russian ground controllers. The airliner had lost more height, bleeding it off slowly. It was at 6100 feet, maintaining the descent rate of 300 feet. Ahead were low ranges with hills topping out at 1700 feet. The crippled 747 would scrape over them with a couple of thousand feet to spare.
Yuudai willed the aircraft forward. The blip flickered, now well over Sakhalin Island. And then it disappeared. It was on his screen and then it wasn’t. Yuudai was sure it hadn’t exploded. The 747 had merely slipped under the curved rim of the horizon, beneath his radar coverage.
‘Airman Suzuki. Airman!’
All at once, Yuudai became aware that someone was speaking to him. He turned and saw an American lieutenant colonel. A patch on the man’s uniform told Yuudai the colonel’s unit was the 6920th Electronic Security Squadron.
‘They’re going to make it,’ Yuudai said. ‘They’ve got a chance.’
‘We don’t know that,’ the American told him.
‘Yes, we do. Didn’t you see?’
‘I didn’t see anything,’ the colonel insisted.
‘But—’
‘I didn’t see anything. And neither did you, Leading Airman. This is an international incident. We are dealing with the Soviets. You will be told what you saw.’
‘Sir.’
‘Secure the radar data tape of the incident and deliver it to my office immediately so that it can be provided for the investigation.’
‘What investigation is that?’
‘The investigation that will undoubtedly follow.’
‘Yes, sir.’
When the officer had gone and his shift was over, Yuudai secured the tape.
‘What does that mean?’ Garret wondered. ‘Has it crashed?’
They’d watched the transponder code representing KAL 007 lose height over Moneron Island, a controlled descent to 15,100 feet, and then lose more height in a spiral over the speck in the Sea of Japan. It had then set a course back toward Sakhalin, while the Russians were flying around seemingly blind—chickens without heads. It was comical. Almost.
‘I can’t tell you with any degree of certainty,’ said Hamilton, his neck cramped from looking up at the monitors, all his fingernails peeled off and dropped onto the thick
sound-absorbing carpet at his feet.
‘Terrific,’ Garret replied.
‘It could have blown up in midair, suddenly dived, or it could simply have flown below the horizon of the facility providing the feed.’
‘That’s Wakkanai,’ said Garret, checking.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Fuck,’ said Garret. ‘All the technology in the known universe at our disposal and we have no sure way of knowing what just happened to an object bigger than a football field and weighing 250 tons, give or take. What do we do?’
‘We wait, sir. The Russian reaction will fill in the blanks.’
‘They’ve already notified their navy to start searching the water for wreckage,’ said Garret. ‘Why do that?’
‘They’re either flying totally blind, or they’ve already begun a program of disinformation.’
‘What do you think?’ Garret asked.
‘Sir, my years of operational experience tell me the Reds wouldn’t know if a pogo stick had been shoved up their ass sideways.’
January 20, 2012
Key West, Florida. Ben thanked the FedEx guy and took the package inside. He cut off the top of the bag with a kitchen knife and a cell phone encased in bubble wrap dropped into his hand, along with a charger. Akiko would be receiving hers at the same time.
According to Tex, the rules were simple. When contacting each other, there would be no SMS texting or video calling, no direct references made to KAL 007, no names to be used—of each other, Curtis Foxx or Yuudai Suzuki. They weren’t to store numbers in the phones’ memories, and they were to wipe the phones’ logs after every number dialed or received. All calls were to be under thirty seconds’ duration and should be used only to establish and/or confirm meeting places and times. The cell phones used pre-paid SIM cards, the handsets were new, and everything had been paid for with cash by one of Tex’s employees.
‘Owning a Radio Shack has to be good for something,’ Tex had said.
The phones could not be used out in the open, as they’d then be susceptible to directional listening devices and conventional surveillance techniques. It was amazing what could be done with a video camera and a lip reader, Tex told them. The NSA had vast resources and if they were seriously employed, it would be impossible to keep the phones secure. Nevertheless, if the three of them played by the rules, Tex believed they’d be safe to use for possibly up to two weeks, but only because, like a lot of mega organizations, the NSA had issues with inertia.
Tex said he would notify both Ben and Akiko when their private network was operational—their cell phones would ring twice. They were to then find a suitably private location in which to receive the call that would follow exactly half an hour later. Tex would be phoning to let them know where and when they were to meet next.
Ben unwrapped the cell and turned it on. The icon indicated that it was fully charged. He placed it back on the bubble wrap and returned to his breakfast: a boiled egg and a couple of slices of toast. He’d gone back to work, and Akiko was staying at the Crowne Plaza, taking in the sights like any tourist would. They hadn’t had any contact with each other or Tex since the meeting four days ago. But that didn’t mean Ben had stopped chewing things over. What did Akiko want from him? It wasn’t a roll in the hay, though the thought had occurred to him—she was attractive. This went way beyond anything he’d experienced before. It was like being been pulled into something he couldn’t get out of, and Curtis and Yuudai Suzuki were the ones doing the pulling.
The doorbell rang. Ben checked the time. He was due at work. Who could that be? Akiko? The bell rang a second time as he opened the door.
‘Good morning. I’m Investigator Englese and this is Investigator Sherwood. We’re with the National Security Agency. Mind if we come in?’
Ben blinked with surprise. It was Lana. Sherwood was the bodybuilder guy she’d told him was her brother. The lady had balls showing up, he had to give her that. He caught the initials on their shields before they were taken away: NSA against an eagle clutching something in its talons. It was a key. How appropriate. Lana was wearing a navy pants-suit and a cream-colored shirt. Her hair was brushed back off her face and behind her ears. She looked considerably different from the last time he’d seen her.
‘I have to go to work,’ he said.
‘This won’t take long.’ Lana was smiling. The muscle man behind her was smiling, too.
‘Just say what you’ve got to say and then say goodbye,’ Ben told her.
Lana’s smile faltered. Her bodyguard’s disappeared.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble, Ben,’ she said.
‘So are you. I didn’t use a condom.’
Lana glanced down, then looked up, rearmed. She knew damn well he had.
‘Can I have my key back now?’ Ben asked.
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. Now can we go inside, please?’
‘Seeing as you asked so nicely,’ Ben said.
Turning, he walked inside with Lana and her partner following. He saw the new cell phone sitting on the cupboard and cursed himself for forgetting about it. Keeping his body between it and the two investigators, he moved to the cupboard and clumsily swept the opened FedEx bag and bubble wrap into the trash along with the phone and charger.
‘Last Thursday you took US Airways Flight 4062 to Orlando,’ Lana said, reading from a PDA. ‘You took a cab to the Bank of America on Sand Lake Road. At the bank, Petulia helped you use this key to open box number 007.’ The key made a tinkling sound when she placed it on the table. ‘You then left the bank and returned to Key West on US Airways Flight 3073. You arrived at 4 p.m., picked up your car from the short-term parking lot and then drove to MEOW radio station. Why did you do that?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ Ben said, his pulse racing, his mouth dry. He had to think fast. Had they been following him all this time? If not, how had they managed to piece together all his movements? Did they know about Akiko? ‘You seem to know everything else I did,’ he continued, doing his best to keep the anxiety out of his voice.
‘I’m giving you a chance here, Ben,’ said Lana, her eyes dead and flat. ‘You risk being in a lot of trouble. You’re withholding sensitive material.’
‘I’m going to call my lawyer.’
‘You’re not under arrest, Ben. We’re not cops. We just need a few answers.’
‘I have no idea what material you’re talking about.’
‘Why did you go to the radio station?’
‘MEOW do our advertising. I went there to congratulate the guy who wrote the ad—pat him on the back. The man’s a genius.’
‘You saw a man by the name of Omar Mavis. You had something you wanted him to play. A reel of tape. We want it.’
The hair on the back of Ben’s neck prickled. They knew.
‘And why’s that?’ he asked. ‘Why’s it so important?’
He examined her face, looking for the woman he’d made love to. She didn’t appear to be in.
‘I’m not at liberty to say,’ Lana replied.
‘It takes two to have a conversation. If you won’t talk, then why should I?’
‘This is not a conversation, Ben. This is the National Security Agency asking a law-abiding citizen to cooperate with a matter of national security.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘We want the tape,’ Sherwood said, stepping forward.
‘As you talked to Omar,’ Ben said, facing Lana, ‘you’d know the tape was junk. He’d have told you we played it and got nothing. I had it in my car when I met you at Captain Tony’s. It was in my bag when we came back here and you fucked the daylights out of me.’
Lana’s eyes sparkled dangerously.
‘Watch your mouth,’ warned Sherwood.
Lana raised her hand in a gesture that said, ‘It’s okay, I can handle this.’
‘I threw the tape in the trash after you left,’ Ben said.
‘I don’t believe you. Just hand it over.’
‘It’s gon
e to landfill, Lana. So you can go back to wiretaps or whatever it is you do in between pretending to be a Bond girl.’
The muffled sound of an old fifties wall phone rang twice.
Lana paused and turned toward the source. ‘It seems your trash is ringing, Ben. Now why’s that?’ she asked, glancing at her Seiko to mark the call time.
September 1, 1983
Over Sakhalin Island, USSR. Nami found herself seated beside the man with the cowboy hat, up behind the galley in what she believed was the forward-most economy section. With the passengers from the rear of the plane evacuated and relocated forward, the section Nami was seated in was crowded. But the wind and engine noise weren’t so bad here, and the air wasn’t alive with flying papers.
The plane hit an air pocket and bounced. A collective gasp peppered with screams rippled through the passengers. The engine noise rose to a shriek and then dropped back. The ride was rough. Everyone could feel the tenuous grip the pilots had on the enormous bucking, seesawing, rolling beast. What would happen when they tried to land it? Nami wondered with a shudder.
Some passengers had horrific injuries. One woman had lost the muscle on her upper arm, peeled off like a banana skin back to the bone. She had fainted. Twenty minutes later she was still unconscious. It was probably a blessing, Nami decided. A man had lost several fingers off one hand, and she’d overheard two of the flight attendants saying that another man had lost an eye and the tip of his nose. There were other injuries, too. She wasn’t sure what they were, but the congressman and another doctor were attending to many people.
Nami’s head had started to throb and itch, so she’d taken the pills the congressman had given her. She glanced around, feeling as if she was floating an inch or two off her seat. She noticed that the couple across the aisle were writing farewell notes to loved ones. The woman was distressed, sobbing, clutching a photo, looking at it and then sobbing some more. Nami wanted to comfort her but she knew that the woman was beyond a few words of reassurance. She wished that she had a photo of Akiko and Hatsuto to look at. In the back of her dazed mind she recognized that the photo taken at the airport would be the last one her husband and daughter would have of her.
The Zero Option Page 18