Talmadge looked toward the open door into his building and started toward it when the first cop, now just a few feet away, fumbled at his side for his night stick.
“Ugokuna,
” the cop shouted as he got the night stick out.
Such a stupid little toy, the thought popped into Talmadge's head, but the Jap looked like he was going to use it. Fuck, he wasn't going down this way. Not a chance in hell.
The cop was raising the night stick when Talmadge batted it out of his hand, and snatched the big automatic pistol out of the Jap's holster. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other cop pull out his gun and bring it up.
This wasn't happening! Fucking hell, it wasn't happening!
Talmadge raised the SigSauer 9 mm automatic and pulled off four shots as fast as he could squeeze the trigger. An old woman in the crowd fell back, and then the cop went down, the right side of his head exploding.
Something hard came down on his right collarbone. His right hand instantly went numb, and he dropped the pistol. It was the first cop. The sneaking sonofabitch had hit him from behind with the night stick.
Howling in pain, Talmadge came around with his left fist, swinging it like a bludgeon, smashing the cop in the head, knocking him backward off his feet.
Still the cop tried to get up and come after him, so Talmadge scooped the pistol off the pavement with his left hand and awkwardly pumped three shots at point-blank range into the Jap's chest.
More sirens were approaching now, and despite the fact he'd killed two cops and possibly the woman, and held a gun in his hand, people kept streaming into the crowd. People screamed and shouted. Called him names, called him a killer, taunted him ⦠he didn't know what, but he was frightened. He couldn't kill all of them, even if he wanted to.
But Christ, it hadn't been his fault. He had not meant to kill the bitch, but she'd gone on and on at him. He'd
told her from the beginning to just leave him the fuck alone in the morning. At least until he had his coffee. And then everything would be hunky-dory. But she wouldn't let it go.
He stepped back toward the door to his building, the crowd louder now, the sirens closer.
And the cops, Christ, what the hell was he supposed to do? Let the bastards shoot him down? Well, fuck that. That part he'd do the same if he had to do it over again. It was simple self-defense, goddammit!
He turned and sprinted across the sidewalk when a bottle tossed from the crowd caught him on the back of the head, and he stumbled forward, slamming his right knee into the concrete steps, pain temporarily blotting out his vision.
“Sonofabitch,” he shouted, but it only came out as a croak. He started to bring the big pistol around when it was grabbed from his hand, and someone kicked him in the side of the head.
The little bastards. Always attacking from behind.
They were kicking him in the head, in the neck, in the back. Rolling him over, kicking him in the chest and stomach and groin.
He was done. The fuckers. There were too many of them. And their blows didn't even hurt anymore, as it all began to fuzz out, coming down to a point.
T
he Aeroflot Ilyushin Il-86 the Russians provided for the return trip to the States was a far cry from the Guerin P522 that had brought them to Russia. Even fitted out for the diplomatic service, as it was, its accommodations were narrow and cramped. Everything
was chipped or worn and in need of replacement or refurbishment. The half-dozen Russian engineers and finance people who would continue to Portland to work with the plant development, design, and construction engineers didn't seem to notice the shabbiness. Neither Kennedy nor any of the other Guerin executives saw fit to point it out to them. The differences would become painfully obvious when they were given the grand tour at Gales Creek.
Heading west they would gain eight hours, so their twelve-hour flight from Moscow would put them on the ground four clock hours after they left. It made for a long day.
Socrates and his staff were huddled in deep discussion with some of the Russian engineers, while the others either slept or tried to. A pall of sadness hung over them, and it affected Kennedy more than the others because he and Socrates would stay in Washington to work with the NTSB on the accident investigation. It would be them, not their staffs, who would have to reassemble the remains of the airplane. He wasn't looking forward to it.
Sir Malcolm O'Toole, Rolls-Royce's chief designer, was already on the scene, and without a doubt the old lion was doing a lot of growling. Under most circumstances the Brit was a delight to work with. But this time would be infinitely different. Two engine failures in ten years was, on the surface, a fantastic performance record. It would be like driving an automobile for ten million miles with only two problems. But the crashes were apparently caused by the same malfunction. How many other Guerin airplanes would fall out of the sky?
They'd just finished lunch and Kennedy was seated alone with his thoughts when McGarvey sat down beside him.
“I had the flight engineer tune in the BBC's World Service. You went down four points yesterday.”
“I know,” Kennedy said. He'd spoken with Vasilanti about it last night just after the market closed in New York.
“I'm assuming that isn't a big enough drop for them to start the run on you.”
“Not a serious run. So far as we can tell there were no big buys or institutional trading. Presuming our fleet isn't grounded, we'll start to come back in ten days or so.”
“What would another crash like that do to you?”
“Don't even think it,” Kennedy shuddered. “But if it happened within the next year or eighteen months we'd be in for a hell of a bad time. We might not survive even just one more crash.”
“What about two crashes, or even three or more within the next ten days, before you recover from this one? Could you weather it?”
“Not a chance in hell, Mac. Unless Washington bailed us out.” One of the problems was the scaled-back military establishment. Just a few years ago Guerin, McDonnell Douglas, and even Boeing depended heavily on military orders. Now that that market was all but gone the airplane manufacturers were cash poor.
“Along with our accounts payable and federal taxes outstanding, this year's drawdown on our long-term debt is running at nearly four billion dollars. Match that against our accounts receivableâfor all the airplane deals we've financed for the airlinesâwhich amounts this year to only three billion, a lot of it slow to come, and you can see we're in the hole. Al wants to spend one billion on the Moscow facility in addition to what we've already spent at Gales Creek, which means our ass is out in the wind.”
“That's what they'll do.”
Kennedy looked bleakly at McGarvey for a long second or two. It's a tough world out there, his father told him years ago. But sitting here now he was sure his father hadn't a clue just how tough it really was.
“It's hard to keep a handle on it,” he said. “What do we do? Voluntarily ground the fleet until we can prove Mintori is on the verge of killing a lot of people? We'd go bankrupt. Or continue flying as long as the FAA allows
us to, and face the risk that you are right, and that they will bring down more of our airplanes? In which case we'd also go bankrupt. Is that what you're telling me, McGarvey, that we've been placed in a no-win situation?”
“If we can prove the Japanese are behind this before something else happens we'd be able to block their takeover move and save a lot of lives.”
“According to your timetable you'd have less than ten days in which to do it.”
“That's right.”
Kennedy looked up the aisle toward Socrates and the othersâall good people who earnestly believed that designing and building safe and efficient airplanes was more important than working simply for profit. Boeing had taught them that lesson. Make a good airplane and the profits will be there. Safety first, money second. But this assault on them by the Japanese, if it was true, was so monstrous it was nearly impossible to believe. It could not be allowed to succeed. If they gave in now, more than an airplane company would have been lost. He knew that he was being melodramatic, but it was true nevertheless. When one section of the fabric of a country was tornânot altered, not exchanged for something of like value, but tornâthen the entire country was diminished.
“Ten days, Mac,” he said. “At the first incident, at so much as a hint that something's about to happen, I'll ground the fleet myself.”
“Agreed,” McGarvey said. “But it's going to get ugly.”
“It couldn't get worse.”
“Oh yes it could, David. And it will.”
Â
Russian Foreign Intelligence Service Director Aleksandr Semenovich Karyagin was of the new generation of Russian politicians, those who'd not been involved with the Great Patriotic War of 1940-45. At fifty-five he didn't remember the end of the war, but he clearly remembered the privations afterward, the post-Stalin years in which the gulags continued to flourish. As a
result he'd become a Russian patriot as well as a practical man who knew how to bend with the times in order to survive. It was a knowledge that many of his contemporaries had not learned. Some of them were dead or still in exile, while others, like General Polunin, sitting across the desk from him, had risen as high as they would ever get. Every time Polunin came up here he fairly radiated animosity and jealousy, which was fine with Karyagin. It provided the raw energy and zeal so vital to an intelligence-gathering organization. And, in the end, Polunin would serve as a scapegoat should the situation go awry.
“What has Mr. McGarvey provided us as a quid pro quo?” Karyagin asked, looking up from the bound report Polunin had brought him. “No mention is made of it here. In fact did he tell us anything?”
“Nothing substantive, Mr. Director.”
“I see,” Karyagin said. He sat back and stared at his general. Polunin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“You may recall that McGarvey told us in very certain terms that he would not spy on his country, even if he did have access to the White House, or the seventh floor at Langley. Neither of which he has, so far as I understand the situation.”
“What about his control officer, Colonel Yemlin?” Karyagin asked.
“He's on his way back to Washington. Should arrive within hours of the Guerin flight.”
“What is his impression, General?”
“A provision of the U.S. State Department's approval of the loan package is an early settlement of the situation in the Tatar Strait.”
“Were our navy or air force to retaliate, the loan guarantees would be withdrawn. Is that the substance of Colonel Yemlin's report?”
“That is the substance of his speculation, Mr. Director,” Polunin said, refusing to be drawn into the trap. “I omitted it from my report because Colonel Yemlin told me that Mr. McGarvey never made a direct statement to that effect.”
“Something must have been said to give him the impression.”
“Generalities. Hints. Vague suggestions. Nothing more, Mr. Director.” Polunin was in uniform, as if to distinguish himself from the strictly civilian element of the SUR.
“Why are they suddenly being so coy?” Karyagin asked half to himself. “If our cooperation is so necessary to the loan guarantee, then why hasn't Washington told us directly?”
“Presumably Guerin's executives want to make certain that we understand the distance between them and their own government. This is not a Washington-sponsored project, although Guerin's government must approve of the exchange of technologies.”
“In other words the incident in the Tatar Strait should have nothing to do with our deal with Guerin Airplane Company.”
“That is Yemlin's thinking.”
Russia was in a difficulty position. Unless some response were made to the Japanese attack on its frigate in Russian waters, what little credibility the eastern fleet had would evaporate, Karyagin thought. But Yeltsin was following the Guerin negotiations with a sharp eye. The deal was very important for a number of reasons, not the least of which were the jobs it would create and the influx of Western currencies it would generate. On another level the deal was important because of the ongoing tension between Russia and Ukraine. Kiev was to the former Soviet Union's aviation industry what Seattle and Portland were to America's. If Moscow could come out as a rival it would do wonders for Russian prestige, not only at home but around the world as well.
They were walking a very tight line.
“Has Tokyo Station provided us with any further information?”
“Not yet, Mr. Director.”
“I want to review any new material before it is passed to Colonel Yemlin for transmittal to McGarvey.”
“Of course.”
“What of the airplane crash in Washington? Were the Japanese responsible?”
“Tokyo Station has no word on it, but Washington's official preliminary position is that it was an accident.”
“Does Guerin Airplane Company share that view?”
“No,” Polunin said. “From what was discussed among them here as well as in the air, they suspect that this Japanese
zaibatsu
may be behind it, and may be planning other accidents within the next ten days.”
“If they are correct, and if they cannot prevent this from happening, their company will be ruined. Am I correct?”
“Yes, Mr. Director.”
“Then I will send a personal message to Tokyo Station to make this problem their number-one priority.”
So close, Karyagin mused, and yet so far. Strange how the world had changed so dramatically in the last seven years.
Â
The timing was incredible. As Edward R. Reid watched the CNN bulletin and then the follow-up reports on the killings and the riot in Yokosuka, he could hardly believe his good fortune.
It had all the earmarks of turning out like the Rodney King incident a few years ago in Los Angeles in which a black man had been severely beaten by a group of cops. The entire country had been affected by what appeared to be a clearcut case of police brutality. When the police officers were brought to trial for use of excessive force they were acquitted, and Los Angeles was hit by the worst riots since Watts. Never mind that Rodney King was a criminal. Never mind that just minutes before the beating he'd apparently gone berserk and according to witnesses was a real threat to the cops. The glaring message Americans focused on was that a group of white cops had beat the living hell out of a lone black man.
The same could be true with this incident in Japan. So far as the early news stories were reporting, a U.S. Navy enlisted man had murdered his Japanese girlfriend, and
when the Japanese police attempted to arrest him he disarmed one of them and shot them both to death. The mob of civilians that had gathered went after the American and beat him to death. Probably rightly so, Reid thought, but it wouldn't play that way.
A lone American servicemanâa boy actuallyâaway from home in a strange, often hostile country, is backed into a corner by an angry, out-of-control mob, armed men in uniforms closing in on him. He does the only thing he can do, the only thing any reasonable red-blooded American boy would do in the same situationâhe defends himself the best he can. He's well trained. The U.S. military is the best-trained military in the world. So he manages to protect himself for a few minutes. It's all been a misunderstanding, he pleads, but the horde has gone crazy. It was an accident, he pleads. But it is to no avail. They swarm over him, pulling him limb from limb, trampling him into the foreign soil so far from home. All the training in the world could not have protected him from the crazed mob. He was one boy, alone, in a strange land. Now he is dead.
Americans love their melodrama.
Â
Bruno Mueller was upstairs in a bedroom across the corridor from Zerkel's computer room. The genius and his brother had been tapping into computers all day longâFederal Aviation Administration, National Transportation Safety Board, State Department, Department of Defense, Dulles Flight Traffic Control, any government agency that had anything even remotely to do with the investigation. So far the crash was still being classified as an accident. Although Guerin engineers were questioning that preliminary finding, as was a British design engineer from Rolls-Royce, nothing to this point indicated sabotage.