“Just a moment,” the President said. “Who is this former case officer of yours?” he asked Doyle.
“Kirk McGarvey.”
“Isn't there a warrant for his arrest over this business?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Did he kill Carrara?”
“It's not likely.”
“In other words, you have nothing conclusive.”
“No, sir,” Doyle admitted.
The President broke the connection, and looked at his advisers. “Now what the hell do I say to Enchi that'll make any sense?”
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McGarvey stood in the forward galley, the telephone to his ear wondering what he was going to tell JoAnn Carrara when he faced her. “Was it Mueller?”
“We think so, Mac,” Dick Adkins said. “But it's crazy here. No one knows what's going on, and everyone's afraid to make a decision until the General arrives.”
“Has the system been shut down?”
“Just the eight airports. There haven't been crashes anywhere else, and nothing in the past few minutes. Everybody is holding their breath. But the Japanese and Russians have gotten into it again, and our Seventh Fleet has been ordered to DEFCON THREE. The White House is about to start a war.”
“Have the Japanese made any moves against us?”
“The submarine north of Okinawa ⦔
“Besides that.”
“There are riots all over Japan.”
“Goddammit, Dick, has the government of Japan made any official move against us? Any military move? Has our fleet been bottled up in Tokyo Bay? Has Seventh's flag been moved off shore?”
“I don't know.”
“Find out,” McGarvey said.
“Doyle went to bat for you, but the President wouldn't
listen. Are you so goddamned sure it isn't the Japanese? They need facts up there now, not speculation. NSA is reading heavy traffic from the Japanese embassy here to its Ministry of State in Tokyo. Some of it has to do with the crashes.”
“I'll be on the ground in a few minutes. Have the General convince the President to hold off for as long as possible.”
“Where are you landing?”
“Gales Creek.”
“That's within Portland's air traffic control area, isn't it?”
McGarvey was caught off guard momentarily. “You said the eight airports have been shut down. What do you mean by that?”
“Just what I said: shut down. It was your suggestion. No traffic in or out, especially no Guerin 522s.”
McGarvey pushed his way past McLaren to the flight deck where Socrates was on another phone. The engineer looked up, sensing more trouble.
“Pull the heat monitor, George,” McGarvey said calmly. “Now.”
Socrates' gaze turned toward the windshield for a moment. They had closed the coast, and in the distance to the northeast they could make out a hint of Portland, snow-covered Mount Hood rising behind it. “Right,” he said. He put the telephone aside and climbed down into the electronics bay, Reiner and Callahan watching him.
“You'll have to go manual,” McGarvey told them.
“Too late, Portland ATC has us,” Callahan announced.
“It's disconnected,” Socrates called up.
McGarvey held his breath for a long moment, waiting for their port engine to explode, but it never happened. He looked down at Socrates, who was grinning weakly.
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The Vice President was slipping away from them. Excessive blood loss, early untreated shock, and severe trauma to the left side of his brain, which was swelling inside the cranial cavity, and to his heart, which was not responding
to their treatment. Navy doctor Captain David Scorse, primary ER physician working on Cross, had suspected they were too late when he'd first started his examination and treatment. Now he was certain.
“What's our ETA?” he asked without looking up.
“Five minutes,” someone said.
“We need to relieve the cranial pressure before then,” Scorse said, knowing they were just going through the motions. But the man was Vice President.
P
rime Minister Ichiro Enchi stared at his cabinet around the long table as he waited for President
Lindsay to come on line. His advisers were suggesting one thing while his heart was telling him something else. If the attack against the Vice President and the airplane crashes were not a result of Morning Star, either the Americans themselves were doing it or somehow the Russians were involved. They'd just learned about the attack on Wakkanai. Combined with Seventh Fleet's increased alert status, the unthinkable was suddenly becoming plausible. It made a terrible sense. Yet he could not believe, would not believe, that a battle between Japan and the United States was imminent.
The telephone chimed, and Enchi picked it up. “Mr. President, we are monitoring news reports on CNN of terrible disasters at several of your airports. And our observers in Washington have notified us of the developing situation. It is my understanding that Vice President Cross was on his way to Tokyo when his airplane crashed. May I offer my condolences for him and his wife, and for the crew and other passengers aboard Air Force Two.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, thank you for your concern. At this point it looks as if Larry Cross will be all right. But at least thirteen passenger airplanes have crashed in the past twenty minutes with a great loss of life. My security advisers believe that the crashes may have resulted from acts of sabotage by an as yet unknown group ⦠or government.”
The call was on the speakerphone. President Lindsay's voice was kept at a lower volume so that the voice of the simultaneous translator could be more easily heard and understood. The delay caused by this arrangement was negligible. But the inflection in the President's voice was unmistakable.
Hironaka, seated at the end of the table, bridled, but Enchi did not wait for him to speak.
“If your advisers are correct, and if this attack was made by terrorists or by a government-sponsored terrorist group, then it could be considered an act of war.”
“That is how we view the situation. We believe we have it under control for the moment, but the economic summit between our countries will have to be delayed until our investigation has been completed.”
Enchi touched the mute button. “Can they know about Morning Star? Should I say something?”
“It's possible but not likely,” Nubunaga said. “They do know about our military readiness, however.”
Enchi released the mute button. “I agree that we should delay the summit, Mr. President. As you may know by now, a Russian destroyer attacked one of our radar installations on the north coast of Hokkaido. We had to take action to protect ourselves. Since we cannot rule out the possibility of further attacks I have placed our military forces at DEFCON TWO.”
“We are aware of the attack, and of your response, Mr. Prime Minister. I have advised the Russian government against such an action, and I shall do so again. Because of the attack against us, I have placed our military forces at DEFCON THREE. But this must not be taken as provocative except by our enemies. We are merely taking a stronger defensive position.”
Again Enchi pressed the mute button. “Have all their forces gone to DEFCON THREE?”
“Only the Seventh Fleet and the Marine and Air Force installations on Okinawa,” Hironaka said. “It's obvious whom they consider their enemy to be.”
“It could simply be a response to our increased alert status.”
“They were ordered to DEFCON THREE
after
the attack on their air traffic system.”
Enchi released the mute button. “Your actions are understandable, as I hope ours are to you. I advise caution. Both of us face difficult situations that must first be resolved before we can go on.”
“I agree,” President Lindsay replied.
“May we keep this line of communications between us open, Mr. President?” Enchi asked.
“By all means. Let there be absolutely no misunderstanding between us. We have been friends for too long to act otherwise.”
Enchi cut the connection. “What can we do?”
“Defend ourselves,” Hironaka said. “There is no other consideration.”
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“The number's up to fourteen if you count Air Force Two,” NTSB duty officer John Hom said.
“I heard some of that on the way in,” Sam Varelis replied, heading for his office. He was having a hard time accepting it. “Has the FAA issued any orders?”
“Yes, sir. You were right about them all being Guerin 522s. So far it looks as if eight airports, plus Andrews, were involved. The FAA has shut them all down. Nothing in or out.” Hom handed him the list.
“That's a start.” Varelis dialed the FBI's counterespionage number. “We're going to have to dig deep to come up with that many teams. Have our regional offices been notified?”
“New York, Chicago, Seattle, and Los Angeles. We'll have to handle Dulles from here. But our last team is still in town. The 89th Air Wing is covering Air Force Two.”
“Any word on Cross?”
“He's still alive. They're taking him to Bethesda.”
“Get Sweedler on the phone. I'll talk to him next.” Alan Sweedler was President Lindsay's appointment as chairman of the NTSB. As a Washington insider, he had the connections to cut through the red tape.
The FBI's duty officer answered. “Three-nine-three seven-one hundred.”
“This is Sam Varelis, National Transportation Safety Board. I'd like to speak with John Whitman.”
“Sir, Mr. Whitman is not available.”
“Tell him this concerns Kirk McGarvey. I'll hold.”
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Dominique drove east on Interstate 66. Her numbness after seeing the news bulletins about the air crashes had given way to anger. Kirk had been right all along, and she felt like a fool for not believing him. They'd all been fools. Even David hadn't believed what McGarvey had come up with. And now this. They'd have to live with their mistake for the rest of their lives. It wasn't just the Japanese, as the news media was suggesting. There was more, and she was going to do something about it. She phoned a Georgetown number. It was answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Thank God it's you, Edward. When I saw the news about the Vice President ⦠I had to call to make sure.”
Reid hesitated. “Who is this?”
“It's me. Dominique. We had lunch together at the Rive Gauche.”
“Ms. Kilbourne?”
“You were right, Edward. McGarvey was dead wrong. It is the Japanese. We have to convince Guerin, and the FAA.”
It seemed as if Reid suddenly came back from a long distance. “Do you know where Mr. McGarvey is?”
“He's working with the FBI, I think. But I need your help, Edward. You're the only person who makes any sense.”
“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.
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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.”