The Chinese Agenda (7 page)

This view of the mountain range from ten thousand feet and a vantage point of seventy miles made it clear why the Soviets had insisted that the mission start from Ala Kul. It would be a straight flight due south to the massive escarpment that marked the beginning of the Tien Shan. In some ways the escarpment reminded him of the eastern flank of the Sierra Nevada range in California. At midrange, the northeastern wall of the Sierras was a single, three-hundred-mile-long massif rearing above the Owens Valley. The Sierras had been caused, he knew, by some eons-old series of cataclysms that had literally snapped free the crust of the mantle and tilted it upward like a broken paving block. He wondered if

a similar event might not be responsible for the Tien Shan. Gillon turned back to the airfield in time to see the Migs touching down. Moments later, the edge of the runway flashed past beneath and the Jetstar was down and taxiing after the Migs as they made for a hangar on the far side of the field. The airfield had a curiously deserted air about it, in spite of the bustle around an Aeroflot TU-144 airliner loading passengers at a small terminal. Heads turned in curiosity as the Jetstar taxied past and Gillon wondered if the national markings were still in place. They had been when he boarded the plane in Conakry, but they could easily have been changed in Rome without him having noticed.

The Jetstar eased to a halt in front of an old worn-out hangar. Staring through the window at the weather-beaten building, Gillon reckoned that it must have been built at least thirty years before, probably before World War II to protect the Russian southern flank as the Japanese had moved westward. Now it merely served as a forward base from which this 'safe' area of the Chinese border could be watched. There was, Gillon realized, only the remotest possibility that the Chinese would dream of mounting a land attack through the harrier imposed by the Tien Shan. Border actions might certainly be fought in the high passes and meadows, but hardly anything more serious. Only someone with the courage and stubbornness of a Hannibal would even dream of trying, and technology had long ago replaced elephants with less efficient means of locomotion. And further, since this territory was never in dispute with the Chinese, there was little likelihood that they would press for border adjustments as they had done further north along the Sinkiang border, or in the Far East along the Ussuri River. Gillon studied the building opposite them some three hundred feet. To judge by the multitude of signs nailed to its front the hangar did double duty as an administrative center. Weather-beaten and paint peeling, it nevertheless did not induce that empty feeling that most such World 'War II-vintage military buildings all over the world did, whether still in use or not.

Jones got up and reached into the rack for his parka. Gillon did the same, and, shrugging it on, he joined the others in the aisle, stretched and waited for the next-development. Shortly, the co-pilot stuck his head into the cabin.

'Captain says you may as well go on and get out. The control tower doesn't speak English and now they won't even answer us. Nobody else seems to be around.'

A worried frown appeared on Jones's face for a moment, but he motioned toward the back of the cabin. 'Let's go see what the holdup is all about.'

Leycock nodded and with a glance at the carbines in the overhead racks, walked to the hatch, unlatched and shoved it open and pushed the button to extend the ramp. The sun had been up for less than two hours, but already the sky was an intense cobalt blue with scattered, blindingly white clouds. The terrain, incredibly flat, stretched unbroken, west to the horizon. To the east, it butted sharply against the distant Tien Shan escarpment. From the level of the airfield, the mountains were completely covered with snow; the slopes icy gray and blue with long lines of shadow lacing sharp white ridges. The intervening distance was ethereal, mirage-like in quality, so that it seemed no more than a walk of a mile or two to the rearing barrier of snow and ice. Gillon turned to the north; again a similar vista. Flat steppe covered with snow stretching away to the horizon, the monotony of the terrain somewhat relieved by the demanding line of peaks curving away to the northeast. Gillon was struck by the majesty and serenity of these vast mountains.

He shook his head and glanced around to see if the others were as affected as he was by the quiet immensity of Central Asia. After a subdued moment, Leycock coughed in the cold air and the spell was broken.

'God almighty,' Stowe muttered, stamping his feet. 'This place is about as deserted as those mountains.'

'Don't let it fool you,' Jones said tightly. 'Neither is. This place is full of Russians and they are probably wondering who the hell we are because some damn fool clerk in Moscow forgot to process the paperwork. And,

over there,' he said, pointing toward the mountains, àre more Chinese soldiers than you ever thought existed, all waiting for us to come bumbling across their border.'

His words were strangely prophetic and Gillon was to think back on them bitterly in the coming days. Stowe snorted. 'You're probably right . .

Òver there,' Leycock interrupted, pointing across the field. A bright red snowplow, almost black in the distance, was plodding comfortably down the far runway. A crystal plume of blown snow towered thirty feet above the cab, spraying a fine mist of flashing rainbows as it drifted slowly in the bright sunlight.

`Hey, you guys, wake up.' The co-pilot was standing above them in the hatch with a pack in either hand. He tossed both down and reached back inside for two duffle bags. which he passed down to Gillon.

`What are we supposed to do with these now?' Stowe yelled up at the co-pilot.

`For God's sake, if you don't know by now, then you _ better get hack .' He stopped abruptly and stared at the hangar.

`Who the devil?' Jones began, and took a few paces forward. The sound of booted feet trotting in rhythm floated around the side of the hangar and Gillon moved up next to Jones just as a squad of Russian soldiers trotted into sight. There were ten soldiers, five abreast and all carrying rifles at port arms while a sergeant trotted beside them calling cadence. Gillon and Tones stared at each other in surprise and both stared hack to the Jet-star just as two jeeplike vehicles roared up behind, one jamming to a stop in front of the aircraft's nosewheel, effectively blocking any movement, and the other skidding to a halt beside them. A young officer vaulted out as the soldiers reached them, rifles levelled.

`What in hell is going on here . .. ?'

The officer pushed Jones back and pointed. Instantly, four soldiers sprang forward to grasp each of them by the arms. Four more stepped in front of Jones and looked him up and down.

Àmerikanet?'

Jones glanced around at the other three and nodded vigorously.

'Yeah, yeah . . . Amerikanets

. Amerikanets . .

The officer nodded. 'Da, Amerikanets . . . Amerikanets. Shpion.'

'Like hell:. Jones shouted, and fumbled through his long-forgotten college Russian. Nyet, nyet Amerikanets shpion, drug K Rossii.'

The Russian officer merely snorted at that and motioned to the soldiers, who closed in tightly and began herding them toward the hangar. Gillon managed a glance over his shoulder in time to see the pilot stop, halfway down the ramp, beside the co-pilot, mouth open in surprise. A rifle barrel jammed painfully into Gillon's back was as good as a command in English to face forward and he did so, promptly. The officer, who had jumped back into his jeep to follow, climbed out again as they reached the building and pushed ahead to shove open the door. They were shoved inside and, with gestures, the officer made them understand that they were to sit down along the wall. Stowe jerked his arm away and shook his head. 'Like hell I will!' he shouted. His guard reversed his carbine and swung it hard to his midsection, but Stowe stepped to one side, parried the swinging weapon and kicked the soldier neatly in the back of the left knee. He went down in a heap and several soldiers rushed Stowe. The soldier he had knocked down, a short, thickset Tartar by his deep complexion and slanted eyes, got slowly to his feet and started toward Stowe, who stood waiting, shoulders hunched against the pressure of the arms that held him immobile. Gillon took a deep breath, forced himself to relax and eyed his guard warily, estimating his chances of jumping him; from the corner of his eye he saw Jones and Leycock tensing. The officer snapped a command and the soldier hesitated. The officer spoke again, his voice cold and flat, and the Tartar stepped back, hitching his carbine sling and glaring at Stowe, suggesting plainly that the incident was by no means forgotten. The officer, hands behind his back, stepped forward. 'Very much . . . regrettable . . .' he stuttered in heavily accented English. 'No permission . . . here . . . war base.' He waved at the floor again.

'Sit . please.'

When they still hesitated, the officer lost his patience and they were shoved down against the wall by the soldiers. Three remained, rifles ready, while the others withdrew to the far side of the room. At a brief word from the officer, they relaxed, dug, cigarettes out of their parkas and lit up. One of the soldiers, a corporal from the markings on his hat, stepped forward and tossed a pack across the room to Leycock. Leycock looked at Jones, who shrugged. Leycock dug one out and handed the pack to Gillon, who took one and motioned to his pocket for a match. The soldier shook his head in warning and produced a small box of wooden matches, which he tossed across the room. Gillon caught it and lit the thin, flattened tube and inhaled the heavy, greasy smoke, thinking that the cancer potential must be fantastic. Stowe, still angry, hurled the cigarettes back across the room.

'Damn it, this is ridiculous. There's got to be somebody in the place who speaks English

. . . or something besides Russian. This is nothing more than a lousy Communist stall . .

'Shut up, Stowe, before you get your head blown off. These people aren't fooling.' Jones sat back against the wall and stretched his legs out comfortably. But Gillon noticed that the hands he shoved into the parka's pockets were shaking slightly.

'You might as well make the best of it, because until someone comes to bail us out ..

'Maybe you think so . . .' Stowe started to get to his feet. The racketing blast of a carbine smashed through the room and splinters burst from the wall above Stowe's head. He sat down abruptly. The Tartar soldier that he had knocked down lowered the muzzle until it was pointing directly at Stowe's head, smiling in expectation. Gillon relaxed slowly and settled back against the wall, being very careful that he made no sudden moves. Jones, too, half on his knees, hands pressed against the floor to spring, subsided as the machine gun waved in his direction. Stowe leaned forward slowly, then turned back to stare at the line of splintered bullet holes just above his head. For once, he was completely speechless. The Soviet officer had been halfway across the room when the firing started; now he turned slowly, as if afraid of what he might see. His gaze raced over the four Americans and he exhaled in relief as he realized that the shots had been fired in warning. Before he could react further, the door on the far side of the narrow room was flung open and a second Russian officer strode in. He took in the room in one quick glance and without breaking stride, walked across to the young officer. His voice was quiet enough as he spoke in Russian, but it was too carefully controlled, his anger too obviously suppressed. The soldiers, surprised by the sudden shots and the even more sudden entry of the officer, were galvanized into action. The one with the carbine snapped to attention and the others retreated as fast as they could to the far side of the room. The first officer came quickly to attention, his face burning as he tried to explain. Apparently, he was successful, as far as Gillon could tell, because the newcomer nodded and snapped a single word. Both the soldier and the young officer were visibly relieved as he turned and strode across the room to stare down at the Americans.

`You are Americans?' he asked abruptly.

Jones nodded. 'Yes, we are Americans.'

Ànd what are you doing in the Soviet Union?'

Gillon could detect no trace of accent in his well-modulated voice. He could have grown up in any one of the northern mid-western states; the only fault Gillon could detect was the too exact pronunciation.

`What the devil do you mean, what are we doing in the Soviet Union? We are on a toppriority joint mission and our orders require us to report to a Colonel Andre Dmietriev.'

`There is no such person here,' the officer stated firmly. 'You are American military personnel? You arrived in an aircraft belonging to the United States Air Force?'

Jones shook his head. 'No, we do not belong to the military, the aircraft was ,

`Not military,' the Soviet officer interrupted smoothly. 'If not military, then what?'

`Look, this is ridiculous,' Jones stammered. 'If we didn't belong here, why did you let us land? Our pilot had clearances for this airfield, clearances that were issued in Moscow. We received permission to land from your own control tower! '

'And what would you do if a strange aircraft appeared on your radar screen? We sent fighter aircraft in pursuit but before they could make contact, you had asked for permission to land. Since you did not take evasive action when my aircraft appeared, we decided to let you land and then find out why.'

'Nonsense,' Jones snorted. 'If you had any doubts at all, you would have shot first and asked questions later. You are too damned close to the Chinese border for any other action to be considered.'

'We are friendly with the People's Republic of China and would have no cause to show alarm if one of their aircraft accidentally strayed across the border.'

Gillon laughed at that and turned to Jones. 'Brother, this guy is worse than a divorce lawyer. It looks to me like your people have fouled up this mission from the word go.'

Jones turned on him, an angry retort ready, but Gillon ignored him and studied the Russian.

'All right, buster, there's one way that you can find out what's going on here. Either your people don't think you can be trusted' – he paused to see if the Russian would take the bait – 'or they forgot to send you the message . . . that is, of course, assuming that it ever left Washington.'