Authors: David Hagberg

Critical Mass (42 page)

BOOK: Critical Mass

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DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF INTELLIGENCE TOMMY DOYLE KNOCKED once then stepped into the darkened room just off Roland Murphy's seventh-floor office. The general was asleep on the cot that had been brought up.

“Mr. Director,” Doyle called from the doorway.

Murphy looked up immediately. “What is it?”

“Fukai's 747 took off thirty-two minutes ago and headed east as it climbed to altitude. The pilot filed a flight plan direct to San Francisco.”

The DCI sat up. “What time do we have?”

“Coming up on one-thirty in the afternoon,” Doyle said. “Three-thirty Tokyo time.”

“What's their ETA in San Francisco?”

“Another nine and a half hours would make it eight tonight, their local.”

“All right, it gives us a little time.” Murphy shook his head and looked up. “No word from Kelley Fuller about McGarvey?”

“No, sir.”

“Tell Phil to pull her out of there right now. Bring her back here to Washington. Then have my secretary call the President for me. We'll get the FAA and, I suppose, the Air Force started.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Director, but I have a better idea. Their ETA over Honolulu is around six this afternoon, local. It'll still be daylight. Why don't we have the Navy send up an intercept from one of their carriers out there? Seventh Fleet.
The
Carl Vinson
is five hundred miles west of the islands right now.”

“You've done your homework,” Murphy said. “I'll check with the President first. But he's going to want to know what happened to McGarvey.”

“Yes, sir, we all want to know.”

“Who was Kiyoshi Fukai, or was that just a fictitious name?” McGarvey asked conversationally.

They had raced east into a brilliant sunrise, after which the two stewardesses served them breakfast of tea, steamed rice, fish, raw eggs and other delicacies, which everyone but Liese seemed to enjoy. The dishes had just been cleared.

“Actually he was my chauffeur, Mr. McGarvey,” Nakamura said. “A loyal, if somewhat unimaginative fellow, who was killed in Hiroshima in the atomic blast.”

“You would be well advised to curb your tongue, McGarvey,” Endo warned, the automatic on the couch at his side, but Nakamura held him off with a gesture.

“Actually I am curious about one thing. Perhaps Mr. McGarvey will tell us how his government has supposedly uncovered our little adventure. If they have.”

“I wouldn't be here otherwise,” McGarvey replied.

“I don't think that's the case,” Nakamura countered. “If the CIA had its proof we would not have been issued clearance to land at San Francisco, or to overfly the entire continent. No, I think that you were here for two reasons: To get the proof, and for revenge.”

McGarvey shrugged. “In any event my absence will be reported.”

“By the woman who visited headquarters with you?” Endo asked. “My people will soon find her. And kill her.”

Again Nakamura held him off with a gesture. “Let us spare Mr. McGarvey the details. For now, my curiosity remains about how my real identity was guessed.”

“It was simple, actually,” McGarvey said, watching Liese out of the corner of his eyes. She'd put away her gun, but she was still very nervous. The armed guard was no longer at the
forward door, which meant only Endo's weapon was close at hand.

“Yes?” Nakamura prompted.

“We understood early on that some organization or individual was assembling the materials to build a nuclear device, using General Spranger's group of losers as mules. That's why I was hired in the first place, and that's why they kidnapped my wife and daughterâto lure me away from you. Of course, it didn't work. They're not very good at what they do.”

“At least you won't survive this flight,” Liese said sharply.

“And do you think you will?” McGarvey asked. When she didn't respond he turned back to Nakamura. “It left two questions: Who could afford to finance such a big project, and who would have the motive? In other words, what was the target?”

“Why did you turn to Japan?” Endo asked, his right hand resting loosely on the pistol.

“We wouldn't have, except for the murder of Jim Shirley in Tokyo. It was a mistake on your part.”

Endo said something in Japanese to Nakamura, who responded in English. “We will be perfectly open and aboveboard here. The murder of Mr. Shirley was a mistake, at least in its timing. But we were given reliable reports that James Shirley was involved in financial dealings with the same party we were using to transfer funds into Ernst Spranger's European bank accounts. It was a most unfortunate coincidence. But it still does not explain how you connected what was happening with me.”

“I was in Paris when the Airbus was shot down. I recognized one of the terrorists as an ex-STASI hitman. During the investigation the French found one of your encrypted walkie-talkies, and the same sort of device was found in Tokyo after Ed Mowry was killed.”

“There was more?”

“The French Action Service told me that they'd been investigating Spranger's organization for some time, and with
the cooperation of the Swiss they learned that Spranger had been recently paid a substantial amount of money in yen.”

“My name?” Nakamura asked.

“You could afford it, you have been very vocal and outspoken about your hate for America, and if TSI Industries were to be destroyed in a nuclear blast, you would stand to gain billions of dollars.” McGarvey smiled blandly as he tensed. “And, you stupid, vain little man, humble Japanese chauffeurs do not rise up to become multi-billionaires. It's the fatal flaw in your system.”

Nakamura reared back as if he had been slapped in the face.

“If you think you'll get anywhere near U.S. territory with this aircraft, you are even more foolish than I thought.”

Liese grabbed her purse and started to pull out her gun. But Endo, his face a mask of rage, snatched his own weapon and leaped up, blocking her line of fire as McGarvey hoped he would.

Nakamura shouted something in Japanese, but it was too late.

At the last possible instant, McGarvey shoved aside his seatbelt, jumped up, body-blocked the charging Endo, and brought his left knee up into the Japanese's groin with every ounce of his strength.

All the air left Endo's lungs with a grunt as he fell back on top of Liese. She had managed to get her pistol out and it discharged, tearing through the man's back into his heart, killing him instantly.

Nakamura jumped up from his seat with surprising agility for a man his age, and scrambled on the deck for Endo's gun.

McGarvey roughly pushed him aside at the same moment Liese got herself untangled from Endo's body, and brought up her weapon.

McGarvey was on her in two steps, snatching the gun out of her hand before she had a chance to fire, and nearly breaking her wrist in the process.

She was like a wild animal, hissing as she shoved Endo's body completely away with almost inhuman strength. She
jumped up directly at McGarvey, who managed to sidestep her charge. He hit her in the jaw with his right fist in a round house punch that snapped her head back, knocking her unconscious.

McGarvey spun on his heel, swinging the Bernadelli in a short arc, left to right. But Nakamura was gone. Probably up to the flight deck to warn the crew. They were still hours from the U.S. West Coast which gave them a little leeway, but as desperate as they might be, Nakamura's people would be very careful about firing any weapon at this altitude.

One of the stews screamed and an instant later there was a shot, and then a second, from somewhere forward and above.

McGarvey braced himself for the explosive decompression, but after a second or two, when it didn't occur, he went to the half-open sliding door and cautiously looked out into the galley, toward the stairway and the door to the communications center.

The two young stewardesses were huddled together in the galley, a look of abject terror on their faces. They shrank back when they spotted McGarvey.

For a long beat McGarvey couldn't make sense of what was happening. Two shots had been fired. At whom? The crew on the flight deck? Why?

But then it came to him in a rush, and he had the very bad feeling that it was already too late. Nakamura was insane, but he was also dedicated and brilliant.

Shoving the sliding door the rest of the way open, McGarvey stepped across to the stairway. There was no sound from above, only the dull roar of the jet engines.

He turned back to the young women. “Did Fukai-san go upstairs to the flight deck?”

The women shrank even farther back into the corner. They were shaking, tears coursing down their cheeks.

“This is important for all of us. We may be killed. Did he go upstairs?”

One of the stews nodded. “
Hai
,” she whispered.

“Is there anyone else up there except the pilot and co-pilot?”

The young woman shook her head.

“Where did the guards go?”

“They did not come with us.”

“What about in there?” McGarvey asked, motioning toward the communications bay.

“No one there. Fukai-san operates the equipment. No one else.”

“Hide yourself somewhere,” McGarvey said. “And no matter what happens do not come out until we have landed.”

Making sure that the Bernadelli's safety catch was in the off position, McGarvey made his way upstairs. At this point it didn't seem likely that any of them would survive this flight, but he'd at least wanted the young women out of the way for now.

Except for the light coming from the open door to the flight deck, the upper level was in darkness, all the windowshades pulled down.

He could see the pilot and copilot still strapped in their seats, slumped forward. They were not moving.

Nakamura had killed them, leaving no one to fly the plane.

McGarvey cautiously came up the last two stairs at the same moment Nakamura stepped out of the shadows to the right.

“Don't shoot or the bomb will explode,” the Japanese billionaire said. His voice was gentle, almost dreamy. In his right hand he held Endo's Heckler and Koch, in his left a small electronic device like a television remote control, his thumb poised over the button.

McGarvey pointed the pistol at him. He could not miss at this range. The bullet would kill the man, but it would not exit his body to penetrate the pressure hull of the airplane.

Nor would it stop Nakamura from pressing the button, even if it was only by reflex action. If the man was telling the truth, and there was no reason to think he was not, the bomb would explode.

But before they made it to the West Coast, if they got that far with no one flying the plane, McGarvey told himself that
he would have to take the chance. There was no other choice. But for the moment, at least, there was still a little time.

“What do you want?”

“Drop your gun.”

“I won't do that,” McGarvey said. “You won't shoot me, because I might manage to fire back, and the bomb would explode. Out here over the Pacific, it would do no harm. Nor will I shoot you first. I don't want to die. So it's a stalemate.”

Nakamura thought about it for a moment. “They're dead in there. The crew. But what about Endo, and Ms. Egk?”

“He's dead, she's out of commission. Put down your gun and I'll put mine down. You'll still have the detonator.”

“As you wish,” Nakamura said, and he uncocked his pistol and casually tossed it aside. “Now yours.”

“I lied,” McGarvey said.

“I'll push the button,” Nakamura shouted, raising the remote control.

“Go ahead,” McGarvey replied calmly. “Push it, you crazy bastard. It's just us now. Push it. Do it.”

LT. COMMANDER DONALD ADKINS, CHIEF OF THE COMBAT Information Center aboard the
CVN Carl Vinson,
was in a foul mood. He figured that from the captain on down, every line officer aboard the carrier was going to end up in deep shit if this mission somehow got away from them, or if the slightest screwup were to occur. The White House is watching: It was the word of the day.

Adkins stood just behind the senior operator's console in the Air Search Radar Bay, watching the inbound track of the Japanese civilian aircraft. A decision was going to have to be made, and soon. They were expecting it topsides right now.

“Talk to me, Stewart,” he said.

Chief Petty Officer Stewart Heinz adjusted a control on his console. “No change, Commander,” he said. “She's still losing altitude at a very slow rate, and still inbound at 603 knots on a 281 radial.”

The
Vinson
was steaming west, into the wind, nearly 435 nautical miles north-northwest of the Hawaiian Islands. The moment the airliner had come up on their Long Range Radar system, the captain had ordered them into the wind at their best launch speed of 38 knots. A pair of F/A-18 Hornets were waiting in position on deck for the go-ahead.

Adkins glanced over at his chief plotting officer, who shook his head. Nothing had changed. Their best estimate at this point was that the 747 was probably on autopilot, on an easterly course, and descending, that would put it at an altitude of about 5,000 feet somewhere over San Francisco.

“Perfect for a maximum damage nuclear airburst,” Air Wing Commander Roger Sampson had replied when told.

“If he doesn't stand down, we nail him,” the captain said. “It's going to be as simple as that.”

“How far out is he now?” Adkins asked.

“He's just coming across my 125 mile ring,” Heinz said. “If nothing changes, he'll be overhead in just under thirteen minutes.”

Adkins turned and went immediately to his console, where he picked up his direct line phone with the Air Wing Command Center. “Adkins, CIC,” he said. “The time is now.”

“Red Dog One, ready to launch on my mark,” the command came from Air Wing.

Lt. Joe Dimaggio, in the lead F/A-18 on the steam catapault, sat well back in his seat, bracing his helmet against the headrest. “Red Dog One, ready,” he radioed.

“Three, two, one,” and it was as if a gigantic foot had kicked him in the ass, as the steam-driven ram accelerated his aircraft down the short length of deck, off the bow of the carrier.

Immediately he hit his afterburner, pulled back sharply on his stick, and a second later hit the landing-gear retract button.

Before he passed five thousand feet, his wingman, Lt. (j.g.) Marc Morgan joined him just below and behind his port wing.

“Intercept course coming up,” Dimaggio radioed, as the data was relayed from the
Vinson's
CIC directly into his aircraft computers, and flashed on his HUD (Head-Up Display). Among other information, he was given the best course and speed to his target. Time to intercept, in this case, was less than four minutes.

“Let's take a looksee,” Morgan radioed. They were friends, and like most pilots enjoyed an easy comradery, even in combat missions. They'd both flown in the Gulf Crisis.

“Good idea,” Dimaggio replied, and they pushed their throttles to the stops in unison.

“I won't push the button, unless I'm forced into it, until we reach our destination,” Nakamura said. “But you won't shoot me, you'll wait for me to make a mistake so you can take the detonator.”

“We're heading for San Francisco,” McGarvey said. “But how do you intend on landing the plane â¦” He cut himself off, and turned to look across at the flight deck and the dead officers. He took a step in that direction.

“Stay away from there or I'll detonate the bomb now,” Nakamura warned.

“We're on autopilot heading for San Francisco. But you don't intend on landing. Once we're over the city â¦ what, five, ten thousand feet? â¦ you'll push the button.”

Nakamura's eyes were mesmerizing. He was a powerful, purposeful man, and had been all of his life. But he was insane, and therefore unpredictable.

“Do you believe that I will do this thing?” he asked.

McGarvey nodded.

“I will, but it is good that you know it. It will make the remainder of the flight more pleasant.” Nakamura motioned toward the stairs. “We'll go down to the lounge. I would like to have a drink.”

“We should be near Hawaii,” McGarvey said. “The Navy will probably send someone up from Pearl to check us out.”

“We're on a legitimate flight plan, approved by your traffic control authorities. No one will bother us.”

“I'm missing.”

“You won't be connected with this flight. In any event your government would not dare interfere with me.” Nakamura shrugged. “Even if they are suspicious, they will wait until we land to ask any questions, or to seek my permission to search the aircraft.”

The bastard was right.

“Even in that unlikely event, it wouldn't matter,” Nakamura
was saying, but McGarvey wasn't really hearing the man. Somewhere between here and the West Coast he was going to have to take the detonator, no matter the risk.

“A drink,” McGarvey said. He uncocked the pistol and stuffed it in his pocket, then turned and went downstairs, Nakamura right behind him. The women were gone.

Nakamura stopped at the galley. “Where are they?”

“They're hiding. They think you're crazy.”

“Different,” Nakamura said wistfully. “I've always been different.”

There was no answer to that statement. McGarvey led the way into the main cabin.

Liese had evidently regained consciousness long enough to shift position. Her eyes were closed now and her breathing was labored, but she was lying on her back a few feet away from Endo's body, her left arm twisted under her head as if she were merely lounging. Her long, tanned legs were spread, and her skirt had rucked up over her thighs, exposing a thin line of dark pubic hair. She wore no panties.

“She was a lesbian,” Nakamura said looking at her. “Ernst Spranger told me that at the beginning, though he said she would do my bidding.” He smiled fondly. “And she did. Once she unlearned her bad, Western habits, she became quite good.”

“You'll miss her,” McGarvey said, going around to a wet bar at the rear. He poured himself a cognac. “You?” he asked over his shoulder.

“A cognac will be fine,” Nakamura said. “Yes, I suppose I will miss her, but at my age I'll miss almost everything.”

It was the most human statement the man had made, though it was the direct opposite of what most eighty-year-olds might say. In his life he had gotten everything he wanted, and he had wanted practically everything. Now that he was at the end, he wanted even more.

McGarvey turned with the drinks, but then froze. Nakamura was kneeling at Liese's side, the detonator still in his left hand.

“Liese,” he said gently. He touched her thigh with the fingers of his right hand, then traced a pattern on her skin.

Nakamura was looking at her legs and pubis, but McGarvey had seen her eyes flutter. She was feigning unconsciousness.

“Liese,” the old man cooed softly. His fingertips flitted lightly over the lips of her vagina. He slowly bent forward and kissed her there.

Liese moaned softly, her legs spreading slightly, and Nakamura leaned even farther forward.

Her right hand came down to his face to guide him, and her touch spurred him on. Suddenly she was holding a long, wicked-looking stiletto in her left hand, and before McGarvey could move or say a thing, she plunged the blade all the way to the haft into the back of Nakamura's neck, angling it upwards into the base of his skull.

McGarvey's breath caught in his throat. If the bomb went off now, he wouldn't feel a thing. The entire airplane would be vaporized in a matter of milliseconds, much too fast for his senses to react in any way.

But Nakamura simply relaxed down on top of Liese, every muscle in his body instantly going limp, the denotator slipping out of his hand, the weight of his body pressing against her thighs.

McGarvey dropped the drinks, and sprinted forward to grab the detonator at the same moment Liese shoved Nakamura away and grappled for it.

She reached it first, and held it up in his face, a triumphant look in her eyes, then pushed the button.

Dimaggio came in from above and to the north of the eastbound 747, made a tight nine-G turn, cutting back on his engines and almost instantly dropping his speed out of the supersonic range.

Morgan dropped in on the starboard side of the big jetliner and together they matched speeds, hanging just a few yards off the big plane's flight-deck windows.

For a moment or two Dimaggio wasn't sure what he was seeing, although the tail numbers and dove insignia matched his intended target. But he could see the pilot and copilot.

“Fukai Semiconductor aircraft on an easterly heading, north of the Hawaiian Islands, please come back. This is the U.S. Naval warplane off your port side,” he radioed.

There was no answer. His communications would be monitored and recorded aboard the
Vinson,
just ahead of them now.

He pulled out his motorized drive Haselblad camera and took a half-dozen shots of the 747's flight-deck area, then got back on his radio.

“Red Dog Two, this is One. Marc, what do you see over there?”

“I see the crew, but they look â¦ dead to me, Joe,” Morgan radioed.

“Brood House, this is Red Dog One, you monitor?”

“Roger.”

“What do you advise?”

“Stand by.”

Dimaggio dropped a couple of meters lower, and mindful that the 747's wing was just aft of his own tail, he eased in a little closer.

From here he could definitely see that the crew was dead.

“Brood House, this is Red Dog One. The crew are definitely dead. I see blood on the back of the pilot's head.”

“Roger,” the Air Wing CO radioed. “You are authorized to arm and uncage your weapons. Designator, Yellow Bird three-easy-love.”

Dimaggio quickly flipped through his authenticator book. “Wild Card seven-one-delta.”

“Roger,” the
Vinson
radioed dryly.

“Red Dog Two, I'll take aft and starboard.”

“Right,” Morgan radioed back, and they both peeled away, making looping turns right and left, as they climbed to get above and behind the big airliner. They both uncaged their AIM-7F Sparrow air-to-air missiles.

Nothing happened. Liese pushed the button again, but still nothing happened. Nakamura had been lying. The bomb was
evidently set on a timer, or there was some sort of a coded sequence in which to push the button.

McGarvey yanked the device out of her hand and got up. But again she was like a wild animal, driven by some inner compulsion to attack and kill. She viciously yanked the stiletto out of Nakamura's skull and leaped up.

McGarvey stepped aside, pulled out the Bernadelli, cocked the hammer with his thumb and shot her point-blank in the face.

The bullet entered her skull just above and to the left of the bridge of her nose, destroying her face and snapping her head back. She was dead before she crumpled to the deck.

McGarvey turned and sprinted back up to the flight deck, manhandling the pilot's body out of its chair in time to hear someone on the radio.

“Fukai Semiconductor aircraft on an easterly heading north of the Hawaiian Islands, this is your last chance to respond before we fire.”

BOOK: Critical Mass

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