Fortunes of War (36 page)

Weapons filled two rooms. So did listening devices. Who would have believed that so many types of bugs existed?

It took Janos Ilin an hour to find what he wanted. There were six of them in a little drawer in an antique highboy from the early Romanov era. The polished wood was three hundred years old if it was a day.

He checked the logbook. None of these items were listed. Ilin examined the half dozen. They had tags on them bearing dates. He selected the one with the latest date. It would have to do.

Back at Q's desk, he put the logbook back on the shelf and returned all the keys to the desk drawer. He stirred them around so that none were in their original position.

Could he safely leave Q alive?

That was a serious question and he regarded it seriously. If the man talked to the wrong people…

Perhaps the thing to do was just arrest him. Hundreds of people were in the cells now. One more would make no difference. When this was over Q could go back to his job none the worse for wear, as, one prays, would all the others. There was a risk, of course, but it seemed small, and Ilin would not have any more blood on his hands. The blood was becoming harder and harder to wash off.

How much blood is Kalugin worth?

Ilin left the James Bond department, turning the lights out and locking the door behind him. He rode the elevator up to his floor, then went into a suite of offices adjacent to his. His men were there with Q.

“Put him in the cells. Hold for questioning.”

Q collapsed. One of the agents tossed the last inch of a glass of water into his face.

When Ilin left the room, the man was sobbing.

It was one of those rare summer evenings when the clouds boil higher and higher and yet don't become thunderstorms. Hanging just above the western horizon, the sun fired the cloudy towers and buttes with reds, oranges, pinks, and yellows as the land below grew dark.

Bob Cassidy led his flight of four F-22s south, up the Amur valley, toward the Japanese air base at Khabarovsk. They were low, about a thousand feet above the river, flying at just over the speed of sound. To the east and west, gloomy purple mountains crowned with clouds were just visible in the gathering darkness.

Two F-22s carrying antiradiation missiles to shoot at any radar that came on the air were approaching Khabarovsk from the west. Farther behind were two more F-22s. Joe Malan was leading this flight, which was charged with finding and attacking airborne enemy airplanes.

Earlier that evening Cassidy had vomited so violently he didn't think he could fly. He had started thinking about Jiro and Sweet Sabrina again, and gotten physically ill. The doctor had given him something to settle his stomach. “I think your problem is psychological,” the doctor had remarked, which brought forth a nasty reply from Cassidy, one he instantly regretted. He apologized, put his clothes on, and went to fly.

The mission had gone like clockwork. Two tankers flying from Adak, in the Aleutians, rendezvoused with the fighters precisely on time a hundred miles north of Zeya. If all went well, they would be at the same rendezvous in sixty-four minutes, when the eight strike airplanes needed fuel to make Chita. If they weren't, well, eight fighter pilots were going to have a long walk home.

As usual, Cassidy was keyed up. He was as ready as a man can be. The wingmen were in position, the data link from the satellite was presenting the tactical picture, and the plane was flying well, smart skin on, master armament switch on, all warning lights extinguished.

And there wasn't a single enemy airplane in the sky. Not one.

The satellite downlink must be screwed up. Again.

“Keep your eyes peeled, people,” Cassidy said over the encrypted radio circuit. Perhaps he shouldn't have, but he needed to.

Should he use his radar? Take a peek? If the enemy still didn't know he was coming, they would certainly get the message when his radar energy lit up their countermeasures equipment.

Twenty-five miles. The planes in his flight spread out, angling for
their assigned run-in lines. The targets this evening were the enemy aircraft and their fueling facilities: the trucks, bladders, and pumping units.

Where were the Japanese?

Had they caught them on the ground?

His fighter was bumping in mild chop as Bob Cassidy came rocketing toward the air base at 650 knots, almost eleven miles per minute. His targets were a row of Zeros that two days ago had been parked in front of the one large hangar on the base.

There was the hangar! He slammed the stick over, corrected his heading a few degrees. His finger tightened around the trigger, but in vain: The Zeros weren't there.

The ramp was empty when he roared across it five hundred feet in the air, still doing 650 knots.

“There are no Zeros,” somebody said over the air.

Was this an ambush? Were the Zeros lurking nearby to bounce the F-22s? Perhaps the Zeros were on their way to Chita—right now!

“Shoot up the hangars and fueling facilities,” Cassidy told the other members of his flight. “Watch for flak and SAMs.”

He made a wide looping turn and headed for the city of Khabarovsk. The railroad tracks pointed like arrows toward the railroad station.

Train in the station!

Squeeze the trigger…walk the stream of shells the length of it.

God, there are people, soldiers in uniform, running, scattering, the engine vomiting fire and oily black smoke…

He made another wide loop, still searching nervously for flak, and came down the river. He found another train, this time heading south toward Vladivostok. He attacked it from the rear, slamming shells into every car.

The entire plane vibrated—in the gloomy evening half-light the beam of fire from the gun flicked out like a searchlight. Flashes twinkled amid a cloud of dust and debris as the shells slammed into the train, fifty a second. Then he was off the trigger and zooming up and around for another pass.

With the throttle back, the airspeed down to less than three hundred, he emptied the gun at the train. He watched with satisfaction as two of the cars exploded and one of the engines derailed.

Climbing over the town, he called on the radio for his wingmen to join for the trip back to Chita.

Where are the Zeros?

Admiral Kolchak
was running slow, two hundred meters deep, making for the entrance to Sagami Bay, the sound that led to Tokyo Bay. Pavel Saratov sat in the control room with the second set of sonar earphones on his head. About every half hour or so he would hear the faint beat of turboprop engines: P-3s, hunting his boat. Of that, Saratov had no doubt.

Esenin came and went from the control room. Apparently he was wandering through the boat, checking on his people, all of whom wore sidearms and carried a rifle with them. As if they could employ such weapons in this steel coffin. Still, the sailors got the message: the naval infantrymen were there to ensure the navy did Esenin's bidding. Saratov got the message before the sailors did.

Esenin had his little box with him, of course, hanging on the strap around his neck. Now, as he listened for planes and warships, Saratov speculated about what was in the box.

When he had examined that topic from every angle, he began wondering what the sailors were thinking. He could look at their faces and try to overhear their whispers, but that was about it. The crowded condition of the boat did not allow for private conversations, even with his officers. And no doubt Esenin wanted it that way, because he kept his people spread out, with at least one man in every compartment of the boat at all times.

Everyone knew where the boat was going and why. The first day at sea, Saratov had told them on the boat's loudspeaker system.

Now they were chewing their lips and fingernails, picking at their faces, thinking of other places, other things. The absence of laughter, jokes, and good-natured ribbing did not escape Saratov. Nor did he miss the way the sailors glanced at the naval infantrymen out of the corners of their eyes, checking, measuring, wondering….

This evening Askold brought Saratov a metal plate containing a chunk of bread, a potato, and some sliced beets cooked in sour cream.
As he ate, Askold showed him the chart. “We are here, Captain, fifty miles from the entrance to the bay.”

Saratov nodded and forked more potato.

“Do you wish to snorkel tonight?”

Saratov nodded yes. When he had swallowed, he said, “We must snorkel one more time for several hours, before we go in. We are taking a long chance. It's like a harbor up there, ships and planes…”

“Can't we go in on the battery charge we have?”

“Not if we expect to come out alive.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“We have been lucky. The thermal layer—”

“Lucky, ummm…”

“When we leave the Japanese current—”

“The thermal layer will run out.”

“Yes,” Askold murmured, and glanced at his hands. He watched his captain chew a few more bites, then went away.

 

Jack Innes reported to President Hood in his bedroom at the White House. The president was donning a tux.

“Another disease luncheon,” Hood said gloomily as he adjusted the cummerbund over his belly. “I'd like to have a dollar for every one of these I've sat through in the last thirty years.”

“The Japanese have sent everything they have after that sub.”

“Where is it now?”

“We don't know.”

Hood looked a question.

“Unless he comes up to periscope depth, we can't see him with the satellite sensors. And there are some storms over the ocean off Japan—he may be under one.”

“How long can an electric boat like that stay under?”

“I asked the experts, Mr. President. One hundred and seventy-five hours at a speed of two knots.”

“More than
seven
days?”

“Yes, sir. But the boat must go so slowly that it is essentially immobile. Once the hunters get a general idea where a conventional sub is, it is easily avoided and ceases to be a threat. Speaking of Russians, they deny that the boat in the satellite photo is one of theirs.”

Hood was working on his cuff links. “Is it?”

“We think so, sir. But it could be Japanese.”

“Or Chinese, Korean, Egyptian, Iranian…. Seems like everybody has a fleet of those damned things.”

“The Russian response to yesterday's conference is being evaluated at the State Department. The Kremlin denies any intent to use nuclear weapons. On Japan or anyone else. They say there's been some mistake.”

“I hope they don't make one,” Hood said fervently.

“The real question is what the Japanese are up to. They withdrew their Zeros from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok. Space Command doesn't know why.”

“It's a damned good thing the Japs don't have nuclear weapons,” the president said, glancing at Innes.

“The director of the CIA says they don't.”

“Well, Abe told Kalugin that Japan had nukes when he answered Kalugin's ultimatum. Either Abe is the world's finest poker player or the director of the CIA is just flat wrong.”

“Abe doesn't strike me as the bluffing type.”

“Didn't I see an intelligence summary a while back that said the Japanese might have developed a nuclear capability?”

“One of the analysts thought that was a possibility. The CIA brass vehemently disagreed.”

“Have the White House switchboard find the analyst. Have him come to the hotel where they are holding this lunch. When he gets here, come get me.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Admiral Kolchak
took an hour to rise from two hundred meters to periscope depth. Glancing through the attack scope, Saratov thought, My God, it is raining! Heavily. A squall. Nothing in sight or on the sonar. Who says there is no God?

The crew ran up the snorkel and started the diesel engines, which throbbed sensuously as they drove the boat along at ten knots. The swells overhead gave the submarine a gentle rocking motion. Sitting with his eyes closed, Pavel Saratov savored the sensation.

“They are going to get us this time, Captain,” the sonarman said softly, almost a whisper.

Saratov tried to think of something upbeat to say, but he couldn't.
He pretended he didn't hear the
michman
's comment, which mercifully the man didn't repeat.

 

“The technological superiority that the Americans have given the Russians must be eliminated, in the air and on the ground. The F-22 squadron base at Chita will be destroyed and the F-22s eliminated as a threat.”

The Japanese officer who made this pronouncement was a two-star general. His short dark hair was flecked with gray. He was impeccably uniformed and looked quite distinguished.

Three of the four Zero pilots sitting around the table nodded their concurrence. The fourth one, Jiro Kimura, did not nod. Despite his fierce resolve, he immediately thought of Bob Cassidy when the general mentioned the F-22 squadron base.

The general didn't seem to notice Jiro's preoccupation, nor did any of the colonels and majors who filled the other seats in the room.

“I have just come from a briefing at the highest levels in the defense ministry in Tokyo. Let me correct that and say the very highest level. As everyone in this room is aware, air supremacy over Siberia is absolutely essential to enable us to supply our military forces and the civilian engineering and construction teams this winter. Without it…well, without it, quite simply, we must begin withdrawing our forces or they will starve and freeze in the months ahead. In fact, without air supremacy, it is questionable if we can get the people out that we have there now.

“Frankly, if Japan cannot neutralize the technological edge the Americans gave the Russians, Japan will lose the war. The consequences of such an event on the Japanese people are too terrible to imagine.

“Gentlemen, the survival of our nation is at stake,” the general continued. “Consequently, the decision has been made at the very highest level to use a nuclear weapon on Chita.”

The room was so deadly quiet that Jiro Kimura could hear his heart beating. He didn't know Japan had nuclear weapons. Never even dreamed it. From the looks of the frozen faces around the room, the fact was news to most of the people here.

“I must caution you that the very existence of these weapons is a state secret,” the general said, albeit quite superfluously.

“The weapons we will use will be of a low yield, about ten kilotons, we believe, although we have never actually been able to verify that yield by testing one of these devices.”

One of the pilots sitting at the table held up his hand. The general recognized him. “Sir, my father's parents died when the Americans bombed Nagasaki. I cannot and will not drop a nuclear weapon on anyone, for any reason. I took an oath to this effect before I joined the military. My father demanded it of me.”

The general gave a slight bow in the pilot's direction, then said, “You may be excused from the room.”

The general looked at the colonels. The senior Zero pilot, Colonel Nishimura, rose from his chair against the wall and reseated himself beside Jiro at the table.

Jiro Kimura didn't know what to do. His mouth was dry; he was unable to speak. He was hearing what was said and seeing the people, but he was frozen, overcome by the horror of being here, being a part of this.

The two-star droned on, then used a pointer on the map hanging behind him. Four planes, four bombs, one must get through. The senior man, now Colonel Nishimura, was in charge of tactical and flight planning.

Then it was over and Jiro was walking down the hallway with his fellow pilots, feeling his legs move, seeing the doorway to the building coming toward him, going down the outside stairs, walking across the lawn, and vomiting in the grass.

 

When he first heard it, Saratov wasn't sure. He pressed the earphones against his head and listened intently. The night had come and gone, he had snatched a couple of hours of sleep, and he was back in the control room, watching the sonarman play with the data on his computer screen and listening to raw sound on his own set of earphones.

A P-3 was up there, somewhere, and the beat of its propellers was insistent. Embedded in that throb…Yes. Pinging. Very faint. Far away.

“Captain…” said the sonarman, who was in his tiny compartment a few feet away.

“I hear it, too,” Saratov muttered.

He listened for a while, then got off his stool and looked at the chart. “Where are we, exactly?” he asked the navigator.

“Here, Captain.” The navigator pointed.

“If we stay on this course, we go in the main channel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“General Esenin—ask him to come to the control room.”

Despite the fact that Esenin hadn't had a bath in days, he looked like a Moscow politician, clean-shaven and spotless.

Saratov took off the headphones and handed them to the general. “Listen.”

After a bit, Esenin said, “I hear…humming.”

“That is a P-3, looking for us. Do you hear a chime?”

After a moment, Esenin said, “I believe so. Very faintly. Like a bell.”

“That is a destroyer, probably near the entrance to the main channel. He is echo-ranging his sonar. Pinging. Sending out a sound that echoes off solid objects, like submarines.”

“But we hear the noise and can avoid him.”

“If you will, please look at the chart. The destroyer is roughly here, pinging away. Somewhere closer to the mainland will be a Japanese submarine. They will be listening for the sonar ping to echo off our submarine, yet they will be too far away from the emitter for us to hear the echo from their boat. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Esenin handed the earphones back. “What do you suggest?”

“I am wondering just how secret your little mission to flood half of Japan really is.”

“Are you suggesting that there has been a security leak?”

“I suggest nothing. I merely observe that the Japanese seem well prepared for our arrival, almost as if someone told them we were coming.”

“I fail to see the relevance of that observation.”

“Perhaps it isn't relevant.”

“We have our orders. We will obey. Now, how do you propose to get us in there?”

“I don't know.”

“Think of something, Captain. Keep us alive to do our duty.”

Saratov put the earphones back on and retreated to his stool. He listened to the pinging and stared at the navigator's chart, which lay on the table a few feet away.

 

Other people were also talking of duty.

“Colonel Nishimura, I do not think I have the warrior's spirit that will be necessary to complete this mission.”

“Kimura, no sane man
wants
to drop a nuclear weapon. We will do it because it is our duty to our nation.”

“I understand, Colonel. But we all have a similar duty. Someone else can fly this mission and fulfill his duty.”

“I cannot believe you said that, Kimura. The comment is offensive.”

“I do not mean to offend.”

“You are a Japanese officer. You have been chosen for this mission because you have had the most success against F-22s. Your experience cannot be replaced.”

“It is true, I am still alive when others are dead. And it is true, I successfully shot down several F-22s. Both these feats happened because I wore a helicopter night-vision helmet to see the enemy. I was the only pilot to do so. I suggested it to others, including Colonel Handa, who refused because higher authority had not sanctioned it.”

“Ah, yes, good Colonel Handa, a bureaucrat to the backbone. That sounds like him.”

“I survived only because I wore the helmet.”

“Everyone will wear such a device on this mission,” Nishimura replied. “We have altered them to attach to our regular helmets so that we can also wear our oxygen masks.”

“Then you don't need me,” Jiro rejoined. “I wish to pass the honor of striking this blow for the nation to one of my colleagues.”

The colonel struggled against his temper. “You have the experience. Only you. I want to hear no more of this. Honor and duty require this service of you. The future of your country is at stake.”