“I’m going to go down again, then lead you in,” said Howe. He could see the big transport as it headed in from the northeast. “Once you’re down, you’re on your own.”
In Fisher’s experience, landings were always the worst part of any flight. The movie was over, drinks were cut off, and the anticipation of that next cigarette built like the swelling music in a 1930’s melodrama, without a violin section. He steadied himself at the side of the plane behind the SF team, admiring their weapons and bulletproof vests. The landing would take them down the runway away from the concentration of Russian troops; according to the satellite photo, they would have some cover at that end of the atoll from a short run of rocks. But to get to that cover, they would have to run roughly thirty yards.
Then again, he’d run farther when ducking the boss back at headquarters. This would be child’s play.
The rear deck of the aircraft opened as they began their descent. The rushing air sucked and pushed him; he felt cold and for some reason wet, as if he’d been thrown into the water. Daku and James, standing at the back of the plane, began dumping smoke grenades as the plane’s wheels hit the hard-packed dirt. Flares were being launched by the aircraft. Someone had started to shoot. Bullets ripped through the cargo compartment. The smell of burning metal mixed with the grit.
It was a thirties movie.
The plane veered hard to the right, then back, then hard right again.
Someone shouted. The plane resounded with the thump of a grenade launcher being fired.
“Go!” yelled Tyler. “Go!”
Fisher waited a second, then followed outside, crouching protectively to make sure his cigarette stayed lit in the wind. Smoke was everywhere, laid down by the commandos to cover their movements. Fisher looked to his left and saw the pilot and copilot crouching beneath the plane, holding M16s. Impressed, Fisher worked his way back around the other side of the plane, trying to figure out what the hell was going on beyond the thick haze of smoke and dust. The commandos had gone forward to the left but seemed to be holding their fire. The plane that held the laser weapon, meanwhile, was back at the far end of the strip, presumably guarded by the Russian assault team that had landed here ahead of them.
These interagency busts could be a real bitch and a half.
Fisher began trotting in the general direction of the SF team, bending his head down as a concession to the situation, though at the moment no one seemed to be firing. He found Daku at the edge of what looked like a haphazardly formed rock wall. The soldier thumbed him up toward the main group, which had taken position in some rocks about fifty or sixty yards ahead.
Fisher began trotting toward it. One of the SF soldiers grabbed him and nearly threw him down. Stumbling, Fisher caught his balance on the side of a crouched commando, who turned out to be Tyler.
“What the hell are you doing, Fisher?” asked the captain.
“I have to make the arrest,” he said.
“Those Russians’ll perforate you.”
“Won’t be the first time,” said Fisher.
Tyler grabbed hold of his suit jacket. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Careful of the material,” said Fisher. “Five of Sears’ finest squirrels labored to make this suit.”
The captain scowled but let him go.
“Give me the bullhorn,” said Fisher. “Let me talk to them.”
“You can speak Russian?”
“Only the four-letter words.”
Before the soldier carrying the bullhorn could come up, one of the Russians announced in fairly decent English that they were on Russian soil and would be treated as hostile aggressors if they didn’t take off immediately.
“Actually, this is Japanese territory,” Fisher yelled back, still waiting for the bullhorn. “And we’re in pursuit of stolen U.S. property. Which we want back. And also, I’m arresting the people who were flying the plane. Hang on a second, I have to read something to you.”
“You aren’t fucking going to Mirandize them,” said Tyler.
“Got to. Or anything they say won’t hold up,” said Fisher, pulling the small laminated card from his pocket. He took the bullhorn from James, who’d had it in his pack.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” said James.
“That and I’m having a nicotine fit,” answered the FBI agent, bringing the megaphone to his mouth. “All right. You have the right to remain silent….”
Chapter 19
The combat with the helicopters, the tangle with the patrol boat, and the flyovers to clear the field had all taken their toll on Howe’s fuel. He was now well into reserves, and there was no way he was going to make the task force tanker. A second tanker from Kadena was likewise a good way off.
He was just about to break out a map to see about diverting down to Honshu or northern Japan, when he realized he had his own personal divert strip sitting below him. The three thousand feet was usable, thanks to the F/A-22V’s wing design. With the C-17 off to the side at the far end, Howe figured he’d have no problem stopping before his feet got wet.
Assuming they could secure the field.
The smoke had cleared somewhat; Howe could see a group of men near the Blackjack, and another group about fifty yards from the C-17. A third group was moving down the southern side of the island, possibly seeking to flank the Russians. From what he could see, nobody was firing.
When he failed to reach the SF troops on the frequency they’d been assigned, he went over to the command channel and asked Gorman what was going on.
“They have them pinned down by the aircraft,” she said. “At the moment they’re still trying to size up the situation. We have reinforcements en route.”
“You think I could land there if I had to?”
They discussed the possibilities as he recalculated his fuel. Depending on how he managed it, he had about a half hour in the air.
The two F-15s sent up from Kadena appeared above him. Howe could divert and land — and in fact he absolutely should do so.
But somehow it didn’t feel right to turn off. As he circled northward he caught sight of some debris in the water. Timmy’s plane had gone in somewhere nearby.
“Colonel, I can’t tell you what to do with your aircraft,” said Gorman.
Howe started to laugh.
“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” he told her before punching over to the frequency the new arrivals were using so he could brief them.
As the American FBI agent continued to ramble, Luksha signaled to his communications man. The sergeant ran forward with his satellite radio, wheezing from the dust.
“We’ll go down to the boats. Call in the helicopters,” he told him. “Tell them we’ll be pursued.”
“Yes, General.”
Megan heard the jet pass again and knew it was the F/A-22V.
It was him. He’d come for her.
To kill her?
He’d hate her by now. He’d think she was a traitor.
“This way,” said the Russian, grabbing her wrist.
“Wait, I can fly it,” she said. “If we put the fuel in, just enough to get away.”
“Don’t be absurd. They’ll gun us down. Come on.”
“No.” She pushed her shoulders down, as if clamping her arms to the sides of her body would somehow cement her to the spot.
“It is not an option,” said the Russian, and she felt a pair of arms grab her from behind.
“You got that out of your system?” asked Tyler as Fisher finished reading the Miranda warning.
“Hey, the lawyers say you gotta do it.”