Also dressed in jogging outfits were the Chief of Staff Karl Oestreich, and General Wayne Boles, from The Western Institute.
“This better be good,” Oestreich said. He had a cigar between his thin lips, which he tried to light for the second time.
The Agency DO, hands on his hips and breathing heavily, lowered his head to waist level. Catching his breath, he rose up to his contacts.
“It’s what we expected,” the DO said.
“The Chinese have our laser?” General Boles asked.
“Yeah. We just got photo evidence from your man there, Jake Adams.”
There was silence as the three of them checked the facial expressions of the others.
Oestreich broke the silence. “What about the leak from Brightstar?”
The DO shrugged. “The Asian woman hopped on a plane in Seattle heading to Seoul.”
“Adams is in Osan right now,” Boles said. “That’s some thirty miles away. Have him intercept the woman.”
Oestreich swished his head from side to side. “No. We need to follow the trail. See where she leads us.”
The Agency DO, who ultimately had the last word on the issue, was conflicted. “I don’t know. If we let her go and she slips through, it’s my ass on the line.”
“I thought the DVD she had was encrypted,” Boles said, confused.
Letting out a heavy sigh, the DO said, “I’m afraid it’s worse than we had expected. Our folks in Seattle, through a little more persuasion, have gotten more information out of that Brightstar programmer.”
“Johansen?” Boles asked.
“Yeah. Turns out he had not only given the Asian woman the encryption codes, but he had sold her the entire schematic for our newest laser system.”
“You’re shitin’ me,” Oestreich yelled, moving closer to the DO. “How the fuck’d you let that happen?”
General Boles got between the two men, a hand on each man’s chest. “Settle down. Even more reason to use our free agent, Jake Adams, to take care of that woman.”
Somewhat recovered now, Oestreich asked, “What’ll this cost us?”
“Your job and a congressional inquiry if we don’t stop this woman,” Boles assured him. “You too,” he added, nodding his head at the Agency DO.
“That’s not gonna happen,” the DO said. “Send Adams after her. I don’t care what it costs.” He pointed his finger at the general. “You tell him to get that DVD and do what the hell he wants with the Asian woman.”
The Chief of Staff looked around. “Jesus Christ, don’t say shit like that.”
“We’re makin’ sausage here, folks,” the DO said. “It ain’t pretty, but it sure as hell tastes good when you’re done. It’ll make us all look good.”
Oestreich drew in a deep inhale from his cigar before letting out a heavy stream of smoke into the damp air. He smiled before saying, “What about Alaska?”
“What about it?” Boles asked.
The DO looked down at the ground and said, “We thought the shooter was our only problem there. Turns out he was the fall guy. There’s someone else. We have an Agency man there working on it.”
“Plug these problems,” Oestreich said, pointing his cigar at the DO. “What else?”
“I’ve authorized another officer to follow the Asian to Korea,” the DO said. “The man we had undercover at Brightstar. He’s on a military flight as we speak.”
“To Osan Air Base?” General Boles asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll have Jake Adams meet him when he lands.”
The three of them, in silent agreement, seemed somewhat content. As the wind blew through the trees overhead, the DO left the two of them along the park trail as he walked back to the parking lot.
Flying at forty-five thousand feet, the B-2 stealth bomber, calm as a soft breeze, cruised at five hundred and fifty miles per hour. The two-man crew sat side-by-side in the cockpit, and Agency officer, Drew Fisher, lay behind them on an air mattress. Decidedly low tech, but not uncomfortable, Fisher thought.
When he had gotten to McChord Air Force Base near Tacoma, Washington, he was more than surprised to see the B-2 on the ramp taking on fuel. Fisher knew that the only squadron of the highly secret aircraft was stationed at Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, so he had to ask the base ops commander, who had met he and Harris at the operations center, what the aircraft was doing there.
“That’s your ride,” he had said. “But only one can go.”
There was no question that Fisher would be on that plane. After all, he had spent the last six months undercover at Brightstar. Besides, Agent Harris had just taken a bullet to her arm hours ago. She needed time to heal.
At first Fisher had thought the idea was insane. But then, during the quick pre-flight briefing, the pilot, Major Andrew Cox, had explained the math. The Korean airliner would be flying at an average speed of four hundred and sixty miles an hour with a headwind at thirty-some thousand feet. At fifty-two hundred miles, they would get to Seoul in twelve hours. The B-2, on the other hand, even though leaving an hour later, would fly at closer to six hundred miles an hour at forty-five to fifty thousand feet, and make the trip in about eight hours. A good three hours before the Korean airliner. Plenty of time to get from the American airbase in Osan to the capitol city by an awaiting helicopter.
“You alive back there?” Major Cox asked over his shoulder. “You were snoring a moment ago.”
“It’s a sweet ride,” Fisher said.
“Best ride money can buy.”
“Yeah, four billion a unit.”
The major laughed. “That’s a bargain, Mr. Agency man. Which reminds me… I hope you have a major credit card.”
The co-pilot laughed at that.
“Didn’t know they hired comedians in the Air Force these days.”
“Hey, I was in during the Clinton years,” the pilot said. “Had to have a sense of humor with that joker in office.”
Fisher couldn’t dispute that. “Hey, how far are we?”
“We passed the Korean airliner about a half an hour back. They, however, had no idea we were above them. We have virtually no wind, so we should trounce their ass by a good three hours fifteen minutes.”
“Excellent.”
Laying back onto the air mattress, Fisher thought about what had to be done in Korea. What would he have to do with the Asian woman? He had a feeling that would be entirely up to her.
42
At this time of year, there were only a few hours of sunlight in Alaska. So, although it was early afternoon, Agency officer Lance Turner and his Air Force OSI partner, Captain Dave Eyler, were still having a hard time seeing across the tundra along the western edge of the small island. They were both in forest camo, nearly fifty yards apart, laying among the small bushes. They could communicate with an earpiece and a microphone that wrapped down the side of their face.
Wind howled off the Pacific and over the three-hundred foot cliff ten yards away, so they could speak softly and not worry about their voices carrying more than a few feet away.
Turner had found the satellite phone after the last call had been made, but had decided to leave it there and catch the person making the call. It was the only way to tie the phone to the person.
There. Turner saw movement. He raised the night vision goggles to his eyes and the man came into view, moving through the low brush with purpose.
“There’s our target,” Turner said softly into the mic.
“Ready with the parabolic,” Eyler whispered. He had a parabolic microphone hooked up to a tape recorder. It was a crude system, but it was all that would fit out there in the middle of nowhere.
“Let’s hope the wind doesn’t fuck up our sound.”