“Ah.” And with that bit of information, the planning started. At this point it was merely a mental exercise, but that would soon change.
“SO, HOW ARE things in your army?” Diggs asked. The two generals stood alone atop the principal terrain feature, watching the battle play out below them with low-light viewing gear. As predicted, the 32nd—Bondarenko had to think of them that way—had overwhelmed the Blue Force reconnaissance screen, maneuvered to the left, and was now rolling up the “enemy” brigade. With the lack of real casualties, it was a lovely thing to watch as the blinking yellow “dead” lights lit up one by one. Then he had to answer the question.
“Dreadful. We face the task of rebuilding everything from the ground up.”
Diggs turned. “Well, sir, that’s where I came in at.” At least you don’t have to deal with drugs, the American thought. He could remember being a new second lieutenant, and afraid to enter barracks without sidearms. If the Russians had made their move in the early 1970s... “You really want to use our model?”
“Perhaps.” The only thing the Americans got wrong—and right—was that the Red Force allowed tactical initiative for its sub-unit commanders, something the Soviet Army would never have done. But, combined with doctrine developed by the Voroshilov Academy, the results were plain to see. That was something to remember, and Bondarenko had broken rules in his own tactical encounters, which was one reason why he was a living three-star instead of a dead colonel. He was also the newly appointed chief of operations for the Russian Army. “The problem is money, of course.”
“I’ve heard that song before, General.” Diggs allowed himself a rueful chuckle.
Bondarenko had a plan for that. He wanted to cut the size of his army by fifty percent, and the money saved would go directly into training the remaining half. The results of such a plan he could see before him. Traditionally, the Soviet Army had depended on mass, but the Americans had proven both here and in Iraq that training was master of the battlefield. As good as their equipment was—he’d get his matériel briefing tomorrow—he envied Diggs his personnel more than anything. Proof of that arrived the moment he formed the thought.
“General?” The new arrival saluted. “Blackhorse! We stripped their knickers right off.”
“This is Colonel Al Hamm. He’s CO of the 11th. His second tour here. He used to be OpFor operations officer. Don’t play cards with him,” Diggs warned.
“The general is too kind. Welcome to the desert, General Bondarenko.” Hamm extended a large hand.
“Your attack was well executed, Colonel.” The Russian examined him.
“Thank you, sir. I have some great kids working for me. Blue Force was overly tentative. We caught them between two chairs,” Hamm explained. He looked like a Russian, Bondarenko thought, tall and meaty with a pale, florid complexion surrounding twinkling blue eyes. For this occasion, Hamm was dressed in his old “Russian”-style uniform, complete with a red star on the tanker’s beret, and his pistol belt outside the over-long blouse. It didn’t quite make the Russian feel at home, but he appreciated the respect the Americans showed him.
“Diggs, you were right. Blue should have done everything to get here first. But you made them start too far back to make that option seem attractive.”
“That’s the problem with battlefields,” Hamm answered for his boss. “Too much of the time they choose you instead of the other way around. That’s lesson number one for the boys of the 5th Mech. If you let anybody else define the terms of the battle, well, it isn’t much fun.”
5
ARRANGEMENTS
IT TURNED OUT THAT both Sato and his co-pilot had donated blood for purposes of helping casualties in the abortive war with America, and the blessedly small numbers of wounded had never called that blood into use. Located by computer search by the Japanese Red Cross, samples had been obtained by the police and dispatched by messenger to Washington, via Vancouver—Japanese commercial aircraft were, understandably, still not permitted to fly into the United States, even Alaska—and an Air Force VC-20 from there to Washington. The courier was a senior police officer, with the aluminum case handcuffed to his left wrist. A trio of FBI agents met him at Andrews and drove him to the Hoover building at Tenth and Pennsylvania. The FBI’s DNA lab took the samples and went to work to compare them with blood and other tissue specimens from the bodies. They already had matches for the blood types, and the results of the tests seemed a foregone conclusion, which would, nonetheless, be treated as though they were the only tenuous clue in a baffling case. Dan Murray, the acting Director, wasn’t exactly a slave to “the book” in criminal investigations, but for the purposes of this case, the book was Holy Writ. Backing him up were Tony Caruso, back from his vacation and working around the clock to head up the Bureau’s side of the investigation, Pat O’Day in his capacity as roving inspector, and a cast of hundreds, if not quite thousands yet. Murray met the Japanese representative in the Director’s conference room. He, too, found it hard to move into Bill Shaw’s office right away.
“We are performing our own tests,” Chief Inspector Jisaburo Tanaka said, checking his watches—he had decided to wear two, one each for Tokyo and Washington time. “They will be faxed here as soon as they are completed.” Then he opened his briefcase again. “Here is our reconstruction of Captain Sato’s schedule for the last week, notes of interviews with family members and colleagues, background on his life.”
“Fast work. Thank you.” Murray took the pages, not quite sure what to do next. It was clear that his visitor wanted to say more. Murray and Tanaka had never met, but the word on his guest was impressive enough. A skilled and experienced investigator, Tanaka had specialized in political-corruption violations, a specialty that had kept him very busy. Tanaka had the Cromwellian look of such a policeman. His professional life had turned him into a priest of the sort used by the Spanish to burn people at the stake. That made him perfect for this case.
“You will have our total cooperation. In fact, if you wish to send a senior official from your agency to oversee our investigation, I am authorized to tell you that we will welcome it.” He paused for a few seconds, looking down before proceeding. “This is a disgrace for my country. The way those people used us all ...” For a representative of a country incorrectly known for its lack of emotional display, Tanaka was a surprise. His hands balled tightly, and his dark eyes burned with anger. From the conference room, both men could look down Pennsylvania Avenue to a Capitol Hill scarred by the crash, still lit in the pre-dawn darkness by the hundreds of work lights.
“The co-pilot was murdered,” Murray said. Maybe that would help a little.
“Oh?”
Dan nodded. “Stabbed, and it appears as though that took place prior to the take-off. It appears at the moment that Sato acted alone—at least as far as flying the airplane was concerned.” The lab had already determined that the weapon used was a thin-bladed steak knife with a serrated edge, of the sort used on the airline. As long as he’d been in the investigative business, it still amazed Murray what the lab techs could discern.
“I see. That makes sense,” Tanaka observed. “The co-pilot’s wife is pregnant, with twins, in fact. She is in the hospital now under close observation. What we have learned to date makes him appear to be a devoted husband and a man of no special political interests. My people thought it unlikely that he would end his life in this way.”
“Did Sato have any connections with—”
A shake of the head. “None that we have found. He flew one of the conspirators to Saipan, and they spoke briefly. Aside from that, Sato was an international pilot. His friends were his colleagues. He lived quietly in a modest house near Narita International Airport. But his brother was a senior officer in the Maritime Self-Defense Force, and his son was a fighter pilot. Both died during the hostilities.”
Murray already knew that. Motive and opportunity. He scribbled a note to have the legal attaché in Tokyo take up the offer to participate in the Jap
anese investigation—but he’d have to get approval from Justice and/or State about that. For damned sure the offer seemed sincere enough. Good.
“LOVE THE TRAFFIC,” Chavez observed. They were coming up I-95, passing the Springfield Mall. Normally at this time of day—it was still dark—the highway was wall-to-wall with bureaucrats and lobbyists. Not today, though John and Ding had been called in, confirming their “essential” status to any who might have doubted it. Clark didn’t respond, and the junior officer continued, “How do you suppose Dr. Ryan is doing?”
John grunted and shrugged. “Probably rolling with the punches. Better him than me.”
“Roge-o, Mr. C. All my friends at George Mason are going to have a fine old time.”
“Think so?”
“John, he’s got a government to rebuild. This will be a textbook case in real life. Ain’t nobody ever done that before, ’mano. You know what we’re going to find out?”
A nod. “Yeah, if this place really works or not.” Better him than me, John thought again. They’d been called in for their mission debriefing on operations in Japan. That was ticklish enough. Clark had been in the business for quite a while, but not long enough to be especially happy about telling others the things he’d done. He and Ding had killed—not for the first lime—and now they’d get to describe it in detail to people, most of whom had never even held a gun, much less fired one in anger. Secrecy oaths or not, some of them might talk someday, the least consequence of which would be embarrassing revelations in the press. Somewhere in the middle came sworn testimony before a congressional committee—well, not anytime soon on that, John corrected himself—questioning under oath and the necessity of answering questions from people who didn’t understand any better than the CIA weenies who sat at desks and judged people in the field for a living. The worst case was an actual prosecution, because while the things he had done weren’t exactly illegal, they weren’t exactly legal, either. Somehow the Constitution and the United States Code, Annotated, had never quite reconciled themselves with the activities the government carried out but did not wish to admit in open fora. Though his conscience was clear on that and many other things, his views on tactical morality wouldn’t strike everyone as reasonable. Probably Ryan would understand, though. That was something.
“WHAT’S NEW THIS morning?” Jack asked.
“We expect recovery operations to be completed by this evening, sir.” It was Pat O’Day doing the morning FBI brief. He’d explained that Murray was busy. The inspector passed over a folder with the numbers of bodies recovered. Ryan gave it a quick scan. How the hell was he supposed to eat breakfast with such facts before him? the President wondered. Fortunately, there was just coffee at the moment.
“What else?”
“Things seem to be dropping into place. We’ve recovered what we think is the body of the co-pilot. He was murdered hours before the crash, leading us to believe that the pilot acted alone. We’ll be doing DNA tests on the remains to confirm identities.” The inspector flipped through his notes, not trusting to memory to get things right. “Drug and alcohol tests on both bodies proved negative. Analysis of the flight-data recorder, tapes of radio traffic, radar tapes, everything we’ve managed to pull together, it all leads to the same picture, one guy acting alone. Dan’s meeting with a senior Japanese cop right now.”
“Next step?”
“It will be a textbook investigation process. We reconstruct everything Sato—that’s the pilot’s name—did over the last month or so, and take it back from there. Phone records, where he went, whom he saw, friends and associates, diary if any, everything we can get our hands on. The idea is to rebuild the guy completely and determine if he was part of any possible conspiracy. It will take time. It’s a fairly exhaustive process.”
“Best guess for now?” Jack asked.
“One guy acting alone,” O’Day said again, rather more positively this time.
“It’s too damned early for any conclusion,” Andrea Price objected. O’Day turned.
“It’s not a conclusion. Mr. Ryan asked for a best guess. I’ve been in the investigation business for quite a while. This looks like a fairly elaborate impulse crime. The method of the co-pilot’s murder, for example. He didn’t even move the body out of the cockpit. He apologized to the guy right after he stabbed him, according to the tapes.”
“Elaborate impulse crime?” Andrea objected.
“Airline pilots are highly organized people,” O’Day replied. “Things that would be highly complex for the layman are as natural to them as pulling up your zipper. Most assassinations are carried out by dysfunctional individuals who get lucky. In this case, unfortunately, we had a very capable subject who largely made his own luck. In any event, that’s what we have at the moment.”
“For this to have been a conspiracy, what would you look for?” Jack asked.
“Sir, successful criminal conspiracies are difficult to achieve under the best of circumstances.” Price bristled again, but Inspector O’Day went on: “The problem is human nature. The most normal of us are boastful; we like to share secrets to show how bright we are. Most criminals talk their way right into prison one way or another. Okay, in a case like this we’re not talking about your average robber, but the principle holds. To build any sort of conspiracy takes time and talk, and as a result, things leak. Then there’s the problem of selecting the... ‘shooter,’ for want of a better term. Such time did not exist. The joint session was set up too late for much in the way of discussions to have taken place. The nature of the co-pilot’s murder is very suggestive of a spur-of-the-moment method. A knife is less sure than a gun, and a steak knife isn’t a good weapon, too easily bent or broken on a rib.”
“How many murders have you handled?” Price asked.
“Enough. I’ve assisted on plenty of local police cases, especially here in D.C. The Washington Field Office has backed up the D.C. police for years. Anyway, for Sato to have been the ‘shooter’ in a conspiracy, he would have had to meet with people. We can track his free time, and we’ll do that with the Japanese. But to this point there is not a single indicator that way. Quite the contrary, all circumstances point to someone who saw a unique opportunity and made use of it on an impulse.”
“What if the pilot wasn’t—”
“Ms. Price, the cockpit tapes go back before the take-off from Vancouver. We’ve voice-printed everything in our own lab—it’s a digital tape and the sound quality is beautiful. The same guy who took off from Narita flew the airplane into the ground here. Now, if it wasn’t Sato, then why didn’t the co-pilot—they flew together as a team—notice ? Conversely, if the pilot and co-pilot were show-ups, then both were part of the conspiracy from the beginning, then why was the co-pilot murdered prior to takeoff from Vancouver? The Canadians are interviewing the rest of the crew for us, and all the service personnel say that the flight crew was just who they were supposed to be. The DNA-ID process will prove that beyond doubt.”
“Inspector, you are very persuasive,” Ryan observed.
“Sir, this investigation will be rather involved, what with all the facts that have to be checked out, but the meat of the issue is fairly simple. It’s damned hard to fake a crime scene. There’s just too many things we can do. Is it theoretically possible to set things up in such a way as to fool our people?” O’Day asked rhetorically. “Yes, sir, maybe it is, but to do that would take months of preparation, and they didn’t have months. It really comes down to one thing: the decision to call the joint session happened while that aircraft was over mid-Pacific.”
Much as she wanted to, Price couldn’t counter that argument. She’d run her own quick investigation on Patrick O’Day. Emil Jacobs had reinstituted the post of roving inspector years before, and collected people who preferred investigation to management. O’Day was an agent for whom running a field division had little appeal. He was part of a small team of experienced investigators who worked out of the Director’s office, an unofficial inspectorat
e which went into the field to keep an eye on things, mainly sensitive cases. He was a good cop who hated desk work, and Price had to concede that he knew how to run an investigation, better yet was someone outside the chain of command who wouldn’t ham things up in order to get a promotion. The inspector had driven to the House in a four-by-four pickup—he wore cowboy boots! she noticed—and probably wanted publicity about as much as he wanted the pox. So Assistant Director Tony Caruso, titularly in charge of the investigation, would report to the Department of Justice, but Patrick O’Day would short-circuit the chain to report directly to Murray—who would, in turn, farm O’Day to the President so as to garner personal favor. She’d figured Murray for a sharp operator. Bill Shaw, after all, had used him as personal troubleshooter. And Murray’s loyalty would be to the institution of the FBI. A man could have a worse agenda, she admitted to herself. For O’Day it was simpler still. He investigated crimes for a living, and while he appeared to jump too quickly to conclusions, this transplanted cowboy was doing it all by the book. You had to watch the good ol’ boys. They were so good at hiding their smarts. But he would never have made the Detail, she consoled herself.
“ENJOY YOUR VACATION?” Mary Pat Foley was either in very early or in very late, Clark saw. It came to him again that of all the senior people in government, President Ryan was probably getting the most sleep, little though that might be. It was a hell of a way to run a railroad. People simply didn’t perform well when denied rest for an extended period of time, something he’d learned the hard way in the field, but put a guy into high office, and he immediately forgot that—such pedestrian items as human factors faded into the mist. And then a month later, they wondered how they’d screwed up so bad. But that was usually after they got some poor line-animal killed in the field.