Nick started to stand up. “My brain is taking care of it in my sleep. Problem solved.”
“Wrong.” Heldner reached up and shoved him back down onto the couch. “Nightmares are not satisfying to your unconscious mind. They have no real conclusion. They also keep you from getting real sleep”—she poked him in the arm—“and you need real sleep if you’re going to function as a healthy, happy human being, one who doesn’t throw knives at his co-workers.” She reached into her lab coat and handed Nick a pill bottle. “Take one of these during the flight over. It will force your brain to circumvent the bad dreams so you can get some real sleep. But that’s just a Band-Aid placed over an ax wound. To really heal, you have to determine the source of the nightmares.”
Nick frowned. “And how am I supposed to do that?”
“The next time the mission gets intense, don’t shove the fear aside. Allow it in, accept it.”
“And then what?”
Heldner’s expression darkened. Nick detected more than the usual motherly concern in her eyes. “And then you’ll know what truly terrifies you.”
* * *
When the doctor and Nick returned to the group, she gave Walker a discreet thumbs-up.
“Okay, Pat,” said Walker. “Then it’s time to do your pre-mission magic.”
Heldner nodded and hefted a large steel case onto one of the tables.
“Why do we need the doc?” asked Quinn. “Are we getting a physical?”
Heldner winked. “Come over here and find out.”
Nick smiled despite his mood. Doc Heldner had quickly returned to her usual sarcastic manner. She loved to make her boys uncomfortable.
A tech set up two folding chairs next to the table. Nick sat down in one and looked over at the hesitant pararescueman. “Hurry up, kid,” he said. “We’ve wasted enough time. We’ve got to get this show on the road before the sun comes up.”
Heldner popped open her case and removed a syringe with a very thick needle. She held it up to Nick. “Turn your head, Baron. But if you cough, I’ll make you regret it.”
Nick winced as Heldner inserted the needle into the pocket of skin behind his ear. He pictured the small electronics capsule sliding into place. A cold gel followed, surrounding the capsule beneath the skin. He knew that it made no visible lump at all, but it felt like the doctor had just implanted a frozen tennis ball at the top of his jaw. He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.
She waved a small black box over the injection site and checked its digital readout. She nodded to Nick. “It’s stable.”
“Wait, what’s stable?” asked Quinn, looking squeamish.
“Among other things, it’s a comm device,” said Nick. He looked off in the distance and said, “Connect: code two six seven one.”
The implant responded with a feminine voice that only Nick could hear. “Stand by . . . Connection complete.”
Nick waved to Scott. “Comm check. How do you hear?”
“Loud and clear,” replied Scott, speaking into a small microphone. “How about me?”
“Same,” replied Nick. “SATCOM is up. Cease transmission.”
“Ending transmission,” the digital voice replied.
Heldner removed another black box from the case and opened it up. A second capsule lay in a small copper receptor. The digital screen next to the receptor read READY. “The biggest weakness of these capsules is power,” she said to Quinn. “Keeping a constant open connection would drain the battery, so you’ll have to request that it connect to the satellite when you want to talk to us. That requires a pin code.” She held the box in front of his face. “It keys to your voice and your code. Say any four numbers that you will find easy to remember, but don’t give me your debit card pin. I am not an honest woman.”
Nick left Quinn to set up his comm implant and learn about its grim secondary function while he tended to a few last-minute details. At the base of the Wraith’s ladder, he found Drake arguing with Amanda and Joe Tarpin.
“What’s going on here?” asked Nick.
Drake put his hands on his hips and nodded toward the two of them. “We have two interlopers who want to go for a ride. One has been attempting to coerce me with her feminine wiles. The other . . .” He looked at Joe with a queasy expression. “Well . . . the other is Joe.”
“You’re both out of your minds,” said Nick.
“You owe me,” said Joe. “And don’t forget, I speak Chinese. The Wraith can intercept ground comms, and I can translate for you.”
Amanda stepped between Joe and Drake. “I’m a member of this squadron now. Don’t you think it’s a good idea for me to get a little operational experience?”
Drake opened his mouth to respond, but she put a finger to his lips. “Consider your answer very carefully,” she said in a dark and sultry tone.
“It’s not his call,” said Nick. “And I have no intention of letting you come along, either of you.” Tarpin began to protest again, but Nick held up his hand. “I need you both here, helping Will McBride investigate Wulóng and dig into Novak’s past. Once we take off, we’ll have more than ten hours before we deploy Shadow Catcher into Chinese airspace. That’s ten hours for you to get me information that I can use on the ground.”
Walker and Quinn joined them at the base of the ladder. Quinn looked ashen, but he was suited up and ready to go. “What’s all this?” asked the colonel, looking sideways at Amanda and Tarpin.
“Nothing,” said Nick. “They’re just seeing us off.”
“Good,” said Walker, turning his wrist to look at his watch, “because it is now zero three hundred. Gentlemen, it’s go time.”
CHAPTER 36
The dark foliage of Zheng’s favorite forest park drifted lazily past the car’s open window. He breathed deeply. One final drive with Han.
In just a few days, he would report to Beijing to take up his new post as defense minister, and he would bring with him China’s greatest triumph since the foundation of the Politburo. These were his last days in Fujian. He wanted to soak in the pleasure of its green hills and fresh scents before committing himself to the dirty, crowded streets of the capital. Sadly, circumstances had denied him the pleasure of a smooth transition. As he approached his greatest triumph, he was beleaguered by incompetence.
And betrayal.
Zheng checked his watch. “It is time to return to the base, Han,” he said, offering a thin smile to his driver.
Liang’s revelation that he knew about the Persian Gulf operation had been a heavy blow, for it meant that Zheng had a spy in his own circle of trusted servants and operatives. Wulóng could not have been the traitor, and that left only a few alternatives.
Zheng gave two of his Special Forces operatives the task of checking out the divers that were killed in Kuwait: their apartments, bank accounts, the usual fare. As an extra precaution, he had them check out Ling and Han as well. He had never shared any truly sensitive information with Ling, but one could never be too careful.
The result of his investigation cut him deeply. His men found papers in Han’s flat that tied him to Liang. His most trusted servant had been reporting to Liang behind his back. It appeared that Han had tried to serve two masters, playing one against the other, waiting to see who would come out on top.
The traitor could have warned the doomed defense minister about Wulóng, but he did not. Perhaps Han had finally chosen a champion. Still, the fact that he chose correctly did not excuse the betrayal.
“We need to stop at the maintenance garage,” said Zheng as Han pulled past the base guardhouse. “The motor pool would like to do some routine work on this car. They will give us a replacement for the day.”
Han cast a furtive glance in the mirror. “Gen . . . eh . . . Defense Minister,” he said hesitantly, “there is no need to interrupt your busy schedule. I can drop you at your office immediately and then take ca
re of the vehicle myself.”
Zheng smiled and gave him a benevolent wave. “No, Han. I am in no hurry to return to the office. Please pull into the garage.” He could see the suspicion in Han’s eyes, the moisture developing at the top of his brow. It did not matter. He would not dare disobey.
Han pulled in to the garage, and the electric door closed behind them. Two men in dirty blue coveralls appeared with dust masks covering their faces. Han did not move from his seat.
“Come. Help me out of the car, please,” said Zheng. “I need the strength of your arm.”
The two men stood well away from the car. Nevertheless, Han kept his eyes on them as he climbed out and walked around to Zheng’s door. As he opened it and bent down to offer the minister an arm, he positioned himself to keep the men in sight. Zheng could see the fear in his eyes. Good.
Shock filled Han’s face as the minister locked his arm in an iron grip. He pulled back, but Zheng used his resistance as leverage, nimbly pulling himself to his feet. Once he had his footing, he spun Han around, pulling a garrote wire from his watch and looping it around the traitor’s neck.
Han tried to strike at Zheng, his arms flailing behind him, but his efforts only tightened the loop. Soon his body went limp.
Zheng held the wire taut for another fifteen seconds. Then the two Special Forces soldiers in maintenance uniforms came over and helped him lower the body to the ground. As he straightened up, one of them handed him a cloth to clean the wire. There was a lot of blood. Han’s struggle had caused the garrote to slice deeply into his flesh, cutting into the windpipe and perhaps an artery.
Zheng regarded the bloody cloth and shook his head. He hated this sort of thing, but occasionally a leader needed to get his hands dirty to show his subordinates his capabilities and the price of disloyalty.
The secure satellite phone that Han carried for Zheng started ringing. One of the operatives reached into the dead man’s pocket to get it. “It is Hei Ying,” he said, handing the phone to Zheng.
Zheng flipped open the phone. “The line is secure. Go ahead, my friend.” He flicked his hand at his men, gesturing for them to take the body away.
“Wulóng is dead,” said Hei Ying.
Zheng’s grip on the phone tightened. It seemed that Hei Ying had become a constant source of bad news.
“From what I have been able to piece together,” continued the American, “Baron came home earlier than expected. He is a skilled opponent. Wulóng was outmatched.”
Zheng closed his eyes. “That is most unfortunate,” he said. “And what of your efforts to gain the information I requested?”
“Baron is too cautious.”
The minister let out a heavy sigh. Traitors and incompetents—would these trials never end? He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Then our operation now depends entirely on my men.”
“You underestimate me,” Hei Ying chided. “I still have options open, options that will guarantee your victory.”
CHAPTER 37
Will McBride backed out of the Romeo Seven elevator, helping Joe Tarpin carry the crate of Novak’s effects into the command center. As the two of them deposited their load next to a workstation, he spied Amanda standing at the center of the room. “There you are,” he said, straightening up and stretching his back. “You disappeared before the takeoff. You’re not still mad because Drake didn’t take you along, are you?”
Amanda did not reply. She stared up at the main screen. A triangular symbol moved across the map, showing the Wraith’s progress, already making its way out of DC airspace.
McBride turned his attention back to the crate and saw that Tarpin had already started rummaging through its contents. He looked concerned. “Something wrong, Joe?” asked McBride.
Tarpin looked up, startled. “Hmph? Oh, I was just taking inventory. There’s supposed to be a journal in here, but I don’t see it. Has anyone else opened this crate?”
“I saw Nick crack it open before the takeoff. Maybe he took it with him on the plane.”
Tarpin frowned. “He shouldn’t have done that, not without checking with me first.”
McBride slapped the side of the crate to get Amanda’s attention. “Come on, quit brooding and get over here. There has to be something in here that will help our team.”
Amanda reluctantly joined the two men. She slumped into a chair at the workstation and stared down into the box with an unenthusiastic sigh. “It’s been twenty-five years. You’d think if anything in there were useful, someone would have found it by now.”
“Maybe no one was looking,” countered McBride. But after a glance at the contents, he feared she might be right. Despite its weight, the crate held disappointingly few artifacts: just an aged yellow file, a thin photo album, and a pilot’s flight log. McBride gingerly pulled the ancient rubber band off the file.
The first document was the initial incident report for Novak’s shoot-down, signed by a man named Jozef Starek. The report confirmed what the team had already learned from the digital Book of Honor file. Novak flew a solo mission over China, broke from his planned route, broke radio silence, and then was shot down. Further into the file, McBride found transcripts of the P-3 radio intercepts that backed up the report, as well as glossy black-and-white photographs taken from an SR-71 Blackbird at the time of the shoot-down.
He handed the file to Tarpin. Then he picked up the flight log and thumbed through the pages to the last entry. It was dated 21 December 1987. Novak had not logged his final mission on New Year’s Day. That was not unexpected. Pilots normally logged their flights after landing, an opportunity that Novak missed, having been interrupted halfway through the flight by a surface-to-air missile. But then McBride noticed something else. All of Novak’s previous flights over China were flown with a wingman in another F-16, every single one. “Doesn’t it seem unusual that Novak flew solo on his last mission,” he mused, “especially after he flew all of his other missions with a wingman?”
“Just because something is unusual,” said Tarpin, “doesn’t make it criminal.”
“Good point.” McBride stared down at the half-empty page for a moment longer. Then he suddenly looked up, snapping the book closed with a loud slap. He reached over and snatched the incident report from the file in Tarpin’s hands, quickly scanning the pages a second time. When he finished, he waved the report at the other two. “But that does make it something that should be addressed in the incident report, and I don’t see it here.”
“Maybe,” said Amanda, wrinkling her nose. She seemed unimpressed.
Tarpin shook his head. “I’m with her. Your logic is pretty thin.”
“Wow, tough crowd.” McBride put the papers back in the file and then laid the Blackbird photographs down on the table, side by side. “Twenty-five years,” he muttered, slowly bending closer to the photos until his freckled nose practically touched the glossy paper. After a few moments, he stood up and glanced around the command center. “I need a magnifying glass.”
“What for?”
“There’s a distortion on this photo.” He started rifling through the workstation drawers.
Tarpin picked up the photo and squinted at it. “That’s a smudge,” he said. “Probably the smudge where you just touched it with your nose.”
“Millions of dollars in tech, but we don’t have a simple magnifying glass?” McBride continued rummaging through desks and cabinets. “I didn’t touch it with my nose.”
“Maybe there was a smear of something on the camera lens,” offered Amanda, finally beginning to take interest.
McBride stopped ransacking the command center and gave her an incredulous look. “That photo was taken from eighty thousand feet. If there was a smear on the lens, it would have covered several acres.”
He tapped a blonde technician on the shoulder. “Magnifying glass?” She looked up from her screen and frowned at him,
pointing to an earpiece to indicate that she was listening to something.
“I’ll take that as a no. Wait a sec.” He grabbed the photo out of Tarpin’s hand and placed it on a scanner.
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Tarpin. “You don’t have the authority to copy the Agency’s materials.”
McBride looked back at him and grinned. “Then it’s a good thing you’re here to supervise,” he said. He sat down at a workstation, and a few moments later he had the photo displayed on one of its monitors. He expanded a small section and then rolled his chair back so the others could see. “Look, there’s a clear distortion here. Doctoring photographs used to be a much more refined science. Twenty-five years ago, there was no iPhoto, not even Photoshop. It took a real professional to fix photographic evidence.” He circled the distortion with his finger. “Whoever did this was no professional. It’s a simple masking job. That photo is a duplicate of the original, with this section intentionally blurred into the forest background.”
Amanda removed the photo from the scanner and held it up to her eyes. “It may be a hack job, but it could have fooled me. And the perpetrator got away with it for two and a half decades.”
“This is getting us nowhere,” argued Tarpin. “Let’s assume you’re right and the photo was masked—that still doesn’t tell us who masked it.”
McBride considered the CIA man’s point for a moment and then raised a finger. “Maybe we shouldn’t focus on the who,” he said, rolling his chair over to a different computer at the station. “Maybe we should focus on the what.” His fingers flew across the keyboard. Windows flashed up and down on the monitor. Then he abruptly slowed, loudly tapping the last two keys. He rolled his chair back again. “Edward Masters.”