Fallen Angel (13 page)

CHAPTER 14

LI PENG, SHANG WEI
—a captain in NATO military classification—in the People's Liberation Army of China, wasn't certain whether to be thankful or not. His team was tasked with recovering a falling satellite that was supposed to crash within fifty miles of their location in Heilongjiang just south of the Russian Jewish Autonomous region. The bad news was the scientists who did the math were wrong and Peng was just learning of it. The good news was that glory and military honor could still be his. His recovery team was to continue their mission.

More bad news. The latest calculations put landfall in Russia. To make a success of this mission, all he had to do was find a way to sneak his unit into another country, one which had already seen conflict along its 2,738-mile shared border.

He had confidence in his team, even greater confidence in himself, but his job had become exponentially more difficult. The Russians would certainly send a recovery team, as might one of the military splinter groups known to be in the area. Perhaps most challenging of all, the Americans would do their best to retrieve or destroy the device. He would if he were in their place. That couldn't be allowed. He hoped his superiors would not give up the cause because of the unexpected change. Given the chance he would honor them with success.

On the plus side, he was in one of the most remote, least-populated areas in the country. Peng stood on the banks of the Amur River, one of the largest waterways in Asia. It flowed 1,755 miles from Mongolia and along the border between his country and Russia. He stood on Chinese soil and looked into what was once the Soviet Union, a fellow Communist country. Now it was something they called a federal semi-presidential republic, whatever that meant. From here, with a little wind at his back, he might be able to hit the country with a stone.

He glanced southwest. Three of his men stood on the same bank as he, fishing poles in hand, pretending to fish the Chinese side of the Amur. Pretending was too strong a word. His soldiers, dressed like Chinese businessmen on vacation, pulled in several fish they kept in pails farther up shore.

Peng held a fishing pole, but his line had yet to hit water. His mind was on a place a few hundred miles north. When he asked how the satellite could fall so far from course, he was told it was not part of his mission to know. He accepted that. Perhaps a small error in space converted to a much larger error on earth. Of course, what did he know? He was military, Chinese Special Forces, Hong Kong Special Ops Company, Macau Quick Reaction Platoon, otherwise known as the "Five-Minute Response Unit." They had been on this mission more than five minutes.

Wei Dong called from the camp of tents fifty meters from the river's bank. He said nothing, just shouted to get Peng's attention. Peng set the fishing pole on his shoulder and walked back to camp. He doubted they were being observed. The Russian economy was so bad they thinned their border protection until it was little more than a joke. Still, he had earned his rank by hard work, diligence, and more than a little paranoia.

He entered camp and stepped into a tent. Wei Dong, a Si Ji Shi Guan—sergeant first class—held a satellite phone to Peng, then stepped to the side of the tent, showing deference and a readiness to help in any fashion his team leader demanded.

"Peng." The team leader pushed a camping chair aside, choosing to stand as he spoke. He listened for several moments and then said,
"Ting dong le."
In truth, he didn't understand as much as he would like.

Peng set the satellite phone on a card table. "Get the others. We're leaving."

"May I ask where we are going, Captain?"

"North, Sergeant. We are going north, but not directly."

Thirty minutes later, the team had loaded a BAW Zhanqi SUV and started for Fuyuan about twenty minutes in a straight flight, but they weren't flying. They were winding their way over uncertain roads.

Fuyuan was small but still several times larger than the scores of other villages in the area. This was remote China, far from the megacities holding millions of citizens. Here Peng was far from belching industrial stacks, gridlocked traffic, and wealth. Here, there was mostly poverty and subsistence living. Here the people were as tough as the unmerciful winters. Peng knew, he grew up not far from here.

The People's Liberation Army was his way out. Military service was compulsory but seldom enforced because of the large number of volunteers. Peng was one such volunteer. At the age of eighteen he enlisted, becoming one of three million people making up the world's largest military service. He showed skill, interest, and enthusiasm and was soon selected for officer training.

He had been part of the Macau Quick Reaction Platoon for four years and team leader for the last two. His work took him into several Baltic states, former members of the USSR, Africa, and the Middle East. He relished every mission and each ended with success, placing him in good standing with his superiors. Rumor had it a successful conclusion to the satellite recovery would deliver a promotion and better quarters. Peng was ambitious and Army life suited him. He had no plans for life away from the military.

Runoff from residual snow made the roads muddy and slippery. Wei Dong worked the steering wheel as if the thing were trying to escape the cab. One of the men in the back made a lewd joke about Dong's ability to handle things. Peng let the laughter continue. His mind was elsewhere. They passed several villages, none of which could harbor more than a few hundred people—people who worked farms under the guidance of their collective.

There were three hundred million farmers in the country, toiling in difficult conditions to raise rice, sorghum, wheat, potatoes, and scores of other crops. At one time, the government owned all farms, but in the late seventies, before Peng was born, they began to release property and control back to the farmers. One such farm served as Peng's home for the first eighteen years of his life. He was certain his familiarity with the area was one reason his team received the mission. Still, being back made him uneasy.

The SUV was large but five men made it feel cramped. Peng would be glad to be out of the vehicle. Dong found a stretch of hardpack road that soon gave way to pavement. The smoother ride was welcome.

In the distance, lights from Fuyuan still burned, even though the sun had been up for over an hour. Winter was gone, but at this latitude the sun still hung a little lower than it did in late summer.

"Stay to the south of the city." Peng pointed out the windscreen. "There is our ride."

Dong leaned over the steering wheel. "The helicopter?"

"What else do you see in the sky?" Hsu Li was Peng's second in command. A young lieutenant and the only other officer on the team.

"Nothing we can ride on, sir."

Peng watched the slow-moving aircraft as it banked over the small city, making a full circle. Even in a moving car and still five kilometers away, Peng could hear the thumping of the helicopter's rotors.

As they drew closer to the selected landing area—an empty field ten kilometers southeast of the city—life inflicted another irony on Peng: the aircraft was an Mi-17V7. Russian made.

CHAPTER 15

Columbia, South Carolina

STACY MOYER WOKE WITH
a start. Had she heard something? She straightened on the couch, cocked her head, and strained to hear whatever awakened her. The only thing she heard was the soft droning of a late-night talk show host yammering on the large flat screen mounted to the wall opposite the sofa.

She waited for the noise to reappear but heard nothing out of the ordinary.
I'm snoring again
. Over the last few months, for reasons she couldn't explain, she started snoring. Eric assured her it wasn't loud or disruptive, but what did he know. He spent many of his nights sleeping in the company of men in a tent, on a plane, or in some concealed location. If he lay down in a safe place, he could sleep through earthquakes, tornadoes, and tank movements. On mission, he once told her, he could be awakened from a sound sleep by a fly rubbing its legs together. That was her husband: soldier, father, teller of tall tales.

Stacy rubbed the back of her neck. She hated it when she fell asleep on the couch. A stiff neck always followed. Her back didn't feel much better. To make matters worse, she had been drooling.

"How embarrassing. Good thing no one is around to see me in all my glory."

On the cushion next to her rested a sketch pad, a thick book titled
Functions of Interior Spaces
, a box of colored pencils, and four issues of
Architectural Digest
. The sight of them made her smile.

Earlier in the year, Stacy initiated the adventure of remaking herself. Why shouldn't she? Rob had just turned eighteen, had a job, and would graduate high school in a few weeks. Eric needed minimal care, fresh meat for his barbeque when he was home, beer in the fridge, and his beloved big-screen television. Gina, although just in the second of her teenage years, was always more mature than her chronological age. Although there were moments when she acted like the junior high girl she was, she never presented a problem. If there were a magazine called
Perfect Child
, Gina would be on the cover every month.

Feeling freer than she had in many years, Stacy enrolled in the local junior college and began classes in interior design. The topic had always interested her and her professors said she showed a flair for the art. Perhaps. Even if she didn't, she enjoyed attending the classes, trying something new, and making friends. The family was supportive. In fact, Gina pushed her to step out and "get her design on." Stacy smiled at the recollection—

Gina?

Stacy looked at her watch. Just after midnight.
Wow. I must have really been out. I didn't hear her come in.
Retrieving her sketch pad, she studied the drawing she had been working on before dozing off. It was due soon and drafting was Stacy's weakest skill. She picked up the pencil and set the point to the coarse paper.

She stopped. Something nibbled the back of her brain. Setting the pencil and pad down, Stacy rose, stretched her aching back, and walked to Gina's bedroom.

The door was closed. Nothing new. Gina always kept her bedroom closed. She glanced at the threshold, looking for light seeping beneath the bottom of the door. Gina often stayed up at night to study or watch a video on her computer. Tonight she appeared to have gone straight to bed.
Good for her.

Stacy started to turn away but stopped before she took her third step. She returned to the door, took hold of the knob, and gave it a gentle turn. The tongue of the lock retracted into the door. Slowly, trying to avoid any squeaks, she pushed the door open and looked through the narrow opening.

Gina's bed sat in the middle of the room, the headboard pushed to the wall. The pale glow of Gina's computer monitor gave the space an otherworldly look. Stacy saw the three stuffed animals Gina always kept on the bed. Every morning, her daughter would make her bed and place the toys in a particular order. Hoseface the Elephant rested on the left; Bandit, a one-foot-tall Panda bear occupied the center of the mattress; and Donnie the Donkey rested on the right side.

The toys were in their usual places, mute witnesses to the fact Gina was not in bed.

Stacy opened the door to the stops and stepped in. She must be seeing things wrong. She stepped closer to the bed.

Empty.

Stacy's heart seized like a fist and she raised a hand to her chest. Instinct drove her to flip on the light. The room was empty.

Easy, girl. Panic doesn't help.
A few steps later, Stacy stood in the hall bathroom. Also empty. The heart that refused to beat began to pound against her breastbone.

"You picked the wrong day to become a rebellious teenager, young lady." She hoped that was all that was going on.

In the minutes that followed, Stacy checked the other rooms of the house. She was alone. Very, very alone. Returning to the living room, Stacy snatched her cell phone from its resting place on the coffee table and checked for messages. None. She dialed Gina's cell number. It rang five times, then went to voice mail.

"It's after midnight, young lady, and I told you to be home by eleven. You had better have a good explanation." Stacy ended the call.

Her heart recruited help from her stomach, both determined to tear her up from the inside.

The sound of a car door closing pressed through the walls. Stacy crossed her arms and waited for the front door to open. Both barrels of her emotional shotgun were loaded.

The door opened.

Rob entered, closing and locking the door behind him.

"Oh, it's you."

"I missed you too, Mom. Sheesh. Should I leave?"

"No, no. I'm sorry. I heard the car door close and thought it might be Gina."

"First, Gina doesn't drive and doesn't have a car. Second, she said she was going to her study group at Pauline's. Third, no one has ever mistaken me for Gina."

"You know what I mean. I thought maybe Pauline's mother or father had driven her home."

"I take it the Golden Child is late."

"Don't be contrary, Rob. I'm upset."

"Yeah, I can see that." He slipped off his McDonald's shirt and started for his room. "Have you called the Wysocki's yet?"

"No, it's after midnight."

"You don't have to tell me. I didn't think this day would ever end. Closing isn't as much fun as it sounds."

"I mean, it's too late to call over there."

Rob stopped. "Not if Gina's there it isn't. You want me to do it?"

"No. If I wake her parents I'll just apologize."

"Good thinking. You know Gina; she's probably studying the night away with her geek friends. I'm gonna change. I smell like a hamburger."

Stacy took a deep breath and let it out in a long exhalation. Retrieving the number from the contact list in her cell phone, she placed the call. She had only spoken to Pauline's parents a few times and felt bad about the late night—no, she corrected herself—early morning call.

"Hello." A sleepy female voice answered.

"Mrs. Wysocki, this is Stacy Moyer. I'm sorry to call so late. I hope I didn't wake you."

"After midnight. Why would I be asleep?"

The sarcasm was clear. "Again, I apologize. I wonder if I might speak to my daughter. She's not answering her cell phone."

"Gina." The woman's tone turned serious. "Gina's not here. All the girls left about eleven. I remember Gina saying she had to hurry, she was running late."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure . . . Wait a minute. I'll double-check. I suppose she could have come back for some reason."

Stacy heard a slight grunt and assumed the woman was crawling from bed. A few moments later: "I've checked everywhere. I even went out on the porch. My daughter is in bed."

"Alone?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry. That did sound bad. What I mean is, Gina didn't fall asleep or something."

"No. She's not here." Her voice softened. "Maybe she went to another friend's house."

"That's not like her. I'm getting scared."

"Do you want me to come over?"

Stacy hadn't expected that. "No, thank you."

"Please keep me informed. Let me know if I can do anything. We'll be praying."

"Thank you." Stacy hung up and doubled over. Something was wrong, very wrong.

"So anyway, closing up a burger joint is more work than I thought. You know me, I'm allergic to work—" Rob stopped. "Mom? What's wrong?"

"Gina left Pauline's house over an hour ago."

"But it's only a three block walk—" He spun and walked back into his room and reemerged a few moments later, car keys in hand. "Get your shoes on. We're going Gina hunting."

Rob was starting to sound like his father and that gave Stacy a moment of comfort.

STACY LET ROB DRIVE.
She didn't trust her nerves. First they reversed the path Gina would have taken home but saw nothing. Rob then drove the side streets covering routes Gina probably wouldn't have taken but might have if she was feeling adventurous—a quality she never displayed before. Again nothing.

They drove half-a-dozen ever-widening circles with Pauline's house at the center. During that time, Stacy called the police and received the usual, "She has to be gone for forty-eight hours to be declared missing." They did promise to dispatch a patrol car to search the area and would issue a BOLO. Rob had to explain that meant "be on the lookout."

Twenty minutes into the search Rob said, "This is nuts." He turned the car around.

"What are you doing?"

"Going back to Pauline's. You're going to drive."

"Why?" Tears burned her eyes.

"I feel like we're missing something. I'm going to walk from Pauline's to home. I want you to follow."

Rob wasn't asking; he was telling her this was the way it was going to be. He stopped in the middle of the street, removed a flashlight from the glove compartment, and exited. Stacy moved to the driver's seat and watched as her son started at the Wysocki porch, lowered his gaze, and began to walk slowly toward home. She could see his head moving from side to side as he scanned the area in front of him and shone the light beneath every car parked along the curb or left on a driveway.

One block gave way to the next as Stacy crept along the street, forcing herself to not only focus on Rob, but on where she was directing the car. At times Rob would disappear behind some curbside vehicle, then reappear a moment later. They came to a pickup truck and Rob peered into the cab and then the truck bed. The thought of him finding her daughter hurt or worse, lying in the back of a 1980s Chevy pickup, came as a waking nightmare. Her hands shook as they gripped the steering wheel.

Rob started across an intersection, then paused in the middle of the street. He looked down one street, then the next. Stacy didn't need a conversation to know he was wondering if Gina might have tried a different way home. Possible, but not likely. Gina loved her habits. She rose at the same time every day. When her friends longed to sleep in until the crack of noon, Gina would rise at six on school days and seven on weekends. The ritual never changed.

Just like her father.

Stacy wished with all her might Eric were here. He'd know what to do. He would have found her by now. And if someone . . . She couldn't complete the thought, but God help the person who would harm his little daughter.

Rob stopped suddenly. Stacy pulled forward until she could see him through a gap between parked cars.

He picked up something.

Her heart stuttered. Stacy slammed the car's transmission into park and exited, leaving the vehicle idling in the middle of the street, the driver's door open, the overhead lamp shining in the dimness of the late hour.

"What?" She approached, her stomach so tight and twisted she couldn't stand erect. Rob held a book. "What is it?"

He turned. "I think this is hers." He held up the tome. It was thick with a worn cover and dulled corners, the abuse from a student who had it before Gina. "I've seen it on Gina's desk."

Stacy took it from her son and studied the cover:
Basic Speech Communications
. Stacy had also seen the book in Gina's room. She wanted to deny it, to consider it a coincidence, to assume the book belonged to someone else's little girl.