Fallen Angel (16 page)

"I'm on my way."

Five minutes later, Special Agent Jerry Zinsser was in a pair of tan pants, a dress shirt, and blue Windbreaker with the emblem of an eagle perched over a gold shield. CID was printed over the front left breast. In a holster on his hip was a 9mm, M11, Sig Sauer P228 sidearm.

Zinsser had been to several of Eric Moyer's famous backyard beer and barbecue gatherings so he needed no directions.

On the way a flood of memories, most unwanted, crashed like storm waves on his mind. Zinsser was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for valor displayed in the Somali backwater town of Kismayo. He saved lives that day but almost lost his mind in the process. Flashbacks plagued him to such an extent he nearly killed the leader of his new team: Eric Moyer. His post-traumatic stress disorder almost cost more lives than he saved.

Moyer could have dropped him from the mission—Moyer
should
have dropped him and pressed charges for more violations of the Code Military of Justice than could be imagined. Moyer didn't. He saw something in Zinsser he didn't see in himself.

Still his actions cost him. He could no longer work foreign missions, but because of his bravery and the fact he helped save the president's life, Zinsser was given a new start as a special agent with Army CID.

Memories swirled in his head and every one brought him a new, cutting pain. It was like standing in a blizzard of razor blades. He tried not to think of his failings. Chaplain Paul Bartley and others helped him focus on the good he did, not what his disorder caused him to do.

One thing was certain: He owed Eric Moyer big time. If Moyer's family needed help, then he would do anything and give anything to be there for them.

Zinsser pressed the accelerator to the floor and made hash of the South Carolina vehicle codes.

PAUL BARTLEY PULLED TO
a stoplight and dialed his phone. He had another call to make.

The phone rang and a weary man answered. "Fort Jackson, Corporal White speaking, may I help you?"

"Corporal, this is Chaplain Paul Bartley. I need to speak to Colonel MacGregor."

"But, sir, it's just after two in the morning. The colonel will have me skinned."

"I didn't call for the time, Corporal. This is an emergency. You can either give me his home number or patch me through; I don't care which as long as it happens in the next few seconds."

"Yes, sir."

Bartley waited a few moments, then a gruff voice poured from the phone. "It's never a good thing when a minister calls at 2 a.m. What's wrong?"

"It's Gina, Eric Moyer's daughter."

"Oh no."

Bartley explained as he drove.

CHAPTER 19

"WHAT'S HE SINGING?" JOSE
leaned forward and rubbed the back of his neck. The trip was getting to everyone.

It had only been a few hours, but much of it was uphill on bad, twisting roads. Every bone in Moyer's body hurt from the constant jarring and cramped confines.

"You don't recognize that, Doc?" Crispin had a self-satisfied grin plastered on his face.

"Two problems, Newbie: First, he's singing in Russian; second, he's a lousy singer."

"I heard that." Lev turned to look at the men in the back, then jerked the wheel when he realized they were headed off the road.

Rich reached for his 9mm. "Let me just wound him; a nick, maybe crease his scalp."

Moyer pretended to give it some thought. "Maybe later. If you're good."

"Thanks, Dad."

"I ask again: What is he singing?"

Crispin's grin widened. "I still can't believe you don't recognize it. It's a classic. Even young guys like me know about it."

Jose turned to face Crispin, took hold of the wires that ran to the earbuds planted in Hawkeye's ears, and yanked. He leaned close. "Okay, smart guy. School us."

"Paul McCartney's 'The Long and Winding Road.' Get it? A long and winding road. Kinda clever."

J. J. asked, "How can you hear what Lev is singing with those things crammed in your ears?"

"I am a man of many talents."

"We'll see about that," Rich said.

Moyer leaned to the opening between the truck's cab and cargo. "How much longer?"

"Soon, Boss. Soon."

For some reason, hearing Lev call him by his nick irritated Moyer. Everything was irritating Moyer.

"Yeow!" Pete jumped, almost dropping the new communication device.

"What?" Moyer snapped his head around.

"Sorry, Boss. Thing just came to life. I think we're getting a message."

Crispin leaned close to Pete. "Amazing. We're not getting a message, Boss—we just got a message, in like, a second. Ya gotta love this."

Pete studied the display. "Hawkeye is right." He handed the device with its glowing screen to Moyer, who took it. High tech was not his thing, but he knew his way around a computer. How hard could this be?

Moyer touched the screen and it brightened. "There are six squares and an onscreen keyboard."

"It wants you to enter a security code." Crispin stretched his neck to see.

"Ya think?"

"Is that a problem, Boss?" Rich studied Moyer, more interested in the man than in the device.

"No one gave me a security code."

"Oh."

The group sat mute, the silence filled by the bounding, twisting, rattling truck body.

"How many numbers?" J. J. looked thoughtful.

"Six. Why? You got an idea?"

J. J. scratched the side of his face. "What's the only code we all know?"

Moyer studied his weapons specialist. "The Concrete Palace."

"It's worth a shot," Rich said.

The Concrete Palace at Fort Jackson was the heart of one of the Army's new Special Operations, still unknown to many even in the Army. Many operations were run from the location and the building was, therefore, a highly secured facility. No matter how many times Moyer entered the building, he had to enter a code, have a thumbprint read, be cleared by a security officer inside a locked foyer, and enter another code to enter the inner workings of the windowless building.

Moyer entered his six-digit code. The screen changed and a small box appeared in the bottom, right-hand corner of the screen.

"Biometric reader," Pete said.

"I figured that." Moyer placed his thumb on the square. The screen blanked, then a message—an aerial image—appeared. Moyer could see a small red dot near the center of the image. He tapped it, and the device zoomed in. "It's us. A satellite photo of the FedEx truck on the road."

"Real-time satellite surveillance." Pete seemed impressed. "Not new, but sending it to us in moments is."

"Hello," Moyer said. "What have we here?" A pulsing blue light appeared in the upper-right corner. A light blue line ran from the dot to the west.

"Tap the blue dot."

Crispin stood to improve his viewing angle. The man clearly loved his tech. Moyer shot him a gaze that could freeze a flame.

"Um, sorry, Boss."

Moyer placed a finger on the blue dot. A series of numbers appeared: coordinates. The name of a town appeared in white letters. It reminded Moyer of Google Maps. "Hey, Lev, do you know where Nov Arman is?"

Lev turned and the truck again veered to the right. Lev snapped the wheel back just in time, jarring everyone aboard.

"You don't have to make eye contact to talk, Lev. Keep your eyes on the road."

"Yes, I know Nov Arman. It is not far from the river Arman, hence the name."

"That's our new destination: a few klicks north of Nov Arman. Over the river."

"There is very little there. Just a few farms."

"That's good. The fewer the better."

Lev thought for a moment. "I know of a bridge south of the river. It is not the best bridge, but it should hold us."

"Should?" Rich said. "Should? What do you mean 'it should hold us'?"

"As I have said, the village is small, maybe a few hundred people. Such places don't get fancy bridges. Don't worry; we will be safe—probably." He smiled.

"I can't figure if he's yanking our chain or if he just enjoys making us nervous."

Moyer ignored Rich. "How long, Lev?"

"Maybe another hour or two. Much of the trip is uphill, but there is a road of sorts that leads to the town."

"Make the most of it. We have less than two hours."

"Understood." He paused. "I have been driving for some time now. I could use a break and maybe some refreshment."

"If I see a flask of booze anywhere near your mouth, I'll place it somewhere where you can't reach. Got it?"

"Yes . . . Boss."

THE MD-90'S INTERCOM SYSTEM
carried a voice from the cockpit calling Jiang Tao forward. The cockpit door remained open and Peng watched the colonel slip on a pair of headphones. A moment later, he removed a smartphone from his pocket and studied it. He said something to the pilot, then returned to the cargo area with a smile. As he did, the aircraft, now over the Sea of Japan, banked sharply to the right.

"Our scientists have more accurately determined where the satellite will fall. They have an exact trajectory. It is farther north than we first estimated, but not so much as to change our mission."

"Time?"

"Two hours. We will be in position in ninety minutes. You and your men will be ready in one hour."

"Understood, Colonel. One hour."

Fifty minutes later, Peng led his men as they removed the tarps from the cargo strapped to the deck. Beneath each beige cover rested a vehicle, the kind used to travel terrain with no roads. Except these vehicles differed from what ran through the back country of the world: These were not designed for pleasure or thrills. They were made for the Chinese military.

When Jiang revealed the plan, Peng knew the man had lost his mind. He kept the opinion to himself as did his men, but he could feel their tension.

They had a right to be tense. They were just told they would be driving these things out the rear exit of the MD-90. Each buggy was fitted with a propeller encased in a fiberglass surround. The propulsion unit was mounted to the back of the frame. A small gas engine powered the fan and then could be switched to power the wheels. The buggy could reach speeds of eighty kilometers an hour, and the reusable parachute could become airborne again with just fifty meters of flat ground. They would win no races, but it could help his men move over the uneven terrain faster than marching. Each vehicle could seat two and had a small storage area for backpacks and mission-needed equipment.

"But what about noise, Colonel?" Peng had seen powered hang gliders and smaller powered parachutes but deemed them unfit for stealthy insertion. A gas-powered motor was hard to keep quiet and an electrical motor required an unwieldy battery.

"You will be landing in a remote area. Very few people around to hear you."

Out loud he said, "Yes, sir." He didn't dare speak what he said in his mind.

Jeng took a little over an hour briefing the men. It was time for
Q
ī
piàn
to live up to its name: Deception.

The deception began as the MD-90 crossed into Russian airspace. Jiang and Peng listened to the radio exchange through auxiliary headsets. In one way it was an honor for Peng to be included. Technically, he did not need to know these details, but Jiang insisted because, "Someday you will be in a position like mine." Peng thanked him.

A thickly accented voice came over the headset. "Unidentified aircraft bearing 315, you are entering Russian airspace, please identify yourself." The conversation was conducted in English.

"Pushing 7700 now," the pilot said.

Jiang nodded his approval. He leaned in Peng's direction. "The pilot just set the transponder to 7700. It will show up on Russian radar as an emergency in progress."

"Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is China Express two-four-nine bound originally for Tokyo declaring an emergency."

"Tokyo? You are far from Tokyo, two-four-nine."

"Understood, Control. We are experiencing engine trouble in our port engine and have lost most of our airfoil hydraulics."

"Do you have control of the aircraft?"

"No, Control. Not fully. We are steering with engine thrust but can't hold altitude. Dropping to twenty thousand feet."

"So you are declaring an emergency."

"Moron," the pilot mumbled, then activated his radio. "Affirmative, Control. We are declaring an emergency."

"How many souls on board?"

"We are a cargo craft ATC. Just the two-man crew."

"Understood, two-four-nine. Please hold your altitude."

The pilot swore in Chinese. "Control, we cannot hold altitude—now at fifteen thousand feet."

"Two-four-nine, can you make Khabarovsk?"

"Stand by, Control." Then, "Khabarovsk may be too far. Request permission to try Yakutsk."

"That's still pretty far."

"We're open to ideas, Control."

"Stand by, two-four-nine."

Jiang turned to Peng. "It's time. We'll be at ten thousand feet soon."

Peng removed the headset and walked to the back. He could feel the consistent bank of the aircraft and its ever-slowing speed. He inhaled deeply, raised a hand and extended his index finger, and made a circling motion. Without a word, each man entered one of the three powered parachutes, one in the "driver's" seat, the other to his side. Peng would operate his alone. Some of the team's gear was stowed in the seat next to his.

Jiang stepped to a panel at the rear of the aircraft. In the commercial application of this aircraft, this area would be used for restrooms and the rear flight attendant area. The MD-90 was designed with a rear exit. For this mission, the steps of the airstairs had been covered with a ramp. Peng had jumped from many planes and learned to enjoy it. This time, however, he was jumping while strapped to a small vehicle. Parachute jumps were done with larger pieces of equipment and even snowmobiles, but this was different.

Jiang donned another headset and waited. A few minutes later, he removed the headgear, opened the panel, and pressed a large red button.

The rear exit opened slowly, creating more drag. The aircraft bounced and shifted. The craft's speed slowed noticeably. Jiang moved to Peng's car and pulled the quick-release buckles, pulling away the straps used to secure the contraptions.

Peng waited, looking out the opening into a pale gray shroud of nothing. He thought of his parents and the wife he had yet to find.

Jiang reappeared and pointed at Peng, who started the engine that drove the rear propulsion fan. Jiang watched the others do the same. The colonel looked pleased, looked proud.