The Chinese Agenda (4 page)

'Also,' Gillon asked quietly, 'whether or not they have heard anything more from Liu?'

Jones looked at him hard, wondering just what it was between these two men that had caused Gillon to change his mind so quickly. They had told him in Paris that Liu's specific request would be the only thing that would convince him and he had a vague feeling that even though Gillon was strictly supercargo, his involvement with Liu might really be the key to the success of this whole mission after all. He resolved to find out before they went much further.

'It could be,' Gillon continued, 'that the Chicoms have already gotten Jack. What then? If he isn't answering radio transmissions except when he decides to, how are we going to know? Do we go, unless we hear definitely that he has been caught, or what?'

'No, the drill is that Liu will make a radio contact tonight. We were to tell him only yes or no.'

'Yes, meaning I've agreed to come?' Gillon asked.

Jones nodded but was prevented from saying anything more as the cockpit door opened and the radio operator hurried down the aisle.

'Ready for guests, Colonel?' He grinned at Jones. 'There's a whole pack of them piling up out there and another car on its way.'

He continued on up the aisle to the hatchway and as the aircraft swung around and came to a stop, he pulled the latch bar down and shoved open the door. Instantly, Gillon felt the mild air of the Roman spring course through the stale air of the cabin.

'Colonel?' Gillon asked.

'Yep. For the moment, I'm a colonel in the U.S. Air Force, Intelligence.'

Gillon turned in the seat to face Jones. 'For the moment, heh. Just what is your name, anyway?'

Jones grinned at him and without answering went to meet the first of the brass coming aboard.

After two continuous years in the African bush, Gillon felt overwhelmed by the press of people that flooded aboard. There were uniforms of the various branches of the United States military, as well as what appeared to be the Soviet Army, and several business-suited individuals, all were introduced to Gillon and he promptly forgot every name. A colonel hurried past to the front of the cabin to put up a screen while an enlisted man threaded a movie projector in the back. Curtains were pulled over the windows but not before Gillon saw a squad of Italian soldiers scurrying to take positions around the aircraft.

Jones was pressed back against the bulkhead by the crowd of people and Gillon could see his expression changing from surprise to intense anger. Jones elbowed free of the press of people, none too gently, and rushed up the aisle to confront a tall, spare individual wearing a major general's uniform. So, Gillon thought, this shindig was worth the time of a major general. He looked for the Soviet officer and from the stars and ribbons on his shoulder he was, as well as Gillon could recall, a lieutenant general. He took a second look at all of the uniforms, both American and Soviet, with their abundance of medals and ribbons and shoulder braid, and decided that if the Sulkinhov effect – the theory that held that an army's effectiveness was inversely proportional to the flashiness of its uniforms – held true, both armies were in big trouble.

The colonel finished with the screen and called for attention and there was a shuffling of feet and shifting of bodies in the suddenly cramped interior of the aircraft, but the noise did not diminish one bit. A moment later the lights went out and the movie projector's beam lit up the screen, stopping the roar of conversation as effectively as a command. For a moment, Gillon had trouble identifying the scene. The colonel, having extracted his collapsible pointer, tapped the screen.

`This, gentlemen,' he boomed in a professional narrator's voice, 'is the Tien Shan mountain range of western Sinkiang Province, People's Republic of China. These photographs were made available to us for this briefing, courtesy of the Soviet Air Force.

'

So, Gillon thought absently, it was an air force uniform, not army.

`These photographs show, in some detail, the area

where we expect to find our contact. As you may know, the Tien Shan is one of the remotest and, consequently, least explored mountain regions in the world. Today, it effectively separates the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the People's Republic of China. It is some eight hundred miles long and one hundred fifty miles wide with an average height of sixteen thousand feet. Its major peaks, Pobeda and Tengri Khan, are 24,409 and 22,940 feet high respectively and are the highest in the Tien Shan range.'

Our contact. Gillon wondered if he was intending to go along and snorted loudly. The colonel glanced down the row of seats, searching for the source of the interruption, and Gillon waved to him.

`Right now,' he continued, ignoring Gillon, 'we are looking at a pass some twelve thousand feet high, known as the Dzungarian Gate. This gate, or pass, if you will, allows access to the interior of the Tien Shan. The latest maps we have, with the exception of those made up from aerial and satellite photos, are based on those of a German/Russian expedition in 1905 that traveled into the area for the express purpose of mapping and mountain climbing.'

The terrain unreeled slowly as the aircraft flew southward, as shown by a small compass set into an instrument panel superimposed onto the lower left-hand corner of the picture. After a few moments of high elevation shots, the zoom lens went to work and narrowed the field of view at a dizzying rate. The crumpled terrain took on the look characteristic of mountain ranges. Steep passes and high-walled mountain flanks, all of them covered with snow, Gillon noted, passed in review. The colonel was silent a moment as the harsh terrain, more suited to the moon than to earth, appeared on the screen. Gillon studied the picture intently as the aircraft flew deeper into the mountains. Tall stands of pine became visible, sometimes as individual trees along the top of a ridge, but more often as dense forests to about ten thousand feet in the deeper valleys. The rest of the terrain, beneath the snow and ice of winter, he knew would be alpine meadow and scrub bush. Jones dropped into the seat beside Gillon. 'Now you

know why we were so anxious to have you along,' he whispered. 'And not just because Liu asked for you. I can use whatever experienced mountain help I can get.'

'You must be crazy,' Gillon chuckled. 'I haven't been in that kind of mountain for nearly ten years. And that country calls for snowshoes and skis.'

'It'll come back to you,' Jones replied comfortably. At least, he thought, some of that damned hostility of his is dying down.

'We can offer you gentlemen no more than this quick look at the terrain,' the briefing officer continued. 'It is all we have. With the help of the Soviet Air Force Mapping and Photographic Service, we have been able to prepare what we feel are adequate maps to guide you to the rendezvous with your contact. Two members of the Soviet intelligence service will accompany you to act as guides. All the equipment which you will need is being put aboard now and you will have time to examine it during your flight.'

The projector went dark and the lights were snapped on.

'The agenda for this mission into China is, of necessity, somewhat lacking in fine detail. Unfortunately, there has not been time to do much more than select a team, provide the equipment and hope that you will be able to work out the details of the operation yourselves. We are relying on your resourcefulness to offset the lack of support.' The colonel paused for a moment and rubbed his nose.

'Because of the sensitive nature of our relations with China at the moment,' he continued in a hesitant manner, 'it is of course essential to the security and interests of the United States and the Soviet Union that you do not allow yourselves to be captured or . . . well, captured.'

He nodded abruptly and hurried down the aisle while 'a distinguished-looking man in a dark business suit took his place at the front of the cabin and, with an air of controlled patience, waited for the colonel to collect his belongings and leave. The guard at the hatch saluted and swung the hatch shut again.

'What the hell did he say?'

Jones nudged him and nodded to the front of the aircraft.

'Gentlemen, I am here to brief you on the present political situation. As you can see, our military colleagues are unable to supply you with any significant information concerning conditions on the ground. But I think that you will see that in, the political realm, it will be somewhat different.'

'Son-of-a-bitch,' Jones stage-whispered loudly enough for his voice to carry. He smiled serenely in reply to the dirty looks from the State Department people and the appreciative laughter of the military.

'The situation, briefly, is this. You will be violating the borders of a sovereign nation; one, further, which is extremely sensitive to any infringement of its sovereignty. After twenty-some years, diplomatic relations have just been re-established. In spite of this, we are told, the information which you will collect is of sufficient importance to risk jeopardizing all our work. But, that being the case, I must emphasize what the previous speaker stated and that is that you are to take special precautions against being captured or in any other way, being discovered . . . as must the government.' He paused for effect.

`The government of the United States will take no actions of any kind to protect you should you be captured.'

Jones growled and started to rise, then thought better of it and sank back into his seat.

-'If you or any member of your. team is captured or killed, the government will disavow any knowledge, etc. ...' he quoted loudly from a popular television program. The diplomat stared at him frostily. 'I am sorry, sir, but that is how it is.' His voice was hard. 'If you are captured, there is nothing that we can or will do for you . . . and conversely it is important that you do absolutely nothing to ... Jones shot to his feet at this point and shouted angrily, 'General Masue, who the hell let this bastard on hoard?'

Masue pushed his way forward from the tiny lounge, where he had been talking with, another officer. 'I _beg your pardon ...'

'I said,' Jones repeated furiously, pushing his face directly into the general's and forcing him to back up until he collided with an aide, who stumbled and plopped down into the seat occupied by the Soviet general. During the ensuing squawks, which he ignored, Jones poked General Masue in the chest, 'who let this bastard in here? This damned mission is supposed to be so top secret that even your mistress doesn't know about it. Who in hell brought all these people in here. . . ? Get them out now and unless you have anything else of importance, real importance, get your own ass the hell out of here as well.'

`Just a minute, sir ...'

Gillon suddenly revised his opinion of Jones. Anybody who talked to brass that way couldn't be all bad. He got to his feet just in time to intercept the diplomat, who had come hurrying forward. Gillon caught his outstretched arm and jerked. The diplomat swung off balance and before he knew it, his arm was twisted up behind his back and the other caught at his side in a hard grip. Gillon rushed him down the aisle to the hatch and kicked it hard. The guard swung it open in time to receive the diplomat, business suit and all, and they both collapsed in a heap on the runway.

Gillon swung back to the shocked aircraft. An air policeman was reaching for a pistol but one of the men who had come aboard, heavyset and with a weather-beaten face, shot out a hand and pinioned the guard's arm against the wall.

`Don't, or I'll break it off and feed it to you,' he told the guard softly.

'Now, the rest of you who don't belong or have anything constructive to contribute . . . out,' Jones roared, and jerked a thumb at the hatch. Another State Department official started to protest, but stopped promptly as Gillon started up the aisle toward him.

'You heard ... out!'

A few moments later the aircraft was empty of everyone but Gillon, Jones, the flight crew and two new men; one of whom had stopped the air policeman from drawing his weapon. Gillon eyed them expectantly but Jones shook his head.

'Fellow members of the suicide squad .. . Michael Leycock and Charles Stowe.'

Gillon nodded and shook hands briefly.

'What the devil was that all about?' the one intro.. duced as Charles Stowe demanded. 'I thought you were keeping this thing dead quiet.'

'I thought we were too,' Jones said ruefully. 'It seems, however, that we were overruled.'

He stepped across the aisle and stooped to peer through a window. The guards were still in place but the staff cars were beginning to pull away. As he straightened up, the pilot stuck his head through the cockpit door.

'What now, Colonel?'

Jones jerked a thumb at the ceiling. 'Out of here, just as fast as you can. Did they give you the flight plan?'

The pilot nodded. 'Direct flight to Volgograd for refueling. About five hours. All the equipment is aboard as well.'

'All right,' Jones nodded. 'Let's go.'

The pilot nodded once and dosed the cabin door. A moment later the seat belt sign winked on.

THE SOVIET UNION

Gillon watched as the aircraft gained altitude over the spiny ridge of mountains that ran the length of the Italian boot. The others had settled down to sleep, all of them showing the same signs of exhaustion as he; but, too keyed up to sleep, Gillon slumped in the wide seat and smoked cigarette after cigarette until the light blue Adriatic appeared and he finally fell asleep.

Hour after hour the Jetstar flew on, crossing the Adriatic, passing over the Dinaric Alps lining the Yugoslavian coast, deeper and deeper into Central Europe until first the Black Sea and then the broad strip of the fertile Caucasus was obscured by dense storm clouds. Jones dropped down into the seat across the aisle several hours later, waking him to offer a cup of coffee.

`Feeling better now that you've had some real sleep?'

Gillon started to shrug and realized that he did feel better.

`Yeah . . . yes, I do. Thanks.' He sipped at the coffee for a moment, waiting for the caffeine to clear away the last of the cobwebs.