Vital Force (2 page)

●

Inside the Russian launch facility, the men made last-minute preparations. Jake knew the trailer was nearly soundproof, but he still considered plugging his ears during the launch. He had observed a number of ground-launched cruise missile launches at Vandenburg Air Force Base, California, in the ‘80s, and they had been a lot louder than he would have thought-especially while outside and a short distance away.

Watching his old friend and sometime adversary, Jake could sense a high level of angst and uncertainty in the man. Something he would have never guessed possible in Yuri Pushkina.

Yuri waved Jake over to a console that would show the flight path of the modified SS-27 Topol-M missile.

“Here we go, my friend,” Yuri said. “Ten seconds.”

Jake and Yuri watched the computer monitor over the shoulder of a young captain. As the time counted off, the first indication that they had a launch was not on the computer, but the slight shaking felt throughout the compartment and the muffled roar from outside. Then the missile showed progress on the computer screen, climbing to three times the speed of sound toward the northeast in just seconds. Jake knew that the missile would swiftly reach a speed of 24,000 kilometers per hour in a few minutes. At that rate, with a nuclear payload, the missile would be able to strike Seattle in thirty minutes and Los Angeles in less than forty.

Hell of a deal, Jake thought, watching the computer screen, as the missile reached a trajectory passing over the Tatar Straight and Sakhalin Island. Soon, the missile would reach critical velocity and altitude over the Sea of Okhotsk, pass over the Kamchatka Peninsula before the planned self destruction over the Bering Sea, where a Russian sub would mark the reentry and ensure nothing remained on the surface. Which was unlikely, Jake knew, considering the speed of descent and the destructive charge within the missile.

Yuri leaned forward toward the screen as the missile started to cross the Sea of Okhotsk.

Then it happened. The unlikely. The improbable. Suddenly, the computer image that signified the missile disappeared.

“What the hell?” Yuri yelled in Russian. “What happened, Captain Petrov?”

The young captain clicked a few keys on his computer, desperately trying to make the missile re-appear. Nothing. He shook his head in disbelief. “It is gone, Colonel Pushkina.”

The next few minutes were chaos as secure phones rang from superiors and Yuri tried his best to explain that he had no idea what had happened.

The Asian woman watched the city of Khabarovsk pass by through the passenger window, her mind muddled by nearly twenty-four hours of constant travel. She had read in an on-flight magazine that Khabarovsk was the eastern gateway to Russia, serviced by an international airport and two main rail lines, including the Trans-Siberian Railroad. The city was mostly planted along the eastern side of the massive Amur River, a major supply route for trade with Japan and a magnet for summer sun worshippers. Now, though, with winter still holding on, the 615,000 citizens of Khabarovsk spent most of their time at work, huddled at home, or in the smoky bars, she guessed.

The Volkswagen Santana sedan cruised through the darkness along Lenina Street, only a few other cars in sight, and those creeping along like snails.

She gazed at the driver, who tapped chop sticks on the dash in sync with the Beatles song, Tax Man. Watching the street lights come on, her only thoughts were on the absurd man to her left. The man she only knew as Laughing Dragon. From what she had seen in the last six months, the man lived up to both parts of his moniker. She understood the Dragon part, since she had seen the man turn on enemies with vicious precision without breaking a sweat-the only thing missing was the fire from his mouth. It was the Laughing part that had so baffled her. He would break into an insidious unrestrained titter for no apparent reason, bringing a chill to her skin. Perhaps he was as insane as her former runner had said just before he turned up missing.

“Tax Man,” the driver sang, his voice much higher than the Beatle, his chop sticks clanking the dash, and his bald head bobbing up and down.

“There's Komsomolsk Square,” the woman said, trying to get him back on track to their goal.

The driver yelled “Tax Man” one more time and then broke into a high-pitched cackle-his version of a laugh.

“Komsomolsk Square,” the woman repeated, pointing now for emphasis.

Laughing Dragon pulled the car to the side of the road and shut down the engine. He turned his head toward her and his smile washed away. “You ever interrupt the Beatles again, Li. . . you know what. Zai jian.”

She knew. Two months ago in Shanghai, outside a warehouse along the shipping docks, a contact had told him to shut his mouth when the Laughing Dragon had erupted into a guffaw at the man for slipping on wet pavement. She had never seen the Dragon escape so quickly. Zai jian. Goodbye to the man.

She bowed her head to him. “Wo dong. I understand.”

“Good. Let's go.”

The two of them got out and headed across the square toward the river. By the time they reached the edge of the square and crossed the snowy park to the edge of the river, darkness had set in completely over this part of Russia-a place that reminded Li more of Manchuria.

Laughing Dragon stopped suddenly, his hand on her arm. “We talk English,” he said to her. “More preciously, I talk English.”

“Precisely,” she corrected.

“Exactly. How else I learn words meaning to Abby Road album?”

Always back to the Beatles, she thought.

Further up the river a figure appeared from behind some pine trees, his hulking figure a silhouette against the industrial skyline across the river.

Laughing Dragon pulled Li forward.

“Close enough,” came a harsh voice, heavily accented, followed by a gloved hand extended outward.

The two of them stopped, the only sound the soft flow of water rippling against a pile of rocks on the river's edge. She knew nothing of the man. That was out of necessity, as always. He was Russian. That's all she knew. From five meters she could not see his face.

“What go up must come down,” Laughing Dragon said.

“Only if someone shoots it down,” the Russian said.

Coded pleasantries over, the Russian slid his hand inside his wool coat and extracted what appeared to be a bundle wrapped in plastic. He threw the package and it landed at the feet of Laughing Dragon, who reached down for it.

“Wait,” the man in the shadows said. “Wait until I go. Everything is there.” With that, the man backed behind the pines and was not seen again.

Poor tactics, she thought.

Laughing Dragon glanced at her. “You think he not very smart?”

“We could have had another person up the river,” she said.

He let out a more subdued laugh and then pointed at a red dot bouncing around Li's chest. “And we both die here in Khabarovsk on bank of river.”

She looked around trying to find the source of the red dot, knowing she would be dead before she heard the sound if the shooter dared to pull the trigger.

Her boss reached down for the bundle and then nodded for them to head back toward the car.

“Why not open the package?” she said, looking around for the red dot.

“It there. It always there. If not, it be last time.”

They shuffled across the square to the car. Once inside, Laughing Dragon opened the package. There was a stack of American dollars, a series of photos, and instructions in English. Which was one reason she had been called in. Her boss could speak English, but his reading was limited to children's books. He shoved the bills inside his jacket and handed her the instructions.

She looked them over, memorized her part, and then set the paper on the seat next to her. Although she had just gotten off a flight from San Francisco that morning, catching a connecting flight from Beijing, she now saw she would be heading back to America as soon as she could catch a return flight. She would have to push her contact there. Hurry him into something she knew would include more gratuitous sex. Although that repulsed her, she knew the reward would be well worth the unpleasantness. But first she would have to work here with Laughing Dragon.

●

Hours later, twenty miles southeast of the missile test site, in a bar on the outskirts of Khabarovsk, Jake Adams leaned back in his chair and poured another shot of vodka down his throat, Yuri Pushkina doing the same and then both slamming the glass to the table.

Letting out a deep breath, Jake said, “All right, that's the last one, Yuri.”

The Russian laughed and then his face became serious. “Come on, my friend. This is my retirement.”

Putting his arm around the Russian, Jake whispered, “It wasn't your fault. They'll see that.”

Yuri shook his head. “They always find someone to blame for these things.”

“Even so. You'll have your pension.”

“I could work at McDonald's in Moscow. I'm sure they hire me.”

Jake glanced about the smoky room, which was crowded mostly with off-duty soldiers and tungsten miners, still dressed in grubby denim overalls. The vodka had set his head spinning, but his old friend would need his counsel and companionship. Jake would have to switch to beer, though. He stopped a waitress and ordered a beer and another shot of vodka.

“I don't want beer, Jake,” Yuri said to him.

“That's for me. No more vodka.”

An hour passed. Patrons came and went, but the two of them continued their assault on the Khabarovsk alcohol supply.

Yuri finally moved his chair closer to Jake, put his arm around his neck, and said, “I shouldn't tell you this.” He hesitated as his eyes shifted about the room. “But I'm sure you already know this. My superiors know what happened to our missile.” He raised his bushy brows and smiled at Jake. It was the same smile he had displayed when Jake awoke in the back of the taxi a the Volgograd airport years ago-Yuri in civilian clothes then and extolling his virtues for saving Jake's ass.

When Yuri didn't elaborate, Jake said, “And?”

“And I think you know.” He pulled his arm from Jake, crossed both of them over his thick chest, and then leaned back in his chair.

Jake had no idea what in the hell was going on. “I'm lost, Yuri. I think I've had too much to drink.”

“You know.” His voice resonated and brought stares from two young soldiers at the closest table.

Shaking his head, Jake said, “No, I don't.”

“Your fucking plane.” This time Yuri whispered loudly, his words slurred.

Jake wasn't sure what in the hell he was talking about. But he was aware of the two soldiers, who were nowhere near their level of inebriation. “Let's get some air, Yuri.”

The large Russian started to his feet and his chair slipped out and crashed to the floor, but Yuri recovered before following the chair to the wooden surface.

As the two of them got to the sidewalk, Jake realized that the February air had dipped down toward zero. The Russian leaned up against the brick building and lit a cigarette, bringing the tip to a bright orange.

“What the hell you trying to tell me, Yuri?”

“You know.”

“No. I don't.”

The man considered him carefully, watching Jake's facial expression. “You don't know, my friend.” He sucked on the cigarette, let out a stream of smoke and said, “The stipulation to this test from the Americans was to observe the test from a plane over the Sea of Okhotsk. You know this much?”

“No. Remember, Yuri, you brought me into this. I have nothing to do with the U.S. government. I was here as an independent observer.”

The Russian considered this.

Jake was as confused as a child in a physics lecture. He had been living in Innsbruck, Austria, where he had been for the last few years running a private security firm, when he had gotten the call from Yuri, followed by a round-trip airline ticket from Munich to Vladivostok, Russia, and an expedited visa for his passport. Based on his past affiliation with the old CIA, he had been compelled to notify the Agency. But that was all he knew.

“My superiors,” Yuri said, “have been notified by your government that they shot down the missile. It was all a big joke to them. We make promise to cut our missiles with this new one, and they laugh at us. Spit in our face.” He took another hit on his cigarette, his eyes cutting deeply into Jake through the smoke.

“What do you mean they shot it down. With what?”

“They say it was laser. Zap! One shot. Star Wars shit.”

Jake had read about the Airborne Laser program, but he had no idea they had become operational. “But why?”

Yuri shrugged his shoulders. “Because they could. It's one thing to test on your missiles, but to shoot down someone else's missile-” His voice trailed off as he stamped out his cigarette on the sidewalk.

Jake imagined the Russian government was hot right now, with that American revelation. Damn. What balls that took.

“Our world is over, Jake. Passed us by. Shit. Laser beams shooting missiles out of the sky. What's the use?”

He had a good point, and maybe that was it. Maybe the Americans had to do it this way.

“There was no other way,” Jake said. “You tell someone you can shoot down their nuclear missiles, maybe they believe you, maybe they don't. But you shoot down the most sophisticated missile in their arsenal, and they gotta believe you can do it again and again. The race is over.”

“No shit.” Yuri thought for a moment, his eyes seemingly transfixed on something behind Jake, and then returning directly to peer at the brown in the American's eyes. “I need to go. Your friends in the Air Force just made me a dinosaur.”

“What will you do, Yuri?”

“I don't know. Maybe Siberia. Go fishing. You come back, Jake. I have a dacha on a lake near here. We go fishing together.” The Russian finally smiled. “Thank you for coming here.”