High flight kirk mcgarve.., p.4
High Flight (Kirk McGarvey 5), page 4
part #4 of Kirk McGarvey Series
was very limited, and Japan was an expensive playing field.
Yemlin smiled again. "Ironic, isn't it? The SUR being hired as
mercenaries -for a former CIA spy?" "We'll need action soon," McGarvey said.
"My book cable will go out this afternoon," Yemlin promised. "But I am
curious about something. If this goes through, will you come to Moscow
to oversee the operation?"
McGarvey shook his head. "I don't think your people would want me." "No," Yemlin said softly. "I suppose not."
The Dassault SF- 17 helicopter came in fast and low over the treetops of the Rambouillet Forest thirty miles southeast of Paris, the pilot, Pierre Gisgard, frantically searching for the field where he was supposed to land. But visibility in blowing snow was zero at times, and the gusty winds hitting forty knots buffeted the machine so violently that Gisgard thought it was going to come apart on him. He'd warned them about the weather at
34 DAVID HAGBERG
Mortier, but when the colonel got a feather up his ass nothing would hold him down.
And this was the biggest feather of all. The French secret service, known
as the Service de Documentation ExteriOure et de Contre-Espionage, or
SDECE, had been chasing this group of East Germans ever since the two
Germanies had been reunited. They called themselves the Berlin Hit
League, and for six years the group of exSecret Service thugs and
murderers had been terrorizing Europe: robbing banks to finance their
operations, killing for hire, and sometimes to settle old scores,
sabotaging bridges, power stations, radio and television transmitters,
and assassinating policemen.
Three years ago members of this group shot a Swissair jetliner out of the
sky over Paris with a Stinger handheld missile. Half the passengers
aboard that flight had been French men, women, and children on holiday.
No one in France could forget that tragedy.
Colonel Philippe Marquand, chief of the service's Anti-Terrorism Unit,
had been given a literal carte blanche by the government to run them into
the ground, a task which he had undertaken with zeal. Most of them were
either dead or in jail now, and the last remnants of the gang-three men
and one woman-had made the mistake of coming back to France and robbing
the bank this afternoon at Chartres.
The local police had responded to the silent alarm not suspecting they
would run into a hornet's nest. The first two officers on the scene were
shot to death as they got out of their radio unit. Two other officers
died when their radio unit took a direct hit from a LAW rocket.
By then the firefight had moved from the downtown bank to a roadblock on
the N 154 north of the city. A Chartres lieutenant of police recognized
at least one of the bank robbers as a Berlin Hit League gunman by the
name of Bruno Mueller. The former Stasi lieutenant colonel, whose
specialties were murder and sabotage, was on France's top-ten most-wanted
criminals list, his name flagged for immediate attention of the Action
Service. The call had been put through to Paris as the
HIGH FLIGHT 35
gun battle continued up into the Rambouillet. Less than one hour earlier the bank robbers had pulled up to a stone farmhouse where apparently they were going to make their stand.
A strong gust of wind caught the chopper broadside, slewing it sharply
to the left, its landing gear tangling momentarily in the tops of some
trees before it went over on its side. Gisgard pulled the collective and
the cyclic, hauled the stick far right, and kicked the rudder pedal hard.
The machine shuddered to an upright attitude, every weld in its frame
strained to the limit, and he set it down hard, chopping all power
immediately.
"Nice landing, Pierre," Colonel Marquand shouted from the back.
"Yes, sir," Gisgard replied as the rear hatch was opened and Marquand and
the ten men he'd brought down with him scrambled out into the snowstorm.
Colonel Marquand was a short, dark, dangerouslooking man who'd once been
described as a Sherman tank with an attitude. Squinting his jet-black
eyes against the driving snow, he could make out the stone farmhouse at
the end of a narrow track that emerged from the woods and ran across a
long, narrow field. A dozen radio units and Bureau of Criminal
Investigation vans were deployed in a semicircle in front of the house.
He'd been assured that the entire perimeter was secure. It meant that
there would be some lost police officers wandering around in the storm,
fingers on the triggers of their weapons.
"I want a scope on that house and on the woods behind it right now,
Rend," he told his number two as they headed toward the communications
truck parked just off the track. "Place your shooters no more than fifty
meters from the front, left, and right."
"What about the rear?" Captain Rend Belleau asked, as he motioned for his
people to move out. Both he and Marquand were part Corsican, and they
commanded a lot of respect. "That Chartres lieutenant has got officers back there." "Stationary?"
36 DAVID HAGBERG
"One would hope so," Marquand said. "I'll see if I can establish
communications with them."
"And hostages?" Belleau said grimly. "It looks like a working farm,
hein?"
"Just our luck," Marquand replied heavily, as they reached the comms
truck. He banged on the rear door and hauled it open, as Belleau, dressed
in white army camos, disappeared into the storm, a walkie-talkie to his
lips.
The interior of the truck was bathed in soft red light. Three young
officers were seated to the left at a long radio console, and to the
right a police lieutenant and a sergeant looked up from a map spread out
on a wide table.
"Lieutenant R6gis?" Marquand asked, climbing up into the truck, and
pulling the door closed.
"You from Paris?" the lieutenant asked. He was about forty, and looked
competent. "Marquand, Action Service."
"Pleased to meet you, sir," R6gis said, holding out his hand.
Marquand ignored it, and shouldered the sergeant aside so that he could
get a better look at the map. He pulled off his gloves. On this
larger-scale chart he could see that the river was within twenty meters
of the rear of the farmhouse, and that there were no locks or dams
between here and where it joined with the much larger River Eure. From
there it would be possible to take a boat all the way to Le Havre.
"What are you doing to protect the people you have deployed in front of
the house?" he asked.
"Protect?" Rdgis asked, surprised. "I have twentythree men, all of them
heavily armed . . "How many have you lost so far?"
"Yes?" "Seven dead, five wounded," the lieutenant said.
"Sergeant, I want all of those men out of their vehicles and on the
ground. Pull any of them not dressed for the weather out of there."
HIGH FLIGHT 37
"Yes, sir," the sergeant snapped, and he turned to the radio operators.
"Now, what about your people at the rear of the farmhouse? Are they on
this side of the river, or the other?"
"The far side. We have fourteen back there, and they are equipped for
this weather."
"I'll put four of my people with them. Radio your men and tell them what
to expect."
The sergeant looked around. "We're momentarily out of communication with
three of our people." "Why is this?" "We don't know yet."
"Sergeanr, locate them as soon as possible," Marquand said. "Yes, sir." "Is the river frozen over?" R6gis looked surprised. "I don't know," he admitted. "Find out," Marquand said. "Yes, sir," the sergeant answered for him.
"Do they have any hostages in the house? Did they take any from the
bank?"
"None from the bank, colonel, but we believe there are two civilians in
the farmhouse. The man and the wife." "Is the house equipped with a telephone?" The lieutenant hesitated.
Marquand pulled out his walkie-talkie and keyed it. "Ren6, phone line?" "Oui. It has tone." "Bon. Any movement in the house?"
"A few shadows, but no clear targets. What about the rear?"
"Looks as if there may be three friendlies without communications. We'll
do orange on my signal.9' "Right," Belleau radioed tersely.
"I want a link to that phone line. Send Henri over on the double." "What about the local officers?"
"Stand by only. I didn't spot any medical units out there,"
38 DAVID HAGBERG
"Non, neither have I,- Belleau radioed. "They're on their way," Rdgis said.
"That's good," Marquand said. "Because in a few minutes we're going to
have some casualties."
"Our men are dismounting now," the sergeant said. "But I'm sorry to say
there is no luck so far in the rear." "What about the river?" "It isn't frozen, the current is too swift."
"It's an escape route. Are any of your people within sight of the river?" "Yes, sir," the sergeant said.
"If anything moves toward the river, from whatever direction, shoot to
kill."
"But, colonel, you understand three of i~iy men are unaccounted for back
there," Rdgis protested.
"Then let us hope they do not decide to go for a swim this evening."
The sergeant turned back to the radios to issue the orders.
"Your men are to be used for containment. If anything gets past us, it
will be up to you to bring it down."
"I thought we might go in with you," the lieutenant said.
"You have lost enough brave officers. No need for more," Marquand said
almost gently. "This is our fight now."
The back door opened. One of Marquand's men dressed in white camos came
in and went immediately to the radio consoles. His name tag read BOUTET.
"The line is isolated, and I've tied it to the auxiliary here," he said,
studying the panel. He flipped a couple of switches, and picked up one
of the handsets. "Bon. "Rend," Marquand radioed. "In position," Belleau came back. "We go in in one minute." " oui. -
"Inform your people," Marquand told the sergeant, and he motioned for
Boutet to place the call. He remembered a half-dozen other moments
similar to this one, and each time he hoped it would be the last.
HIGH FLIGHT 39
"Hallo. Bonjour. This is the police, to whom am I speaking?" Boutet began.
His job was to keep the hostage-takers talking for as long as possible,
which would help distract them.
Marquand was about to raise the walkie-talkie to his lips, when Boutet
shook his head. "Lost him."
Belleau came on. "There's movement! They're coming out!"
-A11ez-y!A11ez-y!- Marquand radioed, then shoved the sergeant toward the
door. "Out of here now!" he shouted. "Everybody!"
He was out the door right behind the sergeant, nearly stumbling in the
snow, Boutet on his heels. Before they got ten yards, a bright flash seemed
to surround them, and the communications truck exploded in a million
pieces, knocking them down like a set of ten pins.
The bastards had targeted the truck from the moment they realized what it
was being used for, Marquand thought, scrambling to his feet. It was a
mistake that he should not have made.
Another flash about thirty meters nearer to the house took a police van.
The sound of small arms fire rattled from behind the house. "Two mecs down! We're going in!" Belleau radioed.
Lieutenant Rdgis and the three radio operators were dead, so there was no
immediate way of knowing what had happened at the rear of the house.
Boutet was helping the sergeant who'd been hit by flying debris. There was
nothing else to do for the moment. The action was in the farmhouse a
hundred meters away. The small arms fire died off within ninety seconds.
Belleau came back. "The farmhouse is secure. Two males and one female down
and dead. The hostages, one male, one female, are both dead as well."
"That leaves one unaccounted for," Marquand radioed. "Watch yourself,
Rend." "Stand by."
40 DAVID HAGBERG
"Merde, " the sergeant swore. He was looking back at what was left of the
communications truck.
"We've got movement back here," Belleau radioed excitedly. "Across the
river. All right, stand by." Boutet was looking up at him, his eyes narrow.
"All right, Philippe, it's the police. They're pulling a body out of the
river about thirty or forty meters downstream." "The third subject?" Marquand queried. "Unknown."
"Stay put until I can establish communications with someone on that side
of the river." "Will do," Belleau responded.
Marquand had a feeling that this was going to be a very long night.
Edward R. Reid began to think of himself as the great pacifier in 1986 when in his financial newsletter Lamplighter he predicted the downfall of the Soviet Union and the rise of Japan as the next threat to the nation. His stated goal, and there were a lot of powerful people in and out of Washington who listened to him, was true peace through a beneficent financial domination of the world by the United States. But now at sixty-nine he felt as if he were no closer to his goal than he had been eleven years ago, and he was running out of time.
"The tragic inevitability of war can be circumvented only if we have the
will," he'd written in his last newsletter. "Economic conditions in the
U.S. continue to deteriorate on many fronts, the national debt spirals
upward at an ever-increasing pace, and the new health care system is
pushing record numbers of small businesses into bankruptcy, elements that
will lead either to a decline into international obscurity for America
and Americans, or war with Japan for the same reasons we went to war with
them fifty-six years ago."
A war he'd missed because he was too young, he thought as he paid off his
cabby at the 21st Street entrance to the State Department and shuffled
across the sidewalk. He was a bulky man, with huge feet, very
HIGH FLIGHT 41
large, still powerful hands, a broad, almost square head with white, thinning hair, a bulbous red nose, patchwork blue and red blood vessels high on his cheeks, and brilliantly penetrating blue eyes. A Princeton class of '50 man, he'd come to work for State after a three-year stint in the Army in West Germany. In 1961 he'd returned to Princeton for dual master's and doctorate degrees with honors in political science and economics, and in 1967 any department or agency in Washington would have welcomed him with open arms, but he chose State because his first love was international affairs, especially those of West Germany. He felt it was there that the fight against communism would be won or lost.
His two disappointments in life were his wife's death in 1983 and his
failure to reach the top spot, Secretary of State, rising only as far as
Deputy Undersecretary for Economic Affairs.
"Every President you've served under has told you that you're more
valuable where you are," Margaret, his wife of twenty-eight years, told
him when he would grumble. "You're too smart to be a politician, you old
poop, so quit your complaining."
He missed her, and not a day went by when he failed to wish for her
counsel.
It was a few minutes before one when he stepped through the metal
detector downstairs and took the elevator up to the ninth floor. His name
was on the list and he was expected. The call from Thomas Bruce, who held
his old job, had come at 8:00 sharp this morning. "Secretary Carter would
like to have a word with you sometime today. Would one o'clock be
convenient?"
"It would," Reid had said, knowing full well what the meeting would be
about. They were going to jump him about his last newsletter, which was
fine with him because it meant they were paying attention.
Warner MacAndrew, the State Department's official spokesperson, was just
coming out of the Secretary's reception area as Reid stepped off the
elevator. The man was tall and thin, all planes and angles. He looked
serious.
42 DAVID HAGBERG
"They're waiting for you inside, Mr. Reid," he said, stepping back and
holding the door.
"That serious, is it," Reid commented, entering the office.
"I for one agree with you," MacAndrew said softly, and Reid smiled.
He was passed directly through by an assistant who opened the inner door
and said, "He's here, Mr. Secretary," then stepped aside.
Secretary of State Jonathan Stearnes Carter, seated behind his desk, did
not bother to get up. At fifty-one he was one of the youngest Secretaries
of State in recent times, but he came highly qualified from Colgate and
Cornell as a lawyer with experience on the U.S. delegation to the United
Nations, various presidential commissions including law enforcement and
administration of justice, and work as special and chief counsel on three
different Senate subcommittees. Seated across from him were Thomas Bruce
and Dietrich Kaltenberger, the State Department's General Counsel. They
all looked unhappy.
"Thank you for coming over on such short notice, Edward," Secretary
