Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 13

"Out, everybody out!" I yelled. "Run for the plane!"

Pus.h.i.+ng out through the doors and windows, we spread out across the field and sprinted in the direction of the airstrip. The ground had recently been plowed and fertilized; the fresh dung gave a sweet fragrance to the proceedings, mixing deliciously with the scent of burning gasoline and metal as the Chinese pilot doused the bus with more bullets. A red and black fireball shot upward, exploding with a p.r.o.nounced crack.

They say there's a silver lining inside of every dark cloud. I've never been able to verify that myself, but this dark cloud was definitely an a.s.set-the smoke made it hard for the J-7's pilot to aim his guns on the next pa.s.s. He fired anyway, which had a laudatory effect on our stragglers, the bullets just close enough to convince even Doc that the quarter mile was a sprint, not a jog.

The Embraer EMB-120 was owned by a friend of mine named Buzz Sawyer, who used to be a pilot for Air America-the CIA's favorite airline. Now based in Thailand, Buzz is an old hand at sticky situations, not to mention ducking J-7s. He'd apparently kicked his engines off as soon as he saw the Chinese fighters in the air, and was now idling at the end of the runway, impatiently waiting for us.

Not exactly idle. Buzz was hard at work, using his cell phone to set off a series of smoke grenades he had wired around the airport. They shrouded us in a fog thicker than the pea soup you can get at my local diner. This confused the Chinese pilot who was shooting at us, but it also made it harder to see the plane. I finally found it by running toward the turboprop's whine, stopping just before the engine's blades would have sliced me into chop suey.

"This way, this way," I yelled, ushering the troops toward the aircraft. I counted as they hustled in; Buzz was straining at the brakes when I realized we were one short.

Trace.

"Pilot says we gotta go!" yelled Mongoose as I leaned out the door, looking for her in the haze. "There are more fighters on the way."

No way I was leaving Trace. "Go without me," I told him. "I'll catch up."

"d.i.c.k!"

"Go. That's an order, a.s.shole," I told him, adding several other terms of endearment to make sure he knew I was serious as I jumped.

The plane was already rolling forward. The fact that he couldn't see anything on the ground didn't stop the F-7 from firing anyway. The Chinese fighter pilot missed the Embraer by a good margin, but his bullets were close enough to me to send a hail of rock and asphalt against my back.

I was worried that Trace had decided to stay behind and somehow track Polorski to get revenge. It would have been understandable, though not particularly bright. In fact, she had simply tripped and become disoriented in the smoke. Finally recovering, she raced forward, going fast enough to bowl me over in the man-made fog. I landed on my back near the edge of the runway. The smoke cleared, and I had a perfect view of the airplane as it left the ground.

"Now what?" asked Trace.

"Looks like we'll have to pay your bill at the Regis after all," I told her.

[ II ].

LET'S TIE UP a thread before it gets lost instead of loose . . .

THE F-7 PURSUED the Embraer, trying to stay with it as it jinked hard to the south. The Chinese fighter pilot had spent most of his bullets and a good part of his fuel already, and had to turn away within five minutes. By the time reinforcements arrived, Buzz had pointed the airplane southwest and was flying at low alt.i.tude and top speed toward the water. With the Embraer off their radars because it was so low, the new fighters set up a time-consuming standard search pattern. They never did find the Embraer.

Buzz ran into trouble near the coast, though. By that time he'd climbed to a more reasonable alt.i.tude, trying to sneak into the Yellow Sea as a "real" pa.s.senger plane. Queried by a pair of Chinese air force Su-27s on patrol, Buzz's story began to fall apart with his lousy Chinese-he had a great vocabulary, but unfortunately his accent strayed closer to Brooklyn than Beijing when he got excited, and being in the bull's-eye of two Su-27s tends to make even the calmest pilot's heart race.

Especially when they fire heat-seeking missiles at you.

Buzz's business often brought him interesting a.s.signments, and he was prepared for all possibilities. His Embraer was equipped with a variety of warning systems. It also had decoy flares and a laser detonating system to ward off IR missiles. He fired the flares, then pushed the plane hard to the right, hoping the decoys would suck the missiles away. That didn't work-these must have been the latest Russian Vempel heat-seekers-and Buzz quickly hit the lasers. By the time the missiles exploded, they were so close that they peppered the aircraft with shrapnel. The blast pushed the plane downward; Doc swore later that he could have grabbed a fish if he hadn't had his eyes closed.

Buzz pulled back on the stick and leveled off about five inches above the waves, give or take a spritz. Odds are, he and everyone aboard the plane would have been toast, except for the timely arrival of a flight of American F/A-18 Super Hornets, which just happened to be on a routine training mission in the northern China Sea off Korea.

We all know there's no such thing as a coincidence-Jimmy Zim had arranged for the flights and told me about them before I left j.a.pan. But there was one coincidence, or at least a convenience-the carrier was the Ronald Reagan, and among its crew was a chief petty officer who'd had the misfortune of serving under yours truly when he was still young and virginal. I ruined him for life, and he's been grateful ever since, as have the aviators whom he trusts with his aircraft. I'd sent him an e-mail from Tokyo to make sure his planes were in top shape, and while I'm sure the pilots would have done a good job in any event, knowing we had a personal connection to the Hornet drivers helped Doc breathe a little easier.

WHILE THE EMBRAER flew south, Trace and I were making our way north to Beijing.

We smelled like all h.e.l.l, thanks to our roll in the freshly manured fields, and our first order of business was to get cleaned up and changed. We found fresh clothes for Trace neatly displayed on a peasant's clothesline about two miles to the north. Trace pinned some yuan notes in their place, then took them over to a nearby pond, where after making me promise not to peek, she stripped down and took a bath.

Of course I peeked. Who keeps a promise like that?

I washed the makeup off my face but didn't have anything strong enough to remove the dye from my beard and hair. I dunked my head in anyway, and was doing my best to wash out the white when something b.u.mped up against my hand, then slipped up my forearm, tickling me. I thought it was Trace, getting back at me for looking at her, so I grabbed it. As I pulled it out of the water, I realized it was too light and small to be attached to her. I opened my eyes and looked into the slimy green slits of a water snake.

I hurled it across the pond without thinking. A second later, I heard a shriek. Trace ran out of the water, grabbing for her clothes.

"What happened?" I asked, knowing that if I didn't play dumb my life would be in danger.

"Snake," she said.

"You're not afraid of snakes, are you?"

"The human kind I can handle," she said. Then she blushed, and turned around to get dressed.

Finding something that would fit was a bit harder for me than it had been for Trace, and it wasn't until very late afternoon that we were able to find some clothes at a small market in a village about ten miles northeast of the airfield. I had only a few yuan on me, but the proprietor's inclination to haggle was overpowered by my scent and a deal was quickly struck.

Our next problem was to get to Beijing. Between us we knew maybe a dozen words, none of them repeatable in polite company. We had a few yuan and might have tried puzzling out the arrangements for a bus, but we didn't see one. Bicycles, on the other hand, were in good supply, especially in the village, where people left them without locks. But when I started toward two I saw leaning up against the side of a building, Trace immediately objected.

"We can't steal their bikes. That's probably all they have."

"We're not stealing," I told her. "We're borrowing."

I got the Apache death stare in response.

"We'll send them back when we're done," I told her.

"How?"

"We'll use Western Union or something. UPS them. I don't know."

Trace gave me another stare, though this was less mortal. Her standards for fairness have become higher since she agreed to become a kind of G.o.dmother for a young girl in her Chihauhua Apache tribe, but it was obvious that we had to get to the city.

"How are you going to remember their address?" she asked.

Easy solution-just grab the nameplate next to the door. That done, we took the bikes and set out. Once we found a highway, figuring out the direction to Beijing was easy. Even before we saw the English language sign, we knew all we had to do was head for the smog and we'd get there.

There was no way of knowing how much of an alert the people guarding Yong s.h.i.+n Jong had put out because of our picnic there. While I'd initially thought we would simply return to Trace's hotel, as I pedaled north, the more I thought better of the idea. The hotel wasn't exactly low-key. It would be better to stay in a smaller place, one not likely to host foreigners, and even less likely to ask questions. Fortunately Beijing, like all large cities, has plenty.

I suppose we could have gone directly to the U.S. Emba.s.sy and asked them to call Jimmy Zim for us, but that would have meant dealing with the officious State Department bureaucrats, and made me more beholden to Fogglebottom than I really cared to be. Besides, when faced with a choice of dealing with faceless bureaucrats or risking life and limb by weaseling past the Red Army, I'll take the Chinese every time.

Discretion is generally paid for in cash. With dusk falling as we arrived at the city, we headed for the Red Cell International version of an ATM-a hidden stash of cash, IDs, and bank cards secreted in a drop at the Lugou Qiao bridge. Known to us round eyes as the Marco Polo Bridge, it's located about ten miles from the center of town, on the southwestern side of the city. If you've ever been to Beijing, you've probably been over the bridge. The Lugou Qiao crosses the Yongding River-or the marshy field of gra.s.s the river turns into when it isn't flooding.

Forget the reference to Marco Polo that foreigners are fed. The bridge has a much more interesting, and tragic, history. Its eleven stone arches were built in the late seventeenth century and have withstood countless floods, revolutions, and wars. In 1937, the bridge was the scene of a battle between local troops and j.a.panese soldiers looking for a pretext to invade Beijing. (Since they'd already taken over a good hunk of the country north of the city, they didn't need much of a pretext. Nevertheless they came up with one, saying they wanted to search for a deserter in a Beijing wh.o.r.ehouse.) The Chinese forces won the first battle for the bridge, but within a few days were overwhelmed; all of north China was soon in j.a.panese hands. The j.a.panese were not gracious in victory.

The bridge is made out of granite-something you may not realize because of the grime. It's guarded by stone lions, who are reputed to come to life at night. I hoped the legend wasn't true-our money was hidden under the paw of one of them.

The bridge is primarily a tourist attraction these days, and in the early evening there weren't many people around to ask us just what the h.e.l.l we were doing. On the other hand, there wasn't much light, either. The lions are heavy-five or six hundred pounds, I'd guess, and most are carved or otherwise attached right into the posts of the walls. But number sixteen, counting from the western end, had a loose paw, and that's where the envelope with our money was.

Or so Doc said. The paw wouldn't budge when I pushed at it.

I went across to the other side, and checked that lion. But it seemed even more reluctant to move than the first.

"Maybe he counted from the east side," said Trace.

I was just about to send her to check when I realized that I had counted the creature at the start of the bridge, which was more elephant than lion. Before I could get to the beast in question, a group of kids swarmed over me, jabbering in Chinese. I tried to put them off by saying I was a tourist and only spoke English. That didn't even slow them down-they quickly switched to English, speaking better than most dishwashers and lawn guys back home.

"Hey, mister, you take picture with us. You be famous."

"Good for vacation, mister."

"You Number One Tourist, Joe. Give us five dollars."

"Listen, kids," said Trace loudly. "See that guy at the far end of the bridge? That guy owns a candy factory, and he's looking for some kids to test new candies. Tell him George sent you. I'm sure he'll hire you."

They were off in two seconds. The money, cards, and ID were under the paw, as promised. We grabbed a cab and went into town, where we bought some Western clothes. Then we went prowling outside the tourist area, looking for hotels. What we saw wasn't very appetizing-the better-looking places were brothels, and even they looked like they were crawling with c.o.c.kroaches, insects as well as humans.

"Instead of hanging around town for the night, maybe we can catch a flight," said Trace finally. "It's still early. If they're looking for anyone, it'll be Yong s.h.i.+n Jong and an ancient Chinese veterinarian, not you and me."

She had a point, and after a further survey of the seamier side of town, we made our way to a better section and grabbed a cab. Our false IDs had open tickets on j.a.pan Airlines; we booked into a flight leaving for Tokyo in less than three hours.

After pa.s.sing through the customs check-you have to smile to leave China-a stone-faced official appeared and waved us off the moving sidewalk.

"Doesn't look like he's directing traffic," whispered Trace.

"Yes."

"Should we run?"

"Nowhere to go."

"Bulls.h.i.+t then?"

"Absolutely."

The man walked over to us.

"You," he said, pointing at me. "Where is your pa.s.sport?"

Two equally unsmiling men with submachine guns came over and stood behind him. I handed over my pa.s.sport. He held it up close to my face, then pulled it back.

"Good forgery," he said.

"Think so?"

"Your name is not Harold Bishop."

"Most people call me Harry."

"I would say you are Richard Marcinko."

"Really? Richard Marcinko? Who's he?"

The man pulled a well-thumbed copy of Red Cell from his pocket, holding up the cover near my face as he had the pa.s.sport. I wouldn't have minded so much if it hadn't been a cheap bootleg Chinese edition-no royalties.

"You got me," I told him.

"You sign for me?" asked the man.

"I need a pen."

He produced one, then told me how to draw his name in Chinese characters. Five minutes later, we were in the line at the departure gate.

It pays to have fans all across the world. A few fifty-dollar bills, American, tucked into the signature page of a personalized book don't hurt either.

[ III ].

YONG s.h.i.+N JONG said the Chinese were protecting him," I told Fogglebottom when I arrived at our emba.s.sy in Tokyo the next day. "Why didn't your people know that?"

"The CIA is not 'my people,' " said Fogglebottom, looking over at Jimmy Zim, the CIA officer.

"I said it was a possibility," said Jimmy Zim.

"Who is Polorski working for?" I asked. "You?"

Jimmy Zim frowned. I frowned back.

"Polorski does not work for the CIA," said Jimmy Zim. "You should have checked his background."

If he'd been an employee, we certainly would have done an extensive check. But I didn't hire him blind either: before Trace started taking lessons from him, we had a friend in the FBI investigate his background. He was Polish, and in America legally. Interpol had nothing on him, and a contact in the Polish military confirmed that he had the equivalent of an honorable discharge.

That was a fair amount of checking for someone who was just teaching a friend to fly helicopters. The mistake had been trusting him beyond that.

"What is his real background?" I asked Zim.