Some of the possibilities were distinctly unpalatable.
The thought of an air-to-ground running gunfight over densely populated central Tokyo made him shudder. It was for that reason that he had agreed with the Spider that only aimed rifle fire would be used within the urban confines and even then be confined to targets within the grounds of Hodama's house. It had been a reasonable request, but it would have been nice to know that the opposition was going to follow the same restrictive rules. Frankly, he did not think they would, so invisibility and surprise were his best weapons. Of course, if the action switched to over the sea, then the Spider's rules would not apply. Then they could play hardball.
Al Lonsdale had been gazing out of one of the large observation windows that lined both sides of the gondola and now turned and came over and sat by Fitzduane. When they had converted the airship for the operation, they had left a walkway around the periphery of the gondola and a row of seats in the center.
They would be airborne for four hours before the 2:00 A.M. time of the meeting. The airship could not suddenly appear. It was unlikely that anyone would look u past the glare of the floodlights when reconnoitering the meeting, but on the off chance that they did, the ship had to be established as part of the scenery. The delay was a nuisance, because waiting was the hardest part of any action, but it was unavoidable. The endurance of the airship itself was not a problem. At slow speeds it used minimal fuel and could stay up for up to forty hours if necessary.
'Hell of a craft, isn't she, Colonel?' said Lonsdale, looking around the gondola with a proprietorial air. 'Frankly, I'm surprised they're not more popular. I mean, what a way to see the country.
Smooth as silk.'
Fitzduane was amused. Since Al had trained in the borrowed Airship Industries Skyship 600 – a model similar to the one they were flying in now – the Delta marksman had become something of an instant airship expert and advocate.
'Smooth as silk if the weather holds,' said Fitzduane. 'Now, some serious wind could make you reach for a long, paper bag – or so I hear.'
Lonsdale grinned. The Achilles' heel of an airship was its behavior in high wind. With all that surface area, an airship's gas-holding envelope acted like a giant sail, and could pitch and roll just like a boat. On his first training flight, Lonsdale had been airsick.
'Someone's been talking,' said Lonsdale cheerfully. 'Anyway, that was a particularly shitty day and my pilot wasn't as expert as these boys. I don't think we're going to have any trouble tonight.' He saw Fitzduane's eyebrows rise, and hastily added, 'Well, not from the weather, anyway.'
Fitzduane laughed. Lonsdale was right. Fortunately, weather conditions were ideal, and flying at night, unless you were flying directly over a factory or similar heat source, eliminated interference from thermals. The airship was powered by two Porsche air-cooled gasoline engines driving twin-ducted variable-pitch propellers located on either side of the rear of the gondola. It seemed to float across the sky.
It was a remarkably pleasant way to travel.
Schwanberg's good humor as he had boarded had faded and had been replaced with a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach as the airship took off.
At first, he had put it down to a touch of airsickness. Now, standing up in the front of the gondola looking out one of the port observation windows, Schwanberg felt distinctly uneasy again, and it was not physical. He did not know what it was, but something just did not feel right. And, over the years, if there was one thing that he had learned to rely on, it was his instinct for self-preservation. There was no question about it, something was not kosher; but what?
He fingered the grip of his 9mm Browning automatic as it sat reassuringly in his shoulder holster. What the hell had set him off? Everything seemed normal.
He had initially been thrown when he had arrived at Atsugi. He and Chuck Palmer had expected to board with everyone else after a final briefing session. That would be normal procedure. Instead, Fitzduane and his people were already installed on the airship and there had been little discussion before the airship cast off and they rose near-vertically into the sky. Fuck, it was almost as if this was entirely Fitzduane's operation, which was not the way it was supposed to be.
The second disconcerting element was the presence of Al Lonsdale and that Japanese bitch on board.
He had expected only Fitzduane and the pilots, and under those circumstances an accident for the Irishman would have been easy to arrange. The pilots were shielded from the main cabin and would see nothing. Fitzduane would just have disappeared. An accidental fall out of the door. Something simple like that.
But instead, there were two unexpected and unwanted witnesses, and both were loaded for bear. The Delta man had a. 50-caliber Barrett with some high-tech telescopic sight, and the bitch had some custom self-loading piece chambered, it looked like, for the. 300 WinchesterMagnum.
For no reason that he could identify, Fitzduane was thinking about Schwanberg. He looked across at the man. He seemed as relaxed and unperturbed as anyone could be under the very special pressures of an operation which was going to result in the imminent death of a number of fellow human beings, but Fitzduane could just feel the tension. There was nothing to see, but to Fitzduane the signs were as evident as if Schwanberg were radiating blue sparks.
Fitzduane's mind went back to the CIA chief's boarding of the airship. Had there been any sign of suspicion then? He thought not. On the contrary, both Schwanberg and his henchman, Palmer, had seemed in exceptionally good form. They had been laughing at some private joke. There had not been the slightest hint of suspicion. Or had there?
He replayed the scene in his mind. There was something – an excess of joviality? – something. He was missing some element.
He thought of Bergin. Could Schwanberg and Palmer possibly know? Surely not. There was not even a hint that they suspected their nemesis was at hand.
And yet…
What the fuck is going on? thought Schwanberg.
He turned toward Chuck Palmer. Palmer was looking contentedly out a window at the Tokyo lights below and seemed quite unaware that anything was amiss. Of course, Chuck would be content, since he was flying in a real airship for the first time and knew pretty much for certain that he was going to be able to kill a few people in the near future. Chuck was easy to please.
Schwanberg tried to work out a few possibilities as to what might be going down, and then, as the options clicked into place, started to sweat. It suddenly dawned on him that what he had planned to do to Fitzduane, that fucking Irishman was intending to do to him. Suspicion became certainty.
He leaned across and spoke into Chuck Palmer's ear. Palmer's back stiffened as Schwanberg spoke. If the boss had a funny feeling, there was no point in debating it. The man had a nose for trouble.
Schwanberg felt easier now that Chuck was alerted. The next question was what to do about it. Frankly, backing up Katsuda was all very well, but the prime directive was personal survival.
He looked at his watch. Shit! It was 01:38 A.M., only twenty-two minutes before the meet. They were going to have to act soon if they wanted to resolve this thing before the main action went down. After it, he had a feeling it would be too late. He had a disconcerting feeling he was being set up to die in the line of duty. He and Chuck would probably get Distinguished Intelligence Medals – posthumously – and maybe get bronze stars and their names on the memorial wall in Langley.
Some motherfucking consolation when you were a heap of ashes sitting in someone filing cabinet because they had forgotten to sprinkle you in the Garden of Remembrance. Well, it would be how Schwanberg would arrange things if roles were reversed. Death in the line of duty was a nice touch. No trial. No scandal. The Agency really did
