eleven miles per minute. His targets were a row of Zeros that two days ago had been parked in front of the one large hangar on the base.
There was the hangar! He slammed the stick over, corrected his heading a few degrees. His finger tightened around the trigger, but in vain: The Zeros weren’t there.
The ramp was empty when he roared across it five hundred feet in the air, still doing 650 knots.
“There are no Zeros,” somebody said over the air.
Was this an ambush? were the Zeros lurking nearby to bounce the F-22’s? Perhaps the Zeros were on their way to Chita — right now!
“Shoot up the hangars and fueling facilities,” Cassidy told the other members of his flight. “Watch for flak and SAMS.”
He made a wide looping turn and headed for the city of Khabarovsk.
The railroad tracks pointed like arrows toward the railroad station. Train in the station!
Squeeze the trigger…, walk the stream of shells the length of it.
God, there are people, soldiers in uniform, running, scattering, the engine vomiting fire and oily black smoke … He made another wide loop, still searching nervously for flak, and came down the river. He found another train, this time heading south toward Vladivostok. He attacked it from the rear, slamming shells into every car.
The entire plane vibrated — in the gloomy evening half-light the beam of fire from the gun flicked out like a searchlight. Flashes twinkled amid a cloud of dust and debris as the shells slammed into the train, fifty a second. Then he was off the trigger and zooming up and around for another pass.
With the throttle back, the airspeed down to less than three hundred, he emptied the gun at the train. He watched with satisfaction as two of the cars exploded and one of the engines derailed.
Climbing over the town, he called on the radio for his wingmen to join for the trip back to Chita.
Where are the Zeros?
21
Admiral Kolchak was running slow, two hundred meters deep, making for the entrance to Sagami Bay, the sound that led to Tokyo Bay. Pavel Saratov sat in the control room with the second set of sonar earphones on his head. About every half hour or so he would hear the faint beat of turboprop engines: P-3’s, hunting his boat. Of that, Saratov had no doubt. Esenin came and went from the control room. Apparently he was wandering through the boat, checking on his people, all of whom wore sidearms and carried a rifle with them. As if they could employ such weapons in this steel coffin. Still, the sailors got the message: the naval infantrymen were there to ensure the NAVY did Esenin’s bidding. Saratov got the message before the sailors did. Esenin had his little box with him, of course, hanging on the strap around his neck. Now, as he listened for planes and warships, Saratov speculated about what was in the box. When he had examined that topic from every angle, he began wondering what the sailors were thinking. He could look at their faces and try to overhear their whispers, but that was about it. The crowded condition of the boat did not allow for private conversations, even with his officers. And no doubt Esenin wanted it that way, because he kept his people spread out, with at least one man in every compartment of the boat at all times. Everyone knew where the boat was going and why. The first day at sea, Saratov had told them on the boat’s loudspeaker system. Now they were chewing their lips and fingernails, picking at their faces, thinking of other places, other things. The absence of laughter, jokes, and good-natured ribbing did not escape Saratov. Nor did he miss the way the sailors glanced at the naval infantrymen out of the corners of their eyes, checking, measuring, wondering … This evening Askold brought Saratov a metal plate containing a chunk of bread, a potato, and some sliced beets cooked in sour cream.
As he ate, Askold showed him the chart. “We are here, Captain, fifty miles from,the entrance to the bay.”
Saratov nodded and forked more potato. “Do you wish to snorkel tonight?”
Saratov nodded yes. When he had swallowed, he said, “We must snorkel one more time for several hours, before we go in. We are taking a long chance. It’s like a harbor up there, ships and planes …”
“Can’t we go in on the battery charge we have?”
“Not if we expect to come out alive.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“We have been lucky. The thermal layer—“
“Lucky, ummm …”
“When we leave the Japanese current—“
“The thermal layer will run out.”
“Yes,” Askold murmured, and glanced at his hands. He watched his captain chew a few more bites, then went away.
Jack Innes reported to President Hood in his bedroom at the White House. The president was donning a tux. “Another disease luncheon,” Hood said gloomily as he adjusted the cummerbund over his belly. “I’d like to have a dollar for every one of these I’ve sat through in the last thirty years.”
“The Japanese have sent everything they have after that sub.”
“Where is it now?”
“We don’t know.”
Hood looked a question. “Unless he comes up to periscope depth, we can’t see him with the satellite sensors. And there are some storms over the ocean off Japan — he may be under one.”
“How long can an electric boat like that stay under?”
“I asked the experts, Mr. President. One hundred and seventy-five hours at a speed of two knots.”
“More than seven days?”
“Yes, sir. But the boat must go so slowly that it is essentially immobile. Once the hunters get a general idea where a conventional sub is, it is easily avoided and ceases to be a threat. Speaking of Russians, they deny that the boat in the satellite photo is one of theirs.”
Hood was working on his cuff links. “Is it?”
“We think so, sir. But it could be Japanese.”
“Or Chinese, Korean, Egyptian, Iranian Seems like everybody has a fleet of those damned things.”
“The Russian response to yesterday’s conference is being evaluated at the State Department. The Kremlin denies any intent to use nuclear weapons. On Japan or anyone else. They say there’s been some mistake.”
“I hope they don’t make one,” Hood said fervently. “The real question is what the Japanese are up to. They withdrew their Zeros from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok. Space Command doesn’t know why.”
“It’s a damned good thing the Japs don’t have nuclear weapons,” the president said, glancing at Innes. “The director of the CIA says they don’t.”
“Well, Abe told Kalugin that Japan had nukes when he answered Kalugin’s ultimatum. Either Abe is the world’s finest poker player or the director of the CIA is just flat wrong.”
“Abe doesn’t strike me as the bluffing type.”
“Didn’t I see an intelligence summary a while back that said the Japanese might have developed a nuclear capability?”
“One of the analysts thought that was a possibility. The CIA brass vehemently disagreed.”
“Have the White House switchboard find the analyst. Have him come to the hotel where they are holding this lunch. When he gets here, come get me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Admiral Kolchak took an hour to rise from two hundred meters to periscope depth. Glancing through the attack scope, Saratov thought, My God, it is raining! Heavily. A squall. Nothing in sight or on the sonar. Who says there is no God?
The crew ran up the snorkel and started the diesel engines, which throbbed sensuously as they drove the boat along at ten knots. The swells overhead gave the submarine a gentle rocking motion. Sitting with his eyes closed, Pavel Saratov savored the sensation. “They are going to get us this time, Captain,” the sonarman said
