Section 8 (17 page)

Australia

"One minute," the team leader announced to the others. He lowered the satphone for a second. "This is going to be very interesting."

Over the Mid-Pacific

David glanced out the window. He could see the horizon now, which meant the plane was very low. There was so much more he wanted to write, but there was no more time.
He hit the send button on the satphone.
The SENDING message flickered on the small screen.
"Come on, come on," David whispered. He glanced around. Should he assume the crash position that was always briefed? He smiled bitterly to himself. With the engines still at full thrust, there wasn't going to be much left of this thing after it hit the water.
He looked at the screen. SENDING was still flashing.

Over the Philippines

Vaughn still couldn't see land below. He had to trust the plane's navigator that they were going out where they'd planned. He looked up into the tail of the plane at the red light that glowed there. In a flash it went out and the green light above it flickered on.
"Go," he yelled.

Hong Kong

Ruiz held up his hand, but still had to shout to stop the frenzied bidding. "Time."
He turned to the shaken woman who had been taking in the bids. "Who and how much?"
The woman swallowed. "Sixty million. Bidder number four."
There was silence in the room as the number sank in. It was as if, during the actual bidding, the reality had been lost in the lust for a one-of-a-kind piece of history.

Over the Mid-Pacific

David's complete focus was on the message flashing on his screen. He didn't want to see how close the water—and his death—were.
The letters SENDING began to dissolve and were replaced.
He cursed.
BLOCKED
They'd thought of everything, and cut him out of the Milstar loop.
The nose of the plane hit.

Over the Philippines

Vaughn and Tai went off the ramp in step and fell into the darkness.

Hong Kong

The room exploded in excitement. Money wasn't the issue. Questions were hurled at Ruiz. Where had these artifacts come from? Who was behind this?
He did not answer nor did he give them time to collect themselves. "We will now bid on the box. And…" He paused for effect. "…after that, there will be sixteen more articles just as rare and exquisite."

Pacific Ocean

A piece of seat cushion and a rapidly dissipating fuel slick marked the grave of all those who had been on the plane.

Over Jolo Island

As soon as he was clear of the plane, Vaughn assumed a stable position, back arched, arms and legs spread wide. Then he quickly reached down and pulled the rip cord for his main parachute.
The opening shock jerked him upright. He looked up and checked his canopy. It was fully deployed and appeared intact. His hands snaked up and grabbed the toggles controlling the chute. Then he looked about for Tai. She was low jumper, according to the plan, the primary navigator to the drop zone on the island.
Even though they had radio communication, they would not use it unless absolutely necessary, for fear that the Abu Sayef would pick up the transmission. Vaughn spotted her chute below him and to the right. He pulled on his right toggle and turned to follow her.

Australia

"They're in the air," the team leader announced. "Let's see how well the bitch can do."
The black man abruptly stood up and headed for the door.
"Were the hell you think you're going?" the Australian demanded.
"I'm going to get some sleep." The black man paused and stared at the Australian. "You got a problem with that?"
"Oh, fuck off," the Australian muttered.

Over Jolo Island

Tai had a navigation board strapped on top of her reserve parachute, just in front of her oxygen cylinder. Built into the board was a compass, a GPS unit, an altimeter, and a small scale copy of the map of their target area. Through her night vision goggles she could see all them, although not at the greatest resolution. Enough to get the job done, though.
She never looked up. She had to trust that Vaughn was tracking her. Her entire focus was on the nav board. Every once in a while she would glance beyond to try to see the island far below them, a reflex that was impossible to resist. Ahead, far ahead, she could spot a dark mass: Jolo Island. They were on track for it, visually confirming what her instruments were telling her.
According to the altimeter, she was passing through 20,000 feet. The chutes were like large wings that they could fly, and were practically undetectable to radar. The C-130 was long gone, traveling along on the same track it had been on, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
She wasn't so focused that she didn't register the slight hitch in her gear, a tug on the right side. She looked up, tracing her riser up to where it connected to nylon cords that spread out to the chute itself. One of the cords had broken. As she was watching, another one popped. She'd never seen anything like that happen. Another let loose. Then another. The right side of her canopy began to flap loosely.
Above Tai, Vaughn could see that something was wrong, since she was now making a slow turn to the right. Even without the nav board, he could see Jolo Island, and she was turning away from it. Vaughn pulled in on both toggles, dumping air so he could get closer to her.
The rest of the nylon cords on the right side of Tai's parachute let go all at once, and the parachute went from a flying wing to a streamer of material wrapped into itself. Her descent practically unchecked, she plummeted toward the earth.
Vaughn cursed as he saw the chute collapse. He dumped as much air as he safely could without causing his own parachute to collapse and chased after her, losing ground.
"Cut away," Vaughn urged, not using the radio yet. He knew she had to know what to do next.
Tai was already in the process of doing that. She couldn't deploy her reserve with the main still attached because the reserve would get caught up in the main, so she had to get rid of the malfunctioning canopy before she could deploy the reserve. She flipped open the metal covers on her shoulder that protected the cutaways, the loops of metal cable attached to pins that locked the attaching point for the canopy to her harness. She put her thumbs through the metal loops and pulled both at the same time.
She was rewarded with two metal cable loops dangling over her thumbs but no released main. It was still firmly attached to the rig. Shocked at this second and most unexpected event, Tai lost her concentration and began to tumble, held partly upright by the streamer.
She was a good two hundred feet below Vaughn and moving farther away with each second. He couldn't understand why she hadn't cut away yet. The only possibility was that she was unconscious. But he could see her arms moving purposefully, pulling at her shoulders.
Tai was trying to dig into the cutaway, to pull the small pins out with the tip of her fingers, but she couldn't get leverage on them. She did a quick check at the nav board. The altimeter read 10,000 feet and indicated she was descending at almost terminal velocity.
Realizing there was no more time to mess around, she stopped trying to pull the pins and reached for the
shoto
tucked under her vest. She slid the blade out. With a quick slash, she cut through her right riser, the razor-sharp edge easily slicing through the nylon. Then the left. The main parachute fluttered away and she tumbled into full free fall. She slid the
shoto
back into its sheath, then arched her back, spreading her arms and legs to get stable before she pulled the reserve. If she pulled it while tumbling, there was a good chance it would just wrap around her body.
Vaughn flew past Tai's fluttering cutaway main canopy, his eyes focused on her. He watched her stop her tumbling and get stable, all the while mentally urging her to pull her reserve. They were getting low and running out of altitude.
Tai reached for the handle for her reserve and pulled it, tensing her body for the rapid opening shock that would follow its explosive opening.
Nothing.
Three malfunctions in a row. There was no training for this. She had run through all the emergency procedures correctly and was still plummeting toward earth at almost terminal velocity. The only thing slowing her down now was her own body spread as wide as she could make it.
Above her, Vaughn decided it was time to ignore security. "What are you doing? Over." He transmitted over the short-range FM.
Tai was struggling to maintain a stable position, her training pushing her to do it even as her mind realized it was worthless. She was going to die. At this speed, hitting the water would be like hitting concrete. She faintly heard Vaughn's voice in her earpiece.
"Reserve malfunction!" she screamed.
Reserves weren't supposed to malfunction, Vaughn thought as he glanced at his altimeter. Five thousand feet. She was at least four hundred feet below him, and the gap was growing wider.
There was only one option. It was stupid, it was insane, but he didn't hesitate.
He reached up, grabbed the metal covers over his cutaways, flipped them open, put his thumbs in the loops and pulled. The pins popped and his main separated from his harness. He was now in free fall.
Vaughn briefly went into the free-fall stable position, then tucked his head down, moved his arms back tight against his sides, legs together, and became an arrow, shooting down toward Tai.
"I'm coming for you," he yelled, the mike picking it up and transmitting. "Stay stable."
"What?" Tai was confused. How could he be coming for her? Then she realized what he had to have done. She wanted to yell at him, to curse him out for being so foolish, but she also knew it was too late. Still, there was a spark of hope in her chest. She didn't know what he planned to do, but whatever it was, it was her only chance at living.
Four thousand feet.
Vaughn looked past the black spread-eagle form that was Tai. Jolo Island was off in the distance, at least a mile or two offset from them. They were over open water and there was no way they would make landfall. That was the least of their problems right now. Vaughn could tell he was closing on Tai, but he wasn't sure if it would be enough.
Three thousand feet.
Tai was only fifty feet below him now, and he was inching closer. It was going to be close, very close.
Two thousand feet.
She was ten feet below him…five feet. Vaughn moved out of the dive position to stable as he came alongside her. He knew that grabbing her and pulling his reserve wouldn't work—the opening shock would be stronger than his ability to hold onto her. He had to make sure there was a secure connection. With one hand, he reached out and grabbed her harness.
"Stay stable," he ordered over the radio. She was staring at him, the night vision goggles making her seem more like a flying machine than a flesh and blood human being.
One thousand feet.
With the other hand, Vaughn reached underneath his reserve, fingers ripping at the nylon casing around the eighteen-foot lowering line attached to his rucksack. A nail ripped away, but he ignored the pain and managed to hook his finger around a piece of the nylon strap. With all his strength, he pulled, extracting a length about two feet long.
Five hundred feet.
Tai was having a hard time keeping them stable and oriented. Their bodies were beginning to tumble, but Vaughn knew there was nothing to be done about that as he took the length of nylon strap and pressed it against the snap link on the front of Tai's combat vest, trying to press it through the gate. Tai realized what he was doing and grabbed his hand with both of hers. The nylon popped through the snap link.
Vaughn's other hand grabbed his reserve handle. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the ocean surface. Close, way too close. He pulled the rip-cord grip on the reserve and the chute spewed out. Vaughn was jerked upright, then cried out in pain as the lowering line ripped out of its casing, burning down the inside of his right thigh, and then abruptly stopped at its full length, and he was jerked again as Tai came to a halt at the end of it.
She hit the water barely two seconds later, then Vaughn splashed down hard next to her.

CHAPTER 12
Jolo Island

Abayon was staring out to sea, looking at the moon reflecting off the water. He felt bone-tired. Telling the story to Fatima had exhausted him, and there was more still to tell. He sighed as he heard the door behind him open and then quietly swing shut. Fatima walked up to him with a bottle. He took several deep drafts before putting it down.
"Where was I?" he asked, although he knew quite well where he'd left off.
"The Americans who parachuted into Japan," Fatima said.
"Ah, yes. One of the Americans was killed right there on the drop zone. Beheaded by a Kempetai officer. The officer turned to behead Martin, forced him to his knees, but another officer stopped him, saying there was a need for living Americans. Martin and the other survivor were taken into custody, thrown in the back of a truck, surrounded by guards, and driven to a Kempetai base. There, to Martin's surprise, his partner was greeted as if he'd been expected—by a well-dressed Japanese man, obviously someone with great power, given the way even the Kempetai officers were treating him."
"Who was this other man?" Fatima asked.
"David Lansale was his name. Here's the interesting thing, and what made Martin wonder what was going on: Lansale turned to Martin and said he was sorry, then left in the company of the mysterious Japanese man. Martin was then taken away, eventually transported to Manchuria and 731. He never saw or heard of Lansale again. He knew he'd been betrayed, but he had no clue why."
"And you do?"
"I do now, to an extent." Abayon fell silent, and Fatima patiently waited. "I was in that field, tied to the stake for five days," he finally said. "Martin died quickly. On the second day. I heard the others crying out. That was bad. But the worst was the smell. Whatever they used on us made us vomit and unable to control our bowels."
Abayon stayed quiet for a few seconds, recalling that horrible field of death. "I was the last one alive. I could sense it on the morning of the fifth day. They had taken about half of the prisoners away to do with them as they had done to my wife. Others, who died on the stake, they left to rot. They were timing the deaths. In the middle of the fifth day, the soldiers came once more. They wore their protective suits. Gas masks. Many, I could tell, were not happy with their task. It was just as easy for them to be infected.
"A few went up and down the rows of stakes, confirming that all were dead. I knew this was my only chance. I slumped forward against the ropes holding me. I had vomit all over my chest and down my legs. Excrement and urine soiling my pants. I held my breath so the soldier coming along my line would not see my chest move. They didn't want to touch the bodies to check pulses. They were confirming death just by looking for breathing.
"The soldier was in a rush. He looked at me for no more than ten seconds, then moved on the next one. He made it to the end of the line, then joined his comrades. They drove away in their truck. Several hours later, just before nightfall, a truck came back. This one contained the prisoners whose job it was to clear the field. Take in the harvest, so to speak.
"The Japanese used Korean laborers for this. The Japanese did not care if the Koreans became infected. Once more I pretended to be dead. I nearly was, so it was not difficult. I was very sick. I was running a fever. I was dehydrated. Almost delirious. A man cut me loose from the stake and dragged me to the cart behind the truck, which was full of bodies. He threw me in. I weighed perhaps eighty pounds after months of captivity and because of whatever they had infected me with.
"They threw bodies on top of me.
Meruta.
Logs. And that is how we were tossed in that cart. I lay there, buried among the dead. I almost wished I was."
Again Abayon fell silent.
"How did you survive?" Fatima asked.
"Hate," he said. "And love."
"I don't understand."
"Even though my wife was dead, I still loved her," Abayon said. "That kept me going. And because I loved, I hated those who had killed her. That gave me strength. All I thought of while I was in that cart was revenge. They drove to a ditch and dumped us in. I lay there until they were long gone, then clawed my way out. Through all the bodies. I crawled all night. Just to put distance between myself and that place of death."
He turned from the ocean and stared at his goddaughter. "After that, you can well imagine that I wanted to know everything there was about Unit 731. And about that American."
"I don't understand the connection," Fatima said.
"Neither did I at the time," he replied. "When I escaped from 731, the war was winding down. The Japanese in the camp released all their plague-infected animals. Over thirty thousand people died in the Harbin area in the next couple of years because of that.
"But here is where it gets interesting and lines begin to cross," Abayon continued. "The good Dr. Ishii was captured by the Americans. And did they put him on trial for the war criminal that he was?" Abayon did not wait for an answer. "Of course not. He—and the information he had—was too valuable. In exchange for immunity from prosecution, he gave the Americans the results of the so-called field tests—the tests my wife and I and hundreds of thousands of others had been part of. Valuable data on biological warfare that the Americans wanted.
"Thirty members of 731—none of the important ones—were put on trial as part of a big show. They were brought before the Allied War Crimes Tribunal in Yokohama on the eleventh of March, 1948. Charges ranged from vivisection to murder to wrongful removal of body parts." Abayon shook his head. "Wrongful removal of body parts—can you believe there was ever a need for such a charge?
"Twenty-three were found guilty. Five were sentenced to death. None of those were ever executed, though. By 1958 every single one of those convicted was free. The Russians weren't so nice. Those members of 731 they captured, they executed. I suppose it was because the Americans got Ishii and all the good data.
"There is even a shrine in Japan dedicated to the members of Unit 731. Can you believe that? No collective sense of guilt for what they did. It is only in the last few years that the Japanese even acknowledged what they did in Nanking.
"But back to Lansale. He was supposedly an operative of the OSS—Office of Strategic Service. But that was just his cover. And the mission of the other two men who accompanied him was obviously a sham also. It took me many years to find out who Lansale met with and why. He was an envoy from a secret organization sent to negotiate with the Japanese. Even though the two countries were at war, there were those on both sides who were looking past the war and to the future."
"What was this secret organization?" Fatima asked.
"Why do you use the past tense?" Abayon asked, but did not wait for a reply. "I've only heard rumors of it. And never a name."
Fatima frowned. "How can something not have a name?"
Abayon shrugged. "Surround yourself with enough layers of protection and cutouts and you can do anything. This group is very secretive. Which makes me wonder if they are really part of any government, because governments—especially democracies—are sieves when it comes to keeping secrets. But let me continue my story.
"Lansale was taken from the Kempetai headquarters to a meeting with Hirohito's brother, Prince Chichibu, to coordinate the Golden Lily project. Also present at the meeting was Admiral Yamamoto, who carried out the Pearl Harbor attack. You see, this organization knew what the Japanese were doing, the systematic looting of all the lands they conquered."
"How did they know this?" Fatima asked.
"That is a good question," Abayon said. "And I don't know the answer. But I talked to a senior Japanese officer who was Yamamoto's adjutant. He was on trial in the Philippines for war crimes. He'd been sentenced to death, and perhaps that made his lips a little looser. He told me that at this meeting a verbal agreement was made: the Americans would allow the Japanese to continue the Golden Lily. But none of it was to be shipped back to Japan. It was to be hidden in the Philippines."
"Why?"
"As every Filipino is taught in school, Douglas MacArthur had vowed to return to the islands. Essentially, the Americans were allowing the Japanese to do their dirty work for them."
"But why would the Japanese agree to this?"
"Because Lansale pointed out something that most smart Japanese knew, even back in those dark early days of World War Two when they seemed unstoppable: that the end of the war, with Japan losing, was inevitable. Yamamoto was particularly aware of this, having spent considerable time in the United States prior to the start of the war. Even though he planned the Pearl Harbor attack, up to the last moment he had argued vehemently against implementing it.
"Do you think the amazing recovery Japan made after the war was a coincidence? Plain good luck? From this meeting forward, elements in both the United States and Japan were already planning the economic recovery of the defeated nation."
"But…" Fatima drew the word out. "I still don't see why the Japanese would agree to this. What did they get in return—beyond this plan for economic recovery?"
"The emperor was assured that he—and his family—would not be tried for war crimes. Not only that, but that he would be allowed to keep his position after the end of the war. Think about it: why was the leader of a nation that had blatantly and so dishonestly ordered a surprise attack on the United States not only pardoned, but allowed to remain in power?
"Of course, there were some other angles to the whole deal," Abayon continued. "Chichibu had to give Lansale assurances that the Japanese would not try to develop atomic weapons. So in a way, the cover story for the OSS mission was true, just not in the way the other two unfortunate souls who accompanied Lansale anticipated."
"So Chichibu and Yamamoto sold out their own country," Fatima said.
"Is that the way you see it?" Abayon asked, staring at her hard.
She'd seen that look before, and turned over what she had just learned in her mind, examining the various angles as Abayon had taught her. "They knew they could not win the war so they looked to the future and the higher good."
"That is what they believed."
"Do you agree with what they did?" Fatima asked.
Abayon smiled grimly. She had thrown the gauntlet back at him. "It was an interesting moral dilemma: betraying your own country in the present to serve its future prosperity. Most would not agree with betrayal."
"And you?" she pressed.
"No. I do not agree with betrayal. I think they admitted defeat before they were defeated. But…"
"But what?"
"Who is to say whose allegiance Chichibu's lay with? What if this secret organization is something more than just an American group? What if it is international? And Chichibu had a higher allegiance?"
"But Yamamoto—" Fatima protested. "He was a soldier. A man, supposedly of great honor. He—"
"Ah," Abayon said, cutting her off, "there is more to this. Remember, the Americans killed Yamamoto. The story written in history books is that they broke the Japanese code and knew where he would be flying. So they sent long-range fighters to shoot him down over Bougainville on the eighteenth of April in 1943. But what if the Americans were meant to get that message? It was a mightily convenient intelligence coup otherwise."
"Plots within plots," Fatima said. "So if Chichibu was part of this secret organization, then Yamamoto might not have been, and they arranged for him to be killed."
"Yes."
Fatima mulled this over. "So you believe there is a secret organization that crosses—indeed supersedes—national interests and manipulates events?"
"Yes."
"To what end?"
"To further their own end," Abayon said simply. "I don't know exactly what that is, but from what I've gathered it seems to be the accumulation of wealth for the very few who are members of this group. And the controlling of economies, governments, the military—people, essentially—to maintain their status quo."
"The auction. And my father's mission—which he told me nothing of, of course. Those are designed to draw this group out."
Once more she made it a statement, not a question. "Yes. Remember, this organization wants what we have in these tunnels. They've wanted it for sixty years."
"That is why you've never used any of it before," Fatima said.
Abayon nodded. "Not only do they want it, but I think they put it here, if the meeting between Lansale and Chichibu is true. Golden Lily was designed from the very beginning by this group. They used the cover of the war to gather their riches."
Fatima mulled that over. "But…"
"Go ahead," Abayon prompted.
"Why now?"
"Two reasons. One is that I will not be here much longer."
"You look fine—" Fatima began to protest, but Abayon held up a hand, silencing her.
"You have been very observant and wise up until now. Please do not change. I have less than a year to live. So, perhaps it is selfish of me, but I want to find out who I've been shadow-boxing with all these years."
"And the second reason?"
"It's time," Abayon said simply. "Since 9/11 the gloves have come off. We are entering an age of a new type of conflict, and this group is probably quite aware of that. The Americans came after us the other night and many people died. We can sit and let them come to us or we can go after them. I prefer action over reaction."
Fatima nodded. "All right. What happened to this Lansale?"
"He managed to make his way back to the United States via diplomatic channels. He then became a career spook, as near as I have been able to find out. Strangely, though, he was photographed in Dallas on the twenty-second of November, 1963, but he always claimed he was never there."
"What is so important about that?"
"Something very significant happened that day."
"What?"
"President Kennedy was assassinated."