He pulled on his night-vision oculars in time to catch a movement at the end of the corridor as the last of the terrorists came out on the main floor. He fired a couple of shots, the rolled left. Sandy Patterson lay face down on the floor in front of the open utility panel door, her hands covering her head.
McGarvey held his breath and cocked his head to listen as he ejected his spent magazine and reloaded. There was no sound. Not even traffic noises from the highway a hundred yards away. The night was perfectly still.
“We can stay here all night until the FBI shows up.” McGarvey called out. He scrambled around the corner on all fours. Someone moved to his right, then stopped.
“I don’t think help is coming, Mr. McGarvey. I think that you are here this morning for revenge.”
McGarvey rose up above the level of the desktop and looked in that direction. He could see desks and chairs, but no movement. He ducked back down. “I’m not interested in revenge unless you’re Bruce Kondo.”
“Yes? Why this man specifically?”
“Because he’s not a Bu-shi. He’s a coward.”
The terrorist laughed, the sound coming from farther around the pile of desks McGarvey was crouched behind. “I’m Bruce Kondo, but I’m neither Bu-shi, as you call it, nor a coward.”
“What then?” McGarvey edged closer.
“Why, an intelligence officer, just like you.”
“Working for whom?” McGarvey switched directions and headed around the pile of desks from the back.
“Mr. Lee, of course.”
“MITI?”
“There are certain powers in the Japanese government that are involved.”
“With what?”
“You will not live long enough to learn about the plan, but the world will know all about it in a couple of days.”
“Is it going to be another Pearl Harbor?” McGarvey asked. “Is that what you crazy bastards are going to try? Is it Morning Sun again? The old men in the zaibatsu, looking for their moment of glory before they die?”
Kondo coughed, then laughed again. “Another Pearl Harbor will not be necessary—”
McGarvey had edged his way around the jumbled pile of desks and file cabinets to where Kondo was sitting on the floor, his back against one of the cabinets. McGarvey pointed his pistol at the man’s head, less than two feet from his right temple.
Kondo turned and faced the Walther’s muzzle. He smiled and slowly raised his left hand. He held a fragmentation grenade, the lever still attached but the safety pin gone. Blood seeped from a wound in his back. “Shall we get it over with now, or would you like to chat a bit longer?”
McGarvey stared at the man for several long seconds. In his mind’s eye he was seeing Jacqueline as she was leaving the sidewalk cafe, the oncoming Mercedes, the bomb, the tremendous explosion. And he was seeing the look of pain and helpless defiance on his daughter’s face as she lay in the hospital bed after the attack. And the look in his wife’s eyes after the Cropley attack.
He lowered his gun, eased the hammer down, flipped the safety catch back and stuffed the gun in his belt at the small of his back.
“You’re right. I came here for revenge.” McGarvey shook his head disparagingly. “But you’re not worth it.” He started to get to his feet.
“I’ll do it,” Kondo shouted wildly, and he thrust his grenade hand out.
It was exactly what McGarvey wanted to happen. He grabbed Kondo’s hand with his right, his powerful fingers curling about the man’s fist and the grenade.
“Iie,” Kondo screamed like a wild man. He pulled a stiletto out of a sheath strapped to his chest and stabbed at McGarvey’s heart.
McGarvey deflected the thrust, then grabbed Kondo’s wrist and bent the man’s arm and knife hand back toward his own throat.
The lights came on again, momentarily blinding McGarvey until his night-vision oculars slowly began to compensate for the overload. Kondo was very strong, and it took every ounce of McGarvey’s strength to force the point of the stiletto to the terrorist’s neck just below his chin.
“Kill him,” Kondo shouted. “Kill him!”
McGarvey looked over his shoulder. Sandy Patterson, a sniper pistol in her hand, stood five feet away, a determined look on her face.
“Kill him—” Kondo screamed hysterically.
Sandy didn’t move, and McGarvey turned back to the terrorist. Without a word, without emotion, drained now of his feelings of hate and rage and even contempt, McGarvey slowly forced the blade of the nine-inch stiletto into Kondo’s throat. The razor-sharp steel easily cut through the tissue and cartilage, the terrorist’s body convulsing, blood gushing over McGarvey’s hand and wrist. Then Kondo became still, his muscles slack.
McGarvey released his grip on the knife, then carefully pried Kondo’s dead fingers from the grenade.
“Get down,” he ordered Sandy. He tossed the grenade toward the front of the stairs then fell back behind the pile of furniture. A second later a tremendous explosion rocked the store, blowing the glass out of the front windows and sending it spraying across the empty parking lot.
TWENTY-ONE
The gantry elevator bumped to a sudden stop ten feet below the open payload doors. Ripley pressed the button, but nothing happened; the power was evidently off.
“Hello,” he called up to the technicians.
One of them came to the rail and looked down at him. “Hai.”
“The power is off. I want to come up.”
The technician said something over his shoulder, and Hiroshi Kimura appeared at the rail. Like everyone else he wore spotlessly clean white coveralls, booties and a paper head cover with the NSDA logo. He looked surprised and irritated. If anything, he and all the Japanese at the center had gotten even cooler toward the Americans in the past twenty-four hours. Something was going on, all the more disturbing to Ripley because it was so close to launch.
“What are you doing here? You belong back at launch control.”
“I’m taking a last look before everything is buttoned up,” Ripley said. “Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Evidently you haven’t properly gone through sterile procedures. That is why the elevator stopped. It’s programmed to do that so we can avoid contamination.” Kimura said something to the technician, who disappeared from view. From his position Ripley could see the edge of the open payload hatch in the rocket’s nose and the open door to the clean room where the satellite had been prepped prior to loading.
“I’ll do the procedure again,” Ripley said.
“There is no need for that, Major. We are nearly finished here. As soon as we secure the hatch, this level will be cleared.”
Ripley shaded his eyes against the glare of the gantry lights. Something wasn’t right about the satellite nestled in its compartment just beneath the nose cone. He stepped to the left to get a better look. The hatch swung shut, but not before he caught a momentary glimpse of a bit of the satellite’s outer covering, and his eyes narrowed.
“I’ll restore the power. But you must return to the pad.”
The elevator lurched. “Wait a minute,” Ripley said. “It’s part of my job to see that everything is being done according to specs.”
“The launch clock is about to start. Would you delay it?”
“If need be I’ll not sign off my final compliance inspection form,” Ripley said. He was confused, and he was trying to sound normal. Kimura was looking at him with a strange expression. Unusual for a Japanese.