Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

"Too long," said Fitzduane quietly. "Not a personal criticism, Mike. More a truth we share. Isn't that so?"

Bergin nodded his agreement. He felt uncomfortable, perhaps even ashamed. The simple truth was that Schwanberg had been under suspicion for some time and only the reflex bureaucratic desire to prevent scandal had prevented action. And meanwhile people had died.

Cover-ups were not confined to Watergate. In the real world of big government and big business, they were the norm. Exposure was the exception. The price was just a cost of doing business.

Fitzduane emptied the bottle into their glasses. "Drink up and listen, Mike. If you're going to be flying with us, there a few extra angles you should know. Preparation for the unexpected. What the training manuals call ‘making an appreciation of the situation.’"

He ran through what was necessary, and as he spoke Bergin's eyes widened. Bergin wasn't altogether displeased. At his age he had not been sure they could do that anymore.

July 12

The entire perimeter was sealed off as they approached a side entrance of the military base at Atsugi.

Security floodlights pierced the darkness.

Located just outside Tokyo, Atsugi was the headquarters of the elite Airborne Brigade of the Japanese Defense Forces, and it was there they were to board the airship.

With a pang, Fitzduane thought of Adachi, who had trained and operated from there. It was appropriate, he mused, that retribution against the policeman's killer should originate from that location as well. He felt a great sadness when he thought of Adachi, and there was that familiar twinge of guilt which so often seemed to accompany the death of a comrade: why him and not me? He pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind. Right now, there were more urgent issues to consider. What they were about to do was intricate and dangerous and would require all his concentration.

The black Tokyo MPD limousine containing the police driver, the Spider, Yoshokawa, and Fitzduane was stopped at a striped pole barrier and they were asked to leave the car while each man's credentials were checked thoroughly.

Beyond the token barrier of the striped pole, Fitzduane saw retractable spiked metal anti-ram barricades and two well-camouflaged interlaced machine-gun posts.

The airborne troopers were taking security seriously. Other troops with blackened faces and in full battle order patrolled the perimeter and all key installations. Apart from being a military installation, Atsugi was also the training area for the kidotai, the antiterrorist riot police, and, as such, was a prime terrorist target.

The white-helmeted gate guards waved them through and held salutes as they drove past. Five minutes later, they could see the black silhouette of the airship in the distance. It looked impossibly large in the darkness and brought to Fitzduane's mind the image of some vast, menacing space monster.

"It's awesome," breathed Yoshokawa, as they emerged from the limousine. "And beautiful in a rather sinister way. But what a creation!"

"It's quite small by traditional airship standards," said the Spider modestly. Actually, he was proud of the Tokyo MPD airship. "It's about seventy feet high, fifty feet in diameter, and two hundred feet long. That is big enough to hold just under a quarter of a million feet of gas."

It's going to be like flying in a mobile city block, contemplated Fitzduane. He was used to smaller things buzzing around in the skies. On the other hand, he tried to have a reasonably open mind.

Yoshokawa was lost in thought. The engineer and inventor in him was fascinated. "When I think of airships," he mused, "I always think of zeppelins and then the horrible crash of the Hindenburg. I saw it on an old newsreel when I was a boy. A truly dread-inspiring sight to see that large balloon burst into flames and incinerate all those people."

"It did not do a lot for airship sales," said Fitzduane dryly. "And I would add, with respect, Yoshokawa- san, that such stories don't do a lot for me. In case you had forgotten, I'm going up in this particular one tonight."

"Oh," said Yoshokawa. "Oh, dear!" He was quite disconcerted. Then he recovered somewhat and went into damage limitation. "But I was talking about the past, Fitzduane- san. Airships are much safer now."

"Well, I should hope so, Yoshokawa- san," said Fitzduane with a straight face. "I have no desire to descend lightly toasted or maybe even resembling a well-done steak. I think you should know that."

There was a strange noise from the Spider. Yoshokawa looked at Fitzduane, then at the Spider. Finally, the Spider could not contain himself any longer and a belly laugh emerged.

It was only the second time Fitzduane had heard the Spider laugh. The first time had been back in Ireland in his castle. It had been merely a matter of weeks, but it seemed a different age.

"Stop the car," said Schwanberg suddenly.

They were through the Atsugi base perimeter, but there was still half a mile to go before the airship. "We're not there yet, Paul," said Palmer, who was driving.

"STOP THE FUCKING CAR NOW, YOU ASSHOLE!" shouted Schwanberg.

Startled, Palmer jammed his foot on the brakes and the medium-sized embassy Ford fishtailed to a halt. He waited in silence. Schwanberg had no manners at the best of times, but when he was in one of these moods all you could do was keep your head down.

"Cut the fucking lights, Chuck," said Schwanberg deliberately. "All of them."

Palmer switched off the lights.

The two men sat in darkness and stared out through the windshield of the car. The airship was ahead of them, silhouetted against the night sky. The airfield lights showed the ground crew moving about their business. They were dwarfed by the immense mass of the gas-filled envelope.

Schwanberg removed his Browning, checked the clip by touch and feel, and slammed it home again with the palm of his hand. Humans were devious shitheads, but there were some things in life you could rely on. Put a couple of 9mm hollow-points in a target's kill-zone, and he, or she, ceased to present a problem. God knows, he'd proved it often enough. The back of the neck was best. The victim dropped as if poleaxed.

"It's a hell of a plan, Paul," said Palmer quietly.

Schwanberg turned toward him, his face suffused with rage. "That's the problem, you stupid fuck," he snarled. "It's a terrific plan, and that goddamned Irishman thought it up. So what else did he think up?"

Palmer had seen Schwanberg have these feelings before. It was as if the man had an additional sense dedicated solely to his survival. They would embark on an operation and then for no reason that Palmer could ever figure out, Schwanberg would suddenly pause and think. Sometimes he would proceed as if nothing had happened. Other times, he would arbitrarily cancel the project. Again and again, he had been proved right. It was no small reason why he had been able to succeed as a player in this dangerous game for so long.

"I don't think he has thought up the ending on this one," said Palmer reassuringly. The words just came to him. He was not particularly articulate, but he felt good about this mission and he had complete faith in Schwanberg's ability to pull something out of the hat if anything went wrong. And he wanted to fly in the airship. He had never been in one before.

Schwanberg's mood suddenly switched. He had been worried, but now he felt confident again. Chuck was right. They were in control.

"Let's go," he said. Palmer restarted the engine. Schwanberg was now laughing. "‘Hasn't thought up the ending on this one,’" he repeated. "Too goddamn right."

Palmer joined in the laughter as he drove the short remaining distance to the airship.