War of Eagles

FIFTY-SEVEN

The only thing going faster than the van was Mike Rodgers’s mind. He needed to figure out a way to slow the soldiers’ flight.

At least the broken window was keeping them within range. It could not be easy to see through the cracked glass, and diamondlike particles were shooting every which way around the van. Pieces were certainly flying at the driver as well. Part of that was likely being caused by the passenger, who was trying to kick it out. Every few seconds Rodgers could see large slabs of fractured windshield tumble onto the hood and over the side.

His attack had hurt them, but it had not stopped them. He needed to do something else. He thought about calling Bob Herbert and asking for a missile strike on the road ahead, something from Taiwan, South Korea, or Submarine Group 7 based in Yokosuka, Japan. He dismissed that idea as provocative, and not just to the PLA. Tam Li would see it coming. They might inadvertently give him an excuse to do whatever he was planning to do. It would be a shame to save the rocket and lose the war. Besides, he did not know if such a strike could be launched before the van reached Xichang City. Rodgers could also ask Herbert for a satellite look at the road ahead. There might be someplace where he could cut through the grasses and shave time from the run.

And then fate gave him a hand.

One of the smaller sections of glass and part of the windshield frame pinwheeled around the driver’s side and dropped under the van. As the van rolled over the glass and metal, the rear left tire blew, sending the vehicle into a swerving forward slide. The flapping shards of the tire dropped away, and the bare rim spat sparks in all directions. The driver was able to regain control of the vehicle, but he could not maintain his speed.

Rodgers closed the gap quickly. Conscious of the fact that these men could have firearms, he remained directly behind them. Eventually they would have to stop and either commandeer his car to complete their getaway or let him know what had been done to the rocket. If they attacked, Rodgers would run the nearest man down and try to get his weapon. It was not an ideal plan, but it was something. Besides, they were less than three miles from the space center. If the rocket blew up, they were well within the red zone for radiation poisoning.

The van slowed, and Rodgers slowed with it. He did not want to be right on top of it. That would not leave him with any room to maneuver. As he drew to within two car lengths, he heard sounds coming from behind. Rodgers glanced in his rearview mirror as three men on motorcycles whipped into view. They were all wearing uniforms. From his reading, he recognized them as Xichang space center security. What he did not know was whose side they were on.

If they were the enemy, he was in a lot of trouble. He would have to move around the van and use them as a shield while he tried to get away.

Rodgers’s phone beeped. It was the marine team leader sending him a text message.

Security team en route to help you. Need bomb location. We expect armed resistance.

Tam Li must have additional allies at the complex, men who no doubt had an exit strategy or else were willing to die for their commander. That suggested something new to Rodgers. People did not surrender their lives simply to help a man gain power. They died to support an idea. Tam Li must have a vision for China that appealed to these men and probably to others like them. Usually, the vision of military men resulted in death on a staggering scale.

The van struggled for another quarter of a mile or so before stopping. Rodgers stopped behind it, and the men on the motorcycles stopped in a row behind him. Obviously, these men had not been briefed. One of them was on the radio. The other two drew firearms from their holsters. They were hunkered low behind their handlebars as they waited for instructions.

There was no time for this. Rodgers opened the door but did not immediately get out. He waited to make sure, first, that the security men did not fire. They did not. Slowly, he swung his legs from the car and emerged with his hands up, his back to the security team. He was watching the van from behind his open door. He could see a face in the side mirror. What he needed to do was get from his car to the other car and beat that face until it gave him the information he needed. At least now there was someone who could translate for him.

Rodgers lowered his hands and turned. He indicated, by gestures, that he was going to the other car.

The security guard who had been on the radio said something. One of the other guards fired a round. Rodgers dropped to the road. The other rear tire exploded with a loud wheeze. The guard said something else. Translated, it probably meant, “Now they are definitely not going anywhere.”

They also did not return fire. Perhaps they were waiting for Rodgers or the guards to make themselves better targets. The soldiers probably did not want to damage the car or motorcycles.

Suddenly there were new sounds, a low whine from the direction of the city. Through the noontime haze Rodgers saw several police cars approaching, their top lights flashing.

Now the men in the van pointed automatic weapons out three windows and opened fire. Rodgers jumped back into the car, which was still running. He left the driver’s side door open and threw open the passenger’s side door to give the security guards a little added protection. The guards returned fire as they moved behind the open doors, driving the soldiers back into the van. There were two guards on the passenger’s side and one on the driver’s side.

This was not going to get them the information they needed.

Lying with his feet on the passenger’s side, Rodgers swung back behind the wheel. He sat very low and put the car in drive, steering it slowly toward the van, the guards firing around the sides of the open door, the pops of each round nearly drowned by the clang of the bullets striking metal. When the rental car touched the rear bumper of the van, Rodgers asked to borrow one of the guns. The innermost guard on the driver’s side was not at a good angle to hit the van. He gladly surrendered his weapon. Rodgers fired a burst through his own windshield to smash it, then sat back and pushed the window out with his foot. Tucking the gun into his belt, he climbed through it onto the hood of the car, and from there to the roof of the van. He moved quietly, on his knuckles and the balls of his feet. He stopped above the cab. He knew that if he fired through the roof he might kill one or more of the men. He also knew that the survivors would fire back. Instead, he motioned for the security guard on the driver’s side to stop firing. Drawing his gun, Rodgers crouched on the edge of the driver’s side but facing the passenger’s side. He waited until the driver poked his hand out to return fire. Then he jumped down, landing on his feet and facing the driver. That was only one gunman he had to worry about. The others would not fire for fear of hitting the man at the wheel.

Rodgers slammed the man’s extended arm against the side of the car and pointed his automatic at the man’s head.

“Drop it!”

The soldier probably had no idea what Rodgers was saying. But he released the weapon, and the others ceased firing. Perhaps they were looking to get a shot at Rodgers. Fortunately, the side of the van afforded him a slight degree of cover.

The security guards shouted something. Rodgers heard a series of thumps as the other weapons fell. He edged forward toward the window. He did not release the man’s arm but twisted it, holding the palm. The move was known as a kodogash. The pain in the victim’s wrist guaranteed that he would move where Rodgers wanted him to go. And right now, Rodgers wanted him to remain a shield.

Rodgers looked into the window. The men had their hands raised defensively. There were no weapons. He used the gun to motion for the men on the passenger’s side to get out. They did, arms lifted higher now. The security guards moved from behind the doors of Rodgers’s car. The former general released the driver and gestured for him to get out the other side. The frightened man scooted out just as the police arrived. Rodgers tucked the gun back into his belt and walked toward the back of the van. He went through a pile of papers on the passenger’s seat of his car. He pulled out a set of blueprints and grabbed his cell phone. He opened the large document on the hood of the car and motioned for the security guards to bring one of the men over. The man was pulled roughly toward the red Xiali.

Rodgers pointed at the diagram. “Boom!” he shouted, throwing his fingers outward to simulate a blast. Then he ran a hand palm-up over the blueprint. “That’s universal for ‘Tell me what the hell I want to know, or I’ll slap you silly.’ ”

The security guard obviously understood. He said something to his captive, who muttered something back and pointed a trembling finger at the diagram.

“Shit,” Rodgers said and got on his phone.