The Line

CHAPTER 18

From the hillside Boomer could clearly see the Arizona Memorial and the entire harbor spread out below him. He was above the Pacific Palisades in the jungle that clung to the side of the mountains. Skibicki had driven them there in the dark, going up an old trail until it gave out in a small clearing, hidden by the overhanging trees.

Boomer glanced over. Vasquez was in the back seat, sleeping. Skibicki had strung a hammock between two trees and was quietly snoring.

Boomer looked along the southern coast of Oahu in the quiet splendor of the rising sun. He wondered if any place could be further from the cold gray walls of West Point in December than Hawaii? Boomer couldn’t imagine the Academy on the slopes of Diamond Head. Such martial learnings seemed so far removed from the tropical paradise around him.

But he only had to look down at the harbor and the constantly lit white building above the rusting hulk of the Arizona to know that war had come here too.

Boomer twisted the focus on the binoculars. There was a launch heading out to the Memorial. He scanned it.

Everyone on board was Navy except for one man in a suit.

As he checked the man out, a sound to the side drew his attention.

It was Skibicki stirring. The sergeant major swung his feet to the ground, still supported by the hammock.

“How’s the head?”

Boomer reached up and felt the bandage the sergeant major had applied in the dark.

“I’ve got a little bit of a headache, but other than that, it’s all right.”

Skibicki glanced down at the harbor.

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” Boomer replied.

“What’s the plan now?”

Skibicki stood up.

“We wait. I’m willing to bet that there will be no sign of what happened last night in the tunnel, but I’m sure that there will be someone posted there, waiting for us to come back. There’s not much we can do right now.

“We wait,” Skibicki repeated.

“Let’s hope Trace comes up with something today.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Boomer had to ask.

“Then we will have to do something.”

Eight kilometers to the south, Mike Stewart tried hard to look suitably impressed as he was briefed.

“At precisely zero-seven-fifty-four the Antietam, an Aegis cruiser, will pass in review right there,” the Navy captain said, pointing across the harbor, the crisp starched line of his dress whites accentuating the movement.

Stewart wished he didn’t have to wear this damn suit everywhere. He could feel a trickle of sweat down his back despite the off-shore breeze and the sun not being much over the horizon yet. Stewart was standing on the edge of the Arizona Memorial, gazing out across the harbor at the sleek gray ships riding at anchor. He wondered how the Navy officer managed to look so cool and collected.

“At zero-seven-fifty-four plus twenty seconds, a flight of F-16 Fighting Falcons will fly in from the north,” the captain said, pointing toward the lush green hills bathed in the bright sunlight, “in a missing-man formation, and head out sea. At zero-seven-fifty-four plus forty seconds, the bugler will begin playing Taps, at which time the President’s party—”

“I have the time schedule of the ceremony,” Stewart interrupted as gently as possible.

“Getting back to security.

What about sea and air control? The media will certainly have helicopters and chartered boats, and you also will have private boats coming—” Stewart stopped at the captain’s bark of a laugh.

“There will be no problem with either unauthorized aircraft or vessels.” The captain swept his arm around the harbor.

“Everything you see here is Navy. No ship can get into this harbor without us clearing it at the mouth. We will have Marine Corps helicopter gunships on station to keep away any unauthorized aircraft.”

Stewart was more than satisfied with all that he had seen and been briefed on so far — yet General Maxwell’s words echoed in his ears: “… particularly with regard to the military installations he’ll be visiting.”

But Pearl was as safe as you could get, Stewart reasoned, as he followed the captain to the launch that was waiting to take them ashore. As he made the short hop into the boat, Stewart glanced down and through the green water the rusting round hole that had once been the mount for one of the Arizona’s main guns was clearly visible. He felt a momentary chill. There were hundreds of bodies still entombed in the wreckage there. That thought immediately led him to the realization that those men had also thought themselves safe that Sunday morning so many years ago, nestled in the bosom of the Pacific Fleet.

The words came to the forefront of his mind as clearly as if General Maxwell was there speaking them: What if the very security offered here was the threat itself?

“Bullshit,” Stewart muttered out loud.

“Excuse me?” the naval officer asked, perplexed.

“Nothing,” Stewart said. He reeled in his wild train of reasoning.

Damn General Maxwell, he thought; until this trip was over, Stewart knew his mind would have no rest, but he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for.

Boomer put the binoculars down. Skibicki and Vasquez were heading down into town to get some fast food, while Boomer remained behind. No sense in all three of them being in the same place in public.

Boomer knew the man in civilian clothes on the memorial and he knew where he worked. He registered that fact and filed it for future use.

He didn’t like Skibicki’s plan of waiting but he didn’t have any better ideas at the moment. But if they didn’t hear from Trace by tomorrow morning. Boomer now had an idea what he was going to do.

The old man in the high-backed chair twisted the ring on his finger as he listened to the report over the secure phone. His aide shifted uncomfortably on the other side of the desk when the phone call ended.

“Your men did poorly,” Hooker said.

“Yes, sir,” the aide acknowledged.

“The superintendent is very upset.”

To that the aide had nothing to say.

“And worse,” Hooker continued, “this woman — this Major Trace — she’s still unaccounted for. The helicopter has not been reported anywhere.”

“I have my men still looking, sir.”

“I will have to take care of this personally,” Hooker said.

“Sir, I don’t think—” Hooker cut off the protest.

“We have reached a critical juncture and I can’t leave this to amateurs any more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what she dug up at West Point?”

“No, sir.”

Hooker leaned back in his leather seat.

“I believe I know,” he murmured. His voice became sharper.

“Delay my flight to Oahu for a day. I want to get a resolution on this problem. File a flight plan for New York.”

“Yes, sir.”