The Line

CHAPTER 26

The location of the submarine was not that far from where a Japanese mini-sub had anchored exactly fifty-four years ago awaiting an early morning mission against the Pacific Fleet.

The routine was the same as that of forty-eight hours ago. The SDV cleared the dry dock shelter and headed in, maneuvering very slowly.

This time though, the submarine followed at an agonizingly slow pace in an attempt to get as close as possible to the mouth of the harbor by dawn.

Eighty miles to the south, another submarine lay in wait, the control room crew shadowing their target. In the special compartment behind the control room, grim-faced men checked their weapons, loading the magazines round by round. Knives were sharpened, honing the razor-sharp edges even further. Breathing gear was tested one last time, and wet suits were slid on over muscled bodies.

“What is that thing?” Boomer asked.

“A listening device,” Skibicki answered.

“If they come in on a submersible I’ll be able to pick them up with this.”

He lowered the microphone into the dark water and settled the headphones onto his ears. They were on the west side of the final entrance to Pearl Harbor proper, just north of Waipio Point. The channel was less than 500 yards wide here and any traffic coming in would have to go right by them.

They were both ready for entry into the water, wearing cutoff fatigue shorts, weight belts, and tanks, with masks and fins at the ready.

Skibicki had given Boomer a double edged Fairbarn commando knife. It would rust after being exposed to the water unless cleaned, but as Skibicki had noted, he would only have to use it this evening and the edge was razor-sharp. Boomer had placed the diary pages inside a plastic Ziploc bag and tucked it into his shorts pocket. Harry was inland, providing security against the possibility of a police patrol stumbling on their position.

“You think they’ll still come?” Boomer asked.

“Trace has got to have gotten the diary to Maxwell by now.”

“If she got to him and wasn’t picked up by these DIA goons,” Skibicki said.

“We can’t take any chances.”

“What about the Joint Chiefs? They’ll be out there with the President in the morning. They wouldn’t be on the memorial if their plan was to blow it up.”

“They’ll come up with something,” Skibicki said. He indicated for Boomer to be quiet now and they settled in to listen.

Along the coast of Oahu, the two Zodiacs planed through the water at twenty-five knots, the men lying on the inside of the rubber hull, keeping their silhouette to a minimum.

A light machine gun rested on the prow of each boat, pointing forward, just in case.

The navigator in the lead boat checked his heading on his handheld GPR.

They were on course and would arrive in plenty of time.

The head air traffic controller for Hickam Field had been rudely awakened by a phone call fifteen minutes ago, but when he heard the voice on the other end identify himself all irritation fled. The E-4B Airborne Command Post was to be moved to the ready flight line and prepared for take off. The head ATE had “yes, sir red General Dublois and now he was ready, along with the plane. There was no flight plan filed but the E-4B didn’t need one. It could fly anywhere it pleased.

The plane was at the end of the runway, waiting, engines idling, surrounded by Air Police, their blue lights flashing.

The head ATE had no idea what was going on but he assumed it had something to do with the ceremonies coming up in a few hours.

“Stick with the plan,” Hooker said, and the four generals nodded.

“Your country is depending on you to steer a straight course.

General Martin stood, the other Joint Chiefs, minus the Commandant of the Marine Corps, a non-Naval Academy graduate, joining him. They left the superbly furnished V.I.P quarters and got into two limousines for the short ride to Hickam Field.

Hooker remained behind with his aides and bodyguards, watching the taillights of the cars disappear into the darkness.

There was no hint of dawn yet in the eastern sky.

Upstairs in a large room, the other members of the staff waited by the radios which they would monitor.

“Take me up to the second-floor balcony,” Hooker ordered.

From there he would have an unobstructed view of the Harbor and the upcoming activities. It was an event he had dedicated a lifetime to and nothing could keep him from missing it.

A light tapping on the door to her suite woke Trace out of an uneasy slumber.

“Come in,” she called out. She was surprised to see an agitated General Maxwell standing there.

“What’s wrong?”

“The Joint Chiefs are boycotting the ceremony,” he said.

“I heard that from a reliable source at Pearl.”

“What does that mean?” Trace asked, pulling on a sweatshirt underneath the covers.

“I don’t know,” Maxwell said.

“I’m just feeling jumpy.” He walked over to the window and peered out into the darkness as Trace finished getting dressed.

There was another knock on the door. Maxwell turned and opened it. Two men stepped in.

“Come with us, general.

There’s someone who wants to talk to you.” They looked at Trace, now in her wheelchair. One man looked at the other, then the leader decided.

“You too.”

“Where are we going?”

One of the men pulled a gun out. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”