Honorable Enemies

Chapter 11

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Air Force Chief of Staff looked uneasy when they walked into the home of the contentious Secretary of Defense. They were not anxious to confront Bryce Mellongard with the unnerving fact that had recently surfaced, especially not at this hour of the night.

When the distinguished-looking Chairman of the Joint Chiefs first contacted Mellongard at his residence, the former nuclear-submarine commander explained that the nature of his call was extremely sensitive.

The Admiral mentioned that he was with the Air Force Chief of Staff and suggested that it might be prudent to have the CIA involved from the very beginning.

In turn, the Defense Secretary invited them to his home and immediately called Paul Holcomb and requested that he attend the informal meeting.

Mellongard always insisted that every detail be spelled out, with logical solutions for any problems, before he approached the President with perplexing issues.

The Director of the CIA was already seated in the study when Mellongard rose and offered a perfunctory handshake to the two senior officers, then motioned them to a large sofa.

Bryce Mellongard sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on his desk. "Well, Clay," he said to Admiral Clayton Biddk, "I can tell from the look on your face that you're not bringing me any good news."

"Mr. Secretary," the submariner began sadly, "the Air Force has conclusive evidence to prove that a surface-to-air missile knocked down the F-16 we lost at Misawa."

Mellongard and Paul Holcomb were stunned by the disclosure. The Secretary shifted in his chair and stared at Fred Dunwall, the lanky Air Force general. "What did you find, Fred, and how long have you known about this?"

"Sir, I was informed about the missile approximately fifteen minutes before Admiral Biddle called you. Well-qualified eyewitnesses have claimed they saw a flash on the ground before the jet exploded."

Dunwall looked at Paul Holcomb before he continued. "Our team of investigators found debris which clearly indicates that the aircraft was hit by an explosive weapon."

"If I may, Fred," Admiral Biddle interrupted as politely as possible. "Mr. Secretary, the key element in the crash investigation is the fact that Air Force personnel found remnants of a Soviet-made SA-7 surface-to-air missile near the perimeter of the base."

Mellongard's eyes widened and he leaned back in his seat. It was hard for him to comprehend that a shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile had downed an American jet fighter in the middle of Japan.

"The weapon apparently malfunctioned when it was fired," the Chairman of the JCS continued. "The Air Force investigators found pieces of the SA-7, and there were splatters of blood on the fragments."

"They didn't leave the entire weapon behind?" Paul Holcomb suddenly interjected.

"No, sir," Biddle answered. "They apparently gathered what they could and got the hell out of there."

Mellongard turned to the self-serving director of the CIA.

"Paul, what do you make of this? Do you think this was another terrorist attack?"

Holcomb cleared his throat to give himself time to formulate his response. He was aware that international arms brokers were selling large quantities of the SA-7 Grail infrared-homing missiles as fast as they could get their hands on them.

"It could very well be the Chukaku-Ha," Holcomb suggested, remembering the latest terrorist brief he had received. "We're aware that the Organizatsiya — the Russian organized-crime element — is supplying terrorist groups with the latest military hardware, including mortars, AKM assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenades, incendiary devices, and shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles."

Mellongard grew more uncomfortable as he thought about discussing the situation with the President. He fixed his gaze on Holcomb. "What are the real capabilities of this group — the Chukaku-Ha?"

It was the Director's time to squirm. "I — we simply don't know. But they are definitely a formidable and violent group. I see no reason to count them out."

Holcomb attempted to control the conversation by taking the offensive. "Our latest intelligence reports confirm that members of the Russian underground, accompanied by Soviet military officers, have been selling weapons-grade uranium and small, low-yield nuclear bombs to agents who regularly supply weapons to various terrorist factions."

Mellongard tugged at an earlobe. "Nuclear bombs?"

"That's correct. The nukes are small, but they're remotely controlled and they can reduce a small town to a pile of rubble. If they had used one of the smallest nukes on the World Trade Center, the twin towers would no longer exist and lower Manhattan would be polluted by radiation."

The Secretary's growing concern prodded him into being cautious. "What kind of confirmation do you have?" Holcomb paused and glanced at the officers, then framed his answer and looked at Mellongard. "Our agents have secretly filmed the exchanges, and federal police inspectors in Frankfurt and Stuttgart have recently arrested representatives of several terrorist groups — with the uranium in their possession. They even snagged one buyer who had a nuclear weapon in the back of a panel truck."

Mellongard was thinking ahead to his upcoming meeting with the President. "Are you telling me the Chukaku-Ha might have nuclear weapons?"

"It's impossible to know for sure." Paul Holcomb had mastered the art of dodging questions. "If a terrorist group has the means — the money and the contacts, and the Chukaku-Ha has both — they could conceivably get nuclear weapons from underground arms-brokers."

Unsure of how much he should reveal, Holcomb decided to be conservative and discuss only unclassified information. "We have confirmation that international arms dealers — mainly the crime bosses in the Organizatsiya — have set up cafeteria-style armories where agents for the terrorist groups can stroll through and pick out anything on the market."

When the Secretary didn't respond, Holcomb quickly continued in a defensive posture. "If the local authorities can't control the spread of weapons — even small nuclear weapons — we certainly can't do anything about the proliferation."

Giving himself time to weigh a few options, Mellongard cast a long look at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "Clay, what's your recommendation about the situation in Misawa?"

Living up to his reputation as a straight shooter, the Admiral spoke freely. "Sir, my concerns are more broad. I'm concerned about all of our bases in Japan."

The Defense Secretary tensed. He felt like he was being manipulated out on a limb. "Explain your concerns."

"From a military standpoint, if we continue to keep forces in Japan, we have to substantially increase our security system at every base. My recommendation is to use the Marine Corps to provide perimeter security at all our military facilities over there."

Clay Biddle continued after he saw the slight nod of approval from the Secretary. "From the other side of the coin, however, I believe we need to decide whether or not our military forces should even be in Japan."

"That's definitely something we should take into consideration," SECDEF lied. He didn't want to become embroiled in that issue. Leave it to the next Secretary.

Mellongard turned his attention to the Air Force Chief of Staff. "Fred, how do you feel about our presence in Japan?"

"I agree with Clay about security. Faced with the growing tide of animosity between our countries, my main concern is preventing the loss of any more lives or aircraft, regardless of who is shooting at us."

Mellongard was more uncomfortable then ever, but he sounded dispassionate when he spoke. "Do you think we really need a fighter wing at Misawa?"

The General, still troubled over losing a bright young pilot to terrorists, finally answered. "Sir, I think the forward presence of our military keeps problems to a minimum in various areas of the world. In my opinion the North Koreans would be more aggressive if we pulled out. However" — he rotated the academy ring around his finger—"whatever is decided, my personal responsibility is to take appropriate measures to protect the men and women in the Air Force."

The room suddenly became quiet while Mellongard leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his eyes. "I'll meet with the President as soon as I can."

Susan and Steve finished dinner and were walking across the large, airy breezeway by the registration desk when they saw Marcus Callaway. He had changed into shorts and a knit pullover that complemented his muscular physique.

"Where have you two been?" Callaway asked with a straight face.

Susan chuckled dryly. "We've had an exciting afternoon — one I won't soon forget."

"Any news?" Steve asked.

"Nothing very significant," Marcus admitted and lowered his voice. "I went to inspect the tour ship and then talked to some eyewitnesses and the lab people. The ballistics guys showed me some of the 5.56-millimeter projectiles they dug out of a seating area. The cartridges are the standard NATO brass-jacketed rounds used by a number of countries, so we're reasonably sure the weapons were assault rifles that were probably bolted to the side of the chopper."

"Like an M-16?" Susan asked.

"Yes," Callaway answered quietly, "but they could have been Belgian FNCs, German G41s, or British L85A1s. We may never know unless we find the helo or the pilot."

"Speaking of pilots," Steve said quietly, "did you find out anything about the drug runner?"

"The pilots — including the former drug smuggler — have solid alibis from credible witnesses."

"What's the story," Susan asked, "on the pilot who was supposedly fishing when the attack took place?"

"There were several people," Marcus explained, slipping into his professional role with ease, "including a police officer who saw the pilot repairing a flat tire at a gas station at the time of the assault. He claimed that he had been camping on the beach overnight and noticed the flat tire when he was fixing breakfast. The guy has bright-red hair, and all the witnesses are positive that it was him."

"It sounds like a tight alibi," Wickham agreed, concealing the skepticism he suddenly felt. "However, let's keep him under surveillance and see what develops."

"I've already arranged it," Callaway said.

The subtle message was crystal clear to Wickham and he wisely nodded.

"Well, I've got to get off a report," Susan announced and turned to Marcus. "Steve can fill you in on our interesting day."

"Okay," he said and flashed his friendly smile at Steve. "I'm anxious to hear about it."

Susan handed Wickham a business card. "My home phone number is on the back if you need to call me. Otherwise why don't we meet here at seven in the morning."

"That sounds fine to me." Steve put her card in his shirt pocket. "I think we should investigate the homes we saw today."

"I agree." She smiled with anticipation. "And you need to tell Marcus about the car that followed us to lunch."

"Would someone clue me in?" Marcus asked with a blank look. "Who was tailing you?"

"I don't know," Steve informed him with a measured quiet to his voice, "but someone followed us to lunch this afternoon — and it rang a bell."

"And?" Callaway prompted.

Steve hesitated while he tried to reconstruct the picture in his mind. "Do you recall the elderly Japanese man sitting across from us during the flight from Chicago?"

"Vaguely," Marcus admitted. "Wasn't he wearing a bow tie?"

"Yes," Wickham stated emphatically, "and there was something about him that seemed unnatural, don't you think?"

"Not really." Callaway shrugged. "Other than the fact that he never moved."

"Never moved," Steve remarked in a flatly serious tone. "And, if I recall correctly, never turned a page of his paper the entire time he was supposedly reading it."

Marcus paused and a weary sigh came from him. "Now that I think about it, you're right."

Steve glanced at Susan and noticed the question on her face. "I think the guy was listening to our conversation and gleaning every scrap of information he could absorb. Whether he was following us today, or it was one of his associates, the fact remains that someone knows who we are and what we're doing."

"Then we've got a leak somewhere," Marcus grumbled, "because only a handful of people know about our assignment."

"That's what bothers me the most," Susan cautioned with a look of uncertainty. "We don't know who to trust, and we're obviously being watched. Not what I would call a good sign."

Steve suddenly felt uncomfortable with the conversation. "Susan, would you like for one of us to drive you home?"

"No." She laughed unconvincingly. "But thanks anyway. See you in the morning."

"Good night," Callaway and Wickham said in unison.

They watched Susan walk away before Steve turned to Marcus. "I've got some beer on ice in my room, unless you want something stronger."

Marcus grinned. "A cold beer would hit the spot."

After they settled on the lanai, Steve recounted the story about the car that had followed them and what Susan and he had discovered during their airborne search. Both agreed that it would be wise to reconnoiter the house where a man with a rifle had been spotted.

When Marcus retired to his room, Steve called the Army liaison officer and canceled the helicopter he had reserved for the following morning, then opened a fresh beer and stepped out to the lanai. He sat in one of the chairs and watched the rain fall at a steady pace while he thought about the car that had tailed them to lunch.

There was something else in the back of his mind that was haunting him, but he couldn't quite identify what it was. He listened to the steady splash of the waves and tried to relax.

A knock on the door brought him back to the moment. When Steve answered the door, he was pleasantly surprised to see the Sky Nine pilot.

"Hi, Theresa." He noticed that she had changed clothes and brushed her hair.

"Hi. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"No, not at all."

"I had your photographs developed and I thought you might want them as soon as possible."

"Thanks. What do I owe you for this?"

"They're complimentary," she countered with a radiant smile. "The lady who handles our station's photo needs was happy to rush these through."

"That's great." He put the pictures on a counter. "I really appreciate your efforts."

"No problem."

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Would you care to come in?" Steve said at last.

"Are you sure I'm not intruding?"

"Not at all. May I fix you something to drink?"

"That sounds good. White wine, if you have any."

"I think I have a couple of bottles in the bar. Have a seat. I'll only be a minute."

Theresa walked to the open sliding-glass door leading to the lanai. "Do you mind if we sit outside?"

"Make yourself at home."

When Steve finished pouring a glass of wine, he joined her on the covered deck.

"Thanks," Theresa warmly responded as she accepted the Sauvignon Blanc. "I don't know about you, but the sound of the waves helps me wind down."

He let his gaze take in her lips and eyes. "Yeah, like watching a flickering fire in a snow-covered cabin."

"Exactly." She sipped her wine and turned to face him. "Steve, I really apologize for the rough ride this afternoon. It was an unusual situation, but I'm not going to make any excuses."

"Forget it. You were just trying to cover the most ground in the short time we had available. Don't worry about—" He stopped in midsentence when the elusive thought that had escaped him all evening flashed into his mind.

"Steve — what is it?"

"Excuse me, Theresa — I'll be right back."

He hurriedly opened the packet of photographs and flipped through them until he reached the one he wanted. He studied it for a long moment, then reviewed a similar snapshot from a different angle.

How could I have missed that unless I was concentrating on the wind sock?