Honorable Enemies

Chapter 12

When the Secretary of State entered the private dining room, he could see the President was in a foul mood. The curt response from the Japanese Foreign Minister had cast an ominous cloud over the relations between the two countries. The tenuous situation was further exacerbated by the increasingly violent anti-American demonstrations throughout Japan and many other countries opposed to U. S. foreign policies.

All the major television networks were providing blow-by-blow coverage of the growing unrest, while many members of the international news media were howling for answers to their myriad questions. The White House Press Secretary was fielding the mostly confrontational questions by promising to respond when the Administration had a better grasp on the situation.

"Mr. President," Bud Tidwell began slowly as he seated himself at the dining table, "Secretary Mellongard will be here in a couple of minutes."

"That's fine, Bud. Go ahead and dig in."

The tall man with the lined, once-handsome face dabbled with his salad and remained quiet. He had learned early in his long association with the President that the Commander in Chief didn't like to repeat himself. He never began a meeting until everyone was in place and paying attention.

After his first year and a half in office, the restless President had become an elusive mystery to most of the members of his staff. The warm smile and folksy comportment that was prescribed by political necessity during the presidential campaign disappeared almost overnight.

A constant frown had replaced the smile, and he had developed a tendency to change his mind impulsively. Sometimes witty and charming, his personality could suddenly become brittle and aloof. However, there was one trait about the President that remained a constant: he didn't suffer fools well.

When the Secretary of Defense entered the room, the President noticed the somber look that always signaled a problem. Although he was a shrewdly expedient politician, Bryce Mellongard was incapable of camouflaging his feelings.

"Give it to me straight," the President said while Mellongard sat down and unfolded his napkin.

Bud Tidwell looked at Mellongard, then quietly placed his fork on his plate. After years of diplomatic service, he knew when trouble was brewing.

When the President heard Mellongard's report on the attack at Misawa, he became livid. "What kind of missile are we talking about?" he hissed.

"A Soviet SA-7."

"You're positive?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sonuvabitch," the President swore under his breath and tapped a button on the leg of the dining table. "When did you talk to Biddle and Dunwall?"

Mellongard had dreaded this moment since his conversation with the two officers. "Late last night."

"Why the hell didn't you immediately contact me?" the President exclaimed and tossed his napkin on the table.

Mellongard winced inside. "Sir, I wanted to confirm a few details before I discussed the situation with you."

"For Christ's sake, Bryce — I want to know about these things when they happen! Not the next day."

Mellongard's reply was interrupted by a military aide who entered the dining room.

"Sam, cancel my appointments until three o'clock," the President ordered, "and call the Director of the CIA. I want him in my office as quickly as he can get here."

The young officer acknowledged the instructions and quickly left the room.

"Bud," the President continued briskly, "you do whatever you have to do to get their attention in Tokyo. I want you to confront them with this. If they can't ensure the safety of our military personnel at Japanese bases, then I'm damn-sure not going to let them use our people as clay pigeons. Make goddamn sure they understand that point!"

"Yes, sir," Tidwell responded in an expressionless voice. "But I suggest we proceed cautiously."

Tidwell was thinking about the ramifications if the Japanese took umbrage and used the issue to force a confrontation. "We've got over half a million Americans who collect paychecks from over two thousand Japanese companies in this country."

"I understand that," the President countered, "but what is it going to take to get them off high center? We've been patient with them on almost every issue, from business and trade relations to the questions about their mushrooming military power. In fact, we've been too patient and too easygoing for too long — and that's why we're sitting here having this conversation while they continue with their business-as-usual routine."

Tidwell sipped his water. "If it appears that we're threatening them — forcing their hand — they may pull the plug, which is going to have staggering consequences."

The President sat quietly for a long moment, trying to calm himself. "Bud, we've known each other for a long time." "Yes, sir."

"In all that time I've never heard you suggest that another country could hold us hostage. Is that what you're telling me?"

Bryce Mellongard's heart sank. He knew he was witnessing the start of a confrontation that could only end in a face-off between the United States and Japan.

Tidwell took a deep breath and began speaking in his diplomatic voice. "Sir, if we wade in with both barrels blazing, they may revert to kaizen, or, worse yet, sever diplomatic relations with us. Then we're dead in the water."

"Bullshit," the President snapped. "They've been practicing kaizen since the last pieces of debris stopped raining down on Nagasaki, and," he said venomously, "they can't afford to sever ties with us."

The Japanese business principles of kaizen called for slow movement and painstaking analysis. It was a great ploy to buy precious time to study the opposition and then take the most advantageous position.

"On the other hand," the Secretary of State calmly continued, "there are a number of indicators pointing to an inevitable showdown with Japan if we pursue this course. I think it would be better to keep our relationship with Japan as cooperative as possible, and quietly settle the issues in a peaceful manner."

Bud Tidwell watched for a reaction, but the President appeared to be impassive.

"The Japanese," Tidwell warned, "don't respond well when they're being threatened."

The President sat motionless while the seconds ticked away, then propped his chin on his balled fist. "Bud, we're not talking about Armageddon."

The President studied the surprised men for a brief moment. "There aren't going to be any nuclear weapons landing on the White House lawn."

"Sir," Bryce Mellongard finally said, "why don't we give it some thought before you make your final decision."

"Bryce, I've made my final decision," the President declared with a trace of sarcasm. "The Prime Minister has said that he'll make the decision when and where he will discuss the issues with me. That sure as hell doesn't indicate any respect for the United States."

"Mr. President," Bud Tidwell persisted, well aware of the President's fragile ego. "Why don't I initiate some dialogue, then we can discuss this in more detail when I have a better feeling for their position?"

"Bud, hear me out, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"I respect the Japanese people on the whole, and I don't underestimate them. My bone of contention is not with the people."

There was a growing level of anger and impatience in the President's tone of voice. "It's a very simple concept. I want assurances from the Japanese government, in writing, that Japan will take immediate measures to ensure the safety of our military personnel who are in Japan to defend their country. That, in my opinion, is not too much to ask."

Tidwell showed no emotion. "Sir, I'll contact the Foreign Minister and relay your request; however, I want to go on record about my concerns."

"Speak freely."

"I think we're setting ourselves up for some very difficult problems in the near future."

The President didn't try to conceal his irritation. "Bud, let me allay your concerns. You can have all the money in the world, but if you've got a gun barrel jammed against your head, you get into compliance posthaste."

Tidwell darted a glance at the Secretary of Defense before he answered. "Yes, I see your point."

After an early-morning jog in the drizzling rain, Steve Wickham showered and dressed in slacks and a sport coat, then went down to the restaurant to meet Susan and Marcus. He found them having coffee and gazing out at the miserable weather.

"Good morning," Steve said and slid the packet of photographs on the table.

"You're bright and cheery," Marcus observed and automatically turned to look at the large envelope.

"Theresa had these developed last night," Wickham informed them and pulled a vacant chair toward the table. "After looking at them, I discovered another interesting anomaly about the home with the camouflage wind sock."

Callaway opened the envelope and spread the enlarged photos in front of him while Steve sat down and ordered his usual hot tea.

Susan leaned over for a closer look. "Considering the weather, these turned out a lot better than I expected."

"Look at these two prints," Steve said excitedly and shoved them directly in front of Susan and Marcus. "Have you ever seen a tennis court without a fence around it?"

The Bureau agents carefully examined the photographs and then exchanged glances. The tall, imported trees that surrounded the court were bunched together, but the trunks were too far apart to stop a misguided basketball, let alone a tennis ball.

"You're right," Callaway finally agreed, "but you would never know it from the road. The trees block everything except the view from higher up on the ridgeline."

"And no one lives up there as far as we know," Susan Nakamura added, remembering the terrain that sloped upward behind the isolated home.

"That's right," Steve commented and turned the photo around for a better view. "The tennis court is a perfect helipad, and it's totally concealed except from above."

Marcus had a sudden thought. "Think about all of the fly-in communities from California to Florida. Many of the homes have attached hangars that are cleverly disguised as part of the main structure."

Susan and Steve nodded in silent agreement.

"I remember one case in particular," Callaway went on enthusiastically. "A guy we finally put away, who happened to be involved in an elaborate counterfeiting operation, owned a gigantic home at a fly-in subdivision in Florida. The place had a hangar that appeared to be part of the home. The hangar doors — one on the front and one at the back — were operated by remote control from the airplane. He could taxi in the back after he landed, then taxi out the front when he was ready to fly."

Thinking back to the arrest of the eccentric forger, Marcus grinned. "The front door — the doors were the bifold type — had windows that matched the ones at the other end of the home. That hangar was really elaborate."

Steve tilted one of the photos upward and then looked at Callaway. "Do you think there's a hangar concealed in this home?"

"I wouldn't bet against it."

Susan carefully inspected the photographs and sat back in her seat. "Why would someone have two jackhammers near the pool area? The house appears to be finished as far as I can tell."

"To mask the sounds of a helicopter's rotor blades," Marcus casually offered without looking up. "Throw in the screech of a power saw, or something equally loud, and it sounds like you're still building the house. The racket might not conceal the sounds of a big military chopper, but it sure would disperse the noise from a JetRanger."

Steve paused to look at the prints and form a mental image of the view from the highway. "You can't tell what's happening from the lower terrain, so who would question the sounds of a construction crew?"

Susan glanced at Wickham and gave him a lazy smile. "It does look suspicious, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he answered and hesitated while a customer walked past their table. "When you put everything together, including the guy you saw carrying a rifle, the oddities do raise a few questions."

She studied him with wondering curiosity. "More than a few questions, in my view."

"I may be wrong," Steve conceded, "but we won't know until we investigate."

"Let's take both cars," Susan suggested while she pointed to the tennis court, "and begin with this place. If we don't find anything there — or at the other two homes with heliports — we can split up and start canvassing the area."

"I'm ready," Steve declared while he finished the last sip of his tea and shoved the photographs into the packet.

After the trio walked out of the airy restaurant, a slight, nondescript Japanese diner who had been sitting with his back to the agents slowly adjusted his bow tie and reached for his check.