Honorable Enemies

Chapter 14

The bridge of the aircraft carrier USS Independence (CV-62) was quiet at this time of the morning. The sailors and officers were asleep, except for the early risers and members of the ship's company, who were standing watch.

Belowdecks, the mess cooks worked against the clock in order to be ready to serve a savory breakfast when reveille sounded. They had fourteen peaceful minutes remaining before the hungry, sleepy-eyed men would begin forming a chow line.

Outside on the long carrier pier, two food-vending trucks were preparing to serve the civilian "yardbirds" who were reporting for work. The vendors also did a booming business with the multitude of sailors who opted for a change from the usual navy fare.

The hushed solitude of the cool morning was suddenly shattered by a deafening explosion. The thunderous report echoed across the base as the rocket-propelled grenade burst in a blinding white flash when it detonated against the carrier's bridge.

Three panes of glass blew inward, seriously injuring one of the sailors on the bridge. Everyone in the area dropped to the deck and scrambled for cover as the violent concussion reverberated through the big flattop.

The majority of the crew sat up in their bunks and looked at each other with questioning eyes. Whatever it was, it wasn't good news.

On the quarterdeck, confusion reigned while a seasoned chief petty officer talked the young officer of the deck out of sounding general quarters. The salty boatswain's mate grabbed a phone and called out the Marines, then ordered medical corpsmen to go to the scene of the explosion.

Marcus Callaway drove to a narrow road a quarter mile from the path leading to the mansion, then followed it up the incline until he came to a dead end. He grabbed his binoculars and stepped out in the muddy path.

After locking the car, he placed the strap over the 10-millimeter Smith & Wesson in his shoulder holster and started making his way to higher ground. The going was tough in the dense vegetation, but he made steady progress and finally reached an area where he could observe the sprawling home.

Perspiring profusely, Callaway dropped to a prone position in the thick foliage and raised the binoculars. He guessed the distance to the home at 300 yards.

A quarter of an hour passed without any sign of life around the exterior of the stately residence. Marcus was beginning to wonder if they had overreacted, but he steadfastly kept observing the grounds.

Shortly thereafter, he noticed some activity near the back of the home, but nothing that looked out of the ordinary. Two men in casual clothes were working on something near the tennis court while the well-dressed man who answered the door stood nearby.

Marcus dried his forehead with the sleeve of his coveralls and continued to watch the men by the tennis court. He could see that one of the workers was Asian, undoubtedly Japanese, but the other man was definitely a Caucasian, with sandy blond hair.

The minutes passed slowly while the heat and humidity forced Callaway to slip out of the top half of his coveralls. He was tying his sleeves around his waist when he froze and stared at the home. Were his eyes deceiving him?

He rolled over and snatched the binoculars from the ground. Marcus let out a barely audible whistle while he watched the end of one wing of the spacious home swing open next to the tennis court.

"I'll be damned," he muttered when the tail rotor blades and pylon of a helicopter emerged from what appeared to be the guest living quarters.

It looks like bedrooms with a bath in the middle, but it's really a narrow hangar for the helo.

When the helicopter was rolled clear of the house, Callaway could see that it was indeed a Bell JetRanger. It was painted in military olive-drab camouflage and looked like any other Army or Marine helo. The average person wouldn't have any idea that U. S. forces on Oahu didn't operate dull-brownish, grayish-green JetRangers.

With the two blades of the main rotor in line with the fuselage, the helicopter slid through the tree-lined opening to the tennis court.

You've got to get moving!

Marcus cursed himself for not bringing his portable radio from the car. He crawled backward on his stomach until he couldn't see the house, then rose and thrashed his way down the hillside to his sedan. Winded and gulping air, he unlocked the car and started the engine, then flipped on the air conditioner and reached for the radio microphone.

Susan and Steve stopped seventy-five yards from the edge of the stone and brick driveway. They were out of sight of the home and far enough away that no one could hear their conversations.

Steve tried to call Langley a number of times before he received an answer tone. He impatiently waited while his key code went through a National Security Agency computer for validation. The seconds slowly ticked by while an encoding algorithm was selected for his particular conversation.

At last Wickham heard an authentication code and finally a friendly voice on the other end of the line. He quickly explained the situation, described the location, and requested that military air support be standing by to assist them if they needed it.

Once that effort was under way, he asked the operations coordinator to notify the Honolulu FBI office. Steve gave Susan the phone and she calmly explained the circumstances and requested that more agents be sent to the scene as quickly as possible.

Wickham took the phone and was in midsentence when Callaway's excited voice startled them.

"Tiger Paw, Tiger Paw!"

She snatched the mike from the retainer. "Go, Marcus." "The stadium is full and the kickoff will be in a matter of minutes! The bird is on the court in camouflage. Copy?" "Copy," she replied, making eye contact with Steve. "We have players on the way."

"Make it fast," Callaway exclaimed.

The Bureau radio conversations suddenly became a series of strange comments and unanswered questions.

Susan started the car. "I just thought of something." "What?"

"We had better go down to the highway entrance and mark it so they can find us."

"You're right," Wickham replied tersely. "They'll have a helluva time finding this place if we don't show them a marker "

"Hang on," Susan warned and shifted into drive.

While they hastily made their way to the highway, Wickham asked the nameless voice at Langley for two helicopters from the Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station.

The instantaneous communications network with the Hawaiian military installations had been implemented by the Agency while Steve was en route to Oahu. As an emergency backup for his secure telephone system, Wickham could use his transportable cellular phone to contact the coordination center in Virginia.

Less than a minute later, he had confirmation that helos from nearby Kaneohe would be airborne in five minutes.

Acting on Wickham's request, the field operations coordinator asked the helo pilots to orbit a mile offshore, then told the agent that he would keep the line open for further instructions.

"The helo was right under us," Steve protested, pounding his fist on the dashboard for emphasis, "and we spooked them into getting it out of there."

"Spooked is right," Susan said with a look of determination. "Let's just hope we can keep a lid on things until we can secure the place."

The specially configured presidential Boeing 747 cruised in light turbulence at 35,000 feet after the crew had tried 39,000. Finding the ride at the higher altitude even more bumpy, the Air Force colonel received an immediate clearance to descend to his original flight level. As was customary, Air Force One always received kid-glove treatment from air traffic controllers when the Commander in Chief was onboard.

Stocked with a fine assortment of excellent wines and fresh food, the flying White House was also a gourmet restaurant. The specially trained military chefs prepared delicious meals that were talked about at cocktail parties from one end of Washington to the other. Carrying enough supplies for 2,000 meals, the two galleys could easily accommodate the needs of the seventy passengers and twenty-three crew members.

With a range of over 7,000 miles, along with an inflight refueling capability, the customized blue and white jet could stay airborne for days.

Although many of the presidential perks were under fire, especially the need for a jumbo jet during a time of shrinking budgets and increased taxes, the Chief Executive had not altered or downsized anything where Air Force One was concerned. He considered the sophisticated airborne command post a necessary tool to his Administration.

The President was changing into his fishing clothes when the Secretary of State knocked on the door leading to the executive suite.

"Come in."

Bud Tidwell slipped into the spacious stateroom and quietly shut the door, then reluctantly faced his boss when he came out of the dressing room. "We just took another broadside — literally."

The President shook his head but continued to button his plaid shirt. "The Japanese?"

"I'm afraid so," Tidwell announced and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "I just received a preliminary message from Yokosuka indicating that someone fired a grenade launcher at Independence."

After the Secretary of State explained the incident, the President walked across the suite. Feeling a sense of rage swelling in his chest, he sat down in his favorite chair and stared for a long moment at his friend and confidant. "What about Belleau Wood?"

"She's fine," Tidwell answered with a feeling of relief. "The Marines are guarding her and we haven't seen anything out of the ordinary."

Belleau Wood, the assault aircraft carrier that was serving as the flagship of Amphibious Squadron 11, was at its home port in Sasebo, Japan.

The President seemed to go limp. "Do they have the people responsible in custody?" he asked in a soft voice.

"No, sir," Tidwell answered bitterly. "They're sure it was another terrorist attack. The shot came from a food-vending truck that was parked on the pier."

The President absently tapped his fingers on the small table at his side. "How did they get away with it, for Christ's sake?" His voice rose in pitch. "We're talking about a goddamned naval base, not some dimly lighted back-alley."

"The investigators," Tidwell patiently went on, "said the driver of the truck had a set of valid credentials. They believe he got away before the base was secured after the incident."

"Valid, my ass."

Tidwell was not intimidated by the President's temper.

"As you know, sir, the strategy of terrorist activity is simple. They always attack when you least expect it, and when you're not looking."

The men exchanged a tense glance.

"We cannot guard against random terrorism," Tidwell explained in his smooth diplomatic style and watched the President's irritated reaction. "That is its basic effectiveness… the random hit-and-runs."

They felt a slight power reduction as the pilot began a shallow descent toward Missoula, Montana. The President's trip was carefully planned to include a number of excellent photo opportunities, including the chance to go fishing in the Flathead National Forest with a Japanese guide.

The President reached for his phone and punched in the code for his Defense Secretary. The sensitive communications equipment could reach the SECDEF anywhere, anytime.

Bud Tidwell sat quietly and listened to the one-sided conversation. After Secretary Mellongard told the President what he knew about the attack on the aircraft carrier, the tone of the discussion changed.

"Bryce, I want increased security at all military facilities in Japan. Most importantly, I want the Independence to be heavily guarded around the clock."

The President looked at Tidwell before he gave SECDEF his final orders. "I don't care what you have to do, or who you have to use — find the instigator of the terrorist attacks. Any questions?"

The cautious Secretary knew that it was not in his best interest to have any questions or suggestions. Not when the President started giving orders. It was time for action, not words.