Honorable Enemies

Chapter 29

Precisely one minute before the scheduled arrival time, the spotlessly clean train came to a smooth stop in the railway station. The forty-mile trip from Narita International Airport to Tokyo had been smooth and comfortable, with the exception of the offensive looks Steve continued to receive from the Asian passengers.

During the flight from Singapore, Steve and Susan had discussed at length his altercation with the Asian hit man and concluded that it would be best to keep quiet for the time being. They had no idea who the CIA informer was, and one miscalculation could easily get them killed.

They were relieved to know where the leak was originating, but Wickham was humiliated that the information was coming from someone in the Agency.

Steve had thought about calling the Director on his SecTel secure phone, but he had reservations about discussing the breach of security at the Agency. He didn't trust Paul Holcomb, and he had begun to wonder if the Director had lied about the President requesting him for the unusual case.

When the train doors opened, Steve and Susan quickly hoisted their luggage and stepped out of the crowded car. They cautiously looked around, ready to react to any threat. Both had no doubt that the stalker had observed them board the airliner in Singapore.

"One more lap," Steve said with a determined look, "and we'll have it made, if we can catch a cab."

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," she responded with a self-conscious smile, "but I had better hail us a taxi, then you can slide in with me."

He hesitated a brief moment, unsure if she was putting him on. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she replied quietly and walked toward a waiting cab. "The animosity toward Americans is reaching a fever pitch."

Steve glanced around before he followed her. Many of the unsmiling strangers wouldn't even look at him, while others cast looks that made it clear that he was unwanted.

During the ride to the hotel, Wickham was surprised to see the crowds of militant protesters who were waving banners and shouting anti-American slogans through bullhorns. Steve made a mental note of the shouted sentiment characterizing Japan's part in World War II as a holy mission to liberate their Asian neighbors from the grasp of Western colonialism.

They had canceled their original hotel reservations and checked into the Keio Plaza Inter-Continental Hotel under assumed names.

While Susan contacted her friend, a fraud investigator for various Japanese insurance companies, Wickham went to a pay phone and called the Agency. He received an updated briefing on world events, including the meeting in Anchorage and the current global military situation. He kept the conversation light and never gave the slightest hint that anything was wrong.

Steve also had a message from the director of the CIA. Paul Holcomb wanted results and he wasn't being subtle about his demand. What Wickham didn't know was that his supposedly secure-link conversation was being traced in a quiet room at Langley.

Steve was walking around the uncrowded 7th-floor swimming pool and garden terrace when Susan joined him. They sat down at an empty table and he looked around at the other non-Asians. No one seemed to notice them, or at least no one indicated any sign of disapproval of the mixed-race couple.

"Is your friend going to work with us?" Steve asked while thinking how else they might solve the mystery of the ownership of number three Matsumi Maru.

"He said he'd help us," she explained with a shrug. "He seemed rather uncomfortable when I explained the circumstances and the need for total secrecy."

Steve grew cautious and lowered his voice. "Are you sure we can trust him?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"One hundred percent?"

"I can't be one hundred percent sure," she admitted. "Why are you so jumpy about my friend?"

"We don't know how far the tentacles from Langley may reach," he remarked in a relaxed manner. "Your friend may already know something we don't, and we could be setting ourselves up for an unpleasant surprise."

"Steve, don't take this the wrong way, but I think you're starting to see shadows behind every corner."

"In this business" — he forced a smile—"it only takes one mistake to buy the farm."

Susan bristled at the implication that she was a novice. She raised an eyebrow and gave him an icy look. "I'm quite aware of the risks involved in this business."

Taken aback by the sudden personality change, Steve gazed steadily into her eyes. "I apologize if I offended you, but someone is trying to kill us, and they're getting information about our whereabouts from the CIA."

"No apology needed," she replied in a mildly derisive manner, then softened her tone. "Steve, I fully understand the gravity of the situation. I respect you very much, and I trust that you have the same respect for me… and for the way I perform my job."

"Of course I respect you," he proclaimed and reached for her hand.

Susan had doubts about her friend, too, but she didn't want to expose them. Hiroshi was their best bet to find the owner of the ship, and they had to have faith and follow through, no matter what.

Her brief flash of irritation quickly subsided and she smiled when Steve grasped her hand.

"Hiroshi Okubo," she explained, "has a solid reputation and was highly recommended when I worked with him. I don't think we have to worry about Hiroshi."

"Fair enough."

"Besides," Susan went on, "he has his honor to protect, and that is very important to the Japanese. I don't think he would risk his excellent reputation by doing something stupid."

"Like I said before," Steve responded with a serious look, "I trust your judgment."

"At any rate," she quickly finished, "Hiroshi said that he'll have an answer for us by tomorrow afternoon — one way or the other — on who owned the Matsumi Maru fleet."

Wickham studied the impressive skyline in the busy Shinjuku ward. "That sounds good to me if it works out."

Steve would have to be content to wait. Squinting to see through the hazy sky, he looked at the Century Hyatt Hotel and the other modern high-rise buildings, then turned to face Susan. "If you investigated fraud for a group of well-heeled insurance companies and discovered something really bad about one of your best clients, would you be willing to blow the whistle?"

"I seem to recall," she said with a friendly wink, "Steve Wickham, a legendary CIA agent, once told me that 'sometimes you have to roll the dice and take your chances.' "

Steve nonchalantly glanced around the swimming pool and garden terrace. "Speaking of chances," he said with a trace of tension in his voice, "I have a feeling crew cut is watching us."

Moving quietly through the water at a speed of 31/z knots, the Japanese submarine Harushio was rigged for supersilent running. All noisy machinery and unnecessary activities had been silenced, including the showers, galley equipment, and laundry facilities. The public-address system was immobilized, which required the crew to use a single phone circuit and communicate their orders by whispering to each other. No one was allowed to open or close any hatches or use any tools.

The crowded and complex interior of the eerily silent diesel-electric sub was bathed in a soft hue of red light. The off-duty submariners, who were relegated to their cramped living spaces, were waiting for a cold snack to be served.

The Yushio-class submarine was creeping through the depths at 220 feet when the sonar operator noticed an unusual trace on his screen. The towed array sonar trailing the Harushio provided acoustic waves to detect and locate submerged objects. He studied the input for a moment and then selected a display that provided a range of sound frequencies to analyze.

Working rapidly and carefully, the technician examined the range of graphs produced by the narrowband processors. The system blended the incoming sounds for a number of minutes to make sure they were not background noises from the vast number of vessels traversing the busy waterway.

Finally, a spike emerged on the graph and the operator immediately recognized the unique signature. The sound was emitting from an American Los Angeles — class fast-attack submarine. The nuclear-powered boat wasn't even attempting to mask its noise.

The sonar technician checked his tonal data one more time. The Americans are too arrogant. He keyed his microphone and spoke softly. "Bridge, sonar."

"Bridge," came the instant reply.

"I have a Los Angeles — signature bearing zero-six-five — overtaking us at a high rate of speed."

A long pause followed the announcement.

"Sonar," the officer of the deck said excitedly, "confirm type of signature."

"The contact," the operator explained clearly, "has the signature of an American attack submarine."

"Los Angeles — type?"

The technician stared at the graph. "Hai."

A few moments later the sonar operator heard a different voice in his headset.

"Sonar, this is the Captain speaking. I want a time-bearing plot every five minutes until the target is abeam us."

After the man acknowledged the order, the Captain turned to his second-in-command. "When the attack sub passes us, we will slowly increase speed and fall in behind the careless Americans.

Most submarines have a blind spot astern where sonar reception is impaired by engines, spinning turbines, shafts, screws, and various equipment housed in the aft end of the boats.

The attack center was deathly quiet when Commander Lamar Joiner stuck his head in, then continued to the submarine's cramped control room. A third-generation submariner, Joiner had followed his grandfather and father through the Naval Academy and straight into the submarine service.

An athletic and gregarious man by nature, the husky skipper with the ice-blue eyes was respected by his officers and crewmen. Some of his famous exploits, both ashore and at sea, rivaled those of his legendary father. The Captain knew his crew almost as well as he knew his three children. He took pride in remembering the names of their wives and most of their offspring.

Joiner looked at his watch. It was time for the next watchstanders to relieve the duty crewmen so they could get some chow and a few hours of sack time. Later, when Bremerton reached her patrol area near Kitty Hawk, the crew would have to operate with more vigilance.

Now level at 240 feet beneath the surface of the strait, Joiner was grateful to see the water getting deeper. The passage through the crowded and narrow southern end of the strait had been nerve-racking and time-consuming. His navigator had winced on a number of occasions when he thought they were going to plow into the bottom of the shallow areas.

Deeper water also meant more reliable acoustic returns because the convergence zones allowed the sonar to detect targets at much longer ranges. Shallow water has an adverse effect on convergence-zone propagation, and the scattering of sound across the bottom makes detections extremely difficult.

In the sonar room, fresh faces stared at the luminescent glow from their scopes, while the helmsmen in the control room guided the submarine with yokes similar to those in the cockpit of an airliner.

Joiner patiently waited until the new watch-standers manned their stations, then glanced at the seasoned officer of the deck. "I have the conn."

The OD nodded. "Captain has the conn."

Noting their current depth, Joiner decided to ascend to 150 feet and evaluate the boundary layer between the cold, deep water and the warm surface water.

"Make your depth one hundred fifty feet," Joiner ordered with a smile creasing his lips.

Unlike some skippers who descended to a certain depth and never deviated, Lamar Joiner enjoyed maneuvering the fast-attack boats and seeing the enthusiasm on the faces of the officers and men.

"One hundred fifty feet, aye," the young diving officer replied with an authoritative voice. "Helm five degrees up on the planes."

The petty officer at the diving controls acknowledged the command, and the submarine commenced a slow ascent.

Leveling at 150 feet, Bremerton was close to the thermocline layer. Below this nearly isothermal layer, the water temperature decreased rapidly with depth, forming a shallow thermocline.

The drastic temperature change, combined with the associated changes in salinity, causes sound waves to refract when they travel obliquely through the layer. This refraction of sound is important in the sonar detection of submarines, and Lamar Joiner was considered a master at using the properties of salinity and temperature variance to conceal his boat.

"Left ten degrees rudder," Joiner said evenly. "New course three-one-zero."

After his instructions were repeated, Joiner waited until the submarine was steady-on the hew course. "Engine room, conn. All ahead two-thirds."

"All ahead two-thirds, aye."

Lamar Joiner was proud of his crew and extremely confident in the reliable and redundant systems incorporated in his fast-attack submarine. From the sophisticated fire-control and weapons-launch systems to the propulsion and ship-control elements, Bremerton and her sister 688 boats were the best-built submarines in the world.

The only thing that bothered Joiner, and something he had never discussed at length with anyone, was the high-speed handling characteristics of the Los Angeles — class SSNs. It was common knowledge throughout the submarine community that the 688s were difficult to control at high speeds.

The stories were varied and colorful, but all of them had elements of the same troubling problems of significant pitching moments or tendencies to snap-roll like an airplane. Joiner had discounted most of the embellished anecdotes until his first cruise in Cincinnati.

After a series of high-speed evasive maneuvers during a routine training mission, the attack sub had suddenly pitched down while traveling at 27 knots. Joiner, along with a number of other crew members, had come to Jesus before the skipper regained control of the boat.

The frightening excursion had plunged the speeding submarine to a hazardous depth near the point where the creaking hull would have been crushed by seawater pressure. They also missed, by a margin of 110 feet, ramming the bow into the seafloor. When Cincinnati started ascending, everyone on board had a new sense of respect for the word luck.

From that horrifying moment, Joiner became a true believer in the instability factor and had not forgotten the incident. He often thought about the consequences of an uncontrolled pitch-up at high speed. In his dreams, Joiner could see a charter fishing boat being tossed through the air as his submarine shot out of the water.

"Conn, sonar," squawked the bulkhead-mounted speaker. "We have a contact bearing three-two-zero. Sounds like a freighter passing right to left… fourteen thousand yards."

"Very well," Joiner replied as he checked his course and speed. "Left ten degrees rudder. New course three-zero-zero."

Although Joiner felt no immediate threat, he reverted to the standard operating procedures that he had used for years. He would pass close to the freighter in order to mask the loud sounds of his fast-moving submarine. He didn't have the liberty of making a slow, quiet cruise to join the carrier battle group.

However, the Captain wasn't aware that the conventional submarine Harushio was directly behind Bremerton and accelerating in the attack sub's cone of silence.