Honorable Enemies

Chapter 6

By the time United Airlines flight 187 landed at 10:37 A. M., the damp fog that had been covering the city was beginning to dissipate. A few rays of bright sunlight filtered through the cool haze and warmed the shivering tourists at Fisherman's Wharf and Chinatown.

When the lumbering jet stopped at the boarding gate, Steve Wickham placed his magazine in the seatback pouch in front of him and turned to Callaway.

"Marcus, how about some fresh seafood and San Francisco sourdough bread?"

Callaway looked at his watch. "What time are we scheduled to leave?"

"Eleven fifty-five," Steve advised. "We've got over an hour to kill."

"You twisted my arm."

Steve rose from his seat and stepped into the aisle. He glanced at the slight Japanese passenger who had been sitting across the passageway. The man turned away from Wickham and closed his briefcase, then patiently waited for the other travelers to walk past his seat.

"The restaurant we're going to," Steve advised, "is definitely above average for an airport slop chute."

"Sounds good." Callaway stretched his legs and flexed his arms. "If I can find Susan, we'll take her to lunch."

"Sure," Steve said as they walked off the airplane. "I'm anxious to meet her."

After they exited the jetway, Steve went to secure a table in the restaurant while Marcus stayed in the waiting area to see if he could spot Susan Nakamura.

Fifteen minutes later, while Steve was reading the San Francisco Chronicle, Marcus and Susan walked in and caught his attention. He rose to greet them and was surprised when she eagerly extended her hand. He shook hands and seated her next to him.

Steve found her very attractive. She seemed poised and mature and had captivating almond eyes. Her nose was thin and delicate, and her cheekbones were high. She wore very little makeup and only a trace of lipstick adorned her small, perfectly formed mouth.

Susan's dark brunette hair was arranged in a stylish bob that underscored her sense of authority. She had a friendly yet reserved air about her, but always displayed a quick smile.

Her grace and natural beauty made people look at Susan, glance away, then look again. There was some hidden quality, some spark in her steely calm personality that made both men and women want to seek her out, to talk to her, to try to find out what made her such an alluring woman.

With degrees in accounting and criminology, Susan Nakamura was a promising candidate when the FBI, confronted by a multitude of discrimination suits, was forced to hire more female and minority agents. She overcame the sexual harassment and formidable obstacles in the male-dominated environment and graduated in the top 20 percent of her class. Now, after twelve years of law enforcement experience, she was one of the most respected special agents in the Bureau.

When the threesome finished lunch, Marcus excused himself and left to phone his office. There was a moment of hesitation before Steve turned to Susan.

"Would you care for some dessert?"

"I'd love some." She laughed casually. "But I've disciplined myself to forgo the calories."

Steve glanced at her eyes and forced himself not to stare at her smooth face. "I wish I could be that disciplined, but I guess everyone has their vices."

She let the remark linger for a moment, then looked straight at Wickham. "You don't seem to have any bad habits, other than driving too fast."

Steve gave her a questioning look. "Excuse me?"

"Our files," she continued evenly, "don't indicate any abnormalities in your background. Just a couple of speeding tickets to your credit."

Wickham laughed aloud and then noticed that a few customers were looking his way curiously. He leaned closer to Susan. "My dark side has obviously been well concealed."

She arched her eyebrows. "I hear that you're a great asset to the Agency."

"Well, don't believe everything you hear."

She decided not to challenge his remark. "Who do you think was flying the helicopter at Pearl Harbor, and where do you think the pilot and helo are now?"

"I don't have any idea," he admitted and let his eyes linger on her face. "However, I think we should start by contacting the FAA and getting a complete list of past and present rotary-wing qualified pilots, along with a list of registered helicopters."

Susan raised her attache case, zipped it open, then handed him the list of pilots that had been supplied by the Federal Aviation Administration. Many of the helicopter jockeys were also rated as fixed-wing pilots. She also had a copy of the FAA Register of Aircraft and a Bell Aircraft maintenance-support database for locating all their helicopters.

Wickham was impressed, and a bit embarrassed that he had underestimated Susan's capabilities. "Excuse me while I wipe the egg off my face."

"You've been traveling," she said pleasantly and reached for her notes. "I've been working all night, and we've got a lot going on. We're currently tracking down every rotary-wing pilot and the location of each registered helo like the one used in the attack, but I think we're going to find a number of loopholes."

Steve nodded and thought about the helicopter assault. "It wouldn't be too difficult to take an airliner from the mainland, attack the tour boat, hide the helicopter, jump back on a flight, and be back on the West Coast in short order."

"Especially," Susan stated calmly, "if you came over on the red-eye, hit the tour ship early in the morning, then caught a midday flight back to the Coast."

She stopped to analyze her logic. "People on the mainland who had seen the pilot late one day would again see him late the following day.

"A perfect alibi," she said evenly. "If it appears that the pilot was on the mainland when the crime took place in Hawaii, then that's a pretty good defense."

Wickham studied the long list of pilots. "If someone was going to try the airline approach, an alias and a good disguise would make it virtually impossible for us to trail them."

"Correct," she declared with an underlying excitement in her voice. "I think the helicopter is still on Oahu, or one of the neighbor islands, but it's probably been repainted by now."

Steve handed the FAA list to Susan. "Let's discuss the possibilities — the 'what-ifs.' Do you have any information on what kind of helo we're talking about? I know it's a Bell, but I don't know the model or type."

"Right here," she answered and pulled out another folder. "A number of experienced helicopter pilots have viewed the videos, and every one of them agreed that the helo is a Bell 206B JetRanger identical to the one operated by the television station."

"What's the speed and range?"

Susan consulted the JetRanger performance section that her staff had compiled in the wee hours of the morning. "Depending on the altitude and conditions, the speed is approximately one hundred fifteen knots, with a range of around three hundred fifty nautical miles at low altitude."

After some mental calculations, Steve finally spoke. "The pilot could have flown nonstop to any of the islands, even down to the sparsely settled areas on the big island, and still had plenty of fuel to spare."

"You're right, Steve, but I feel that fuel wasn't the critical element in the escape. It was the exposure of being seen in a brightly painted helicopter."

"That makes sense." He was impressed with her reasoning and with the amount of information she had assimilated in such a short period of time.

"The longer the pilot placed himself in a position to be seen," she continued with a slight shrug, "the worse the odds became of a successful evasion."

"You're right," he admitted and placed himself in the pilot's position after the assault. "The pilot, who was going a little over two miles a minute, probably didn't stay in the air for more than ten to twelve minutes after the attack."

"That's basically what I've been thinking," she responded a moment before Callaway approached them. "It would have been easy to land in a remote place, camouflage the helo, repaint it, then fly it out later."

Marcus waited until she was finished. "Speaking of helicopters, I just saw the TV station pilot — the Sky Nine pilot — being interviewed."

Wickham had an intuitive feeling that they needed to interview her. "She might be able to give us some valuable information plus some background profiles of the helo jockeys on the island."

"I've already sent a request," Susan informed him with a level gaze, "to meet with Ms. Garney tomorrow morning." She observed the surprise in Wickham's eyes. "It would be good for all of us to talk with her, then compare notes."

Before Steve could respond, Marcus changed the subject. He knew that Susan's penchant for being organized could be intimidating at times, especially if you hadn't had time to do your homework.

"We've got people crawling all over the Hawaiian Islands," Callaway informed them with a dour look, "and we haven't found a damn thing."

Susan observed Steve for a moment, then softened her approach. "We don't have much to go on now, but I'm confident we'll make progress once we arrive in the islands."

"I know we will," he replied and pointed to the front page of the morning Chronicle.

Bold headlines described the Japanese/American civil unrest in the streets of San Francisco and other major cities. Related stories prophesied problems with workers and management in Japanese-owned, American-based industries in the aftermath of the senseless killings at Pearl Harbor. Some of the articles about the attack were biased against the practices of the United States, while other stories lashed out at the terrorist reprisal on the American tourists in Osaka.

Steve started to say something, then abruptly stopped himself. Susan was Japanese-American, and criticism from both the Japanese and the American sides was probably difficult for her to deal with. The thought made him uncomfortable.

Susan caught the subtle change in his disposition. "It's a shame, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," he agreed. "I'm convinced that humans are the most vicious, predatory animals on this planet."

The stories under the headlines explained about the anti-Japanese protests in Japan Town, known as Nihonmachi, a few blocks east of Fillmore Street. San Francisco police had been forced to arrest protesters and break up skirmishes at the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park and at the Japanese Cultural and Trade Center.

One of the saddest stories recounted how Japanese students at the University of San Francisco had been pelted with raw eggs and water balloons filled with paint. Some had even been hit with rocks and bottles during the clash.

Steve motioned for their check, but Marcus and Susan insisted on splitting the bill three ways.

As they walked to their gate, Steve gave Susan a friendly smile. "Since you know all about me, warts and all, I'm anxious to find out more about you."

She returned the friendly gesture. "That's fair enough, but I don't want to bore you to death."

"You're in trouble now," Marcus laughed quietly and slowly shook his head.

"Trust me," Steve said while Susan rolled her eyes at Callaway. "I can handle it."

The low, ragged overcast seemed to hang suspended in a dark-gray hue a half hour after the sun had risen. The warm air was oppressively sultry and there was a total absence of wind on the crowded flightline. The humidity was peaked at 100 percent and a fine drizzle continued to bathe the home of the 432nd Fighter Wing of the United States Air Force.

East of base operations and the control tower, a multitude of McDonnell Douglas/Mitsubishi F-15 J air-superiority fighters from Japan's Air Self-Defense Force were being prepared for a practice mission. The Japanese Air Force controlled the airfield and adjacent air traffic, but coordinated all military activities with the U. S.

The air base was beginning to stir, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the muggy air. The quiet solitude of the sleepy morning was abruptly shattered when two afterburning turbofans belched hot air and roared to life. The high-pitched whine of the powerful engines cut through the air while the pilots went through their checklists.

After a radio check with the 432nd command post, known as Falcon Ops, the two men switched to clearance delivery and copied their Chuhi Two Departure with a Miyako Transition. Shortly thereafter, the two General Dynamics F-16 Fighting Falcons began taxiing toward the active runway.

Major Tony Lavancia, a combat veteran of Operation Desert Storm, was the leader for the scheduled training flight. The highly skilled pilot was well liked by everyone, especially the younger pilots, who were the recipients of his wisdom and years of aviation experience.

Behind and off to the side of Lavancia's wing, Captain Jeff McIntire watched his flight leader taxi over a large puddle of water. The spray kicked up by the fighter's exhaust blew past his wingtip and disappeared.

Although new to the squadron, "Gentleman Jeff" McIntire was an experienced fighter pilot who had recently been a top scorer at "Gunsmoke," the USAF air-to-ground weapons competition held at Nellis Air Force Base, near Las Vegas.

Many of his peers were convinced that Jeff McIntire, with his chiseled good looks and engaging personality, would be selected to fly with the Thunderbirds when he completed his present assignment.

When the two F-16s approached the end of the rain-soaked taxiway, the pilots switched to the control tower frequency. Seconds later they were cleared for takeoff on runway 28. Lavancia glanced at the fighter alert hangar, then taxied into position and waited for his wingman to align himself in trail and off to the side.

After a final check of their cockpits, the fighter pilots advanced their throttles and checked their engine instruments. When McIntire signaled that he was ready to roll, Lavancia released his brakes, then lighted the afterburner.

McIntire watched the tailpipe of his leader's plane spew a tongue of red-hot flames as his own afterburner ignited. The rapid acceleration pressed him into his seat while he jockeyed the controls to stay welded to his flight leader. Moments later, McIntire rotated his fighter when Lavancia raised his nose-wheel off the runway.

After the two jets were safely airborne, Jeff McIntire snapped his landing gear up at the moment he saw his leader's wheels start to move. Jeff would fly tight formation while his leader would concentrate on flying by instruments until the fighters broke out of the thick overcast.

The control tower personnel watched the sleek fighters lift off the 10,000-foot runway, then followed the flight path of the white-orange afterburners as the jets approached the low, uneven dark clouds.

McIntire was smoothly working his controls to stay in perfect position as the jets were engulfed by the gray, foggy haze. A moment later a blinding flash and violent concussion stunned McIntire. He fought the controls as the aircraft began rolling and the nose tucked down.

Without warning, the observers in the tower saw a bright flash, followed by a tremendous explosion. They stared in horror while one of the jets tumbled out of the gray sky. The Fighting Falcon had been reduced to a huge fireball spinning out of control.

I've got to get out! Jeff realized as he frantically reached for the ejection-seat handle. His last thought was two seconds too late to save his life. Mclntire's heart pumped the last surge of blood into his circulatory system as the ejection seat fired.

The shocked men in the tower watched a blazing pinwheel of jet fuel spray in every direction before the aircraft smashed into the ground. The stunned witnesses could feel the tower shake from the impact and explosion.

Filled with anger and grief, Major Tony Lavancia slowly walked around the crash site. The light rain that continued to drench the base had extinguished the last of the smoldering fires. Only a few wisps of gray-white smoke rose from the charred debris that had recently been a sleek, multimillion-dollar fighter plane.

His lip quivered when he thought about Jeff McIntire. The humorous, good-looking young man with the superior intellect and raw flying ability never knew what hit him. McIntire had ceased to exist when the spinning fighter hit the ground at the same moment the ejection seat fired.

His neck muscles ached with tension, but Lavancia ignored the pain and replayed the accident over and over in his mind. One moment Jeff was there, tucked in tight against his wing, and a split second later he was gone. Something wasn't right. There was simply no reason, no history of F-16s blowing apart in flight.

Something strange had happened to Mclntire's fighter, but Lavancia had no idea what. He was intimately familiar with every system in the F-16, yet nothing came to mind that could cause this kind of disaster if it failed.

The team of investigators who were probing the debris of the blackened, twisted wreckage knew who Lavancia was and paid little attention to him. They understood his desire to be left alone.

Lavancia was expected to report to the flight surgeon while the details of the flight were still fresh in his mind. Afterward he would attend a debrief to go over the sequence of events leading to the fatal crash. But that wasn't what the tormented pilot wanted to do, not by any stretch of the imagination.

All Tony Lavancia wanted to do was have a very stiff drink and purge his emotions. Still in his rain-soaked flight suit, he sat down on the perimeter of the deep crater and stared blankly into the scorched hole where his friend had perished less than an hour before.

Fifteen minutes later, Lavancia's commanding officer, accompanied by the base chaplain and the flight surgeon, walked to his side and helped him to his feet.