Honorable Enemies

Chapter 8

A refreshing breeze drifted through the rear windows as the well-worn taxi approached Aloha Tower, the famous landmark near Honolulu Harbor. Marcus Callaway cast a look at the sun-drenched blue skies and turned to the friendly man behind the wheel. "You said you're from Samoa?"

"That's right," the beefy cabdriver replied with a cheerful smile. "I'm third generation in Hawaii. Got three kids — two of 'em got their degrees from the University of Hawaii, 'an my third kid is gonna be a freshman this year."

Wickham looked at the jovial face that kept darting glances at him in the rearview mirror. "Does your wife work?"

"Yeah, she works," he laughed good-naturedly while he deftly eased his way through the afternoon traffic. "She has her degree, too." His pride in his family was evident. "She works as an accountant during the day and takes care of the house at night. Everybody helps out, so it ain't too bad."

Without missing a beat, he swerved to avoid colliding with a lost tourist in a rental car, then continued his story. "Me, I drive a cab from seven to five, then load air freight from six to midnight." He laughed aloud and honked at another taxi.

"I figure this way, man." He looked at Wickham's reflection in the rearview mirror. "We ain't got time to have no more kids." He belly-laughed.

Steve was still curious. "Where are your kids now — the ones who graduated?"

"They're all living at home." His voice was suddenly serious. "They can't afford to buy a house, not even a little one. The Japs have taken over the real-estate market again, like they did back in the mid-to-late eighties. They come in, buy millions of dollars of property in a few weeks, real estate people jack up the prices, they buy more, and so on. The locals, we ain't got a chance, man."

His eyes focused on the rearview mirror. "They're turning the islands into suburbs of Tokyo."

Marcus turned and looked at the lush scenery and then shared a glance with Steve. Everything was not so wonderful in paradise.

"People like us — the ones who work and live here," the driver said glumly and poked his chest, "we can't afford to buy even a good, small house. The one we got — man, it's falling apart, I tell you — but we're damn lucky to have it."

Steve remained quiet. There had been major changes in Honolulu since he first vacationed in the islands as a newly minted lieutenant of Marines. The peaceful serenity and natural civility of years past had been replaced by jammed sidewalks, crowded streets, honking horns, rude people, cramped accommodations, and soaring housing costs.

He thought for a brief moment about his ex-wife, Becky. They had spent their honeymoon island-hopping from Oahu to Maui to Kauai. It seemed like only yesterday when he and Becky went snorkeling at Kaanapali Beach.

Steve's recollections came to an abrupt halt when the taxi slowed and stopped in front of the Hilton Hawaiian Village.

Bryce Mellongard was a straitlaced, no-nonsense reformed smoker who was known for his leadership abilities and attention to detail. Tall and reed-thin, he always wore a dark-gray suit and white shirt with a narrow, conservative tie.

Mellongard had made a career of positioning himself to fill the next-higher vacancy. He was a master of the game, a master who had a seemingly supernatural instinct for knowing exactly when the opportunity was ripe to move up a notch.

From the ranks of a midlevel civilian manager in the Pentagon, he steadily climbed the ladder. Always managing to showcase himself, then switch boats before the previous one began leaking, Mellongard carefully and skillfully worked his way through the treacherous rapids.

Now the wily, silver-haired veteran of the bureaucratic wars had reached his zenith: Secretary of Defense. Mellongard knew that being SECDEF could be a springboard to much bigger things. He just needed to slide through this obligation without committing any major blunders.

His biggest fear was that the unstable geopolitical situation would force the U. S. military into a position that could lead to catastrophic consequences. Even though Mellongard was a savvy political climber, he was honest with himself and knew his own limitations.

The chauffeur was just pulling away from the White House when Mellongard spotted Senator Frank Brazzell, the Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee. The trim, stylishly dressed senator was motioning for Mellongard's driver to stop.

Mellongard swore under his breath before he told the chauffeur to pull Over. Brazzell walked up to the Continental and Mellongard lowered the window.

"Bryce, I'm glad I caught you," the Senator said hastily. "I need to discuss an urgent matter with you, if you've got a couple of minutes."

Mellongard knew that in Brazzell's time frame, a couple of minutes meant at least an hour of lobbying for his latest crusade. "Frank, I've got an appointment at the Pentagon," he said hastily and glanced at his watch. "Let's set up something for the first of next week, okay?"

Brazzell was not one to be placed on hold. "It'll only take a few minutes — I promise." He didn't give the Secretary a chance to answer. "In fact I'll ride over with you and then grab a cab back."

"Okay," Mellongard replied stiffly and reluctantly slid across the seat while Brazzell stepped into the car and quickly shut the door.

"Thanks."

"What's on your mind, Frank?"

"I'll get right to the point," Brazzell answered while the driver edged into the flow of traffic. "I've got all the ducks in order up on the hill, but I need you to apply some leverage on the President."

"You're talking about the carrier?"

They had had previous conversations about giving the Japanese the next U. S. aircraft carrier that was scheduled for decommissioning. The Japanese had asked for a large-deck carrier, ostensibly to be used as an antisubmarine warfare ship, but the last Administration had quietly rebuffed them.

"Absolutely," Brazzell shot back in his boldly confident manner. "Politically, the time is ripe for us to calm the waters and show some real confidence in the Japanese government. At the same time we can smooth some of the ruffled feathers about all this terrorist crap.

"I'm telling you," Brazzell went on without missing a beat, "that we're going to blow a major opportunity if we don't make the announcement now and follow through with our promise.

Let's give them the next carrier on the list instead of turning it into a floating museum or cutting it up for the scrap dealers."

Mellongard let his head rest on the back of the seat. "Frank,"

he sighed heavily, "they've laid the keel for their second carrier.

You know that's in violation of Article Nine of the constitution they are supposed to enforce. I think we should forget the idea."

The Secretary was referring to Article 9 of the post-World War II Japanese constitution that had been developed by General Douglas MacArthur and accepted and promulgated by the first postwar Diet.

The constitution included a thirty-one-article bill of rights, and Article 9 was the key to the foundation of the new Japanese government. Article 9 renounced war as a "sovereign right of the nation" and pledged that "land, sea and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained."

"Bryce," the Senator said patiently, "come on. We're well past that stage of the game. Besides, we've been encouraging them to provide their own defense for a long time, so why not help them?"

Brazzell waited for a response, but Mellongard remained silent. It was an old argument and the Secretary didn't want to discuss Japan and her burgeoning military power.

"Bryce, hear me out on this," Brazzell persisted. "You guys in the Puzzle Palace can't have it both ways. You tell the Japanese government to develop a stronger Self-Defense Force because we don't want to spend the money and use our assets to defend them."

Mellongard gave a warning look and Brazzell shifted to a softer approach. "Then, after conditioning them to that spiel, you question whether we should give them an old, worn-out carrier?"

"Senator," SECDEF countered and stared him down, "you know that's an oversimplification of the situation. Any of our carriers — even an older one — has the capability to project power anywhere around the globe."

Mellongard paused to gather his thoughts. "Frank, a seventythousand-ton carrier isn't what I would classify as self-defense technology."

"Sure it is," Brazzell shot back, remembering his discussion with the Japanese multibillionaire. The businessman had explained that Japan wanted to use the retired U. S. carriers for antisubmarine-warfare patrols. "They can use it for ASW work, and it's a great platform for rescue helos and reconnaissance aircraft."

The Secretary remained quiet and looked out the window.

"Bryce," the Senator gently prodded, "the Japanese are building their own blue-water carriers. China and North Korea scare the hell out of them, and they aren't going to sit around and twiddle their thumbs while they wait to get nuked again."

Mellongard bristled and turned to face Brazzell. "That's the goddamn point, Frank. They've gone from a total armed force of a quarter million men in '93 to well over one million in uniform today. They're building their own heavy battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, and artillery pieces."

Observing the restlessness in Brazzell's eyes, Mellongard carefully measured his words. "They've rapidly amassed a navy of over two hundred ships, including eighteen Aegis-equipped destroyers that are clones of our Arleigh Burke — class, and they've got a half-dozen new 767 AWACs, all while their economic and political upheavals are supposedly having a devastating effect on the country. Does that sound like a Self-Defense Force to you?"

Mellongard didn't wait for a response. "Frank, the Joint Chiefs are concerned. These Aegis ships are designed to provide protection for a carrier battle group, and they're building carriers that are designed for vertical takeoff and landing aircraft."

Both men shifted their eyes away from each other for a brief moment before the Defense Secretary turned to Brazzell.

"If they decide to preempt North Korea," Mellongard continued in a softer tone, "we don't want them to do it with one of our carriers."

"But I suppose we wouldn't mind if they clobbered North Korea with their own ships?" Brazzell countered while he planned his next avenue of strategy. He had to convince SECDEF to lobby for him, or the entire project would collapse, including his generous commission.

"You combine those ships," Mellongard observed, "with their twenty-eight submarines and support ships and you've got a world-class blue-water navy, not a coastal patrol. Add to that one of the largest ASW capabilities in the world, combined with an air force that has over seven hundred Japanese-made fighter planes, and we're talking about a major military power.

Mellongard looked straight ahead and took a deep breath. "Do you really think it's in our best interest to give them a carrier — even with the catapults removed — when our military is bare bones and getting smaller every day?"

"Yes. I honestly believe we should give them a carrier for ASW protection." Brazzell closely watched SECDEF for his reaction. "Especially for political reasons."

They remained quiet, each thinking about his own political interests.

"They'll have their own carrier soon enough," Mellongard finally said, "but they won't be launching the first one for another year or so." He didn't want to confront the issue on his watch.

"Don't bet on it," Brazzell calmly replied and shifted his gaze to the passing scenery. "The little shits are very industrious and motivated. Bryce, this is one hell of an opportunity to mend some fences."

"Let me think about it awhile," Mellongard answered with one of his classic maneuvers to consume time and obstruct issues, "and I'll get back to you."

Brazzell decided to use one of his hidden aces. "Bryce, we've been friends for a long time, and I'm telling you, for your own good, this is going to be a political coup."

Mellongard studied Brazzell's deeply set eyes. "There's more to this than politics, isn't there?"

"That's right," Brazzell admitted dryly and rubbed his thumb back and forth against his fingers. "Better than a gold mine."

SECDEF leaned forward and told the driver to pull over and stop near the Department of Interior. When the car came to a smooth stop, the two men got out and walked fifty feet away.

"Frank, you better level with me," Mellongard cautioned with his face set in a frown. "You owe me a big one, and don't forget it."

"I haven't forgotten." Brazzell smiled his thin smile. "I've got the votes lined up, and everyone cashes in if I have your support." He lowered his voice. "But you have to convince your man to go along with this."

Mellongard resented Brazzell's reference to the President as "your man," but the Senator had an uncanny ability to pull off surprises that no one could believe.

"Bryce, you're looking at a potential two million dollars in your personal portfolio if you can deliver. All you have to do is convince the man to play ball."

"I can't believe this," Marcus said after he finished reading about the crash landing at the Los Angeles International Airport. He sipped his orange juice and glanced at Steve. "Eyewitnesses, including two commercial pilots who have combat experience, swear they saw tracer rounds hit the airplane as it approached the runway."

"I don't doubt it," Steve replied as he poured syrup on his pancakes. "There are thousands of machine guns on the market — anything you want — for a price. You mix all the proper ingredients, throw in a wacko who is about a half bubble off center, and presto — you've got a lunatic out shooting at a Japanese airliner that's on final approach to LAX."

Wickham reached for his hot tea. "Hell, most people would call that a normal day in Los Angeles."

Marcus shook his head. "It's crazy. This planet is being overrun by insane people."

"I think you're right," Steve declared while he accepted the paper from Callaway. "It's insidious, but day by day, year by year, decade by decade, this world is becoming more insane."

Wickham skim-read the front page and quietly placed it on the chair next to him. "The magnitude of these incidents with Japan is really frightening."

"No shit."

Steve gave Marcus a somber look. "It's much bigger than we imagined, and I suspect things are going to get worse. because someone is really stirring the pot."

"Yeah," Marcus replied with a pained look on his face. "There's something going on," he trailed off, then caught Steve's eye. "Do you think that all of these incidents — the entire Japan/U. S. clash — are being orchestrated to take us from a trade war to a shooting war?"

Steve glanced toward Diamond Head before he faced Callaway. "Marcus, maybe I've become too cynical, but in this day and age, nothing surprises me anymore."

Callaway studied his colleague for a few seconds. "Well, tell me the truth and don't bullshit me. Is the CIA involved in this deal?"

"What?"

"Are you boys," Marcus asked and leaned back to study Wickham's expression, "trying to work us into a position to have a reason to kick the shit out of Japan?"

The question initially shocked Wickham until he took a moment to think about how plausible it sounded. It wouldn't be the first time the CIA had provoked a confrontation to enable the U. S. to take advantage of a situation.

"If the Agency was setting Japan up for a fall," Steve confided with an uneasy feeling, "I'd know about it."

"Are you sure?"

Steve chuckled and thought about his position at the Agency. His star was burning brightly, but he had a few more requirements to complete before he would be in a position to compete for the top post.

"Yes," he hesitated, "I'm sure the Agency isn't involved."

"That's good." Marcus's relief was clearly evident as he looked at his watch. "We better get going if we're going to be on time."

Wickham and Callaway were driven to the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation by a personable young agent who then gave them the keys to the four-door sedan.

When they entered the building at 300 Ala Moana, the place was crawling with senior Bureau agents and local authorities who were attempting to coordinate their activities amid the chaos. Maps had hastily been taped on the walls, and radio chatter squawked above the din of noise in the crowded building.

Marcus looked through the open door to the main office and recognized Bureau friends from San Diego, Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, and a number of other West Coast cities. He poked Steve with his elbow. "I've never seen this type of reaction before. If I didn't know better, I'd think the President had been shot."

"Well, no one can accuse the FBI of being lackadaisical," Steve commented while Callaway shook hands and exchanged greetings with two of his colleagues who were discussing the crash landing in Los Angeles.

Marcus introduced Steve to his associates as the two men moved toward the center of the office.

They spotted Susan Nakamura at the same time and worked their way through the throng of people.

"Good morning," she said briskly and motioned toward the open door. "Let's get out of the line of fire, then I'll explain what's going on."

Steve cast a glance at Marcus and shrugged. They followed her out of the main office and down the hallway to a storage room where a phone and two small desks had been hastily put in place.

"We can have some privacy in here," Susan said as she closed the door. "The Attorney General has issued a top-priority mandate to the Bureau. She wants us to get this case resolved as quickly as possible, and, as you have seen, she has pulled every available person."

Steve noticed that Susan had a moment of eye contact with Callaway. They were acutely aware of the tough reputation the hardworking Attorney General enjoyed.

"Basically," she confided with a trace of annoyance, "the Bureau is expected to solve these cases quickly or heads are going to roll… as they did after the Waco disaster."

She was clearly troubled by the implied threat from the Attorney General. "That's why this investigation has become a circus."

"Susan," Wickham said with conviction, "forget about the politics of the Bureau. What kind of leads do we have?"

"You're right," she acknowledged without any sign of irritation. "Since I have a number of contacts throughout the islands, I did some digging last night and found a few interesting bits of information."

Callaway was intrigued. "And?"

"There are two pilots — helicopter pilots — living on Oahu who have very checkered histories." She let her gaze linger on Steve. "Why they're still flying is beyond me."

Wickham started to ask a question, then decided it was best to hear her out.

"They both have DUI convictions," she continued evenly, "along with a string of violations and reprimands from the FAA. One of them even has a record of drug smuggling when he lived in Miami. He plea-bargained his way out of one charge, then got caught again and turned state's evidence against his co-conspirators."

"Have they been questioned?" Callaway asked, shifting into his role as a professional Bureau agent.

"Yes. One of them has an alibi for his whereabouts when the attack took place."

Susan sat on the edge of one of the desks. "We're checking his story, but the other pilot — the drug smuggler — says that he was on an overnight fishing and camping trip."

"By himself?" Steve asked, distracted by the glimpse of her legs.

"That's right," she answered serenely. "He's divorced and lives by himself. He's dual rated in helos and airplanes, but says that he hasn't flown helicopters in over a year. He makes a living as an interisland cargo pilot."

Steve looked at the phone. "I need to call Langley." "Before you call, I'd like to add one other thing." Callaway and Wickham gave her their attention.

"The pilot of the helicopter from the television station returned my call late last night and left a message. I just happened to walk in this morning when they were replaying the tape."

Steve's instincts told him the pilot's call was a positive aspect in the investigation. "What'd she have to say?"

"She was very guarded. I'm familiar with her personality — her on-the-air personality — since I occasionally watch her."

Susan placed her palms on the edge of the desk. "This side of Theresa Garney was very subdued. She started to explain something, then suddenly stopped. She left her home and business phone numbers and said it was urgent."

Marcus looked puzzled. "When was her initial interview?"

"I don't know, but she's been interrogated four or five times. I want to talk to her as soon as possible, so let's give her a call. She's probably at work."

While Susan placed the call to the television studio, Callaway and Wickham lowered their voices and stepped across the tiny room.

"I'm going to call Langley," Steve suggested, "and have a military helicopter assigned to us. I want to talk to everyone who watched the helo depart after the attack, then trace the exact route."

"You're convinced the chopper is still on the island?"

"Not completely," Steve admitted while he caught one side of the telephone conversation. "This was a well-planned, well-executed attack and disappearing act. Susan talked to me about her theory in San Francisco, and I think her reasoning has merit."

Steve lowered his voice to a whisper when Susan glanced at him. "The key to getting away with something like this is reducing the amount of time you spend in the air after the attack. The more time in the air, the higher the risk of being intercepted or seen."

"You don't think the pilot flew to another island or landed on a boat offshore? That seems probable to me."

Steve gave the options a moment of thought. "We have to assume the pilot's highest priorities — after the strafing attack — revolved around not crashing and not getting caught."

Callaway wrinkled his brow. "I'd say that's a valid assumption, especially when the guy knows there's a boatful of people who wouldn't hesitate to kill him."

Wickham paused and studied his friend for a long moment. "You're convinced the pilot was a male?"

"No," Marcus responded smoothly, "but you know as well as I do that the probability of the pilot being female is almost nil. Besides, every witness has confirmed that he — the pilot — was a Caucasian male."

Wickham hesitated while Susan placed the phone receiver in its cradle. "For the moment let's just say that we don't know who was piloting the helo."

"Fair enough," Callaway replied evenly.

"She's flying at the moment," Susan announced and underlined the television station's phone number. "They expect her back in about an hour and fifteen minutes. I'll see if I can speak with her when she lands."

Callaway ran a finger through the dust on one of the desks. "I want to check out the drug smuggler. and then go over the reports from the eyewitnesses."

Steve's glance slid to Susan. "I need to make arrangements for a military helicopter, then I'd like to sit in on your discussion with the—"

"Sky Nine pilot," she said easily. "Theresa Garney."