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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: High Flight
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“Inform the embassy that I'm overdue, and then go home.”
“What do I tell the Russians?”
McGarvey shook his head. “If I'm gone that long they won't ask you about me. They'll know.”
 
Lieutenant Commander Seiji Kiyoda, dressed in his winter blue uniform and lightweight windbreaker, waited on the ladder below the conning tower hatch for the
Samisho
to surface. They had entered the Sagami
Sea early this morning and were now just a few miles south of the long entrance to Tokyo Bay, the peninsular city of Misaki well off their port bow. A cold front had settled over the area, and meteorology predicted twenty-five- to thirty-knot winds from the northwest, with seas running three to four meters. It would be sloppy until they reached the protection of the bay.
A Klaxon sounded throughout the boat. Kiyoda climbed up the ladder, spun the wheel, and pushed the hatch open on its hydraulically sprung hinges. He lowered his head as a bucket of cold seawater cascaded down on him, and then scrambled outside onto the bridge. His XO, Lieutenant Minori, came up behind him, followed by a communications man. All three of them scanned the horizon for traffic.
The weather was cool, with low dark clouds scudding across from the land, but it felt good to be in the fresh air again. Kiyoda was a dedicated submariner, but he appreciated times like these.
“I have the sea buoy three miles off our starboard bow,” Minori said.
Kiyoda swung his binoculars right, picking it up immediately. “Come right five degrees.”
“Turn right five degrees,
yo-so-ro, Kan-cho,”
the comms man repeated the order and relayed it below. Their bow came right.
“Secure electric motors, engage diesels ahead one-half.”
The rating relayed the order, and by the time they passed the red sea buoy, its bell clanging erratically in the chop, they were settled on their course and speed. Yokosuka, barely fifteen miles into Tokyo Bay, was home not only to the MSDF's Escort Fleet Command and two of its flotillas plus the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force Academy, but to the U.S. Seventh Fleet as well. Since before he'd given the order to shoot at the Russian destroyer, Kiyoda had pondered his reception at home.
Yesterday, after they'd safely made their way to the east coast of Honshu through the treacherous Tsugaru Strait and were making their best speed submerged
south, he'd brought the boat to periscope depth, raised the main radio mast, and sent the “patrol terminated” message to flotilla headquarters. The reply had been nothing more than the “message received” code.
In one respect headquarters's silence was understandable. U.S. and Russian naval intelligence units routinely listened to MSDF traffic. What Flotilla Command had to say to him was properly for Japanese ears only, so it would wait until they docked.
In another respect, however, their silence was ominous. ELINT had detected nothing in the past twenty-four hours. Nor, now that they were this close and running on the surface, had any ship or aircraft come out to meet them as often was the case at the end of a delicate or troubled patrol. Secure communications could have been established with a dipping buoy or light signals.
Kiyoda expected that he would be relieved of his command, so he had made certain that everything he'd said and done during the attack would appear in the log as unilateral decisions that had been opposed by his officers. The blame would rest squarely on his shoulders.
But he'd expected to be met out here, his boat taken away from him
before
they docked. He was not afraid, just wary.
“Courage,” his
sensei
taught, “is a virtue only in the cause of righteousness.” In this instance Kiyoda knew that what he'd done was correct not only for himself and his boat, but for Nippon as well. It was
honto,
fact, that Japan's time had come again.
Chi-jin-yu.
Wisdom, benevolence, courage. It was time the world knew these things.
His father and mother were both dead, which was too bad, because they would have been pleased by what happened, and what would undoubtedly happen in the coming months if Kamiya had his way. Which Kiyoda believed the old man would. “It's our time,” Kiyoda mumbled.
“Did you say something,
Kan-cho?”
Minori asked respectfully.
Kiyoda smiled wanly. “It's good to be home.”
“No parades this time, I think,” Minori replied, averting his eyes politely.
“You were obeying the orders of your lawful superior, Ikuo. Do not forget it.”
The XO looked up. “We were with you,
Kan-cho.
”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon,
Kan-cho.
I have spoken about this with the other officers, and we all know exactly how you administrated the attack, to insulate us.”
“I forbid this,” Kiyoda said sharply, but inside he was bursting with pride. A magnificent crew such as his could go anywhere, accomplish anything.
“I'm truly sorry,
Kan-cho,
but we are agreed.”
Kiyoda glanced at the rating who was mutely scanning the horizon with his binoculars. “Listen to me very carefully, Iuko. I forbid you and the other officers to come forward with your demands. No doubt I will be placed under arrest the moment we dock …”
“We will go with you.”
“No, my old friend, you will not. In fact you will remain here with the
Samisho
and keep the crew intact.”
Minori's eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking,
Kan-cho?”
“I must do this alone, if there's to be any hope for us to regain the sea. Do you understand this?”
Minori nodded uncertainly.
“If you are assigned another captain you will delay the boat's departure for as long as possible. The main bearings on number two are dangerously worn, and our weapons, fuel, and consumables all need replenishing.”
A slight smile curled the edges of Minori's mouth. “It shall be as you order,
Kan-cho.
If need be this boat will remain in port until Mount Fuji has eroded to sand hills.”
“Well, perhaps not that long,” Kiyoda said, his smile warming. He turned to the rating. “Engines ahead two-thirds.”
“Engines ahead two-thirds,
yo-so-ro,
” the rating relayed,
but then he put a hand over his mouthpiece.
“Kan-cho, dono
we enlisted men also have spoken of this. Your crew is behind you. There is not one dissenting voice.”
“Very well,” Kiyoda said, his voice wanting to catch in his throat. “I will do everything in my power to deserve your trust.”
Clearing the tip of the peninsula to the west, they suddenly saw the naval vessels docked at Yokosuka in the distance.
“Bridge, ELINT,” Lieutenant Kawara called from below. “I'm picking up a powerful surface search radar.”
Kiyoda took the bridge telephone from the rating. “Who is looking at us?”
“It's coming from the U.S. side,
Kan-
cho,
” the ELINT officer said. “Seventh Fleet Intelligence. Shall I burn them?”
“No. We shall remain passive. Let them look all they want.” The
Samisho
was equipped with a newly designed anti-radar weapon that took an incoming radar signal, amplified it, narrowed the beam, and sent it back to the sending station with such force that the receiver burned out.
“
Hai
,
Kan-cho.
”
“We're home and everybody knows it,” Minori said.
“It would appear so,” Kiyoda said, but he was lost in his thoughts for the moment.
 
The Guerin team, including the flight crew, numbered eighteen men and five women. The entire nineteenth floor of the Rossiya Hotel had been set aside for their exclusive use. More than two hundred people could have slept there, and Topper called it their “splendid isolation.” Having all that room to rattle around in made Kilbourne nervous. And Soderstrom, fearful of listening devices, had difficulty in speaking above a whisper. He felt most comfortable talking in low tones in his bathroom with water running in the tub and sink and the toilet constantly flushing.
“They want the contamination kept to a minimum,” McGarvey explained after lunch. They'd gathered in a corner suite that Kennedy occupied. Everyone was keyed up and nervous.
“If Jeff keeps up his antics, the hotel is going to bill us for excessive water use,” Topper quipped.
“What you're trying to do just doesn't work,” McGarvey told the resentful-looking CFO. “If they want to listen to our conversations—which I guarantee they are—there's nothing we can do about it. At least not with what we brought over. So if you don't want them to hear something, don't say it.”
“Hell of a way to play poker, if the other guy is going to know every card in your hand,” Kilbourne grumbled.
McGarvey jotted five words on a yellow legal pad and held it up for all of them to see. IF IT'S IMPORTANT, WRITE IT.
Soderstrom started to say something, but McGarvey held him off, writing out his next instruction. He held it up.
WHEN YOU'RE DONE, BURN THE PAPER AND BURN THREE OR FOUR PAGES BENEATH THE SHEET YOU'VE WRITTEN ON.
“We've got nothing to hide,” McGarvey said. “With our union problems in Wichita we need this wing factory. And considering the state of the Russian economy, I don't see any problem in getting their cooperation.”
Kennedy wrote something and held it up for McGarvey to see. WHAT ABOUT INFO ABOUT THE JAPS ???
“Jeff, what's the bottom line on financing the wing factory?” Kilbourne asked.
For a second Soderstrom was nonplussed, but then he realized what was going on. “We're talking nine hundred million, maybe one billion by the time we're finished here.”
“We're going to have to sell
beaucoup
airplanes to recoup that cost,” Topper said.
“We will,” Kennedy said. “But, Mac, what'd you mean they want to keep the contamination to a minimum?”
“Did you spot the Germans and the French in the lobby this morning?”
“I didn't notice.”
“I think the word might have leaked, somehow, about why we're here. If the Germans or the French get the opportunity, they're going to pitch us. Our hosts would rather that not happen.”
McGarvey wrote on his pad and held it up. THEY'RE SENSITIVE ABOUT THE JAPS NOW.
Kennedy and the others nodded. McGarvey wrote again.
IF OUR QUID PRO QUO BECAME PUBLIC THERE'D BE HELL TO PAY!!!
“Maybe it'd be better if we put the factory in Germany,” Soderstrom suggested with a grin. He was actually starting to enjoy himself.
“Frankly I think the Russians will do a better job,” Kennedy said. “Ukraine was the aircraft manufacturing region for the Soviet Union. Now the Russians have something to prove, and I think they'll bend over backward to show they're capable. In fact I think they'll do just about anything it takes.”
“It'd be profitable for them,” Soderstrom said.
Kennedy held up his note pad. He'd underlined his query:
WHAT ABOUT INFO ABOUT THE JAPS???
McGarvey wrote his response and held it up. COLONEL LYALIN SAYS YEMLIN IS IN MOSCOW. WE'LL MEET BEFORE MORNING.
Kennedy reluctantly nodded. It was what they'd come for.
“Speaking of profit, it'll profit us all if we get some sleep,” Kennedy said. “We've got a long day ahead of us.”
 
It was after 5:00 A.M. before Special Agents McLaren and Joyce made it back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. They'd managed to secure the crime scene until the Bureau's forensics team gathered most of what it needed. D.C. police had been brought into the act, and within fifteen minutes of their arrival
Volta Place was crawling with newspaper and television reporters. By then the Bureau had slipped away, so the fact that Tallerico had been under federal investigation was still secret.
“We're going to keep it that way for as long as possible,” Chief Investigating Officer John Whitman told them. He looked like an IBM executive with hair graying at the temples, gold wire-rimmed glasses, and a pinched disapproving expression on his face. But he was a good cop. They met in his small office.
“That might depend on the Washington cops keeping their mouths shut,” McLaren said.
“Don't worry about them. We've got another fish to fry,” Whitman said. He handed across an 8 x 10 glossy photograph of the two men coming out of Tallerico's house. It was one of the shots Joyce had taken. “Recognize either one of them?”
“The tall skinny guy looks familiar. Haven't had a chance to run it down yet,” McLaren said. “Don't know about the other one.”

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