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Authors: David Hagberg

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“On the way.” Minori hit the ship's intercom. “Captain to sonar on the double.”
Kiyoda reached sonar just behind Minori, his uniform blouse unbuttoned, his eyes still bleary from sleep.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It's an American Spruance-class destroyer,
kan-chodono,”
Chief Sonarman Tsutomu Nakayama said. “Bearing zero-five-five, and closing. Under fourteen thousand meters now.”
“Still pinging?” Minori asked.
“Hai.
But I don't think she has us yet.”
“What's our depth, Ikuo?” Kiyoda asked.
“Seventy meters. We have a sharp thermocline about two hundred meters under our keel. We could make a try for it.”
Kiyoda shook his head. He was watching the display on the screen. “Too late for that. Reduce speed to four knots, turn left to new course one-seven-five.”
Minori picked up the growler and relayed the order to the helm. The left turn put them at right angles to the oncoming destroyer, but it would get them out of the way in the minimum time.
“Designate contact as sierra-zero-nine. Sonar conditions good, topsides fairly flat,” Nakayama said. “There's a better than even chance he'll find us,
kancho.
”
This was too close to home waters for Kiyoda's liking. If he instigated another incident now the MSDF would know his location and would send a chopper with a dipping buoy to order him home. They would come after him if he did not comply, but he was not going to run away from a challenge without some response. Finesse, he thought, was everything.
“We're on new course one-seven-five. Recommend we begin a slow dive to three hundred meters,” Minori said. “With all that noise they won't hear us blowing our tanks.”
“Matte, kan-cho,”
the sonarman said, holding up a
hand for Kiyoda to wait. He jabbed a finger at a spike on the screen.
“They have us,
kan-cho.
His blade count is increasing.”
 
“It's him and he knows we've got a lock,” Sattler reported, from CIC.
Within two minutes Able chopper would be directly above the submarine and would drop a dunking sonar, which would make ID and location one-hundred percent certain.
“What's he doing?” Ryder asked.
“He turned beam on and slowed down. Probably trying to sneak off.”
“We're bringing in more resources. The skipper wants him boxed in and respectful.”
“I hear you,” Sattler replied.
 
“Conn, sonar. They've placed a sonobuoy in the water, range about five hundred meters, bearing one-eight-zero,” Nakayama said.
“They will have launched one or both of their LAMPS III helicopters,” Minori told Kiyoda. They were forward in the attack center.
“Very well, Ikuo. Bring the boat to battle stations,” Kiyoda replied calmly. He buttoned his uniform blouse and accepted a cup of tea from the steward.
Minori relayed the order, and a Klaxon sounded through the sub. Within moments every watertight hatch in the boat was closed and dogged.
“Report battle stations ready,” Minori said.
Kiyoda picked up the ship's comms. “Weapons, conn. Load tubes one, two, and three with standard HE torpedoes, and load tube four with a Harpoon.”
Weapons Control Officer Lieutenant Shuichiyo Takasaki repeated the order.
“Yo-so-ro.
”
Kiyoda turned and smiled. His officers were watching him expectantly.
“Now let's see what the Americans are made of,” he said. “Come right nine-zero degrees to new course two-six-five.
Make our speed two-five knots. Give me a continuous firing solution on the target.”
“Hai, kan-cho,
” Minori said, his eyes glittering.
Two thousand five hundred feet above the surface, the Lockheed P-3C Orion ASW patrol aircraft was flying a grid pattern at one hundred eighty knots. She'd been in the vicinity at the beginning of her patrol when the
Thorn
asked for help.
“Have you got him yet?” the pilot asked.
“I can count her rivets,” the ELINT officer, Ensign Carl Gifford, reported. “We picked her out with the MAD on the first pass. Very clear picture. She's about two hundred feet down, but she's accelerating and turning inboard toward the
Thorn.
Skipper, unless I miss my guess, that sub-driver is setting up for an attack.”
MAD was their Magnetic Anomaly Detector, which never missed. It was one of the more powerful ASW tools aboard the Orion.
“Their chopper should have it,” the pilot, Lieutenant Fred White, said. He hauled the big plane around for another pass. “Call the
Thorn
and tell them what we're showing. Recommend that they break off until we can get a reading from Fleet.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
White turned to his co-pilot, Lieutenant j.g. John Littlemore. “Call Operations and lay it in their laps. I for one don't want to get into a shooting match with the Japs. I think that sub-driver is nuts.”
 
Seventh Fleet Northern Patrol Duty Officer Captain Walt Townsend put down his telephone and studied the big board across the room. An electronic map showed an area twelve hundred miles in diameter with Yokosuka at the center and Okinawa at the extreme south. For some reason the crazy bastard conning the
Samisho
wanted to prove a point by heading south. MSDF Submarine Fleet HQ was silent, and the buck had been passed back to Operations.
Was it worth an incident like the one up in the strait
with the Russians, he asked himself? Not likely. Least-ways not just yet.
He called Communications. “Send a flash designated message to Mike Hanrahan aboard the
Thorn.
Tell him to break off immediately. He's to follow the
Samisho
and report her movements. Nothing more.”
 
“Come left to new course two-one-zero. Make our speed ten knots.”
“Smart move, Captain,” Ryder said after he'd relayed the orders. “He'll know that we no longer want to provoke him but that our intention is to follow him if he wants to continue south.”
Hanrahan shook his head in irritation. “Ninety days, Red. That's how long we could be playing cat and mouse with that bastard.”
“Never happen.”
“You're damned right it won't, because every chance I get I'm going to lean on him.”
Ryder started to object, but Hanrahan held him off with a scowl.
“I'll expect your support, X. Completely.”
The comment stung, but Ryder nodded tightly. “You've got it, Skipper.” He didn't add
You've always had it.
 
“He's turning away, and his blade count is coming down.”
Minori keyed the comms. “Which way did he turn, Nakayama?”
“Tori-kaji,”
to port, the sonarman reported. He sounded excited. “Yes, his new course is two-one-zero. I'm estimating he's making turns for ten knots.”
Minori turned to Kiyoda. “
Kan-cho,
it looks as if they do not wish to take the bait.”
“Very well, secure from battle stations. Make our course two-one-zero, our speed eleven knots.”
“I suggest we initiate a shallow-angle dive to three hundred meters,” Minori said.
“Negative,” Kiyoda replied mildly. “That destroyer
was inbound to Yokosuka. My guess is that her patrol was complete and she was going home. But now she has had a change of orders. She will follow us, and I have no wish to lose her.” In one respect Kiyoda was almost sorry that the American warship had broken off the engagement. The Russian frigate had been easy, but a Spruance-class destroyer was a far more sophisticated weapons system. The challenge would have been interesting. And if he had sunk or damaged the American vessel the repercussions
Kamiya-san
had predicted would certainly have come to pass. But much sooner than he thought. So it was better that no shots had been fired. But for more than one reason. This was neither the time nor the place, and the American captain was too fresh, too alert, too much in control. In the right waters, at the right time, and after repeated provocations, the situation would be different.
“Shall we unload the torpedoes from one, two, and three, and the missile from four?”
“No,” Kiyoda said. He felt dreamy, as if he could envision everything that would occur over the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. He felt as if by dreaming the future he could make it so. It was powerful.
“Hai, kan-cho,
” Minori said.
Kiyoda focused on his executive officer. “The weapons will remain in place.”
“Very well.”
“We are not finished, Ikuo. We have only just begun.”
 
“I'll need to present a good front when I get to Tokyo,” McGarvey said. “I'll have to do my homework.”
“The sooner you make your move the sooner they'll react,” Kennedy replied tiredly. They were a few minutes from Portland International Airport. Socrates was sound asleep, and McGarvey envied the man for it.
“I'll need a carte blanche from you.”
“I think the only thing you don't know about us yet is our bathroom habits.”
“I need to know everything there is to know about the 2622.”
Kennedy managed to smile. “Maybe you can sell a few for us while you're at it.”
Linda went back to wake Socrates so that the engineer could strap in for landing. McGarvey watched her lithe movements. She reminded him of his daughter Elizabeth. Maybe after this was over he would retire.
The world had indeed changed. And, he supposed, in some measure he'd been and continued to be an instrument of that change. The fact was such thoughts did nothing to dispel his bleak mood. What was he looking for, he asked himself? What?
“
L
et me introduce you to Arimoto Yamagata.”
Kennedy shook hands with the Japanese. “You're with JAL, aren't you?”
“That's right,” Yamagata said. “I've spoken with Mr. McGarvey. A very sharp individual. I thought I'd come out here to see Portland for myself.”
Their host, Marvin Saunders, was one of the heavy-hitters in real estate development in the Portland-Vancouver area. He'd put up two major downtown office buildings with mostly Japanese money. He'd been involved with the Japanese businessman who'd tried to buy into the San Francisco Giants. And he'd built four separate neighborhoods in and around the city that catered to Guerin middle- and upper-level managers. He'd invited the Kennedys and a dozen others to his palatial Lake Oswego home to meet someone he said was interesting. Given Saunders's connections with the Japanese, McGarvey thought it would be worthwhile for Kennedy to accept, but Yamagata had come as a surprise.
“I wonder if you know that David was one of our top
astronauts before Al Vasilanti lured him out here to build airplanes?” Saunders said.
“Yes, of course.” Yamagata smiled. “In addition to baseball cards, Japanese schoolchildren collect astronaut cards. Yours is still a favorite.”
“I didn't know that,” Kennedy's wife Chance said.
“And this lovely lady is David's wife, Chance Kennedy.”
Yamagata turned his complete attention to her, his smile softening. “I'm very pleased to meet you. Your name is rare, isn't it?”
“My mother wasn't supposed to have children. So when I came along my father said I was ‘one chance in a million.'”
“Charming,” the Japanese said. “Do you work in the industry alongside your husband?”
Chance shook her head. “No.” She was a slightly built woman with large round eyes and a lot of blonde hair. She looked unhappy.
“One in the family is enough,” Kennedy said.
“Perhaps that's wisest,” Yamagata said. “Did Mr. McGarvey come with you?”
“No,” Kennedy said.
“Will you be sending him to Tokyo after all?”
The question was startling because of its directness. “Yes, we think so. But it may not be for another day or so. We're a little busy at the moment because of the crash.”
“I understand.”
“Don't tell me that Guerin is finally going to start selling in Japan,” Saunders said. “Move over Boeing.”
“Something like that,” Yamagata replied before Kennedy could say anything. “Which is why I'm in Portland. I was told to come here and be charming.”
Saunders laughed. “He wasn't here fifteen minutes and my wife wanted to run away with him. I'm going to have to watch her like a hawk. But seriously, I think it's a damned good idea that's been on the back burner too long. We're in a global economy whether we like it or not. And with the Japanese offer of a free trade
agreement—hell, I don't see any other choice for Guerin except to expand to the east. It'd be a great partnership.”
“We think so,” Yamagata said. “At least in principle. Of course there would be many obstacles to overcome.”
“How do you see that?” Saunders asked.
“It's a matter of trust—on both sides of the Pacific. After the unfortunate incident a few days ago in Yokosuka, and the demonstrations in Tokyo, I'm told that anti-Japanese sentiment is building in America.”
“Not in this house,” Saunders said heartily. A few of his other guests gathered closer. They nodded their approval. The Kennedys were the only Guerin executives here tonight, but the other guests were influential in Portland's business community.
“The American Northwest has traditionally understood Japan,” Yamagata said. “It is why so many Japanese emigrate to this region. But that understanding may not be entirely shared in New York or Washington.”
“I think the attitude in the White House will change after the Tokyo Economic Summit next month. This President seems to be committed to working with your government.” Saunders turned to Kennedy. “The big surprise is Al Vasilanti's about-face. About time, I'd say.”
“It may be premature to talk about any sort of a deal between us,” Yamagata cautioned. “We're still in the very early exploratory stage.”
“Mr. Yamagata is right,” Kennedy said tightly. “It's too early to be making any announcements.”
“Not to worry, David. You know the house rules: No journalists allowed within a hundred yards, and absolutely nothing said here gets repeated outside.”
“A sensible set of rules,” Yamagata said, smiling directly at Chance.
 
The Faraday cage was completed and in place around the heat monitor/alarm subassembly. No stray electrical or electromagnetic impulses would emanate from the device, nor would any signal from outside penetrate the protective screen. Louis Zerkel had studied the connections
for the engine mount for several hours, trying to puzzle out what he was seeing with his own two eyes versus what he knew he should be seeing.
“Something's wrong,” he muttered. A second supposedly spare pin on the replacement module in the subassembly was connected through a small amplifying circuit not to one of the engine-frame sensor plugs but to the frame ground. It made no sense. A signal was spit out by the module, its strength amplified, and it led to ground.
“Is something the matter with the unit?” Mueller asked.
“No,” Zerkel said, looking up. “I don't know. Something doesn't add up.”
“A manufacturing mistake?”
Zerkel interrupted. “Not likely. InterTech doesn't work that sloppy. This was designed this way. But I don't know what they meant by it. Could be crucial, but maybe not. Perhaps if the output signal were modulated maybe the frame itself could turn out to be resonant. But again, for what purpose? Why energize the frame?
“If it were possible to get the frame and harness I could isolate the module and pull it apart to see just what they were aiming for. Either that or run it through the mainframe circuit analyzer. But there's no going back. I haven't looked at the television all day, but I'm pretty sure that my face is plastered over every newscast as a killer and saboteur. The question is are they making the connection between me and the crash right here in our backyard? Because if they are then it's going to get real hot around here.” Zerkel looked up at Mueller. “And you know what? If none of that part has hit the news then we're in even bigger trouble than I thought. Because it'll mean that the Japs are looking for me.
“The real problem here is that I don't know diddly squat about Rolls-Royce jet engines. The board says an overheat caused the fan blades to disintegrate, which means they're homing in on Rolls. But in order for me to understand what they're talking about I have to know
engines, and that's not possible. So I'm going to come up with another approach.
“The idea is to bring down a bunch of airplanes all at the same time, or near enough the same time so there's no chance the fleet will be grounded before we're done. But if they're guarding the back door as well as the front, and you really don't know what's inside, then there's only one thing left to do, and that's tear the house down. What do you think about that?”
“I don't understand you,” Mueller said. “Can you do this thing or not?”
Zerkel grinned, his eyes wild. “Hell, yes, I can do it. But it's going to be crude, nowhere near as sophisticated as I wanted it to be. It's simple lack of data, or even access to data. I could get into the Rolls engineering computer, but I'd have to educate myself on engine design parameters. Not that I couldn't do it, but it would take time. I don't think we've got much time.”
“What is it you're going to do?” Mueller asked.
“I'm pretty sure that there's nothing wrong with the jet engines on those airplanes. The triggering device is definitely integral to the heat monitor system. But until I understand completely what's going on, I'm going to back off from trying to trigger it. It's just a feeling, but for now I've got something else to do.”
“Distributing the trigger signals?” Mueller prompted.
“Right on.” Zerkel keyed up a map of the United States on one of the computer monitors. The areas around most of the major metropolitan centers were shaded in red. “Washington, New York, Atlanta, Chicago, Denver, Los Angeles, they're all designated TCAs—Terminal Control Areas—by the FAA. Any airplane flying under a certain altitude within those TCAs must be equipped with a transponder and an encoding altimeter.”
“Continue.”
“When an airplane shows up on an Air Traffic Control radar screen, its transponder sends an identifying signal to the ground that tells ATC its exact type and tail
number. The encoding altimeter tells the scope dope the airplane's exact altitude.”
“Yes, I know this,” Mueller said. It was the same in Europe.
“That means ATC computers and airplanes within every Terminal Control Area in this country talk to each other electronically,” Zerkel said brightly. “What do you think about that?”
“The signals go both ways?”
“Exactly. When the time comes for us to strike, the triggering signals will be sent out by the Air Traffic Control centers on orders from InterTech's mainframe.”
“How?”
“It'll be up to Mr. Reid how many centers you want to hit. But in each Terminal Control Area's ATC facility someone is going to have to install a repeater.”
“There'll be risks,” Mueller said softly. He didn't like what he was hearing.
“There are risks for all of us, but I'll make it easy. The repeaters that I'll build will be about the size of a package of cigarettes. You won't have to make any electrical connections, or anything like that. Just hide the units behind the computers or radar consoles. When they receive the signals from InterTech, my repeaters will pass them through to the outgoing radar signals. Every airplane within the TCA will get the extra spike, but only Guerin's airplanes will know what to do with it.” Zerkel chuckled.
“But this has to be blamed on the Japanese,” Mueller said.
Zerkel's grin broadened. “InterTech will send out the trigger pulse on electronic orders from Tokyo Bank's computer center.”
 
“Will he continue to follow us?” Lieutenant Minori asked. He and his captain were hunched over the chart table at the forward end of the cramped attack center.
In the past thirty-six hours since they'd made contact with the American destroyer they had varied their speed
from eleven knots to twenty-two knots and their depth from seventy meters to two hundred meters, careful not to show the Americans the
Samisho'
s true best speed submerged nor dip below the thermocline. They wanted to make sure the American skipper would stick with them. But like all submarines they were blind aft when underway. Cavitation noises made by the propeller drowned out all passive sonar sounds behind them. Therefore they had turned inboard twice in the past twenty hours and stopped their motors so they could listen. Both times the destroyer had been behind them on the same course and speed. And both times the American captain had turned inboard and had reduced his speed in response.
“By now he has to know where we're heading,” Kiyoda said. He stabbed a blunt finger at a point on the chart just south of Kyushu where the Takara Strait connected the Pacific Ocean to the East China Sea. It was one region of the world's oceans that the MSDF knew much better than the American navy. Once through the strait the advantage would belong to the
Samisho
, something the destroyer's captain had to know. And once in the East China Sea Kiyoda could take his boat to Okinawa's back door.
It would make for some interesting choices on the surface, Kiyoda thought. These were Japanese home waters, but the destroyer captain would know that the submarine he was tracking was the same one that had sunk the Russian frigate. If Seventh Fleet Intelligence was any good it would have informed its ships at sea that the
Samisho
had slipped out of Yokosuka with its captain and full stores aboard.
“He'll have to make his move within the next few hours,” Minori said. “Maybe he has called for help.”
Kiyoda looked up at his XO. “What is your thinking, Ikuo? What will he do? Shoot?”
Minori studied the chart. “He has superior speed. He might try to block our passage through the strait. The deepest channel is quite narrow.”
“It would still put him in a position where he would have to shoot or lose.”
“The thermocline is holding at about three hundred meters. We could fool him by heading south, on the outside, and once he took our bait we could dive deep and circle back.”

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