Honorable Enemies (1994) (23 page)

"Approximately forty-five miles northeast of the northern tip of the island. About a twenty-minute flight if they had managed to pull off the escape."

"Do you have any idea"--she paused to examine the information page--"what course the ship is on or where it's headed?"

"Not really," Steve admitted, "but after a few conversations with some of the people who work at the docks, I found out she's registered in Singapore, and it's also her home port.

"I called the Port Authority in Singapore," Steve continued. "They told me the Matsumi Maru number three generally plied the waters of the South China Sea, but they wouldn't tell me who owned the ship. Something about not having the authority to supply any information about ownership."

Susan remained quiet for a few seconds. "It does seem coincidental that the ship left hours before they tried to fly the helo to another location."

"That's the way I see it," Steve agreed, then reached for another picture of the merchant vessel and studied it for
a m
oment. "I think the next missing piece to this puzzle is in Singapore, and I'm heading there to see what I can find."

"I think you're right," Susan said and looked at the freighter. "I'll bet the Matsumi Maru three will show up there before too long."

Leaving Hickam Air Force Base, Steve followed Susan as they made their way toward Honolulu. He replayed the entire series of events relating to the attack on the tour ship and felt that he was overlooking a critical piece of evidence.

Steve turned off the air conditioner and rolled the windows down. He breathed in the fresh air and relaxed, letting his mind drift.

The afternoon traffic was beginning to become congested as they approached Ala Moana Park. Steve was intermittently glancing at Susan's car and watching the people in the park when he heard two loud reports.

Snapping back to the moment, he was shocked to see Susan's sedan swerve to the right and skid to a stop. He saw a silver Continental Mark VIII almost collide with a panel truck as the car turned in front of oncoming vehicles and sped down a side street.

Steve mashed the brake pedal and screeched to a halt behind Susan's car. He leaped out and immediately saw the shattered glass on the pavement. Susan had her Smith & Wesson drawn and was crawling out the passenger-side door when he reached her.

"What happened?" Steve exclaimed at the same time he saw the small cuts on Susan's neck.

"I was wrong," she gasped, "about the enforcer at the mansion--the guy who was driving the Pathfinder."

"You're talking about the bodyguard with the crew cut and chewed ear?"

"You got it," she declared wide-eyed. "Crew cut didn't go to Tokyo. He just tried to kill me!"

Steve looked in the sedan and saw that the window on th
e d
river's side had been blown inward. The front seat and dashboard were covered with glass particles.

"Folks, please move along," Steve said to the onlookers and took Susan by the arm. "Are you okay?"

She dabbed at her neck and looked at the traces of blood on her fingertips. "I think so."

Susan cautiously looked over the hood and turned to Steve. "I only had a quick glance before I hit the brakes, but I'm positive it was the same guy."

"The enforcer," Steve said while he examined Susan's neck, "knows that we're the only ones who can identify him."

"That's right. He must have followed me to Hickam and never had an opportunity to get a clear shot until we left the base."

"Susan, did you drive to the ba--"

"That's it!" she interrupted when she remembered where she had seen the Continental. "The same car--the silver Mark eight--was pulling to a stop across the street from my home as I was getting into my car."

"You were set up by someone," Steve said caustically and looked up and down the boulevard. "Susan, call your office and give them the details, then have someone guard your home until we get there. We need to have a couple of agents stay at your place while we get hotel rooms under different names."

"No argument from me." She breathed heavily. "Something is very wrong with this picture."

"Yeah, and crew cut is getting information from someone, so we can't afford to tell anyone where we're staying."

"What we need to do," she declared in a firm voice, "is catch that sonuvabitch."

"I think we'll get our chance," Steve replied, then cautiously surveyed the streets and surrounding areas. "Only a high-risk taker would attempt something like this in broad daylight. The guy may not be very bright, but he's a professional hit man who won't give up."

"Well," Susan replied while she brushed herself off, "you certainly have a reassuring way about you."

He noticed long trickles of blood on the back and left side of Susan's neck. "The first thing we need to do is take you to the emergency room."

"No," she said emphatically, "I don't need to go to the hospital."

He gave her a disapproving look. "You have slivers of glass embedded in your neck."

Susan started to touch the nape of her neck, then stopped. Inside, she was criticizing herself for being so stupid. She had been carefully trained to pay attention to everything happening around her, and she had let her guard down.

"Okay, I'll go." She reached for her purse. "If I hadn't slammed on the brakes when I did, I could have rammed that sonuvabitch."

"Or," Steve countered softly, "he could have shot you."

Chapter
19.

The President was vigorously pedaling his stationary bicycle when his Chief of Staff walked into the well-equipped exercise room. "What have you got?" he asked breathlessly.

Scott Eaglehoff took his usual seat near the rowing machine. "Holcomb told me the Agency is getting indications from many of their Asian sources that the hierarchy of Japan's industrial and financial giants are getting together for a major meeting in Tokyo."

The President flexed his legs. "I'm not surprised."

"The planning for these assemblages," Eaglehoff went on, "is usually extremely detailed, but this appears to be an emergency meeting of the enterprise group."

"What do you figure is on their agenda?"

"My guess," Eaglehoff answered gruffly, "considering the festering hostilities between us, is that Japan will opt to put us in a monetary bind to get our attention."

"You really think so?"

"It's a real possibility," Eaglehoff answered without showing any emotion. "The world has changed a lot since September of '45. I think the Japanese are finally fed up with playing second fiddle."

The President lowered his head and stretched his neck muscles. "Did you read the article in the Post?"

"About our crime and decay?"

"Yes," the President answered with a disgruntled look.

"Yeah, I read it," Eaglehoff replied. "The Japanese have a point. Their kids don't carry guns to school, they can walk the streets at night without looking over their shoulders, and their subways operate safely and on time."

"The ethics issue," the President said bitterly, "made my blood boil. Ethics, my ass. They have the unmitigated gall to talk about ethics when they repeatedly violate the Buy-American Act and then lie about it."

The enactment required the U
. S
. military to give preference to goods made by American companies.

"They ship tens of thousands of crates of Japanese-made products to their companies here," the President said venomously, "then relabel the containers 'Made in the USA,' slap a Machine Tool Association sticker on the side, and then sell the products to our military.

"Hell," he went on, "we've got billions of dollars' worth of Japanese-made equipment at our air bases, naval installations, and even in our nuclear facilities."

He looked at his Chief of Staff and lowered his head. "We can't get anyone to do a goddamn thing about it," he said contemptuously, "because the Japanese have the most powerful lobby in Washington--most of whom are former U
. S
. trade officials or members of the Department of Commerce."

Eaglehoff sighed. "When Tokyo has over twelve hundred lobbyists in Washington, and spends over 140 million annually in this city, a lot of influential people get on the gravy train."

"Scott," the President began sadly, "the Japanese are absorbing us like a sponge, and we're sitting here with our heads up our asses."

"It's the same old argument," Eaglehoff suggested. "If we could ever get government and business to work hand in hand instead of bashing each other over the skull, we'd be the epitome of capitalism again. The Japanese look at us and wonde
r h
ow such incompetent people rose from our apathy to crush them during World War Two."

"I'll admit," the President responded uncomfortably, "that we have some improvements to make, but the Japanese aren't doing themselves any favors by poking us in the eye. They should take a long look in the mirror and be grateful for the position they're in today."

"In their minds," Eaglehoff added, "they've suffered the consequences of their sins long enough, and I don't think they're in the mood to pay further penance to the United States. The Japanese now own the home, and we're the renters."

The President gave his Chief of Staff a curious glance. "So you think they'll squeeze our financial balls until we learn our lesson?"

Eaglehoff loosened his tie. "Financially, they could put us on our knees. If the Japanese pulled the rug out from under us, we'd have a national bankruptcy on our hands."

"The wizards at the think tanks," the President said with false indifference, "have been discussing that scenario for the past several days. They have come up with some interesting possibilities . . . and I think it's time to give Japan something to consider."

"A wake-up call?"

"I would classify it as a visual reminder," the President responded cryptically. "Something to think about while they're puffing out their chests."

Commander Hayama Shimazaki stood on the bridge of the Aegis destroyer Kongo and watched the jet fighters being catapulted from the deck of the Nimitz-class nuclear-powered carrier Abraham Lincoln.

Shimazaki was the commander of a small detachment of Japan's Maritime Self-Defense Force ships operating near the southern extremity of the Ryukyu Islands. The Kongo wa
s f
lanked by the replenishment oiler Tokiwa and the destroyer Asagiri.

Shimazaki had received orders to cruise in close formation with the American carrier battle group after the crew of a Shin Meiwa flying boat radioed the position of the huge flattop to Tokyo.

The orders explained that the high command wanted Shimazaki's flotilla to solidify the Japanese presence in the East China Sea until more Self-Defense Force ships and submarines could reach his position.

Shimazaki and the officers in his command surmised that the latest instructions came about because of the degenerating relations between their country and the U
. S
. They were concerned about the worsening situation and talked in private about the possibility of a military conflict.

Although Shimazaki was uncomfortable about shadowing the Americans, the career naval officer carried out his orders as he expected his men to do. However, with tensions on the high seas ripe for hostilities, Shimazaki had
. E
lected to interpret his orders in a cautious way and give his ships plenty of room to maneuver.

Dusk was settling over the carrier group when Lieutenant Commander Peggy Rapoza taxied her F/A-18 Hornet onto the number-one catapult. She carefully checked her flight controls, then watched the cat officer give her the full-power signal.

Shoving her throttles forward, Rapoza felt the sudden adrenaline surge, verified her engine gauges were normal, snapped a salute to the "shooter," braced her head against the top of the ejection seat, and sucked in a breath of cool oxygen.

Seconds later, Rapoza was nailed to the back of the seat as her vision blurred under the excruciating g-forces. The punishing catapult shot abruptly ended with what felt like a sudden deceleration as the Hornet went off the end of the flight deck.

Although Rapoza's powerful fighter was still accelerating at a tremendous rate, the first few seconds down the catapult track felt like she had been shot out of a cannon.

With her heart rate finally slowing, Rapoza flipped the landing gear lever up, waited for the speed to increase, raised the wing flaps, then checked her engine instruments and caution lights.

Satisfied that all systems were normal, the seasoned flight leader eased back the power and waited for her wingman to rendezvous on her right side. After a brief air-combat-maneuvering session, the pilots were scheduled to practice refueling from a KA-6D Intruder tanker before making a night landing.

When the last fighter plane raced down the catapult and climbed into the darkening sky, Captain Perry Wiggins gave the order to turn the group to their reciprocal heading and steam downwind until it was time to recover aircraft.

While the mammoth carrier was turning to the new course, the flight deck personnel were repositioning aircraft in preparation for the next recovery period. Clad in various brightly colored pullovers, the sailors performed their demanding tasks with a degree of finesse that was honed by experience and constant training.