Honorable Enemies (1994) (34 page)

The President was ending a conference call when Eaglehoff was ushered into the richly appointed study.

"Well, Scott," the President said glumly as he dropped the receiver in its cradle, "our media watchdogs are saying that the proverbial shit is hitting the fan in Japan, and that I'm going to have splatters all over me."

"I'm afraid"--the President's closest adviser grimaced--"that we're going to take some heat, sir."

"No doubt," the President replied with a crooked smile, "but I'm not too concerned. I look forward to getting to Anchorage and facing Koyama, the snide sonuvabitch."

Eaglehoff, known as a two-fisted gunslinger around the Beltway, was disappointed by the President's drift toward a casual, contentious personality. Uncharacteristically low in spirits, Eaglehoff had even thought about tendering his resignation in order to salvage his future prospects in Washington.

"Scott," the President went on and propped his feet on an upholstered footstool, "the stakes are getting higher. I think we've got to take some bold steps if we're going to head off
a c
onfrontation in Anchorage and a possible military clash with Japan."

"Sir," Eaglehoff began tentatively, "I recommend that you convene the Cabinet as soon as possible and take a strong stance about the course you wish to pursue. Otherwise no one has any idea which way you want to jump or how far you'll go to force the Japanese to back down."

The President rubbed his temples. "Yeah, I've been thinking about it since I woke up this morning."

Eaglehoff frowned and blew his nose. "We're facing an ominous, challenging situation where our adversary could become unpredictable. Once bloodied, Japan may lash out and ricochet in many directions."

The President tossed the remains of his cheeseburger on the plate. His mood turned dark. "How'd the meeting go this morning? Any worthwhile ideas?"

"We had a productive session," Eaglehoff dutifully reported. "I think we're making progress in understanding how to deal with the Japanese."

The President glanced away. "What's the situation at the moment?" he snorted.

"Not exactly good," Eaglehoff said stiffly, and nervously cracked his knuckles. "There have been a number of bomb threats directed at Japanese and American airlines, the Japanese are fleeing from Oahu and the other Hawaiian islands as fast as JAL can provide flights, there's a tremendous exodus of all races from the Los Angeles area because the Asian protest has turned into an open rebellion, North Korea is rattling swords and flying reconnaissance missions close to Japan, and the Joint Chiefs and Bud Tidwell believe we should immediately withdraw our military forces from Japan and advise U
. S
. citizens to do likewise."

"Okay. Now tell me the bad news." The President grinned and walked to the liquor cabinet.

Eaglehoff sat in startled silence while he watched the President do something he hadn't seen him do before: drink straight whiskey out of a water glass.

Chapter
29.

TOKYO, JAPAN

Precisely one minute before the scheduled arrival time, the spotlessly clean train came to a smooth stop in the railway station. The forty-mile trip from Narita International Airport to Tokyo had been smooth and comfortable, with the exception of the offensive looks Steve continued to receive from the Asian passengers.

During the flight from Singapore, Steve and Susan had discussed at length his altercation with the Asian hit man and concluded that it would be best to keep quiet for the time being. They had no idea who the CIA informer was, and one miscalculation could easily get them killed.

They were relieved to know where the leak was originating, but Wickham was humiliated that the information was coming from someone in the Agency.

Steve had thought about calling the Director on his SecTel secure phone, but he had reservations about discussing the breach of security at the Agency. He didn't trust Paul Holcomb, and he had begun to wonder if the Director had lied about the President requesting him for the unusual case.

When the train doors opened, Steve and Susan quickly hoisted their luggage and stepped out of the crowded car. The
y c
autiously looked around, ready to react to any threat. Both had no doubt that the stalker had observed them board the airliner in Singapore.

"One more lap," Steve said with a determined look, "and we'll have it made, if we can catch a cab."

"I don't want to hurt your feelings," she responded with a self-conscious smile, "but I had better hail us a taxi, then you can slide in with me."

He hesitated a brief moment, unsure if she was putting him on. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she replied quietly and walked toward a waiting cab. "The animosity toward Americans is reaching a fever pitch."

Steve glanced around before he followed her. Many of the unsmiling strangers wouldn't even look at him, while others cast looks that made it clear that he was unwanted.

During the ride to the hotel, Wickham was surprised to see the crowds of militant protesters who were waving banners and shouting anti-American slogans through bullhorns. Steve made a mental note of the shouted sentiment characterizing Japan's part in World War II as a holy mission to liberate their Asian neighbors from the grasp of Western colonialism.

They had canceled their original hotel reservations and checked into the Keio Plaza Inter-Continental Hotel under assumed names.

While Susan contacted her friend, a fraud investigator for various Japanese insurance companies, Wickham went to a pay phone and called the Agency. He received an updated briefing on world events, including the meeting in Anchorage and the current global military situation. He kept the conversation light and never gave the slightest hint that anything was wrong.

Steve also had a message from the director of the CIA. Paul Holcomb wanted results and he wasn't being subtle about his demand. What Wickham didn't know was that his supposedly secure-link conversation was being traced in a quiet room at Langley.

Steve was walking around the uncrowded 7th-floor swimming pool and garden terrace when Susan joined him. They sat down at an empty table and he looked around at the other non-Asians. No one seemed to notice them, or at least no one indicated any sign of disapproval of the mixed-race couple.

"Is your friend going to work with us?" Steve asked while thinking how else they might solve the mystery of the ownership of number three Matsumi Maru.

"He said he'd help us," she explained with a shrug. "He seemed rather uncomfortable when I explained the circumstances and the need for total secrecy."

Steve grew cautious and lowered his voice. "Are you sure we can trust him?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"One hundred percent?"

"I can't be one hundred percent sure," she admitted. "Why are you so jumpy about my friend?"

"We don't know how far the tentacles from Langley may reach," he remarked in a relaxed manner. "Your friend may already know something we don't, and we could be setting ourselves up for an unpleasant surprise."

"Steve, don't take this the wrong way, but I think you're starting to see shadows behind every corner."

"In this business"--he forced a smile--"it only takes one mistake to buy the farm."

Susan bristled at the implication that she was a novice. She raised an eyebrow and gave him an icy look. "I'm quite aware of the risks involved in this business."

Taken aback by the sudden personality change, Steve gazed steadily into her eyes. "I apologize if I offended you, but someone is trying to kill us, and they're getting information about our whereabouts from the CIA."

"No apology needed," she replied in a mildly derisive manner, then softened her tone. "Steve, I fully understand the gravity of the situation. I respect you very much, and I trust that you have the same respect for me . . . and for the way I perform my job."

"Of course I respect you," he proclaimed and reached for her hand.

Susan had doubts about her friend, too, but she didn't want to expose them. Hiroshi was their best bet to find the owner of the ship, and they had to have faith and follow through, no matter what.

Her brief flash of irritation quickly subsided and she smiled when Steve grasped her hand.

"Hiroshi Okubo," she explained, "has a solid reputation and was highly recommended when I worked with him. I don't think we have to worry about Hiroshi."

"Fair enough."

"Besides," Susan went on, "he has his honor to protect, and that is very important to the Japanese. I don't think he would risk his excellent reputation by doing something stupid."

"Like I said before," Steve responded with a serious look, "I trust your judgment."

"At any rate," she quickly finished, "Hiroshi said that he'll have an answer for us by tomorrow afternoon--one way or the other--on who owned the Matsumi Maru fleet."

Wickham studied the impressive skyline in the busy Shinjuku ward. "That sounds good to me if it works out."

Steve would have to be content to wait. Squinting to see through the hazy sky, he looked at the Century Hyatt Hotel and the other modern high-rise buildings, then turned to face Susan. "If you investigated fraud for a group of well-heeled insurance companies and discovered something really bad about one of your best clients, would you be willing to blow the whistle?"

"I seem to recall," she said with a friendly wink, "Steve Wickham, a legendary CIA agent, once told me that 'sometimes you have to roll the dice and take your chances.' "

Steve nonchalantly glanced around the swimming pool and garden terrace. "Speaking of chances," he said with a trace of tension in his voice, "I have a feeling crew cut is watching us."

Moving quietly through the water at a speed of 31/z knots, the Japanese submarine Harushio was rigged for supersilent running. All noisy machinery and unnecessary activities had been silenced, including the showers, galley equipment, and laundry facilities. The public-address system was immobilized, which required the crew to use a single phone circuit and communicate their orders by whispering to each other. No one was allowed to open or close any hatches or use any tools.

The crowded and complex interior of the eerily silent diesel-electric sub was bathed in a soft hue of red light. The off-duty submariners, who were relegated to their cramped living spaces, were waiting for a cold snack to be served.

The Yushio-class submarine was creeping through the depths at 220 feet when the sonar operator noticed an unusual trace on his screen. The towed array sonar trailing the Harushio provided acoustic waves to detect and locate submerged objects. He studied the input for a moment and then selected a display that provided a range of sound frequencies to analyze.

Working rapidly and carefully, the technician examined the range of graphs produced by the narrowband processors. The system blended the incoming sounds for a number of minutes to make sure they were not background noises from the vast number of vessels traversing the busy waterway.

Finally, a spike emerged on the graph and the operator immediately recognized the unique signature. The sound was emitting from an American Los Angeles--class fast-attack submarine. The nuclear-powered boat wasn't even attempting to mask its noise.

The sonar technician checked his tonal data one more time. The Americans are too arrogant. He keyed his microphone and spoke softly. "Bridge, sonar."

"Bridge," came the instant reply.

"I have a Los Angeles--signature bearing zero-six-five--overtaking us at a high rate of speed."

A long pause followed the announcement.

"Sonar," the officer of the deck said excitedly, "confirm type of signature."

"The contact," the operator explained clearly, "has the signature of an American attack submarine."

"Los Angeles--type?"

The technician stared at the graph. "Hai."

A few moments later the sonar operator heard a different voice in his headset.

"Sonar, this is the Captain speaking. I want a time-bearing plot every five minutes until the target is abeam us."

After the man acknowledged the order, the Captain turned to his second-in-command. "When the attack sub passes us, we will slowly increase speed and fall in behind the careless Americans.

Most submarines have a blind spot astern where sonar reception is impaired by engines, spinning turbines, shafts, screws, and various equipment housed in the aft end of the boats.

The attack center was deathly quiet when Commander Lamar Joiner stuck his head in, then continued to the submarine's cramped control room. A third-generation submariner, Joiner had followed his grandfather and father through the Naval Academy and straight into the submarine service.

An athletic and gregarious man by nature, the husky skipper with the ice-blue eyes was respected by his officers and crewmen. Some of his famous exploits, both ashore and at sea, rivaled those of his legendary father. The Captain knew his crew almost as well as he knew his three children. He took pride in remembering the names of their wives and most of their offspring.