Red Cell

by Richard Marcinko

  We stayed away from our usual hangouts and lived aboard the Malevolent Frog. Mike and Nancy did the shopping. I did the cooking—a holdover from my days at Gussi’s back in New Brunswick. Between meals, we all did the job, which in this case meant infiltrating Seal Beach’s weapons stowage area on a random basis to see if anything had been disturbed. Nothing. It was doubly discouraging to come and go at will because we’d just performed a security exercise at the place, and one hoped that, at the very least, the C2CO in charge of the weapons station would have learned something from all our efforts. Obviously, he hadn’t. The place was still wide-open. I can’t tell you how secure it makes me feel to have to report to you that virtually anybody with a little bit of imagination and energy can break into a Navy nuclear weapons stowage depot.

  By now, my beeper was going off so often I thought the screen was going to burn out. And every time I looked at the digital readout, the number was the same—it belonged to the phone that sat on Pinky Prescott’s desk.

  After five days I returned his call. I let him jabber at me for three or four minutes about how my report was a load of crap, and I’d exceeded my orders again, and my ass was going to be keelhauled. Given the fact that I certainly wasn’t about to let him know about the missing missile parts, I explained—after he’d quieted down a bit—that we’d run into some operational difficulties with the pus-nutted, no-load gear we’d been allotted, and before I was going to let my men commit hara-kiri in the open seas, I wanted to make sure that it worked to my satisfaction.

  “Goddammit, Dick, this is a nonsecure line we’re on.” And he was off on another five-minute jabberfest about assets waiting and opportunities lost, and the fact that people above his pay grade were asking what the fuck was going on, and why wasn’t Red Cell doing, you know, what we’d been assigned to do.

  I growled right back and used the F-word a lot, and in the end it was decided we’d fly straight to our other destination (that was Tokyo) from Los Angeles, and that Pinky would airlift our equipment from D.C. He appeared to be mollified when I told him we’d move within forty-eight hours.

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “You can’t.”

  He started to jabber again but I hung up on him. I needed time to think. Obviously, the mission to North Korea was going to be a complete goatfuck. We hadn’t had time to obtain the right intelligence or get our hands on the best equipment. Our precious training time had been squandered because of what we’d discovered at Seal Beach.

  So I made a command decision. We would go out and do what we’d been ordered to do. But we’d do it quick and dirty, then we’d haul our asses back to Seal Beach and finish what I considered our first priority—finding out who the fuck was stealing the Navy’s nukes.

  While the boys worked on their gear, I went up and sat on the bowsprit as Mike kept the Malevolent Frog on an even course paralleling the coast, three miles offshore, moving toward Huntington Beach at a steady five knots. The easy rhythm of the long, slow swells allowed me to think. Somehow, this entire series of events had to be connected—from the kimchis at Narita to the missing nukes at Seal Beach. The two constants were Pinky Prescott and Grant Griffith. One of them—or more likely, both—was involved every step of the way. They were both probably dirty. The thought of killing them gave me pleasure as I sat, Coors in hand, staring at the water.

  There were other things to ponder as well. The Big Question, as they used to call it on the “Errors and No Facts” TV show, was, who could I trust when the whole Navy system was trying to screw me? Mike Regan, of course. And my Red Cell team. But who else? I mean, who could I really trust? The list was discouragingly short. Doc Tremblay? Bet your ass. Stevie Wonder? Absofuckinglutely. Irish Kernan? Maybe. Tony Mercaldi? I gave him a probably, too. With spooks like Irish and Merc you can never really tell. Still, I’d need some operational intel—which would mean calls to both of my spook pals before we left for Tokyo. I could make ’em on the secure cellular—it was untraceable.

  Anybody else? It hit me like a ton of fucking sushi. Tosho. I could trust Tosho. He’d always been on the side of the angels in the past—a real straight shooter. And since events were about to carry me back to Jap-Land, I’d need Tosho’s backup, not to mention his clout.

  Those conclusions reached, I decided to call Tosh as soon as we docked. But I’d be careful about the way that I did it. People were probably listening.

  Three hours later, I took down the number of a pay phone in a 7-Eleven three blocks from Mike’s slip, went through my address book, and did some fast addition and subtraction.

  The phone rang-rang in Tokyo. I asked for Lieutenant Inspector Toshiro Okinaga. The instant he said, “Okinaga, hail” I said, “Fuck you.” And before he could answer, I said, “Tosho—don’t use names. You know who this is?”

  There was a millisecond pause. Then: “Sure.”

  “Good. I have a couple of problems and need to talk. But we can’t use these lines.”

  “Okay—what do you suggest?”

  “You know our mutual friend who lives in the islands?” I was talking about Black Jack Morrison.

  “The one who sent you here recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “The big starred one and not the small striped one?”

  In other words, Admiral Morrison of the four stars, not my old friend from Sweat Hog days, Captain Tom O’Bannion of the four stripes. God bless Tosho. “Yup. You have his private number at home?”

  John Wayne’s voice came across the international airwaves. “Bet your ass, pilgrim.”

  “Okay—when you subtract that number from the number I’m going to give you, you’ll have an area code and phone number. Use a secure phone and call it in fifteen minutes.” I read off the numbers. “Got it?”

  “Roger.” Tosho paused. “This is a great scheme. Where the hell did you pick it up—you’re not smart enough to come up with it on your own.”

  “You’re right.” I laughed. “I got it out of a novel by a former assistant secretary of defense named Richard Perle. Talk to you soon.” I rang off, then headed to the phone booth. The scheme Perle had devised in his book Hard Line was so KISS-simple that it worked like a charm. It would take anyone monitoring Mike’s line—or Tosho’s—longer than a quarter hour to come up with the right series of numbers. I didn’t care that NSA’s big ears would listen in—they monitor so many international calls that it takes them days to sort the information out. By then, I didn’t care who knew what I was up to—either my mission would be completed or I’d be dead.

  When Tosho called back, I outlined my situation. I told him I’d be coming through Tokyo in mufti with eight people and needed transportation from Narita to Yokosuka, plus weapons and ammo. I explained that we’d be bringing underwater gear, and one trunk of goodies I didn’t want customs looking at. I added that he and I needed about half an hour in private.

  “No prob, Dick—I’ll meet you at the gate.”

  Tosho was as good as his word. He met us at the gate, smiling like the Littlest Samurai with a Brand-new Sword as he saw who I’d brought with me. He gave Nasty, Cherry, Duck Foot, Half Pint, and Pick abrazos that were fuerte enough to make me think there was some Jalapeño in this Jap. Then he herded us down a series of passages that led away from the customs and immigration areas. When we finally came to a halt, he eyeballed the new guys.

  “The latest cannon fodder?”

  “Yup,” said Nod before I could introduce him. “I’m expendable.”

  He took Nod’s hand and pumped it. “I’m Tosho—pleased to meetcha.” Tosho extended his hand to Dale and Carl. “You expendable, too?”

  “Nope—I’m Wynken,” said Dale.

  Tosho pointed his thumb toward Carl. “That means you’re Blynken.” He looked back at Ed DiCarlo. “And if you’re Nod, nod.”

  He gave me the old inscrutable smile. “Which makes you Mother Goose. Or was that motherfucking goose shit?”

  It was good to see him treat me with so much d
eference. It was so … Asian.

  Tosho collected our passports and landing cards. “I’ll take care of these. How was your flight?”

  “It was pleasant, thank you for asking.” I presented him with three bottles of Dimple Scotch. “They had duty-free, too.”

  Tosho’s eyes brightened. “Ah—baksheesh.” He accepted the shopping bag with a smile and bowed graciously. “You do know how to buy goodwill, Richard.”

  We made it from Narita to Yokosuka in about an hour and a half, in a convoy of three police cars with smoked-glass windows, traveling with blue lights flashing and Klaxon horns ougah-ougahing. I rode with Tosho in the first car. The normally ebullient policeman was uncharacteristically quiet as we traversed the superhighways, and I wondered what was bothering him. I put it down to lack of pussy, then concerned myself with more important things.

  The vehicles’ trunks were crammed to overflowing and we carried excess gear on our laps. I’d deep-sixed the Draegers back in L.A. Mike Regan, bless him, had donated his dive equipment to the cause. And the Russian underwater assault rifles, ammo, and HK-93s all arrived FedEx from Doc Tremblay, who’d disassembled them and sent them in a dozen different packages to defy the customs inspectors. The HK receivers—the part of the gun that actually fires the bullets—he’d labeled scrap metal. And they believed him. That should tell you something about the mind-set of most customs inspectors.

  Allegedly, Pinky had limpet mines, a pair of infrared cameras, two dozen sensors, and nine MP5K suppressed submachine guns with twelve thousand rounds of ammo and fifty of the new lightweight plastic magazines waiting for us aboard the submarine. I wasn’t about to hold my breath waiting to see if they’d all be there.

  I used my ID to get us all through Yokosuka’s main gate. Then we drove straight to the dock where a sub I’ll call the USS Humpback waited for us.

  The Humpback was a modified attack-class nuke. It held thirty-six Mod 7 Mark IV E-46 infrared-assisted, wire-guided torpedoes to destroy other subs. We would share space in the forward torpedo room with the weapons. Above our heads, through the weapons loading hatch, was where the DDS SpecWar platform was attached to the sub’s decking. I went up the gangway and introduced myself while the guys unloaded our gear from the trunks of the police cars.

  An ensign carrying a regulation Beretta sidearm greeted me at the top of the gangway. Well, he kind of greeted me. After all, I’d been letting my beard grow back—it was just past the Yassir Arafat stage right now—and my hair was as long as ever, and since I was in civvies, he had no idea who or what I was—except I was walking on his hallowed floating turf (or was that floating turd?) and he was gonna find out who the fuck this asshole coming up the gangway was.

  He blocked my way. “Sir?”

  “Captain Marcinko reporting aboard.” I kept moving.

  He stood his ground—no way I was going to get around him. “Sir, may I see your ID, sir?”

  I liked that. I’d bluffed my way aboard so many submarines that it was actually refreshing to see an officer who cared enough to check the very best. I pulled my ID and my orders from my pocket. “There you go, Ensign. Good work.”

  He read every word and scrutinized the photograph on my ID card. Then he stepped back and saluted. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

  I returned the salute, dropped through the forward hatch, and went to the conn. The skipper was working on charts and graphs. We introduced ourselves, shook hands, then retreated into neutral corners. His name was Kenny Ross and he had that bookish, computer-wonk look that all nuclear-sub drivers have. I had a slew of telexes as well as some useless intel reports waiting for me from Pinky. I watched Captain Ross while I leafed through them. He seemed to have a nice, easy rapport with his crew, and he didn’t treat his enlisted men like serfs. Well, maybe he was one of those rare submariners who was more than half-human.

  The intel briefs Pinky had sent were cursory at best and dangerous at worst. They provided no operational intelligence at all. Luckily, there were three messages from Irish Kernan that gave me some insight about the forces I was going to operate against. It wasn’t much—but it was probably all I was going to get. Pinky’s administrative rockets—two dozen of them—were all variations on a single theme, the theme being “What the hell have you been doing to me?” But his threats and invective didn’t bother me. He was back there, and I was out here, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to me except use up paper.

  Besides, I was reading his words differently now that I suspected he could be part of a weapons-smuggling scheme. Was he excoriating me because he suspected I knew more than I was letting on and he wanted to rattle me? Was he sending us into hostile waters to get ambushed? The puzzle was still too jumbled. Shit—I didn’t even know what the fucking picture was yet.

  I rolled the rockets up. Ken Ross closed his notebook. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  We repaired to the wardroom and drew two cups of strong submarine coffee. Sub coffee was the best in the Navy, but from the taste of this, Ken Ross had brought his own gourmet roast with him from the States. I had a second cup.

  “You have some packages waiting for you,” he said.

  I asked what had come aboard and was somewhat surprised to learn that Pinky had actually shipped the weapons he’d promised us. That was good—because there wasn’t an MP5 within a couple of hundred miles that wasn’t attached to a Japanese policeman, and while Tosho had slipped me a box containing half a dozen Grock-19s in the car, MP5s would have been asking a lot from him.

  Captain Ross and I felt each other out. He was polite, even deferential. But he also appeared jittery—uncommon for a sub captain. I guessed it was because he’d been read the riot act about me; told that I’d probably try something illegal—and if I did, he’d be the one to pay for it.

  My suspicions were confirmed when he explained he wasn’t about to take chances with a billion-dollar sub. I told him that I understood his point of view—all I was looking for was a quiet ferry ride in and a fast pickup when we’d done our job. But I emphasized that we’d need his crew’s complete cooperation, and that so far as the mission was concerned, I was senior to him and my orders stated so explicitly.

  It wasn’t what you’d exactly call a meeting of the minds, but after fifteen minutes or so we reached what you might define as an operational understanding. So I went topside and got the Cell working.

  It took them about three hours to load in. While the men toted and lifted, Tosho and I walked down to the end of the pier. We sat, legs dangling over the edge, and caught up.

  Despite his outwardly warm welcome at the airport, Tosho was pissed at me for not staying in touch better and let me know it.

  I explained I’d been otherwise engaged. That was all very well, he said, but we’d made a deal. “You said we’d share information, Dick. It hasn’t worked out that way—most of the flow has been moving in your direction, and I’m sitting in the dark. But I’m under incredible political pressure right now. Each time the Matsuko connection comes up—like when you called about Miko Takahashi and I started nosing around—somebody from the National Assembly calls my boss and bitches about me, and he feels constrained to haul my ass onto the hibachi and grill me about what the fuck I’m doing. It’s giving me Excedrin Headache Number One.”

  He was right, of course. So, I brought him up to date. I didn’t spare any details. I told him about my reentry into the Navy. I explained about my boss, Pinky Prescott, and my suspicions about Pinky wanting me dead. I talked at length about Grant Griffith and described how the former SECDEF had somehow managed to involve himself in the most sensitive national security matters. I told him about Pinky’s liaison with Miko Takahashi, and how NIS had a file on him.

  Tosho nodded, absorbing every detail.

  Finally, I finished my monologue. “Now—you tell me, Tosh—what’s the Matsuko angle all about? How come there’s all the political pressure on you? I thought Matsuko was in a decline ever since it sold the
Soviets prohibited submarine technology and paid a two-billion-dollar fine.”

  Tosho looked at me as if I were demented, then explained. Two billion bucks was chicken feed to Matsuko Machine. Anyway, that wasn’t the point. The point was that Matsuko was run by a seventy-six-year-old named Hideo Ikigami. Ikigami, who had been a young lieutenant in an elite commando unit during the Second World War, was one of those old-fashioned Japanese who believed in the concept of a Greater Japan—a Japan that controlled the entire Pacific Rim.

  His position as the head of Japan’s fifth-largest corporation gave him influence and clout with whatever government was in power. Then, fifteen years ago or so he had founded—and still led—an extremist political party, the Society of Musashi, named after the greatest samurai swordsman ever, Miyamoto Musashi, a warrior, poet, and artist who lived in the seventeenth century. The Society was growing in popularity these days. It had started with only five hundred hard-core fanatics, but had obviously hit an emotional vein buried deep in the Japanese psyche, because today, more than a million Japanese paid ¥1,250 a year—about $12—to be members. “Remember when I told you how upset some Japanese are becoming about the loss of our classical culture?”

  Not really. “Kind of.”

  “Well, Ikigami wants to banish Western society and reestablish the post of shogun, or military dictator. He wants to bring back all the old samurai ways, hence his Society. He’s got the money to do it, too—he’s founded a Miyamoto Musashi school for classical swordsmanship in Kyoto. And the Society has opened clubs all over Japan to teach samurai philosophy to youngsters. Except it’s not pure samurai they teach—it’s samurai mixed with racism, militarism, and autocracy.”

  That didn’t sound so bad to me, and I said so. “We could stand a few more people who promote the warrior mentality, Tosho.”

  “Not this kind of mentality. Ikigami’s a goddamn fascist and a racist. He’s paid for a bunch of books written by kooks. Some of them put down Western culture because they argue it’s racially inferior. Two more recent volumes endorsed anti-Semitism—and they were bestsellers here. The Society even holds rallies where they promote race unity—kind of like Klan meetings back in the States, or Hitler’s Bund gatherings. The Kunika’s been looking closely at Ikigami because we think he, or people working for him, are behind half a dozen bombings in the past three years.”