by Joe Weber
"On the authority of the Honolulu Police Department and the Federal Aviation Administration."
Theresa and Cliff exchanged disbelieving looks. Even though she was wearing dark-green aviator sunglasses, he could see the concern etched on her face.
"Sky Nine, do you copy."
Theresa glanced at the McDonnell Douglas F-1Ss and jabbed the transmit button. "Sky Nine copies," she answered with aplomb, "but I want an explanation about the fighters, and why I'm being forced to land at Barbers Point."
Her earphones remained silent.
Ackerman selected intercom. "You been skippin' out on your parkin' tickets?" he nervously asked.
Before she could answer, the approach controller issued new directions. "Sky Nine, contact Barbers Point Tower on onethree-two-point-six-five."
Now is not the time to argue. ."Thirty-two-sixty-five," she said evenly, eliminating the first number since all VHF frequencies began with the number one.
"Cliff, give the station a call."
He snorted and shook his head in disgust. "They aren't gonna believe this."
"Something tells me they will."
Selecting the tower frequency for the Barbers Point Naval Air Station, Theresa reminded herself that she was a seasoned professional pilot. Besides, they would be on the ground soon and the mystery would be solved.
Ackerman gazed at the intimidating F-15s while the pilots let the sleek fighters drift apart.
"Sky Nine to base," he said hastily while he watched the landing gear extend from the flight leader's Eagle, then saw the wheels drop out of his wingman's aircraft. "Do you copy, base?"
The dispatcher's reply had been interrupted. "--ave received reports that a helicopter was involved in the shooting. Stand by."
Theresa made a slight course correction and waited to call the naval air station tower.
"Base--base to Sky Nine," the voice sputtered, then slowed after a moment. "The police have just arrived, and from what I understand, a helicopter fired guns at a Pearl Harbor cruise ship. They're saying--wait a second--they just said that the ship was full of Japanese tourists."
The woman paused while someone in the background spoke to her. "I've just been told . . . that witnesses claim it was our Channel Nine helicopter."
Stunned by the absurdity of the allegation, Theresa Garney arched her eyebrow and gave her cameraman a long look. Cliff Ackerman was incredulous, and it showed in his blank stare.
He laughed under his breath and then keyed his mike. "You might explain to the HPD that Sky Nine is not equipped with guns."
"They're right here," the mobile radio operator warned. "You might want to speak to them in person."
Theresa flashed Ackerman a disapproving frown and then started a slow descent. "Barbers Point Tower, Sky Nine is with you, fifteen north, negative ATIS." The JetRanger was not equipped with a UHF radio that could receive the Automatic Terminal Information Service.
"Sky Nine, Barbers Point Tower," the gravelly voice responded. "You're cleared to land on the numbers for runway one-one, next to the security vehicles. Winds are two-one-zero at eight. Altimeter two-niner-niner-one."
Theresa acknowledged the landing clearance and pushed the intercom button. "Cliff, what the hell is going on? Who would use a helo to gun down people on a tour of Pearl Harbor?"
"Someone with a vendetta and a sick mind," he answered uncomfortably, "who knows how to fly a helicopter."
She scanned the runways at Barbers Point. "Where do you figure our double is now?"
He thought for a moment, then gave her one of his infectious smiles. "I don't have a clue, but I can tell you one thing for damn sure."
Theresa gave him a knowing look. "We're in trouble."
He opened another stick of gum. "That's right, and we're gonna be the center of attention in Honolulu."
Her glance slid to Ackerman and then to the fighters as the pilots added power and retracted their wheels.
"No doubt," she agreed with a hint of irritation in her voice, "but the station's ratings will go up, and you know that's all that matters in this business."
Chapter 2.
NORTHWEST OF STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO
Tadashi Matsukawa waded into his oversized spa and uncorked a bottle of wine from his French vineyard near Epernay, in the Champagne region. He selected a flute glass from the outdoor bar next to the bubbling water, then poured a liberal amount of the effervescent white wine and settled back to gaze across the meadows of his 1,780-acre ranch located at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. He was proud of the magnificent spread, but what he was most proud of was the fact that he had purchased the ranch with a sizable U. S. government grant.
A large man by Japanese standards, Matsukawa had wide cheekbones and a broad, slightly flattened nose. His piercing eyes were almond brown with a trace of pigment edging into his off-white eyeballs. The intelligent eyes behind the gold-framed spectacles seldom blinked when Matsukawa stared down a business opponent. His hands were soft, with puffy fingers and neatly manicured nails polished and shining from the protective clear coat. Not yet fifty, Matsukawa was a billionaire with a solid reputation for being ruthless and unforgiving.
He fervently believed in the Japanese tradition of Bushido--the feudal-military code that valued personal honor and proper action above the life of an individual. He admired the exploits of the kamikaze pilots so much that he had collected a number of expensive mementos from the families of the sacrificial aviators.
Tadashi Matsukawa, who had received his Master of Business Administration from Harvard, was programmed from early youth to be in the fast lane. Only the brightest young management trainees of Japan's most successful international corporations are allowed to apply to the oldest institution of higher learning in the United States. The remaining candidates, according to their initial performance evaluations and academic ranking, matriculate to Stanford, Columbia, or a host of other top-notch business schools.
After graduating with honors, Matsukawa had left Cambridge and returned to Japan, where he thoroughly impressed his superiors with his acute business acumen. His natural talent for commercial enterprises was highlighted by a shrewd knack for judiciously handling capital. Matsukawa's rapid rise to the top of the executive ranks surprised few of his colleagues, and he soon began forming his own corporation. Three days after his thirty-first birthday, the multimillionaire resigned from his parent corporation and devoted every waking moment to increasing his expanding fortune.
Matsukawa's vast empire was structured on the foundation of what he perceived to be rectitude. His decisions were made in accordance with what he believed, based on his logic alone. In his mind, business dealings were tantamount to waging war. More than anything, Matsukawa enjoyed the intellectual challenge of pummeling his opponents until their will to win finally evaporated.
He and his fellow business titans from Japan's six largest cartels, known as zaibatsu, took pleasure in laughing among themselves about dealing with the naive Americans and their self-important but faint-hearted trade representatives.
After years of business meetings with a number of chief executive officers of major American corporations, Matsukawa was still amazed at their ignorance of Japanese social realities and economic concepts. The Americans, who always acted like benevolent parents to wayward children, expected theJapanese business and political leaders to simply get in line and behave.
As one of the most powerful members of the Heiwa Shokai Investment Group, Matsukawa always relished debating U. S. leaders about the free-trade policy--until now. He was tired of trying to explain the Japanese business philosophy to the slowwitted Americans. They obviously could not accept the fact that controlling production, distribution, and prices, combined with a government that acted as a shepherd, was a more efficient system of capitalism than the U. S. model.
For the most part, everything had gone Matsukawa's way until the New York City building boom went bust in 1990. After paying over $1.2 billion for 85 percent of an e
xpanding property-development company, the Heiwa Shokai Investment Group had lost over $550 million when the properties were devalued.
That was the beginning of a number of setbacks for the wealthy industrialist, including heavy losses in the Tokyo stock market. Next came the deflation of the real economy and the associated plunge of corporate profits.
When the stock market dropped over 27 percent, Matsukawa and members of the other cartels encouraged the Japanese parliamentary panel to create a securities watchdog to monitor the Nikkei. While they waited for the panel to act on the perplexing securities problem, Japanese economists nicknamed the downturn baburu no hokai, or explosion of the bubble.
Fifteen months later, Matsukawa barely avoided a major scandal when two bank officials who had approved loans for him were found to be involved in fraudulent transactions with the billionaire.
Matsukawa calmly lied about his involvement with the bankers while he diverted large sums of money from their banks to a banking company where the chief executive officer was on the industrialist's payroll.
Matsukawa also experienced significant losses from speculative art, real estate holdings in California, and from his investments in the automobile industry. He was astounded when the U. S. Commerce Department ruled that Mazda and Toyota were illegally dumping minivans on the American market.
To Tadashi Matsukawa, dumping was merely good business that happened to be underwritten by the Japanese government. Matsukawa would flood a U. S. market with a quality product at a price below his competition's cost, wait for the various competitors to give up and go out of business, then raise the prices when he dominated the industry.
The business practice of dumping had worked fine until the Americans began to retaliate. People who knew the feisty Japanese businessman had learned not to mention the United States and automobiles in the same sentence.
His biggest single setback, which continued to consume him with rage, was the loss of $114 million in a patent dispute involving a video system for aircraft simulators. A federal jury in San Francisco ruled that one of his companies had intentionally infringed a patent held by an American inventor. Reluctantly, Matsukawa settled out of court to keep from tarnishing his corporate image, but the personal humiliation was indelibly imprinted in his mind.
Matsukawa was a volatile man with very little patience for people who didn't serve a useful purpose in his world. It was, however, painfully evident to anyone who knew him well that Matsukawa's character was, in one respect, fatally flawed. Unfortunately, Tadashi Matsukawa was born without a shred of conscience.
Although he was blessed with exceptional intelligence and unrivaled ingenuity, Matsukawa often fell victim to finding plausible reasons to circumvent his own logic. With a natural inclination to resist structure, he often let the explosive combination of superior intelligence and boredom lead him into bizarre schemes.
These traits became clearly apparent when the Liberal Democratic Party began to disintegrate. The violent conflict pitted the caretakers from the old guard against the ambitious young progressives. Matsukawa immediately saw a tremendous opportunity to take advantage of the turbulent process of political realignment. He smiled inwardly while turmoil swept through Japan's politics, knowing that the real power was still in the hands of the bureaucrats. The political chaos was a clever subterfuge to evade more pressure from the Americans.
The election upheaval, which was touted as the first step in a long campaign to reform the political process, was really a convenient smoke screen to alter Japan's course in history. Matsukawa, who laughed at the world for buying Japan's "stale-sake-in-new-bottles scheme," had his own grand design to help guide his country into a stronger and more competitive position.
His quiet solitude was interrupted when the English housekeeper stepped out to the pool deck. The middle-aged woman politely bowed before speaking. "Mr. Matsukawa, Senator Brazzell has arrived."
Matsukawa gave her a slow glance. "Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes," he said with a deep voice that cut through the cool air, "and fix him a double scotch on the rocks."
Senator Frank Brazzell, who had arranged for Matsukawa to buy a large share of a major U. S. investment firm, was the Chairman of the House Armed Services Committee. He was also the recipient of large under-the-table "contributions" from Matsukawa.
The unsmiling woman acknowledged the order and returned to the stately ranch home.
"Those lackeys in Congress will do anything for money," Matsukawa muttered to himself. He relaxed while he spent a few more minutes soaking in the warm water. The idea of keeping a U. S. Congressman waiting appealed to him.
Matsukawa and a number of other chief executive officers of Japanese mega-corporations had a great deal of influence over many Congressmen, including members of the House Science and Technology Committee, the House Appropriations Committee, and the Committee on Foreign Investment. The aggressive business leaders also had the Secretary of Commerce in their pocket and paid huge sums of money to former U. S. government officials to act as lobbyists for Japan.
Like Tadashi Matsukawa, most Japanese CEOs made sizable donations to many American colleges and universities. The ongoing endowments allowed the Japanese executives the privilege of arranging for the children or grandchildren of certain U. S. legislators to be accepted by the most prestigious universities in America, regardless of their academic qualifications.
The astute business leaders not only paid for the children's educations, they made sure the youngsters were offered well-paying jobs when they graduated. Most of the offers came from former American companies that were now owned by the large Japanese conglomerates.
If a legislator happened to chair an important committee, like the House Ways and Means or the Committee on Armed Services, Matsukawa quietly guaranteed the Honorable public servant's financial future in return for special consideration for his projects. The cozy arrangement, which provided a win for both parties, made perfect sense to the Japanese executive and the American politicians.
Matsukawa's worst fear was that some morning the American people would wake up and realize that the Japanese, in collusion with many of the elected officials on Capitol Hill, had economically raped their country.
Matsukawa believed that it was time to confront the arrogant Americans before the mood in the United States became both tougher and openly hostile. He viewed America as a debt-ridden nation in decline, plagued with crime and drugs and riddled with undisciplined minorities and a never-ending wave of undesirable immigrants.
He also bought protection from organized labor, and, through a distant third party, paid large sums to Japanese terrorist groups to stage anti-American attacks on U. S. facilities and citizens. Like the mythical Greek soldier who threw a stone in the midst of rival armies to get them to fight each other, Matsukawa relished fomenting trouble between Japan and the U. S.
In addition to his vast holdings and international influence in the business world, Tadashi Matsukawa was most pleased that he had access to the innermost chambers of the Central Intelligence Agency. His mole was a highly respected senior administrator in the Agency, but the American was afflicted with the common weakness of man--greed.
The career spook desperately wanted to retire and enjoy the largesse Matsukawa had provided, but the Japanese businessman kept upping the ante and the pressure. Now the billionaire wanted every thread of evidence the CIA gathered in connection with the assault on the cruise ship at Pearl Harbor. The worst fears of the lifelong bureaucrat were beginning to come true; he would never be able to retire while the ruthless Japanese executive held his future just out of grasp.
Rising from the water, Matsukawa paused to look at the pristine meadow at the base of the heavily wooded mountains. He watched a deer stop and cautiously drink from the stream running through the meadow. He glanced at his watch lying on the wooden bench, then sloshed out of the Jacuzzi and reached for a towel. The time had arrived to shove the good Senator's feet to the fire.
Chapter 3.
PIMMIT HILLS, VIRGINIA
Stephen Wickham sprinted the last seventy-five yards of his nightly four-mile run. Finally, with his lungs heaving for air, the former college track and field star slowed to a trot, then to an easy walk, and looked up at the star-studded sky.
The night was so flooded with moonlight that the attractive homes in the quiet subdivision looked like props from an old movie; the ones that had been filmed during the day, then filtered to look like it was dark. The shadows always stood out like neon signs blinking in the night.
The sweltering heat of the late afternoon had rapidly dissipated, and a slight breeze stirred the trees when the former Marine Corps captain reached his driveway.
A graduate of North Carolina State University, Steve Wickham had attended the Marine officer candidate school at Quantico, Virginia.
Commissioned a second lieutenant in the Reserve of the United States Marine Corps, Wickham completed the basic school, then reported to Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base, near San Clemente, California.
During his tours of duty in Southern California, Okinawa, and Iwakuni, Japan, he constantly studied foreign languages and became fluent in German and French. Like his father, who had served with distinction in the wartime Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and then later with the CIA, Steve wanted a career in the national intelligence organization.
Shortly after he left Japan and reported to Camp Lejeune, he distinguished himself as a combat leader and became a highly decorated veteran of the Grenada invasion.
With a chestful of ribbons and a personnel jacket full of excellent fitness reports, Steve vacillated about leaving the Marine Corps. Sure, he told himself over and over, staying in the service offered a certain amount of security, but he knew that he would always wonder if he could have been a good intelligence agent. Besides, long-range security had always taken a backseat to Steve's desire for adventure.
Wickham made his decision after talking with two senior officers who had elected to make their careers in the Corps. Quite simply, they had explained over beers at the Lejeune 0 Club, they stayed in the service because they had families to support and the civilian job market was too uncertain.