Honorable Enemies (1994)

by Joe Weber

  Caught in the middle of the dispute, Matsukawa had been forced to fly to Tokyo in the coach section of a Continental Airlines flight. The flight was a humiliating experience that he remembered with great contempt.

  When he received confirmation of his seating assignment, Matsukawa finished his drink, then tilted his seat back and stared at the ceiling of the jet. He, along with the Prime Minister and the leaders of the gurupu, would have to proceed cautiously and not let nationalist sentiments cloud their judgment.

  Matsukawa let his mind drift back to the attacks on the Pearl Harbor tour ship and the Japan Air Lines 747. He smiled to himself and thought about his close ties to the Chukaku-Ha terrorist group.

  A Matsukawa lieutenant had infiltrated the Kakumaru-Ha faction and helped plan the confrontation and subsequent split that had resulted in the Chukaku-Ha. Since 1983, when the leaders of the new terrorist organization instigated a mass struggle to change Japan's constitutional democracy, Matsukawa had had his finger on the pulse of the group.

  Using his loyal aide, the wealthy businessman continued to funnel money to the terrorist group to support anti-American demonstrations and periodic attacks on U. S. installations. Matsukawa thought about the tour-bus explosion in Osaka and the downed American F-16 fighter at Misawa; every attack--anything that heightened tensions--was sweet music to his ears.

  He snapped back to the present when the corporate jet flew through an area of moderate turbulence. Matsukawa sat up and cleared his mind.

  Regardless of how they approached the Americans, he thought while he leaned back and closed his eyes, the days of sumiwake--the peaceful sharing with others--were coming to an end.

  HILTON HAWAIIAN VILLAGE

  Steve Wickham shielded his eyes when the brightly colored JetRanger slowed to a hover, then gently landed on the heliport by the beach.

  "What a coincidence," Steve said to Theresa while the main rotor blades wound down.

  She cupped her ear. "I couldn't hear you."

  "It's nice that you operate from our hotel," he said in a loud voice.

  "I have to be close to the studio," she explained with mock seriousness as the contract pilot removed his headset and opened his door, "in the event that I have to scramble for a breaking news story."

  Steve looked askance. "Right."

  "Actually"--she turned to include Susan--"it's great publicity for the station."

  Susan nodded in agreement and followed Steve to the vividly colored JetRanger.

  After Theresa talked with the relief pilot, she helped Susan strap in while Steve nonchalantly climbed into the left front seat of Sky Nine.

  With a crowd of spectators watching, Theresa started the powerful turbine, checked her engine gauges, then brought the JetRanger to a hover and moved out over the clear water. A minute later they were racing toward Honolulu Internationa 1.

  When the helicopter was refueled at Air Service Hawaii, Sky Nine lifted off and headed directly toward Kahana Bay.

  Once they cleared the top of the Koolau Range, Theresa slowed the helo and flew equal distance between the ridgeline and the shore. She studied the overcast, mentally noting the decreased visibility.

  "We won't be able to stay long," she explained over the intercom. "The weather is about to clobber us and we don't have much daylight left."

  "You're the boss," Steve said politely and cinched his restraint harnesses tighter. "Make it easy on yourself."

  Susan was uncomfortable, but she decided not to question the pilot, at least not in front of Wickham.

  Theresa handed Steve a tattered map of Oahu. "If you see anything suspicious, make a note on the chart."

  "Will do."

  "If you want to photograph anything," Theresa went on while she pointed to the metal container next to Steve's seat, "feel free to use the camera. We keep plenty of extra film on board, so shoot all you like."

  "Thanks." He opened the case and removed the Pentax. "I appreciate it."

  "No problem."

  They continued along the coastline while Theresa pointed out two private residences that had heliports and small hangars. Steve photographed the lavish homes, then circled the locations on the map and made a check mark on the highway next to the shoreline.

  He keyed the intercom and looked at Theresa. "Those mansions--the ones with the helipads--must be owned by Japanese."

  "You're right," she confided with a wide grin. "They're in the twenty-five-to-thirty-million range, just in case you're interested."

  "Not this month," Steve absently replied while he snapped photos of another massive home.

  The opulent dwelling was new construction, complete with a huge free-form swimming pool with a large spa in the middle. A towering waterfall cascaded into a koi pond near a stone bridge that connected the marble spa to the large courtyard.

  Next to the pool area was a tennis court surrounded by a row of tall trees and colorful flowers and shrubbery. Above the pool area was an elevated sundeck and wet bar with an unobstructed view of the ocean.

  "Not a bad shack," Steve observed while he made a note and took a few more snapshots as they circled the home. He was surprised when he saw the camouflage-green landing aid near the tennis court.

  "Down there." He pointed and Theresa banked the JetRanger. "That's a wind sock, right?"

  She saw the conical, open-ended sleeve attached to a tall stand. The wind sock was connected to a pivot so it could swivel to indicate the wind direction.

  "That's right," Theresa replied and began slowing the helicopter. "They're usually bright orange, so this seems a bit strange to me."

  "Steve," Susan exclaimed over the intercom, "I just saw a man run around the back of the home and disappear inside. It looked like he was carrying a rifle."

  "Where?" he asked and quickly shifted his gaze.

  "By the side of the wing near the tennis court."

  They circled the home once more before Theresa keyed her intercom. "We're going to have to hustle to get back before the weather goes down."

  "Okay," Steve said and turned to look at Susan. "We need to check that place."

  "First on the list," she agreed, still looking down at the large estate. "It seems odd to have a camouflage wind sock--with no hangar or helipad--and a guy with a gun running for cover."

  Steve circled the location on the chart and then drew a straight line to the highway along the coastline. "We'll stop by tomorrow and pay them a visit."

  When the JetRanger approached Puumahie Point, Theresa rolled the helo into a shallow turn and descended. Her uneasiness grew as the lack of visibility and diminishing daylight forced her closer and closer to the shoreline. A minute later the first splashes of rain smacked into the windshield.

  "We may be in for a rough ride," Theresa announced while she added power and looked for a clear area along the ridge. She wanted to slip over the mountain range instead of having to fly all the way around the southeastern end of the island. "The visibility is dropping faster than I had anticipated."

  Steve quietly nodded and watched the coastline flash under Sky Nine. He glanced toward the ridgeline and saw that the top of the Koolau Range was completely obscured by the dense clouds. He looked at his watch and estimated that darkness would swallow them in fifteen to twenty minutes.

  Susan snugged her straps tighter and tried to concentrate on the scenery. She would have been more than happy to land while they could still see the ground, then hitchhike back to the Hilton.

  Staying close to the shoreline, Theresa turned on her recognition lights and flew over the open water until she was abeam Kualoa Point. "We're going to have to stay VFR and see if we can work our way around the island."

  "Whatever you think," Steve replied calmly while Susan fought the urge to speak out and suggest landing before the rain intensified.

  Theresa contacted the radar controller at Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station and requested vectors around Mokapu Peninsula. She didn't want to risk flying low over the ground in reduced visibility. T
he high-tension power lines were too hard to see, especially in the rain.

  When they were close to the southeastern tip of the island, the controller lost radar contact and Theresa was on her own. She tuned in the Koko Head VOR, a navigational aid known as a very-high-frequency omnirange station, and circumnavigated Kawaihoa Point.

  Proceeding outbound on the Koko Head 230-degree radial, Theresa detected a grayish-white glow ahead of the JetRanger. A fraction of a second later, she yanked up on the collective, and Sky Nine cleared the tall mast of a sailing ship with inches to spare.

  "That was a tad close," Steve exclaimed while he slowly let out his breath.

  Susan slumped in her seat and closed her eyes.

  With her heart in her throat, Theresa set her navigational aids to intercept the 110-degree radial of the Honolulu Vortac. When the needle centered, she turned inbound on the radial, knowing that it would keep her from hitting Diamond Head as she made her way to the heliport at the Hilton Hawaiian Village.

  Theresa took a deep, silent breath when the distance-measuring equipment indicated that she was directly offshore from the hotel. As the driving rain pounded the helicopter, she hovered low over the water and air-taxied Sky Nine toward the beach.

  A minute later Theresa and Steve simultaneously saw the beach emerge from the wall of water. She made a slight correction to the left and guided the helo to a smooth landing at the heliport.

  Susan still had her eyes closed. "Are we on the ground yet?" "Finally." Theresa sighed as she shut down the turbine. "I need to buy the two of you a tall drink."

  Chapter 11.

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Air Force Chief of Staff looked uneasy when they walked into the home of the contentious Secretary of Defense. They were not anxious to confront Bryce Mellongard with the unnerving fact that had recently surfaced, especially not at this hour of the night.

  When the distinguished-looking Chairman of the Joint Chiefs first contacted Mellongard at his residence, the former nuclear-submarine commander explained that the nature of his call was extremely sensitive.

  The Admiral mentioned that he was with the Air Force Chief of Staff and suggested that it might be prudent to have the CIA involved from the very beginning.

  In turn, the Defense Secretary invited them to his home and immediately called Paul Holcomb and requested that he attend the informal meeting.

  Mellongard always insisted that every detail be spelled out, with logical solutions for any problems, before he approached the President with perplexing issues.

  The Director of the CIA was already seated in the study when Mellongard rose and offered a perfunctory handshake to the two senior officers, then motioned them to a large sofa.

  Bryce Mellongard sat down and leaned forward with his forearms on his desk. "Well, Clay," he said to Admiral Clayton Biddk, "I can tell from the look on your face that you're not bringing me any good news."

  "Mr. Secretary," the submariner began sadly, "the Air Force has conclusive evidence to prove that a surface-to-air missile knocked down the F-16 we lost at Misawa."

  Mellongard and Paul Holcomb were stunned by the disclosure. The Secretary shifted in his chair and stared at Fred Dunwall, the lanky Air Force general. "What did you find, Fred, and how long have you known about this?"

  "Sir, I was informed about the missile approximately fifteen minutes before Admiral Biddle called you. Well-qualified eyewitnesses have claimed they saw a flash on the ground before the jet exploded."

  Dunwall looked at Paul Holcomb before he continued. "Our team of investigators found debris which clearly indicates that the aircraft was hit by an explosive weapon."

  "If I may, Fred," Admiral Biddle interrupted as politely as possible. "Mr. Secretary, the key element in the crash investigation is the fact that Air Force personnel found remnants of a Soviet-made SA-7 surface-to-air missile near the perimeter of the base."

  Mellongard's eyes widened and he leaned back in his seat. It was hard for him to comprehend that a shoulder-launched antiaircraft missile had downed an American jet fighter in the middle of Japan.

  "The weapon apparently malfunctioned when it was fired," the Chairman of the JCS continued. "The Air Force investigators found pieces of the SA-7, and there were splatters of blood on the fragments."

  "They didn't leave the entire weapon behind?" Paul Holcomb suddenly interjected.

  "No, sir," Biddle answered. "They apparently gathered what they could and got the hell out of there."

  Mellongard turned to the self-serving director of the CIA.

  "Paul, what do you make of this? Do you think this was another terrorist attack?"

  Holcomb cleared his throat to give himself time to formulate his response. He was aware that international arms brokers were selling large quantities of the SA-7 Grail infrared-homing missiles as fast as they could get their hands on them.

  "It could very well be the Chukaku-Ha," Holcomb suggested, remembering the latest terrorist brief he had received. "We're aware that the Organizatsiya--the Russian organized-crime element--is supplying terrorist groups with the latest military hardware, including mortars, AKM assault rifles, rocket-propelled grenades, incendiary devices, and shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles."

  Mellongard grew more uncomfortable as he thought about discussing the situation with the President. He fixed his gaze on Holcomb. "What are the real capabilities of this group--the Chukaku-Ha?"

  It was the Director's time to squirm. "I--we simply don't know. But they are definitely a formidable and violent group. I see no reason to count them out."

  Holcomb attempted to control the conversation by taking the offensive. "Our latest intelligence reports confirm that members of the Russian underground, accompanied by Soviet military officers, have been selling weapons-grade uranium and small, low-yield nuclear bombs to agents who regularly supply weapons to various terrorist factions."

  Mellongard tugged at an earlobe. "Nuclear bombs?"

  "That's correct. The nukes are small, but they're remotely controlled and they can reduce a small town to a pile of rubble. If they had used one of the smallest nukes on the World Trade Center, the twin towers would no longer exist and lower Manhattan would be polluted by radiation."

  The Secretary's growing concern prodded him into being cautious. "What kind of confirmation do you have?" Holcomb paused and glanced at the officers, then framed his answer and looked at Mellongard. "Our agents have secretly filmed the exchanges, and federal police inspectors in Frankfurt and Stuttgart have recently arrested representatives of several terrorist groups--with the uranium in their possession. They even snagged one buyer who had a nuclear weapon in the back of a panel truck."

  Mellongard was thinking ahead to his upcoming meeting with the President. "Are you telling me the Chukaku-Ha might have nuclear weapons?"

  "It's impossible to know for sure." Paul Holcomb had mastered the art of dodging questions. "If a terrorist group has the means--the money and the contacts, and the Chukaku-Ha has both--they could conceivably get nuclear weapons from underground arms-brokers."

  Unsure of how much he should reveal, Holcomb decided to be conservative and discuss only unclassified information. "We have confirmation that international arms dealers--mainly the crime bosses in the Organizatsiya--have set up cafeteria-style armories where agents for the terrorist groups can stroll through and pick out anything on the market."

  When the Secretary didn't respond, Holcomb quickly continued in a defensive posture. "If the local authorities can't control the spread of weapons--even small nuclear weapons--we certainly can't do anything about the proliferation."

  Giving himself time to weigh a few options, Mellongard cast a long look at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "Clay, what's your recommendation about the situation in Misawa?"

  Living up to his reputation as a straight shooter, the Admiral spoke freely. "Sir, my concerns are more broad. I'm concerned about all of our bases in Japan."
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  The Defense Secretary tensed. He felt like he was being manipulated out on a limb. "Explain your concerns."

  "From a military standpoint, if we continue to keep forces in Japan, we have to substantially increase our security system at every base. My recommendation is to use the Marine Corps to provide perimeter security at all our military facilities over there."

  Clay Biddle continued after he saw the slight nod of approval from the Secretary. "From the other side of the coin, however, I believe we need to decide whether or not our military forces should even be in Japan."

  "That's definitely something we should take into consideration," SECDEF lied. He didn't want to become embroiled in that issue. Leave it to the next Secretary.

  Mellongard turned his attention to the Air Force Chief of Staff. "Fred, how do you feel about our presence in Japan?"

  "I agree with Clay about security. Faced with the growing tide of animosity between our countries, my main concern is preventing the loss of any more lives or aircraft, regardless of who is shooting at us."

  Mellongard was more uncomfortable then ever, but he sounded dispassionate when he spoke. "Do you think we really need a fighter wing at Misawa?"

  The General, still troubled over losing a bright young pilot to terrorists, finally answered. "Sir, I think the forward presence of our military keeps problems to a minimum in various areas of the world. In my opinion the North Koreans would be more aggressive if we pulled out. However"--he rotated the academy ring around his finger--"whatever is decided, my personal responsibility is to take appropriate measures to protect the men and women in the Air Force."

  The room suddenly became quiet while Mellongard leaned forward on his desk and rubbed his eyes. "I'll meet with the President as soon as I can."

  HAWAII

  Susan and Steve finished dinner and were walking across the large, airy breezeway by the registration desk when they saw Marcus Callaway. He had changed into shorts and a knit pullover that complemented his muscular physique.