by Tom Clancy
“What do you mean?” Yamata demanded. It was a chilling thought. His own home had been invaded. By whom?
“I mean Koga has disappeared and Kaneda is dead. One of your security people is still alive, but all he saw was two or three gaijin. They disabled him and he doesn’t even know how.”
“What is being done?”
“It’s being handled as a police matter,” Kazuo Taoka told his boss. “Of course I didn’t tell them about Koga.”
“He must be found, and quickly.” Yamata looked out the window. Luck was still with him. The call, after all, had caught him at home.
“I don’t know—”
“I do. Thank you for the information.” Yamata killed the line, then placed another call.
Murray hurried through White House security, having left his service pistol in his official car. His month had not been any better than the rest of the government’s. He’d blown the Linders case with a rookie mistake. Brandy plus a cold medication, he said to himself yet again, wondering just what Ryan and the President would have to say to him about that. The criminal case had come apart, and his only satisfaction was that at least he had not brought a possibly innocent man to trial and further embarrassed the Bureau. Whether or not Ed Kealty was really guilty of anything was a side issue for the FBI executive. If you couldn’t prove it to a jury, then the defendant was innocent, and that was that. And the man would soon be leaving government service for good. That was something, Murray told himself as a Secret Service agent conducted him not to Ryan’s office, but to the one at the opposite corner of the West Wing.
“Hi, Dan,” Jack said, standing when he came in.
“Mr. President,” Murray said first. He didn’t know the other man in the room.
“Hi, I’m Scott Adler.”
“Hello, sir.” Murray took his hand. Oh, that was the guy running the negotiations with the Japs, he realized.
Some work had already been accomplished. Ryan could not believe that Adler was the leak. The only others who knew were himself, the President, Brett Hanson, Ed and Mary Pat, and perhaps a few secretaries. And Christopher Cook.
“How close are we keeping tabs on Japanese diplomats?” Ryan asked.
“They don’t move around without somebody keeping an eye on them,” Murray assured them. “We’re talking espionage?”
“Probably. Something very important leaked out.”
“It has to be Cook,” Adler said. “It just has to be.”
“Okay, there are some things you need to know,” the National Security Advisor said. “Less than three hours ago we slam-dunked their air defenses. We think we killed ten or eleven aircraft.” He could have gone further, but did not. It was still possible that Adler was the leak, after all, and the next step of Operation ZORRO had to come as a surprise.
“That’s going to make them nervous, and they still have nuclear weapons. A bad combination, Jack,” the Deputy Secretary of State pointed out.
Nukes? Murray thought. Jesus.
“Any changes in their negotiating position?” the President asked.
Adler shook his head. “None, sir. They will offer us Guam back, but they want the rest of the Marianas for themselves. They’re not backing off a dot from that, and nothing I’ve said has shaken them loose.”
“Okay.” Ryan turned. “Dan, we’ve been in contact with Mogataru Koga—”
“He’s the ex-Prime Minister, right?” Dan asked, wanting to make sure he was up to speed on this. Jack nodded.
“Correct. We have two CIA officers in Japan covered as Russians, and they met with Koga under that cover. But Koga got himself kidnapped by the guy who we think is running the whole show. He told Koga that he knew about contacts with Americans. ”
“It has to be Cook,” Adler said again. “Nobody else on the delegation knows, and Chris does my informal contacts with their number-two, Seiji Nagumo.” The diplomat paused, then let his anger show. “It’s just perfect, isn’t it?”
“Espionage investigation?” Murray asked. Significantly, he saw, the President let Ryan handle the answer.
“Fast and quiet, Dan.”
“And then?” Adler wanted to know.
“If it’s him, we flip the bastard right over.” Murray nodded at once on hearing the FBI euphemism.
“What do you mean, Jack?” Durling asked.
“It’s a real opportunity. They think they have a good intel source, and they’ve shown the willingness to use the information from it. Okay,” Jack said, “we can use that to our advantage. We give them some juicy information and then we stick it right up their ass.”
The most immediate need was to buttress the air defenses for the Home Islands. That realization caused no small amount of thinking at Japanese defense headquarters, and most uncomfortably, it was based on partial information, not the precise sort of data that had been used to prepare the overall operational plan that the military high command was trying to stick with. The best radar warning systems their country owned were seaborne on the four Kongo-class Aegis destroyers patrolling off the northern Marianas. They were formidable ships with self-contained air-defense systems. Not quite as mobile as the E-767s, they were more powerful, however, and able to take care of themselves. Before dawn, therefore, an order was flashed out for the four-ship squadron to race north to establish a radar-picket line east of the Home Islands. After all, the U.S. Navy wasn’t doing anything, and if their country’s defenses came back together, there was yet a good chance for a diplomatic solution.
On Mutsu, Admiral Sato saw the logic of it when he receipted the signal and gave orders for his ships to go to their maximum sustained speed. Nonetheless, he was concerned. He knew that his SPY radar systems could detect stealthy aircraft, something the Americans had demonstrated in tests against their own, and his ships were sufficiently powerful that American aircraft would not lightly engage them. What worried him was that for the first time his country was not acting but reacting to American moves. That, he hoped, was temporary.
“That’s interesting,” Jones observed at once. The traces were only a few minutes old, but there were two of them, probably representing more than two ships in a tight formation, making noise and with a slight northerly bearing change.
“Surface ships, sure as hell,” OT2/c Boomer observed. “This looks like pounding—” He stopped when Jones circled another trace in red.
“And that’s a blade-rate. Thirty-plus knots, and that means warships in one big hurry.” Jones walked over to the phone and called ComSubPac. “Bart? Ron? We have something here. That ’can squadron that’s been operating around Pagan.”
“What about it?” Mancuso asked.
“They seem to be doing a speed-run north. We have anybody up waiting for them?” Then Jones remembered several inquiries about the waters around Honshu. Mancuso wasn’t telling him everything, as was to be expected for operational matters. The way he evaded the question would be the real answer, the civilian thought.
“Can you plot me a course?”
Bingo. “Give us a little while, an hour maybe? The data is still a little fuzzy, Skipper.”
The voice was not overly disappointed at the answer, Jones noted. “Aye, sir. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Good work, Ron.”
Jones replaced the phone and looked around. “Senior Chief? Let’s start doing a plot on these traces.” Somewhere north, he thought, somebody was waiting. He wondered who it might be, and came up with one answer.
Time was working in the opposite direction now. Hiroshi Goto opened his cabinet meeting at ten in the morning, local time, which was midnight in Washington, where his negotiators were. It was clear that the Americans were making a contest of it, though some in the room thought that it could just be a negotiating ploy, that they had to make some show of force in order to be taken seriously at the negotiating table. Yes, they had stung the air-defense people badly, but that was all. America could not and would not launch systematic attacks against Japan. The risks were
too great. Japan had nuclear-tipped missiles, for one thing. For another, Japan had sophisticated air defenses despite the events of the previous night, and then there was simple arithmetic. How many bombers did America have? How many could strike at their country even if there were nothing to stop them? How long would such a bombing campaign take? Did America have the political will for it? The answers to all of these questions were favorable to their country, the cabinet members thought, their eyes still fixed on the ultimate goal, whose shining prize glittered before them, and besides, each man in this room had a patron of sorts to make sure that they took the proper spin on things. Except Goto, they knew, whose patron was elsewhere at the moment.
For the moment, the Ambassador in Washington would object strongly to the American attack on Japan, and note that it was not a helpful act, and that there would be no further concessions until they were stopped. It would be further noted that any attack on the Japanese mainland would be considered an exceedingly grave matter; after all, Japan had not attacked vital American interests directly ... yet. That threat, behind the thinnest of veils, would surely bring some rationality to the situation.
Goto nodded agreement to the suggestions, wishing that his own patron were about to support him and knowing that Yamata had already bypassed him and spoken with defense officials directly. He’d have to talk to Raizo about that.
“And if they come back?” he asked.
“We’ll have our defenses at maximum alert tonight, and when the destroyers arrive on station, they will be as formidable as before. Yes, they have made their show of force, but they have not as yet so much as flown over our territory.”
“We must do more than that,” Goto said, recalling his instructions. “We can put more pressure on the Americans by making our ultimate weapons public.”
“No!” a minister said at once. “That will cause chaos here!”
“It will also cause chaos there,” Goto replied, somewhat weakly, the rest of the cabinet thought. Again, they saw, he was voicing the thoughts and orders of someone else. They knew who that was. “It will force them to alter the tone of their negotiations.”
“It could easily force them to consider a grave attack on us.”
“They have too much to lose,” Goto insisted.
“And we do not?” the Minister shot back, wondering just where his loyalty to his patron ended and his loyalty to his countrymen began. “What if they decide to preempt?”
“They cannot. They don’t have the weapons to do it. Our missiles have been very carefully located.”
“Yes, and our air-defense systems are invincible, too,” another minister snorted.
“Perhaps the best thing to do is for our ambassador to suggest that we might reveal that we have the atomic weapons. Perhaps that would be enough,” a third minister suggested. There were some nods around the table, and Goto, despite his instructions, agreed to that.
The hardest part was keeping warm, despite all the cold-weather gear they had brought along. Richter snuggled himself into the sleeping bag, and allowed himself to be vaguely guilty for the fact that the Rangers had to maintain listening outposts around the rump airfield they’d established on this frigid mountainside. His principal worry was a system failure in one of the three aircraft. Despite all the redundancies built into them, there were several items which, if they broke, could not be fixed. The Rangers knew how to fuel the birds, and how to load weapons, but that was about it. Richter had already decided to let them worry about ground security. If so much as a platoon showed up in this high meadow, they were doomed. The Rangers could kill every intruder, but one radio call could have a battalion here in hours, and there was no surviving that. Special-operations, he thought. They were good so long as they worked, just like everything else you did in uniform, but the current situation had a safety margin so thin that you could see through it. Then there was the issue of getting out, the pilot reminded himself. He might as well have joined the Navy.
“Nice house.”
The rules were different in time of war, Murray told himself. Computers made it easier, a fact that the Bureau had been slow to learn. Assembling his team of young agents, the first task had been to run nothing more sophisticated than a credit check, which gave an address. The house was somewhat upscale, but within the reach, barely, of a supergrade federal employee if he’d saved his pennies over the years. That was something Cook had not done, he saw. The man did all his banking at First Virginia, and the FBI had a man able to break into the bank records, far enough to see that, like most people, Christopher Cook had lived largely from one biweekly paycheck to the next, saving a mere fourteen thousand dollars along the way, probably for the college education of his kids, and that, Murray knew, was on the dumb side of optimistic, what with the cost of American higher education. More to the point, when he’d settled on the new house, the savings had gone untouched. He had a mortgage, but the amount was less than two hundred thousand dollars, and with the hundred-eighty realized from the sale of his previous home, that left a sizable gap that bank records could not explain. Where had the other money come from? A call to a contact at the IRS, proposing a possible case of tax evasion, had turned up other computerized records, enough to show that there was no additional family income to explain it; a check of antecedents showed that the parents of both the Cooks, all deceased, had not left either husband or wife with a windfall. Their cars, a further check showed, were paid for, and while one of them was four years old, another was a Buick that probably had the original smell still inside, and that also had been purchased with cash. What they had was a man living beyond his means, and while the government had often enough failed to make note of that in espionage cases, it had learned a little of late.
“Well?” Murray asked his people.
“It’s not a case yet, but it sure as hell smells like one,” the next-senior agent thought. “We need to visit some banks and get a look at more records.” For which a court order was required, but they already knew which judge to go to for that. The FBI always knew which judges were tame and which were not.
Similar checks, of course, had been run on Scott Adler, who, they found, was divorced, living alone in a George-town flat, paying alimony and child support, driving a nice car, but otherwise very normal. Secretary Hanson was quite wealthy from years of practicing law, and a poor subject for attempted bribery. The extensive background checks run on all the subjects for their government offices and security clearances were reexamined and found to be normal, except for Cook’s recent auto and home purchases. Somewhere along the line they’d find a canceled check drawn on some bank or other to explain the easy house settlement. That was one nice thing about banks. They had records on everything, and it was always on some sort of paper, and it always left a trail.
“Okay, we will proceed on the assumption that he’s our boy.” The Deputy Assistant Director looked around at the bright group of agents who, like him, had neglected to consider the possibility that Barbara Linders had been on a prescription medication that had acted with the brandy Ed Kealty had once kept close at all times. Their collective embarrassment was as great as his own. Not an entirely bad thing, Dan thought. You worked hard to restore your credibility after a goof.
Jackson felt the hard thump of the carrier landing, then the snapping deceleration of the arrestor wire as he was pressed hard into the back-facing passenger seat of the COD. Another odious experience over, he thought. He much preferred to land on a carrier with his own hands on the controls, uncomfortable with trusting his life to some teenage lieutenant, or so they now all looked to the Admiral. He felt the aircraft turn to the right, heading off to an unoccupied portion of the flight deck, and presently a door opened and he hustled out. A deck crewman saluted, pointing him to an open door in the carrier’s island structure. The ship’s bell was there, and as soon as he got under cover, a Marine saluted, and a bosun’s mate worked the striker on the bell, announcing into the 1-MC system, “Task Force Seventy-Seven, arrivi
ng.”
“Welcome aboard, sir,” Bud Sanchez said with a grin, looking very natty in his flight suit. “Captain’s on the bridge, sir.”
“Then let’s get to work.”
“How’s the leg, Robby?” the CAG asked halfway up the third ladder.
“Stiff as hell after all the sitting.” It had taken time. The briefing at Pearl Harbor, the Air Force flight to Eniwetok, then waiting for the C-2A to show up to bring him to his command. Jackson was beyond jet lag, but for all that, eager now, about noon, he thought, according to where the sun was.
“Is the cover story holding?” Sanchez asked next.
“No telling, Bud. Until we get there.” Jackson allowed a Marine to open the door to the wheelhouse. His leg really was stiff, just one more reminder that flight operations were over for him.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” the CO said, looking up from a sheaf of dispatches.
The roar of afterburners told Jackson that Johnnie Reb was conducting flight operations, and he looked quickly forward to see a Tomcat leap off the port-forward cat. The carrier was about halfway between the Carolines and Wake. The latter island was somewhat closer to the Marianas, and for that reason was not being used for anything. Wake had a fine airfield, still supported by the Air Force. Eniwetok was just a recovery field, known to be such, and therefore made a more covert base for staging aircraft, if a far less convenient one for maintaining them.
“Okay, what’s been happening since I left Pearl?” Jackson asked.
“Some good news.” The CO handed over one of the dispatches.
“It’s definite as hell,” Jones said, leaning over the sonar traces.
“They sure are in a hurry,” Mancuso agreed, his eyes plotting speed and distance and not liking what they saw, further confirming what Jones suspected.