Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Hiraku pressed the satchel to her chest. “Stop this! All of you!”

  Carrington released his hold on the satchel and turned to Reb. “Go meet Mariel down on the beach and take Mashima with you, but let’s be clear on one thing, me and the girl are the only people getting on the boat.”

  When Mashima again objected Carrington lost his temper. “Right now, my orders are to leave this island with her,” he said, glancing at Hiraku. “Mashima, I’m sure if you cooperate with the government’s investigation, that will be taken into consideration. You’ll likely be called to testify.”

  Mashima blanched. His eyes welled with tears. “You are handing me a death sentence.”

  Carrington didn’t answer. He stomped down the trail that wound around a Japanese concrete pillbox from World War II and led toward the darkened beach. Hannah was concealed in the brush when the others traipsed past.

  “Over here.”

  Carrington held up a hand to halt those behind him. He crouched near Hannah. “Did you try the radio?”

  “Yes. No go. I tried twice to raise the sub.”

  “What about the light?”

  “No. I was waiting for you. Didn’t want to give away my position until it was absolutely necessary.”

  “Let’s give it a try.”

  Hannah flashed the light, using Morse code to signal the inbound SEAL team.

  Minutes later they heard the whine and purr of an outboard engine and saw the silhouette of two rubber boats with SEALs aboard streaming through the surf. A light flashed from the closest inflatable. Hannah answered.

  When the first boat nudged the sand three of the six SEALs bounded onto the beach and took up defensive positions. A fourth remained in control of the boat while the remaining two unloaded watertight equipment boxes and stacked them on the sand.

  The second boat came alongside and it, too, pushed its way onto the sand. Once again, three SEALs leaped onto the beach, weapons ready to unleash a barrage of firepower. The fourth stayed at the helm while the last two passed additional watertight boxes of equipment to those ashore.

  Hannah kept watch on their surroundings. Carrington was next to her, their shoulders touching. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and maybe even kiss her goodbye, but decided against it. Things had become awkward between them. Feeling unsettled, he gazed sadly at Hannah and simply said, “Be safe. I’ll see you back at Langley.”

  Hannah avoided Carrington’s eyes. She slipped the Glock pistol from its clip on her waist and pulled back the slide to make certain a round was already in the chamber.

  Reb smiled. “I’ll watch out for her.”

  Carrington felt those words like a gut punch but he didn’t show it. He nodded to Reb. “Once you leave the beach, stay focused on the ship. You went through BUDS, so I know you’re familiar with the equipment that’s being unloaded. Might be an updated timer or modified fuse, but everything else is standard issue.”

  “How long do we have to make this happen?”

  “No change in our orders since we last heard from Stu. As far as Langley is concerned, the quicker, the better.”

  Ignoring Mashima, Carrington reached for Hiraku’s tiny wrist. “Let’s go. We need to get you off this fucked-up island.”

  Hiraku didn’t look back. She followed the SEALs who led them to the boats, instructed her and Carrington on where to sit for balance, and pushed the first of the bobbing crafts back into the surf. The second SEAL team helped carry the boxes of equipment to Carrington’s rental car before following the return route in the darkness. The Dry Deck Shelter was waiting for them, positioned just offshore. Once the rubber boats were again safely inside the mobile shelter, the craft headed for the submarine where it reattached itself to the deck.

  51

  Special Delivery

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  With all the equipment stashed in the trunk and back seat, the compact rental car was striking the hard coral whenever it took a road bump. The trunk and most of the rear passenger compartment were packed full. Mashima was barely visible since three of the boxes filled with C-4 were stacked on his lap.

  Hannah drove from Obyan Beach to Chalan Kanoa and parked beside their hotel. It was still night so they unloaded the equipment, exhausted by the time the last box was brought inside. Hannah took the first watch while Reb inspected the gear.

  The two sets of Draeger diving rebreathers, which gave off no telltale bubbles, were packed in cases alongside twin sets of fins, masks, wetsuits, knives, and waterproof spotlights. The other crates held timers, Limpet mines and C-4 explosive packaged to resemble heroin bricks. The bulky portable computer terminal, which would allow them to communicate via the ARPANET, was securely padded in a large suitcase.

  Reb had become familiar with most of the equipment while undergoing his Basic Underwater Demolition (BUDS) training at the Navy’s special warfare base in San Diego, California. The SEAL school was officially named Naval Amphibious Base Coronado where candidates conducted maneuvers in the surf along the infamous Silver Strand beach.

  The SEALs on his team had blown plenty of concrete and metal structures to smithereens as part of their ocean and surf skills.

  “Sure glad somebody at Langley was thinking ahead far enough to send us the Draegers,” said Hannah. “We trained with these at The Farm, but I could use a refresher. Regulating the oxygen with the tri-mix gas was always a bit daunting.”

  Reb looked at her with warm and appreciative eyes. “I’ll go over everything with you before we hit the water, especially the air supply monitor.”

  Mashima seemed overwhelmed by all the special equipment. “Won’t the guards on the ship see your bubbles and start shooting?”

  Reb explained. “We’ll approach ship during daylight. Nobody will see our bubbles because there won’t be any. But it’s still going to be pitch dark once we’re in the shadow of the hull.”

  Hannah picked up the two spotlights and tested them. The beams illuminated the hotel room walls. “Thank you, Langley.”

  “Amen,” said Reb. “We need to set up a surveillance site from where we can watch the comings and goings aboard the freighter.”

  Mashima smiled for the first time in hours. “I’ll talk to Father Garcia. He’s a friend who has no love for the yakuza and his church is across from Sugar Dock. I’ll go see him first thing in the morning.”

  Reb nodded approval. “That’s welcome news, Mashima.”

  “Perhaps your superiors will see the value and in appreciation ensure my passage to the United States.”

  “You know that sort of decision is above my pay grade, but I’ll certainly put in a good word for you.”

  Mashima offered a slight bow. “Thank you.”

  “If your friend is agreeable and willing to take the risk, we’ll offload this equipment at the church tomorrow evening once it’s dark.”

  Hannah disappeared into the bathroom and quickly returned wearing a thin black wetsuit. She hoisted one of the Draeger rebreathers, slung it across her chest and cinched the straps. She also tried on the mask and fins.

  Reb chuckled. “Looks like you’re ready to go.”

  Over the next hour, Reb sorted the explosives and explained where and how the Limpets must be attached to the freighter’s hull. He also showed Hannah how to set the fuse timers, emphasizing they would need to swim away from the area as quickly as possible.

  “I’m excited that we’re doing this together,” she said. “Sorry, but with all that’s been happening, I forgot to tell you the flight chief aboard the helo that airlifted Decker told me to give you his best. In fact, he said you’re the best.”

  Reb guffawed. “I don’t know about that. He was just talking like a brother SEAL.”

  “I guess that’s why Stu didn’t order an entire SEAL team.”

  “Believe me, it was discussed as a possibility, but Stu’s bosses in DC didn’t want to risk any political embarrassment in the event so
mething went wrong. It might be looked upon as a hostile military action. The people here are already touchy about the presence of our fleet and the growing number of support ships in these waters.”

  “So it’s just you and me.”

  “Just you and me.” Reb held up an open palm and Hannah swatted it.

  52

  Vice Grip

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Mashima knocked on the door to the Blue Pacific Aviation office where he found a dazed Whirly Man half way through a bottle of tequila. The pilot was sorting through dozens of faded color photographs spread across a long wood table. The images were mostly of young American soldiers standing around olive-green Huey helicopters, smoking or brandishing their weapons, acting macho, with the jungle in the background.

  Mashima’s eyes locked on a small cluster of photos. One showed a crashed Huey helicopter badly twisted and burned, another a downed Huey medevac with a large red-and-white cross emblem painted on its hull.

  The stub of a marijuana cigarette lay in the ashtray on the table. A bony stray cat was hunched over, gnawing on a half-eaten tuna sandwich. The animal didn’t flinch as Mashima approached.

  Whirly Man raised his head in a fog. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little Jap detective. Did you come to arrest me for flying your Jappo brothers yesterday? Aiding and abetting fugitives from justice? I guess you don’t need to worry about Tanaka anymore.”

  “I would certainly like to hear from you what happened aboard your helicopter, at least the moments leading up to and those following Tanaka’s death.”

  “What’s to tell? You already heard it all from the girl, Mariel, or is her name Hannah?”

  Whirly Man shakily poured himself three fingers of tequila in a smudged glass. He held up the bottle, offering it to Mashima.

  “Thank you for your offer, but I’m on duty.”

  “Suit yourself. More for me.”

  “It appears you have already had quite a few.”

  “Any law against that?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Why do you give a fuck what happened to Tanaka? His death means one less scumbag on Saipan.”

  “If he was murdered, then yes, it’s my responsibility to find out who did it.”

  Whirly Man laughed. “Ah, I forgot. You are Detective Mashima, seeker of truth.”

  “Can you share with me your version of events?”

  Whirly Man sliced a wedge from a fresh lime, sipped his tequila and bit into the fruit, which puckered his lips. “It went down just like the spy girl said it did. Tanaka freaked out when we started flying over the cliffs near where his parents took the plunge back in ’44. One minute he was there, and the next he had the door open.”

  “So you are telling me for the record that he jumped to his death?”

  “That’s what happened.”

  Mashima stepped toward the door and rested a hand on the knob, purposely pausing for effect. He slowly turned and glanced back at Whirly Man. “I don’t believe you. I think he was pushed.”

  “Think what you want. I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Would you be willing to take a lie-detector test?”

  “Go fuck yourself, Mashima.”

  Mashima returned to the police station in Garapan to make amends with Chief Napuna for failing to keep him in the loop about the American special ops team on his island.

  The chief was sitting at his office desk in front of an oscillating fan, the breeze from which was disturbing the incident reports clutched between his fingers.

  “What is it, detective? I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Only if you can offer some explanation about what’s going on. Asaki is dead. Tanaka is dead. His loyal servant and alleged assassin Akumu is dead. Krill, the Lucky Carp night manager, is dead. Sgt. Torres is dead. At least four of Tanaka’s bodyguards are dead, maybe more. All these bodies are piled up on our little island, not to mention the Lover’s Lane couple, a case that troubles me deeply yet remains unsolved. And let us not forget that Yoshi Yamamoto is still missing and presumed dead. Oh, and in case you hadn’t heard, a well-known Japanese fashion model was raped in her room at the Hotel Nikko.”

  Mashima stood uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He remained silent.

  “What do you make of all this, detective? I get the distinct feeling you know a lot more than you are telling me.”

  “I’ve spoken to the Blue Pacific Aviation helicopter pilot. He tells the same story as the travel agent.”

  “I assume you are referring to Mariel Becker, or Hannah, or whoever she is? We called the Argentine company she supposedly represents and they confirmed she is in their employ, as is her male companion, who goes by the name Jake Marson. Suddenly neither she nor Mr. Marson can be found.”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t know where she is, nor do I know where Mr. Marson is at this very moment. Their hotel room is unoccupied and their rental car isn’t parked nearby.”

  “Did you question the other man who was in the helicopter?”

  “Yes. Mr. Sadashi. He believes, as does the pilot, that Mr. Tanaka took his own life due to personal stress.”

  “And where is Mr. Sadashi?

  “He returned to Tanaka’s house where he had been staying but did not want to remain overnight because the police teams were still gathering evidence and the scene was very bloody. Mr. Sadashi indicated he would get a hotel room. He was ordered not to leave the island, but he has not been charged with any crime. When we last talked, he was distressed that he was unable to act as a second after Tanaka decided to take his own life. If Tanaka had waited until they were back on the ground, Sadashi claims he would have ensured his boss a more merciful and honorable death.

  The chief clasped his hands together and rested them atop the stack of reports. “So where were you when all this tragedy was unfolding?”

  Mashima felt a chill wash over his body and again shifted his stance. “I was helping Hiraku, Yoshi Yamamoto’s niece, who feared she would be killed by the yakuza.”

  “And why would she believe that?”

  “She was being held captive by Tanaka and tortured. Tanaka learned she and her uncle had secretly met with the CIA. He wanted to know what she and her uncle had told them.”

  “And where is Hiraku now? Missing like the others?”

  Mashima cleared his throat before speaking. “I believe she may be under Mr. Marson’s protection.”

  Chief Napuna hissed with exasperation. “Are you saying you turned her over to the CIA?”

  “Yes, chief.”

  “Please give me one good reason why.”

  “Because she has information about the drug smuggling that the yakuza do not want shared with law enforcement. Her life is in danger and I have no way to protect her.”

  “The two FBI agents were here this morning. They claim Mariel Becker told them some wild story about how Tanaka’s associate, Akumu, killed Krill with an ice pick, only to be shot to death by Tanaka at his home.”

  “I believe that is the truth.”

  “They were also told Akumu murdered Sgt. Torres, but that she did it freelance and not under orders by Tanaka. Do you believe that, too, is the truth?”

  “Yes, chief. The wounds were consistent with the story. But it was Tanaka and his bodyguards who murdered Asaki and threw his body into the surf before kidnapping and murdering Yoshi Yamamoto. Tanaka had a videotape of Yamamoto’s horrible death. He was proud of it.”

  “And where might that videotape be now?”

  “I believe Hiraku has it.”

  Chief Napuna buried his face in his hands. “You should have kept me informed as these events occurred. Instead, you left me in the dark and looking foolish, especially to the two FBI men.”

  Mashima bowed solemnly. “Please accept my apology. It was never my intention to shame you in any way.”

  “Get o
ut! I can’t bear to look at you. Maybe you can go do some real police work for a change. Knock on some doors. Find out who killed the couple on Lover’s Lane. It’s the sort of crime that leaves people feeling unsafe, and we don’t want that here on Saipan.”

  Mashima stepped backward until he bumped against the office doorframe. Startled, he turned into the hallway and walked briskly to his truck.

  53

  Crunch Time

  Washington, D.C.

  April 1990

  Stu Ashwood was waiting at the safehouse a half-hour drive from Dulles International Airport when Carrington arrived with Hiraku. Both the CIA officer and his guest were jetlagged and moving lethargically.

  Over the next two hours, Ashwood gently asked the young woman many questions, the session tempered by his constant reminder that time was of the essence.

  “There are people in the field right now whose lives could be jeopardized if they don’t receive some very important information within the next few hours.”

  “I understand the predicament,” she said.

  Carrington handed over the floppy disk and the videotape. The disk buzzed and whirred when inserted into the desktop computer. Eventually the monitor illuminated and displayed a lengthy series of notes.

  Two casually-dressed men had listened quietly from where they leaned against a far wall in the soundproof room. Neither had been introduced. They were in their late twenties, maybe early thirties. As Ashwood slowly scrolled through the text, Carrington and the other two men gathered behind him.

  Carrington had considered trying to open and read the disk while aboard the submarine, but Ashwood advised against it. Security was always a concern and since the sensitive situation was far from over, the deputy director didn’t want to risk adding more variables.

  Two separate files on the floppy disk were crudely-drawn maps.