Honorable Enemies (1994)

by Joe Weber

  After seeing the longing in their eyes, Steve knew what he had to do; what he was able and suited to do. Although he thoroughly enjoyed the Marines, he had always dreamed of a career in the CIA.

  He was a bachelor who banked most of his paychecks in long-term savings, so in his mind he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  Less than three months later, attired in a freshly pressed conservative gray suit and perfectly shined black shoes, he reported for work at Langley, Virginia.

  Over a decade later, Steve Wickham was still handsome, with shallow furrows in his brow, sea-green eyes that exuded charm, and a square jaw which showcased his even teeth. At six feet one inch, trim and dark-haired, the senior operations officer for the Central Intelligence Agency looked younger than his age.

  He was well liked and had established a solid reputation for successfully completing the most complex and hazardous assignments. Some members of the White House staff, along with a number of his associates, considered Steve a hero.

  Wickham had recently returned from an extended period of service with the world-renowned British Secret Intelligence Service, known by the World War II designation of MI-6. The coveted assignment was reserved for the rising stars in the intelligence community.

  During his fourteen-month stay in England, Steve enjoyed the opportunity to step away from the operations aspect of his profession. The Director of the SIS, an anonymous figure known as "C" in British governmental circles, had personally approved Wickham's request to work in the intelligence sector.

  After years of being involved in various clandestine operations, Steve finally got the chance to hone his skills in gathering global intelligence and producing finished reports for his superiors.

  Now that he was back at Langley, and still attached to the operations directorate, Steve was contributing to the definitive reports known in the Agency as National Intelligence Estimates.

  The NIEs were closely reviewed by the Agency's Intelligence Board and then presented to the President of the United States. They represented the culmination of the CIA's work in tracking and forecasting world events.

  When Steve reached his front porch, he grabbed the clean towel he had thrown across the railing and wiped the perspiration off his face. He entered his spotless home and went straight to the refrigerator for a cold beer.

  After he popped the top off a chilled bottle of Miller Lite, he took a long drink and checked his answering machine. The blinking green light beckoned him to push the playback button.

  Simultaneously, Steve clicked on the television and stabbed the play message button. He absently listened to a message from his former wife while he tuned the television. Steve stared at the screen while he listened to a second call, a short message from the Director of the CIA.

  Mesmerized by the video he was seeing, Steve ignored the call from the ranking man in the Agency as he watched the riveting drama unfold on the screen. The amateur video, which was being replayed in slow motion, had recorded a scene of devastation that shocked Wickham.

  He stared at the helicopter while two automatic weapons sprayed a barrage of fire straight at the camera. A second later, the picture tilted down and Steve could hear a tremendous commotion in the background. The picture became a series of blurs as he listened to a multitude of screams interspersed with gunfire, shouts, and yelling.

  "Christ Almighty . . ." he said quietly while he turned up the volume. "This is unbelievable."

  A different video camera recorded the departure of the helicopter as it turned and gathered speed. Wickham looked at the distinctive identifying symbol of a television station on the side of the JetRanger.

  "What the hell is going on?" he said to himself.

  The usual smile on the face of the familiar anchorwoman had been replaced with a grim set to her jaw.

  "Tensions in Honolulu continue to escalate as authorities attempt to locate the pilot of the helicopter that opened fire on the Pearl Harbor tour ship.

  "As word spread of the tragic attack on the Japanese-chartered tour ship, hundreds of outraged Japanese tourists protested at police headquarters, demanding protection. Another large group gathered at the Halekulani Hotel for an organized public demonstration.

  "We have learned that a helicopter painted in the colors of Honolulu television station KGMB--a JetRanger similar to the chopper that opened fire on the tour ship--was forced to land at Barbers Point Naval Air Station shortly after the incident.

  "Authorities have confirmed that the television station pilot and her cameraman were interrogated and released about an hour and a half ago.

  "In related news, the reaction in Japan to the horrifying shooting spree has been described as a mixture of anger and hysteria. We hope to have a report from downtown Tokyo in the next few minutes."

  The newscaster paused and glanced away from the camera for a brief second.

  "I've been told that we now have a live report from our correspondent in Hawaii. Dave."

  The picture went blank, then focused on a middle-aged reporter in a polo shirt. His hair and facial features suggested that he was a native Hawaiian. Behind him, across the harbor, a dozen boats surrounded the Star of Honolulu and the closed USS Arizona memorial.

  "Helen, senior officials in the Honolulu Police Department have confirmed that seven people were killed during the brutal shooting at Pearl Harbor."

  He glanced at his notes before continuing. "The latest figures that we have indicate that sixteen people were injured, eleven with minor injuries, and the others are described as serious or critical."

  "Dave," she asked with a touch of sadness in her voice, "do the authorities have any leads at this point? Any idea who might have been flying the helicopter?"

  A pained look crossed the man's rugged face. "No, Helen." He shrugged and cast a look at the war memorial. "From all accounts, witnesses to the shooting agree that the pilot appeared to be a Caucasian, but the police are simply baffled. An extensive aerial search is under way, including both military and civilian aircraft, but so far no trace of the helicopter has been reported." He heard his cue. "David Kaiulani, reporting from Honolulu, Hawaii."

  Wickham finished his beer in three gulps, then pushed the mute button on the remote control and called the Director of the CIA.

  The phone rang three times while Steve felt the anxiety build. He wasn't fond of the newly appointed Director, and he made every attempt to distance himself from Paul Holcomb.

  Wickham, like many of his peers, wondered how the former Army major general had surfaced in command of the CIA. The man was reasonably competent technically, but his logic and social skills were not what one would expect of a flag-rank officer, let alone someone responsible for directing a sophisticated intelligence agency.

  The truth of the matter, as Wickham discovered only weeks after Holcomb ascended to his position, was that his father had been a four-star general who used his wide-ranging influence to get his son through West Point. Although young Paul graduated near the bottom of his class, his father's extensive political connections carried him all the way to two stars.

  Unfortunately for Holcomb, the Secretary of the Army finally pulled the plug on the major general's less-than-spectacular Army career. In order to smooth any ruffled feathers of the elder General Holcomb, the powers-that-be agreed to give his son a reasonable period of time as the Director of the CIA. The retirement agreement would look good on his resume and biography. Besides, the President himself kept a firm hand on the Agency, so Paul couldn't do too much damage during his short tenure.

  "General Holcomb," the hollow voice exclaimed. Paul Holcomb was using the speakerphone in his den.

  "General Holcomb, Steve Wickham returning your call."

  "Yes, Stephen," he said in his nasal Bostonian accent, "glad to hear from you. I suppose you've heard about the shooting--the incident in Hawaii?"

  "Yes, sir. I just saw it on television."

  "Well," Holcomb continued impatiently, "back when I was the C. O. o
f Schofield Barracks, we didn't have any trouble with the goddamned Japs in Hawaii. They stayed in their place--not like those overbearing bastards who cruise around Pearl Harbor like they own it."

  Wickham seized the moment. "General, you asked me to call."

  "Yes," he answered cryptically and cleared his throat. "The Chief launched two missiles late this afternoon."

  Holcomb had an underlying contempt for the President and always referred to him as the Chief. Even though the President had appointed him to his post at the CIA and helped smooth his Senate confirmation, Holcomb still believed the former governor could have countermanded the Secretary of the Army and salvaged his career.

  Holcomb coughed and raised his voice. "One of them landed on the FBI building and the other one landed in my office."

  Unsure of how he should reply, Steve remained silent and glanced at the television. The network was replaying video of the helicopter assault on the tour ship.

  "The White House has put a priority on finding the person, or persons, behind the attack before things get out of control." As he always did when he had important information, Holcomb paused for effect. "The Chief wants to clamp a lid on this before the Japs bomb Pearl Harbor again." Holcomb punctuated the statement with a hasty chuckle.

  Caught off-guard by the remark, Wickham inwardly cringed. The few times he had been around Paul Holcomb, Steve sensed that he was a callous, intolerant man. But his open contempt for the Japanese people came as a surprise to Steve.

  "I understand his concern," Wickham replied diplomatically.

  "That's good, because you've been nominated to work on the shooting incident with two of the finest from the FBI's Criminal Division."

  "Nominated?"

  "By the Chief himself," he announced with undisguised sarcasm. "He's impressed by your previous accomplishments, and our records indicate that you have a working knowledge of the Japanese language."

  "That was years ago, when I was stationed in Japan." "Well, we don't argue with the Chief."

  Steve reached for a pad and pencil. "When do I leave?"

  "We're going to fly you from Andrews to Chicago tonight, and, let me see my notes . . . you need to be at Andrews by twenty-two hundred, and you've got a reservation on United in the morning."

  Holcomb reached for his reading glasses. "United flight one eighty-seven, departing at zero-eight-twelve. One of the FBI people will be on the flight with you, and the other agent will join you during your stop in San Francisco. Any questions?"

  "Yes, sir," Wickham answered while he viewed another replay of the cold-blooded attack at Pearl Harbor. "Do you happen to know the name of the agent in Chicago?"

  "Marcus Callaway," he answered with a pronounced nasal accent. "He's a crackerjack ballistics expert and antiterrorism specialist."

  Steve scrawled as fast as he could. "General, is there anything else you can tell me about the shooting incident?"

  "You know as much as I do," Holcomb answered lightly, "but we'll have a full brief sent to the FBI agent in Chicago so you can go over it tomorrow during your flight."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Stephen." Holcomb paused for a moment. "The Chief told me that we--the CIA and FBI--had better close ranks and find out who's behind this incident, so I damn sure expect results."

  "Yes, sir."

  "We can't afford to have the situation spiral out of control," Holcomb stated flatly, "like that goddamn Rodney King fiasco."

  Wickham forced his reply to be pleasant. "I understand, General. Have a nice evening."

  "The same to you."

  "Thanks."

  Steve absently placed the receiver down and mentally replayed the Pearl Harbor video, then raised the phone and returned the call from his former wife. She was out for the evening, so he left a message and hurried to shower, pack, and drive to Andrews Air Force Base.

  Chapter 4.

  OSAKA, JAPAN

  The small air-conditioned bus followed Shinsaibashi-suji Boulevard across the river into Higashi ward, then turned toward Osaka Castle.

  An attractive, quietly gracious young Japanese woman gripped the handrail at the front of the cabin and continued her running commentary. "The original castle was built in 1586 by the Grand Chancellor--Dajo-daijin--Toyotomi Hideyoshi and was then the largest castle in Japan. Chancellor Hideyoshi, who paved the way for the feudal age, required his military commanders to contribute stones during the three-and-a-half-year construction effort."

  The group of elderly couples paid close attention to the polite guide as the bus slowed near Osaka Castle.

  "The largest rock"--her delicate mouth smiled--"is known as Higo-ishi and was brought here by the celebrated General Kato Kiyomasa from the island of Shodo. The rock is almost six meters high and fourteen and a half meters in length."

  The driver brought the vehicle to an imperceptible halt while the lady finished her narration. "After Toyotomi Hideyoshi's son, Hideyori, was defeated at the Battle of Osaka by the forces of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the besieged castle was destroyed.

  Hideyori, the last of the Toyotomi, committed suicide while the castle was being plundered."

  She glanced at the historic building, then continued the commentary. "Later, for reasons of prestige, the Tokugawa Shoguns rebuilt the castle. When the Meiji Restoration forced the Shogunate to abdicate in 1867, the castle was burned down by the retreating Tokugawa forces. The present castle is made out of reinforced concrete and was constructed in 1931."

  She placed the microphone on its hook. "If you'll please follow me."

  The quiet passengers, some of whom were helping each other to their feet, suddenly heard an engine rev to a high-pitched scream. They turned to see an oncoming truck racing toward their compact bus. What shocked them most was the large flamethrower that was protruding from the top of the van behind the cab.

  A split second after the driver leaped from the truck, the flamethrower shot a high-pressure stream of blazing incendiary fuel straight into the side of the small tour bus.

  The American passengers and their Japanese guides screamed in panic and backed toward the far side of the vehicle. Their desperate efforts were in vain. Three seconds later, the large delivery truck plowed into the bus and exploded in a thunderous fireball. A huge pall of gloomy black smoke rose into the overcast sky while the melting tires exploded like shotgun blasts.

  O'HARE INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Steve Wickham gratefully accepted a steaming cup of tea and looked around the crowded hotel restaurant. Most of the early-morning travelers were dressed for business, with a sprinkling of vacationers clad in a wide variety of casual attire. A steady stream of jets roared overhead as the air traffic began to build toward maximum capacity of the system.

  Steve methodically stirred his tea while he patiently waited for his breakfast to be served. The harried waitress finally arrived with his ham and eggs at the same time the special agent from the FBI approached the table.

  Wickham guessed the man's height at six feet even and his weight at 190 pounds. He looked like he was in his early forties, but he had the solid, muscular appearance of a collegiate running back. There was little doubt that he had been an athlete in his younger years.

  "Marcus Callaway," the agent announced and motioned for Steve to remain seated. "Don't let me interrupt."

  Steve thanked the waitress and offered his hand. "Steve Wickham."

  "A pleasure," Callaway replied good-naturedly and shook hands before he seated himself. "I didn't even need your picture.

  "Do I look that obvious?" Steve grinned and plunged his fork into his scrambled eggs. He looked ordinary enough to blend in with most of the crowd, but his cautious eyes never stopped surveying everything and everyone around him.

  Marcus chuckled and ordered coffee. "Sitting with your back against the wall is a dead giveaway."

  "That's an old habit I picked up from a gunnery sergeant," Steve admitted and cut into his ham. "Aren't you going to have any breakfast?"

  Callawa
y leaned over and talked in a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell anyone that I told you this, but I honestly like airline food."

  Steve laughed aloud and almost choked. "You must have spent some time in the Marine Corps."

  "Close. I was an Army platoon commander."

  A black man from Baltimore's inner-city projects, Callaway had been a member of a neighborhood street gang until a concerned teacher rescued him from the streets. Mrs. Schapiro used her considerable influence and various contacts to help a gifted youngster reach his full potential.

  Marcus became one of the beneficiaries of a scholarship fund established for minorities with special aptitudes. Thanks to the generosity of a wealthy philanthropist, who had known adversity and poverty before making his fortune, Callaway was able to finish high school at a private institution and thengraduated with honors from the University of Maryland.

  He faithfully corresponded with the frail white woman who had intervened to give him and other deserving youngsters a fresh start in life. The few times he had tried to thank Mrs. Schapiro, she had given him the same advice. "Thank me by helping someone else."

  A nineteen-year veteran of the Bureau, Callaway's experience with international terrorism had been invaluable during the lengthy investigation of the Pan Am crash near Lockerbie, Scotland. He also spent many years assisting numerous foreign officials to better understand the terrorist phenomenon.

  Wickham and Callaway were anxious to discuss the tragedy at Pearl Harbor, but they knew from experience that it was impossible to carry on an in-depth conversation amid the constant interruptions in a restaurant.

  Steve paid their tab and they grabbed their luggage, then caught the courtesy van to the airport terminal. When they reached the entrance to their concourse, Callaway held up his identification folder, identifying himself as a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The stodgy female attendant at the metal detector closely scrutinized his credentials and looked at the slight bulge under his jacket next to his left biceps, then reluctantly waved him around the metal detector and into the concourse. The security people always got nervous when anyone carried a sidearm onboard an airliner, even if the passenger was an FBI special agent.