by Joe Weber
Perspiring profusely, Callaway dropped to a prone position in the thick foliage and raised the binoculars. He guessed the distance to the home at 300 yards.
A quarter of an hour passed without any sign of life around the exterior of the stately residence. Marcus was beginning to wonder if they had overreacted, but he steadfastly kept observing the grounds.
Shortly thereafter, he noticed some activity near the back of the home, but nothing that looked out of the ordinary. Two men in casual clothes were working on something near the tennis court while the well-dressed man who answered the door stood nearby.
Marcus dried his forehead with the sleeve of his coveralls and continued to watch the men by the tennis court. He could see that one of the workers was Asian, undoubtedly Japanese, but the other man was definitely a Caucasian, with sandy blond hair.
The minutes passed slowly while the heat and humidity forced Callaway to slip out of the top half of his coveralls. He was tying his sleeves around his waist when he froze and stared at the home. Were his eyes deceiving him?
He rolled over and snatched the binoculars from the ground. Marcus let out a barely audible whistle while he watched the end of one wing of the spacious home swing open next to the tennis court.
"I'll be damned," he muttered when the tail rotor blades and pylon of a helicopter emerged from what appeared to be the guest living quarters.
It looks like bedrooms with a bath in the middle, but it's really a narrow hangar for the helo.
When the helicopter was rolled clear of the house, Callaway could see that it was indeed a Bell JetRanger. It was painted in military olive-drab camouflage and looked like any other Army or Marine helo. The average person wouldn't have any idea that U. S. forces on Oahu didn't operate dull-brownish, grayish-green JetRangers.
With the two blades of the main rotor in line with the fuselage, the helicopter slid through the tree-lined opening to the tennis court.
You've got to get moving!
Marcus cursed himself for not bringing his portable radio from the car. He crawled backward on his stomach until he couldn't see the house, then rose and thrashed his way down the hillside to his sedan. Winded and gulping air, he unlocked the car and started the engine, then flipped on the air conditioner and reached for the radio microphone.
Susan and Steve stopped seventy-five yards from the edge of the stone and brick driveway. They were out of sight of the home and far enough away that no one could hear their conversations.
Steve tried to call Langley a number of times before he received an answer tone. He impatiently waited while his key code went through a National Security Agency computer for validation. The seconds slowly ticked by while an encoding algorithm was selected for his particular conversation.
At last Wickham heard an authentication code and finally a friendly voice on the other end of the line. He quickly explained the situation, described the location, and requested that military air support be standing by to assist them if they needed it.
Once that effort was under way, he asked the operations coordinator to notify the Honolulu FBI office. Steve gave Susan the phone and she calmly explained the circumstances and requested that more agents be sent to the scene as quickly as possible.
Wickham took the phone and was in midsentence when Callaway's excited voice startled them.
"Tiger Paw, Tiger Paw!"
She snatched the mike from the retainer. "Go, Marcus." "The stadium is full and the kickoff will be in a matter of minutes! The bird is on the court in camouflage. Copy?" "Copy," she replied, making eye contact with Steve. "We have players on the way."
"Make it fast," Callaway exclaimed.
The Bureau radio conversations suddenly became a series of strange comments and unanswered questions.
Susan started the car. "I just thought of something." "What?"
"We had better go down to the highway entrance and mark it so they can find us."
"You're right," Wickham replied tersely. "They'll have a helluva time finding this place if we don't show them a marker "
"Hang on," Susan warned and shifted into drive.
While they hastily made their way to the highway, Wickham asked the nameless voice at Langley for two helicopters from the Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station.
The instantaneous communications network with the Hawaiian military installations had been implemented by the Agency while Steve was en route to Oahu. As an emergency backup for his secure telephone system, Wickham could use his transportable cellular phone to contact the coordination center in Virginia.
Less than a minute later, he had confirmation that helos from nearby Kaneohe would be airborne in five minutes.
Acting on Wickham's request, the field operations coordinator asked the helo pilots to orbit a mile offshore, then told the agent that he would keep the line open for further instructions.
"The helo was right under us," Steve protested, pounding his fist on the dashboard for emphasis, "and we spooked them into getting it out of there."
"Spooked is right," Susan said with a look of determination. "Let's just hope we can keep a lid on things until we can secure the place."
AIR FORCE ONE
The specially configured presidential Boeing 747 cruised in light turbulence at 35,000 feet after the crew had tried 39,000. Finding the ride at the higher altitude even more bumpy, the Air Force colonel received an immediate clearance to descend to his original flight level. As was customary, Air Force One always received kid-glove treatment from air traffic controllers when the Commander in Chief was onboard. *
Stocked with a fine assortment of excellent wines and fresh food, the flying White House was also a gourmet restaurant. The specially trained military chefs prepared delicious meals that were talked about at cocktail parties from one end of Washington to the other. Carrying enough supplies for 2,000 meals, the two galleys could easily accommodate the needs of the seventy passengers and twenty-three crew members.
With a range of over 7,000 miles, along with an inflight refueling capability, the customized blue and white jet could stay airborne for days.
Although many of the presidential perks were under fire, especially the need for a jumbo jet during a time of shrinking budgets and increased taxes, the Chief Executive had not altered or downsized anything where Air Force One was concerned. He considered the sophisticated airborne command post a necessary tool to his Administration.
The President was changing into his fishing clothes when the Secretary of State knocked on the door leading to the executive suite.
"Come in."
Bud Tidwell slipped into the spacious stateroom and quietly shut the door, then reluctantly faced his boss when he came out of the dressing room. "We just took another broadside--literally."
The President shook his head but continued to button his plaid shirt. "The Japanese?"
"I'm afraid so," Tidwell announced and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "I just received a preliminary message from Yokosuka indicating that someone fired a grenade launcher at Independence."
After the Secretary of State explained the incident, the President walked across the suite. Feeling a sense of rage swelling in his chest, he sat down in his favorite chair and stared for a long moment at his friend and confidant. "What about Belleau Wood?"
"She's fine," Tidwell answered with a feeling of relief. "The Marines are guarding her and we haven't seen anything out of the ordinary."
Belleau Wood, the assault aircraft carrier that was serving as the flagship of Amphibious Squadron 11, was at its home port in Sasebo, Japan.
The President seemed to go limp. "Do they have the people responsible in custody?" he asked in a soft voice.
"No, sir," Tidwell answered bitterly. "They're sure it was another terrorist attack. The shot came from a food-vending truck that was parked on the pier."
The President absently tapped his fingers on the small table at his side. "How did they get away with it, for Christ's sake?" His voice rose in pitch. "We're
talking about a goddamned naval base, not some dimly lighted back-alley."
"The investigators," Tidwell patiently went on, "said the driver of the truck had a set of valid credentials. They believe he got away before the base was secured after the incident."
"Valid, my ass."
Tidwell was not intimidated by the President's temper.
"As you know, sir, the strategy of terrorist activity is simple. They always attack when you least expect it, and when you're not looking."
The men exchanged a tense glance.
"We cannot guard against random terrorism," Tidwell explained in his smooth diplomatic style and watched the President's irritated reaction. "That is its basic effectiveness . . . the random hit-and-runs."
They felt a slight power reduction as the pilot began a shallow descent toward Missoula, Montana. The President's trip was carefully planned to include a number of excellent photo opportunities, including the chance to go fishing in the Flathead National Forest with a Japanese guide.
The President reached for his phone and punched in the code for his Defense Secretary. The sensitive communications equipment could reach the SECDEF anywhere, anytime.
Bud Tidwell sat quietly and listened to the one-sided conversation. After Secretary Mellongard told the President what he knew about the attack on the aircraft carrier, the tone of the discussion changed.
"Bryce, I want increased security at all military facilities in Japan. Most importantly, I want the Independence to be heavily guarded around the clock."
The President looked at Tidwell before he gave SECDEF his final orders. "I don't care what you have to do, or who you have to use--find the instigator of the terrorist attacks. Any questions?"
The cautious Secretary knew that it was not in his best interest to have any questions or suggestions. Not when the President started giving orders. It was time for action, not words.
Chapter 15.
HAWAII
Susan brought the Bureau car to a smooth stop at the highway entrance to the driveway leading to the mansion. She and Steve wrapped bright-yellow crime-scene tape around a clump of trees to mark the entrance for the other FBI agents.
When they were finished, she made a brief call to Callaway to find out his location in relation to the house. He disguised his answer, but Susan read it clearly. Three hundred yards south and ready to move in when he received the signal.
Steve instructed the CIA field-ops coordinator to inform the FBI about the yellow crime-scene tape. When the senior Bureau agent advised that he had received the message, Wickham told the OPSCO to have the Marine helo pilots ready to orbit the area on his command. He would direct them to his location when the FBI was ready to storm the home.
If the Bell JetRanger managed to get airborne, they were to force the pilot to land at the nearest suitable facility, preferably Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station, since it was only a short distance away. FBI agents and other law enforcement officers were assembling at the air station and other airfields around the island.
Unfortunately, the communications stalkers in the news media had already detected the unusual activity from the FBI and local law enforcement officials. The word of an impending police action was spreading like a flu epidemic. If the people in the mansion got wind of the situation, the operation would be jeopardized.
Steve told the Langley operations coordinator to again stress an important point to the Marine aviators: don't let the JetRanger get away, regardless of what action they had to take. Wickham was shocked when the OPSCO told him the Huey Cobra gunships were not armed. The helicopters were not allowed to fly over civilian-populated areas while carrying live ammunition.
Driving back to the house, Susan reached into her small purse and extracted her stainless steel Smith & Wesson. She carefully examined the magazine and placed the compact semiautomatic on the seat between them, then glanced at Steve. "Are you armed?"
"Yes. I've got a Beretta tucked away if I need it."
"Good," she replied evenly and closed her purse. "I noticed in your Marine Corps files that you fired expert in both pistol and rifle."
Steve looked surprised. "Well, that was a helluva long time ago."
Suffocating in the heat and oppressive humidity, Marcus Callaway held the damp binoculars steady and watched the sandy-haired man crawl into the cockpit of the camouflaged JetRanger. He appeared to be approximately six feet tall and had a slender build.
The main rotor blades slowly began to turn as the pilot went through his takeoff checklist.
"Damn," Marcus cursed under his breath. "Where's our backup?" He raised his portable radio to his lips. "Tiger Paw, they're about to punt. We've gotta take the field. I repeat, we've gotta go for it now!"
***
"Move out, Marcus," Susan replied in clipped fashion. "We're on our way!"
Wickham listened to the surge of radio conversations while he called Langley. "Tell the Cobra pilots to come ashore. I'll give them final directions as soon as I have a visual on them."
He paused when the car slid into a turn. "I should be able to see them as soon as they're feet-dry."
Susan drove with a vengeance while Steve braced himself whenever the car swerved on the slippery road. As they approached the edge of the paved portion of the road, he spotted the two gunships.
"The target--a camouflaged JetRanger--is sitting on a tennis court at their one o'clock," he explained. Seconds later the pilots spotted the civilian helicopter and began a steep descent.
When Steve and Susan neared the circular brick driveway, a Nissan Pathfinder barreled straight at them. Susan locked the brakes and slid the sedan sideways, partially blocking the driveway.
"Get down," Steve shouted while he reached for his gun. He recognized the well-dressed Japanese "house-sitter" and the crew-cut enforcer a split second before the rugged Pathfinder plowed into the front of their sedan.
Glass shattered and metal screeched as the car violently spun around, coming to a stop facing down the driveway. Recovering from their initial shock, Susan and Steve leaped out of the car and opened fire at the accelerating Nissan. The blue and cream vehicle lurched from side to side, then disappeared around a bend in the road.
Susan gave her colleagues at the Bureau a quick description of the Pathfinder and tossed the microphone onto the seat.
"Take the right side!" Steve called to her as he ran toward the left side of the home.
Halfway between the driveway and the tennis court, Wickham paused to watch one of the Marine Cobras smoothly maneuver to a position directly over the JetRanger. The civilian helicopter was trapped by the surrounding trees. If the pilot tried to lift straight up in the hurricane of wind, his main rotor blades would disintegrate when they hit the landing skids of the gunship.
Cautiously, Steve started toward the JetRanger and aimed his gun at the pilot. He was prepared to shoot the man if he didn't shut down the turbine and climb out.
Without warning, an assault rifle opened fire. Steve dove for the ground as he heard more high-powered rounds whine through the air.
Marcus stumbled over a rise and spotted the man with the rifle at the same time the Asian saw him. They were about eighty yards apart. The agent dropped to a firing position, but he knew the distance was too great to be very accurate with a handgun.
With great deliberation, Marcus aimed at the man and began squeezing off rounds. He watched in frustration as the gunman fired toward Wickham, then turned his rifle on Callaway.
Hearing high-powered rounds impacting near him, Marcus took careful aim this time and gently pulled the trigger twice. He was about to fire again when he was staggered by a burning blow. Callaway dropped his weapon and felt the moistness of his blood.
Steve belly-crawled toward the side of the house in time to see the rifleman spray the hovering Marine helo with the last rounds in his clip. Clouds of black smoke belched from the stricken Huey Cobra.
Wickham watched in dismay. "Pull up and get the hell out of there," he said t
o himself.
As if in slow motion, the damaged helo tilted sideways and drifted toward the slender, manicured trees. After passing over the tall barrier around the tennis court, the gunship suddenly rolled on its left side and crashed in an exploding fireball.
Shrapnel from the main rotor blades ricocheted in every direction, forcing Wickham to clasp his hands over his head.
After the jagged shards stopped impacting the side of the house, he tentatively looked up.
Horrified by the disaster, Wickham paused for a moment, then sprung to his feet and started toward the JetRanger. Twenty steps later he rounded the side of the house and confronted the bare-chested man who had decimated the Cobra with his assault rifle.
The slender Asian, who had slipped in a fresh magazine, saw Steve at the same time. He fired two short bursts at him and then raced for the helicopter.
Showered by puffs of dirt and grass, Steve sprawled on the ground and fired seven rounds between the tree trunks. He says, the small man nosedive into the JetRanger as the pilot simultaneously lifted the craft into the air.
Susan quickly joined Steve while they watched in amazement as the second Marine helicopter bore down on the accelerating JetRanger.
The civilian helicopter tried several wild evasive maneuvers to elude the faster gunship, but the Cobra pilot was as tenacious as a pit bull terrier.
"Pray that he doesn't get away," Susan exclaimed and gripped Steve's arm.
Wickham thought about calling for a pair of armed fighter planes as the civilian pulled his helo almost straight up and rolled 90 degrees to the right. The pilot was obviously talented and highly experienced.
The gunship shot straight up beside the JetRanger and hung directly over the helicopter until both craft lost their kinetic energy and quit flying. They plunged toward the ground to gain airspeed, and the Cobra sliced directly over the tail rotor of the civilian helo. The lethal contest went on for another paralyzing minute while the civilian frantically tried to escape.
Steve cupped a hand to shield his eyes while he watched the deadly aerial duel. "The gunship driver is deliberately trying to ram him."
