The Line bo-2

by Bob Mayer

  Boomer was not satisfied at all. The answer was well short of what he had hoped for. He thought again of Trace’s short message, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it right now except ride this thing out.

  HONOLULU, HAWAII

  6 DECEMBER

  9:00 A.M.LOCAL 1900 ZULU

  Jordan stared at the diary as, if it were a rattlesnake someone had placed on his desk. He looked at General Maxwell.

  Trace was seated in the corner of the room in a wheelchair, forgotten once she’d briefed the senator on her experiences of the past several days.

  “If one-tenth of what’s in here is true, we have a crisis of unprecedented magnitude on our hands,” Jordan said.

  “This, this…” He shook his head at a loss for words.

  “My God, if any of this is true, we…”

  “People tried to kill me to keep you from getting that,” Trace said.

  “It all fits with what—” She halted as Jordan held up a hand.

  He tapped the diary.

  “But some of the things here are just unbelievable. These people are crazy.” Jordan leaned back in his chair.

  “This could all be an elaborate plot designed to embarrass the President into going public with this and then looking very stupid.”

  Jordan rubbed his forehead.

  “This diary ends in 1968.

  We have no idea if this Line still exists and if they have anything plotted for tomorrow. We’ve canceled the C&C exercise aboard the SHARCC, which was the most likely place and time for them to try something. This document gives me nothing the President can use on General Martin or any of the service chiefs.”

  General Maxwell cleared his throat.

  “Senator, I believe you are still underestimating the situation here.

  In the military we always try to worst-case things. All the evidence we have points to the fact that The Line exists and that there is a plot. We alerted General Martin to that yesterday and they’ve had time to deal with the cancellation of the C&C exercise. If they did have a plot you can be sure that they had backup plans. This is more than just a political situation.”

  “But I’m a politician, general,” Jordan replied.

  “I’m not being facetious,” he explained.

  “I’m being realistic. I can not move to their playing field and expect to compete. I have to deal with them on my playing field, and that is the field of politics.”

  Trace twisted in her seat and caught General Maxwell’s eye. He raised his eyebrows as if to say he understood what she was thinking but that he had made the best case he could. She was very confused. She’d asked about Boomer, and Maxwell had told her that he was in custody, although he couldn’t tell her where he was in custody.

  Jordan caught the look.

  “Let me ask you two something.

  In the over 200 years this country has been in existence, we have never had a military coup or even come close to having had one. Why are you both so willing to believe that one is occurring now?”

  “We have had one, senator,” Trace replied. She felt curiously calm, cast adrift from all known anchors, all her old allegiances gone, but now that she was here, it didn’t bother her. She would worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

  “If you believe that diary, the military, in the form of The Line, has been acting against the elected officials of this country for over fifty years. If that’s not a coup, I don’t know the definition of the word very well then. Just because they don’t pull up to the front of the White House in tanks with guns pointed at the front door, doesn’t mean they haven’t been controlling things. Hell, Eisenhower himself warned us against the military-industrial complex when he left office.

  “I find it very disturbing that all entries for the last three months of 1963 are missing. That was when President Kennedy was assassinated and—”

  “Let’s not get into that,” Senator Jordan cut in.

  “That is something we don’t dare get into. That could tear this country apart.”

  “But, sir,” Trace said, “we need to get into it. We need to understand what we are up against here.”

  “It does not matter what we are up against,” Senator Jordan said. He leaned back in his chair and gazed out the window at the bright sun coming up over Diamond Head.

  “There’s a big picture here that no one seems to be considering, but we have to consider it. What if this”—he pointed at the diary—’ ‘is true? Do we release it to the media?

  Tell everyone that the past fifty or sixty years our country has been unduly influenced by a military junta?

  That we fought wars, and American citizens died and were maimed and wounded, because some generals sitting in a room somewhere decided we needed to test weapon systems and keep our forces in fighting trim? We can not let that information out!

  “This is an abomination that has festered and grown in the shadows. And it is weak now—” He shook his head as General Maxwell tried to protest.

  “No, general, it is weak. Weaker than it has ever been. The world is changing, and many don’t want it to change, but it is. The Wall did come down. We won the greatest war in history without a shot being fired. People are not going to stand for going back to the old ways, with nuclear missiles pointed at each other.”

  Jordan stood.

  “I’ll brief the President. He will have to make the decision.” He tucked the diary under his arm and left the room.

  General Maxwell stood and wheeled Trace out of the room, the door shutting behind them.

  “Do you know a Sergeant Major Skibicki?” Maxwell asked.

  “Yes.” Trace looked over her shoulder at the general.

  “Why, sir?”

  “He called a little while back and asked me to look after you.”

  Trace smiled, but it quickly disappeared.

  “Do you think the President will believe Senator Jordan?”

  Maxwell’s lined face was worried.

  “I think the President is an excellent politician, but he’d make a crappy second lieutenant in the Infantry. Let’s hope Jordan’s right and The Line can be dealt with politically.”

  CHAPTER 25

  PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

  6 DECEMBER

  11:00 A.M.LOCAL 2100 ZULU

  The Antietam turned broadside to the Arizona Memorial, its crew on deck saluting in unison as the bosun’s whistle signaled. The only difference between their actions in this rehearsal and what they would be doing tomorrow was that today they were dressed in work blues; tomorrow it would be dress whites.

  Overhead, a thundering that had been approaching from the north reached a crescendo as a flight of Navy F-16s roared by, one plane on the wing missing. Mike Stewart stepped up to podium where the President would speak in the morning and stood there, taking the place of the Commander-in-Chief for this practice. He looked around at the harbor, watching the guided missile cruiser slipping by, the jets overhead, and the Navy security police cruising about in launches, and it all looked so much different than it had forty-eight hours ago.

  Stewart watched it all with very different feelings. Everything that had looked comforting before now seemed threatening.

  Who could he trust here? Was Major Watson’s story true? If it was, why had he disappeared? And why was the Secret Service doing nothing as far as Stewart could tell.

  There was no additional security being laid on, and there was still time to fly agents in from LA. Staring at the large gray bulk of the Antietam though, Stewart wasn’t sure fifty more agents would do much good if the Joint Chiefs were in on this plot.

  “Time for the wreath laying,” the Navy protocol officer said, looking at her stopwatch. Stewart obediently stepped away from the podium and walked over to the naval honor guard standing at the railing. He simulated taking a wreath from them and throwing it over the edge. As he did so he looked down at the water. The rusting ring that had once held one of the large guns on the Arizona lay just below the surface. A small bead o
f oil, still leaking from the hull after all these years drifted to the surface and broke into a rainbow of colors. Stewart shivered, thinking of all the bodies just below, then he thought of what he could be facing in the morning at the President’s side and the chill deepened.

  WAIAWA, HAWAII

  6 DECEMBER

  11:20 A.M.LOCAL 2120 ZULU

  From the hillside Boomer could clearly see the rehearsal taking place on the memorial. He lowered the binoculars as the participants broke apart, boarding launches to take them back to the mainland.

  Boomer frowned. There was too much going on at once.

  He wished he could sit down with Trace and talk. And Skibicki certainly didn’t seem too pleased to have him here.

  Ski seemed sure that The Line was going to infiltrate Pearl and destroy the memorial with the President on it.

  He had seen Stewart in the rehearsal. Who was who?

  Who could he trust? Skibicki wasn’t being totally honest with him any more. Boomer knew. And Trace’s warning on the manuscript pages. What did that mean? And the most important question for Boomer was where was she and who had the diary?

  HONOLULU, HAWAII

  6 DECEMBER

  1:30 P.M.LOCAL 2330 ZULU

  “What’s going on, sir?” Trace asked General Maxwell.

  They were seated in a room on the floor below the President’s.

  They had not heard from Senator Jordan since he’d left with the diary.

  Maxwell shook his head.

  “I don’t know. According to Army records there have been no Delta Force operations in the Ukraine in the past twelve months. The Sam Houston is under the command of Navy Special Warfare Group One and is currently conducting training missions off the coast of California on radio listening silence, and this Colonel Decker does not exist.”

  Maxwell had come by the room she was “staying” a little while ago and told her about last seeing Boomer and his attempts to find out where he was being held. In the short time she’d been here, she’d begun to like the old general. She could tell he was very uncomfortable with everything that was going on.

  “The Joint Chiefs are at Pearl Harbor,” Maxwell said.

  “If one-tenth of what you said Hooker wrote in his diary is true, it is the most shocking document ever to surface in this country.” They both looked over as the door to the room opened and Senator Jordan stood there.

  “Major Trace,” Jordan said, “there are some pages in the diary missing.”

  “Yes, sir. In 1963.”

  Jordan nodded.

  “Yes, I noticed that. But it also looks like someone tore out pages from an earlier time. I was wondering if you knew anything about that.”

  “I did that after the crash when I was afraid the diary might be taken from me. I gave them to a friend.”

  “A friend?” Jordan asked.

  “The man who rescued me,” Trace replied.

  “I gave them to him just in case things didn’t work out here.”

  “So those missing pages are here on the island?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Harry Franks,” Trace said.

  “He worked with Colonel Rison.”

  “Where is he now? How come he didn’t land with you?”

  “I believe he’s with Sergeant Major Skibicki,” Trace answered.

  “Who no one can find either,” Jordan said.

  “All right.

  Thank you.” Jordan shut the door before Maxwell or she could ask any questions.

  “Well, at least it sounds like he’s doing something,” Maxwell said.

  “I hope it’s enough,” Trace said.

  WAIAWA, HAWAII

  6 DECEMBER

  10:00 P.M.LOCAL 0600 ZULU

  “Fifty-four years ago this evening the Japanese fleet turned to the southeast in order to be in position to launch their first wave at 0600 Sunday morning,” Skibicki said.

  He was smoking a cigarette, his years of training showing in the way he kept the glowing tip hidden in the cup of his hand.

  Boomer looked down at the lights of Pearl Harbor and thought of all those men so many years ago, going to sleep at Taps in ignorance of their approaching doom. He had no doubt that Skibicki was almost as much an expert on the events here as his mother.

  “The Jap fleet was bearing down on the island at twenty four knots. In Washington — at exactly 0238 local time, early evening here — the fourteenth part of the Japanese reply to the latest American peace proposal was received. The message ended by saying that the Japanese government found it impossible to reach an agreement through further negotiations.”

  Skibicki’s voice was bitter in the darkness.

  “Maggie told you that Marshall relayed a warning to the fleet. Of course it arrived over fifteen hours after Washington received the fourteenth part of the message. It did the men dying down there little good, but the message did manage to cover Marshall’s ass.”

  Skibicki field-stripped the cigarette, putting the remains into his pocket.

  “There was a battle of the naval bands that night in Honolulu. The Arizona band won.”

  Skibicki suddenly stood.

  “Time to be going.” He grabbed one of the scuba tanks to load it onto his jeep, but paused, his eyes focused on the spotlit memorial.

  “It’s been a long time coming, but the men who were responsible for that morning are finally going to pay.”

  OFF SHORE, OAHU, HAWAII

  6 DECEMBER

  11:00 P.M.LOCAL 0700 ZULU

  The diver held his breath, kicked his legs up into the air, and slid under the waves. His right hand was on the thin nylon line that led down from the small buoy. The cord ran through his palm as he descended. The far end of the line was tied off on the bow of the deflated Zodiac twenty feet below the surface. Reaching the boat and gripping the line with one hand, the diver reached around in the dark water, searching by feel along the inside of the boat.

  His fingers touched a canister. Quickly, his breath running out, he found the lanyard and pulled. The CO2 canister immediately began filling the five chambers. The diver held on as the boat rose and broke the surface. He scrambled aboard, sealing off the valves between the chambers. He checked the engine — the watertight seals still held.

  Pumping the primer, he gave’a pull. The engine started on the second try.

  The man looked around. Off the port side a second boat popped to the surface with his comrade on board. Once that boat was ready, the two turned toward shore. They beached the noses lightly and twelve men materialized out of the jungle abutting the shoreline, their faces darkened with camouflage paint and their weapons locked and loaded. Six men got on each boat and they pushed off. They had a long ride to their destination, and they had to be there long before the sun rose.

  CHAPTER 26

  OFFSHORE, OAHU, HAWAII

  7 DECEMBER

  2:10 A.M.LOCAL 1210 ZULU

  The location of the submarine was not that far from where a Japanese mini-sub had anchored exactly fifty-four years ago awaiting an early morning mission against the Pacific Fleet.

  The routine was the same as that of forty-eight hours ago. The SDV cleared the dry dock shelter and headed in, maneuvering very slowly.

  This time though, the submarine followed at an agonizingly slow pace in an attempt to get as close as possible to the mouth of the harbor by dawn.

  Eighty miles to the south, another submarine lay in wait, the control room crew shadowing their target. In the special compartment behind the control room, grim-faced men checked their weapons, loading the magazines round by round. Knives were sharpened, honing the razor-sharp edges even further. Breathing gear was tested one last time, and wet suits were slid on over muscled bodies.

  WAIPIO POINT, HAWAII

  7 DECEMBER

  2:30 A.M.LOCAL 1230 ZULU

  “What is that thing?” Boomer asked.

  “A listening device,” Skibic
ki answered.

  “If they come in on a submersible I’ll be able to pick them up with this.”

  He lowered the microphone into the dark water and settled the headphones onto his ears. They were on the west side of the final entrance to Pearl Harbor proper, just north of Waipio Point. The channel was less than 500 yards wide here and any traffic coming in would have to go right by them.

  They were both ready for entry into the water, wearing cutoff fatigue shorts, weight belts, and tanks, with masks and fins at the ready.

  Skibicki had given Boomer a double edged Fairbarn commando knife. It would rust after being exposed to the water unless cleaned, but as Skibicki had noted, he would only have to use it this evening and the edge was razor-sharp. Boomer had placed the diary pages inside a plastic Ziploc bag and tucked it into his shorts pocket. Harry was inland, providing security against the possibility of a police patrol stumbling on their position.

  “You think they’ll still come?” Boomer asked.

  “Trace has got to have gotten the diary to Maxwell by now.”

  “If she got to him and wasn’t picked up by these DIA goons,” Skibicki said.

  “We can’t take any chances.”

  “What about the Joint Chiefs? They’ll be out there with the President in the morning. They wouldn’t be on the memorial if their plan was to blow it up.”

  “They’ll come up with something,” Skibicki said. He indicated for Boomer to be quiet now and they settled in to listen.

  Along the coast of Oahu, the two Zodiacs planed through the water at twenty-five knots, the men lying on the inside of the rubber hull, keeping their silhouette to a minimum.

  A light machine gun rested on the prow of each boat, pointing forward, just in case.

  The navigator in the lead boat checked his heading on his handheld GPR.

  They were on course and would arrive in plenty of time.

  HICKAM AIRFIELD, HAWAII