“I’m listening,” the Admiral said.
“The mob has reached the fourth floor. If we move our people up to the roof, the fifth floor will be empty long enough to bring in some choppers.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Don?” Byrne asked.
“Covering fire. We shoot through the windows on all four sides of the building. Make the fifth floor a noman’s land.”
“You’re talking about the Iroquois and Super Cobra assault helicopters,” Byrne pointed out. “The nearest birds are at least an hour away.”
“Christ,” Moody said.
“Get ’em started, Tom,” Admiral Ryland ordered. “In the meantime we’ll put more pressure on the Japanese, and I’ll call Washington.”
“What about Sergeant Wentz?”
“She’ll just have to hold on.”
The television monitors in the White House situation room were tuned to the three commercial networks and CNN, covering the carnage at and around the eight airports. They were all reporting death tolls in the plus-two-thousand range. Every major highway into .those airports was jammed with traffic, and the nation’s long-distance telephone system was so overloaded that it had finally broken down. Almost no calls were getting through anywhere. It was as if the entire country had gone into gridlock.
An aide came in with the AP bulletin from Tokyo. Secretary of Defense Landry took it.
“What is it now?” Lindsay asked.
“The Associated Press is quoting an unnamed Japanese government source about a battle between three of our warships and the MSDF submarine north of Okinawa.” Landry passed the wire copy down the table.
“Has Seventh said anything about this?” the President asked.
“There’s something going on down there all right, but no one knows for sure exactly what. The curious thing is that someone in the government is willing to talk about it.”
Lindsay read the brief report. “Have shots been exchanged?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out, Paul.”
“Yes, sir.” Landry picked up one of the phones.
“If it’s true, it changes everything,” Secor said.
“Depends who in Tokyo told the AP,” Lindsay said. “Call Westin and find out who the hell his people talked to.” Bert Westin was the general manager of the AP.
“Mr. President, we have reached Prime Minister Enchi,” a technician said.
“The question is whether or not Enchi is in control over there,” Secor said.
“I’m about to find that out.”
“There are at least four Russian nuclear submarines in the vicinity of Soya Strait,” Director General of Defense Hironaka said.
A light flashed on Enchi’s console. He stared at it hypnotically. The Japanese had had no war crisis-management practice in more than fifty years. He was a politician, a friend of big business, not of the military. “Is that confirmed?”
“One of our ASW aircraft spotted the first submarine near where the Russian destroyer went down. It dropped a pair of torpedoes, but then lost the sub when it went deep.”
“You said there were four of them.”
“That one is confirmed, Mr. Prime Minister. The others are probables. Based on best estimates from available data.”
“Then we don’t know this for sure?”
“Where there is smoke there is fire.”
Enchi slapped his open palm on the table. “I deal with facts, not speculation, Hironaka-san.”
“The Russians have attacked Wakkanai, Enchi-san. That is a fact. As is the presence of a Russian nuclear submarine ten miles off our coast. If you wait until you have all the facts the entire north island may be nothing but smoking cinders!”
Enchi composed himself for a moment, then viciously jabbed the button on his console. “Mr. President, I have learned the unfortunate news about Vice President Cross.”
“He was just one of more than two thousand,” President Lindsay cut in. The anger in his voice was unmistakable. “I have heard about a battle between several of our navy vessels and one of your submarines in the East China Sea north of Okinawa. What is going on?”
“We are trying to recall that submarine. But I assure you that we are engaged in no incident with your navy.”
“Someone in your government thinks so. They leaked the information to the Associated Press there in Tokyo. It has hit all of our media.”
Enchi looked down the table at his advisers, but they were just as nonplussed as he was.
“My country is under attack,” President Lindsay said abruptly.
“So is mine,” Enchi replied in English before the translator could catch up.
“I have evidence that our air traffic control system was sabotaged. We’ve traced the triggering signal that brought down those airplanes to a source in Tokyo.”
Enchi was suddenly cold. “Impossible,” he replied. It was Morning Star. He’d been warned, but he’d not believed it was possible.
“Nevertheless it is so,” President Lindsay said. “If you are not in control of the situation, I will offer my assistance.”
Enchi could scarcely believe his ears. Hironaka jumped to his feet.
“It is my understanding that all of your naval and air forces are on the move. Recall them to their bases and home ports immediately. I have instructed the Seventh Fleet to help you with this.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am telling you to order your forces to stand down before it is too late.”
“But we are under attack, Mr. President. We must defend ourselves.”
“We are not attacking Japan!”
“Not you,” Enchi replied sharply. “It is the Russians. They are threatening Hokkaido with a force of nuclear submarines. We are facing another Hiroshima and Nagasaki!”
The translators were silent.
“Mr. President, I am formally asking the United States for help thwarting an almost certain nuclear attack on us by the government of Russia.”
President Lindsay punched the mute button on his console. “Can we confirm this?” He was stunned.
“We’re working on it,” Landry said. “But so far we can’t even get a clear update on the Okinawa situation. One of our ships, the Thorn, has been damaged, but it may have been because of a collision. No one is willing to say yet whether or not shots are being exchanged.”
“Could be a rogue submarine skipper after all,” Secor cautioned.
“This is too much,” Lindsay said. “Get me the CIA again, and then Yeltsin on the Moscow hotline.” The President released the mute. “Prime Minister, you will have to give us a few minutes to confirm what is happening. In the meantime I suggest that you make absolutely certain that your military forces are clear on who the enemy is.”
“Yes, Mr. President, they are crystal clear who our enemies are. But do not take too much time. The situation is becoming critical.”
Lindsay cut the connection. “What the hell did he mean, ‘our enemies’? Plural.” His call to Langley came in. “Did you get that, Roland?” The CIA was monitoring hotline calls and messages in and out of the White House situation room.
“National Reconnaissance is on it, Mr. President. There’s definitely a military buildup in the region, both Japanese and Russian. But we’re waiting for word about submarine assets up there.”
“What’s the current situation in Moscow?”
“The attack on the Japanese radar installation didn’t come as a surprise. But there’s been no word that the Russians are willing to escalate the situation.”
“How reliable is that information?”
“We don’t have a direct source, if that’s what you mean, Mr. President. What I’m giving you is a best estimate based on available data.”
“Thanks, General,” the President said. “Stay on the line.”
“Yes, sir.”
The hotline phone to Moscow blinked. Lindsay picked it up. “President Yeltsin, forgive me for calling you so late in th
e evening.” It was after midnight at the Kremlin.
“I know why you are calling, Mr. President, but the situation in the Soya Strait will be resolved soon.”
“Prime Minister Enchi believes that his country is under threat of imminent nuclear attack by your forces.”
“Nonsense.”
“Please withdraw your warships from the area. I believe any differences can be worked out peacefully.”
“The order has already been given, Mr. President. But you might consider who the real enemy is. Your country is under attack on several fronts. Take care that you are not misdirected.”
“Is there some information you can offer me?”
“No, Mr. President. But I wish you luck.”
Lindsay broke the connection. “Was he lying?”
“We’ll know after the next satellite pass,” Murphy responded, and Landry nodded his agreement.
The air traffic control system had ground to a halt, and the only good thing about that, Michael Schaeffer thought, was that no more airplanes would crash. There’d been no mistaking Herring’s urgency when he’d finally gotten through from Oakland, but it had taken Schaeffer the better part of an hour to make it out to O’Hare Airport from his home in nearby Mount Prospect. Herring was talking about a sophisticated system of sabotage that was affecting at least eight airports. Except for what he’d been watching on television, Schaeffer would never have believed it. As it was he didn’t know what to think. He’d grabbed a field-strength meter from the lab, and the moment he’d switched it on, he started receiving the signal Herring had warned about. But it wasn’t coming from the roof, or from first-floor offices. It was coming from the basement. Schaeffer was an engineer, not a cop, so he felt faintly ridiculous crawling around in the dark behind the equipment racks looking for clues. There was dust everywhere. It was months since the janitors had cleaned up.
For a moment Schaeffer had trouble accepting that what he was seeing was a threat. The field-strength meter pegged. It was exactly as Herring said it would be. But even if someone had spotted the thing, they wouldn’t have known what it really was.
He put the meter down and picked up the Roach Motel. It was heavier than he expected it would be. Slitting the paper cover with his thumbnail, he peeled it back to expose the circuit board. The work was not exceptional, that of a competent amateur, but the design was intriguing. In the dim light Schaeffer tried to trace the intricate circuit for several seconds until he realized that he had become mesmerized. Whatever this was, however it worked, it killed people.
Schaeffer pried the small circuit board from the cardboard box and ripped the wires away from where they connected with the battery on the bottom.
The field-strength meter went to zero.
With the way the telephone system was across the country, Schaeffer hoped to God that Herring had managed to get word to the FAA and the other six airports. But at least here they could start getting back to normal.
“It’s legal, Mr. Zussman,” InterTech’s attorney Freemont Perry said. He handed the search warrant back to Charles Colberg.
“What are you looking for?” the company’s vice president, Milton Zussman, asked. He’d been notified at home of the pending FBI search. He’d shown up with Perry and InterTech’s chief of security Neil Hood. They met with a half-dozen FBI special agents in the parking lot of the company’s Alameda Research and Development Facility.
“We’ll start at your mainframe,” Colberg said.
“No,” Zussman replied. He was a corpulent man, a full head taller than Colberg, and he was angry. “Half the projects we’re presently working on are under top-secret government contract. You don’t have the clearance.”
Colberg held his own anger in check. “With or without your cooperation, sir.”
“It’s going to take more than a local judge’s order.”
Colberg shoved the executive up against the FBI van, pulled his hands behind him and cuffed them. “You are under arrest at this time for obstruction of justice. You have the right to remain silent …”
“Just hold on there,” Perry warned.
“The charge is obstruction of justice,” Colberg said, and he finished reading Zussman his rights. “InterTech has been implicated in at least fourteen acts of sabotage to our Air Traffic Control system. Does your client understand his rights as I’ve explained them?”
“You sonofabitch, you’ll fucking well take the fall for this,” Zussman shouted.
“Put this bag of shit in the van,” Colberg instructed one of his agents.
“This is preposterous,” the attorney argued.
“As I said, Mr. Perry, with or without your cooperation,” Colberg warned. “This is a national emergency.” He was from the East Coast, and he hated California. He didn’t think he’d be staying in San Francisco much longer. Especially if he played his cards right and they found something.
“You’re making a terrible mistake, but we won’t stand in your way.”
“Are there any engineers or technicians on duty today?” Colberg asked. “I don’t see any cars in the parking lot.”
“Only security personnel,” Hood said. The company attorney looked sharply at him.
“Is this place normally staffed on the weekend?”
“It depends on what projects we’re working on,” Perry answered, clearly flustered.
Hood said something into a walkie-talkie, then took them inside to the vast mainframe complex in the sprawling facility’s east wing. The lights were on, and half the monitor screens were up and running. Colberg got the impression that the place was deserted. One moment it had been filled with technicians, and the next it was empty. As if they’d simply gotten up from their consoles and walked off. He could see that Perry was having the same reaction.
“Won’t do you much good unless you know the passwords,” the chief of security cautioned.
Kevin Winter, a special agent who’d recently graduated from Cal Tech, sat down at one of the terminals, and within a half-minute brought up the company’s financial file.
“What the hell?” Perry said softly.
“Can you get in?” Colberg asked.
“There’s no lock on the incoming cash transfers,” Winter said, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
Whitman had relayed the information that NSA had supplied. “It’s a long shot, Chuck. But we’re running out of options.”
“Okay,” Winter said. He hit several other keys, and two files came up on the split screen. “At noon today there was a wire transfer for twenty-five million dollars from the Bank of Tokyo, but it’s not showing up on any of InterTech’s Wells Fargo accounts.”
“Where’d it go?” Colberg asked.
“Never was any money, sir.” Winter hit another set of keys. “Here it is. The wire transfer was shunted to their comms satellite, which keyed some kind of a down-link program. Microwave, with a couple-of-kilohertz tone piggybacked.” He looked up. “It’s still on line.”
“Can you explain that?” Colberg asked Perry.
“No.” The attorney shook his head. “I’m not aware of any such financial transaction.”
“Can you shut it off, Kevin?”
Winter hit another set of keys. “It’s down.”
Yamagata had to fight the wind shears through the Coast Range mountains. The helicopter was an old Augusta-Bell 206A Jet Ranger, past its prime, but he was a good pilot. He kept looking over at McGarvey.
“You and I are the same …”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” McGarvey said. He dialed up Guerin’s company frequency on the radio and called the operations center at Gales Creek. “This is Bell Ranger Nancy-Zero-Zero-Four-Seven-Echo. Let me speak to Gary Topper.”
“You are operating on a restricted frequency.”
“This is McGarvey.”
“Ah … stand by.”
They hit a sharp updraft, and Yamagata adjusted the controls. “I don’t know what you think is going on, but you can’t imagine the truth
. You’re going to have to help me calm your government down.”
“You work for Sokichi Kamiya, don’t you?”
“That’s beside the point,” Yamagata dismissed the question.
“Bell Ranger Four-Seven-Echo,” Gary Topper radioed. “That you, Mac?”
“Are there any FBI still there?”
“They got out of here in a big hurry. Something’s going on over in Oceanside. Where the hell are you?”
“About fifteen miles out. Listen, Gary, can you fly me to Washington?”
“I can take one of our TransStar biz jets.”
“How fast can you get it ready?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Good. Taxi to the end of the runway, and we’ll set down there.”
“What about David?”
“He’s okay. Can you do this for me?”
“It’s not over yet, is it?” Topper said.
“Not quite.”
“I’ll have to file a flight plan. They’ll be waiting for us unless we divert.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Ten minutes,” Topper said. “But I hope the hell you know what you’re doing, Mac. There’s a lot of people pissed off at you.”
“I’ve been there before,” McGarvey said.
The moment the helicopter lifted off from the clearing south of the beach house, Franson got on the radio to his Portland office and was patched through to Washington on one of the direct links. Even with priorities, it took several minutes because of the overloaded telephone lines.
“Where is he going?” John Whitman demanded.
“I don’t know. But he’s got at least one Japanese national with him. A man named Arimoto Yamagata.”
“They’re going to try to make it back to Washington,” McLaren interrupted.
Franson ignored him. “The sonofabitch won’t get far. The chopper doesn’t have much of a range. I’m putting out an APB from Vancouver to L.A.”
“Goddammit, they’re headed to Gales Creek,” McLaren tried to break in. “They can get an airplane there. Tell Whitman to watch for incomings.”
High Flight Page 79
