“I hope so. Where's the President?”
“White House Situation Room.”
“What the hell do they want?” Murphy asked. “War?”
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“Mr. President, the general is on his way,” Tommy Doyle said. He was on a conference call between the White House and the National Security Agency.
“Am I to understand that the Japanese military readiness has been raised to DEFCON TWO?” President Lindsay asked. His gut was sour. This wasn't supposed to happen.
“That's correct, sir,” Amundson said from Fort Meade. “It gibes with the increased communications we're intercepting, not only between Tokyo and its embassy here, but between all its military units.”
The President exchanged glances with his National Security Adviser and the others who had arrived. The call was on the speakerphone. “What does the CIA have for us?”
“I don't know if it's a coincidence, sir, but Rising Sun is rioting in Yokosuka again. They want to arrest Admiral Ryland for allowing the Seventh Fleet to bring nuclear weapons to Japan.”
“How the hell do they know that?” Lindsay asked.
“We don't know, Mr. President. As I say it may be a coincidence.”
“I don't believe in coincidences,” Lindsay said. “What else?”
“The number of downed airplanes stands at thirteen. We're expecting the FAA to shut down the system at any moment.”
“What about Larry?” the President asked.
“Mr. President, he is alive,” one of the communications specialists said from his console at the back of the room. “They're pulling him out of Air Force Two now.”
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“The FAA refuses to act until Jay Hansen shows up,” Socrates reported bitterly. “I don't understand.”
“Where the hell is he?” McGarvey demanded.
“Apparently on the way to his office.”
Special agents McLaren and Joyce were crowded into the galley behind McGarvey at the open flight-deck door.
“Call the White House,” McGarvey said. “The fleet has to be grounded.”
Callahan turned around. He was still talking with Guerin Ops and he was shook up. “Eight airports. La Guardia, JFK, Dulles, O'Hare, Minneapolis International, LAX, Oakland, and ⦠Portland plus Andrews.”
Reiner's hand shook on the arm rest. “The sonsabitches had us targeted.”
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Marine Major David Ross, chief of security at Seventh's Yokosuka Base, rode in a HumVee toward the trouble at the main gate. The wind blew from that direction so he could hear the amplified voices from bullhorns and the deep-throated rumble of a large, angry crowd. They'd been expecting a major event of this sort for the past two weeks, but this morning of all mornings made it spooky. All they knew at this point was that a mob of at least ten thousand Japanese nationals was threatening base security at the same time CINCPAC had raised Seventh to DEFCON THREE. Already engines on half the ships in port had been lit in preparation for emergency departure, their crews called to general quarters. The Marines, who would be the last off, had been scrambled for a Stage One perimeter defense. No unauthorized personnel were to be allowed anywhere near the base or the ships. Don Moody had asked Ross to personally try to defuse the situation at the main gate.
“At least buy us the time to get the hell out of here, Dave.”
“Begging your pardon, Captain, but I'm not going to order my men to fire on civilians,” Ross had said.
“Not unless they threaten lives or sensitive materials,” the chief of Seventh Fleet Intelligence replied, and Ross knew what he was talking about. “If it comes to that, the Admiral himself will give the order.”
“I hear you, Captain.”
He parked just inside the main gate and hurried the rest of the way on foot to the defensive position Baker platoon had established. Lieutenant Otis Green, the unit leader, came over and saluted.
“How's it look, Green?”
“Not good, sir. The police have tear gas and riot guns, but I don't think they'd last long. It'd leave us holding the bag. You got orders, sir?”
“You're to hold your position, Marine. But no one fires into the crowd except on the Admiral's orders.” Ross looked down the road at the police line and the mob. The noise was starting to get ugly.
“Aye, aye, Major.”
“We won't leave you hanging.” Ross unstrapped his holstered sidearm and handed it to Green. “I'll talk to them.”
“Watch yourself, sir.”
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“Okay, talk to me,” Captain Don Moody said.
“The DEFCON THREE has been authenticated, and the fleet has been notified. Admiral Ryland ordered all of our assets to make ready for sea as soon as possible,” Lieutenant, j.g., McCarty said. “But all hell is breaking loose.”
Moody looked sharply at the young OD. McCarty had been in the command less than six months, but in that time he'd proven to be a good officer who never exaggerated.
“Has the Admiral arrived yet?”
“He's expected any minute. But Captain Byrne is already upstairs.”
“All right, Mike, they're going to have some tough questions for me. I've already got Major Ross on track. Bring me up to speed.”
McCarty handed him a sheaf of message flimsies. “These are in the order we received them. Read them as soon as possible because you're sure as hell not going to believe me, Captain.”
“One at a time.”
“Air Force Two, with the Vice President aboard, crashed on take-off from Andrews. In the past several minutes at least thirteen commercial jetliners have gone down across the CONUS, most of them apparently because of the same problem. NSA has been monitoring
a lot of flash traffic between the Japanese embassy in Washington and its Department of State in Tokyo. It's the reason for the DEFCON THREE.”
Moody was stunned. “What else?”
“All Japanese self-defense forces have gone to DEFCON TWO in the past couple of minutes, and Flotillas One and Four are getting ready to leave Yokosuka.”
“Are they sharing their mission orders?”
“No, sir,” McCarty replied. “You know about the mob at the main gate. They want to arrest Admiral Ryland and charge him with war crimes for bringing nuclear weapons into Japanese waters. What you can't know is that Mike Hanrahan has finally gotten into it with the
Samisho.
”
A phone rang and one of the communications techs answered it. “Captain Moody, the Admiral has arrived. He wants you in Ops on the double.”
“On my way,” Moody replied, a troubling ache in his gut. What in God's name was happening?
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The green Ford Probe rental car crossed the Key Bridge and headed northwest out of the city. Mueller drove with the flow of traffic, careful not to be too slow or too fast. His bag was packed and lying on the back seat. The money he'd taken from Zerkel was in the bag. Before he crossed the Canadian border at Detroit sometime in the night or early morning, he would tape the cash to his body. He expected no trouble from Canadian customs, he simply wanted to minimize the risks. It was happening now, he knew. Although he had very little curiosity at this point he tuned the radio to a station that was broadcasting the first bulletins about what the announcer was calling the “worst air disaster in the history of aviation.” He sat back, totally relaxed, to listen and enjoy.
“In what may be the most bizarre twist to this disaster, federal authorities are looking for a former East German spy, Bruno Mueller, in connection with the thirteen crashes.”
Another voice came on with an accurate description of Mueller, and of the Thomas Reston persona he'd used at Oakland and Chicago.
Mueller slowed down as he searched for an exit that would take him back into the city.
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“Is the FAA cooperating?” McGarvey asked.
“I can't get through to them or to the White House,” Socrates said. He was pale. “But there's been nothing for the past several minutes. It might have been a one-time pulse, not an ongoing signal.”
“Either that or there's no 522s left near those eight airports,” McGarvey warned. “They could have been diverted.”
“That's possible,” Reiner said. “But we have equipment all over the place. Every airline flies our aircraft.”
They were out over the Pacific Ocean at their subsonic cruising altitude five miles up. The West Coast was well behind them. The music had been shut off, and the party had been stopped, but there was angry conversation, the passengers demanding to know what was happening.
“What I don't get is why just the port engines on 522s?” Callahan said.
“They're targeting Guerin, and they want everyone to know what's happening is no coincidence,” McGarvey said.
“The Japanese?”
“I'm not so sure.”
“Who else?” Reiner demanded. “I'm trying to fly this airplane. I wish somebody would tell me what the hell is going on. If it's just a corporate takeover, give it to the bastards. No company's worth all this.”
“I agree,” McGarvey said. “But this may be the start of something a hell of a lot bigger.” He turned to the FBI agents. “Is there anyone from the FAA aboard?”
“I think there's someone back there from Washington,” McLaren said.
“Explain the situation to him and see if he can get to his boss.”
McLaren hesitated.
“You can arrest me when we land,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime, there's not much chance of me going anywhere.”
“Right,” McLaren said, and left.
“I'll try my boss,” Joyce said. “He's got a real hard-on for you, Mr. McGarvey. I think I'll get his attention.”
“How about Al Vasilanti?” McGarvey asked.
“He's back there, but he won't do any good,” Socrates replied. “He was in bad enough shape after Dulles. Now? It's anyone's guess.”
“Kennedy's not aboard?”
“No,” Socrates said puzzled. “I didn't see him in the confusion.”
“Try to get through to him. See why he stayed behind. And see if he can get through to the White House.” McGarvey turned to Callahan. “Get back with Gales Creek and find out for sure that it was the port engines on all those crashes, and have them stand by to let us know if anything else happens.”
“What about you?” Socrates asked.
“I'll try the CIA. Maybe they'll listen now.”
“Okay, stand by,” Reiner cut in. He flipped a couple of switches on an overhead panel. “Number two is overheating. We have about a minute before it shuts itself down.”
Socrates studied the readouts on one of the CRT monitors. “Increase the air flow to the combustion chamber.”
“Already at maximum.”
“Ops says everything is quiet for now,” Callahan reported.
“We need the port monitor,” Reiner said urgently.
“No other way around it?” McGarvey asked.
“No,” Socrates said. “We'll lose the engine otherwise.”
“Do it,” McGarvey ordered. “Callahan will stay with Gales Creek. If there's another crash you can pull the plug. In the meantime we head to the nearest airstrip. If
you can get the engine cooled down before we get into Portland's air traffic control range, you can yank the monitor again so that we can land.”
“I hope the hell you know what you're doing,” Reiner said as Socrates scrambled down into the electronics bay.
“I'm not an engineer,” McGarvey replied.
“No, but you've got balls, I'll say that much for you.”
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The sharply flaring bows of a huge gray ship suddenly appeared out of the darkness directly overhead. Obviously in trouble, it wallowed at an oblique angle to the seas. The acrid stench of diesel oil was thick on the wind. Stan Liskey, his adrenaline pumping, fumbled with the lines connecting the Aires windvane, slipped them off, and hauled the tiller hard over to port.
They couldn't have been more than forty or fifty feet from the monster. For several agonizing moments Liskey was sure they would be sucked in by the bow wave. But
Fair Winds
clawed herself away, the gray wall slipping farther and farther aft.
“What was it?” Carol screamed over the shriek of the wind.
Liskey had caught a glimpse of the bow numbers, 988. He didn't know the name of the ship, but he knew it was Seventh Fleet out of Yokosuka.
“I think it's a destroyer. One of ours.”