"That's right," Brazzell admitted dryly and rubbed his thumb back and forth against his fingers. "Better than a gold mine."
SECDEF leaned forward and told the driver to pull over and stop near the Department of Interior. When the car came to a smooth stop, the two men got out and walked fifty feet away.
"Frank, you better level with me," Mellongard cautioned with his face set in a frown. "You owe me a big one, and don't forget it."
"I haven't forgotten." Brazzell smiled his thin smile. "I've got the votes lined up, and everyone cashes in if I have your support." He lowered his voice. "But you have to convince your man to go along with this."
Mellongard resented Brazzell's reference to the President as "your man," but the Senator had an uncanny ability to pull off surprises that no one could believe.
"Bryce, you're looking at a potential two million dollars in your personal portfolio if you can deliver. All you have to do is convince the man to play ball."
"I can't believe this," Marcus said after he finished reading about the crash landing at the Los Angeles International Airport. He sipped his orange juice and glanced at Steve. "Eyewitnesses, including two commercial pilots who have combat experience, swear they saw tracer rounds hit the airplane as it approached the runway."
"I don't doubt it," Steve replied as he poured syrup on his pancakes. "There are thousands of machine guns on the market — anything you want — for a price. You mix all the proper ingredients, throw in a wacko who is about a half bubble off center, and presto — you've got a lunatic out shooting at a Japanese airliner that's on final approach to LAX."
Wickham reached for his hot tea. "Hell, most people would call that a normal day in Los Angeles."
Marcus shook his head. "It's crazy. This planet is being overrun by insane people."
"I think you're right," Steve declared while he accepted the paper from Callaway. "It's insidious, but day by day, year by year, decade by decade, this world is becoming more insane."
Wickham skim-read the front page and quietly placed it on the chair next to him. "The magnitude of these incidents with Japan is really frightening."
"No shit."
Steve gave Marcus a somber look. "It's much bigger than we imagined, and I suspect things are going to get worse. because someone is really stirring the pot."
"Yeah," Marcus replied with a pained look on his face. "There's something going on," he trailed off, then caught Steve's eye. "Do you think that all of these incidents — the entire Japan/U. S. clash — are being orchestrated to take us from a trade war to a shooting war?"
Steve glanced toward Diamond Head before he faced Callaway. "Marcus, maybe I've become too cynical, but in this day and age, nothing surprises me anymore."
Callaway studied his colleague for a few seconds. "Well, tell me the truth and don't bullshit me. Is the CIA involved in this deal?"
"What?"
"Are you boys," Marcus asked and leaned back to study Wickham's expression, "trying to work us into a position to have a reason to kick the shit out of Japan?"
The question initially shocked Wickham until he took a moment to think about how plausible it sounded. It wouldn't be the first time the CIA had provoked a confrontation to enable the U. S. to take advantage of a situation.
"If the Agency was setting Japan up for a fall," Steve confided with an uneasy feeling, "I'd know about it."
"Are you sure?"
Steve chuckled and thought about his position at the Agency. His star was burning brightly, but he had a few more requirements to complete before he would be in a position to compete for the top post.
"Yes," he hesitated, "I'm sure the Agency isn't involved."
"That's good." Marcus's relief was clearly evident as he looked at his watch. "We better get going if we're going to be on time."
Wickham and Callaway were driven to the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation by a personable young agent who then gave them the keys to the four-door sedan.
When they entered the building at 300 Ala Moana, the place was crawling with senior Bureau agents and local authorities who were attempting to coordinate their activities amid the chaos. Maps had hastily been taped on the walls, and radio chatter squawked above the din of noise in the crowded building.
Marcus looked through the open door to the main office and recognized Bureau friends from San Diego, Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, and a number of other West Coast cities. He poked Steve with his elbow. "I've never seen this type of reaction before. If I didn't know better, I'd think the President had been shot."
"Well, no one can accuse the FBI of being lackadaisical," Steve commented while Callaway shook hands and exchanged greetings with two of his colleagues who were discussing the crash landing in Los Angeles.
Marcus introduced Steve to his associates as the two men moved toward the center of the office.
They spotted Susan Nakamura at the same time and worked their way through the throng of people.
"Good morning," she said briskly and motioned toward the open door. "Let's get out of the line of fire, then I'll explain what's going on."
Steve cast a glance at Marcus and shrugged. They followed her out of the main office and down the hallway to a storage room where a phone and two small desks had been hastily put in place.
"We can have some privacy in here," Susan said as she closed the door. "The Attorney General has issued a top-priority mandate to the Bureau. She wants us to get this case resolved as quickly as possible, and, as you have seen, she has pulled every available person."
Steve noticed that Susan had a moment of eye contact with Callaway. They were acutely aware of the tough reputation the hardworking Attorney General enjoyed.
"Basically," she confided with a trace of annoyance, "the Bureau is expected to solve these cases quickly or heads are going to roll… as they did after the Waco disaster."
She was clearly troubled by the implied threat from the Attorney General. "That's why this investigation has become a circus."
"Susan," Wickham said with conviction, "forget about the politics of the Bureau. What kind of leads do we have?"
"You're right," she acknowledged without any sign of irritation. "Since I have a number of contacts throughout the islands, I did some digging last night and found a few interesting bits of information."
Callaway was intrigued. "And?"
"There are two pilots — helicopter pilots — living on Oahu who have very checkered histories." She let her gaze linger on Steve. "Why they're still flying is beyond me."
Wickham started to ask a question, then decided it was best to hear her out.
"They both have DUI convictions," she continued evenly, "along with a string of violations and reprimands from the FAA. One of them even has a record of drug smuggling when he lived in Miami. He plea-bargained his way out of one charge, then got caught again and turned state's evidence against his co-conspirators."
"Have they been questioned?" Callaway asked, shifting into his role as a professional Bureau agent.
"Yes. One of them has an alibi for his whereabouts when the attack took place."
Susan sat on the edge of one of the desks. "We're checking his story, but the other pilot — the drug smuggler — says that he was on an overnight fishing and camping trip."
"By himself?" Steve asked, distracted by the glimpse of her legs.
"That's right," she answered serenely. "He's divorced and lives by himself. He's dual rated in helos and airplanes, but says that he hasn't flown helicopters in over a year. He makes a living as an interisland cargo pilot."
Steve looked at the phone. "I need to call Langley." "Before you call, I'd like to add one other thing." Callaway and Wickham gave her their attention.
"The pilot of the helicopter from the television station returned my call late last night and left a message. I just happened to walk in this morning when they were replaying the tape."