"What the hell is going on?"
Steve gave him a detailed but succinct account of what had transpired on the front porch, adding that at least two men with handguns had slipped down the side of the property to a point near Marcus.
"You're shitting me…"
Steve let his eyes shift toward Callaway. "They would have nailed you in a New York minute."
"Okay, so I'm a little rusty," Marcus said. "We need to throw a net over that place as quickly as we can get everyone organized."
"I agree that we need to move fast," Steve said hastily and shot a glance at Susan. "If there's a helo hidden somewhere on the property, they'll try to fly it out before we come back with a search warrant."
Callaway kept his eyes on the road while he spoke. "If these people were part of the Pearl Harbor attack, even if the chopper is gone, they'll want to get rid of any other evidence that could link them to the assault."
"Marcus, if we're right about this, you can bet that they're in the process of sanitizing the place right now."
Callaway gave him a concerned glance. "We need some backup, like now."
Steve looked back at Susan's car. "Marcus, pull over by the slope up ahead."
"Okay."
When both cars came to a stop, Wickham and Callaway leaped out and hurried to Susan's door.
"We've got to move quickly," Steve advised, "but we can't risk using the radios. Those people are sharp, and I have no doubt they have the equipment to monitor radio calls from both the air and the ground, including the FBI."
"Hell," Callaway snorted, "everyone listens to us."
"Susan," Steve continued, planning for what he believed to be inevitable, "I can use my secure phone and have Langley contact your office."
"That would be great."
"Steve," Marcus said and looked up the road toward the imposing residence, "I'll find another approach to this place while you and Susan stake out the home."
"Good idea," Wickham replied, "but be damned careful. These people aren't clowns."
Susan nodded in agreement. "Marcus, keep your distance and if anything develops, call my code name over the radio." "I'll do it."
"Steve," she said hastily, "I think we should move closer to the house."
"Yeah," Wickham agreed while he watched Callaway grab a pair of coveralls from the trunk of their car. Then Marcus handed him his SecTel secure phone.
Steve energized the discrete communications system. "I've got to coordinate some air cover since we can't completely surround this place."
Steve jumped into Susan's car and she turned it around while Callaway drove down the road.
"What do you think?" she asked as they made their way slowly up the long drive. "Is the helicopter there?"
"I don't know." He sighed and opened the phone case. "But something is definitely wrong when two armed men are sneaking around in the yard."
She gave him a quick glance. "Especially with two FBI cars sitting in the driveway.".
Chapter 14
The bridge of the aircraft carrier USS Independence (CV-62) was quiet at this time of the morning. The sailors and officers were asleep, except for the early risers and members of the ship's company, who were standing watch.
Belowdecks, the mess cooks worked against the clock in order to be ready to serve a savory breakfast when reveille sounded. They had fourteen peaceful minutes remaining before the hungry, sleepy-eyed men would begin forming a chow line.
Outside on the long carrier pier, two food-vending trucks were preparing to serve the civilian "yardbirds" who were reporting for work. The vendors also did a booming business with the multitude of sailors who opted for a change from the usual navy fare.
The hushed solitude of the cool morning was suddenly shattered by a deafening explosion. The thunderous report echoed across the base as the rocket-propelled grenade burst in a blinding white flash when it detonated against the carrier's bridge.
Three panes of glass blew inward, seriously injuring one of the sailors on the bridge. Everyone in the area dropped to the deck and scrambled for cover as the violent concussion reverberated through the big flattop.
The majority of the crew sat up in their bunks and looked at each other with questioning eyes. Whatever it was, it wasn't good news.
On the quarterdeck, confusion reigned while a seasoned chief petty officer talked the young officer of the deck out of sounding general quarters. The salty boatswain's mate grabbed a phone and called out the Marines, then ordered medical corpsmen to go to the scene of the explosion.
Marcus Callaway drove to a narrow road a quarter mile from the path leading to the mansion, then followed it up the incline until he came to a dead end. He grabbed his binoculars and stepped out in the muddy path.
After locking the car, he placed the strap over the 10-millimeter Smith & Wesson in his shoulder holster and started making his way to higher ground. The going was tough in the dense vegetation, but he made steady progress and finally reached an area where he could observe the sprawling home.
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.