Cliff Ackerman pointed to the Air Guard fighters. "The jet jockeys are slowin' and closing on us."
She nodded nonchalantly, but a warning bell was going off in her mind. Something wasn't right, and the controller had seemed unusually strained, almost hostile.
"Sky Nine is in radar contact," the staccato voice said, then went on in the same crisp fashion. "Sky Nine is hereby directed to fly to and land at Barbers Point. I repeat, you are instructed to proceed directly to Barbers Point and land."
An ominous feeling sent a chill down her spine. Except in the event of a declared emergency, Theresa knew that FAA regulations required that she comply with ATC instructions in an area in which air traffic control is exercised. However, she questioned if they could order her to land at the naval air station. She breathed slowly and forced herself to be calm. "On whose authority?"
"On the authority of the Honolulu Police Department and the Federal Aviation Administration."
Theresa and Cliff exchanged disbelieving looks. Even though she was wearing dark-green aviator sunglasses, he could see the concern etched on her face.
"Sky Nine, do you copy."
Theresa glanced at the McDonnell Douglas F-1Ss and jabbed the transmit button. "Sky Nine copies," she answered with aplomb, "but I want an explanation about the fighters, and why I'm being forced to land at Barbers Point."
Her earphones remained silent.
Ackerman selected intercom. "You been skippin' out on your parkin' tickets?" he nervously asked.
Before she could answer, the approach controller issued new directions. "Sky Nine, contact Barbers Point Tower on onethree-two-point-six-five."
Now is not the time to argue. "Thirty-two-sixty-five," she said evenly, eliminating the first number since all VHF frequencies began with the number one.
"Cliff, give the station a call."
He snorted and shook his head in disgust. "They aren't gonna believe this."
"Something tells me they will."
Selecting the tower frequency for the Barbers Point Naval Air Station, Theresa reminded herself that she was a seasoned professional pilot. Besides, they would be on the ground soon and the mystery would be solved.
Ackerman gazed at the intimidating F-15s while the pilots let the sleek fighters drift apart.
"Sky Nine to base," he said hastily while he watched the landing gear extend from the flight leader's Eagle, then saw the wheels drop out of his wingman's aircraft. "Do you copy, base?"
The dispatcher's reply had been interrupted. " — ave received reports that a helicopter was involved in the shooting. Stand by."
Theresa made a slight course correction and waited to call the naval air station tower.
"Base — base to Sky Nine," the voice sputtered, then slowed after a moment. "The police have just arrived, and from what I understand, a helicopter fired guns at a Pearl Harbor cruise ship. They're saying — wait a second — they just said that the ship was full of Japanese tourists."
The woman paused while someone in the background spoke to her. "I've just been told… that witnesses claim it was our Channel Nine helicopter."
Stunned by the absurdity of the allegation, Theresa Garney arched her eyebrow and gave her cameraman a long look. Cliff Ackerman was incredulous, and it showed in his blank stare.
He laughed under his breath and then keyed his mike. "You might explain to the HPD that Sky Nine is not equipped with guns."
"They're right here," the mobile radio operator warned. "You might want to speak to them in person."
Theresa flashed Ackerman a disapproving frown and then started a slow descent. "Barbers Point Tower, Sky Nine is with you, fifteen north, negative ATIS." The JetRanger was not equipped with a UHF radio that could receive the Automatic Terminal Information Service.
"Sky Nine, Barbers Point Tower," the gravelly voice responded. "You're cleared to land on the numbers for runway one-one, next to the security vehicles. Winds are two-one-zero at eight. Altimeter two-niner-niner-one."
Theresa acknowledged the landing clearance and pushed the intercom button. "Cliff, what the hell is going on? Who would use a helo to gun down people on a tour of Pearl Harbor?"
"Someone with a vendetta and a sick mind," he answered uncomfortably, "who knows how to fly a helicopter."
She scanned the runways at Barbers Point. "Where do you figure our double is now?"
He thought for a moment, then gave her one of his infectious smiles. "I don't have a clue, but I can tell you one thing for damn sure."
Theresa gave him a knowing look. "We're in trouble."
He opened another stick of gum. "That's right, and we're gonna be the center of attention in Honolulu."
Her glance slid to Ackerman and then to the fighters as the pilots added power and retracted their wheels.
"No doubt," she agreed with a hint of irritation in her voice, "but the station's ratings will go up, and you know that's all that matters in this business."
Chapter 2
Tadashi Matsukawa waded into his oversized spa and uncorked a bottle of wine from his French vineyard near Epernay, in the Champagne region. He selected a flute glass from the outdoor bar next to the bubbling water, then poured a liberal amount of the effervescent white wine and settled back to gaze across the meadows of his 1,780-acre ranch located at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. He was proud of the magnificent spread, but what he was most proud of was the fact that he had purchased the ranch with a sizable U. S. government grant.
A large man by Japanese standards, Matsukawa had wide cheekbones and a broad, slightly flattened nose. His piercing eyes were almond brown with a trace of pigment edging into his off-white eyeballs. The intelligent eyes behind the gold-framed spectacles seldom blinked when Matsukawa stared down a business opponent. His hands were soft, with puffy fingers and neatly manicured nails polished and shining from the protective clear coat. Not yet fifty, Matsukawa was a billionaire with a solid reputation for being ruthless and unforgiving.
He fervently believed in the Japanese tradition of Bushido — the feudal-military code that valued personal honor and proper action above the life of an individual. He admired the exploits of the kamikaze pilots so much that he had collected a number of expensive mementos from the families of the sacrificial aviators.
Tadashi Matsukawa, who had received his Master of Business Administration from Harvard, was programmed from early youth to be in the fast lane. Only the brightest young management trainees of Japan's most successful international corporations are allowed to apply to the oldest institution of higher learning in the United States. The remaining candidates, according to their initial performance evaluations and academic ranking, matriculate to Stanford, Columbia, or a host of other top-notch business schools.
After graduating with honors, Matsukawa had left Cambridge and returned to Japan, where he thoroughly impressed his superiors with his acute business acumen. His natural talent for commercial enterprises was highlighted by a shrewd knack for judiciously handling capital. Matsukawa's rapid rise to the top of the executive ranks surprised few of his colleagues, and he soon began forming his own corporation. Three days after his thirty-first birthday, the multimillionaire resigned from his parent corporation and devoted every waking moment to increasing his expanding fortune.
Matsukawa's vast empire was structured on the foundation of what he perceived to be rectitude. His decisions were made in accordance with what he believed, based on his logic alone. In his mind, business dealings were tantamount to waging war. More than anything, Matsukawa enjoyed the intellectual challenge of pummeling his opponents until their will to win finally evaporated.
He and his fellow business titans from Japan's six largest cartels, known as zaibatsu, took pleasure in laughing among themselves about dealing with the naive Americans and their self-important but faint-hearted trade representatives.