Mellongard looked at the color-coded briefing cards that had been prepared for him. "Due to the congestion on the water and in the airspace over the strait, our biggest problem is making proper identification of our allies, possible adversaries, and the neutrals using the waterway and airspace.
"Another factor plaguing us," he half-muttered, "is the onslaught of media people. In spite of our warnings, the airspace over the strait is saturated with chartered airplanes and helicopters full of reporters."
"What about mines?" the President asked, thinking about the hazards of mine warfare in the traffic-choked sea-lane. "I don't want to see our ships get pinned in by mines."
"We are focusing," Mellongard answered with a distant look, "on all aspects of mine countermeasures, including bringing in more Sea Dragons to bolster our efforts. Essex and her group are expected to enter the northern area of the strait by this evening — Washington time."
Bryce Mellongard eyed the men around the long table. "In response to the increasing threats to our expeditionary task force, we've also added more P-3 aircraft to our maritime patrol efforts.
"In order to sustain our forces afloat" — Mellongard leaned back and pocketed his reading glasses—"we are increasing our logistics-support system and diverting more replenishment ships to the strait and the Java Sea."
The President glanced around the room and saw nothing but looks of concern. "Gentlemen, as you may be aware, I've been involved in a marathon of discussions with the leaders of our allies in the Asian and Oceanian regions.
"For the most part" — he paused and looked directly at his Secretary of State—"our international friends support our position, and they're looking forward — as much as we are — to our talks with the Japanese." He was openly lying and everyone knew it.
The President let his gaze drift from person to person. "We have to find out who is responsible for these acts of terrorism, and we have to work with the Japanese to stop the violence in our cities and mend our political differences."
"Mr. President…" the CIA Director said while he rolled a pencil between his hands.
"General Holcomb…"
All eyes shifted to the former two-star general.
"A number of my top people — the best analysts in the Agency," he ventured in his polished Bostonian accent, "believe that Pakistan and India will use this situation as an excuse to do some damage to each other."
The President heard a low rumbling from the swollen rain clouds. "General, there isn't much we can do about their problems at the moment."
Paul Holcomb inwardly cringed. Whatever you say, Chief, he thought.
"As the world focuses on this crisis with Japan," the President went on, "everyone has to make his or her decision about what is right and what is wrong."
The silence in the room was palpable.
"Ourposition is well defined" — the President stared down Holcomb—"and I stick by it. If someone else wants to wade into the fray, that's their prerogative, but we can't afford to get involved in regional power clashes until we sort through this mess with the Japanese."
Holcomb absently dropped his pencil and returned the President's cold stare. "There's something you — all of us — had better think about."
The President tossed a look at Bryce Mellongard before turning his attention to the suddenly outspoken Director of the Agency. "You have the floor, General."
"We have just received documented evidence," Holcomb declared with a hint of smugness, "that at least two — and possibly three — Iranian Kilo-class submarines have entered the Strait of Malacca.
"A Washington-based official from the People's Mojahedin of Iran made the announcement early this morning," he said boldly, "and the Iranian Defense Minister confirmed it to my people less than an hour ago."
The President, who was concerned about Kitty Hawk and her escort ships, glanced at the Defense Secretary. "Bryce, have we been getting any sonar contacts with Kilo-class submarines in the strait — or any other type of sub?"
Mellongard, who was always reluctant to speak freely in front of a group, leaned on the edge of the conference table. "Yes, but it wasn't an Iranian. It was the Sindhuvijay and it surfaced as soon as we began tracking it."
"Where's the sub now?" Bud Tidwell asked.
"The last report I received," Mellongard said without looking up, "indicated that it was on the surface and returning to port in India."
The President faced SECDEF. "Bryce, do you think we'll have any trouble locating the Iranian subs, if, in fact, they're in the strait at this time?"
"We shouldn't have any problem," Mellongard replied with complete confidence. "If they're in the strait, we'll find them and stay on their backs."
Chapter 31
Steve Wickham held the phone receiver to his ear and looked out a third-floor window toward the Kasumigaseki Building in downtown Tokyo. A gleaming Shinkansen superexpress bullet train sped through the center of the bustling city as he concluded his call to Langley. He lingered a moment, absorbed by the sight of the crowded, noisy streets and sidewalks. If he closed his eyes, the sounds wouldn't be distinguishable from the din of New York City or Chicago.
He retraced his steps and entered the compact sushi restaurant, then glanced at Susan and her friend before he took a seat at the end of the low counter. They were still sitting at a tiny alcove in the corner of the restaurant. The intense, skinny young man was talking rapidly but softly. Susan calmly jotted notes while she listened and occasionally nodded her head in agreement.
Hiroshi Okubo had originally agreed to discuss his investigative findings with both Susan and Steve. But between Okubo's call to Susan and the subsequent meeting at the restaurant, the insurance-fraud investigator had decided that he didn't want to talk directly to Steve.
Glad that the restaurant was almost empty at this hour, Wickham ordered a rice patty and patiently waited.
A few minutes later, Steve watched Susan take the initiative to bring the conversation to an end. When he saw her rise and thank her informant, Steve swiveled around to greet them. Hiroshi Okubo graciously bowed and then smiled when Wickham returned the gesture.
"Steve," Susan quietly said when her friend left the restaurant, "let's take a walk."
"That interesting, huh?"
"Indeed."
The temperature was slowly getting cooler when Steve and Susan left the train station and entered the main entrance to Ueno Park. Deciding to explore Lake Shinobazu, renowned for its colorful lotus blossoms, they set off around the spectacularly manicured perimeter.
She fell in step and glanced at Steve. "I forgot to tell you something."
"What?" he asked, cautiously examining the grounds of the large park.
"We'll have seven or eight Bureau agents — all of them Japanese-Americans — working with us in a few days."
"Great," Steve replied with genuine enthusiasm. "The sooner the better as far as I'm concerned."
"Any news from the Agency?"
"Nothing new about this case," he freely admitted, "but then again, I haven't really pried or said much because I don't have any idea who is setting us up."
"I understand," she said flatly. "This whole thing frustrates me as much as it does you."
"I know," Steve replied with a perfunctory smile before he glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone appeared to be trailing them. "The showdown in the Strait of Malacca is growing out of control. A number of the Agency's best analysts think that we should quietly glide out of there before we get waylaid."
She looked up at him with a sense of vulnerability. "It's coming back to haunt us, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Our military has been cut too far, and we're going to pay a price for it."
"Oh, yeah," he replied in exasperation. "We'll have to get our asses kicked by some two-bit military power before the light will begin to glow in Washington."