"We have learned that a helicopter painted in the colors of Honolulu television station KGMB — a JetRanger similar to the chopper that opened fire on the tour ship — was forced to land at Barbers Point Naval Air Station shortly after the incident.
"Authorities have confirmed that the television station pilot and her cameraman were interrogated and released about an hour and a half ago.
"In related news, the reaction in Japan to the horrifying shooting spree has been described as a mixture of anger and hysteria. We hope to have a report from downtown Tokyo in the next few minutes."
The newscaster paused and glanced away from the camera for a brief second.
"I've been told that we now have a live report from our correspondent in Hawaii. Dave."
The picture went blank, then focused on a middle-aged reporter in a polo shirt. His hair and facial features suggested that he was a native Hawaiian. Behind him, across the harbor, a dozen boats surrounded the Star of Honolulu and the closed USS Arizona memorial.
"Helen, senior officials in the Honolulu Police Department have confirmed that seven people were killed during the brutal shooting at Pearl Harbor."
He glanced at his notes before continuing. "The latest figures that we have indicate that sixteen people were injured, eleven with minor injuries, and the others are described as serious or critical."
"Dave," she asked with a touch of sadness in her voice, "do the authorities have any leads at this point? Any idea who might have been flying the helicopter?"
A pained look crossed the man's rugged face. "No, Helen." He shrugged and cast a look at the war memorial. "From all accounts, witnesses to the shooting agree that the pilot appeared to be a Caucasian, but the police are simply baffled. An extensive aerial search is under way, including both military and civilian aircraft, but so far no trace of the helicopter has been reported." He heard his cue. "David Kaiulani, reporting from Honolulu, Hawaii."
Wickham finished his beer in three gulps, then pushed the mute button on the remote control and called the Director of the CIA.
The phone rang three times while Steve felt the anxiety build. He wasn't fond of the newly appointed Director, and he made every attempt to distance himself from Paul Holcomb.
Wickham, like many of his peers, wondered how the former Army major general had surfaced in command of the CIA. The man was reasonably competent technically, but his logic and social skills were not what one would expect of a flag-rank officer, let alone someone responsible for directing a sophisticated intelligence agency.
The truth of the matter, as Wickham discovered only weeks after Holcomb ascended to his position, was that his father had been a four-star general who used his wide-ranging influence to get his son through West Point. Although young Paul graduated near the bottom of his class, his father's extensive political connections carried him all the way to two stars.
Unfortunately for Holcomb, the Secretary of the Army finally pulled the plug on the major general's less-than-spectacular Army career. In order to smooth any ruffled feathers of the elder General Holcomb, the powers-that-be agreed to give his son a reasonable period of time as the Director of the CIA. The retirement agreement would look good on his resume and biography. Besides, the President himself kept a firm hand on the Agency, so Paul couldn't do too much damage during his short tenure.
"General Holcomb," the hollow voice exclaimed. Paul Holcomb was using the speakerphone in his den.
"General Holcomb, Steve Wickham returning your call."
"Yes, Stephen," he said in his nasal Bostonian accent, "glad to hear from you. I suppose you've heard about the shooting — the incident in Hawaii?"
"Yes, sir. I just saw it on television."
"Well," Holcomb continued impatiently, "back when I was the C. O. of Schofield Barracks, we didn't have any trouble with the goddamned Japs in Hawaii. They stayed in their place — not like those overbearing bastards who cruise around Pearl Harbor like they own it."
Wickham seized the moment. "General, you asked me to call."
"Yes," he answered cryptically and cleared his throat. "The Chief launched two missiles late this afternoon."
Holcomb had an underlying contempt for the President and always referred to him as the Chief. Even though the President had appointed him to his post at the CIA and helped smooth his Senate confirmation, Holcomb still believed the former governor could have countermanded the Secretary of the Army and salvaged his career.
Holcomb coughed and raised his voice. "One of them landed on the FBI building and the other one landed in my office."
Unsure of how he should reply, Steve remained silent and glanced at the television. The network was replaying video of the helicopter assault on the tour ship.
"The White House has put a priority on finding the person, or persons, behind the attack before things get out of control." As he always did when he had important information, Holcomb paused for effect. "The Chief wants to clamp a lid on this before the Japs bomb Pearl Harbor again." Holcomb punctuated the statement with a hasty chuckle.
Caught off-guard by the remark, Wickham inwardly cringed. The few times he had been around Paul Holcomb, Steve sensed that he was a callous, intolerant man. But his open contempt for the Japanese people came as a surprise to Steve.
"I understand his concern," Wickham replied diplomatically.
"That's good, because you've been nominated to work on the shooting incident with two of the finest from the FBI's Criminal Division."
"Nominated?"
"By the Chief himself," he announced with undisguised sarcasm. "He's impressed by your previous accomplishments, and our records indicate that you have a working knowledge of the Japanese language."
"That was years ago, when I was stationed in Japan." "Well, we don't argue with the Chief."
Steve reached for a pad and pencil. "When do I leave?"
"We're going to fly you from Andrews to Chicago tonight, and, let me see my notes… you need to be at Andrews by twenty-two hundred, and you've got a reservation on United in the morning."
Holcomb reached for his reading glasses. "United flight one eighty-seven, departing at zero-eight-twelve. One of the FBI people will be on the flight with you, and the other agent will join you during your stop in San Francisco. Any questions?"
"Yes, sir," Wickham answered while he viewed another replay of the cold-blooded attack at Pearl Harbor. "Do you happen to know the name of the agent in Chicago?"
"Marcus Callaway," he answered with a pronounced nasal accent. "He's a crackerjack ballistics expert and antiterrorism specialist."
Steve scrawled as fast as he could. "General, is there anything else you can tell me about the shooting incident?"
"You know as much as I do," Holcomb answered lightly, "but we'll have a full brief sent to the FBI agent in Chicago so you can go over it tomorrow during your flight."
"Yes, sir."
"Stephen." Holcomb paused for a moment. "The Chief told me that we — the CIA and FBI — had better close ranks and find out who's behind this incident, so I damn sure expect results."
"Yes, sir."
"We can't afford to have the situation spiral out of control," Holcomb stated flatly, "like that goddamn Rodney King fiasco."
Wickham forced his reply to be pleasant. "I understand, General. Have a nice evening."
"The same to you."
"Thanks."
Steve absently placed the receiver down and mentally replayed the Pearl Harbor video, then raised the phone and returned the call from his former wife. She was out for the evening, so he left a message and hurried to shower, pack, and drive to Andrews Air Force Base.