“Take me up to the second-floor balcony,” Hooker ordered.
From there he would have an unobstructed view of the Harbor and the upcoming activities. It was an event he had dedicated a lifetime to and nothing could keep him from missing it.
A light tapping on the door to her suite woke Trace out of an uneasy slumber.
“Come in,” she called out. She was surprised to see an agitated General Maxwell standing there.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Joint Chiefs are boycotting the ceremony,” he said.
“I heard that from a reliable source at Pearl.”
“What does that mean?” Trace asked, pulling on a sweatshirt underneath the covers.
“I don’t know,” Maxwell said.
“I’m just feeling jumpy.” He walked over to the window and peered out into the darkness as Trace finished getting dressed.
There was another knock on the door. Maxwell turned and opened it. Two men stepped in.
“Come with us, general.
There’s someone who wants to talk to you.” They looked at Trace, now in her wheelchair. One man looked at the other, then the leader decided.
“You too.”
“Where are we going?”
One of the men pulled a gun out. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
CHAPTER 27
Through his night vision goggles, the navigator on the lead Zodiac spotted their strobe on shore. He steered directly in, slowing as they approached the rocky shore. A soldier in the prow threw a line to the woman waiting on shore. The party scrambled ashore, the last man opening the boat’s valves, letting it slip back under the water.
The second boat came in and unloaded. The team leader walked up to the guide, “Major Keyes,” he said, identifying himself.
“Sergeant Vasquez,” the guide replied, taking his hand and returning his grip squeeze for squeeze.
Keyes broke off first.
“All accounted for.”
“I’ve got a van to take you on the final leg to your target, sir,” Sergeant Vasquez said, pointing inland.
“All right.” Major Keyes turned and gave a hand signal.
His team spread out and they moved forward.
Eighty miles to the south, men began loading out of the submarine.
Their target was less than a half-mile away, but totally oblivious of their presence. The captain had crept up slowly, on silent running, taking the entire night to cover six miles underwater.
The men were experts at this task as they formed up on their SDVS and mini-sleds. In a V, their team leader at the head, they slowly began to traverse the last of the distance to their target.
Boomer felt exposed as the sun continued rising over the hills to the east and shone down on the harbor. They were hidden in tall grass right next to the water, but already two naval launches had gone by with security personnel on board. Boomer checked his watch again. It was getting close — too close.
“Maybe they were already in when we got here,” he suggested.
“If they are in, then we’re going to see some good fireworks soon,” Skibicki said, briefly pulling off one of the earpieces, then replacing it.
“But I don’t think they would have stayed in that long. They only have so much oxygen on the SDV. No, they’re still coming.
Several minutes passed, then Skibicki suddenly smiled.
“I’ve got a contact,” he said.
“Moving steadily at two knots.” He took off the headset.
“Time to get wet.”
Boomer slipped on his fins and pulled his mask down.
Together they slipped into the water, Skibicki in the lead.
He had another piece of exotic equipment in hand that Boomer had never seen before. The sergeant major had briefly described its function when Boomer had asked how they would pinpoint the Mark IX if and when it came through the entrance. Five hundred meters of dark water was a pretty wide area for two men to cover. Skibicki had shown him a small handheld device and explained that it would lock in on the OAR, obstacle avoidance radar, that the SDVS used and bring them right up on the craft.
The exercise of swimming through the water felt good to Boomer. His ribs still ached but the soreness wasn’t crippling.
He breathed in air through his mouthpiece, slowly exhaling in rhythm with his finning. Skibicki was a dark bulk just in sight. Visibility was less than four feet at their current depth of ten feet.
Agent Stewart could tell that the protocol officer for Pearl Harbor was extremely flustered. The folding chairs set up for the Joint Chiefs of Staff were prominently empty, except for the Marine Corps commandant, and the young officer didn’t quite know how to handle such an unprecedented breach of etiquette.
Stewart glanced about. There were a group of survivors of the Arizona gathered together on the other side of the memorial beside the media.
The surface of the harbor was perfectly still, looking like a dark sheet of glass. The distant chatter of security helicopters was the only noise breaking the tranquility of the moment.
“Even at this moment,” Stewart could hear one of the network anchors speaking, “fifty-four years ago, the first wave of Japanese planes was making landfall on the north side of Oahu, breaking into their attack formations.”
Since the fiftieth anniversary celebration in 1991, the memorial service had hardly made a blip on the major networks, but the President’s presence and the promise of a major policy speech had drawn the media.
Stewart glanced northward at the lush green hills. It was all so beautiful and peaceful. Then he looked back at the empty chairs. To him they were a bad omen. Last night, he’d talked to Rameriz his boss, and they had brought in extra agents from the second detail. He looked around the memorial and noted the additional security. If someone tried an attack, they were as ready as they could be.
All Trace knew was that they were in a van somewhere on the landward side of the Pearl Harbor Navy base. Their guards had told them to be quiet when Trace had tried asking General Maxwell what was going on.
She knew they were on the Pearl Harbor Reservation because she could see through a crack in the curtains separating them from the driver up front and had recognized a few landmarks.
The van had tilted, as if going down a ramp just before stopping, and Trace and Maxwell had been hustled out, down a long corridor, and into a large room with concrete walls.
There were two officers manning radios in the room and another officer dressed in camouflage fatigues standing at a map board. He turned as they were brought in and nodded.
“General Maxwell, Major Trace. I’m Colonel Decker.
Sorry for the inconvenience, but we need to talk.” He glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have time right now. Please, have a seat.”
“I demand to know why we were brought here,” Maxwell said.
Decker shook his head.
“I don’t have time right now, general. All your questions will be answered very shortly.”
He pointed at a TV on the wall that showed the ceremony just across the water.
“Watch and see.”
The two limousines had emptied their passengers fifteen minutes earlier. The boarding ramp was pulled back and the E-4B taxied the last few yards to the ready line. The pilot increased throttle and the plane roared forward, increasing speed until the wheels slowly parted company with the ground.