Текст книги "Dragon"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

“Soseki?”

“Yes.”

Pitt studied the chart and said slowly, “If I get this right, the bomb’s shock waves and resulting submarine quake will shift and weaken the underlying sediment until the weight of the island pushes it under the sea.”

“Similar to standing in the surfline while the wave action slowly buries your feet in the sand.”

“It all sounds too simple.”

Sandecker shook his head. “That’s only the half of it. The shock waves alone aren’t enough to do the job. That’s why the bomb must be moved ten kilometers from the plane before it’s detonated.”

“To where?”

“The slope of a deep trench that travels parallel to the island. Besides producing a subocean shock, the magnitude of the atomic explosion is expected to tear loose a section of the trench wall. The tremendous energy, as millions of tons of sediment avalanche down the side of the trench in unison with the shock waves from the bomb, will create one of the most destructive forces of nature.”

“A tsunami,” Pitt anticipated the admiral. “A seismic sea wave.

“As the island begins to sink from the seismic shocks,” Sandecker continued, “it will be dealt a knockout blow by the wave, which will have achieved a height of ten meters and a speed between three and four hundred kilometers an hour. Whatever is left of Soseki Island above the surface will be completely forced under, inundating the Dragon Center.”

“We are going to unleash this monster?” Giordino asked suspiciously. “The two of us?”

“And Big Ben. It was a rush job, no way around it, but the vehicle has been modified to do whatever is demanded.”

“The Japanese mainland,” Pitt said. “A heavy quake followed by a tsunami smashing into the shore could kill thousands of people.”

Sandecker shook his head. “No such tragedy will occur. Soft sediments out to sea will absorb most of the shock waves. Nearby ports and cities along the coast will feel no more than a few tremors. The seismic wave will be small on the scale of most tsunamis.”

“How can you be sure of the ten-meter crest? Tsunamis have been known to go as high as a twelve-story building.”

“Computer projections put the wave crest that strikes the island at less than ten meters. And because Soseki is so close to the epicenter, its mass will act as a barrier and blunt the effects of the wave’s momentum. By the time the first mass of water reaches the coast, at low tide I might add, its crest will have diminished to only one and a half meters, hardly enough for serious damage.”

Pitt mentally measured the distance from the bomber to the spot marked on the slope of the underwater trench for the detonation. He judged it to be about twenty-eight kilometers. An incredible distance to drag an unstable forty-eight-year-old atomic bomb across rugged and unknown terrain.

“After the party,” wondered Pitt, “what happens to us?”

“You drive Big Ben onto the nearest shore, where a Special Forces team will be waiting to evacuate you.”

Pitt sighed heavily.

“Do you have a problem with any part of the plan?” Sandecker asked him.

Pitt’s eyes reflected an undercurrent of doubt. “This has to be the craziest scheme I’ve ever heard in my life. In fact it’s worse than that. It’s damn right suicidal.”

66

RUNNING AT ITS MAXIMUM cruising speed of 460 knots per hour, the C-5 Galaxy ate up the kilometers as darkness fell over the North Pacific. In the cargo bay, Giordino ran through a checklist of Big Ben’s electronic and power systems. Sandecker worked in the office compartment, providing updates on information and responding to questions raised by the President and his National Security Council, who were sweating out the operation in the Situation Room. The admiral was also in constant communication with geophysicists who supplied new data on seafloor geology, along with Payload Percy, who answered Pitt’s inquiries on the bomb removal from the aircraft and its detonation.

To anyone observing Pitt during the final hour of the flight, his behavior would have seemed most peculiar. Instead of a final attempt to cram a thousand and one details into his head or inspecting the DSMV with Giordino, he collected all the box lunches he could beg and buy from the crew. He also borrowed every drop of available drinking water, thirty liters, and the entire production of the aircraft’s coffee maker, four liters, and stashed it all in Big Ben.

He huddled with the Air Force flight engineer, who knew the C-5 better than anyone on board. Together they rigged up a cable used for tying down cargo and a small electric winch above the small compartment that held the crew’s toilet. Pleased with his unscrupulous handiwork, he entered the DSMV and sat in the operator’s chair and silently contemplated the almost hopeless mission ahead of him.

Cutting the bomb free of the B-29 and detonating it was bad enough, but attempting to drive twelve kilometers over unknown terrain to escape the blast was a very iffy proposition indeed.

Less than a minute after the Air Force transport landed at Langley Field, Loren and Mike Diaz were quickly swept away by a limousine with an armed escort and driven to the White House, while Suma and Toshie were hustled into a bland-colored sedan and driven to a secret destination in Maryland.

Upon arrival, Loren and Diaz were ushered down to the Situation Room. The President rose from his end of the table and came forward.

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” he said, beaming. He gave Loren a light hug and a kiss on the cheek, then embraced Diaz as if the senator was a close relative.

The tense atmosphere lightened as everyone greeted the recently escaped hostages. Jordan moved in and softly asked them to step into an adjoining office. The President accompanied them and closed the door.

“I apologize for rushing you like this,” he said, “and I realize you must need a good rest, but it’s extremely vital for Ray Jordan to debrief you while an operation is underway to eliminate the threat of the Kaiten Project.”

“We understand,” Diaz said, happy to be back amid the tumult of political action. “I’m sure I speak for Congresswoman Smith when I say we’re only too glad to help.”

The President courteously turned to Loren. “Do you mind?”

Loren felt in desperate need of a good soaking bath. She wore no makeup, her hair was tousled, and she was dressed in pants and slacks a size too small that she had borrowed from an aircraft maintenance man’s wife on Wake Island. Despite that and the exhaustion, she still looked remarkably beautiful.

“Please, Mr. President, what would you like to know?”

“If we can skip the details of your abductions, your treatment by Hideki Suma, and your incredible escape until later,” said Jordan with quiet firmness, “we’d like to hear what you can tell us about Suma’s operations and the Dragon Center.”

Loren and Diaz silently exchanged tense glances that conveyed more fearfully than words the spectrum of menacing horrors that were being created in Edo City and under Soseki Island. She nodded in deference to Diaz, who spoke first.

“From what we saw and heard, I’m afraid that the threat from Suma’s bomb-car program is only the tip of the iceberg.”

“Fifteen minutes to drop, gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice came over the cargo bay speakers.

“Time to mount up,” said Sandecker, his face taut.

Pitt put his hand on Giordino’s shoulder. “Let’s hit the john before we go.”

Giordino looked at him. “Why now? There’s a waste system on Big Ben.”

“A safety procedure. No telling how hard we’re going to strike the water. Formula One and Indianapolis Five Hundred drivers always drain their bladders before a race to prevent internal injury in case they’re in an accident.”

Giordino shrugged. “If you insist.” He walked over to the closetlike toilet for the crew that was stationed behind the cockpit and opened the door.

He had no sooner entered when Pitt made a gesture to the flight engineer. A brief nod in reply and several strands of cable dropped and encircled the toilet and were then winched tight, sealing the door.

Giordino sensed immediately what had happened. “Dirk, no! God, don’t do this!”

Sandecker also realized what was happening. “You can’t make it alone,” he said, grasping Pitt’s arm. “The procedures call for two men.”

“One man can operate Big Ben. Stupid to risk two lives.” Pitt winced as Giordino’s efforts to escape the privy became more frenzied. The little Italian could have easily kicked out the aluminum, but the wrapped steel cable bound it tight. “Tell AI I’m sorry and that someday I’ll make it up to him.”

“I can order the crew to release him.”

Pitt smiled tightly. “You can, but they’d have to fight me to do it.

“You realize you’re jeopardizing the operation. What if you were injured during impact? Without Al, you have no backup.”

For a long moment Pitt stared at Sandecker. Then finally he said, “I don’t want the fear of losing a friend on my mind.”

Sandecker knew there was no moving his Special Projects Director. Slowly he took Pitt’s hand in both of his. “What would you like waiting for you when you get back?”

Pitt gave the admiral a warm smile. “A crab louis salad and a tequila on the rocks.” Then he turned and climbed through the DSMV’s hatch and sealed it.

The C-5 had been specially modified for aerial drops. In the cockpit the co-pilot pulled a red handle on his side of the instrument panel, activating the electric motors that swung open a large section of the cargo deck.

Sandecker and two crew members stood in front of the DSMV, their bodies harnessed to safety straps that clipped to tie-down rings. They leaned forward against the wind that swept through the massive opening, their eyes drawn to Pitt seated in Big Ben’s control cabin.

“Sixty seconds to drop zone,” the pilot’s voice came over the headsets clamped on their heads. “Surface wind holding at five knots. Skies clear with a three-quarter moon. Sea maintaining a slight chop with four-foot swells. No surface ships showing on radar.”

“Conditions acceptable,” Sandecker confirmed.

From his position in front of the DSMV, all Sandecker could see was a yawning black hole in the cargo deck. A thousand meters below, the sea was sprinkled in silver from the moon. He would have preferred a daylight drop with no wind and a flat sea, but he felt lucky there was no typhoon.

“Twenty seconds and counting.” The pilot began the countdown.

Pitt gave a brief wave through the transparent bow of the great vehicle. If he was concerned, no trace of it showed on his face. Giordino still beat on the door of the toilet in a rage of frustration, but the sounds were drowned by the wind howling through the cargo bay.

“Five, four, three, two, one, drop!”

The forward ends of the big rails were raised suddenly by hydraulic pumps, and Big Ben slid backward and through the opening into the darkness in a movement lasting only three seconds. Sandecker and the crewmen were temporarily stunned at seeing the thirty-ton behemoth disappear so smoothly out of sight. They cautiously moved to the edge of the deck and gazed behind and below.

The great mass of the DSMV could just be seen in the moonlight, hurtling toward the sea like a meteor from space.

67

THE MULTIPLE CHUTE system automatically derigged, the night air tugging fiercely as three huge canopies streamed into the dark sky. Then they filled and burst open, and the monster vehicle slowed its express-train descent and began drifting at greatly reduced speed toward the waves.

Pitt looked up at the reassuring spectacle and began to breathe more easily. First hurdle behind, he thought. Now all the DSMV had to do was strike the sea on an even keel and fall through 320 meters of water without mishap before landing on the seafloor in one piece, right side up. This part of the operation, he reflected, was entirely beyond his control. He could do nothing but sit back and enjoy the ride with a small degree of trepidation.

He looked upward and easily distinguished the C-5 Galaxy under the light from the moon as it slowly circled the DSMV. He wondered if Sandecker had released Giordino from the toilet. He could well imagine his friend turning the air blue with choice expletives.

God, how long ago was it when he and the N U MA team set up housekeeping in Soggy Acres? Three months, four? It seemed an eternity. And yet the disaster that destroyed the deep-sea station seemed like yesterday.

He stared up at the parachutes again and wondered if they would provide the necessary drag through water as they did in air.

The engineers who dreamed up this insane mission must have thought so. But they were thousands of miles from where Pitt was sitting, and all they relied on were a lot of formulas and physical laws governing the fall of heavy objects. There were no experiments with models or a full-scale test drop. It was win in one quick gamble or lose at Pitt’s expense if they miscalculated.

Judging distance above water is extremely difficult by day and almost impossible at night, but Pitt caught the moonlit sparkle of spray tossed from the wave crests by the light breeze. Impact was less than fifteen seconds away, he judged. He reclined his seat and settled into the extra padding some thoughtful soul had provided. He gave a final wave at the circling aircraft, stupidly he realized. They were too far away to make him out in the darkness. The pilot was maintaining a safe distance to keep Pitt’s canopies free of turbulence from the plane.

The sudden jarring impact was followed by a great splash as the DSMV struck in the trough between two swells. The vehicle carved a sizable crater in the sea, throwing up a circular wall of water in a blazing display of phosphorescence. Then it sank out of view and the sea closed over Big Ben as if healing a giant pockmark.

The blow was not as bad as Pitt had expected. He and Big Ben had survived the parachute drop without a bruise or a fracture. He returned his seat to the upright position and immediately began a check of all his power systems, considerably happy to see green lights sweep across the instrument console while the computer monitor reported no malfunctions. Next he switched on the exterior lights and swiveled them upward. Two of the parachutes had remained flared, but the third was twisted and tangled in its own shroud lines.

Pitt quickly turned his attention to the computer screen as he punched the appropriate keys to monitor his descent. The numbers traveled across the screen and flashed a warning. The DSMV was dropping into the black void at sixty-one meters per minute. The maximum descent speed had been calculated at forty-two. Big Ben was falling nineteen meters a minute too fast.

“Too busy to talk?” Sandecker’s voice came slurred through Pitt’s earphones.

“I have a small problem,” Pitt replied.

“The parachutes?” Sandecker asked, fearful of the answer.

“One of the chutes tangled and I’ve lost drag.”

“What’s your descent speed?”

“Sixty-one.”

“Not good.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The event was considered. Your landing site was selected because the terrain is flat and layered with soft sediment. Despite your excessive rate of descent, impact will be less than what you encountered on the water surface.”

“I’m not worried about impact,” Pitt said, warily eyeballing the TV monitor whose camera was aimed below the rapidly sinking DSMV. “But I am worried about a thirty-ton machine burying itself in ten meters of ooze. Without a scoop Big Ben can’t dig its way out of the muck like Big John.”

“We’ll get you out,” Sandecker promised.

“And what of the operation?”

Sandecker’s voice dropped off so low that Pitt could hardly hear him. “We close the play—”

“Hold on!” Pitt snapped abruptly. “The bottom has come into viewing range.”

The ugly brown of the seabed rose up out of the blackness. He watched apprehensively as the desolate terrain burst toward the camera. The DSMV struck and sank into the silt like a fist into a sponge cake. A huge cloud billowed into the cold black water and curtained off all visibility.

On board the aircraft, as if triggered by a mutual fear, the eyes of Giordino and Sandecker lifted and met across the top of the communications equipment. Their faces were taut and grim as they waited for Pitt’s next voice contact.

All anger had vanished from Giordino after he was released from his latrine prison. Now there was only intense concern as he waited for news of his friend’s fate in the depths of the sea.

Far below, Pitt could not immediately tell if the DSMV had buried itself under the seabed. His only sensation was of being pressed into his chair by a firm weight. All vision was gone. The cameras and exterior lights only recorded brownish ooze. He had no way of knowing whether the control cabin was covered by a thin coating of silt or entombed by five meters of quicksandlike muck.

Fortunately the parachute canopies were caught in a three-knot current and drifted off to the side of the DSMV. Pitt pulled a switch releasing the hooks attached to the chutes’ thick lines.

He engaged the nuclear power systems and shifted Big Ben into “forward.” He could feel the vibration as the great tractor belts dug their cleats into the silt and began to turn. For close to a full minute nothing happened. The belts seemed to spin on their gear wheels with no indication of forward traction.

Then Big Ben lurched to starboard. Pitt adjusted the controls and turned the DSMV back to port. He could feel it edge ahead slightly. He repeated the process, careening the great vehicle back and forth until centimeter-by-centimeter it began to gain headway, picking up momentum and increasing its forward movement.

Suddenly it broke the suction and lunged up and ahead, traveling over fifty meters before breaking out of the silt cloud into clear visibility.

Long seconds passed and a vague feeling of triumph began to seep into Pitt’s body. He sat there quietly relaxed, allowing the DSMV to travel across the seafloor under its own control. He switched on the automatic drive and set a computerized navigational course to the west, then waited a few moments to be certain the DSMV was operating smoothly. Thankfully, Big Ben soon reached its maximum speed and was rolling over the barren underwater plain as effortlessly as if it was plowing under a cornfield in Iowa.

Only then did Pitt contact Sandecker and Giordino and report that he was on his way toward Dennings’ Demons.

68

IT WAS MIDMORNING in Washington when Jordan took the message from Sandecker, ten time zones to the west. The President had returned to his bedroom in the upstairs White House for a shower and a change of clothes. He was standing in front of a mirror knotting his tie when the call came from the Situation Room.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. President,” said Jordan respectfully, “but I thought you’d like to know the drop was successful. Pitt and the Deep Sea Mining Vehicle are in motion.”

“Nice to start the day with some good news for a change. How soon before they reach the bomber?”

“An hour, less if the seafloor is flat and doesn’t hold any geological surprises.”

“And detonation?”

“Two hours to remove the bomb and another three to reach the explosion site, set the detonators, and give the DSMV enough time to get safely out of the area.”

“There were no problems?” asked the President.

“Admiral Sandecker reported the fall through water was a bit hairy for a while, but the DSMV survived the impact in good shape. The only other hitch, if you want to call it that, is Pitt somehow arranged to leave Giordino behind and is conducting the operation on his own.”

The President was secretly pleased. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s the kind of man who would sacrifice himself before endangering a friend. Any late developments on the bomb cars?”

“The task force engaged in the search have turned up twenty-seven.”

“Yoshishu and Tsuboi must know we’re breathing down their necks. If they had the code to explode the bombs, we’d have heard from them.”

“We’ll know shortly if we’ve won the race or not,” Jordan said soberly.

The President’s special assistant, Dale Nichols, rushed up to the President as he stepped out of the elevator. The President immediately recognized a look of urgency on Nichols’ face.

“You look like you’re standing barefoot on an anthill, Dale. What’s going down?”

“You’d better step into the communications lounge, Mr. President. Ichiro Tsuboi has somehow entered our safe system and opened up communications on the video entry.”

“Is he on view now?”

“Not yet. He’s on hold, demanding he talk only to you.”

“Alert the Situation Room so they can tune in the conversation.”

The President entered a room down the hall from the Oval Office and sat in a leather chair on one end of a small stage backed by a giant rectangular opening in the far wall. He pressed a button on a console in the armrest and waited. Suddenly time and space melted into one place, one moment, as a life-sized three-dimensional image of Ichiro Tsuboi materialized on the other side of the stage.

Thanks to the magic technology of photonics—fiber-optic transmission—and computer wizardry, the two men could sit and converse as though they were in the same room. The detail was so amazing that Tsuboi’s image appeared sharply defined and solid without the faintest indication of fuzzy transparency.

Tsuboi was kneeling stiffly on his knees on a bamboo mat, his hands loosely clenched and resting on his thighs. He was dressed in an expensive business suit but wore no shoes. He bowed slightly as the President’s image appeared on his end of the transmission.

“You wish to establish dialogue, Mr. Tsuboi?” said the President for openers.

“That is correct,” replied Tsuboi, rudely refusing to address the President by title.

The President decided to shoot from the hip. “Well, you certainly got my attention with that nuclear blast in Wyoming. Was that supposed to constitute a message?”

The impact of the President’s words was heightened by his seeming indifference. The consummate politician, the President was a shrewd judge of human character. He quickly detected a perceptible tenseness in Tsuboi’s eyes and deduced the Japanese was not dealing from a solid power base.

The international financial wizard and heir apparent to Suma’s underworld and industrial empire tried to appear calm and in control, but the President’s prior silence on the explosion had produced an unsettling effect. He and Yoshishu could not understand why the chief executive had virtually ignored it.

“We can save many words, Mr. President,” said Tsuboi. “You know of our technical advances and superiority in defensive technology, and by now Senator Diaz, Congresswoman Smith, and your intelligence people have provided you with information on our facility on Soseki Island.”

“I’m quite aware of your Dragon Center and the Kaiten Project,” the President countered, mindful that Tsuboi failed to mention Hideki Suma. “And if you believe I won’t order massive retaliation should you insanely detonate any more of your bomb cars, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Our original intent was not to kill millions of people,” Tsuboi insisted.

“I know what you intended, Mr. Tsuboi. Try it and Armageddon is yours.”

“If you wish to go down in history as the greatest monster since Adolf Hitler for a totally irrational act, then there is little more to say.”

“You must have wanted to say something, or why else did you contact me?”

Tsuboi paused, then pressed on. “I have certain proposals to throw on the table.”

“I’m willing to hear them.”

“You will call off your search of the cars. If any more are seized, the signals will be sent to detonate. And since you once dropped such a weapon on my people, I assure you I will not hesitate to explode the remaining bombs in populated cities.

The President fought hard to suppress his growing anger. “A standoff then. You kill a few million of us, we decimate your entire population.”

“No, you won’t do that. The people of the great White Christian American nation will not condone such butchery.”

“We’re not all white or Christian.”

“The minorities that undermine your culture will never back your stand.”

“They’re still Americans.”

“Nevertheless, my people are committed and prepared to die for the new empire.”

“That’s a damned lie,” the President shot back. “Until now, you and Suma and the rest of your gangland mob have operated in secret. The Japanese people have no idea you’ve placed their lives on the line for world economic dominance. They won’t risk the devastation of their nation for a cause based on greed by a few criminals. You don’t speak for them or your government.”

The barest trace of a smile crossed Tsuboi’s face, and the President knew he had been sucked in. “You can avoid this horrible holocaust on both our countries by simply accepting my proposals.”

“You mean demands.”

“As you wish.”

“State your case,” said the President, his voice beginning to sound strained. He’d lost his edge and was angry with himself.

“There will be no nationalization or takeover of Japanese owned companies, nor judicial interference with any of our projected corporate or real estate buy-outs.”

“That’s no big deal. Nationalization has never been in the interests of the United States. No legislation has ever been considered on such an unconstitutional premise in our two hundred years. As to the latter, no Japanese firm that I know of has been barred by law from purchasing a business or land in the United States.”

“Japanese citizens will not be required to present visas when entering the United States.”

“You’ll have to battle Congress on that one.”

Tsuboi coldly continued. “No trade barriers or increased tariffs on Japanese products.”

“What about your end?”

“Not negotiable,” said Tsuboi, obviously prepared for the question. “There are sound reasons why many of your products are not welcome in Japan.”

“Go on,” ordered the President.

“The State of Hawaii becomes a territory of Japan.”

The President had been forewarned of that unreasonable demand. “The good people of the island are already madder than hell over what you’ve done to their real estate prices. I doubt if they’d be willing to exchange the Stars and Stripes for the rising sun.”

“Also the State of California.”

“Impossible and outrageous are words that come to mind,” the President said cynically. “Why stop now? What else do you want?”

“Since our money keeps your treasury afloat, we expect representation in your government, which includes a seat on your cabinet and our people highly placed in your State, Treasury, and Commerce departments.”

“Who makes the selection of your people, you and Yoshishu or the leaders of your government?”

“Mr. Yoshishu and myself.”

The President was aghast. It was like inviting organized crime to participate in government at the highest levels. “What you ask, Mr. Tsuboi, is absolutely unthinkable. The American people will never allow themselves to become economic slaves to foreign nationals.”

“They’ll pay a heavy price if you ignore my terms. On the other hand, if we have a say in the operation of the American government and business community, your whole economy will turn around drastically and provide a higher standard of living for your citizens.”

The President’s teeth clenched. “With a monopoly, prices and profits on Japanese products would skyrocket.”

“You’d also have lower unemployment, and the national debt would diminish,” Tsuboi went on as if the President was impotent.

“I don’t have it in my power to make promises that Congress won’t keep,” said the President, his anger stilled, his mind jockeying for an upper hand. He lowered his eyes to appear perplexed. “You know your way around Washington, Mr. Tsuboi. You have an understanding of how our government works.”

“I am quite aware of your executive limits. But there is much you can do without congressional approval.”

“You must excuse me for a few moments while I digest the enormity of your demands.” The President paused to gather his thoughts. He could not lie and pretend to cave in to all of Tsuboi’s ridiculous demands. That would indicate an obvious ploy, a stall for time. He had to put up a brusque front and appear agitated. He looked up and stared directly at Tsuboi. “I cannot in good conscience accept what has to be unconditional terms of surrender.

“They are better terms than you offered us in nineteen forty-five.”

“Our occupation was far more generous and benevolent than your people had any right to expect,” the President said, his nails digging into the armrests of his chair.

“I am not here to discuss historic differences,” Tsuboi stated bluntly. “You’ve heard the terms and know the consequences. Indecision or procrastination on your part will not delay tragedy.”

There was no sign of a bluff in Tsuboi’s eyes. The President well realized the threat was made more horrible by the cars hidden in heavily populated cities and the suicidal maniacs waiting for the signal to set off the bombs.

“Your extortion demands don’t leave much room for negotiation.”

“None whatsoever,” Tsuboi replied in a tone that defied debate.

“I can’t just snap my fingers and produce a miracle of cooperation with the political opposition,” said the President, feigning exasperation. “You damned well know I can’t dictate to Congress. Senator Diaz and Congresswoman Smith carry heavy weight in both houses, and they’re already inflaming their fellow legislators against you.”

Tsuboi shrugged indifferently. “I fully realize the wheels of your government grind in a swamp of emotions, Mr. President. And your elected representatives vote along party lines, irrespective of the national good. But they will be persuaded to accept the inevitable once you inform them that two of the bomb cars are being driven around Washington as we talk.”

Not good. The ball was back on the President’s side of the court. He made a monumental effort to remain impassive and show strains of anger. “I’ll need time.”

“You have until three o’clock this afternoon, your time, to appear on national television with your advisers and the leaders of Congress standing behind you in a show of support as you announce the new cooperation agreements between Japan and the United States.”