sexual behavior. (Having learned that sexual activity was the only thing that
men wanted of them, they often sought more of it in a futile search for the
self-worth ripped away from them by the first attacker.) Barbara Linders had
done that, had taken antidepression medications, had skipped through half a
dozen jobs and two abortions. That this was a result of her victimization, and
not an indication of her unreliability, would have to be established before the
committee, because once the matter became public information, she would
be unable to defend herself, not allowed to speak openly, while lawyers and
investigators on the other side would have every chance to attack her as thor-
oughly and viciously as, but far more publicly than, Ed Realty ever had. The
media would see to that.
“It’s not fair,” she said, finally.
“Barbara, it is fair. It’s necessary,” Murray said as gently as he could.
“You know why? Because when we impeach that son of a bitch, there won’t
be any doubts. The trial in the U.S. Senate will be a formality. Then we can
put him in front of a real federal district-court jury, and then he will be con-
victed like the criminal he is. It’s going to be hard on you, but when he goes
lo prison, it’ll be a lot harder on him. It’s the way the system works. It isn’t
perfect, but it’s the best we have. And when it’s all over, Barbara, you will
have your dignity back, and nobody, ever, will take it away from you
again.”
“I’m not going to run away anymore, Mr. Murray.” She’d come a long
way in two weeks. There was metal in her backbone now. Maybe not steel,
but it grew stronger every day. He wondered if it would be strong enough.
The odds, he figured, were 6-5 and pick ’em.
“Please call me Dan. My friends do.”
“What is it you didn’t want to say in front of Brett?”
“We have a guy in Japan …” Mrs. Foley began, without giving Chet
Nomuri’s name. She went on for several minutes.
Her account wasn’t exactly a surprise. Ryan had made the suggestion
himself several years earlier, right here in the White House to then-President
Fowler. Too many American public officials left government service and
immediately became lobbyists or consultants to Japanese business groups,
or even to the Japanese government itself, invariably for much higher pay
than what the American taxpayer provided. The fact was troubling to Ryan.
Though not illegal per se, it was, at the least, unseemly. But there was more
to it than that. One didn’t just change office location for a tenfold increase in
income. There had to be a recruitment process, and that process had to have
some substance to it. As with every other form of espionage, an agent-recruit
needed to provide up-front proof that he could deliver something of value.
The only way for that to happen was for those officials who yearned for
higher income to give over sensitive information while they were still in
government employment. And that was espionage, a felony under Title 18 of
U.S. Code. A joint CIA/FBI operation was working quietly to see what it
could see. It was called Operation SANDALWOOD, and that’s where Nomuri
came in.
“So what have we got so far?”
“Nothing on point yet,” Mary Pat replied. “But we have learned some
interesting things about Hiroshi Goto. He has a few bad habits.” She elabo-
rated.
“He doesn’t like us very much, does he?”
“He likes female Americans just fine, if you want to call it that.”
“It’s not something we can use very easily.” Ryan leaned back in his
chair. It was distasteful, especially for a man whose elder daughter would
soon start dating, something that came hard to fathers under the best of cir-
cumstances. “There’s a lot of lost souls out there, MP, and we can’t save
them all,” Jack said without much conviction in his voice.
“Something smells about this, Jack.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the recklessness of it. This guy could be their
Prime Minister in another couple of weeks. He’s got a lot of support from the
zaibatsu. The present government is shaky. He ought to be playing states-
man, not cocksman, and putting a young girl on display like that…”
“Different culture, different rules.” Ryan made the mistake of closing
tired eyes for a moment, and as he did so his imagination conjured up an
image to match Mrs. Foley’s words. She’s an American citizen, Jack.
They’re the people who pay your salary. The eyes opened back up. “How
good’s your officer?”
“He’s very sharp. He’s been in-country for six months.”
“Has he recruited anybody yet?”
“No, he’s under orders to go slow. You have to over there. Their society
has different rules. He’s identified a couple unhappy campers, and he’s tak-
ing his time.”
“Yamata and Goto . . . but that doesn’t make sense, does it? Yamata just
took a management interest on the Street, the Columbus Group. George
Winston’s outfit. I know George.”
“The mutual-funds bunch?”
“That’s right. He just hung ’em up, and Yamata stepped up to take his
place. We’re talking big bucks, MP. Hundred-million minimum for the price
of admission. So you’re telling me that a politician who professes not to like
the United States hangs out with an industrialist who just married himself to
our financial system. Hell, maybe Yamata is trying to explain the facts of life
to the guy.”
“What do you know about Mr. Yamata?” she asked.
The question caught Jack short. “Me? Not much, just a name. He runs a
big conglomerate. Is he one of your targets?”
“That’s right.”
Ryan grinned somewhat crookedly. “MP, you sure this is complicated
enough? Maybe toss in another element?”
In Nevada, people waited for the sun to set over the mountains before begin-
ning what had been planned as a routine exercise, albeit with some last-min-
ute modifications. The Army warrant officers were all experienced men, and
Ihcy remained bemused by their first official visit to “Dreamland,” as the
Air Force people still called their secret facility at Groom Lake. This was the
place where you tested stealthy aircraft, and the area was littered with radar
•ml other systems to determine just how stealthy such things really were.
With the sun finally gone and the clear sky dark, they manned their aircraft
and lifted off for a night’s testing. The mission for tonight was to approach
the Nellis flight line, to deliver some administrative ordnance, and to return
to Groom Lake, all undetected. That would be hard enough.
Jackson, wearing his J-3 hat, was observing the newest entry in the stealth
business. The Comanche had some interesting implications in that arena,
and more still in special operations, fast becoming the most fashionable part
of the Pentagon. The Army said they had a real magic show worth watching,
and he was here to watch….
“Guns, guns, guns!” the warrant officer said over the guard channel ninety
minutes later. Then on intercom, “God, what a beautiful sight!”
The ramp at Nellis Air Force Base was home to the Air Force’s largest
Tighter wing, today augmented further still with two visiting squadrons for
the ongoing Red Flag operation. That gave his Comanche over a hundred
targets for its 2O-millimeter cannon, and he walked his fire among the even
rows of aircraft before turning and exiting the area to the south. The casinos
of Las Vegas were in sight as he looped around, making room for the other
two Comanches, then it was back down to fifty feet over the uneven sand
tnd a northeasterly heading.
“Getting hit again. Some Eagle jockey keeps sweeping us,” the back-
icater reported.
“Locking up?”
“Sure as hell trying to, and-Jesus-”
An F-I5C screeched overhead close enough that the wake turbulence
made the Comanche rock a little. Then a voice came up on guard.
“If this was an Echo, I’d have your ass.”
“I just knew you Air Force guys were like that. See you at the barn.”
“Roger. Out.” In the distance at twelve o’clock, the fighter lit off its
afterburners in salute.
“Good news, bad news, Sandy,” the backseater observed.
Stealthy, but not quite stealthy enough. The low-observable technology
built into the Comanche was good enough to defeat a missile-targeting radar,
but those damned airborne early-warning birds with their big antennas and
signal-processor chips kept getting hits, probably off the rotor disc, the pilot
thought. They had to do a little more work on that. The good news was that
the F-I5C, with a superb missile-tracking radar, couldn’t get lockup for his
AMRAAMs, and a heat-seeker was a waste of time for all involved, even
over a cold desert floor. But the F-isE, with its see-in-the-dark gear, could
have blown him away with a 2omm cannon. Something to remember. So,
the world was not yet perfect, but Comanche was still the baddest helicopter