Chapter 9: In the Rough
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
If you missed Chapter 1 (A Call to Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 2 (Papa George), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 3 (Brothers in Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 4 (East by West), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 5 (Sally), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 1), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 2), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 7 (Pilgrimage), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 8 (Damage Control), please click here.
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 9: In the Rough
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Michael Smith here.
After the Sand Island disaster and the Chinatown Riots in 1966, we moved quickly to lock down Hawaii. On the direction of Prime Minister Rob Goddard, President Kaleo Pakele upgraded the emergency proclamation to martial law. The curfew was set from sundown to sunrise. Only essential personnel were allowed in public. Admiral Sunao “Sunny” Wakisaka’s Maritime Self-Defense Force (SDF) secured the waters. His Ground SDF supplemented the various police departments throughout the islands. His Air SDF secured the skies with two of his Mirage 5 fighter jets in Alert-5, fully armed with pilots inside the cockpit, ready to launch within five minutes. Prime Minister Goddard said at the time, “Sunny’s SDF may be small and peaceable but it’s a potent force, capable of bringing the wrath of hell to the enemy when the Republic’s threatened.”
Within forty-eight hours of the Chinatown Riots and the death of moderate ILWU leader Jack Hall, the Internal Security Agency (ISA) and the Honolulu Police Department (HPD) rolled up the Hawaii chapters of the Chinese Triad (i.e., the White Shirts) and the Japanese Yakuza (i.e., the Dark Shirts). They were either sent to jail or deported. Chinatown and Japantown are now free of crime. Prime Minister Goddard said at the time, “Jack Hall did not die in vain. His legacy is a clean and vibrant Honolulu.”
Thanks to HIG Chairman and CEO James “Jimbo” Everton’s efforts, within a month of the sabotage of our experimental container port, Aloha Pacific Carriers (APC) had the funds to start rebuilding. APC was a joint venture between Aloha Cap and Mitsui OSK Lines. Minister Ben Tanaka, the Hawaii Commercial Corps (the Corps), and the Hawaii Port Authority (HPA) rolled up their sleeves and pitched in not only to rebuild the original port but also to transform the entire Sand Island into a container hub. Mitsui OSK Lines commissioned three new, top-of-the-line container carriers, naming one of them in honor of Jack Hall. Rob said recently, “Honolulu Port is poised someday soon to be the largest, most efficient container port in the world. The critics said the union would lose ninety percent of its jobs to containerization. We are proving them wrong by expanding our port, which means we will cut only ten percent of the labor force, and this will be done through natural attrition and early retirement.”
The Corps also relocated the immigration center to the iconic Aloha Tower, a fitting place to welcome the Republic’s new workforce.
In support of the port expansion, Parliament created the National Trade Union Congress (NTUC) and consolidated all unions under its authority. On the Prime Minister’s advice, President Pakele appointed MP Manuel "Manny" Salgado of the Hawaii Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) as Secretary-General. This made him the highest-ranking Filipino-Hawaiian in government. Secretary-General Salgado said at the time, “By consolidating the unions into one Congress, we achieve economies of scale. My first act will be to create cooperatives that benefit workers, including a new grocery chain called NTUC FairFoods, which will provide our growing workforce with healthy and reasonably priced food, and NTUC Income, which will offer insurance benefits for life, health, and disability.”
Thanks to the emergency meeting the morning of the Sand Island disaster, Sally Goddard, Aloha Cap Managing Director, partnered with Minister of Finance Stephen Goh to create the Friends of Hawaii Rescue Plan. Modeled on the Marshall Plan, Japan, the United Kingdom, and France became the financial anchors. Rob said at the time, “I could not be more appreciative for the support our friends have given Hawaii at this difficult time in the Republic’s short history. It is a testament to the Free World that nations dedicated to liberty and prosperity are supporting us in our time of need.”
Despite the devastation of Sand Island and the Chinatown Riots, the Hawaiian people rallied. They rolled up their sleeves and got to work, tolerated inconveniences like the curfew, and embraced Prime Minister Goddard’s leadership. As a result, on the Prime Minister’s advice, President Pakele suspended martial law after only three months.
Even LBJ, mired in the quagmire of Vietnam, was impressed. He signaled to Rob that he and Congress wanted to join in supporting the Friends of Hawaii Rescue Plan. Rob told him he would think about it and revert. Privately, Rob told me, “Not yet. If we take U.S. money now, we will lose our hunger as a nation. Once we are on our two feet as a Republic, we can repair relations with America. Until then, we play hard to get.”
Although Hawaii was thriving, my investigation into the Sand Island disaster and the Chinatown Riots had come to a standstill. As of 1968, Italian national Enzo Russo, a known provocateur and communist, remained at large. We were no closer to identifying those responsible for either incident, much less both.
Sunday, 31 March 1968
KG Pacific Resorts, Lāna‘i
Front Nine
Bobby and Butter shot down the narrow maintenance trail before I could shut the resort’s back gate. The kid was pure energy at six in the morning, with only the family yellow lab giving him a run for his money. The rest of us were still waking up, and none of us had been caffeinated yet.
“Bobby, slow down,” I called, watching him skip between the metal handrails as the trail zigzagged down the black lava cliffs. “The rocks are wet and slippery.”
The pre-dawn air was crisp and salty, carrying the sound of gentle waves lapping far below. The first hints of light were beginning to edge the horizon, but down here in the shadow of the cliff face, it was still mostly dark. I’d promised Rob and Sally I’d take the kids for a quick swim before the final-round madness began, and this hidden cove below the seventeenth hole was perfect for that.
Jack yawned and stuffed his hands in his pockets, still wearing his hotel bathrobe over swim trunks. “Why couldn’t we just use the main beach?” he grumbled, sounding every bit the sleep-deprived sixteen-year-old.
Molly was more awake than her older brother, carefully picking her way down the trail and peering at the tide pools that dotted the volcanic rocks. “Because this is cooler,” she said, as if she wanted to tack on stupid at the end but thought better of it.
The trail was narrow, carved directly into the cliff face by hotel workers. Ironwood trees clung to the volcanic soil above us, their roots creating natural steps in some places. The handrails were a recent addition after Keller bought the place. But the path had probably been there for generations, used by Hawaiian fishermen long before tourism ever touched this island.
“Look how far down it is!” Bobby shouted from thirty yards ahead, now hanging from one of the handrails and peering into the darkness below.
I picked up my pace. The beach lay forty feet down. It was a secluded cove of black sand and smooth lava rocks that guests never saw. During high tide, waves crashed against the rocky outcropping that extended into deeper water. But now the sea was calm, almost glassy in the pre-dawn light. Resort guests weren’t allowed on the trail, but I’d cleared it with Keller the night before.
“Bobby, get away from that edge right now,” I called, sounding more like his father than Big Mike, the kids’ moniker for me.
Butter had a tennis ball in her mouth and hit the beach first. The beach wasn’t much. It was low tide, and once the tide came in, the waves would crash against the rocks holding up the cliffs. She galloped across the sand, dropped her ball in excitement, and lunged after it. Unable to secure it in her mouth, she bounded forward, chasing it into the water. She had a magnetic attraction to the ocean. She doused herself in the waves before returning to us and shaking off just as she dropped the ball at our feet.
Molly threw the ball into the water, and Butter sprinted after it with Bobby in tow. They both plowed into a shore breaker. Butter dog-paddled, grabbed the ball with her mouth, and started heading in. I picked it up and threw it as far as I could.
There was a coral reef about fifty yards out where the big waves were breaking. Another line of waves was breaking between those and the shore. I followed the ball in after I threw it and swam out with Butter to join Bobby. We treaded water and enjoyed the motion of the midline waves picking us up and rolling under us.
I could see Jack lying half in the sand, half in the water. I guessed his eyes were closed and that he was fast asleep. I watched Molly wander toward the tidal pools beneath a cluster of ironwood trees growing from the cliff, their roots anchoring the volcanic soil.
I was drifting on my back, watching the sun come up, when a sudden commotion broke the quiet. I looked toward the beach and saw Molly and Butter running toward Jack, shouting. I couldn’t make out her words, but I could tell she was in distress.
“Bobby, in!” I shouted.
“Why, Big Mike?!”
“Something’s wrong. Swim in!”
By the time we reached shore, Jack and Butter were already halfway to the tide pool. Molly was jumping up and down, pointing frantically in their direction.
“There’s a dead body! There’s a dead body! Hurry!”
As I approached the tide pool, the body first appeared as an unusual shape among the rocks. It might have been driftwood or debris. Only as I got closer did the human form become unmistakable. Butter was barking at it, and Jack stood back, leaning forward to get a better look. I grabbed Butter by the collar and pulled her away.
Molly arrived with Bobby. “Yucky... is it real?” he asked, lunging in for a closer look. I grabbed him by the forearm and pulled him back.
“Don’t touch.”
The body was partially submerged in a natural depression between two sharp lava rocks, with seaweed draped across it like a shroud. It was face down, wearing soaked, torn dark clothes. The hair floated in the receding water like dark kelp. The position suggested it had been carried in by the high tide and became trapped as the tide receded.
“Jack,” I said firmly, “run and get your dad…and Jope.”
“I’ll go too and get Uncle Keller,” said Molly.
“Good idea. Go, you two. Run as fast as you can.”
I looked at my watch. 6:48 a.m. Just over an hour before the first group was set to tee off in the final round of the KG Pacific Open.
Butter started barking again.
“Bobby, take Butter to the sand and throw with her.”
Bobby tugged on her collar, but she wouldn’t budge.
“She doesn’t want to go, Big Mike.”
“Okay,” I said. “Try to keep her back.”
“No bark,” Bobby commanded, squeezing her gently between his legs.
“Big Mike, who is it?”
“I have no idea.”
“How did he get here?”
“No clue.”
“Did he jump?”
“Maybe. But if he did, I’d think he’d be more broken up.”
“Do dead bodies float?”
“Good question. I’ve never really thought about it. We can ask the medical examiner when he gets here.”
“What’s a medical examiner?”
“Someone who determines the cause of death.”
“When’s he getting here?”
Bobby kept peppering me with questions I couldn’t answer, which was fine. It kept him busy. I only had to half-listen and keep repeating, “Don’t know.” The part of my brain that wasn’t listening was racing through scenarios. I wasn’t thinking about the body. I was thinking about the golf tournament. The KG Pacific Open was a big deal, years in the making. It was supposed to showcase Hawaii as a prosperous, independent Republic. Would we have to cancel or postpone the final round?
Johnson’s tariffs hadn’t. Sand Island and Chinatown didn’t. Was a dead body going to?
Rob and Sally arrived at 7:13 a.m., Keller a few minutes later. While Rob and Keller examined the body, Sally was trying to get the kids to leave.
“But we want to stay here,” insisted Bobby.
“Jack, take your sister and brother and the dog back to the room and get ready for the tournament,” said Sally.
“Can I come back after I drop them?”
“No,” said Sally. “Get them breakfast.” She looked at her watch. “Hurry, tee time is at eight.”
“Who cares about the early groups? This is much more interesting than golf.”
“Jack, help us out here. You need to take Molly and Bobby, eat, and show your Goddard face,” she added, meaning the polished front she expected of the kids when they were in the public's eye. “We’ll be along shortly. Off you go—and make sure the three of you say nothing to anyone about the body until we tell you, okay?”
He scoffed and mumbled something I couldn’t make out, but Sally did.
“I heard that, young man. Don’t sass me like that.”
“He’s wedged in pretty tight,” said Keller, as I watched Butter leading the kids down the beach to the path to the seventeenth green.
“We’re the only ones who know about this, right, Michael?” Sally asked.
“Yes, ma’am. No one else has been on the beach and judging from the overhang of the cliff and the ironwood trees, I don’t think anyone can see the body from above.”
“And you didn’t touch the body?”
“No, ma’am. And neither did the kids.”
“Have you called an ambulance or the police?” asked Keller.
“Not yet. I did send Jack to get Jope.”
“Good,” said Rob. “I want to hear what he thinks.”
I looked up and saw Jope winding down the access trail.
“Here he comes.”
We watched him approach. He wore golf attire that didn’t fit his shape or his look. His shirt was too tight across his chest and biceps. His rugby thighs were too large for his slacks. Keller picked up on this.
“Jope, how you goin’ do your job looking like that?!”
“What da ya mean, boss?”
“You’re supposed to blend in with the gallery, not stick out like a poor putt on the eighteenth hole.”
“It’s called deterrence,” said Rob, half chiding, half teasing his brother. “No one’s going to mess with your tournament with him standing guard.”
“Okay, fellas,” cut in Sally, “enough locker room jocularity. This is a serious situation. We need to cancel the tournament—or at least postpone the final round.”
“We can’t do that,” protested Keller. “I’ve put a heck of a lot of money into this event.”
I looked at Rob. His jaw was locked and throbbing, his version of deep thought. I knew that meant he was already calculating the options.
“As soon as we make the telephone call,” said Sally, “there are going to be police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks swarming around the seventeenth green. And what about the tides? Does anyone know the tides?”
“We have time,” said Keller firmly. “They can move the body to Hulopoʻe Beach. Set up a tent and do the medical exam there.”
“Why not just send the body straight to the municipal morgue?” I asked.
Rob unclenched his jaw. “This was no coincidence. Until proven otherwise, we investigate this as a malicious effort by our foes to spoil the tournament. Use Hulopoʻe Beach as a staging area and deploy boats to this spot so the golf spectators and hotel guests are none the wiser.”
“Rob,” said Sally, “that’s too risky. Hotel guests are going to see the boats going back and forth. And don’t we need helicopters to get the investigators here?”
Rob gave her a stern look. “This tournament’s too damn important to the Republic’s future,” Rob said firmly, as if he were speaking to a subordinate rather than his wife. She recoiled slightly, then recovered her composure. He turned to me.
“Keep the lid on this investigation.” He looked at his watch. “Sally, we’re late.”
As we watched them go, Keller quipped to me and Jope, “I’m glad I’m not in Rob’s shoes. Sally’s going to give him an earful.”
~
The plan came together. It was relatively simple. We designated four operational areas: the seventeenth hole tide pool, the Hulopoʻe Beach staging area, the resort private dining room for command and control, and the golf gallery. The investigative team would work the tide pool and then move with the body to the staging area. We would helo in Honolulu’s chief medical examiner to perform the autopsy.
“Every Tom, Dick and Harry will want in on this investigation,” Keller warned. “It’s a career-maker.”
“Boss, we have to let the local authorities in,” advised Jope. “It’s their jurisdiction. If Michael can keep ISA off my back, I can handle the locals.”
Keller looked at Jope with a wry grin. “Not a fan of ISA?”
“They’re good at keeping the opposition under control,” Jope answered. “But you don’t want them investigating something as politically delicate as this. They’re a blunt instrument, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Keller smiled.
“What about Bill Hegner?” I offered. “He’s here with the HIG executives, and he’s a super sleuth. He could help with the investigation, and he’s on our side.”
“Good idea,” said Keller, glancing at his watch. “You two need to get the ball rolling, and I need to catch up with the guests my brother has assigned me to cultivate—if you know what I mean.”
Yes, we did.
~
Keller’s KG Pacific Resort emerged from the red soil of Lāna‘i like an ancient temple. It was the work of John Lautner, the same visionary architect now building the Republic House at Diamond Head.
Where Republic House was designed to command respect through bold modernism, the resort communicated luxury through restraint. As I crossed the main courtyard, my footsteps silent on the polished lava stone, I was too preoccupied with keeping the body in the tide pool quiet to appreciate what Keller and Lautner had accomplished. The resort sprawled low and horizontal across the clifftop. Its pavilions were connected by open-air corridors that framed views of the Pacific like living paintings. Each guest suite was its own sanctuary, separated by walls of native stone that seemed to grow from the earth itself.
The central pavilion housed the hotel’s public spaces, including registration, dining, and a private dining room that would serve as our temporary command center. Lautner had designed the pavilion with massive overhanging roofs that appeared to float weightlessly above walls of glass. These glass panels could slide away completely, removing the boundary between inside and out. The floors were warm teak. The walls were a subtle blend of concrete and volcanic rock, reflecting the island’s natural palette.
The resort was ahead of its time. But it wasn’t something I could enjoy that day.
When I reached the private dining room, Mario was waiting for me. He was wearing his ceremonial uniform: a spotless white jacket, pressed trousers with razor-sharp creases, and polished black shoes. On his left sleeve was the tasteful crest worn only by the Master Steward of Hawaii.
“Boy, am I glad to see you,” I exclaimed.
Mario grinned. “The Prime Minister thought you could use my help.”
He had already replaced the dining tables and chairs with a pair of rugged fold-up tables, a few folding chairs, and a portable chalkboard.
“How do you want to run this, boss?” he asked.
I explained that our job was to coordinate the information flow between the investigation team on the beach and what I labeled the Business Group and the Diplomatic Group. The Business Group included Keller, Minister of Trade Ben Tanaka and his wife Mariko, Jimbo and Margaret Everton, Soviet Ambassador Igor Akinfeev and his wife Ivanka, and Minister Klaus Hartmann and his wife Greta from East Germany.
The Diplomatic Group included Rob and Sally, Minister of Finance Stephen Goh and his wife Lisa, Japanese Ambassador Hiroshi Kobayashi and his wife Michiko, British Ambassador Sir David Pemberton and his wife Lady Victoria, and French Ambassador Pierre Henry with his wife Monique and their toddler, Isabella.
Rob had asked Keller to entertain the Soviet bloc dignitaries separately. It would have been too risky to mix them with the Western delegation. Hawaii was trying to walk a fine line. On the one hand, the Republic wanted to be a reliable citizen of the West. On the other, we sought to open export markets in the Soviet bloc. Keller and Ben’s job was to use the final round of the tournament to plant the seeds for a future trade agreement and to secure insurance licenses for HIG to operate in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary.
There was a knock at the door. It was Building and Maintenance with the phones, radio sets, and a telex machine
“Set ’em up there,” instructed Mario, pointing to the table against the window overlooking the eighteenth green.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the green and the bay. We couldn’t see the staging area at the beach, but that was a good thing. It meant resort guests couldn’t either.
As we were finalizing the comms setup, I spotted the morning’s first pair of golfers approaching the eighteenth hole. There was a smattering of spectators in the stands, but most were walking the grounds with the lead golfers.
Moments later, Jack burst in, full of excitement.
“Kawika made an albatross at Pineapple Point!”
“A double eagle on hole two?!” I exclaimed. “Incredible!”
We exchanged a Hawaiian hang loose sign.
“His drive was a whopper—nearly reached the dogleg. That left him hundreds of yards from the hole. He hit a perfect shot with a four-wood. You should’ve seen it. Started right, drew left, curved around the lava rocks, and tracked straight for the green. It bounced once and rolled straight into the hole. The crowd went wild, yelling, ‘Kawika! Kawika! Kawika!’”
“The hometown hero strikes again,” Mario cheered.
David “Kawika” Akana was born in Hilo, on the Big Island, the son of a sugar plantation worker. He learned the game at Hilo Municipal and was the first Hawaiian to break into professional golf’s elite.
“He’s only one shot behind Casper. Can you believe it?” said Jack.
The leaderboard going into the final round had Billy Casper in the lead at eleven under par. He was a methodical putting wizard whose nickname was “Buffalo Bill” because he liked to eat buffalo jerky. He was followed by Jack Nicklaus, the “Golden Bear” (–10); Satoshi “Moto” Sekimoto, Japan’s rising star (–8); Kawika (–7); Arnold Palmer, the “King” (–6); Gary Player, the “Black Knight” (–6); Lee Trevino, the Merry Mex (–5); Gene Littler, the “Machine” (–5); Bob Goalby, the “Bullodog” (–5); and fellow Michiganian Dave Hill in tenth place at four under par.
Kawika’s albatross on the second hole moved him from seven under par to ten under par. He was now one behind Casper and tied with Nicklaus.
“That green must be something firm for it to bounce like that,” I said. “Were your parents there?”
“Yes. It was easy finding them. The groundskeeper cart goes really fast.”
“And no problem with security?”
“No. They let me through when I explained I was delivering a message to Dad.”
I had sent Jack to test our lines of communication with the Diplomatic and Business groups. Golf tournaments are strict about when spectators can talk and cheer. Communications would have to be handled by messengers, not radios.
“Okay, good work, Jack,” I said as I took a small monkey’s fist out of my pocket with a key attached to it. “Take the Land Rover and time how long it takes to drive from here to the staging area.”
He was delighted. “Yes sir!”
“Where are Molly and Bobby?” I asked.
“At the pool.”
“I thought they were with your parents.”
“Mom doesn’t want them to spill the beans.”
“Okay. On your way back, have them come see me. They can run errands for Mario and me.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you sure? Sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.”
“We’re short-handed,” I said. “We need all hands on deck.”
“Okay. It’s your funeral,” he said as he made for the door with a little too much spring in his step.
“Don’t exceed the speed limit, young man!” I shouted after him.
No response. Not even a look back of acknowledgment.
“Oh boy, I probably made it worse,” I said to Mario.
“Probably, Mr. Michael. But he’ll be fine.”
He looked around the room. “I think we’re ready. What do you want me to do?”
“Please call the ʻIolani Palace switchboard and have them track down Minister Li and the ISA Director. The PM wants to keep them informed but keep them at arm’s length. Have the switchboard patch them through to one of our lines. Also, we need a patch to Admiral Wakisaka. He’s aboard one of our destroyers. SDF HQ needs to set up a comms relay.”
“Roger,” Mario said, saluting smartly.
I left Mario to the telephone and went to test the groundskeeper cart for myself. I caught up with Keller’s Business Group at the second hole, a par three, 195 yards, called Lighthouse Point because the old Lāna‘i lighthouse could be seen in the background. After I kissed Margaret and Mariko on the cheeks and shook hands with Jimbo and Ben, Keller introduced me to the Soviet contingent: Ambassador Igor Akinfeev of the Soviet Union and his wife, Ivanka; and Minister Klaus Hartmann of the German Democratic Republic and his wife, Greta.
I knew I should have shaken hands with Ambassador Akinfeev first. He was the senior man. But Greta was standing right next to me. The way she stood so stiffly at Hartmann’s side in a drab gray suit, clutching a leather handbag, looking like she hadn’t enjoyed herself in years, made me reach out to her first. Her fingers barely moved. It was the kind of limp handshake that made you wonder if she was afraid of leaving fingerprints and being found out to exist.
Hartmann was the opposite. His grip was cold but firm. He held my gaze with the unnerving calm of a man who could lie to your face without blinking. There was no warmth, no flicker of nervousness in his eyes. Only calculation. He struck me as the sort who waited silently, let others talk themselves into corners, and then pounced when it mattered. He gave truth to the prevailing characterization of East Germans as Russian lackeys.
Ivanka, next in the line, was the kind of woman I couldn’t let my eyes linger on too long without feeling like I was about to gawk. And get caught doing it.
Tall and meticulously put together, she wore a tailored white skirt suit that managed to be both diplomatic and runway ready. Her oversized sunglasses shielded her eyes, but not her presence. Her blonde hair was sculpted into a flawless twist, and she carried herself with the elegance of someone raised to expect private airplanes, furs, and caviar. When she smiled, it was courteous but cool. Her gaze insisted on holding mine a moment longer than I wanted. It was a predatory assertion of power. And it was the kind of power only a confident man of wealth and status could handle. Someone like Keller, for example, I realized, as I caught a glint in his eye as he studied her. For him, desire and risk were always part of the same calculation.
Last but first was Akinfeev. He extended his hand like a man who expected it to be kissed. His grip was firm, his posture almost regal, and his eyes carried the conceit of a triumphant tsar. Johnson’s mismanagement of the ongoing Tet Offensive no doubt contributed to his air of superiority. Earlier this month, North Vietnamese forces had launched a surprise attack on the U.S. base at Khe Sanh, trapping six thousand Marines in a siege already being compared to the French disaster at Dien Bien Phu. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Just days later, President Johnson shocked the world by announcing he would not seek reelection. The news was all over the papers, and it was clear Ambassador Akinfeev believed the Soviet Bloc had scored a decisive victory.
The gallery erupted in a loud cheer, and we turned to see Jack Nicklaus’s tee shot land just a few feet from the pin.
Next on the tee was Casper, who was leading by one. Keller called for silence. I glanced over at the pin. It was a difficult position, especially with the trade winds swirling.
His caddie handed him a 4-iron. Casper took a practice swing, then stared down the green, two football fields away. He settled into position, lined up the clubhead, and unleashed a swing that was as smooth as butter.
I knew, the second the sound reached my ears, what was about to happen.
The ball jumped off the tee like lightning, climbed high, then let the wind carry it. It dropped softly onto the green, about fifteen feet past the hole. The backspin caught, and the ball began to roll. Slowly. Surely. It crept back toward the pin. The gallery held its breath.
Then the ball disappeared into the cup.
The crowd erupted.
Casper gave a single, controlled fist pump as Nicklaus tipped his cap. The hole-in-one gave Casper a three-shot lead through four.
I leaned in and gave Keller a quick, coded whisper: “All’s set. Honolulu inbound.”
I left him speaking with Ivanka. Jimbo was working the Soviet Ambassador on the virtues of private insurance, the Tanakas were deep in conversation with Hartmann about black market trade between East and West Europe, and Margaret was doing yeoman’s work extending Hawaiian hospitality to the dour Greta.
Back in command central, Mario had just hung up with the Home Minister.
“Boy, if I wasn’t a good Catholic,” he said, exasperated, “I’d... Minister Li is some kind of hot under the collar.”
“What now?” I asked, already certain I knew the answer.
“He’s insisting on coming over from Maui.”
“Maui?”
“His weekend home.”
“Oh, right. What did you tell him?”
“I told him we’ve got the Soviet Ambassador here. Said his presence would set off alarm bells.”
“Good thinking.”
“I thought he was going to reach through the landline and rip my larynx out.”
“He can be a real pain in the neck.” I crossed the room and pulled the blinds against the morning sun. “Jack’s not back?”
“Not yet.”
“Any word from Jope?”
“Just an update on the radio. They’re about to move the body.”
“By boat?”
“Yes, sir. Tide’s coming in, and they’ve got everything they need.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Yes. But he said not over the radio.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll head to the staging area as soon as Jack brings the Land Rover back. Has the medical examiner arrived yet?”
“He should be landing any minute at Lānaʻi Airport. We’ve got a helicopter standing by.”
“But the noise—”
“Pilot will fly clockwise, keep out of sight and earshot.”
I smiled. “You think of everything.”
“Thanks to Bull Halsey,” he said humbly. “Speaking of which, you might want to check in with the Maritime SDF.”
I nodded and picked up the telephone to the palace switchboard.
“Palace, this is Keiko. How can I direct you?” said a familiar voice.
“Hi Kay, this is Michael.”
“Hi Michael…how are you?”
“I’m okay. I’ll fill you in later if I can... Can you get Forces HQ on the line?”
“Of course. I’ll patch you through... and maybe call me when, when you can... Can?”
“Can.”
The duty officer at HQ came on the line. “Major O’Donovan.”
“Don, this is Michael—”
“Hi Michael. Give me a few mikes to get an update from the Admiral. I’ll send you a secure telex.
“Roger. Thanks, Don.”
“Call me if you want to hit Waikiki when this is all over.”
“Will do.”
I hung up the phone and leaned back, staring out the south-facing window. Only a few whitecaps dotted the water, spread thin and flat. It looked like a good sailing day.
Where was Jack?
I was about to track down the resort’s general manager to see if I could borrow his car when Jack burst in.
“Moto just eagled the ninth! He’s back to four back! Can you believe it?!”
For a split second, I almost flashed him a hang loose, but I caught myself.
“You can’t keep the car for as long as you did.” I scolded him.
He didn’t pick up on the seriousness of my tone. Out came his version of events in full firehose mode.
“He found the rough off the tee—at least two rugby pitches away—and you should have seen him. He opened the face of his six-iron and swung like a maniac. The ball comes off like it’s been shot from a cannon. Low and boom. Hits the green, bounces, and rolls right into the cup. I thought the Tokyo Ambassador was going to have a heart attack, he was so fired up.”
“How come Molly and Bobby haven’t come to see me?” I asked, changing the subject, hoping he’d see the error of his ways.
He looked at me sheepishly. “Sorry... I forgot.”
Just then, the radio crackled. “Mike-echo and bravo on Omaha.”
“Finally,” I said, standing up and grabbing Jack by the arm. His face was pure terror.
“You are one lucky puppy. The medical examiner and the body are at the beach park.” I led him out of the room. “You drive.”
His face relaxed.
Back Nine
It was just shy of noon, the sky high and the sun overhead, as Jack and I drove to the staging area. He sat in a stiff, upright position with his head forward and eyes locked on the road ahead. His hands stayed glued to ten and two, and he drove exactly the resort’s posted speed limit of fifteen miles per hour.
I had just put him on driving probation for backing out of the parking space like James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. The kid had jumped into the Land Rover, cranked the engine with too much throttle, and slammed the stick into reverse without checking his mirrors. He shot backward in a spray of coral gravel and missed a groundskeeper by inches, forcing the poor man to dive behind a plumeria bush. When I shouted “Jack!” he stopped with a violent jerk, and the vehicle stalled out.
“Don’t tell my parents,” he had blurted.
“That I won’t do,” I replied. “But you’re on double secret probation until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said sheepishly.
We passed the tenth hole just as Moto was teeing off. After nine, Casper led at eleven under. Nicklaus and Kawika were tied at ten under, and Moto sat at nine.
The stakes were high as the players turned toward the back nine.
Keller’s golf course stretched across 7,000 yards of the most dramatic real estate in the Pacific. Five of the greens were perched atop 200-foot cliffs, and all had spectacular ocean views.
He had chosen Ben Hogan, who had recently retired from tournament play, to collaborate on the design. It was a decision that raised eyebrows until people saw the results. But Keller, as always, was ahead of his time.
“Everyone expected me to hire a resort architect,” he told me once. “Someone who’d give us wide fairways and easy greens to make the members look good. But that’s not why I built KG Pacific. The Republic needed a challenging golf course that could host a major championship, and I knew Ben Hogan would build a course the way he played golf—with precision and purpose.”
The Hogan influence was unmistakable. Lush green fairways were bordered by black lava outcroppings, reminders of the land’s ancient origins. The layout demanded accuracy off the tee. The fairways were infinitely wide, often with a bunker on one side to make you sweat, and occasionally with one daringly placed in the center. This wasn’t a course where power alone would suffice. It required and rewarded strategy as well as shot-making.
The front nine eased players into the drama with three par threes, including back-to-back holes at seven and eight, and three par fives. It was a combination that promoted scoring and creativity. But the back nine delivered the unforgettable theater, especially the cliffside holes: the par-three twelfth and the par-four seventeenth.
“Ben understood that golf is played in your head as much as with your hands,” Keller said. “Every hole asks a question. Do you have the courage to take on the bunker? Can you judge the wind? Will you trust your swing when the ocean’s 200 feet below? That’s why the best players in the world want to test themselves here.”
Keller had conceived of the KG Pacific Open to showcase Hawaii to the world and announce our arrival.
“The Open’s like a debutante at a coming out ball,” he once said. “Not yet a full-grown woman, but warming up to be one. Someday it will the fifth Major.”
Jack carefully stopped at the exit of the resort and turned right onto Manele Road, where the pavement gave way to hard-packed sand riddled with ruts and bumps. He took the first one too fast but tempered his speed after I braced myself, placing one hand on the overhead and pressing the other against the dashboard. Back then, Land Rovers didn’t come with seatbelts, and if they had, we wouldn’t have used them.
The local police had set up a checkpoint at the bend where a burger shack and an 8&8 convenience store flanked the side road leading to the small harbor. Beyond that, the road stretched straight toward Hulopoʻe Beach. I was glad to see the staging area wasn’t visible from there. Maybe, just maybe, we’d be able to keep the floater a secret from the dignitaries and the golf spectators.
As we neared the beach parking lot, we passed a line of police cars and fire trucks parked along the road. Policemen and firemen milled about, looking for something to do. It was probably overkill to have them all there. But that’s what we did in these types of situations. Better safe than sorry.
A large white canvas field tent had been set up in the corner of the lot. It looked like a misplaced sail against the sand and the bay behind it. Beside it, a portable generator hummed. It powered bright examination lights and communications equipment.
We parked on the far side of the generator.
“Can I come, Big Mike?”
“Okay, you’ve already seen the body,” I said, taking the car keys from his hand for safekeeping, “so you might as well. But if you get queasy—”
“Not a chance that’ll happen.”
When I pulled back the tent flap, the contrast was immediate. Outside, Hawaii was bright, warm, alive. Inside, it was antiseptic. The tent was lit by the harsh blue-white glow of portable medical lamps. A stainless-steel autopsy table dominated the center. Around it, instrument trays gleamed under the lights, and a portable X-ray machine stood in the corner like a mechanical sentinel. Ice chests for preserving biological samples were stacked against one wall.
Four SDF divers entered carrying a gurney with the body bag. Behind them came Honolulu’s chief medical examiner, Dr. Jean-Claude Mahelona, followed by the local police chief, one of his detectives, HIG’s Bill Hegner, and Jope, head of security at the Goddard ranch.
“Mr. Smith, we meet again,” said Dr. Mahelona, extending his hand.
In his mid-fifties, he looked like a doctor. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped close to his scalp, and he wore thick black frames that suited his features. His face was a remarkable blend of his mixed heritage. His high cheekbones and strong jaw came from his Samoan ancestors. The subtle epicanthic folds around his dark, perceptive eyes pointed to his Japanese grandmother. His Roman nose, along with his first name, reflected the European branch of his family tree. He wore his usual standard-issue white lab coat. His name and title were inscribed in cursive on the left breast. I had last seen him in Chinatown, where he had supervised the bagging and tagging of the dead. Most were Triad and Yakuza gang members, with a few union men. Most notably, Jack Hall.
“Who’s this?” the doctor asked, gesturing toward Jack. “Your son?”
“Impossible,” Hegner cut in. “Jack’s too smart to be related to Michael.”
“You two are about as funny as a crutch,” I said. It was a phrase that was common with the kids then.
“Two crutches,” corrected Dr. Mahelona. He extended his hand to Jack. “I was just teasing. I know Mr. Jack well. How are you doing, son?”
“Well, sir. Thank you,” said Jack. He gave the doctor’s hand a good squeeze and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Have you found out who the body is?” Jack asked without missing a beat.
“We’re about to find out. Come with me, my boy.”
I shook hands with Jope and Hegner and introduced myself to the police chief and his detective.
The divers had placed the body bag on the autopsy table. Their leader, a senior chief petty officer, addressed no one in particular. “Sir, if you don’t need us anymore, we’re going to dive the cove again and see if we missed anything.”
Jope pointed to me. “Boss, anything for them?”
It was kind of Jope to defer to me. I was the youngest and least experienced of the professionals assembled, yet Rob had left me in charge.
“Sounds good, Chief,” I said, not knowing what else to say and feeling completely out of my depth.
Dr. Mahelona unzipped the body bag. The stench that escaped was the sharp, briny odor of saltwater mixed with the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. I looked over at Jack. Not a sign of queasiness. Only curiosity.
“Male, Caucasian, approximately thirty to forty years of age,” Dr. Mahelona began, dictating into a portable recorder. “Discovered in tidal pool area beneath the seventeenth hole at approximately 0648 hours.” He checked his watch. “Examined in the field by Dr. Mahelona starting at 1224 hours.”
The body lay face-up on the table, clad in faded canvas work pants, rubber knee-high boots, and a thick wool sweater beneath a torn yellow oilskin jacket. A tangled mess of fishing line was still wrapped around one arm, and remnants of a net were caught in the jacket’s buttons.
“I betcha this feller fell off one of those skipjack tuna boats,” said the police chief. “The aku are running. It can get real competitive out here this time of year, and let’s just say safety standards go down the shitter.”
The chief had immigrated from Kentucky. He had a weathered and tired look, like a man who had been ridden hard and put away wet.
Dr. Mahelona nodded and said into his recorder, “Subject is wearing standard commercial fishing gear. Heavy waterlogging suggests submersion time of approximately six to eight hours, placing entry into the water sometime after midnight but before dawn.”
The face was a gruesome sight, bloated from water exposure and severely damaged. The right side was crushed inward. One eye was completely destroyed, while the other stared sightlessly at the tent ceiling. Several teeth were missing, and the jaw appeared to be fractured. The face was totally unrecognizable. I didn’t see how the doctor could identify him.
“Facial trauma is extensive,” Dr. Mahelona continued, gently turning the head to examine a particularly nasty depression on the skull. “Consistent with impact against heavy equipment—something solid, perhaps machinery, a winch, or smacking a bulkhead during rough seas. Could be accidental. Could be intentional.”
He moved methodically down the body, cutting away the sodden clothing with medical shears and placing each piece in labeled evidence bags. The sweater beneath the oilskin was snagged and torn in several places.
“Based on the condition of the skin and initial maceration patterns,” he said, examining the fingertips, “I’d estimate time in the water at approximately six to eight hours. No more than ten. Ocean temperature and currents in the channel would be consistent with body movement from offshore fishing grounds to this location.”
He pointed to specific areas as he spoke. “Notice how the fingertips show early wrinkling but not the characteristic ‘washerwoman hands’ of longer immersion. The skin’s elasticity remains somewhat intact.”
He paused, then added, “This matches what we saw earlier with the waterlogging of the clothing. Both point to the same window—just after midnight to just before dawn.”
As the doctor cut away the heavy wool sweater, other injuries came into view. The torso showed extensive bruising across the ribs and abdomen. Dark purplish marks spread like inkblots across the pale skin.
“These contusions are interesting,” he said, pointing to a pattern of bruising across the chest. “They could be consistent with a fall against equipment—perhaps being thrown across a deck into a winch or davit during rough seas.”
There were rope burns around the wrists, which Dr. Mahelona measured and photographed.
“These are curious. They could suggest the subject was secured to something. Could be for safety in rough waters.”
“Or restraint, Doc?” Hegner offered.
“Could be,” he said as he examined the subject’s hands.
They were callused and weathered. The nails were broken, and the fingers swollen. The right hand was particularly damaged, with several fingers bent at unnatural angles.
“The hands show defensive injuries,” Dr. Mahelona noted. “Particularly interesting is this crushing damage to the right hand. It’s consistent with being caught in machinery—perhaps a winch or pulley system.”
The local detective spoke for the first time. He was lean and wiry, his face red with sunburn. He wore a short-sleeved golf shirt with a pack of Marlboros stuffed into the chest pocket, and mirrored sunglasses, even though we were inside the tent. He crossed his arms and, exhaling through his nose, spoke while chewing on a toothpick, a placeholder for his next nicotine hit.
“Looks like a straight-up accident to me,” he said. “Skipjack deckhand gets caught in his gear, goes overboard, washes up here. Tragic, but not criminal.”
Hegner shifted his weight and bit his tongue before replying. “You don’t think it’s strange that a guy falls overboard with rope burns on both wrists and defensive injuries to his hands?”
The detective shrugged. “Rough seas, lots of motion, gear flying. Explains everything.”
I could tell Hegner didn’t like him. “Do you have a lunch you’re late for, Detective?”
The detective was no dummy. He knew exactly what Hegner was implying. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it in Hegner’s direction. “You got a problem with the way I do my job, pal?”
The police chief stepped in, his voice edged with loyalty. “My detective’s pulled enough broken bodies off those boats to know the difference. If he says it’s no crime, I’m with him. If he says this looks like an accident, I back him.”
Before Hegner could open his mouth to respond, Dr. Mahelona spoke. “Gentlemen,” he said evenly, still focused on his work, “this was just a quick field examination. I’ll need some time to complete the full postmortem. Perhaps you could take your argument outside.”
I took that as my cue.
“Speaking of lunch, I need to brief the Prime Minister. I’ll have Mario send down some sandwiches. When I get back, maybe we’ll have something more to go on.”
I turned to Jack and flipped the keys to him.
“You drive.”
~
We caught up with Rob and his group at the 12th hole. Known as Cliff’s Edge, it was a 202-yard par 3 that dropped off straight into the Pacific. A crowd had gathered, spilling across the knoll that overlooked the green. Rob saw us approaching and jogged over to meet us.
“What’s the headline?” he asked, eyes still on Billy Casper, who was crouched in the sparse kiawe bushes to the left of the green.
“Doc’s done a quick once-over,” I said.
“Okay,” Rob muttered, “he’s got an impossible lie.”
“Doc or Casper?” I asked.
“Sorry,” Rob said. “What’d Doc find out?”
“Inconclusive. Face is destroyed. Could be any John Doe.”
Rob was still watching Casper. “Most players would chip this one out sideways and take their medicine,” he said. “But he’s under pressure from Nicklaus and our boy Kawika. Let’s see what he does... Who’d you say it might be?”
Rob was clearly distracted.
“PM, should we wait for the shot?”
“Good idea.”
Casper opened the face of his wedge.
“Oh my man,” Rob whispered, “he’s going to take a full swing. Isn’t he?”
Sure enough, Casper did. The ball jumped, curving sharply around the vegetation and climbing high into the sun before dropping like a stone onto the green. It took two short hops, spun, and rolled dead center toward the cup.
For a moment, nothing on Lānaʻi moved.
Then the ball went in. And the crowd erupted like Mauna Loa. And Nicklaus tipped his cap.
“Holy moly,” Rob shouted. “We just witnessed the greatest shot in the history of golf.”
After Rob settled down, I walked him through the situation from the top.
“So if I understand you correctly,” Rob said, “we don’t know the identity of the body. The local police think it was a fishing accident, but Hegner suspects foul play.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then head back down and keep me posted.”
~
While Rob returned to golf, Jack and I swung by Command Center. Mario had boxes of sandwiches, Cokes, and cookies waiting for us to take to the tent.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Same old, same old,” replied Mario. “Minister Li is calling regularly for updates. I keep telling him there’s nothing to report.”
“Steady as you go. ISA belongs in the shadows, not in something as delicate as this. Any news from Admiral Wakisaka?”
“Just that he’s on station. Two patrol boats off the golf course. A destroyer patrolling the ʻAuʻau Channel between Lānaʻi and Maui. Another destroyer to the west of Lānaʻi. A few more patrol boats checking out the coves on Lānaʻi, Maui, and even Kahoʻolawe.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Thanks for manning the phones, Mario. I’m sure you’d rather be overseeing tonight’s awards dinner.”
“No worries. Just doing my part to make sure tonight still goes off without a hitch. The floater’s not going to be the headline guest—if I can help it.”
~
Jack and I loaded Mario’s provisions into the Land Rover and returned to the staging area. When we stepped inside the tent, everyone was huddled around the body. Jope looked up and bellowed toward me.
“Boss, come over here. Look what the Doc found.”
Dr. Mahelona carefully rotated the body’s left arm to expose a dark blotch on the inner forearm. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than an ink stain that had seeped in from the body’s wet clothing. Just a scatter of black dots.
Hegner handed me a magnifying glass. “Take a close look.”
The doctor pointed with a pair of tweezers. I leaned in, closed one eye, and studied the mark.
“It looks like some writing,” I said. “Maybe a two and a five… an I and a V… and forty-five.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Mahelona. “Any idea what twenty-five, Roman number four, and forty-five means?”
“A gang tattoo? A prison number?” I guessed. “It’s kind of like the branding my father does on our farm back in Michigan—only much smaller. This one’s so small, you’d really have to know to look for it.”
“That’s what we’re thinking,” said Hegner. “Some kind of identity marking.”
“Well,” Dr. Mahelona said, his tone shifting slightly, “this certainly complicates the fishing accident theory.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” the detective cut in. “Could be a crew mark. Some outfits do that.”
Hegner glared at him. “Well, there’s one way to find out, isn’t there. It’s called an investigation.”
The detective sneered but said nothing.
Hegner added, dryly, “Don’t you have a registry of fishing licenses, or something, back at the station? Maybe ‘IV’ stands for April, and 25 April 1945 is the date the crew was formed?”
The detective didn’t take the hint. Instead, he pressed his foot into the floor like he was drawing a line.
Dr. Mahelona intervened. “Regardless of what 25IV45 means, it tells me we must pursue all theories—starting with the body.”
“Look at this, for example,” he said, pointing to small, circular burns partially hidden by bruising along the torso. “These could be caused by a fishing injury. But they could also be electrical burns—specific and deliberate.”
“Or look at the fingers,” he added, handing me the magnifying glass. “See the raw portions—little beds obscured by water damage. The fingernails are missing. Were they torn off accidentally, or were they systematically removed?”
“Doc, are you saying by torture?” Jope asked.
“I can’t say for sure. All I can say is it’s a possibility.”
Hegner shot the detective a look. “And that’s why this investigation is still very much open.”
As the two men began to bicker again, I shifted the magnifying glass from the hand to the torso. I don’t know why I did it. It wasn’t planned. Out of my open eye, I caught a glimpse of something nestled between two ribs near the heart. It looked like a salty mound. I touched it, and my fingers must have been moist, because the salt lifted away and revealed a small incision.
“What is this?” I asked.
Dr. Mahelona took the magnifying glass and pressed gently at the spot. “Oh my,” he murmured. “I’ll be darned… I can’t believe I missed this.”
“What is it, Doc?” Hegner asked.
“A very small incision. Extremely precise. Made either by a needle or a microscopic blade of some kind. Whatever it is, it isn’t natural.”
“Foul play?” Jope asked.
“I won’t be able to confirm that until I examine the heart. But for the purposes of your investigation, you should treat it as such.”
Having found the incision, I was feeling more comfortable in my leadership role.
“Gentlemen,” I said, “next steps are clear. We need to leave the doc to examine the heart while we figure out what 25IV45 means.”
I turned to the police chief.
“Sir, it’s time to divide and conquer. Have your department check fishing licenses and court records in Lanai City. Maybe something tied to 25 April 1945 will turn up.”
“I’ll talk to my fellows in the claims department,” Hegner offered. “See what we can dig up.”
“Good,” I said, turning to Jope. “My friend, please check with the groundskeepers. Maybe someone saw a fishing boat offshore while they were prepping the course this morning.”
“On it, boss.” Jope gave a sharp salute.
“Jack,” I added, thinking of a task for him, “I need to brief the PM. I’ll drop you at the Command Center. You and Mario—get on the horn. Call ISA, HPD, SDF, and every three-letter acronym you can think of. See if anyone knows the significance of 25 April 1945. It might be war-related, given the year. Think big. As big as the whole world.”
Jack straightened and modeled Jope’s salute. “Yes, sir.”
I turned back to Dr. Mahelona. “Doc, do you have everything you need?”
“I do, thank you,” he replied. “I just need to unpack my field microscope and recruit a few of the ambulance fellows to assist with the autopsy.”
“Perfect. Let’s do it,” I said.
~
Jack dropped me at the clubhouse, and I commandeered a golf cart. I pressed the pedal to the metal, barreling down the path alongside the 18th hole, past the 17th green, and along the fairway to the 17th tee.
Moto was just making his way to the tee when I arrived. Rob stood nearby, speaking quietly with French Ambassador Pierre Henry. His wife, Monique, was at the back of the gallery, face to face with their toddler, Isabella. They were having what looked like a very firm, and very French, chat. It wasn’t hard to guess what it was about. Isabella had that heavy-eyed, slack-jawed look of a child two minutes from a meltdown.
Monique was tall, poised, and the very image of icy perfection, she was wrapped in silk and control. She looked like a cross between Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour and Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. Her pale silk day dress hugged her hips with the discipline of couture tailoring, and the cinched waist gave her a near-perfect silhouette. Her skin had that cool porcelain tone, and her cheekbones could have sliced foie gras. Even as she crouched to reason with Isabella, not a strand of her chestnut chignon dared fall out of place.
As for Pierre Henry, he could have walked off the pages of Gentleman’s Quarterly. He was Left Bank, head to toe. Linen trousers, a silk scarf tucked into the collar of an open shirt, and a powder-blue blazer draped off one shoulder like he couldn’t quite be bothered to finish dressing. He had the flair of a man who insisted on keeping art and diplomacy in the same drawer. I wasn’t sure if he was more charmed by Rob’s authority or his tan. Possibly both.
As I approached, I caught the tail end of their conversation. Pierre was explaining the situation with their au pair, using a tone that was both indulgent and theatrical. According to him, she was a descendante Huguenote and was strictly forbidden from working on Sundays.
“It is a matter of conscience,” he said, waving one hand like he was conducting an invisible orchestra. “Elle est impossible. She won’t so much as hold the child’s hand between Saturday minuit and Monday l’aube.”
Rob nodded, then turned to me. “Ambassador, you remember my private secretary.”
Bien sûr,” Pierre said, extending his left hand for me to shake. “Monsieur Smith.”
Before I could brief Rob, the marshal raised his Quiet Please paddle high above his head, and the gallery hushed.
Moto stepped up to the tee. The hole was a par 4 named Pineapple’s End. It measured 444 yards and curved hard to the right along the cliff’s edge. The approach was brutal. His swing was smooth, and he drove it long and straight, splitting the fairway.
“That’s good for 280,” someone whispered, marking the Japanese player’s distance.
Kawika gave him a respectful nod, then took his driver from his caddie’s hand. He bent to grab a pinch of grass, tossed it into the air to test the wind, and took a practice swing. He looked confident. I could see it in his eyes. No fear.
His swing was fluid and powerful, a perfect blend of Hawaiian strength and finesse. His ball climbed high against the sky and sailed a few yards past Moto’s drive.
“Gallery will follow players,” the marshal announced, and the crowd began moving en masse down the fairway.
As we walked, the scoreboards across the course updated. Casper still led at twelve under. Nicklaus had fallen back to minus eleven after a bogey at sixteen. Moto was holding steady at nine under, while our Hawaiian hopeful sat at ten under and needed something special to catch the leader.
Rob motioned for us to walk and talk. We couldn’t shake the French ambassador, so I had to use coded language.
“PM, we’re making progress,” I said, “but there are some complexities. Honolulu did a quick look. It may or may not have been an accident.”
Rob nodded for me to go on.
“We’re still trying to understand who and what we’re dealing with. Honolulu’s going to dig a little deeper.”
“How confident are you they’ll figure it out?”
“Very,” I said.
“Then proceed with patience. Let it unfold on its own schedule.”
“Yes, sir. There is one fact, though, that we’ve uncovered. I’m pursuing it with different agencies—”
Rob held up a hand to quiet me. We had just reached the spot in the fairway where the players were preparing their approach shots, and the marshal had raised his paddle. A reverent hush fell over the assembled crowd.
Moto went first, pulling a five-iron from his bag. His shot was solid. It landed on the center of the green but left a long putt for birdie.
Then it was Kawika’s turn. The marshal struggled to maintain silence as murmurs of “Kawika! Kawika!” rippled through the crowd.
The Hawaiian studied his lie, the pin placement, and the swirling winds. He faced a 180-yard approach over a sliver of ocean to a flag cut dangerously close to the cliff’s edge. A flicker of doubt crossed his face as he wavered between clubs. Finally, he settled on a six-iron.
The marshal’s paddle wasn’t enough to contain the excitement. The chant grew louder until he frantically raised both arms to restore order.
Kawika stepped over the ball, took one final look at the target, and swung.
The shot was pure. The high draw cleared the danger and began to fall from the sky like a gift from Pele herself. It landed twenty feet past the hole, bounced twice, and spun back toward the cup. The slope was perfect.
“Gallery to the green,” the marshal called out, but nobody waited for permission. The crowd surged forward, jostling for position as the ball continued its slow roll toward the hole. It seemed to pause, then nudged forward once more.
The gallery held its breath. The only sound was the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below.
Then the ball disappeared into the cup, and restraint erupted into a thunderous roar.
“Eagle! Eagle for Akana!” the walking scorer shouted, though his voice was swallowed by the eruption. Kawika pumped his fist once, then again, and finally, remembering himself, tipped his cap to the crowd. The crowd went wild. He was now tied with Casper at twelve under with one hole to play, that is, assuming Casper didn’t eagle seventeen.
“Good show, old chap,” said British Ambassador Sir David Pemberton.
He reminded me of Field Marshal Montgomery from old black-and-white war films. He wore a perfectly coiffed salt-and-pepper mustache, military haircut, square jaw, and the kind of pompous eyes that insisted he was the smartest man in the room.
As the marshal moved us toward the eighteenth tee, it became clear we weren’t going to shake the two ambassadors. I glanced at my watch, and the knot in my chest tightened. I wanted to get back to the staging area. So, I blurted it out, throwing caution to the wind.
“PM, does 25-I-V-45 mean anything to you?”
Rob looked puzzled. But Sir David’s eyebrows shot up like startled caterpillars.
“25 April 1945? Good heavens, man. That’s Liberation Day in Italy.” He tugged at his mustache, clearly delighted to be the one with the answer. “The day Naples was freed from those ghastly fascists. I was there, you know. With Patton.”
“Excuse-moi,” Ambassador Henry interjected, adjusting his silk scarf. “I do not recall General Patton being in Naples.”
“Well, not precisely Naples,” Sir David conceded with a wave. “But in the general theater. Magnificent commander, Patton. One of your few truly competent military men.” He cleared his throat. “No offense intended, Prime Minister.”
“None taken, Sir David.” Rob nodded politely. “All the good ones, save Patton, served here in the Pacific.”
Sir David didn’t see that one coming. He cleared his throat again.
“One could hardly imagine an American general of such caliber today,” he continued. “If Patton were in charge of Vietnam, why, the whole bally mess would have been sorted in a fortnight.”
Ambassador Henry tugged at his scarf again, as if he suddenly needed more air. Any mention of competence and Indochine in the same breath was clearly unwelcome.
I pressed. “Would that date have special significance to an Italian?”
“To an Italian communist, you mean?” Sir David’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely central to their mythology. The communists claim they liberated Italy themselves. Partisan rubbish, of course. Couldn’t have done it without British organization. But they’ve made quite the fetish of the date. Tattoo it on themselves sometimes.” He tapped his own forearm. “Rather like a secret handshake.”
He leaned in with a conspiratorial gleam. “Why do you ask? Have you got an Italian communist on your hands?”
“Not yet, Sir David.”
At that moment, I spotted Jope approaching in a groundskeeper cart.
“Prime Minister. Ambassadors. If you’ll excuse me, I have something to attend to.”
Without waiting for a response, I jogged over to meet Jope, who barely slowed the cart.
“Hop in,” he said.
“Thanks for rescuing me.”
“That’s not why I came out here,” he replied, his tone clipped and focused as we sped away. He was in full warrior mode.
“A groundskeeper spotted a periscope. Just offshore—when he was setting up the seventeenth hole this morning.”
Playoffs
“Is the groundskeeper certain?” I asked.
“As certain as he can be from that distance. He’s a former diesel boat sub-mariner. Served as a lookout.”
I rubbed my temples, thinking through my options.
“Okay,” I said, “Swing by the command center. I need to get the Admiral on the horn…
What’s the latest from Doc?”
“He thinks it may’ve been a microscopic stabbing—a tiny knife or needle.”
“That makes sense.”
“What does?”
“The British ambassador—who served in Naples—thinks—”
A roar from the gallery erupted behind us. I looked back. Moto had just crushed a line drive off the eighteenth tee.
“He thinks 25 IV 45 stands for Liberation Day in Italy,” I continued.
“And?”
“And it’s something Italian communists tattoo on themselves.”
Jope glanced over. “Russo?”
“Sounds like it.”
We arrived at the resort and hustled into our makeshift HQ. Mario was thumbing through his notes, and Jack was finishing a cheeseburger and Coke.
“What’s up, boss?” Mario asked, standing up.
“Big development. Ask ISA to send whatever photos and information they have on Enzo Russo. Urgent. He may be our John Doe.”
I turned to the phone and dialed the ʻIolani Palace switchboard.
“Kay?”
“Yes, Michael.”
“This is an emergency. Can you get Admiral Wakisaka on the horn? His flag’s on one of the destroyers.”
“The HRS Kanaloa.”
“That’s the one.”
“Stand by. It’ll take a few minutes. Don’t forget to call me Michael.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
A few minutes later, Admiral Wakisaka came on the line.
“Mr. Smith, what’s so urgent?”
“Admiral, a periscope was spotted by a groundskeeper at dawn—just offshore from the seventeenth green. He’s a former submariner, so we’re taking it seriously.”
“You think a Soviet sub dumped the body into Kapihua Bay?”
“Yes, sir. Or someone swam it ashore and wedged it into place in the tide pool. The sighting lines up with the same time the Goddard children and I found the body.”
“Interesting,” Admiral Wakisaka said. “The sub’s skipper probably high-tailed it out of there the moment he confirmed it had been discovered. Still, it’s worth a sweep.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“I’ve got a P-3 Orion on station,” continued the Admiral. “The Kanaloa can be there in a tick. But it’ll be a show of naval force—she’ll have to come within sight of the golf course. Will that spook your dignitaries?”
“I’ll handle that, Admiral. Many thanks. Gotta run.”
~
I left Mario to coordinate with ISA and handed Jack the Land Rover keys so he could bring any incoming photos to the staging area.
Jope and I commandeered the resort manager’s vehicle and headed back to the tent. Inside, we found Dr. Mahelona and Bill Hegner in high spirits.
“Boss,” Hegner said, “you know about the periscope, right?”
I nodded and told them about 25IV45.
“I’ll be damned.” Hegner shook his head.
“Doc,” I asked, “is it possible to identify Russo from John Doe’s teeth?”
“Is he Hawaiian?”
I shook my head. “Italian national.”
“That’ll be tough. Even if we got his dental records, his jaw’s fractured and too many teeth are missing to make a clean match.”
“Same with fingerprints?” Jope asked.
“Similar situation. You’d need to go to Italy and dig them up—if they exist. Knowing what I do about the Italians, I wouldn’t count on a national fingerprint registry.”
I sighed. “Would Russo’s photo and full rap sheet help?”
Sensing my disappointment, Dr. Mahelona said, “Michael, I’ll do my best with whatever you can dig up. But maybe knowing the identity isn’t as important as knowing the cause of death. And that, I can confirm—this wasn’t an accident. Somebody planted him in the tide pool.”
He brought me over to the table where all the fishing gear had been laid out.
“While you were gone, Bill and I examined everything—both medically and from an insurance angle,” he said. “Bill, go ahead.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Hegner said, eager to take the floor. He was never happier than when solving a mystery.
He pointed to the gear. “It’s a deliberate disguise. Probably pulled from a real fisherman or a marine outfitter. But the boots are a full size too big for John Doe. And they’re brand new. Not a scratch. No wear. I could eat off the soles.”
“Put on right before the body was staged?” I asked.
“Exactly. Now look at the sweater.” He held it up. “The tears were made with a knife to mimic coral damage. The divers found no fabric in the rocks or coral. And the gear was chosen not for flotation but to make it easier to wedge the body in place.”
“So, he didn’t just float in.”
“That’s correct, Michael. They tortured him to make it look like he’d been caught in winch gear and tossed overboard. But that’s not what killed him. Over to you, Doc?”
“Mr. Smith, your keen eye for detail helped us crack this.” Dr. Mahelona motioned me over to a tray holding John Doe’s heart. He handed me a magnifying glass and placed a finger on the organ. “Watch closely. I’ll lift my finger now.”
As he did, I saw it.
“Yes. There it is,” I exclaimed.
“Someone drove a specialized needle directly into the cardiac muscle,” the doctor explained. “Death would have been instant. This was a professional hit. No question.”
Just then, Jack burst in.
“Got ‘em!” he shouted.
Dr. Mahelona took the papers and skimmed them. “I can work with this,” he said. “I’ll take some measurements. Won’t be able to give you statistical certainty, but I can get better than even odds.”
“Close enough for government work,” I said. “Doc, great work.”
He beamed.
~
After his birdie at the seventeenth, Kawika saved par on the eighteenth. Casper, steady as ever, matched him with pars on both holes. After four rounds of golf over four days, they were tied at twelve under par.
It was playoff time.
Tournament officials selected the seventeenth and eighteenth for a sudden-death playoff. The first player to win a hole outright would be crowned champion. If neither did, they would cycle through the two holes again until someone did.
By the time I reached the seventeenth tee, the crowd had swelled. Word had spread across the resort, and hotel guests who’d been lounging poolside were now jockeying for space along the gallery ropes. The marshal stood near the tee box, his Quiet Please paddle tucked under one arm, calmly surveying the growing throng.
Casper arrived first, his caddie already pulling clubs from the bag. The methodical putting wizard looked as calm as if he were playing a casual round at his home course. Kawika appeared moments later, and the crowd erupted before the marshal could even think about raising his paddle.
Casper stepped to the tee first. He selected his driver and took a practice swing that was as smooth as silk. His drive split the fairway perfectly, leaving him in ideal position for his approach. A smattering of polite applause rippled through the crowd before the marshal's stern gaze restored order.
Now it was Kawika's turn. The hometown hero bent to grab a pinch of grass, tossed it into the air to read the wind, and stepped up to the tee. The marshal didn't even bother with his paddle. The gallery was holding its breath on its own.
Kawika's swing was fluid and powerful, the ball climbing high against the afternoon sky. It landed just past Casper's drive, and the crowd released a collective exhale.
"Gallery will follow players," the marshal announced.
As we made our way down the fairway, I noticed Ambassador Akinfeev and Minister Hartmann had positioned themselves near the cliff's edge, away from the main gallery. Akinfeev was pointing offshore. I knew, of course, they were looking at the Kanaloa. I had promised Admiral Wakisaka that I would handle them. The problem was I didn’t have a plan.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Keller. “What are they looking at, Smitty?”
“The admiral’s ASW ops,” I answered. I explained the situation.
“Follow me,” he smiled, and we marched to the Soviet bloc.
"Quite a view from up here, Ambassador. You can see clear to Maui on a day like this."
Akinfeev had a pair of binoculars in his hand. "Indeed. And apparently your navy enjoys this view as well. If I’m not mistaken, that is the HRS Kanaloa who is out there conducting what we call 'barrier search patterns.' Very methodical. Very... purposeful."
"Just routine patrol," Keller said smoothly. "We like to keep an eye on our waters during big events like this."
"Ah." Akinfeev raised his binoculars again. "Routine patrols typically follow shipping lanes, Mr. Goddard. This destroyer is working a grid pattern at approximately four knots. Classic anti-submarine search procedure. I’m wondering when one of your P-3 Orions will appear and join in the fun."
Akinfeev turned to me with a predatory smile. "Mr. Smith, perhaps you can enlighten us. Are Hawaiian waters experiencing unusual submarine activity?"
"I wouldn't know anything about that, Ambassador," I replied, probably too quickly.
"Of course not." Akinfeev's tone was almost amused. "Though I must say, your navy's response time is quite impressive. From detection to full search pattern deployment—what would you estimate, six hours? Eight?" He looked back through the binoculars. "Our Pacific Fleet commanders would be... interested to know their counterparts work so efficiently. Maybe someday we should hold joint training exercises, now that we are destined to be trading partners."
Trading partners? I thought to myself. I gave a brief glance towards Keller, but his eyes were locked on the Ambassador.
"Gentlemen,” said Keller, “let’s return to the golf game. The approach shots should be starting soon, and we wouldn’t want to miss the grand finale."
"Certainly not," said Akinfeev as we fell in behind Keller. "This has been a most spectacular day. I was telling Ivanka the other day that nothing, not even the Amalfi Coast compares to Hawaii in its beauty. This place is pure paradise."
The marshal's paddle went up again as we reached the approach shots. Casper was away first, about 180 yards from a pin cut dangerously close to the cliff's edge. He selected a seven-iron which was the safe play, aiming for the heart of the green.
His shot was textbook Casper: methodical, precise, no unnecessary risks. The ball landed thirty feet from the hole and spun to a stop. A solid approach that put all the pressure on Kawika.
The gallery shifted as Kawika approached his ball. He faced nearly the identical shot that had produced the eagle that put him into the playoffs. Same yardage, same wind, same impossible pin position hanging on the cliff's edge like a dare from the golf gods.
The marshal raised his paddle, but it was unnecessary. You could have heard a trade wind whisper.
Kawika pulled the six-iron from his bag. It was the same club that had delivered magic before. He took his stance, waggled the club once, and looked toward the flag fluttering in the ocean breeze.
His swing looked identical to the one that had sent the gallery into raptures. But golf is a cruel mistress. This time, the ball started right and caught more wind than expected. It landed on the green but kept rolling, trickling toward the cliff's edge before settling in the rough collar just feet from the precipice.
A collective gasp rose from the gallery, followed by a wave of sympathetic murmurs.
The walk to the green felt like a funeral procession. Casper had a long putt for birdie but a routine two-putt for par. Kawika, meanwhile, faced an impossible shot, a delicate chip from the cliff’s edge with the Pacific yawning 200 feet below. An eagle was off the table. He’d be lucky to save par.
He approached his ball like a man walking to his execution. The lie was brutal, nestled in the collar of rough on a steep downslope, with nothing behind it but wind, rocks, and water. He selected his most lofted wedge and took a few hesitant practice swings, each stopping well short of contact.
The marshal didn’t bother raising his paddle. The gallery was silent. You could hear the waves pounding the cliffside.
Kawika settled in, opened the face of his wedge, and made the softest swing of his life. The ball lifted gently, landed on the green, and started to roll.
For a moment, it looked like lightning might strike twice. The ball tracked the cup, inching forward as if drawn by magnetism. The gallery leaned forward, breath caught in collective hope.
It stopped two inches short.
The crowd erupted: Kawika! Kawika! Kawika!
He hadn’t won, but he had pulled off the impossible save. His par was in the bag. Now it was Casper’s turn.
Casper crouched behind his ball, studying the break with the methodical calm of a man who’d done this a hundred times. He took a breath, steadied himself, and stroked it.
It was classic Casper. No flash. Just feel. The ball took a wide line, veering well right of the hole before catching the break and turning back left—slow, true, and perfectly paced. It dropped with a soft plunk.
Birdie.
Billy Casper had won the inaugural KG Pacific Open.
~
The tournament’s press conference was triumphant. Even The Honolulu Gazette couldn’t find a way to pour cold water on it. The KG Pacific Open crowned two champions: veteran Billy Casper and Hilo-born David “Kawika” Akana.
But the real winner was the Republic. Hawaii’s dramatic beauty, world-class golf, and unmistakable aloha spirit had been captured in a single frame for the entire world to see.
As the press conference broke up, Rob put a hand on my arm.
“Walk with me, Michael.”
It felt like being called to the principal’s office. It was one of those moments when you can’t help but replay every possible mistake in your head. Had I gone too far authorizing the Kanaloa? Was he disappointed we hadn’t been able to definitively identify John Doe as Enzo Russo? Or had I missed something else entirely?
We walked down the eighteenth fairway, our shoes crunching the dry, trimmed grass, the late afternoon sun forcing us to glance south to keep it out of our eyes.
“I wanted to tell you,” he said, “good job today. Pass my thanks to the whole team.”
I exhaled. “I’m sorry we couldn’t confirm it was Russo. Doc thinks it is, but the face is unrecognizable. No dental, no prints—”
Rob waved that off. “What matters is, you kept it quiet. If it had leaked, that would’ve been the story—not the tournament, not Hawaii.”
We reached the cliff’s edge by the seventeenth hole. The Pacific stretched out before us, hard blue and flashing where the sun caught it. A frigate bird hung in the breeze, wings still, riding the wind like it was eavesdropping.
“You’re not sore I didn’t get your permission to deploy the Kanaloa?”
“I’ll never penalize you for protecting the Republic,” Rob said. “Even when things go sideways.”
“What about Akinfeev and his remark about our navy’s response time?”
Rob smiled at the horizon. “That was a smart man sending a signal.”
I looked at him, confused. “A signal?”
“When he mentioned how long it took us to respond, he was admitting a Soviet sub had been here. And that the Soviets had planted the body.”
“Why admit that?”
“To say it’s over. They dropped Russo like a dead fish on our shore to tell us they’re done meddling.”
“So, you think John Doe was Russo?”
“No doubt in my mind.”
“Hmm,” I said aloud, less in agreement than in reflection. Akinfeev’s words were still playing in my head.
“Why was Akinfeev talking about us being trading partners?”
Rob nodded. “I instructed Keller to do a deal with the Soviet bloc to help out Worthington. He needs a new route—his export market to the U.S. is dead thanks to Johnson’s tariffs, and the APC have captured all the new Free World shipping lanes. The Pineapple Express to Vladivostok is his last chance. Either every Russian ends up eating Hawaiian fruit, or he goes bankrupt.”
I glanced at him. “And we’re okay doing business with the Communists?”
Rob’s eyes followed the HRS Kanaloa as she carved a clean wake across the water, heading for the barn.
“I’ll take commerce over chaos,” he said with conviction. “Every time.”
Next on the docket: Housing Crisis
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