Debt of Honor

wherever that was, and Washington.

'Line three, Dr. Ryan. Admiral Jackson on the other end.'

'This is SWORDSMAN,' Ryan said, using his official Secret Service code name. They'd tried to hang GUNFIGHTER on him, a token of backhanded respect for his earlier life.

'This is SWITCHBOARD. Enjoying the flight, Jack?' It was a constant amazement to Ryan that the secure digital comm links had such high transmission quality. He could recognize his friend's voice, and even his humorous tone. He could also tell that it was somewhat forced.

'These Air Force drivers are pretty good. Maybe you should think about learning from them. Okay, what gives? What are you doing in the shop?'

'Pac Fleet had a little incident a few hours ago.'

'So I see. Sri Lanka first,' SWORDSMAN ordered. 'Nothing much more than the wire dispatch. We have some still photos, too, and we expect video in a half-hour or so. The consulate in Trincomalec is reporting in now. They confirm the incident. One American citizen injured, they think, just one, and not real serious, but he's asking to be evac'd soonest. Mike is being painted into a corner. He's going to try and maneuver out of it when the sun goes down. Our estimate is that our friends are starting to get real frisky. Their amphibs are still alongside, but we've lost track of that brigade. The area they've been using to play games in appears empty. We have overheads three hours old, and the field is empty.'

Ryan nodded. He slid the plastic blind off the window by his chair. It was dark outside. There were no lights to be seen below. Either they were over the ocean already or there were clouds down there. All he could see was the blinking strobe on the aircraft's wingtip.

'Any immediate dangers there?'

'Negative,' Admiral Jackson thought. 'We estimate a week to take positive action, minimum, but we also estimate that positive action is now likely. The folks up the river concur. Jack,' Robby added, 'Admiral Dubro needs instructions on what he can do about things, and he needs them soon.

'Understood.' Ryan was making notes on an Air Force One scratchpad that the journalists hadn't managed to steal yet. 'Stand by.' He looked up at the Lieutenant. 'ETA to Andrews?'

'Seven and a half hours, sir. Winds are pretty stiff. We're approaching the Icelandic coast now.'

Jack nodded. 'Thank you. Robby, we're seven and a half out. I'll be talking to the Boss before we get in. Start thinking about setting a briefing up two hours after we get in.'

'Roger that.'

'Okay. Now, what the hell happened to those carriers?'

'Supposedly one of the Jap 'cans had a little malfunction and rippled off her Mark 50's. They caught both CVNs in the ass. Enterprise has damage to all four shafts. Stennis has three down. They report no fatalities, some minor injuries.'

'Robby, how the hell—'

'Hey, SWORDSMAN, I just work here, remember.'

'How long?'

'Four to six months to effect repairs, that's what we have now. Wait, stand by, Jack.' The voice stopped, but Ryan could hear murmurs and papers shuffling. 'Wait a minute—something else just came in.'

'Standing by.' Ryan sipped his coffee and returned to the task of figuring out what time it was.

'Jack, something bad. We have a SuBMiss/SusSuNK in Pac Fleet.'

'What's that?'

'USS Asheville, that's a new 688, her BST-3 just started howling. Stennis has launched a bird to check it out, and a 'can's heading up there, too. This ain't good.'

'What's the crew? Like a hundred?'

'More, one-twenty, one-thirty. Oh, damn. Last time this happened, I was a mid.'

'We had an exercise going with them, didn't we?'

'DATELINE PARTNERS, yes, just ended yesterday. Until a couple hours ago, looked like a good exercise. Things went in the shitter in a hurry Jackson's voice trailed off. 'Another signal. First report, Stennis launched a Hoover—'

'What?'

'S-3 Viking, ASW bird. Four-man crew. They report no survivors from the sub. Shit,' Jackson added, even though it wasn't exactly a surprise.

'Jack, I need to do some work here, okay?'

'Understood. Keep me posted.'

'Will do. Out.' The line went dead.

Ryan finished off his coffee and dropped the plastic cup into a basket bolted to the floor of the aircraft. There was no point in waking the President just yet. Durling would need his sleep. He was coming home to a financial crisis, a political mess, maybe a brewing war, in the Indian Ocean, and now the situation with Japan would only get worse after this damned-fool accident in the Pacific. Durling was entitled to a little good luck, wasn't he?

By coincidence Oreza's personal car was a white Toyota Land Cruiser, a popular vehicle on the island. He and his charter were walking toward it when two more just like it pulled into the marina's parking lot. Six people got out and walked straight toward them. The former Command Master Chief stopped dead in his tracks. He'd left Saipan just before dawn, having picked Burroughs up at the hotel himself, the better to catch the tuna chasing their own food in the early morning. Though traffic on the way in to the dock had been…well, a little busier than usual, the world had held its normal shape.

But not now. Now there were Japanese fighters circling over the island, and now six men in fatigues and pistol belts were walking toward him and his charter. It was like something from a movie, he thought, one of those crazy TV mini-things from when the Russians were real.

'Hello, how was the fishing?' the man asked. He had O-3 rank, Oreza saw, and a parachutist's badge on the left breast pocket. Smiling, just as pleasant and friendly as he could be.

'I bagged one hell of an albacore tuna,' Pete Burroughs said, his pride amplified by the four beers he'd drunk on the way in.

A wider smile. 'Ah! Can I see it?'

'Sure!' Burroughs reversed his path and led them back to the dock, where the fish was still hanging head- down from the hoist.

'This is your boat, Captain Oreza?' the soldier asked. Only one other man had followed their captain down. The others stayed behind, watching closely, as though under orders not to be too…something, Portagee thought. He also took note of the fact that this officer had troubled himself to learn his name.

'That's right, sir. Interested in a little fishing?' he asked with an innocent smile.

'My grandfather was a fisherman,' the ishii told them.

Portagee nodded and smiled. 'So was mine. Family tradition.'

'Long tradition?'

Oreza nodded as they got to Springer. 'More than a hundred years.'

'Ah, a fine boat you have. May I look at it?'

'Sure, jump aboard.' Portagee went first and waved him over. The sergeant who'd walked down with his captain, he saw, stayed on the dock withMr. Burroughs, keeping about six feet away from him. There was a pistol in the man's holster, a SIG P22O, the standard sidearm of the Japanese military. By this time all kinds of alarm were lighting off in Oreza's brain.

'What does 'Springer' denote?'

'It's a kind of hunting dog.'

'Ah, yes, very good.' The officer looked around. 'What sort of radios do you need for a boat like this. Expensive?'

'I'll show you.' Oreza led him into the salon. 'Your people make it, sir, NEC, a standard marine VHP and a backup. Here's my GPS nav system, depth finder, fish-finder, radar.' He tapped each instrument. They were in fact all Japanese-made, high quality, reasonably priced, and reliable as hell.

'You have guns aboard?'