Debt of Honor

with the data I gave you, just like I trusted him—' Jones pointed to Admiral Mancuso. 'When I sailed with you guys, we were the class of the whole fuckin' world. And if you did your job right as a CO, and if you've been doing your job right as a type-commander, Bart, then those kids out there still are. Goddamn it! When I tossed my bag down the hatch on Dallas the first time, I trusted you guys to know your damned job. Was I wrong, gentlemen? Remember the motto on Dallas? 'First in Harm's Way'! What the hell's the matter here?' The question hung in the air for several seconds.

Chambers was too angry to take it in. SubPac was not.

'We look that bad?' Mancuso asked.

'Sure as hell, sir. Okay, we took it in the ass from these bastards. Time to start thinking about catchup. We're the varsity, aren't we? Who's better suited to it than we are?'

'Jones, you always did have a big mouth,' Chambers said. Then he looked back at the chart. 'But I guess maybe it is time to go to work.'

A chief petty officer stuck his head in the door. 'Sir, Pasadena just checked in from down the hill. Ready in all respects to get under way, the CO requests orders.'

'How's he loaded?' Mancuso replied, knowing that if he'd really done his job right over the past few days the question would have been unnecessary.

'Twenty-two ADCAPs, six Harpoons, and twelve TLAM-Cs. They're all warshots,' the chief replied. 'He's ready to rock, sir.'

ComSubPac nodded. 'Tell him to stand by for mission orders.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

'Good skipper?' Jones asked.

'He got the Battle-E last year,' Chamber said. 'Tim Parry. He was my XO on Key West. He'll do.'

'So now all he needs is a job.'

Mancuso lifted the secure phone for CINCPAC. 'Yeah.'

'Signal from State Department,' the Air Force communications officer said, entering the room. 'The Japanese Ambassador requests an urgent meeting with the President.'

'Brett?'

'We see what he has to say,' SecState said. Ryan nodded agreement.

'Any chance at all that this is some kind of mistake?' Durling asked.

'We expect some hard intelligence anytime now from a satellite pass over the Marianas. It's dark there, but that won't matter much.' Ryan had finished his briefing, and on completion the data he'd managed to deliver seemed very thin. The baseline truth here was that what had evidently taken place was so wildly beyond the limits of reason that he himself would not be fully satisfied until he saw the overheads himself.

'If it's real, then what?'

'That will take a little time,' Ryan admitted. 'We want to hear what their ambassador has to say.'

'What are they really up to?' Treasury Secretary Fiedler asked.

'Unknown, sir. Just pissing us off, it isn't worth the trouble. We have nukes. They don't. It's all crazy…' Ryan said quietly. 'It doesn't make any sense at all.' Then he remembered that in 1939, Germany's biggest trading partner had been…France. History's most often repeated lesson was that logic was not a constant in the behavior of nations. The study of history was not always bilateral. And the lessons learned from history depended on the quality of the student. Worth remembering, Jack thought, because the other guy might forget.

'It's got to be some kind of mistake,' Hanson announced. 'A couple of accidents. Maybe our two subs collided under the water and maybe we have some excitable people on Saipan. I mean it doesn't make any sense at all.'

'I agree, the data does not form any clear picture, but the individual pieces—damn it, I know Robby Jackson. I know Bart Mancuso.'

'Who's that?'

'ComSubPac. He owns all our subs out there. I sailed with him once. Jackson is deputy J-3, and we've been friends since we were both teaching at Annapolis.' Lo, these many years ago.

'Okay,' Durling said. 'You've told us everything you know?'

'Yes, Mr. President. Every word, without any analysis.'

'Meaning you don't really have any?' The question stung some, but this was not a time for embroidering. Ryan nodded.

'Correct, Mr. President.'

'So for now, we wait. How long to Andrews?'

Fiedler looked out a window. 'That's the Chesapeake Bay below us now. We can't be too far out.'

'Press at the airport?' he asked Arnie van Damm.

'Just the ones in the back of the plane, sir.'

'Ryan?'

'We firm up our information as fast as we can. The services are all on alert.'

'What are those fighters doing out there?' Fiedler asked. They were now flying abeam Air Force One, in a tight two-ship element about a mile away, their pilots wondering what this was all about. Ryan wondered it the press would take note of it. Well, how long could this affair remain a secret?

'My idea, Buzz,' Ryan said. Might as well take responsibility for it.

'A little dramatic, don't you think?' SecState inquired.

'We didn't expect to have our fleet attacked either, sir.'

'Ladies and gentlemen, this is Colonel Evans. We're now approaching Andrews Air Force Base. We all hope you've enjoyed the flight. Please bring your seats back to the upright position and…' In the back, the junior White House aides ostentatiously refused to fasten their seat belts. The cabin crew did what they were supposed to do, of course.

Ryan felt the main gear thump down on runway Zero-One Right. For the majority of the people aboard, the press, it was the end. For him it was just the beginning. The first sign was the larger than normal complement of security police waiting at the terminal building, and some especially nervous Secret Service agents. In a way it was a relief to the National Security Advisor. Not everyone thought it was some sort of mistake, but it would be so much better, Ryan thought, if he were wrong, just this once. Otherwise they faced the most complex crisis in his country's history.

24—Running in Place

If there was a worse feeling than this one, Clark didn't know what it might be. Their mission in Japan was supposed to have been easy: evacuate an American citizen who had gotten herself into a tight spot and ascertain the possibility of reactivating an old and somewhat dusty intelligence network. Well, that was the idea, the officer told himself, heading to his room.

Chavez was parking the car. They'd decided to rent a new one, and again the clerk at the counter had changed his expression on learning that their credit card was printed in both Roman and Cyrillic characters. It was an experience so new as to have no precedent at all. Even at the height (or depths) of the Cold War, Russians had treated American citizens with greater deference than their own countrymen, and whether that had resulted from curiosity or not, the privilege of being American had been an important touchstone for a lonely stranger in a foreign and hostile land. Never had Clark felt so frightened, and it was little consolation that Ding Chavez didn't have the experience to realize just how unusual and dangerous their position was.

It was therefore something of a relief to feel the piece of tape on the underside doorknob. Maybe Nomuri could give him some useful information. Clark went in the room only long enough to use the bathroom before heading right back out. He saw Chavez in the lobby and made the appropriate gesture: Stay put. Clark noticed with a smile that his junior partner had stopped at a bookstore and purchased a copy of a Russian-language newspaper, which he carried ostentatiously as a kind of defensive measure. Two minutes later, Clark was looking in the window of the camera shop again. There wasn't much street traffic, but