Debt of Honor

airborne-radar birds, then turned hack to John Stennis to refuel and rearm. Now the only airborne radar was American. The Japanese came on, trying to blunt the attack that really did not exist, seeking to engage targets whose only goal had been the attention of the outbound interceptors.

It was obvious to the radar operators that the majority of the missiles were headed for them instead of the airfield. They didn't trade remarks about that. There wasn't time. They watched as the E-2s fell from the sky, too far away for them to guess exactly why, but the remaining AEW aircraft were still on the runway at Kobler as the fighters were racing to get off, the first of them were approaching the distant American aircraft, which were, surprisingly, not headed in as expected. Guam was on the radio now, requesting information at the same time it announced that its fighters were off the ground to deal with the attack.

'Two minutes on the cruise missiles,' one of the operators said over the interphones.

'Tell Kobler to get its E-2 up immediately,' the senior officer in the control van said when he saw that the two already up were gone. Their van was a hundred yards from the radar transmitter, but it hadn't been dug in yet. It had been planned for the coming week.

'Wow!' Chavez observed. They were outside now. Some clever soul had killed the electrical power for their part of the island, which allowed them to step out of the house for a better view of the light show. Half a mile to their east, the first Patriot blew out of its box-launcher. The missile streaked only a few hundred meters up before its thrust-vector controls turned it as sharply as a billiard ball off a rail, aiming it down below the visible horizon. Three more followed a few seconds later.

'Cruise missiles coming in.' This remark came from Burroughs. 'Over to the north, looks like.'

'Going for the radar on that hilltop, I bet,' Clark thought. There followed a series of flashes that outlined the high ground to their east. The thunder of the explosions they represented took a few seconds more. Additional Patriots went off, and the civilians watched as the battery crew erected another box-launcher on its truck- transporter. They could also see that the process was taking too long.

The first wave of twenty Tomahawks was climbing now. They'd streaked in a bare three meters over the wave tops toward the sheer cliffs of Saipan's eastern coast. Automated weapons, they did not have the ability to avoid or even to detect fire directed at them, and the first ripple of Patriot SAMs did well, with twelve shots generating ten kills, but the remaining ten were climbing now, all targeted on the same spot. Four more of the cruise missile fell to SAMs, and a fifth lost power and slammed into the cliff face at Laolao Kattan. The SAM radars lost them at that point, and the battery commander called a warning to the radar people, but it was far too late to be helpful, and, one by one, five-thousand pound warheads exploded over the top of Mount Tokpochao.

'That takes care of that,' Clark said when the sound passed. Then he paused to listen. Others were out in the open now, standing around the cul-de-sac neighborhood. Individual hoots joined into a chorus of cheers that drowned out the shouts of the missile crew on the hilltop to the east.

Fighters were still rocketing off Kobler Field below them, generally taking off in pairs, with some singles. The blue flames of their afterburners turned in the sky before blinking off, as the Japanese fighters turned to form up and meet the inbound raid. Last of all, Clark and the others heard the electric-fan sound of the last remaining Hawkeye, heading off last of all despite the advice of the now-dead radar crew. The island grew silent for a few moments, a strange emptiness to the air as people caught their breath and waited for the second act of the midnight drama.

Only fifty miles offshore, USS Pasadena and three other SSNs came to antenna depth and launched six missiles each. Some of them were aimed at Saipan. Four went to Tinian. Two to Rota. The rest skimmed the wave tops for Andersen Air Force Base on Guam.

'Up scope!' Claggett ordered. The search periscope hissed up on hydraulic power. 'Hold!' he called as the top of the instrument cleared the water. He turned slowly, looking for lights in the sky. None.

'Okay, the antenna next.' Another hiss announced the raising of the UHF whip antenna. The Captain kept his eyes on the scope, still looking around. His right hand waved. There were some fuzzy radar signals from distant transmitters, but nothing able to detect the submarine.

'INDY CARS, this is PIT CREW, over,' the communications officer said into a microphone.

'Thank God,' Richter said aloud, keying his microphone. 'PIT CREW, this is INDY LEAD, authenticate, over.'

'Foxtrot Whiskey.'

'Charlie Tango,' Richter replied, checking the radio codes on his knee pad. 'We are five out, and we sure could use a drink, over.'

'Stand by,' he heard back.

'Surface the ship,' Claggett ordered, lifting the 1-MC. 'Now hear this, we're surfacing the ship, maintain battle stations. Army crews, stand by.'

The proper gear was sitting next to the midships escape trunk and the larger capsule hatch designed to handle the guidance packages for ballistic missiles. One of Tennessee's damage-control parties stood by to pass the gear, and a chief would work the fueling-hose connector hidden in the casing over the missile room.

'What's that?' INDY-TWO asked over the radio circuit. 'Lead, this is Three, chopper to the north. Say again, chopper to the north, big one.'

'Take him out!' Richter ordered at once. There could be no friendly choppers about. He turned and increased altitude for a look of his own. The guy even had his strobes on. 'PIT CREW, this is INDY LEAD, there's chopper traffic up here to the north. What gives, over?'

Claggett didn't hear that. Tennessee's sail had just broken the surface, and he was standing by the ladder to the top of the sail. Shaw took the microphone.

'That's probably an ASW helo from the destroyer we just sunk—splash him, splash him now!'

'Aerial radar to the north!' an ESM tech called a second later. 'Helicopter radar close aboard!'

'Two, take him out now!' Richter relayed the order.

'On the way, Lead,' the second Comanche responded, turning and dipping his nose to increase speed. Whoever it was, that was just too bad. The pilot selected guns. Under his aircraft the 20 -millimeter cannon emerged from its canoelike enclosure and turned forward. The target was five miles out and didn't see the inbound attack chopper.

It was another Sikorsky, Two's pilot saw, possibly assembled in the same Connecticut plant as his Comanche, the Navy version of the UH-60, a big target. His chopper blazed directly at it, hoping to get his kill before it could get a radio call out. Not much chance of that, and the pilot cursed himself for not engaging with a Stinger, but it was too late for that now. His helmet pipper locked on to the target and he triggered off fifty rounds, most of which found the nose of the approaching gray helicopter. The results were instant.

'Kill,' he announced. 'I got him, Lead.'

'Roger, what your fuel state?'

'Thirty minutes,' Two replied.

'Circle and keep your eyes open,' Lead commanded.

'Roger, Leader.' As soon as he got to three hundred feet came another unwelcome surprise. 'Lead, Two, radar to the north, system says it's a Navy billboard one.'

'Great,' Richter snarled, circling the submarine. It was large enough to land on, but it would have been easier if the goddamned thing wasn't rolling around like the beer barrel at an Irish wake. Richter brought his chopper into hover, approaching from straight aft, and lowered his wheels for landing.

'Come left into the wind,' Claggett told Lieutenant Shaw. 'We have to cut the rolls down for 'em.'

'Gotcha, Skipper.' Shaw made the necessary orders, and Tennessee steadied up on a northwesterly heading.

'Stand by the escape and capsule hatches!' the CO ordered next. As he watched, the helo came down slowly, carefully, and as usual, landing a helicopter aboard a ship reminded him of two porcupines making love. It wasn't lack of willingness; it was just that you couldn't afford any mistakes.

They were lined up like an army of mounted knights now, Sanchez thought, with the Japanese two hundred miles off Saipan's northeast tip, and the Americans a hundred miles beyond. This game had been played out many times by both sides, and often enough in the same war game centers. Both sides had their tracking radars on and searching. Both sides could now see and count the strength of the other. It was just a question of who would make the first move. The Japanese were at the disadvantage and knew it. Their remaining E-2C was not yet in position,