Debt of Honor

mountain, the CIA officer listened to the radio, and the soldiers could see his demeanor relax as he did so. It would be a while longer before the Rangers did the same.

Captain Sato performed another perfect landing at Narita International Airport, entirely without thinking about it, not even hearing the congratulatory comment of his copilot as he completed the run-out. Outwardly calm, inside the pilot was a vacuum, performing his customary job robotically. The copilot did not interfere, thinking that the mechanics of handling the aircraft would itself be some solace to his captain, and so he watched Sato taxi the 747 right up to the jetway, stopping again with the usual millimetric precision. In less than a minute the doors were opened and passengers clambered off. Through the windows of the terminal they could see a crowd of people waiting at the gate, mainly the wives and children of people who had flown so recently to Saipan in order to establish themselves as …citizens, able to vote in the newest Home Island. But not now. Now they were coming home, and families welcomed them as those who might have been lost, now safe again where they belonged. The copilot shook his head at the absurdity of it all, not noticing that Sato's face still hadn't changed at all. Ten minutes later the flight crew left the aircraft. A relief crew would take it back to Saipan in a few hours to continue the exodus of special flights.

Out in the terminal, they saw others waiting at other gates, outwardly nervous from their expressions, though many were devouring afternoon papers just delivered to the airport's many gift shops.

Goto Falls was the headline: Koga to Form New Government.

The international gates were rather less full than was the norm. Caucasian businessmen stood about, clearly leaving the country, hut now looking about in curiosity, so many of them with little smiles as they scanned the terminal, looking mainly at the flights inbound from Saipan. Their thoughts could hardly have been more obvious, especially the people waiting to board flights eastward.

Sato saw it too. He stopped and looked at a paper dispenser but only needed to see the headline to understand. Then he looked at the foreigners at their gates and muttered, 'Gaijin…' It was the only unnecessary word he'd uttered in two hours, and he said nothing else on the way to his car. Perhaps some sleep would help him, the copilot thought, heading off to his own

'Aren't we supposed to go back out and—'

'And do what, Ding?' Clark asked, pocketing the car keys after a thirty-minute drive around the southern half of the island. 'Sometimes you just let things be. I think this is one of those times, son.'

'You think it's over?' Pete Burroughs asked.

'Well, take a look around.'

Fighters were still orbiting overhead. Cleanup crews had just about cleared the debris from the periphery of Kobler Field, but the fighters had not moved over to the international airport, whose runways were busy with civilian airliners. To the east of the housing tract the Patriot crews were also standing alert, but those not in the control vans were standing together in small knots, talking among themselves instead of doing the usual soldierly make- work. Local citizens were demonstrating now, in some cases loudly, at various sites around the island, and nobody was arresting them. In some cases officer backed by armed soldiers asked, politely, for the demonstrators to stay away from the troops, and the local people prudently heeded the warnings. On their drive. Clark and Chavez had seen half a dozen such incidents, and in all cases it was the same: the soldiers not angered so much as embarrassed by it all. It wasn't the sign of an army ready to fight a battle, John thought, and more importantly, the officers were keeping their men under tight control. Thai meant orders from above to keep things cool.

'You think it's over?' Oreza asked

'If we're lucky, Portagee.'

Prime Minister Koga's first official act after forming a cabinet was to summon Ambassador Charles Whiting. A political appointee whose last four weeks in the country had been very tense and frightening indeed, Whiting noted first of all that the guard detail around the embassy was cut by half.

His official car had a police escort to the Diet Building. There were cameras to record his arrival at the VIP entrance, but they were kept well back, and two brand-new ministers conducted him inside.

'Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Whiting.'

'Mr. Prime Minister, speaking for myself, I am very pleased to answer your invitation.' The two men shook hands, and really that was it, both of them knew, though their conversation had to cover numerous issues.

'You are aware that I had nothing at all to do—'

Whiting just raised his hand. 'Excuse me, sir. Yes, I know that, and I assure you that my government knows that. Please, we do not need to establish your goodwill. This meeting,' the Ambassador said generously, 'is proof positive of that.'

'And the position of your government?'

At exactly nine in the morning, Vice President Edward Kealty's car pulled into the underground parking garage of the State Department. Secret Service agents conducted him to the VIP elevator that took him to the seventh floor, where one of Brett Hanson's personal assistants led him to the double doors of the office of the Secretary of State.

'Hello, Ed,' Hanson said, standing and coming to meet the man he'd known in and out of public life for two decades.

'Hi, Brett.' Kealty was not downcast. In the past few weeks he'd come to terms with many things. Later today he would make his public statement, apologizing to Barbara Linders and several other people by name. But before that he had to do what the Constitution required. Kealty reached into his coat pocket and handed over an envelope to the Secretary of State. Hanson took it and read the two brief paragraphs that announced Kealty's resignation from his office. There were no further words. The two old friends shook hands and Kealty made his way back out of the building. He would return to the White House, where his personal staff was already collecting his belongings. By evening the office would be ready for a new occupant.

'Jack, Chuck Whiting is delivering our terms, and they're pretty much what you suggested last night.'

'You might catch some political heat from that,' Ryan observed, inwardly relieved that President Durling was willing to run the risk.

The man behind the ornate desk shook his head. 'I don't think so, but if it happens, I can take it. I want orders to go out for our forces to stand down, defensive action only.'

'Good.'

'It's going to be a long while before things return to normal.'

Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir, but we can still manage things in as civilized a way as possible. Their citizens were never behind this. Most of the people responsible for it are already dead. We have to make that clear. Want me to handle it?'

'Great idea. Let's talk about that tonight. How about you bring your wife in for dinner. Just a private one for a change,' the President suggested with smile.

'I think Cathy would like that.'

Professor Catherine Ryan was just finishing up a procedure. The atmosphere in the operating room was more akin to something in an electronics factory. She didn't even have to wear surgical gloves, and the scrub rules here were nothing like those for conventional surgery. The patient was only mildly sedated while the surgeon hovered over the gunsightlike controls of her laser, searching around for the last bad vessel on the surface of the elderly man's retina. She lined up the crosshairs as carefully as a man taking down a Rocky Mountain sheep from half a mile, and thumbed the control. There was a brief flash of green light and the vein was 'welded' shut.

'Mr. Redding, that's it,' she said quietly, touching his hand.

'Thank you, doctor,' the man said somewhat sleepily.

Cathy Ryan flipped off the power switch on the laser system and got off her stool, stretching as she did so. In the corner of the room, Special Agent Andrea Price, still disguised as a Hopkins faculty member, had watched the entire procedure. The two women went outside to find Professor Bernard Katz, his eyes beaming over his Bismarck mustache.

'Yeah, Bernie?' Cathy said, making her notes for Mr. Redding's chart.

'You have room on the mantel, Cath?' That brought her eyes up. Katz handed over a telegram, still the traditional way of delivering such news. 'You just bagged a Lasker Award, honey.' Katz then delivered a hug that almost made Andrea Price reach for her gun.