Debt of Honor

fleet. Their crewmen, aware of the trade problems between the two countries, concentrated on their mission. It was not an unknown mission to the Japanese Navy, after all. Their forefathers had done the same thing two generations before, in Kawasaki H8K2 flying boats—the same contractor that had built these Orions—to search for the marauding carriers commanded in turns by Halsey and Spruance. Many of the tactics they would employ today were based on lessons learned from that earlier conflict. The P-3Cs themselves were Japanese models of an American design that had begun life as turboprop airliners, then matured into rugged, powerful, if somewhat slow maritime patrol aircraft. As with most Japanese military aircraft, the American products had stopped at the basic profile. The power plants had since been developed and improved, giving the Orions a cruising speed boosted to 350 knots. The internal electronics were particularly good, especially the sensors designed to detect emissions from ships and aircraft. That was their mission for the moment, to fly out in large pie-shaped segments, listening for radar and radio signals that would announce the presence of American ships and aircraft. Reconnaissance: Find the enemy. That was the mission, and from press accounts and conversations with family members who worked in their country's economy, thinking of Americans as the enemy didn't even come all that hard.

Aboard John Stennis, Captain Sanchez watched the dawn patrol—a term beloved of all fighter pilots—shoot off the cats to establish an outer Combat Air Patrol. With the Tomcats off, next in line to go were the S-3 Vikings, anti-submarine birds with long legs to sweep the area the fleet would transit this day. Last went the Prowlers, the electronic bird-dogs, designed to detect and jam enemy radar signals. It was always exciting to watch from his perch at Pri-Fly. Almost as good as shooting off himself, but he was the CAG, and was supposed to command rather than merely lead his men now. His Alpha Strike force of Hornets was spotted on the deck, loaded with blue practice missiles for the discovery of the enemy battle force, the pilots sitting in their squadron ready rooms, mainly reading magazines or trading jokes because they were already briefed in on the mission.

Admiral Sato watched his flagship disengage from the oiler Homana, one of four supporting his fleet. The captain of the fleet-support ship lofted his cap and waved encouragement. Sato returned the gesture as the oiler put her rudder over to depart the battle force. He now had enough fuel to drive his ships hard. The contest was an interesting one, essentially guile against brute force, not an unusual situation for his country's navy, and for this task he would employ traditional Japanese tactics. His sixteen surface warships were split into three groups, one of eight and two of four, widely separated. Similar to Yamamoto's plan for the Battle of Midway, his operational concept was far more practical now, because with GPS navigation their position was always known, and with satellite communications links they could exchange messages in relative security. The Americans probably expected that he would keep his ships close to his 'homeland,' but he would not. He would take the issue to the enemy as best he could, since passive defense was not the way of his people, a fact that the Americans had learned and then forgotten, hadn't they? That was an amusing thought.

'Yes, Jack?' The President was in another good mood, flush from signing a new law which, he hoped, would solve a major problem for his country, and by the by make his reelection chances look rosy indeed. It would be a shame to ruin his day, Ryan thought, but his job wasn't political, at least not that kind of political.

'You might want to look at this.' He handed the fax sheet over without sitting down.

'Our friend Clark again?' Durling asked, leaning back in his chair and reaching for his reading glasses. He had to use them for normal correspondence, though his speeches and TelePrompTers had large-enough type to protect his presidential vanity.

'I presume State has seen this. What do they say?' the President asked when he finished it.

'Hanson calls it alarmist,' Jack reported. 'But the ambassador kept his troops inside for the event because he didn't want to cause an 'incident.' This is the only eyewitness report we have aside from the TV people.'

'I haven't read the text of his speech yet. I have it here somewhere.' Durling gestured at his desk.

'Might be a good idea to do so. I just did.'

The President nodded. 'And what else? I know there's more.'

'And I told Mary Pat to activate THISTLE.' He explained briefly what that was.

'You really should get my permission first.'

'That's what I'm here for, sir. You know a little about Clark. He doesn't scare easily. THISTLE includes a couple of people in their Foreign Ministry and MITI. I think we want to know what they're thinking.'

'They're not enemies,' Durling observed.

'Probably not,' Jack conceded, for the first time allowing for the fact that the proper response wasn't certainly not, a fact the President noted with a raised eyebrow. 'We still need to know, sir. That's my recommendation.'

'Okay. Approved. What else?'

'I also told her to get Kimberly Norton out, soonest. It ought to happen in the next twenty-four hours.'

'Sending Goto a message, are we?'

'That's part of it. Simpler version is, we know she's there, and she's an American citizen and—'

'And I have kids, too. Also approved. Save the piety for church, Jack,'

Durling ordered with a smile. 'How will it go?'

'If she agrees to come out, they drive her to the airport and fly her to Seoul. They have clothes for her, and a fresh passport, and first-class tickets for her and an escort she'll meet at the terminal. She changes planes to a KAL flight to New York. We check her into a hotel, settle her down, and debrief. We fly her parents in from Seattle, and explain to them that it's to be kept quiet. The girl will probably need psychological counseling—I mean, really need it. That will help with the low profile. The FBI will assist on that one. Her father's a cop. He should play along.' And that was neat and tidy enough for anyone, wasn't it?

The President gave Ryan a nod. 'So then, what do we tell Goto about it?'

'That's your decision, Mr. President. I would recommend nothing at the moment. Let's debrief the girl first. Say a week or so, and then the Ambassador will check in for the usual courtesy visit to present your greetings to a new head of government—'

'And ask him politely how his countrymen will react if Mr. Nationalist turned out to be dipping his wick in a round-eye. Then we extend a small olive branch, right?' Durling caught on quickly enough, Jack thought.

'That's my recommendation, sir.'

'A very small one,' the President noted dryly.

'Just one olive on it for the moment,' Ryan conceded.

'Approved,' Durling said again, adding more sharply, 'Next are you going to suggest what olive branch to offer?'

'No, sir. Have I pushed too much?' Jack asked, realizing just how far he had gone.

Durling almost apologized for speaking crossly to his National Security Advisor. 'You know, Bob was right about you.'

'Excuse me?'

'Bob Fowler,' Durling said, waving Ryan into a chair. 'You ticked me off pretty bad when I brought you in the first time.'

'Sir, I was a burn-out then, remember?' Jack did. The nightmares hadn't stopped yet. He saw himself, sitting there in the National Military Command Center, telling people what they had to do, but in the nightmare they couldn't see or hear him, as the Hot Line message kept coming in, taking his country closer and closer to the war he had in fact probably stopped. The full story on that had never been written in the open media. Just as well, everyone who had been there knew.

'I didn't understand that then. Anyway'—Durling raised his arms to stretch—'when we dropped the ball last summer. Bob and I talked some things over up at Camp David. He recommended you for the job. Surprised?' the President asked with a twisty grin.

'Very,' Jack admitted quietly. Arnie van Damm had never told him that story. Ryan wondered why.

'He said you're one levelheaded son of a bitch when the crap hits the fan. He also said you were an opinionated, pushy son of a bitch the rest of the time. Good judge of character, Bob Fowler.' Durling gave him a moment to absorb that. 'You're a good man in a storm, Jack. Do us both a favor and remember that this is as far as you can act without my approval. You've already had another pissing contest with Brett, haven't you?'

'Yes, sir.' Jack bobbed his head like a schoolboy. 'Just a little one.'

'Don't push so hard. He's my Secretary of State.'

'I understand, sir.'

'All ready for Moscow?'

'Cathy is really looking forward to it,' Ryan answered, pleased with the change of subject and noting that