Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (47 page)

The word got out very quickly. Rick Bernard placed his first call to the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange to report his problem and to ask for guidance. On the assurance that this was no accident, he made the obvious recommendation and Bernard called the FBI, located close to Wall Street in the
Javits
Federal
Office
Building
. The senior official here was a deputy director, and he dispatched a team of three agents to the primary DTC office located in midtown.

“What seems to be the problem?” the senior agent asked. The answer required ten minutes of detailed explanation, and was immediately followed by a call direct to the Deputy-Director-in-Charge.

•     •     •

MV Orchid Ace had been alongside long enough to off-load a hundred cars. All of them were Toyota Land Cruisers. Taking down the security shack and its single drowsy guard proved to be another bloodless exercise, which allowed the buses to enter the fenced storage lot. Colonel Sasaki had enough men in the three buses to give each a crew of three, and they all knew what to do. The police substations at Koblerville and on Capitol Hill would be the first places approached, now that his men had the proper transport. His own part of the mission was at the latter site, at the home of the Governor.

It was really a coincidence that Nomuri had spent the night in town. He'd actually given himself an evening off, which happened rarely enough, and he found that recovery from a night on the town was facilitated by a trip to the bathhouse, something his ancestors had gotten right about a thousand years earlier. After washing, he got his towel and headed to the hot tub, where the

foggy atmosphere would clear his head better than aspirin could. He would emerge

from this civilized institution refreshed, he thought.

“Kazuo,” the CIA officer observed. “Why are you here?”

“Overtime,” the man replied with a tired smile.

“Yamata-san must be a demanding boss,” Nomuri observed, sliding himself slowly into the hot water, not really meaning anything by the remark. The reply made his head turn.

“I have never seen history happen before,” Taoka said, rubbing his eyes and moving around a little, feeling the tension bleed from his muscles, but altogether too keyed up to be sleepy after ten hours in the War Room.

“Well, my history for last night was a very nice hostess,” Nomuri said with a raised eyebrow. A nice lady of twenty-one years, too, he didn't add. A very bright young lady, who had many other people contesting for her attention, but Nomuri was far closer to her age, and she enjoyed talking to someone like him. It wasn't all about money, Chet thought, his eyes closed over a smiling face.

“Mine was somewhat more exciting than that.”

“Really? I thought you said you were working.” Nomuri's eyes opened reluctantly. Kazuo had found something more interesting than sexual fantasy?

“I was.”

It was just something about the way he said it. “You know, Kazuo, when you start telling a story, you must finish it.”

A laugh and a shake of the head. “I shouldn't, but it will be in the papers in a few hours.”

“What's that?”

“The American financial system crashed last night.”

“Really? What happened?”

The man's head turned and he spoke the reply very quietly indeed. “I helped do it to them.”

It seemed very odd to Nomuri, sitting in a wooden tub filled with 107-degree water, that he felt a chill.

“Wakarémasen.” I don't understand.

“It will be clear in a few days. For now, I must go back.” The salaryman rose and walked out, very pleased with himself for sharing his role with one friend. What good was a secret, after all, if at least one person didn't know that you had it? A secret could be a grand thing, and one so closely held in a society like this was all the more precious.

What the hell? Nomuri wondered.

“There they are.” The lookout pointed, and Admiral Sato raised his binoculars to look. Sure enough, the clear Pacific sky backlit the mast tops of the lead screen ships, FFG-7 frigates by the look at the crosstrees. The radar picture was clear now, a classic circular formation, frigates on the outer ring, destroyers inward of that, then two or three Aegis cruisers not very different from his own flagship. He checked the time. The Americans had just set the morning watch. Though warships always had people on duty, the real work details were synchronized with daylight, and people would now be rousing from their bunks, showering, and heading off for breakfast.

The visual horizon was about twelve nautical miles away. His squadron of four ships was heading east at thirty-two knots, their best possible continuous speed. The Americans were westbound at eighteen.

“Send by blinker light to the formation: Dress ships.”

Saipan
's main satellite uplink facility was off
Beach Road
, close to the Sun Inn Motel, and operated by MTC Micro Telecom. It was an entirely ordinary civilian facility whose main construction concern had been protection against autumnal typhoons that regularly battered the island. Ten soldiers, commanded by a major, walked up to the main door and were able to walk right in, then approach the security guard, who simply had no idea what was happening, and, again, didn't even attempt to reach for his sidearm. The junior officer with the detail was a captain trained in signals and communications. All he had to do was point at the various instruments in the central control room. Phone uplinks to the Pacific satellites that transferred telephone and other links from
Saipan
to
America
were shut down, leaving the
Japan
links up—they went to a different satellite, and were backed up with cable—without interfering with downlinked signals. At this hour it was not overly surprising that no single telephone circuit to
America
was active at the moment. It would stay that way for quite some time.

•     •     •

“Who are you?” the Governor's wife asked.

“I need to see your husband,” Colonel Sasaki replied, “It's an emergency.” The fact of that statement was made immediately clear by the first shot of the evening, caused when the security guard at the legislature building managed to get his pistol out. He didn't get a round off—an eager paratrooper sergeant saw to that—but it was enough to make Sasaki frown angrily and push past the woman. He saw Governor Comacho, walking to the door in his bathrobe.

“What is this?”

“You are my prisoner,” Sasaki announced, with three other men in the room now to make it clear that he wasn't a robber. The Colonel found himself embarrassed. He'd never done anything like this before, and though he was a professional soldier, his culture as much as any other frowned upon the invasion of another man's house regardless of the reason. He found himself hoping that the shots he'd just heard hadn't been fatal. His men had such orders.

“What?” Comacho demanded. Sasaki just pointed to the couch.

“You and your wife, please sit down. We have no intention of harming you.”

“What is this?” the man asked, relieved that he and his wife weren't in any immediate danger, probably.

“This island now belongs to my country,” Colonel Sasaki explained. It couldn't be so bad, could it? The Governor was over sixty, and could remember when that had been true before.

“A goddamned long way for her to come,” Commander Kennedy observed after taking the message. It turned out that the surface contact was the Muroto, a cutter from the Japanese Coast Guard that occasionally supported fleet operations, usually as a practice target. A fairly handsome ship, but with the low freeboard typical of Japanese naval vessels, she had a crane installed aft for the recovery of practice torpedoes. It seemed that Kurushio had expected the opportunity to get off some practice shots in D
ATELINE
P
ARTNERS
. Hadn't
Asheville
been told about that?

“News to me, Cap'n,” the navigator said, flipping through the lengthy op-order for the exercise.

“Wouldn't be the first time the clerks screwed up.” Kennedy allowed himself a smile. “Okay, we've killed them enough.” He keyed his microphone again. “Very well, Captain, we'll replay the last scenario. Start time twenty minutes from now.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the reply came on the VHF circuit. “Out.”

Kennedy replaced the microphone. “Left ten-degrees rudder, all ahead one third. Make your depth three hundred feet.”

The crew in the attack center acknowledged and executed the orders, taking
Asheville
east for five miles. Fifty miles to the west, USS Charlotte was doing much the same thing, at exactly the same time.

The hardest part of Operation K
ABUL
was on
Guam
. Approaching its hundredth year as an American-flag possession, this was the largest island in the
Marianas
chain, and possessed a harbor and real
U.S.
military installations. Only ten years earlier, it would have been impossible. Not so long ago, the now-defunct Strategic Air Command had based nuclear bombers here. The U.S. Navy had maintained a base for missile submarines, and the security obtaining to both would have made anything like this mission a folly. But the nuclear weapons were all gone—the missiles were, anyway. Now Andersen Air Force base, two miles north of Yigo, was really little more than a commercial airport. It supported trans-Pacific flights by the American Air Force. No aircraft were actually based there any longer except for a single executive jet used by the base commander, itself a leftover from when 13th Air Force had been headquartered on the island. Tanker aircraft that had once been permanently based on
Guam
were now transient reserve formations that came and went as required. The base commander was a colonel who would soon retire, and he had under him only five hundred men and women, mostly technicians. There were only fifty armed USAF Security Police. It was much the same story at the Navy base whose airfield was now co-located with the Air Force. The Marines who had once maintained security there because of the nuclear weapons stockpile had been replaced by civilian guards, and the harbor was empty of gray hulls. Still, this was the most sensitive part of the overall mission. The airstrips at Andersen would be crucial to the entire operation.

“Pretty ships,” Sanchez thought aloud, looking through his binoculars from his chair in Pri-Fly. “Nice tight interval on the formation, too.” The four Kongos were on a precise reciprocal heading, about eight miles out, the CAG noted.

“They have the rails lined?” the Air Boss asked. There seemed to be a white line down the sides of all four of the inbound destroyers.

“Rendering honors, yeah, that's nice of them.” Sanchez lifted the phone and punched the button for the navigation bridge. “Skipper? CAG here. It seems that our friends are going formal on us.”

“Thanks, Bud.” The Commanding Officer of Johnnie Reb made a call to the battle-group commander on
Enterprise
.

•     •     •

“What?” Ryan said, answering the phone.

“Takeoff in two and a half hours,” the President's secretary told him. “Be ready to leave in ninety minutes.”

“Wall Street?”

“That's right, Dr. Ryan. He thinks we need to be home a little early. We've informed the Russians. President Grushavoy understands.”

“Okay, thanks,” Ryan said, not really meaning it. He'd hoped to scoot out to see Narmonov for an hour or so. Then the real fun part came. He reached over and shook his wife awake.

A groan: “Don't even say it.”

“You can sleep the rest of it off on the airplane. We have to be packed and ready in an hour and a half.”

“What? Why?”

“Leaving early,” Jack told her. “Trouble at home. Wall Street had another meltdown.”

“Bad?” Cathy opened her eyes, rubbing her forehead and thankful it was still dark outside until she looked at the clock.

“Probably a bad case of indigestion.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to get ready to leave.”

“We need maneuvering room,” Commander Harrison said.

“No dummy is he?” Admiral Dubro asked rhetorically. The opposition, Admiral Chandraskatta, had turned west the night before, probably catching on, finally, that the Eisenhower/Lincoln battle force was not where he'd suspected after all. That clearly left a single alternative, and therefore he'd headed west, forcing the Americans against the island chain that
India
mostly owned. Half of the
U.S.
Navy's Seventh Fleet was a powerful collection of ships, but their power would be halved again if their location became known. The whole point of Dubro's operations to this point had been to keep the other guy guessing. Well, he'd made his guess. Not a bad one, either.

“What's our fuel state?” Dubro asked, meaning that of his escort ships. The carriers could steam until the food ran out. Their nuclear fuel would not do so for years.

“Everybody's up to ninety percent. Weather's good for the next two days. We can do a speed run if we have to.”

“You thinking the same thing I am?”

“He's not letting his aircraft get too close to the Sri Lankan coast. They might show on air-traffic-control radars and people might ask questions. If we head northeast, then east, we can race past Dondra Head at night and curl back around south. Even money nobody sees us.”

     The Admiral didn't like even-money odds. That meant it was just as likely somebody would see the formation, and the Indian Fleet could then turn northeast, forcing either a further move by the Americans away from the coast they might or might not be protecting—or a confrontation. You could play this sort of game only so long, Dubro thought, before somebody asked to see the cards.

“Get us through today without being spotted?”

That one was obvious, too. The formation would send aircraft at the Indians directly from the south, hopefully pulling them south.
Harrison
presented the scheme for the coming day's air operations.

“Make it so.”

Eight bells rang over the ship's 1-MC intercom system. 1600 hours. The afternoon watch was relieved and replaced with the evening watch. Officers and men, and, now, women, moved about to and from their duty stations. Johnnie Reb's air wing was standing down, mainly resting and going over results of the now-concluded exercise. The Air Wing's aircraft were about half parked on the flight deck, with the other half struck down in the hangar bay. A few were being worked on, but the maintenance troops were mostly standing down, too, enjoying a pastime the Navy called
Steel
Beach
. It sure was different now, Sanchez thought, looking down at the non-skid-covered steel plates. Now there were women sunning themselves, too, which occasioned the increased use of binoculars by the bridge crew, and had generated yet another administrative problem for his Navy. What varieties of bathing suits were proper for U.S. Navy sailors? Much to the chagrin of some, but the relief of many, the verdict was one-piece suits. But even those could be worth looking at, if properly filled, the CAG thought, returning his glasses to the approaching Japanese formation.