Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (64 page)

Jack nodded. “Thank you. Robby, we’re seven and a half out. I’ll be talking to the Boss before we get in. Start thinking about setting a briefing up two hours after we get in.”

“Roger that.”

“Okay. Now, what the hell happened to those carriers?”

“Supposedly one of the Jap ’cans had a little malfunction and rippled off her Mark 50s. They caught both CVNs in the ass.
Enterprise
has damage to all four shafts.
Stennis
has three down. They report no fatalities, some minor injuries.”

“Robby, how the hell—”

“Hey, SWORDSMAN, I just work here, remember.”

“How long?”

“Four to six months to effect repairs, that’s what we have now. Wait, stand by, Jack.” The voice stopped, but Ryan could hear murmurs and papers shuffling. “Wait a minute—something else just came in.”

“Standing by.” Ryan sipped his coffee and returned to the task of figuring out what time it was.

“Jack, something bad. We have a SUBMISS/SUBSUNK in Pac Fleet.”

“What’s that?”

“USS
Asheville,
that’s a new 688, her BST-3 just started howling. Stennis has launched a bird to check it out, and a ’can’s heading up there, too. This ain’t good.”

“What’s the crew? Like a hundred?”

“More, one-twenty, one-thirty. Oh, damn. Last time this happened, I was a mid.”

“We had an exercise going with them, didn’t we?”

“DATELINE PARTNERS, yes, just ended yesterday. Until a couple hours ago, looked like a good exercise. Things went in the shitter in a hurry ...” Jackson’s voice trailed off. “Another signal. First report,
Stennis
launched a Hoover—”

“What?”

“S-3 Viking, ASW bird. Four-man crew. They report no survivors from the sub. Shit,” Jackson added, even though it wasn’t exactly a surprise. “Jack, I need to do some work here, okay?”

“Understood. Keep me posted.”

“Will do. Out.” The line went dead.

Ryan finished off his coffee and dropped the plastic cup into a basket bolted to the floor of the aircraft. There was no point in waking the President just yet. Durling would need his sleep. He was coming home to a financial crisis, a political mess, maybe a brewing war, in the Indian Ocean, and now the situation with Japan would only get worse after this damned-fool accident in the Pacific. Durling was entitled to a little good luck, wasn’t he?

By coincidence Oreza’s personal car was a white Toyota Land Cruiser, a popular vehicle on the island. He and his charter were walking toward it when two more just like it pulled into the marina’s parking lot. Six people got out and walked straight toward them. The former Command Master Chief stopped dead in his tracks. He’d left Saipan just before dawn, having picked Burroughs up at the hotel himself, the better to catch the tuna chasing their own food in the early morning. Though traffic on the way in to the dock had been ... well, a little busier than usual, the world had held its normal shape.

But not now. Now there were Japanese fighters circling over the island, and now six men in fatigues and pistol belts were walking toward him and his charter. It was like something from a movie, he thought, one of those crazy TV mini-things from when the Russians were real.

“Hello, how was the fishing?” the man asked. He had O-3 rank, Oreza saw, and a parachutist’s badge on the left breast pocket. Smiling, just as pleasant and friendly as he could be.

“I bagged one hell of an albacore tuna,” Pete Burroughs said, his pride amplified by the four beers he’d drunk on the way in.

A wider smile. “Ah! Can I see it?”

“Sure!” Burroughs reversed his path and led them back to the dock, where the fish was still hanging head-down from the hoist.

“This is your boat, Captain Oreza?” the soldier asked. Only one other man had followed their captain down. The others stayed behind, watching closely, as though under orders not to be too... something, Portagee thought. He also took note of the fact that this officer had troubled himself to learn his name.

“That’s right, sir. Interested in a little fishing?” he asked with an innocent smile.

“My grandfather was a fisherman,” the
ishii
told them.

Portagee nodded and smiled. “So was mine. Family tradition.”

“Long tradition?”

Oreza nodded as they got to
Springer.
“More than a hundred years.”

“Ah, a fine boat you have. May I look at it?”

“Sure, jump aboard.” Portagee went first and waved him over. The sergeant who’d walked down with his captain, he saw, stayed on the dock with Mr. Burroughs, keeping about six feet away from him. There was a pistol in the man’s holster, a SIG P220, the standard sidearm of the Japanese military. By this time all kinds of alarm were lighting off in Oreza’s brain.

“What does ‘Springer’ denote?”

“It’s a kind of hunting dog.”

“Ah, yes, very good.” The officer looked around. “What sort of radios do you need for a boat like this. Expensive?”

“I’ll show you.” Oreza led him into the salon. “Your people make it, sir, NEC, a standard marine VHF and a backup. Here’s my GPS nav system, depth finder, fish-finder, radar.” He tapped each instrument. They were in fact all Japanese-made, high quality, reasonably priced, and reliable as hell.

“You have guns aboard?”

Click. “Guns? What for?”

“Don’t many islanders own guns?”

“Not that I know of.” Oreza shook his head. “Anyway, I’ve never been attacked by a fish. No, I don’t have any, even at home.”

Clearly the officer was pleased by that news. “Oreza, what sort of name is that?” It sounded native to the Ishii.

“Originally, you mean? Way back, my people come from Portugal.”

“Your family here a long time?”

Oreza nodded. “You bet.” Five years was a long time, wasn’t it? A husband and wife constituted a family, didn’t they?

“The radios, VHF you say, short-range?” The man looked around for other instruments, but clearly there were none.

“Mainly line-of-sight, yes, sir.”

The captain nodded. “Very good. Thank you. Beautiful boat. You take great pride in it, yes?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Thank you for showing me around. You can go now,” the man said finally, not quite knowing how discordant the final sentence was. Oreza escorted him to the dock and watched him leave, rejoining his men without another word.

“What was—”

“Pete, you want to button it for a minute?” The command was delivered in his Master Chief’s voice, and had the desired effect. They walked off to Oreza’s car, letting the others pull away, marching as soldiers did to a precise one hundred twenty paces per minute, the sergeant a step to his captain’s left and half a pace behind, walking exactly in step. By the time the fisherman got to his car it was clear that yet another Toyota Land Cruiser was at the entrance to the marina parking lot, not really doing anything but sitting there, with three men inside, all in uniform.

“Some kind of exercise? War games? What gives?” Burroughs asked once they were in Oreza’s car.

“Beats the shit out of me, Pete.” He started up and headed out of the lot, turning right to go south on Beach Road. In a few minutes they passed by the commercial docks. Portagee took his time, obeying all rules and limits, and blessing his luck that he had the same model car and color the soldiers used.

Or almost. The vehicles off-loading from
Orchid Ace
now were mainly olive-green. A steady cab-rank of airport buses off-loaded people in uniforms of the same color. They appeared to be going to a central point, then dispersing either to the parked military vehicles or to the ship, perhaps to off-load their assigned units.

“What are those big boxy things?”

“It’s called MLRS, Multiple-Launch Rocket System.” There were six of them now, Oreza saw.

“What’s it for?” Burroughs asked.

“Killing people,” Portagee replied tersely. As they drove by the access road to the docks, a soldier waved them on vigorously. More trucks, deuce-and-a-halfs. More soldiers, maybe five or six hundred. Oreza continued south. Every major intersection had a Land Cruiser in place, and no less than three soldiers, some with pistol belts, occasionally one with a slung rifle. It took a few minutes to realize that there wasn’t a single police car in evidence. He turned left onto Wallace Highway.

“My hotel?”

“How about dinner at my place tonight?” Oreza headed up the hill, past the hospital, finally turning left into his development. Though a man of the sea, he preferred a house on high ground. It also afforded a fine view of the southern part of the island. His was a home of modest size with lots of windows. His wife, Isabel, was an administrator at the hospital, and the home was close enough that she could walk to work if the mood suited her. The mood this evening was not a happy one. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, his wife was out the door.

“Manni, what’s going on?” Her ancestry was like his. Short, round, and dark-complected, now her swarthy skin was pale.

“Let’s go inside, okay? Honey, this is Pete Burroughs. We went fishing today.” His voice was calm, but his eyes swept around. The landing lights of four aircraft were visible to the east, lined up a few miles apart, approaching the island’s two large runways. When the three of them were inside, and the doors shut, the talking could start.

“The phones are out. I tried to call Rachel and I got a recording. The overseas lines are down. When I went to the mall—”

“Soldiers?” Portagee asked his wife.

“Lots
of ’em, and they’re all—”

“Japs.” Master Chief Quartermaster Manuel Oreza, United States Coast Guard, retired, completed the thought.

“Hey, that’s not the polite way to—”

“Neither’s an invasion, Mr. Burroughs.”

“What?”

Oreza lifted the kitchen phone and hit the speed-dial button for his daughter’s house in Massachusetts.

“We’re sorry, but a cable problem has temporarily interrupted Trans-Pacific service. Our people are working on the problem. Thank you for your patience—”

“My ass!” Oreza told the recording. “Cable, hell, what about the satellite dishes?”

“Can’t call out?” Burroughs was slow to catch on, but at least this was something he knew about.

“No, doesn’t seem that way.”

“Try this.” The computer engineer reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellular phone.

“I have one,” Isabel said. “It doesn’t work either. I mean it’s fine for local calls, but—”

“What number?”

“Area code 617,” Portagee said, giving the rest of the number.

“Wait, I need the USA prefix.”

“It’s not going to work,” Mrs. Oreza insisted.

“You don’t have satellite phones here yet, eh?” Burroughs smiled. “My company just got us all these things. I can download on my laptop, send faxes with it, all that stuff. Here.” He handed the phone over. “It’s ringing.”

The entire system was new, and the first such phone had not yet been sold in the islands yet, a fact that the Japanese military had troubled itself to learn in the past week, but the service was global, even if the local marketing people hadn’t started selling the things here. The signal from the small device went to one of thirty-five satellites in a low-orbit constellation to the nearest ground station. Manila was the closest, beating Tokyo by a mere thirty miles, though even one mile would have been enough for the executive programming that ran the system. The Luzon ground station had been in operation for only eight weeks, and immediately relayed the call to another satellite, this one a Hughes bird in geosynchronous orbit over the Pacific, back down to a ground station in California, and from there via fiberoptic to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Hello?” the voice said, somewhat crossly, since it was 5:00 A.M. in America’s Eastern Time Zone.

“Rachel?”

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, honey.”

“You okay out there?” his daughter asked urgently.

“What do you mean?”

“I tried to call Mom, but the recording said you had a big storm and the lines were down.”

“There wasn’t any storm, Rach,” Oreza said without much thought on the matter.

“What’s the matter, then?”

Jesus, where do I start?
Portagee asked himself. What if nobody... was that possible?

“Uh, Portagee,” Burroughs said.

“What is it?” Oreza asked.

“What’s what, Daddy?” his daughter asked also, of course.

“Wait a minute, honey. What is it, Pete?” He put his hand over the receiver.

“You mean like, invasion, like war, taking over, all that stuff?”

Portagee nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s what it looks like.”

“Turn the phone off, now!” The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. Nobody had thought any of this through yet, and both were coming to terms with it from different directions and at different speeds.

“Honey, I’ll be back, okay? We’re fine. ’Bye.” Oreza thumbed the CLEAR button. “What’s the problem, Pete?”

“This isn’t some joke, right? You’re not doing a number to mess with my head, tourist games and all that stuff, are you?”

“Jesus, I need a beer.” Oreza opened the refrigerator and took one out. That it was a Japanese brand did not for the moment matter. He tossed one to his guest. “Pete, this ain’t no play-acting, okay? In case you didn’t notice, we seen at least a battalion of troops, mechanized vehicles, fighters. And that asshole on the dock was real interested in the radio on my boat.”

“Okay.” Burroughs opened his beer and took a long pull. “Let’s say this is a no-shitter. You can DF one of those things.”

“Dee-eff? What do you mean?” A pause while he dusted off some long-unused memories. “Oh ... yeah.”

It was busy at the headquarters of Commander-in-Chief Pacific. CINCPAC was a Navy command, a tradition that dated back to Admiral Chester Nimitz. At the moment people were scurrying about. They were almost all in uniform. The civilian employees were rarely in on weekends, and with a few exceptions it was too late for them anyway. Mancuso saw the collective mood as he came through security, people looking down with harried frowns, moving quickly the better to avoid the heavy atmosphere of an office in considerable turmoil. Nobody wanted to be caught in the storm.