pocket. He’d never measured the antenna, but now, extending it, he saw it
was less than four inches in length. Burroughs looked over at Oreza. “You
have a drill?”
“Yeah, why?”
“DP, hell. I got it!”
“You lost me, Pete.”
“We drill a hole in the bottom, put the antenna through it. The bowl’s
made out of steel. It reflects radio waves just like a microwave antenna. Ev-
erything goes up. Hell, it might even make the transmitter more efficient.”
“You mean like, E.T. phone home?”
“Close enough, Cap’n. What if nobody’s phoned home on this one?”
Burroughs was still trying to think it through, coming to terms slowly with a
very frightening situation. “Invasion” meant “war.” War, in this case, was
between America and Japan, and however bizarre that possibility was, it was
also the only explanation for the things he’d seen that day. If it was a war,
then he was an enemy alien. So were his hosts. But he’d seen Oreza do some
very fancy footwork at the marina.
‘ ‘Let me get my drill. How big a hole you need?” Burroughs handed over
the sat-phone. He’d been tempted to toss it through the air, but stopped him-
self on the realization that it was perhaps his most valuable possession.
Oreza checked the diameter of the little button at the end of the slim metal
whip and went for his tool kit.
“Hello?”
“Rachel? It’s Dad.”
“You sure you’re okay? Can I call you guys now?”
“Honey, we’re fine, but there’s a problem here.” How the hell to explain
this? he wondered. Rachel Oreza Chandler was a prosecuting attorney in
Boston, actually looking forward to leaving government service and becom-
ing a criminal lawyer in private practice, where the job satisfaction was
rarer, but the pay and hours were far better. Approaching thirty, she was now
at the stage where she worried about her parents in much the same way
they’d once worried about her. There was no sense in worrying Rachel now,
he decided. “Could you get a phone number for me?”
“Sure, what number?”
“Coast Guard Headquarters. It’s in D.C., at Buzzard’s Point. I want the
watch center. I’ll wait,” he told her.
The attorney put one line on hold and dialed D.C. information. In a minute
she relayed the number, hearing her father repeat it word for word back to
her. “That’s right. You sure things are okay? You sound a little tense.”
“Mom and I are just fine, honest, baby.” She hated it when he called her
that, but it was probably too late to change him. Poppa would just never be
PC.
“Okay, you say so. I hear that storm was really bad. You have electricity
back yet?” she asked, forgetting that there hadn’t been a storm at all.
“Not yet, honey, but soon, probably,” he lied. “Later, baby.”
“Coast Guard Watch Center, Chief Petty Officer Obrecki, this is a nonse-
cure line,” the man said, just as rapidly as possible to prevent the person on
the other end from understanding a single word.
“Are you telling me that that fuzzy-cheeked infant who sailed on Pa-
nache with me made chief?” It was good enough to startle the man at the
other end, and the reply was comprehensible.
“This is Chief Obrecki. Who’s this?”
“Master Chief Oreza,” was the answer.
“Well, how the hell are you, Portagee? I heard you retired.” The chief of
the watch leaned back in his chair. Now that he was a chief himself, he could
refer to the man at the other end by his nickname.
“I’m on Saipan. Okay, kid, listen up: put your watch officer on right
now.”
“What’s the matter, Master Chief?”
“No time, okay? Let’s do it.”
“Fair enough.” Obrecki put the call on hold. “Commander, could you
pick up on one, ma’am?”
“NMCC, this is Rear Admiral Jackson,” Robby said, tired and in a very
foul mood. Only reluctantly did he lift the phone, on the recommendation of
a youngish Air Force major.
“Admiral, this is Lieutenant Commander Powers, Coast Guard, over at
Buzzard’s Point. I have a call on the line from Saipan. The caller is a retired
Command Master Chief. One of ours.”
Damn it, I have a broke carrier division out //«•/<•. his mind"That's nice, Commander. You want to clue me in last? It's Inisy here.""Sir, he reports a whole lot of Japanese troops on the island til Saipan."Jackson's eyes came up off the dispatches on his desk. "What?""I can patch him over now, sir.""Okay," Robby said guardedly."Who's this?" another voice asked, old and gruff. He sounded like achief, Robby thought."I'm Rear Admiral Jackson, in the National Military Command Center."He didn't have to order a tape on the line. They were all taped."Sir, this is Master Chief Quartermaster Manuel Oreza, U.S. CoastGuard, retired, serial number three-two-eight-six-one-four-zero-three-zero.I retired five years ago and moved to Saipan. I operate a fishing boat here.Sir, there are a lot-and I mean a whole goddamned pisspot full-of Japa-nese troops, uniformed and carrying arms, on this-here rock, right now, sir."Jackson adjusted his hand on the phone, gesturing for another officer topick up. "Master Chief, I hope you understand that I find that a little bit hardto believe, okay?""Shit, sir, you oughta see it from my side. I am looking out my windowright now. I can see down on the airport and Kobler Field. I count a total ofsix jumbo-jet aircraft, four at the airport and two at Kobler. I observed a pairof F-I5 Eagle fighters with meatball markings circling over the island a fewhours ago. Question, sir, is there any sort of joint exercise under way at thistime?" the voice asked. It was stone sober, Jackson thought. It sure as hellsounded like a command master chief.The Air Force major listening fifteen feet away was scribbling notes,though an invitation to Jurassic Park would have seemed somewhat morerealistic."We just concluded a joint exercise, but Saipan didn't have anything todo with it.""Sir, then this ain't no fuckin' exercise. There are three car-carrier-typemerchant ships tied alongside the dock up the coast from me. One of 'em'snamed Orchid Ace. I have personally observed military-type vehicles, Ithink MLRS-Mike Lima Romeo Sierra-six of those sitting in the parkinglot at the commercial dock area. Admiral, you check with the Coast Guardand pull my package. I did thirty years in CG blue. I ain't dickin' around, sir.Check for yourself, the phone lines to the rock are out. The story is sup-posedly that we had a big windstorm, took lines down and stuff. Ain't beenno windstorm, Admiral. I was out fishing all day, okay? Check with yourweather pukes to confirm that one, too. There are Japanese troops on thisisland, wearing fatigue uniforms and under arms.""You got a count, Master Chief?"The best confirmation of this insane tale, Robby thought, was the embar-rassed tone of the answer to that question. "No, sir, sorry, I didn't think tocount the airplanes. I'd guess three to six arrivals per hour, over the last sixhours at least, probably more, but that's just a guess, sir. Wait . . . Kobler,one of the birds is moving, like to take off. It's a 747, but I can't make out themarkings.""Wait. If the phones are out, how are you talking to me?" Oreza ex-plained, giving Jackson a conventional number to call back on. "Okay, Mas-ter Chief. I'm going to do some checking here. I'll be back to you in less thanan hour. Fair enough?""Yes, sir, I figure we done our part." The line went dead."Major!" Jackson shouted without looking up. When he did that, he sawthe man was there."Sir, I know he sounded normal and all, but-""But call Andersen Air Force Base right now.""Roger." The young pilot went back to his desk and flipped open hisAutovon directory. Thirty seconds later he looked up and shook his head, acurious look on his face."Is someone telling me," Jackson asked the ceiling, "that a U.S. AirForce base dropped off the net today and nobody noticed?""Admiral, CINCPAC on your STU, sir, it's coded as CRITIC traffic."CRITIC was a classification of priority even higher than FLASH, and not aprefix often used, even by a Theater Commander in Chief. What the hell,Jackson thought. Why not ask?"Admiral Seaton, this is Robby Jackson. Are we at war, sir?"His part in the exercise seemed easy enough, Zhang Han San thought. Justone flight to one place, to talk first with one person, then another, and it hadgone even more easily than he'd expected.Well, he shouldn't have been surprised, he thought, returning to the air-port in the back of the embassy car. Korea would be cut off, certainly for a