Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

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 //«•/