Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

concluded her search for survivors, mainly out of fear of lingering Japanese

submarines out there, but for all the world looking as though she’d been

chased off the site by a Coast Guard cutter. The intelligence they did have

was based on satellite information because it hadn’t been thought prudent

even to send a P-3C out to shadow the surface force, much less prosecute the

submarine contacts. “First out of harm’s way, eh?”

Mancuso decided not to get angry this time. He was a flag officer and paid

to think like one. “One thing at a time. Our most important assets at risk are

Ihose two carriers. We have to get ’em in, and we have to get ’em fixed.

Wally is planning operations right now. We have to gather intelligence,

think it over, and then decide what we can do.”

“And then see if he’ll let us?”

Mancuso nodded. “That’s how the system works.”

“Great.”

The dawn was pleasing indeed. Sitting on the upper deck of the 747, Yamata

had taken a window seat on the portside, looking out the window and ignor-

ing the buzz of conversation around him. He had scarcely slept in three days

and still the rush of power and elation filled him like a flood. This was the

last prescheduled flight in. Mainly administrative personnel, along with

some engineers and civilians who would start to put the new government in

place. The bureaucrats with that task had been fairly clever in their way. Of

course, everyone on Saipan would have a vote, and the elections would be

subject to international scrutiny, a political necessity. There were about

twenty-nine thousand local citizens, but that didn’t count Japanese, many of

whom now owned land, homes, and business enterprises. Nor did it count

soldiers, and others staying in hotels. The hotels-the largest were Japanese-

owned, of course-would be considered condominiums, and all those in the

condo units, residents. As Japanese citizens they each had a vote. The sol-

diers were citizens as well, and also had the franchise, and since their garri-

son status was indeterminate, they were also considered residents. Between

the soldiers and the civilians, there were thirty-one thousand Japanese on the

island, and when elections were held, well, his countrymen were assiduous

in making use of their civil rights, weren’t they? International scrutiny, he

thought, staring out to the east, be damned.

It was especially pleasing to watch from thirty-seven thousand feet the

first muted glow on the horizon, which seemed much like a garnish for a

bouquet of still-visible stars. The glow brightened and expanded, from pur-

pie to deep red, to pink, to orange, and then the first sliver of the face of the

sun, not yet visible on the black sea below, and it was as though the sunrise

were for him alone, Yamata thought, long before the lower people got to

enjoy and savor it. The aircraft turned slightly to the right, beginning its de-

scent. The downward path through the early-morning air was perfectly

timed, seeming to hold the sun in place all the way down, just the yellow-

white sliver, preserving the magical moment for several minutes. The sheer

glory moved Yamata nearly to tears. He still remembered the faces of his

parents, their modest home on Saipan. His father had been a minor and not

terribly prosperous merchant, mainly selling trinkets and notions to the sol-

diers who garrisoned the island. His father had always been very polite to

them, Raizo remembered, smiling, bowing, accepting their rough jokes

about his polio-shriveled leg. The boy who had watched thought it normal to

be deferential to men carrying arms, wearing his nation’s uniform. He’d

learned different since, of course. They were merely servants. Whether they

carried on the samurai tradition or not-the very word samurai was a deriva-

tion of the verb “to serve,” he reminded himself, clearly implying a master,

no?-it was they who looked after and protected their betters, and it was

their betters who hired them and paid them and told them what to do. It was

necessary to treat them with greater respect than they really deserved, but the

odd thing was that the higher they went in rank, the better they understood

what their place really was.

“We will touch down in five minutes,” a colonel told him.

‘ ‘Dozo.” A nod rather than a bow, because he was sitting down, but even

so the nod was a measured one, precisely of the sort to acknowledge the

service of an underling, showing him both politeness and superiority in the

same pleasant gesture. In time, if this colonel was a good one and gained

general’s rank, then the nod would change, and if he proceeded further, then

someday, if he were lucky, Yamata-san might call his given name in friend-

ship, single him out for a smile and a joke, invite him for a drink, and in his

advancement to high command, learn who the master really was. The Colo-

nel probably looked forward to achieving that goal. Yamata buckled his seat

belt and smoothed his hair.

Captain Sato was exhausted. He’d just spent far too much time in the air,

not merely breaking but shredding the crew-rest rules of his airline, but he,

too, could not turn away from his duty. He looked off to the left and saw in

the morning sky the blinking strokes of two fighters, probably F-I5S, one of

them, perhaps, flown by his son, circling to protect the soil of what was once

again their country. Gently, he told himself. There were soldiers of his coun-

try under his care, and they deserved the best. One hand on the throttles, the

other on the wheel, he guided the Boeing airliner down an invisible line in

the air toward a point his eyes had already selected. On his command to the

copilot, the huge flaps went down all the way. Sato eased back on the yoke,

bringing up the nose and daring the aircraft, lolling u solilc, lloaliiifj it in

until only the screech of rubber told them that they were on the ground.

“You are a poet,” the copilot said, once more impressed by the man’s

skill.

Sato allowed himself a smile as he engaged reverse-thrust. ” You taxi in.”

Then he keyed the cabin intercom.

“Welcome to Japan,” he told the passengers.

Yamata didn’t shout only because the remark surprised him so. He didn’t

wait for the aircraft to stop before he unbuckled. The door to the flight deck

was right there, and he had to say something.

“Captain?”

“Yes, Yamata-san?”

“You understand, don’t you?”

His nod was that of a proud professional, and in that moment one very

much akin to the zaibatsu. ‘ ‘Hai.” His reward was a bow of the finest sincer-

ity, and it warmed the pilot’s heart to see Yamata-san’s respect.

The businessman was not in a hurry, not now. The bureaucrats and ad-

ministrative soldiers worked their way off the aircraft into waiting buses

that would take them to the Hotel Nikko Saipan, a large modern establish-

ment located in the center of the island’s west coast, which would be the

temporary administrative headquarters for the occupa- for the new gov-

ernment, Yamata corrected himself. It took five minutes for all of them to

deplane, after which he made his own way off to another Toyota Land

Cruiser whose driver, this time, was one of his employees who knew what

to do without being told, and knew that this was a moment for Yamata to

savor in silence.

He scarcely noticed the activity. Though he’d caused it to happen, it was

less important than its anticipation had been. Oh, perhaps a brief smile at the

sight of the military vehicles, but the fatigue was real now, and his eyes

drooped despite an iron will that commanded them to be bright and wide.

The driver had planned the route with care, and managed to avoid the major

tieups. Soon they passed the Marianas Country Club again, and though the

sun was up, there were no golfers in evidence. There was no military pres-

ence either except for two satellite uplink trucks on the edge of the parking

lot, newly painted green after having been appropriated from NHK. No, we

mustn’t harm the golf course, now without a doubt the most expensive single

piece of real estate on the island.

It was right about here, Yamata thought, remembering the shape of the

hills. His father’s rude little store had been close to the north airfield, and he

could remember the A6M Type-Zero fighters, the strutting aviators, and the

often overbearing soldiers. Over there had been the sugarcane processing

plant of Nanyo Kohatsu Kaisha, and he could remember stealing small bits

of the cane and chewing on them. And how fair the breezy mornings had

been. Soon they were on his land. Yamata shook off the cobwebs by force of

will and stepped out of the car, walking north now.