posed was now, technically speaking, legal, so long as Congress agreed. It
was a hell of a way to run a railroad, but democracies were like that.
1 ‘Then the /’s are dotted,” Trent observed. Fellows concurred with a nod:
‘ ‘And the f’s are crossed.” Both congressmen watched their host lift a phone
and punch a speed-dial button.
“This is Ryan. Get things moving.”
The first move was electronic. Over the outraged protests of CINCPAC,
three TV crews set up their cameras on the edge of the side-by-side dry
docks now containing Enterprise and John Stennis.
“We’re not allowed to show you the damage to the ships’ sterns, but in-
lormed sources tell us that it’s even worse than it appears to be,” the report-
i-rs all said, with only minor changes. When the live reports were done, the
cameras were moved and more shots made of the carriers, then still more
from the other side of the harbor. They were just backgrounders, like file
I’ootage, and showed the ships and the yards without any reporters standing
in the way. These tapes were turned over to someone else and digitalized for
lurther use.
“Those are two sick ships,” Oreza observed tersely. Each one represented
more than the aggregate tonnage of the entire U.S. Coast Guard, and the
Navy, clever people that they were, had let both of them take a shot in the
ass. The retired master chief felt his blood pressure increase.
“How long to get them well?” Burroughs asked.
“Months. Long time. Six months . . . puts us into typhoon season,” Por-
tagee realized to his further discomfort. It got worse with additional consid-
eration. He didn’t exactly relish the idea of being on an island assaulted by
Marines, either. Here he was, on high ground, within sight of a surface-to-air
missile battery that was sure to draw fire. Maybe selling out for a million
bucks wasn’t so bad an idea after all. With that sort of money he could buy
another boat, another house, and do his fishing out of the Florida Keys.
” You know, you can fly out of here if you want.”
“Oh, what’s the hurry?”
Election posters were already being printed and posted. The public access
channel on the island’s cable system updated notices every lew hours about
the plans for Saipan. If anything, the island was even more relaxed now.
Japanese tourists were unusually polite, and lor the most part the soldiers
were unarmed now. Military vehicles were being used for roadwork. Sol-
diers were visiting schools for friendly introductions. Two new baseball
fields had been created, virtually overnight, and a new league started up.
There was talk that a couple of Japanese major-league teams would com-
mence spring training on Saipan, for which a stadium would have to be con-
structed, and maybe, it was whispered now, Saipan would have its own
team. Which made sense, Oreza supposed. The island was closer to Tokyo
than Kansas City was to New York. It wasn’t that the residents were happy
with the occupation. It was just that they did not see any salvation, and so
like most people in such a spot they learned to live with it. The Japanese
were going far out of their way to make it as comfortable a process as possi-
ble.
For the first week there had been daily protests. But the Japanese com-
mander, General Arima, had come out to meet every such group, TV cam-
eras all around, and invited the leaders into his office for a chat, often
televised live. Then came the more sophisticated responses. Government
civilians and businessmen held a lengthy press conference, documenting
how much money they had invested in the island, showing in graphic form
the difference they’d made for the local economy, and promising to do more.
It wasn’t so much that they had eliminated resentment as shown tolerance of
it, promising at every turn to abide by the results of the elections soon to be
held. We live here, too, they kept saying. We live here, too.
There had to be hope. Two weeks tomorrow, Oreza thought, and all they
heard were reports on goddamned negotiations. Since when had America
ever negotiated something like this? Maybe that was it. Maybe it was just his
country’s obvious sign of weakness that gave him a sense of hopelessness.
Nobody was fighting back. Tell us that the government is doing something,
he wanted to say to the Admiral at the other end of the satellite phone.. ..
“Well, what the hell.” Oreza walked into the living room, put the batte-
ries back in the phone, slid the antenna into the bottom of the mixing bowl,
and dialed the number.
“Admiral Jackson,” he heard.
“Oreza here.”
“Anything new to report?”
“Yeah, Admiral. How the elections are going to go.”
“I don’t understand, Master Chief.”
‘ ‘I see CNN telling us we got two carriers with their legs cut off and peo-
ple saying we can’t do shit, sir. Jesus, Admiral, even when the Argentineans
took the goddamned Falklands the Brits said they were coming back. I ain’t
hearing that. What the hell are we supposed to think?”
Jackson weighed his reply for a few seconds. “I don’t need to tell you the
rules on talking about operational stuff. Your job’s to give me information,
remember?”
“All we keep hearing is how they’re going to hold elections, okay? The
missile site east of us is camouflaged now-”
“I know that. And the search radar on top of Mount Takpochao is operat-
ing, and there’s about forty lighter aircraft based at the airport and Kobler.
We count sixty more at Andersen on Guam. There are eight ‘cans cruising
oast of you, and an oiler group approaching them for an unrep. Anything else
you want to know?” Even if Oreza was “compromised,” a polite term for
being under arrest, which Jackson doubted, this was nothing secret. Everyone
knew America had reconnaissance satellites. On the other hand, Oreza
needed to know that Jackson was up-to-date and, more importantly, inter-
ested. He was slightly ashamed of what he had to say next. ‘ ‘Master Chief, I
e x pected better from a guy like you.” The reply made him feel better, though.
”That’s what I needed to hear, Admiral.”
” Anything new happens, you tell us about it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Jackson broke the connection and lifted a recently arrived report onJohn-
nic Reb.
“Soon, Master Chief,” he whispered. Then it was time to meet with the
people from MacDill Air Force Base, who were, perversely, all wearing
Army green. He didn’t know that they would remind him of something he’d
seen a few months earlier.
The men all had to be Spanish speakers, and look Spanish. Fortunately that
wasn’t hard. A documents expert flew from Langley to Fort Stewart,
(ieorgia, complete with all the gear he needed, including ten blank passports,
l-or purposes of simplicity, they’d use their real names. First Sergeant Julio
Vega sat down in front of the camera, wearing his best suit.
“Don’t smile,” the CIA technician told him. “Europeans don’t smile for
passports.”
“Yes, sir.” His service nickname was Oso, “bear,” but only his peers
called him that now. To the rest of the Rangers in Foxtrot Company, Second
Battalion, 175th Ranger Regiment, his only name was ‘ ‘First Sergeant,” and
they knew him as an experienced NCO who would back up his captain on
the mission for which he’d just volunteered.
“You need better clothes, too.”
“Who’s buyin’?” Vega asked, grinning now, though the picture would
show the dour face he usually reserved for soldiers who failed to meet his
standards of behavior. That would not be the case here, he thought. Kighl
men, all jump-qualified (as all Rangers were), all people who’d seen combat
action in one place or another-and unusually for members of the 1751)1, all
men who hadn’t shaved their heads down to stubbly Mohawks. Vega re-
membered another group like this one, and his grin stopped. Not all of them
had come out of Colombia alive.
Spanish speakers, he thought as he left the room. Spanish was probably
the language ID the Marianas. Like most senior Army noncommissioned of-
ficers, he had gotten his bachelor’s degree in night school, having majored in
military history-it had just seemed the right thing to do for one of his pro-
fession, and besides, the Army had paid for it. If Spanish were the language
on those rocks, then it gave him an additional reason to think in positive
terms about the mission. The name of the operation, which he’d overheard in
a brief conversation with Captain Diego Checa, also seemed auspicious. It
was called Operation ZORRO, which had amused the Captain enough to
allow him to confide in his first sergeant. The “real” Zorro had been named
Don Diego, hadn’t he? He had forgotten the bandit’s surname, but his senior
NCO had not. With a name like Vega, how can I turn down a mission like