Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

fiberglass in an effort to improve things a little bit. The pilot was wearing Ins

normal flight gear plus an inflatable life jacket. It was a concession to regu-

lations about flying over water rather than as anything really useful. The

water fifty feet below was too cold for long survival. Me put the thought

aside as best he could, settled into his seat, and concentrated on the flying

while the gunner in back handled the instruments.

“Still okay, Sandy.” The threat screen was still more black than anything

else as they turned east toward Honshu.

“Koj{ ” lidinul ihcm at (on-milc intervals, two more Comanches were

lieu close lo an I;M radio tower. To his disappointment, the

Americans simply turned away.

” Somebody just set off some mongo jammers to the northeast.

“Good, right on time,” Richter replied. A quick look at the threat screen

showed that he was within minutes of entering a yellow area. He felt the

need to rub his face, but both his hands were busy now. A check of the fuel

gauges showed that his pylon-mounted tanks were about empty. “Punching

off the wings.”

“Roger-that’ll help.”

Richter flipped the safety cover off the jettison switch. It was a late addi-

tion to the Comanche design, but it had finally occurred to someone that if

the chopper was supposed to be stealthy, then it might be a good idea to be

able to eliminate the unstealthy features in flight. Richter slowed the aircraft

briefly and flipped the toggle that ignited explosive bolts, dumping the

wings and their tanks into the Sea of Japan.

“Good separation,” the backseater confirmed. The threat screen changed

as soon as the items were gone. The computer kept careful track of how

stealthy the aircraft was. The Comanche’s nose dipped again, and the air-

craft accelerated back to its cruising speed.

“They’re predictable, aren’t they?” the Japanese controller observed to his

chief subordinate.

“I think you just proved that. Even better, you just proved to them what

we can do.” The two officers traded a look. Both had been worried about the

capabilities of the American Rapier fighter, and now both thought they could

relax about it. A formidable aircraft, and one their Eagle drivers needed to

treat with respect, but not invisible.

“Predictable response,” the American controller said. “And they just

showed us something. Call it ten seconds?”

“Thin, but long enough. It’ll work,” the colonel from Langley said,

reaching for a coffee. “Now, let’s reinforce that idea.” On the main screen,

the F-22S turned back north, and at the edge of the AWACS detection radius.

the F-i5Js did the same, covering the American maneuver like sailboats in a

tacking duel, striving to stay between the American fighters and their price

less £-7675, which the dreadful accidents of a few days before hud made

even more precious.

I umltall was very welcome indeed. Far more agile than the transport had

been the previous night, the Comanehe selected a spot completely devoid of

human habitation and then started Hying down cracks in the mountainous

ground, shielded from the distant air-surveillance aircraft by solid rock that

even their powerful systems could not penetrate.

“Feet dry,” Richter’s backseater said gratefully. “Forty minutes of fuel

remaining.”

‘ ‘You good at flapping your arms?” the pilot inquired, also relaxed, just a

little, to be over dry land. If something went wrong, well, eating rice wasn’t

all that bad, was it? His helmet display showed the ground in green shadows,

and there were no lights about from streetlights or cars or houses, and the

worst part of the flight in was over. The actual mission was something he’d

managed to set aside. He preferred to worry about only one thing at a time.

You lived longer that way.

The final ridgeline appeared just as programmed. Richter slowed the air-

craft, circling to figure out the winds as he looked down for the people he’d

been briefed to expect. There. Somebody tossed out a green chem-light, and

in his low-light vision systems it looked as bright as a full moon.

“ZORRO Lead calling ZORRO Base, over.”

“Lead, this is Base. Authentication Golf Mike Zulu, over,” the voice re-

plied, giving the okay-code he’d been briefed to expect. Richter hoped the

voice didn’t have a gun to its head.

“Copy. Out.” He spiraled down quickly, flaring his Comanehe and set-

tling on what appeared to be an almost-flat spot close to the treeline. As soon

as the aircraft touched down, three men appeared from the trees. They were

dressed like U.S. Army soldiers, and Richter allowed himself a chance to

breathe as he cooled off the engines prior to shutdown. The rotor had not yet

completed its final revolution before a hose came out to the aircraft’s fuel

connection.

“Welcome to Japan. I’m Captain Checa.”

“Sandy Richter,” the pilot said, climbing out.

“Any problems coming in?”

“Not anymore.” Hell, I got here, didn’t I? he wanted to say, still tense

from the three-hour marathon to invade the country. Invade? Eleven Rang-

ers and six aviators. Hey, he thought, you’re all under arrest!

“There’s number two …” Checa observed. “Quiet babies, aren’t they?”

“We don’t want to advertise, sir.” It was perhaps the most surprising as-

pect of the Comanehe. The Sikorsky engineers had long known that most of

the noise generated by a helicopter came from the tail rotor’s conflict with

the main. The one on the RAH-66 was shrouded, and the main rotor had five

fairly thick composite blades, resulting in a helicopter with less than a third

of the acoustical signature of any other rotary-wing aircraft yet built. And

the area wouldn’t hurt, Richter thought, looking around. All the trees, the

thin mountain air. Not a bad place for the mission, he concluded as the sec-

ond Comanche settled down on its landing pad, fitly meters away. The men

who had fueled his aircraft were already stringing camouflage netting over

il, using poles cut from the pine forest.

“Come on, let’s gel some food in you.”

“Real food or MRHs?” the chief warrant officer asked.

” You can’t have everything, Mr. Richter,” Checa told him.

The aviator remembered when Army C-Rations had also included ciga-

lettes. No longer, what with the new healthy Army, and there wasn’t much