Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

“It’s a risk, but sometimes you go with what the guy in the field says. If

we want a political resolution for this situation, well, then we have to have a

i.tine political figure to lean on. We need the guy, and this might be our only

way to get him out alive.” The National Security Advisor could hear the

grilled teeth on the other end of the STU-6 circuit. Both the Foleys were true

in form. More importantly, they were in agreement.

“I’ll be back to you in twenty minutes.” Ryan switched over to his regu-

lar phone. “I need to see the Boss right now,” he told the President’s execu-

tive secretary.

The sun was rising for yet another hot, windless day. Admiral Dubro real-

i/ed that he was losing weight. The waistband on his khaki trousers was

looser than usual, and he had to reef in his belt a little more. His two carriers

were now in regular contact with the Indians. Sometimes they came close

enough for a visual, though more often some Harrier’s look-down radar just

look a snapshot from fifty or so miles away. Worse, his orders were to let

i hem see his ships. Why the hell wasn’t he heading east for the Straits of

Malacca? There was a real war to fight. He’d come to regard the possible

Indian invasion of Sri Lanka as a personal insult, but Sri Lanka wasn’t U.S.

territory, and the Marianas were, and his were the only carriers Dave Seaton

had.

Okay, so the approach wouldn’t exactly be covert. He had to pass through

one of several straits to reenter the Pacific Ocean, all of them about as busy

as Times Square at noon. There was even the off-chance of a sub there, hut

he had ASW ships, and he could pounce on any submarine that tried lo Inn

der his passage. But his orders were to remain in the IO, and to be .VIT/I doing

so.

The word was out among the crew, of course. He hadn’t made even u

token effort to keep things quiet. It would never have worked in any case.

f

uiul his people hml a right to know what was going on, in anticipation of

entering the fray. They needed to know, to get their backs up, to generate an

extra determination before shifting from a peacetime mentality to that of a

shooting war-but once you were ready, you had to do it. And they weren’t.

The result was the same for him as for every other man or woman in the

battle force: searing frustration, short temper, and a building rage. The day

before, one of his Tomcat drivers had blown between two Indian Harriers,

with perhaps ten feet of separation, just to show them who knew how to fly

and who didn’t, and while that had probably put the fear of God into the

visitors, it wasn’t terribly professional . . . even though Mike Dubro could

remember what it was like to be a lieutenant, junior grade, and could also

imagine himself doing the same thing. That hadn’t made the personal dress-

ing-down any easier. He’d had to do it, and had also known afterward that

the flight crew in question would go back to their quarters muttering about

the dumb old fart on the flag bridge who didn’t know what it was like to

drive fighter planes, ’cause the Spads he’d grown up with had probably used

windup keys to get off the boat. ..

“If they take the first shot, we’re going to get hurt,” Commander Ham-

son observed after announcing that their dawn patrol had shown up right on

schedule.

“If they put an Exocet into us, we’ll pipe ‘Sweepers, man your brooms,’

Ed.” It was a lame attempt at humor, but Dubro didn’t feel very humorous at

the moment.

‘ ‘Not if they get lucky and catch a JP bunker.” Now his operations officer

was turning pessimistic. Not good, the battle-force commander thought.

“Show ’em we care,” Dubro ordered.

A few moments later the screening ships lit off their fire-control radars

and locked on to the Indian intruders. Through his binoculars Dubro could

see that the nearest Aegis cruiser had white missiles sitting in her launch

rails, and then they trained out, as did the target-illumination radars. The

message was clear: Keep away.

He could have ordered another wrathful dispatch to Pearl Harbor, but

Dave Seaton had enough on his plate, and the real decisions were being

made in Washington by people who didn’t understand the problem.

“Is it worth doing?”

“Yes, sir,” Ryan replied, having come to his own conclusion on the walk

to the President’s office. It meant putting two friends at additional risk, but

that was their job, and making the decision was his-partly anyway. It was

easy to say such things, even knowing that because of them he’d sleep badly

if at all. “The reasons are obvious.”

“And if it fails?”

‘ ‘Two of our people are in grave danger, but-”

“But that’s what they’re lor’.'” Durling asked, not entirely kindly.

“They’re both friends of mine, Mr. President. If you Ihink I like the idea

of-”

“Settle down,” the President said. “We have a lot of people ;K risk, and

you know what? Not knowing who they are makes it harder instead of easier.

I’ve learned that one the hard way.” Roger Durling looked down at his desk,

at all the administrative briefing papers and other matters thai didn’t have

the first connection to the crisis in the Pacific but had to be handled nonethe-

less. The government of the United States of America was a huge business,

and he couldn’t ignore any of it, no matter how important some area might

have suddenly become. Did Ryan understand that?

Jack saw the papers, too. He didn’t have to know what they were, exactly.

None had classified cover sheets on them. They were the ordinary day-to-

day crap that the man had to deal with. The Boss had to time-share his brain

with so many tasks. It hardly seemed fair, especially for someone who

hadn’t exactly gone looking for the job. But that was destiny at work, and

Durling had voluntarily undertaken the Vice President’s office because his

character required service to others, as, indeed, did Ryan’s. They really were

two of a kind, Jack thought.

‘ ‘Mr. President, I’m sorry I said that. Yes, sir, I have considered the risks,

but also, yes, that is their job. Moreover, it’s John’s recommendation. His

idea, I mean. He’s a good field officer, and he knows both the risks and the

potential rewards. Mary Pat and Ed agree, and also recommend a Go on this

one. The decision necessarily is yours to make, but those are the recommen-

dations.”

“Are we grasping at straws?” Durling wanted to know.

“Not a straw, sir. Potentially a very strong branch.”

“I hope they’re careful about it.”

“Oh, this is just great,” Chavez observed. The Russian PSM automatic pis-

tol was of .215 caliber, smaller in diameter even than the .22 rimfire that

American kids-at least the politically incorrect ones-learned to shoot at

Boy Scout camps. It was also the standard sidearm of the Russian military

and police forces, which perhaps explained why the Russian criminal ele-

ment had such contempt for the local cops.

“Well, we do have our secret weapon out in the car,” Clark said, helling

the gun in his hand. At least the silencer improved its balance some what, ll

was renewed proof of something he’d thought for years. Europeans didn’t

know beans about handguns.

“We’re going to need it, too.” The Russian Embassy did have a pistol

range for its security officers. Chavez clipped a target to the rack and

cranked it downrange.

“Take the suppressor off,” John said.

“Why?” Ding asked.

“Look al it.” Chavez did, and saw that the Russian version was filled

with steel wool. “It’s only good for five or six shots.”

The range did have ear protectors, at least. Clark filled a magazine with

eight of the bottle-necked rounds, pointed downrange, and fired off three

shots. The gun was quite noisy, its high-powered cartridge driving a tiny

bullet at warp speed. He longed for a suppressed .22 automatic. Well, at least

it was accurate.

Scherenko watched in silence, angered at the Americans’ distaste for his

country’s weapons and embarrassed because they might well be right. He’d

learned to shoot years before, and hadn’t shown much aptitude for it. It was a

skill rarely used by an intelligence officer, Hollywood movies notwithstand-

ing. But it was clearly not true of the Americans, both of whom were hitting

the bull’s-eye, five meters away, firing pairs of shots called “double-taps”

in the business. Finished, Clark cleared his weapon, reloaded a magazine,

and took another, which he filled and slid into a back pocket. Chavez did the

same.

“If you ever come to Washington,” Ding observed, “we’ll show you

what we use.”