Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

heads, and we have more missiles at Yoshinobu.”

“If we attempt that, you know what the Americans will do, you fool!”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

“You told us that they could not repair the damage you did to their finan-

cial systems. You told us that our air defenses were invincible. You told us

that they could never strike back at us effectively.” Murakami paused for a

breath. “You told us all these things-and you were wrong. Now I am the

last one to whom you may speak, and I am not listening. You tell Goto to

make peace!”

“They’ll never take these islands back. Never! They do not have the abil-

ity.”

“Say what you please, Raizo-chan. For my part it is over.”

“Find a good place to hide then!” Yamata would have slammed the

phone down, but a portable didn’t offer that option. “Murderers,” he mut-

tered. It had taken most of the morning to assemble the necessary informa-

tion. Somehow the Americans had struck at his own council of zaibatsu.

How? Nobody knew. Somehow they’d penetrated the defenses that every

consultant had told him were invincible, even to the point of destroying the

intercontinental missiles. “How?” he asked.

“It would seem that we underestimated the quality of their remaining air

forces,” General Arima replied with a shrug.’ ‘It is not the end. We still have

options.”

‘ ‘Oh?” Not everyone was giving up, then?

“They will not wish to invade these islands. Their ability to perform a

proper invasion is severely compromised by their lack of amphibious-

assault ships, and even if they managed to put people on the island-to fight

amidst so many of their own citizens? No.” Arima shook his head. “They

will not risk it. They will seek a negotiated peace. There is still a chance-if

not lor complete success, then for a negotiated peace that leaves our forces

largely intact.”

Yamata accepted that for what it was, looking out the windows at the is-

land that he wanted to be his. The elections, he thought, could still be won. It

was the political will of the Americans that needed attacking, and he still had

the ability to do that.

It didn’t take long to turn the 747 around, but the surprise to Captain Sato

was that the aircraft was half full for the flight back to Narita. Thirty minutes

after lift-off, a stewardess reported to him by phone that of the eleven people

she’d asked, all but two had said that they had pressing business that re-

quired their presence at home. What pressing business might that be? he

wondered, with his country’s international trade for the most part reduced to

ships traveling between Japan and China.

“This is not turning out well,” his copilot observed an hour out. “Look

down there.”

It was easy to spot ships from thirty thousand feet, and of late they’d taken

to carrying binoculars to identify surface ships. Sato lifted his pair and spot-

ted the distinctive shapes of Aegis destroyers still heading north. On a whim

he reached down to flip his radio to a different guard frequency.

“JAL 747 calling Mutsu, over.”

“Who is this?” a voice instantly replied. “Clear this frequency at once!”

“This is Captain Torajiro Sato. Call your fleet commander!” he ordered

with his own command voice. It took a minute.

“Brother, you shouldn’t be doing this,” Yusuo chided. Radio silence was as

much a formality as a real military necessity. He knew that the Americans

had reconnaissance satellites, and besides, his group’s SPY radars were all

up and radiating. If American snooper aircraft were about, they’d know

where his squadron was. It was something he would have considered with

confidence a week before, but not now.

‘ ‘I merely wanted to express our confidence in you and your men. Use us

for a practice target,” he added.

In Mutsu’s CIC, the missile techs were already doing exactly that, but it

wouldn’t do to say so, the Admiral knew. “Good to hear your voice again.

Now you must excuse me. I have work to do here.”

“Understood, Yusuo. Out.” Sato took his finger off the radio switch.

“See,” he said over the intercom. “They’re doing their job and we have to

do ours.”

The copilot wasn’t so sure, but Sato was the captain of the 747, and he

kcpl his pence, concentrating on navigational tasks. Like most Japanese he’d

IXTII raised lo lliink of war as something to be avoided as assiduously as

plague. The overnight development of a conflict with America, well, it had

felt good for a day or so to teach the arrogant gaijin a lesson, but that was

fantasy talking, and this was increasingly real. Then the double-barreled

notification that his country had fielded nuclear arms-that was madness

enough-only immediately to be followed by the American claim that the

weapons had been destroyed. This was an American aircraft, after all, a Boe-

ing 747-4OOPIP, five years old but state-of-the-art in every respect, reliable

and steady. There was little America had to learn about the building of air-

craft, and if this one was as good as he knew it to be, then how much more

formidable still were their military aircraft? The aircraft his country’s Air

Force flew were copies of American designs-except for the AEW 7675

he’d heard so much about, first about how invincible they were, and more

recently about how there were only a few left. This madness had to stop.

Didn’t everyone see that? Some must, he thought, else why was his airliner

half full of people who didn’t want to be on Saipan despite their earlier en-

thusiasm?

But his captain did not see that at all, did he? the copilot asked himself.

Torajiro Sato was sitting there, fixed as stone in the left seat, as though all

were normal when plainly it was not.

All he had to do was look down in the afternoon sunlight to see those

destroyers-doing what? They were guarding their country’s coast against

the possibility of attack. Was that normal?

“Conn, Sonar.”

“Conn, aye.” Claggclt had the conn for the afternoon watch. He wanted

the crew to see him at work, and more than that, wanted to keep the feel for

conning his boat.

“Possible multiple contacts lo the south,” the sonar chief reported.

“Bearing one-seven-one. Look like surface ships at high speed, sir, getting

pounding and a very high blade rale.”

That was about right, the CO thought, heading for the sonar room again.

He was about to order a track to be plotted, but when he turned to do so, he

saw two quartermasters already setting it up, and the ray-path analyzer print-

ing its first cut on the range. His crew was fully drilled in now, and things

just happened automatically, but belter. They were thinking as well as act-

ing.

” Best guess, they’re a ways off, but look at all this,” the chief said. It was

clearly a real contact. Data was appearing on four different frequency lines.

Then the chief held up his phones. “Sounds like a whole bunch of screws

turning-a lot of racing and cavitation, has to be multiple ships, traveling in

column.”

“And our other friend?” Claggett asked.

“The sub? He’s gone quiet again, probably just tooling along on batteries

at five or less.” That contact was a good twenty miles off, just beyond the

usual detection range.

“Sir, initial range cut on the new contacts is a hundred-plus-thousand

yards, CZ contact,” another tech reported.

“Bearing is constant. Not a wiggle. They heading straight for us or close

to it. They pounding hard. What are surface conditions like, sir?”

“Waves eight to ten feet, Chief.” A hundred thousand yards plus. More

than fifty nautical miles, Claggett thought. Those ships were driving hard.

Right to him, but he wasn’t supposed to shoot. Damn. He took the required

three steps back into control. “Right ten-degrees rudder, come to new

course two-seven-zero.

Tennessee came about to a westerly heading, the better to give her sonar

operators a range for the approaching destroyers. His last piece of opera-

tional intelligence had predicted this, and the timing of the information was

as accurate as it was unwelcome.

In a more dramatic setting, in front of cameras, the atmosphere might have

been different, but although the setting was dramatic in a distant sense, right

now it was merely cold and miserable. Though these men were the most elite

of troops, it was far easier to rouse yourself for combat against a person than

against unremitting environmental discomfort. The Rangers, in their mainly

white camouflage overclothing, moved about as little as possible, and the

lack of physical activity merely made them more vulnerable to the cold and

to boredom, the soldier’s deadliest enemy. And yet that was good, Captain

Checa thought. For a single squad of soldiers four thousand miles from the

nearest U.S. Army base-and that base was Fort Wainwright in Alaska-it

was a hell of a lot safer to be bored than to be excited by the stimulus of a