Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

now-defunct Strategic Air Command had based nuclear bombers here. The

U.S. Navy had maintained a base for missile submarines, and the security

obtaining to both would have made anything like this mission a folly. But

the nuclear weapons were all gone-the missiles were, anyway. Now And-

ersen Air Force base, two miles north of Yigo, was really little more than a

commercial airport. It supported trans-Pacific flights by the American Air

Force. No aircraft were actually based there any longer except for a single

executive jet used by the base commander, itself a leftover from when 13th

Air Force had been headquartered on the island. Tanker aircraft that had

once been permanently based on Guam were now transient reserve forma-

tions that came and went as required. The base commander was a colonel

who would soon retire, and he had under him only five hundred men and

women, mostly technicians. There were only fifty armed USAF Security Po-

lice. It was much the same story at the Navy base whose airfield was now

co-located with the Air Force. The Marines who had once maintained secu-

rity there because of the nuclear weapons stockpile had been replaced by

civilian guards, and the harbor was empty of gray hulls. Still, this was the

most sensitive part of the overall mission. The airstrips at Andersen would

be crucial to the entire operation.

“Pretty ships,” Sanchez thought aloud, looking through his binoculars from

his chair in Pri-Fly. “Nice tight interval on the formation, too.” The four

Kongos were on a precise reciprocal heading, about eight miles out, the

CAG noted.

“They have the rails lined?” the Air Boss asked. There seemed to be a

white line down the sides of all four of the inbound destroyers.

“Rendering honors, yeah, that’s nice of them.” Sanchez lifted the phone

and punched the button for the navigation bridge. “Skipper? CAG here. It

seems that our friends are going formal on us.”

“Thanks, Bud.” The Commanding Officer ofJohnnie Reb made a call to

the battle-group commander on Enterprise.

“What?” Ryan said, answering the phone.

“Takeoff in two and a half hours,” the President’s secretary told him.

“Be ready to leave in ninety minutes.”

“Wall Street?”

“That’s right, Dr. Ryan. He thinks we need to be home a little early.

We’ve informed the Russians. President Grushavoy understands.”

“Okay, thanks,” Ryan said, not really meaning it. He’d hoped to scoot

out to see Narmonov for an hour or so. Then the real fun part came. He

reached over and shook his wife awake.

A groan: “Don’t even say it.”

“You can sleep the rest of it off on the airplane. We have to be packed and

ready in an hour and a half.”

“What? Why?”

“Leaving early,” Jack told her. “Trouble at home. Wall Street had an-

other meltdown.”

“Bad?” Cathy opened her eyes, rubbing her forehead and thankful it was

still dark outside until she looked at the clock.

‘ ‘Probably a bad case of indigestion.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to get ready to leave.”

“We need maneuvering room,” Commander Harrison said.

“No dummy is he?” Admiral Dubro asked rhetorically. The opposition,

Admiral Chandraskatta, had turned west the night before, probably catch-

ing on, finally, that the Elsenhower/Lincoln battle force was not where

he’d suspected after all. That clearly left a single alternative, and therefore

he’d headed west, forcing the Americans against the island chain that India

mostly owned. Half of the U.S. Navy’s Seventh Fleet was a powerful col-

lection of ships, but their power would be halved again if their location be-

came known. The whole point of Dubro’s operations to this point had been

to keep the other guy guessing. Well, he’d made his guess. Not a bad one,

either.

“What’s our fuel state?” Dubro asked, meaning that of his escort ships.

The carriers could steam until the food ran out. Their nuclear fuel would not

do so for years.

“Everybody’s up to ninety percent. Weather’s good for the next two days.

We can do a speed run if we have to.”

“You thinking the same thing I am?”

“He’s not letting his aircraft get too close to the Sri Lankan coast. They

might show on air-traffic-control radars and people might ask questions. If

we head northeast, then east, we can race past Dondra Head at night and curl

back around south. Even money nobody sees us.”

The Admiral didn’t like even-money odds. That meant it was just as likely

somebody would see the formation, and the Indian Fleet could then turn

northeast, forcing either a further move by the Americans away from the

coast they might or might not be protecting-or a confrontation. You could

play this sort of game only so long, Dubro thought, before somebody asked

to see the cards.

“Get us through today without being spotted?”

That one was obvious, too. The formation would send aircraft at the Indi-

ans directly from the south, hopefully pulling them south. Harrison pre-

sented the scheme for the coming day’s air operations.

“Make it so.”

Eight bells rang over the ship’s i-MC intercom system. 1600 hours. The

afternoon watch was relieved and replaced with the evening watch. Officers

and men, and, now, women, moved about to and from their duty stations.

Johnnie Reb’s air wing was standing down, mainly resting and going over

results of the now-concluded exercise. The Air Wing’s aircraft were about

half parked on the flight deck, with the other half struck down in the hangar

bay. A few were being worked on, but the maintenance troops were mostly

standing down, too, enjoying a pastime the Navy called Steel Beach. It sure

was different now, Sanchez thought, looking down at the non-skid-covered

steel plates. Now there were women sunning themselves, too, which occa-

sioned the increased use of binoculars by the bridge crew, and had generated

yet another administrative problem for his Navy. What varieties of bathing

suits were proper for U.S. Navy sailors? Much to the chagrin of some, but

the relief of many, the verdict was one-piece suits. But even those could be

worth looking at, if properly filled, the CAG thought, returning his glasses to

the approaching Japanese formation.

The four destroyers came in fast and sharp, knocking down a good thirty

knots, the better to make a proper show for their hosts and erstwhile ene-

mies. The proper signal flags were snapping in the breeze, and white-clad

crewmen lined the rails.

“Now hear this,” the i-MC system blared for all to hear. “Attention to

port. Man the rails. Stand by to render honors.” Those crewmen in present-

able uniforms headed to the portside galleries off the flight deck, organized

by sections. It was an awkward evolution for a carrier, and required quite a

bit of time to set up, especially on a Steel Beach day. Having it done at

change of watch made it a little easier. There was a goodly supply of prop-

erly uniformed sailors to perform the duty before going to their berthing

spaces to change into their tanning outfits.

Sato’s last important act of the operation was to send out a satellite transmis-

sion with a time check. Downlinked to fleet headquarters, it was immedi-

ately rebroadcast on a different circuit. The last chance to stop the operation

had passed by. The die was now cast, if not yet thrown. The Admiral left

Mwfsw’s CIC and headed back to the bridge, leaving his operations officer in

charge while he conned the squadron.

The destroyer came abeam of United States Ships Enterprise and John

Stennis, exactly between the two carriers, less than two thousand meters to

each. She was doing thirty knots, with all stations manned except for the

vacancies caused by the people standing at the ships’ rails. At the moment

that his bridge crossed the invisible line between those of the two American

carriers, the sailors on the rails saluted port and starboard in a very precise

rendition of courtesy at sea.

A single whistle from the bosun’s pipe over the speakers: “Hand salute

… Two!” the orders came over the speakers, and the sailors on the galleries

of Johnnie Reb brought their hands down. Immediately thereafter they were

dismissed with three notes from the bosun’s mate of the watch.

“Gee, can we go home now?” The Air Boss chuckled. Exercise DATE-

LINE PARTNERS was now fully concluded, and the battle force could return to

Pearl Harbor for one more week of upkeep and shore leave before deploying

to the IO. Sanchez decided to stay in the comfortable leather chair and read

over some documents while enjoying the breeze. The combined speed of the

two intermingled formations made for a rapid passage.

‘ ‘Whoa!” a lookout said.

The maneuver was German in origin, formally called a Gefechtskehrtwen-

dung, “battle turn.” On signal-flag hoist, all four destroyers turned sharply

to the right, the aftermost ship first. As soon as her bow showed movement,

the next ship put her rudder over, and the next, and then the flagship last. It