Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (50 page)

“Okay, get ready to answer bells. I'm taking this overpriced barge back to
Pearl
.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Admiral Mancuso was back in his office, reviewing preliminary data on the exercise when his yeoman came in with a signal sheet.

“Sir, looks like two carriers are in trouble.”

“What did they do, collide?” Jones asked, sitting in the corner and reviewing other data.

“Worse,” the yeoman told the civilian.

ComSubPac read the dispatch. “Oh, that's just great.” Then his phone rang; it was the secure line that came directly from PacFltOps. “This is Admiral Mancuso.”

“Sir, this is Lieutenant Copps at Fleet Communications. I have a submarine emergency beacon, located approximately 31-North, 175-East. We're refining that position now. Code number is for
Asheville
, sir. There is no voice transmission, just the beacon. I am initiating a S
UB
M
ISS
/S
UB
S
UNK
. The nearest naval aircraft are on the two carriers—”

“Dear God.” Not since Scorpion had the U.S. Navy lost a sub, and he'd been in high school then. Mancuso shook his head clear. There was work to be done. “Those two carriers are probably out of business, mister.”

“Oh?” Oddly enough, Lieutenant Copps hadn't heard that yet.

“Call the P-3s. I have work to do.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Mancuso didn't have to look at anything. The water in that part of the
Pacific Ocean
was three miles deep, and no fleet submarine ever made could survive at a third of that depth. If there were an emergency, and if there were any survivors, any rescue would have to happen within hours, else the cold surface water would kill them.

“Ron, we just got a signal.
Asheville
might be down.”

     “Down?” That word was not one any submariner wanted to hear, even if it was a gentler expression than sunk. “Frenchy's kid…”

“And a hundred twenty others.”

“What can I do, Skipper?”

“Head over to SOSUS and look at the data.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Jones hustled out the door while SubPac lifted his phone and started punching buttons. He already knew that it was an exercise in futility. All PacFlt submarines now carried the AN/BST-3 emergency transmitters aboard, set to detach from their ships if they passed through crush depth or if the quartermaster of the watch neglected to wind the unit's clockwork mechanism. The latter possibility, however, was unlikely. Before the explosive bolts went, the BST made the most godawful noise to chide the neglectful enlisted man…
Asheville
was almost certainly dead, and yet he had to follow through in the hope of a miracle. Maybe a few crewmen had gotten off.

Despite Mancuso's advice, the carrier group did get the call. A frigate, USS
Gary
, went at once to maximum sustainable speed and sprinted north toward the area of the beacon, responding as required by the laws of man and the sea. In ninety minutes she'd be able to launch her own helicopter for a surface search and further serve as a base for other helos to continue the rescue operation if necessary. John Stennis turned slowly into the wind and managed to launch a single S-3 Viking ASW aircraft, whose onboard instruments were likely to be useful for a surface search. The Viking was overhead in less than an hour. There was nothing to be seen on radar except for a Japanese coast-guard cutter, heading in for the beacon, ahout ten miles out. Contact was established, and the white cutter verified its notice on the emergency radio and intentions to search for survivors. The Viking circled the transmitter. There was a slick of diesel oil to mark the ship's grave, and a few bits of floating debris, but repeated low passes and four sets of eyes failed to spot anything to be rescued.

The “Navy Blue” prefix on a signal denoted information that would be of interest to the entire fleet, perhaps sensitive in nature, less often highly classified; in this case it was something too big to be kept a secret. Two of Pacific Fleet's four aircraft carriers were out of business for a long time. The other two, Eisenhower and Lincoln, were in the IO, and were likely to remain there. Ships know few secrets, and even before Admiral Dubro got his copy of the dispatch, word was already filtering through his flagship. No chief swore more vilely than the battle-force commander, who already had enough to worry about. The same response greeted the signals personnel who informed the senior naval officers on Pentagon duty.

Like most intelligence officers in a foreign land in time of danger, Clark and Chavez didn't have a clue. If they had, they would probably have caught the first plane anywhere. Spies have never been popular with anyone, and the
Geneva
Protocols merely affirmed a rule for time of war, mandating their death as soon after apprehension as was convenient, usually by firing squad.

Peacetime rules were a little more civilized, but generally with the same end result. It wasn't something CIA emphasized in its recruiting interviews. The international rules of espionage allowed for this unhappy fact by giving as many field intelligence officers as possible diplomatic covers, along with which came immunity from harm. Those were called “legal” agents, protected by international treaty as though they really were the diplomats their passports said they were. Clark and Chavez were “illegals,” and not so protected—in fact, John Clark had never once been given a “legal” cover. The importance of this became clear when they left their cheap hotel for a meeting with Isamu Kimura.

It was a pleasant afternoon made less so by the looks they got as gaijin; no longer a mixture of curiosity and distaste, now there was genuine hostility. The atmosphere had changed materially since their arrival here, though remarkably things immediately became more cordial when they identified themselves as Russians, which prompted Ding to speculate on how they might make their cover identity more obvious to passersby. Unfortunately civilian clothing did not offer that option, and so they had to live with the looks, generally feeling the way a wealthy American might in a high-crime neighborhood.

Kimura was waiting at the agreed-upon place, an inexpensive drinking establishment. He already had a few drinks in him.

“Good afternoon,”
Clark
said pleasantly in English. A beat. “Something wrong?”

“I don't know,” Kimura said when the drinks came. There were many ways of speaking that phrase. This way indicated that he knew something. “There is a meeting of the ministers today. Goto called it. It's been going on for hours. A friend of mine in the Defense Agency hasn't left his office since Thursday night.”

“Da-so?”

“You haven't seen it, have you? The way Goto has been speaking about
America
.” The MITI official finished off the last of his drink and raised his hand to order another. Service, typically, was fast.

They could have said that they'd seen the first speech, but instead “Klerk” asked for Kimura's read on the situation.

“I don't know,” the man replied, saying the same thing again while his eyes and tone told a somewhat different story. “I've never seen anything like this. The—what is the word?—rhetoric. At my ministry we have been waiting for instructions all week. We need to restart the trade talks with
America
, to reach an understanding, but we have no instructions. Our people in
Washington
are doing nothing. Goto has spent most of his time with Defense, constant meetings, and with his zaibatsu friends. It's not the way things are here at all.”

“My friend,”
Clark
said with a smile, his drink now untouched after a single sip, “you speak as though there is something serious in the air.”

“You don't understand. There is nothing in the air. Whatever is going on, MITI is not a part of it.”

“And?”

“MITI is part of everything here. My Minister is there now, finally, but he hasn't told us anything.” Kimura paused. Didn't these two know anything? “Who do you think makes our foreign policy here? Those dolts in the Foreign Ministry? They report to us. And the Defense Agency, who cares what they think about anything? We are the ones who shape our country's policies. We work with the zaibatsu, we coordinate, we… represent business in our relations with other countries and their markets, we make the position papers for the Prime Minister to give out. That's why I entered the ministry in the first place.”

“But not now?”
Clark
asked.

“Now? Goto is meeting with them himself, and spends the rest of his time with people who don't matter, and only now is my Minister called in—well, yesterday,” Kimura corrected himself. “And he's still there.”

The man seemed awfully rattled, Chavez. told himself, over what seemed to be little more than some bureaucratic turf-fighting. The Ministry of International Trade and Industry was being outmaneuvered by someone else. So?

“You are upset that the industry leaders meet directly with your Prime Minister,” he asked.

“So much, and so long, yes. They're supposed to work through us, but Goto has always been Yamata's lapdog.” Kimura shrugged. “Perhaps they want to make policy directly now, but how can they do that without us?”

Without me, the man means, Chavez thought with a smile. Dumb-ass bureaucrat. CIA was full of them, too.

It wasn't all the way thought through, but such things never were. Most of the tourists who came to
Saipan
were Japanese, but not quite all of them. The Pacific island was a good place for a lot of things. One of them was deep-sea fishing, and the waters here were not as crowded as those around
Florida
and the
Gulf of California
. Pete Burroughs was sunburned, exhausted, and thoroughly satisfied with an eleven-hour day at sea. It was just the perfect thing, the computer engineer told himself, sitting in the fighting chair and sipping a beer, to get a person over a divorce. He'd spent the first two hours getting offshore, then three hours trolling, then four hours fighting against the biggest goddamned albacore tuna he'd ever seen. The real problem would be convincing his fellow workers that it wasn't a lie. The monster was too big to mount over his mantel, and besides, his ex- had the house and the fireplace. He'd have to settle for a photo, and everyone knew the stories about that, damn it. Blue-screen technology had reached fishermen. For twenty bucks you could have your choice of monster fish hanging from its electronic tail behind you. Now, if he'd caught a shark, he could have taken home the jaw and teeth, but an albacore, magnificent as it was, was just tuna fish. Well, what the hell, his wife hadn't believed his stories about the late nights at work either. The bitch. Good news, bad news. She didn't like fishing either, but now he could fish all he wanted. Maybe even fish for a new girl. He popped open another beer.

     The marina didn't look very busy for a weekend. The main port area was, though, three big commercial ships, ugly ones, he thought, though he didn't know exactly what they were on first sight. His company was in
California
, though not close to the water, and most of his fishing was of the freshwater sort. This trip had been a life's ambition. Tomorrow, maybe, he'd get something else. For the moment, he looked left at the albacore. Had to be at least seven hundred pounds. Nowhere close to the record, but one hell of a lot bigger than the monster salmon he'd gotten the year before with his trusty Ted Williams spinning rig. The air shook again, spoiling his moment with his fish. The overhead shadow announced another goddamned 747 coming out of the airport. It wouldn't be long before this place was spoiled, too. Hell, it already was. About the only good news was that the Japanese who came here to kick loose and screw Filipina bar girls didn't like to fish much.

The boat's skipper brought them in smartly. His name was Oreza, a retired Master Chief
Quartermaster
,
U.S.
Coast Guard. Burroughs left the fighting chair, headed topside, and sat down next to him.

“Get tired of talking to your fish?”

“Don't like drinking alone, either.”

Oreza shook his head. “Not when I'm driving.”

“Bad habit from the old days?”

The skipper nodded. “Yeah, I guess. I'll buy you one at the club, though. Nice job on the fish. First time, you said?”

“First time in blue water,” Burroughs said proudly.

“Coulda fooled me, Mr. Burroughs.”

“Pete,” the engineer corrected.

“Pete,” Oreza confirmed. “Call me Portagee.”

“You're not from around here.”

“
New Bedford
,
Massachusetts
, originally. Winters are too cold. I served here once, long time back. There used to be a Coast Guard station down at
Punta Arenas
, closed now. The wife and I liked the climate, liked the people, and, hell, the competition statewide for this sort of business is too stiff,” Oreza explained. “What the hell, the kids are all grown. So anyway, we ended up coming out here.”

“You know how to handle a boat pretty well.”

Portagee nodded. “I ought to. I've been doing it thirty-five years, more if you count going out with my pop.” He eased to port, coming around
Mañagaha
Island
. “The fishing out of
New Bedford
's gone to hell, too.”

“What are those guys?” Burroughs asked, pointing to the commercial port.

“Car carriers. When I came in this morning they were moving jeeps out of that one.” The skipper shrugged. “More goddamned cars. You know, when I came here it was kinda like
Cape Cod
in the winter. Now it's more like the
Cape
in the summer. Wall-to-goddamned-wall.” Portagee shrugged. More tourists made for more crowding, spoiling the island, but also bringing him more business.

“Expensive place to live?”

“Getting that way,” Oreza confirmed. Another 747 flew off the island. “That's funny…”

“What?”

“That one didn't come out of the airport.”

“What do you mean?”

“That one came out of Kobler. It's an old SAC runway, BUFF field.”

“BUFF?”

“Big Ugly Fat Fucker,” Portagee explained. “B-52's. There's five or six runways in the islands that can take big birds, dispersal fields from the bad old days,” he went on. “Kobler's right next to my old LORAN station. I'm surprised they still keep it up. Hell, I didn't know they did, even.”