"Dr. Ryan, Bob Holtzman of the Washington Post," he said unnecessarily. "What are the chances of ending this conflict without further violence?"
"Sir. that is entirely up to the Japanese government. The citizens of the Marianas are, as the President said, American citizens, and this country does not allow other nations to change such things. If Japan is willing to withdraw her forces, they may do so in peace. If not, then other operations will take place."
"Thank you, Dr. Ryan," Holtzman said loudly, effectively ending the press conference. Jack hustled toward the door, ignoring the additional questions.
"Nice job," Durling said. "Why don't you go home for some sleep?"
"And what is this?" the customs officer asked.
"My photographic equipment," Chekov replied. He opened the case without an order to do so. It was warm in the terminal, the noon tropical sun beating through the wall of windows and overpowering the air conditioning for the moment. Their newest orders had been easily implemented. The Japanese wanted journalists in the islands, both to check up on the election campaign and to safeguard against American attack by their mere presence in the islands.
The customs officer looked at the cameras, gratified to see that it was all Japanese. "And this?"
"My lighting equipment is Russian," Ding explained in slow English. "We make very fine lights. Perhaps one day we will sell them in your country," he added with a smile.
"Yes, perhaps so," the official said, closing the case and marking it with chalk. "Where will you be staying?"
"We weren't able to make hotel arrangements," "Klerk" replied. "We'll check the local hotels."
Good luck, the official didn't say. This idea had come off half-baked, and every hotel room on Saipan, he was sure, was already filled. Well, that wasn't his problem.
"Can we rent a car?"
"Yes, over that way." The man pointed. The older Russian looked nervous, he thought.
"You're late."
"Well, sorry about that," Oreza replied tersely. "There's nothing new happening at all. Well, maybe the fighters are a little more active, but not much, and they've been pretty busy anyw—"
"You're going to get some company soon," the National Military Command Center told him.
"Who?"
"Two reporters. They have some questions for you," was the answer because of the renewed concern for Oreza's secure status.
"When?"
"Anytime, probably today. Everything okay with you, Chief?"
Master Chief, you turkey, Portagee didn't say. "Just great. We saw part of the President's speech, and we're a little worried because that missile site is so close to us and—"
"You'll have enough warning. Does your house have a basement?" the voice asked,
"No, it doesn't."
"Well, that's okay. We'll let you know, okay?"
"Fine, sir. Out."
Does your house have a basement? No. Well, that's okay. If it's okay, why did you ask, goddamn it? Oreza deactivated the phone after taking it out of the mixing bowl and walked to the window. Two Eagles were taking off. Such a mechanical thing to watch. Something was happening. He didn't know what. Perhaps their pilots didn't either, but you couldn't tell what they were thinking from looking at their aircraft.
Shiro Sato reefed his F-15J into a right turn to clear the civilian air traffic. If the Americans attacked, they would do it as the attacks on the Home Islands had come, off island bases, supported by tankers, from a long way off. Wake was a possibility, and so were a few other islands. He'd face aircraft not unlike his own. They would have airborne radar support, and so would he. It would be a fair fight unless the bastards brought down their stealth aircraft. Damn the things. Damn their ability to defeat the Kamis! But the Americans had only a few of them, and if they flew in daylight, he'd take his chances.
At least there would be no real surprises. There was a huge air-defense radar on Saipan's highest point, and with the squadrons based on Guam, this would be a real fight, he told himself, climbing up to patrol altitude.
"So what's the big deal?" Chavez asked, playing with the map.
"You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
"Well, take the next left, I think, by Lizama's Mobil." Chavez looked up from the map. There were soldiers everywhere, and they were digging in, something they ought to have done sooner, he thought. "Is that a Patriot battery?"
"Sure looks like one to me." How the hell am I going to handle this? Clark asked himself, finding the last turn and heading into the cul-de-sac.
The house number was the one he'd memorized. He pulled into the driveway and got out, heading for the front door.
Oreza had been in the bathroom, finishing a needed shower while Burroughs handled the running count on the aircraft in and out of Kobler when the doorbell rang.
"Who are you?"
"Didn't they tell you?" Clark asked, looking around. Who the hell was this guy?
"Reporters, right?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Okay." Burroughs opened the door with a look up and down the street.
"Who are you, anyway? I thought this was the house of—"
"You're dead!" Oreza was standing in the hall, wearing just khaki shorts, his chest a mass of hair as thick as the remaining jungle on the island. The hair looked especially dark now, with the rest of the man's skin turning rapidly to the color of milk. "You're fuckin' dead!"
"Hi, Portagee," Klerk/Clark/Kelly said with a smile. "Long time."
He couldn't make himself move. "I saw you die. I went to the goddamned memorial service. I was there!"
"Hey, I know you," Chavez said. "You were on the boat our chopper landed on. What the hell is this? You Agency?"
It was almost too much for Oreza. He didn't remember the little one at all, but the big one, the old one, his age, about, was-couldn't be-was. It wasn't possible. Was it?
"John?" he asked after a few seconds of further incredulity.
It was too much for the man who used to be known as John Kelly. He set his bag down and came over to embrace the man, surprised by the tears in his eyes. "Yeah, Portagee—it's me. How you doin', man?"
"But how—"
"At the memorial service, did they use the line about 'sure and certain hope that the sea will give up its dead'?" He paused, then he had to grin. "Well, it did."
Oreza closed his eyes, thinking back over twenty years. "Those two admirals, right?"
"You got it."
"So—what the hell have you been—"
"CIA, man. They decided they needed somebody who could, well—"
"I remember that part." He really hadn't changed all that much. Older, but the same hair, and the same eyes, warm and open to him as they had always been, Portagee thought, but underneath always the hint of something else, like an animal in a cage, but an animal who knew how to pick the lock whenever he wanted.
"I hear you've been doing okay for a retired coastie."
"Command Master Chief." The man shook his head. The past could wait. "What's going on?"
"Well, we've been out of the loop for a few hours. Anything new that you know?"
"The President was on. They cut him off, but—"
"Did they really have nukes?" Burroughs asked.
" 'Did'?" Ding asked. "We got 'em?"
"That what he said. Who the hell are you, by the way?" Oreza wanted to know.
"Domingo Chavez." The young man extended his hand. "I see you and Mr. C know each other."
"I go by 'Clark' now," John explained. It was odd how good it felt to talk with a man who knew his real name.