Debt of Honor - Tom Clancy [212]
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 Managaha 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."
"I don't understand."
"There used to be a Strategic Air Command base on Guam. You know, nukes, all that big shit? In case the crap hit the fan, they were supposed to disperse off Andersen Air Force Base so one missile couldn't get them all. There's two big-bird runways on Saipan, the airport and Kobler, two more on Tinian, leftovers from World War Two, and two more on Guam."
"They're still good to use?"
"No reason why not." Oreza's head turned. "We don't get many hard freezes here to rip things up." The next 747 came off Saipan International, and in the clear evening sky they could see yet another coming in from the eastern side of the island.
"This place always this busy?"
"No, most I've ever seen. Goddamned hotels must be packed solid." Another shrug. "Well, that means the hotels'll be interested in buying that fish off ya."
"How much?"
"Enough to cover the charter, Pete. That's one big fish you brought in. But tomorrow you have to get lucky again."
"Hey, you find me another big boy like our friend down there, and I don't care what you charge."
"I