Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (120 page)

“Antenna depth, quickly!”

The Mexican police proved to be extremely cooperative, and the literate Spanish of Clark and Chavez hadn't hurt very much. Four plainclothes detectives from the Federal Police waited with the CIA officers in the lounge while four more uniformed officers with light automatic weapons took unobtrusive positions nearby.

“We don't have enough people to do this properly,” the senior Federal worried.

“Better to do it off the airplane,”
Clark
said.

“Muy bien, Señor. You think they may be armed?”

“Actually, no, I don't. Guns can be dangerous when you're traveling.”

“Has this something to do with—
Denver
?”

Clark
turned and nodded. “We think so.”

“It will be interesting to see what such men look like.” The detective meant the eyes, of course. He'd seen the photographs.

The DC-10 pulled up to the gate and cut power to its three engines. The jetway moved a few feet to mate with the forward door.

“They travel first class,” John said unnecessarily.

“Sí. The airline says there are fifteen first-class passengers, and they've been told to hold the rest. You will see, Señor Clark, we know our business.”

“I have no doubt of that. Forgive me if I gave that impression, Teniente.”

“You are CIA, no?”

“I am not permitted to say.”

“Then of course you are. What will you do with them?”

“We will speak,”
Clark
said simply.

The gate attendant opened the door to the jetway. Two Federal Police officers took their places left and right of the door, their jackets open.
Clark
prayed there would be no gunplay. The people started walking out, and the usual greetings were called from the waiting area.

“Bingo,”
Clark
said quietly. The police lieutenant straightened his tie to signal the men at the door. They made it easy, the last two first-class passengers to come out. Qati looked sick and pale,
Clark
noticed. Maybe it had been a bad flight. He stepped over the rope barrier. Chavez did the same, smiling and calling to a passenger who looked at them in open puzzlement.

“Ernesto!” John said, running up to him.

“I'm afraid I'm the wrong—”

Clark
went right past the man from
Miami
.

Ghosn was slow to react, dulled by the flight from
America
, relaxed by the thought that they had escaped. By the time he started to move, he was tackled from behind. Another policeman placed a gun against the back of his head, and he was handcuffed before they hauled him to his feet.

“Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch,” Chavez said. “You're the guy with the books! We've met before, sweetheart.”

“Qati,” John said to the other one. They'd already been patted down. Neither was armed. “I've wanted to meet you for years.”

Clark
took out their tickets. The police would collect their luggage. The police moved them out very quickly. The business and tourist passengers would not know that anything untoward had happened until they were told by family members in a few minutes.

“Very smooth, Lieutenant,” John said to the senior officer.

“As I said, we know our business.”

“Could you have your people phone the embassy and tell them that we got 'em both alive.”

“Of course.”

The eight men waited in a small room while the bags were collected. There could be evidence in them, and there wasn't that much of a hurry. The Mexican police lieutenant examined their faces closely, but saw nothing more or less human than what he'd seen in the faces of a hundred murderers. It was vaguely disappointing, even though he was a good-enough cop to know better. The luggage was searched, but aside from some prescription drugs—they were checked and determined not to be narcotics—there was nothing unusual. The police borrowed a courtesy van for the drive to the Gulfstream.

“I hope you have enjoyed your stay in
Mexico
,” the lieutenant said in parting.

“What the hell is going on?” the pilot asked. Though in civilian clothes, she was an Air Force major.

“Let me explain it like this,”
Clark
said. “You Air Scouts are going to drive the airplane to Andrews. Mr. Chavez and I are going to interview these two gentlemen in back. You will not look, not hear, not think about anything that's going on in back.”

“What—”

“That was a thought, Major. I do not want you to have any thoughts about this. Do I have to explain myself again?”

“No, sir.”

“Then let's get the hell out of here.”

The pilot and co-pilot went forward. The two communications technicians sat at their consoles and drew the curtain between themselves and the main cabin.

Clark
turned to see his two guests exchanging looks. That was no good. He removed Qati's tie and wrapped it around his eyes. Chavez did the same to his charge. Next both were gagged, and
Clark
went forward to find some earplugs. Finally, they set both men in seats as far apart as the airplane's cabin allowed. John let the plane take off before he did anything else. The fact was that he despised torture, but he needed information now, and he was prepared to do anything to get it.

“Torpedo in the water!”

“Christ, he's dead aft of us!” Ricks turned. “Best possible speed, come left to two-seven-zero. XO, take the return shot!”

“Aye! Snapshot,” Claggett said. “One-eight-zero, activation point three thousand, initial search depth two hundred.”

“Ready!”

“Match and shoot!”

“Three fired, sir.” It was a standard tactic. The torpedo fired on the reciprocal heading would at least force the other guy to cut the control wires to his weapon. Ricks was already in sonar.

“Missed the launch transient, sir, and didn't catch the fish very soon either. Surface noise . . .”

“Take her deep?” Ricks asked Claggett.

“This surface noise may be our best friend.”

“Okay, Dutch . . . you were right before, I should have dropped the outboard.”

“ELF message, sir—S
NAPCOUNT
is cancelled, sir.”

“Cancelled?” Ricks asked incredulously.

“Cancelled, yes, sir.”

“Well, isn't that good news,” Claggett said.

“Now what?” the Tacco asked himself. The message in his hand made no sense at all.

“Sir, we finally got the bastard.”

“Run your track.”

“Sir, he fired at
Maine
!”

“I know, but I can't engage.”

“That's crazy, sir.”

“Sure as hell is,” the tactical officer agreed.

“Speed?”

“Six knots, sir—maneuvering says the shaft bearings are pretty bad, sir.”

“If we try any more . . .” Ricks frowned.

Claggett nodded. “. . . the whole thing comes apart. I think it's about time for some counter-measures.”

“Do it.”

“Five-inch room, launch a spread.” Claggett turned back. “We're not going fast enough to make a turn very useful.”

“I figure it's about even money.”

“Could be worse. Why the hell do you think they cancelled S
NAPCOUNT
?” the XO asked, staring at the sonar scope.

“X, I guess the danger of war is over . . . I haven't handled this well, have I?”

“Shit, skipper, who would have known?”

Ricks turned. “Thanks, X.”

“The torpedo is now active, ping-and-listen mode, bearing one-six zero.”

“Torpedo, American Mark 48, bearing three-four-five, just went active!”

“Ahead full, maintain course,” Dubinin ordered.

“Countermeasures?” the Starpom asked.

The captain shook his head. “No, no—we're at the edge of its acquisition range . . . and that would just give it a reason to turn this way. The surface conditions will help. We're not supposed to have battles in heavy weather,” Dubinin pointed out. “It's hard on the instruments.”

“Captain, I have the satellite signal—it's an all-forces message, 'Disengage and withdraw from any hostile forces, take action only for self-defense.'”

“I'm going to be court-martialed,” Valentin Borissovich Dubinin observed quietly.

“You did nothing wrong, you reacted correctly at every—”

“Thank you. I hope you will testify to that effect.”

“Change in signal—change in aspect, torpedo just turned west away from us,” Lieutenant Rykov said. “The first programmed turn must have been to the right.”

“Thank God it wasn't to the left. I think we've survived. Now, if only our weapon can miss . . .”

“Sir, it's continuing to close. The torpedo is probably in acquisition—continuous pinging now.”

“Less than two thousand yards,” Ricks said.

“Yeah,” Claggett agreed.

“Try some more countermeasures—hell, go continuous on them.” The tactical situation was getting worse.
Maine
was not moving quickly enough to make an evasive course worthwhile. The countermeasures filled the sea with bubbles, and while they might draw the Russian torpedo into a turn—their only real hope—the sad fact of the matter was that as the fish penetrated the bubbles it would find
Maine
with its sonar again. Perhaps a continuous set of such false targets would saturate the seeker. That was their best shot right now.

“Let's keep her near the surface,” Ricks added. Claggett looked at him and nodded in understanding.

“Not working, sir . .  sir, I've lost the fish aft, in the baffles now.”

“Surface the ship,” Ricks called. “Emergency blow!”

“Surface capture?” 995

“And now I'm out of ideas, X.”

“Come left, parallel to the seas?”

“Okay, you do it.”

Claggett went into control. “Up 'scope!” He took a quick look, and checked the submarine's course. “Come right to new course zero-five-five!”

USS Maine surfaced for the last time into thirty-five foot seas and nearly total darkness. Her circular hull wallowed in the rolling waves, and she was slow to turn.

The countermeasures were a mistake. Though the Russian torpedo was pinging, it was mainly a wake-follower. Its seeker head tracked bubbles, and the string of countermeasures made for a perfect trail, which suddenly stopped. When
Maine
surfaced, the submarine left the bubble stream. Again, the factors involved were technical. The surface turbulence confused the wake-following software and the torpedo began its programmed circular search pattern, just under the surface. On its third circuit, it found an unusually hard echo amid the confusing shapes over its head. The torpedo turned to close, now activating its magnetic-influence fusing system. The Russian weapon was less sophisticated than the American Mark 5o. It could not go higher than twenty meters of depth and so was not drawn up to the surface. The active magnetic field it generated was cast out like an invisible spiderweb, and when that net was disturbed by the presence of a metallic mass—

The thousand-kilo warhead exploded fifty feet from
Maine
's already crippled stern. The twenty-thousand-ton warship shook as though rammed.

An alarm sounded instantly: “Flooding flooding flooding in the engine room!”

Ricks lifted the phone. “How bad?”

“Get everybody off, sir!”

“Abandon ship! Break out the survival gear! Send out message: damaged and sinking, give our position!”

“Captain Rosselli! Flash traffic coming in.”

Ryan looked up. He'd had his drink, followed by something colder and carbonated. Whatever the message was, the naval officer could handle it.

“You Mr. Ryan?” a man in a suit asked. Two more were behind him.

“Dr. Ryan, yeah.”

“Secret Service, sir, the President ordered us to come here and arrest you.”

Jack laughed at that. “What for?”

The agent looked instantly uncomfortable. “He didn't say, sir.”

“I'm not a cop, but my dad was. I don't think you can arrest me without a charge. The law, you know? The Constitution. 'Preserve, protect, and defend.'”

The agent was in an instant quandary. He had orders from someone he had to obey, but he was too professional to violate the law. “Sir, the President said . . .”

“Well, tell you what. I'll just sit right here, and you can talk to the President on that phone and find out. I'm not going anywhere.” Jack lit another cigarette and lifted another phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babe.”

“Jack! What's going on?”

“It's okay. It got a little tense, but we have it under control now, Cath. I'm afraid I'm going to be stuck here for a while, but it's okay, Cathy, honest.”

“Sure?”

“You worry about that new baby, not about anything else. That's an order.”

“I'm late, Jack. Just a day, but—”

“Good.” Ryan leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and smiled blissfully. “You want it to be a girl, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I do, too. Honey, I'm still busy here, but, honest, you can relax. Have to run. Bye.” He replaced the phone. “Glad I remembered to do that.”

“Sir, the President wants to talk to you.” The senior agent handed the phone towards Ryan.

What makes you think I want to talk to him?
Jack nearly asked. But that would have been unprofessional. He took the phone. “Ryan here, sir.”

“Tell me what you know,” Fowler said curtly.

“Mr. President, if you give me about fifteen minutes, I can do a better job. Dan Murray at FBI knows everything I do, and I have to make contact with two officers. Is that okay, sir?”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Ryan handed the phone back and placed a call to the
CIA
Operations
Center
. “This is Ryan. Did
Clark
make the pickup?”

“Sir, this is an unsecure line.”

“I don't care—answer the question.”

“Yes, sir, they're flying back now. We don't have a comm link to the aircraft. It's Air Force, sir.”

“Who's the best guy to evaluate the explosion?”

“Wait.” The Senior Duty Officer passed that along to the Science and Technology man. “He says Dr. Lowell at Lawrence-Livermore.”

“Get him moving. The nearest air base is probably Travis. Get him something fast.” Ryan hung that line up and turned to the senior Hot Line officer.

“There's a VC-20 just took off from
Mexico City
inbound for Andrews. I have two officers and two—two other people aboard. I need to establish a comm link to the aircraft. Get someone to set that up, please.”