Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (90 page)

“Yeah, go ahead. Have you checked the threat board?”

“The world's at peace, Colonel, sir. I checked.”

The “threat board” was mainly an expression. The alert level of the government agencies that dealt with various problems depended on the expected level of danger in the world. The greater the possible danger, the more assets were kept ready to deal with them. At the moment there was no perceived threat to the
United States of America
, and that meant that only a single aircraft was kept ready to back-stop the President's VH-3. The major placed the call to Annacostia.

“Yeah, let's keep dash-two warm. Dash-one is down with electrical problems . . . no, we can handle it here. Oughta be back on line by
midnight
. Right. Bye.” The Major hung up just in time for Pete Connor to enter their cabin.

“What gives?”

“Bird's broke,” the Colonel replied.

“I didn't think we hit that hard,” Connor objected.

“Well, that makes it official,” the Major observed. “The only one who thinks we did hit that hard's the friggin' airplane.”

“The backup's on alert status,” the Colonel said, as he finished shaving. “Sorry, Pete. Electrical problem, maybe has nothing to do with the touchdown. The backup can be here in thirty-five minutes. Our threat board is blank. Anything we need to know about?”

Connor shook his head. “No, Ed. We know of no particular threat.”

“I can bring the backup bird here, but it means exposing it to the weather. We can take better care of it down at Annacostia. That's your call, sir.”

“You can leave it down there.”

“The Boss still wants to watch the game up here, right?”

“Correct. We all get a day off. Lift off for D.C. tomorrow about six-thirty. Problem with that?”

“No, ought to be fixed before then.”

“Okay.” Connor left and walked back to his cabin.

“What's it like out there?” Daga asked.

“About how it looks,” Pete said. “The chopper's broke.”

“I wish they'd be more careful,” Special Agent Helen D'Agustino observed as she brushed her hair.

“Not their fault.” Connor lifted the phone to the Secret Service command center, located a few blocks west of the White House. “This is Connor. The chopper is down with a mechanical problem. Backup is being kept at Annacostia because of weather conditions. Anything on the board I need to know about?”

“No, sir,” the junior agent responded. On his status board, in LED characters he could see that the President of the
United States
—designated POTUS on his display—was shown to be at
Camp David
. The First Lady of the
United States
—FLOTUS—space was blank. The Vice President was at his official residence on the ground of the U.S. Naval Observatory off of
Massachusetts
Avenue,
North West
, along with his family. “Everything's nice and calm, far as we know.”

“How are the roads down there?” Pete asked.

“Bad. Every Carryall we have is out retrieving people.”

“Thank God for Chevrolet.” Like the FBI, the Secret Service used the big Chevy four-wheel-drive trucks to get around. Heavily armored and with roughly the fuel-efficiency of a tank, the Carryall was able to do things that only a tank could excel. “Okay, it's nice and snug up here.”

“I bet the Marines are freezing their cojones off.”

“What about Dulles?”

“The Prime Minister is due in at eighteen hundred. The guys say Dulles has one runway open now. They expect to have everything clear by afternoon. Storm's slacking off a little here, finally. You know, the funny thing . . .”

“Yeah.” Connor didn't need to hear the rest. The funny thing was that weather like this made the job of the Secret Service easier. “Okay, you know where to reach us.”

“Right. See ya tomorrow, Pete.”

Connor looked outside when he heard the noise. A Marine was driving a snow-plow, trying to clear the paths between the cabins. Two more were working on the roads. It seemed rather odd. The equipment was painted in the Pentagon's woodland camouflage pattern of greens and browns, but the Marines were in their whites. There were even white pull-over covers for their M-16A2 rifles. Anyone who tried to get in here today would find, too late, that the perimeter guard force was totally invisible, and these Marines were all combat veterans. At times like this, even the Secret Service could relax, and that came rarely enough. There came a knock on the door. Daga got it.

“Morning papers, ma'am.” A Marine corporal handed them over.

“You know,” D'Agustino observed after she closed the door, “sometimes I think the guys who deliver these things are the only people you can really depend on.”

“What about the Marines?” Pete asked with a laugh.

“Oh, them, too.”

“Aspect change in Sierra-16!” the sonarman called. “Target is coming left.”

“Very well,” Dutch Claggett replied. “Mr. Pitney, you have the conn.”

“Aye aye, sir, I have the conn,” the navigator said as the XO went into the sonar room. The fire-control tracking party perked up, waiting to restart their calculations.

“Right there, sir,” the sonarman tapped the screen with his pencil. “Looks like a beam aspect now.
Conn
, sonar, bearing is now one-seven-zero, target is coming left. Radiated noise level is constant, estimate target speed is unchanged.”

“Very well, thank you.”

It was the third such turn they had tracked—Claggett's estimation appeared to be correct. The Russian was conducting a very methodical, very conservative—and very smart—search pattern of this patrol area, just like the 688s did in looking for Russian subs. The interval between the rungs of this ladder seemed to be about forty thousand yards.

“X, that new feed pump they have is a beaut,” the sonarman observed. “His plant noise is way the hell down, and the sucker's doing ten knots according to the tracking party.”

“Couple more years and we're going to have to worry about these guys.”

“Transient, transient—mechanical transient on Sierra-16, bearing is now one-six-four, still drifting left. Speed constant.” The petty officer circled the noise blip on the screen. “Maybe, sir, but they still got a lot to learn.”

“Range to target is now four-eight thousand yards.”

“Mr. Pitney, let's open the range some. Bring her right,” the executive officer commanded.

“Aye, helm, left five degrees rudder, come to new course two-zero-four.”

“Turning for another leg?” Captain Ricks asked as he entered sonar.

“Yeah, looks like the legs are pretty regular, Cap'n.”

“Methodical son of a bitch, isn't he?”

“Turned within two minutes of our estimate,” Claggett replied. “I just ordered us right to maintain distance.”

“Fair enough.” Ricks was actually enjoying this. He hadn't been aboard a fast-attack boat since his first assistant-department-head tour. Playing tag with Russian submarines was something he had not done in the past fifteen years. On the rare occasions he'd heard them at all, his action had always been the same: track long enough to determine the other sub's course, then turn perpendicular to it and head away until it faded back to random noise.

Necessarily, the game was changing somewhat. It wasn't as easy as it used to be. The Russian subs were getting quieter. What had been an annoying trend a few years ago was rapidly turning into something genuinely troubling. And maybe we just had to change the way we do business . . .

“You know, X, what if this becomes the standard tactic?”

“What do you mean, Cap'n?”

“I mean, as quiet as these guys are getting, maybe this is the smart move . . .”

“Huh?” Claggett was lost.

“If you're tracking the guy, at least you always know where he is. You can even launch a SLOT buoy and call in assets to help you dispose of him. Think about it. They're getting pretty quiet. If you break off as soon as you detect the guy, what's to say you don't blunder into him again? So, instead, we track at a nice, safe distance and just keep an eye on him.”

“Uh, Captain, that's fine as far as it goes, but what if the other guy gets a sniff of us, or what if he just reverses course and boogies backwards at high speed?”

“Good point. So, we trail on his quarter instead of just off his stern . . . that will make an accidental closure less likely. Banging straight aft for a trailer is a logical defensive measure, but he can't go punching holes all over the ocean, can he?”

Jesus, this guy is trying to develop tactics . . .
“Sir, let me know if you sell that one to OP-02.”

Instead of trailing dead aft, I'm going to hold off his northern quarter now. It gives us better performance off the tail anyway. It should actually be safer."

That part of it made sense, Claggett thought. “You say so, Cap'n. Maintain fifty-K yards?”

“Yes, we still want to be a little cautious.”

The second storm, as predicted, hadn't done very much, Ghosn saw. There was a light dusting—that seemed to be the term they used—on the vehicles and parking lot. Hardly enough to bother with, it duplicated the most severe winter storm he'd ever seen in
Lebanon
.

“How about some breakfast?” Marvin asked. “I hate to work on an empty stomach.”

The man was remarkable, Ibrahim thought. He was completely free of jitters. Either very brave or . . . something else. Ghosn considered that. He'd killed the Greek policeman without a blink, had taught a brutal lesson to one of the organization's combat instructors, shown his prowess with firearms, and been completely contemptuous of danger when they'd uncovered the Israeli bomb. There was something missing in this man, he concluded. The man was fearless, and such men were not normal. It wasn't that he was able to control his fear as most soldiers learned to do. Fear simply wasn't there. Was it merely a case of trying to impress people? Or was it real? Probably real, Ghosn thought, and if it were, this man was truly mad, and therefore more dangerous than useful. It made things easier for Ghosn to think that.

The motel didn't offer room service from its small coffee shop. All three walked out into the cold to get their breakfasts. Along the way, Russell picked up a paper to read about the game.

Qati and Ghosn only needed a brief look to find one more reason to hate Americans. They ate eggs with bacon or ham, and pancakes with sausage—in all three cases, products of the most unclean of animals, the pig. Both men found the sight and smell of pork products repulsive. Marvin didn't help when he ordered some as unconsciously as he'd ordered coffee. The Commander, Ghosn noted, ordered oatmeal, and halfway through breakfast he went suddenly pale and left the table.

“What's the matter with him anyway? Sick?” Russell asked.

“Yes, Marvin, he is quite ill.” Ghosn looked at the greasy bacon on Russell's plate and knew the smell of it had set Qati's stomach off.

“I hope he's able to drive.”

“That will not be a problem.” Ghosn wondered if that were true. Of course it was, he told himself, the Commander had been through tougher times—but such bluster was for others, not for times like this. No, because there had never been such a time as this, the Commander would do what must be done. Russell paid for the breakfast with cash, leaving a large tip because the waitress looked like a Native American.

Qati was pale when they got back to the rooms, and wiping his face after a long bout of nausea.

“Can I get you something, man?” Russell asked. “Milk, something good for your stomach?”

“Not now, Marvin. Thank you.”

“You say so, man.” Russell opened his paper. There was nothing to do for the next few hours but wait. The morning line on the game, he saw, was
Minnesota
by six and a half. He decided that if anyone asked, he'd take the Vikings and give the points.

Special Agent Walter Hoskins, Assistant Special Agent in Charge (Corruption and Racketeering), of the Denver Field Division knew that he would miss the game despite the fact that his wife had given him a ticket for Christmas. This he had sold to the S-A-C for two hundred dollars. Hoskins had work to do. A confidential informant had scored at the annual NFL Commissioner's party last night. That party—like the ones preceding the Kentucky Derby—always attracted the rich, powerful, and important. This one had been no exception. Both
U.S.
Senators from
Colorado
and
California
, a gaggle of congressmen, the states' governors, and approximately three hundred others had attended. His CI had been at the table with
Colorado
's governor, senators, and the congresswoman from the third district, all of whom were targets of his corruption case. Liquor had flowed, and in the vino had been the usual amount of veritas. A deal had been made last night. The dam would be built. The payoffs had been agreed upon. Even the head of the Sierra Club's local branch had been in on it. In return for a large donation from the contractor and a new park to be authorized by the governor, the environmentalists would mute their objections to the project. The sad part, Hoskins thought, was that the area really needed the water project. It would be good for everyone, including the local fishermen. What made it illegal was that bribes were being made. He would have his choice of five federal statutes to apply to the case, the nastiest of which was the RICO law, the Racketeer-Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act that had been passed over twenty years before without a thought about its possible scope of coverage. He already had one governor in a federal penitentiary, and to that he would add four more elected officials. The scandal would rip
Colorado
state politics asunder. The confidential informant in question was the governor's personal aide, an idealistic young woman who had decided eight months earlier that enough was enough. Women were always best for wearing a wire, especially if they had large breasts, as this one did. The mike went right in the bra, and the geometry of the location made for good sound quality. It was also a safe spot, because the governor had already sampled her charms and found them lacking. The old saw was right: hell really did have no fury like a woman scorned.

“Well?” Murray asked, annoyed to have to be in his office on another Sunday. He'd had to ride the subway in, and now that was broken down. He might be stuck all day here.