Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (3 page)

“That was last week,”
Jackson
said with a grin.

“How do they manage without us?” Cathy wondered aloud, probably worrying about a patient.

“Well, concert season doesn't start for me until next month,” Sissy observed.

“Mmmm,” Ryan noted, looking back down at his plate, wondering how he was going to break the news.

“Jack, I know,” Cathy finally said. “You're not good at hiding it.”

“Who—”

“She asked where you were,” Robby said from across the table. “A naval officer can't lie.”

“Did you think I'd be mad?” Cathy asked her husband.

“Yes.”

“You don't know what he's like,” Cathy told the others. “Every morning, gets his paper and grumbles. Every night, catches the news and grumbles. Every Sunday, watches the interview shows and grumhles. Jack,” she said quietly, “do you think I could ever stop doing surgery?”

“Probably not, but it's not the same—”

“No, it's not, but it's the same for you. When do you start?” Caroline Ryan asked.

Alumni

There was a university somewhere in the
Midwest
, Jack had once heard on the radio, which had an instrument package designed to go inside a tornado. Each spring, graduate students and a professor or two staked out a likely swath of land, and on spotting a tornado, tried to set the instrument package, called “Toto”—what else?—directly in the path of the onrushing storm. So far they had been unsuccessful. Perhaps they'd just picked the wrong place, Ryan thought, looking out the window to the leafless trees in
Lafayette
Park
. The office of the President's National Security Advisor was surely cyclonic enough for anyone's taste, and, unfortunately, much easier for people to enter.

“You know,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair, “it was supposed to be a lot simpler than this.” And I thought it would be, he didn't add.

“The world had rules before,” Scott Adler pointed out. “Now it doesn't.”

“How's the President been doing, Scott?”

“You really want the truth?” Adler asked, meaning, We are in the White House, remember? and wondering if there really were tape machines covering this room. “We screwed up the Korean situation, but we lucked out. Thank God we didn't screw up
Yugoslavia
that badly, because there just isn't any luck to be had in that place. We haven't been handling
Russia
very well. The whole continent of
Africa
's a dog's breakfast. About the only thing we've done right lately was the trade treaty—”

“And that doesn't include
Japan
and
China
,” Ryan finished for him.

“Hey, you and I fixed the
Middle East
, remember? That's working out fairly nicely.”

“Hottest spot right now?” Ryan didn't want praise for that. The “success” had developed some very adverse consequences, and was the prime reason he had left government service.

“Take your pick,” Adler suggested. Ryan grunted agreement.

“SecState?”

“Hanson? Politician,” replied the career foreign-service officer. And a proud one at that, Jack reminded himself. Adler had started off at State right after graduating number one in his
Fletcher
School
class, then worked his way up the career ladder through all the drudgery and internal politics that had together claimed his first wife's love and a good deal of his hair. It had to be love of country that kept him going, Jack knew. The son of an
Auschwitz
survivor, Adler cared about
America
in a way that few could duplicate. Better still, his love was not blind, even now that his current position was political and not a career rank. Like Ryan, he served at the pleasure of the President, and still he'd had the character to answer Jack's questions honestly.

“Worse than that,” Ryan went on for him. “He's a lawyer. They always get in the way.”

“The usual prejudice,” Adler observed with a smile, then applied some of his own analytical ability. “You have something running, don't you?”

Ryan nodded. “A score to settle. I have two good guys on it now.”

The task combined oil-drilling and mining, to be followed by exquisitely line finishing work, and it had to be performed on time. The rough holes were almost complete. It had not been easy drilling straight down into the basaltic living rock on the valley even one time, much less ten, each one of the holes fully forty meters deep and ten across. A crew of nine hundred men working in three rotating shifts had actually beaten the official schedule by two weeks, despite the precautions. Six kilometers of rail had been laid from the nearest Shin-Kansen line, and for every inch of it the catenary towers normally erected to carry the overhead electrical lines instead were the supports for four linear miles of camouflage netting.

The geological history of this Japanese valley must have been interesting, the construction superintendent thought. You didn't see the sun until an hour or more after it rose, the slope was so steep to the east. No wonder that previous railway engineers had looked at the valley and decided to build elsewhere. The narrow gorge—in places not even ten meters across at its base—had been cut by a river, long since dammed, and what remained was essentially a rock trench, like something left over from a war. Or in preparation for one, he thought. It was pretty obvious, after all, despite the fact that he'd never been told anything but to keep his mouth shut about the whole project. The only way out of this place was straight up or sideways. A helicopter could do the former, and a train could do the latter, but to accomplish anything else required tampering with the laws of ballistics, which was a very difficult task indeed.

As he watched, a huge Kiowa scoop-loader dumped another bucketload of crushed rock into a hopper car. It was the last car in the train's “consist,” and soon the diesel switch engine would haul its collection of cars out to the mainline, where a standard-gauge electric locomotive would take over.

“Finished,” the man told him, pointing down into the hole. At the bottom, a man held the end of a long tape measure. Forty meters exactly. The hole had been measured by laser already, of course, but tradition required that such measurements be tested by the human hand of a skilled worker, and there at the bottom was a middle-aged hard-rock miner whose face beamed with pride. And who had no idea what this project was all about.

“Hai,” the superintendent said with a pleased nod, and then a more formal, gracious bow to the man at the bottom, which was dutifully and proudly returned. The next train in would carry an oversized cement mixer. The pre-assembled sets of rebar were already stacked around this hole—and, indeed, all the others, ready to be lowered. In finishing the first hole, this team had beaten its nearest competitor by perhaps six hours, and its furthest by no more than two days—irregularities in the subsurface rock had been a problem for Hole Number 6, and in truth they'd done well to catch up as closely as they were now. He'd have to speak to them, congratulate them for their Herculean effort, so as to mitigate their shame at being last. Team 6 was his best crew, and it was a pity that they'd been unlucky.

“Three more months, we will make the deadline,” the site foreman said confidently.

“When Six is also finished, we will have a party for the men. They have earned it.”

“This isn't much fun,” Chavez observed.

“Warm, too,”
Clark
agreed. The air-conditioning system on their Range Rover was broken, or perhaps it had died of despair. Fortunately, they had lots of bottled water.

“But it's a dry heat,” Ding replied, as though it mattered at a hundred fourteen degrees. One could think in Celsius, instead, but that offered relief only as long as it took to take in another breath. Then you were reminded of the abuse that the superheated air had to be doing to your lungs, no matter how you kept score. He unscrewed the top from a plastic bottle of spring water, which was probably a frigid ninety-five, he estimated. Amazing how cool it tasted under the circumstances.

“Chilldown tonight, all the way to eighty, maybe.”

“Good thing I brought my sweater, Mr. C.” Chavez paused to wipe off some sweat before looking through the binoculars again. They were good ones, but they didn't help much, except to give a better view of the shimmering air that roiled like the surface of a stormy, invisible sea. Nothing lived out here except for the occasional vulture, and surely by now they had cleaned off the carcasses of everything that had once made the mistake of being born out here. And he'd once thought the
Mojave Desert
was bleak, Chavez told himself. At least coyotes lived there.

It never changed,
Clark
thought. He'd been doing jobs like this one for…thirty years? Not quite but close. Jesus, thirty years. He still hadn't had the chance to do it in a place where he could really fit in, but that didn't seem terribly important right now. Their cover was wearing thin. The back of the Rover was jammed with surveying equipment and boxes of rock samples, enough to persuade the local illiterates that there might be an enormous molybdenum deposit out there in that solitary mountain. The locals knew what gold looked like—who didn't?—but the mineral known affectionately to miners as Molly-be-damned was a mystery to the uninitiated in all but its market value, which was considerable.
Clark
had used the ploy often enough. A geological discovery offered people just the perfect sort of luck to appeal to their invariable greed. They just loved the idea of having something valuable sitting under their feet, and John Clark looked the part of a mining engineer, with his rough and honest face to deliver the good and very confidential news.

He checked his watch. The appointment was in ninety minutes, around sunset, and he'd shown up early, the better to check out the area. It was hot and empty, neither of which came as much of a surprise, and was located twenty miles from the mountain they would be talking about, briefly. There was a crossroads here, two tracks of beaten dirt, one mainly north-south, the other mainly east-west, both of which somehow remained visible despite the blowing sand and grit that ought to have covered up all traces of human presence.
Clark
didn't understand it. The years-long drought couldn't have helped, but even with occasional rain he had to wonder how the hell anyone had lived here. Yet some people had, and for all he knew, still did, when there was grass for their goats to eat…and no men with guns to steal the goats and kill the herdsmen. Mainly the two CIA field officers sat in their car, with the windows open, drank their bottled water, and sweated after they ran out of words to exchange.

The trucks showed up close to dusk. They saw the dust plumes first, like, the roostertails of motorboats, yellow in the diminishing light. In such an empty, desperate country, how was it possible that they knew how to make trucks run? Somebody knew how to keep them running, and that seemed very remarkable. Perversely, it meant that all was not lost for this desolate place. If bad men could do it, then good men could do it as well. And that was the reason for Clark and Chavez to be there, wasn't it?

The first truck was well in advance of the others. It was old, probably a military truck originally, though with all the body damage, the country of origin and the name of the manufacturer were matters of speculation. It circled their Rover at a radius of about a hundred meters, while the eyes of the crew checked them out at a discreet, careful distance, including one man on what looked like a Russian 12.7mm machine gun mounted in the back. “Policemen,” their boss called them—once it was “technicals.” After a while, they stopped, got out and just stood there, watching the Rover, holding their old, dirty, but probably functional AK rifles. The men would soon be less important. It was evening, after all, and the caq was out. Chavez watched a man sitting in the shade of his truck a hundred meters away, chewing on the weed.

     “Can't the dumb sunzabitches at least smoke it?” the exasperated field officer asked the burning air in the car.

“Bad for the lungs, Ding. You know that.” Their appointment for the evening made quite a living for himself by flying it in. In fact, roughly two fifths of the country's gross domestic product went into that trade, supporting a small fleet of aircraft that flew it in from
Somalia
. The fact offended both Clark and Chavez, but their mission wasn't about personal offense. It was about a long-standing debt. General Mohammed Abdul Corp—his rank had largely been awarded by reporters who didn't know what else to call him—had, once upon a time, been responsible for the deaths of twenty American soldiers. Two years ago, to be exact, far beyond the memory horizon of the media, because after he'd killed the American soldiers, he'd gone back to his main business of killing his own countrymen. It was for the latter cause that Clark and Chavez were nominally in the field, but justice had many shapes and many colors, and it pleased
Clark
to pursue a parallel agenda. That Corp was also a dealer in narcotics seemed a special gift from a good-humored God.

“Wash up before he gets here?” Ding asked, tenser now, and showing it just a little bit. All four men by the truck just sat there, chewing their caq and staring, their rifles lying across their legs, the heavy machine gun on the back of their truck forgotten now. They were the forward security element, such as it was, for their General.

Clark
shook his head. “Waste of time.”

“Shit, we've been here six weeks.” All for one appointment. Well, that was how it worked, wasn't it?

“I needed to sweat off the five pounds,”
Clark
replied with a tense smile of his own. Probably more than five, he figured. “These things take time to do right.”

“I wonder how Patsy is doing in college?” Ding murmured as the next collection of dust plumes grew closer.

Clark
didn't respond. It was distantly unseemly that his daughter found his field partner exotic and interesting…and charming,
Clark
admitted to himself. Though Ding was actually shorter than his daughter—Patsy took after her tall and rangy mom—and possessed of a decidedly checkered background, John had to allow for the fact that Chavez had worked as hard as anyone he'd ever known to make himself into something that life had tried very hard to deny him. The lad was thirty-one now. Lad?
Clark
asked himself. Ten years older than his little girl, Patricia Doris Clark. He could have said something about how they lived a rather crummy life in the field, but Ding would have replied that it was not his decision to make, and it wasn't.
Sandy
hadn't thought so either.

What
Clark
couldn't shake was the idea that his Patricia, his baby, might be sexually active with—Ding? The father part of him found the idea disturbing, but the rest of him had to admit that he'd had his own youth once. Daughters, he told himself, were God's revenge on you for being a man: you lived in mortal fear that they might accidentally encounter somebody like yourself at that age. In Patsy's case, the similarity in question was just too striking to accept easily.

“Concentrate on the mission, Ding.”

“Roger that, Mr. C.”
Clark
didn't have to turn his head. He could see the smile that had to be poised on his partner's face. He could almost feel it evaporate, too, as more dust plumes appeared through the shimmering air.