Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (82 page)

The crew of the third E-767 was unhappy, and their fighter escorts even more so. Enemy aircraft were looking at their coastline, and even if they were six hundred kilometers out, they still didn't belong in the neighborhood. But they switched their radar systems to standby. Probably EC-135s, they thought, surveillance aircraft, assembling an electronic order of battle for their country. And if the American mission were to gather information, then the smart thing to do was to deny them the information they wanted. And it was easy to do, or so the radar-controller officers told themselves.

•     •     •

We'll go closer in the next time
, the aircraft commander told himself. First electronics experts would have to examine the data and try to determine what was and what wasn't safe, betting the lives of fellow Air Force officers with their conclusions. That was a happy thought. The crew relaxed, yawned, and started talking, mainly about the mission and what they had learned. Four and a half hours back to Elmendorf, and a shower, and some mandated crew rest.

The Japanese controllers were still not completely sure that they'd had contacts at all, but that would be determined by examining their onboard tapes. Their patrol patterns returned to their normal monitoring of commercial air traffic, and a few comments were exchanged on why the devil that traffic still continued. The answers were mainly shrugs and raised eyebrows and even more uncertainty than had existed when they'd thought they were tracking contacts. There was just something about looking at a radar screen for more than a few hours. Sooner or later your imagination took over, and the more you thought about it, the worse it got. But that, they knew, was the same for the other side in the game, too.

The central-bank heads were accustomed to VIP treatment. Their flights all arrived at John F. Kennedy International within the same hour. Each was met by a senior diplomat from their respective countries' U.N. delegations, whisked past customs control, and sent to the city in a car with diplomatic tags. The common destination surprised them all, but the Federal Reserve Chairman explained that for convenience the New York FBI office was a better place for coordination than the local Federal Reserve bank, especially since it was large enough to accommodate the directors of the major trading houses—and since antitrust regulations were being suspended in the interest of American national security. That notification bemused the European visitors. Finally, they thought,
America
understood the national-security implications of financial matters. It had certainly taken them long enough.

George Winston and Mark Gant began their final briefing on the events of the

previous week after an introduction from the Chairman and Secretary Fiedler, and

by this time they had the presentation down pat.

“Bloody clever,” the head of the Bank of England observed to his German counterpart.

“Jawohl,” was the whispered reply.

“How do we prevent something like this from happening again?” one of them wondered aloud.

“Better record-keeping systems for starters,” Fiedler replied alertly after something approaching a decent night's sleep. “Aside from that…? It's something we need to study for a while. Of greater interest are the remedial measures which we must now consider.”

“The yen must suffer for this,” the French banker observed at once. “And we must help you to protect the dollar in order to protect our own currencies.”

“Yes.” The Fed Chairman nodded at once. “Jean-Jacques, I'm glad you see it the same way we do.”

“And to save your equities markets, what will you do?” the head of the Bundesbank asked.

“This is going to sound somewhat crazy, but we think it will work,” Secretary Fiedler began, outlining the procedures that President Durling had not revealed in his speech and whose execution depended to a large degree on European cooperation. The visitors shared a common look, first of incredulity, then of approval.

Fiedler smiled. “Might I suggest that we coordinate our activities for Friday?”

Nine in the morning was considered an ungodly hour for the commencement of diplomatic negotiations, which helped the situation. The American delegation arrived at the Japanese Embassy on
Massachusetts Avenue, N.W.
, in private cars, the better to conceal the situation.

The formalities were observed in all particulars. The conference room was large, with a correspondingly large table. The Americans took their places on one side and the Japanese on the other. Handshakes were exchanged because these were diplomats and such things were to be expected. Tea and coffee were available, but most just poured glasses of ice water into crystal glasses. To the annoyance of the Americans, some of the Japanese smoked. Scott Adler wondered if they did it just to unsettle him, and so to break the ice he requested and got a smoke from the Ambassador's chief aide.

“Thank you for receiving us,” he began in a measured voice.

“Welcome, again, to our embassy,” the Japanese Ambassador replied with a friendly if wary nod.

“Shall we begin?” Adler asked.

“Please.” The Ambassador leaned back in his chair and adopted a relaxed posture to show that he was at ease and that he would listen politely to the impending discourse.

“The
United States
is gravely concerned with developments in the Western Pacific,” Adler began. Gravely concerned was the right turn of phrase. When nations are gravely concerned, it usually means that they are contemplating violent action. “As you know, the inhabitants of the
Mariana Islands
hold American citizenship, and do so because of their own wishes, freely expressed in an election almost twenty years ago. For that reason the
United States of America
will not under any circumstances accept Japanese occupation of those islands, and we req—no,” Adler corrected himself, “we demand the return of those islands to
U.S.
sovereignty forthwith, and the immediate and total removal of Japanese armed forces from the territories in question. We similarly require the immediate release of any and all
U.S.
citizens held by your government. Failure to comply with these requirements will entail the most serious possible consequences.”

Everyone in the room thought the opening position statement was unequivocal. If anything it was a little too strong, the Japanese diplomats thought, even those who deemed their country's actions to be madness.

“I personally regret the tone of your statement,” the Ambassador replied, giving Adler a diplomatic slap across the face. “On the substantive issues, we will listen to your position and consider its merit against our own security interests.” This was a diplomat's way of saying that Adler would now have to repeat what he had just said—with amplifications. It was an implicit demand for another statement, one that conceded something, in return for which was the implied promise that there might be a concession on the part of his government.

“Perhaps I did not make myself sufficiently clear,” Adler said after a sip of water. “Your country has committed an act of war against the
United States of America
. The consequences of such acts are very grave. We offer your country the opportunity to withdraw from those acts without further bloodshed.”

The other Americans siting at the table communicated without words and without a look: Hardball. There had scarcely been time for the American team to develop its thoughts and approaches, and Adler had gone further than they'd expected.

“Again,” the Ambassador said after his own moment of contemplation, “I find your tone personally regrettable. As you know, my country has legitimate security interests, and has been the victim of unfortunate legal actions which can have no effect other than severe damage to our economic and physical security. Article 51 of the United Nations Charter specifically recognizes the right of any sovereign nation to self-defense measures. We have done no more than that.” It was a skillful parry, even the Americans thought, and the renewed request for civility suggested a real opening for maneuver.

The initial discussions went on for another ninety minutes, with neither side budging, each merely repeating words, with hardly a change of phrase. Then it was time for a break. Security personnel opened the French doors to the embassy's elegant garden, and everyone went out, ostensibly for fresh air but really for more work. The garden was too large to bug, especially with a brisk wind blowing through the trees.

“So, Chris, we've begun,” Seiji Nagumo said, sipping his coffee—he'd chosen it to show how sympathetic he was with the American position; for the same reason, Christopher Cook was drinking tea.

“What did you expect us to say?” the Deputy Assistant Secretary of State asked.

“The opening position is not surprising,” Nagumo conceded.

Cook looked away, staring at the wall that enclosed the garden. He spoke quietly. “What will you give up?”

“
Guam
, definitely, but it must be demilitarized,” Nagumo replied in the same voice. “And you?”

“So far, nothing.”

“You must give me something to work with, Chris,” Nagumo observed.

“There's nothing to offer, except maybe a cessation of hostilities—before they actually start.”

“When will that happen?”

“Not anytime soon, thank God. We do have time to work with. Let's make good use of it,” Cook urged.

“I'll pass that along. Thank you.” Nagumo wandered off to join a member of his delegation. Cook did the same, ending up three minutes later with Scott Adler.

“
Guam
, demilitarized. That's definite. Maybe more. That's not definite.”

“Interesting,” Adler thought. “So you were right on their allowing us to save face. Nice call, Chris.”

“What will we offer them back?”

“Gornisch,” the Deputy Secretary of State said coldly. He was thinking about his father, and the tattoo on his forearm, and how he'd learned that a 9 was an upside-down 6, and how his father's freedom had been taken away by a country once allied with the owner of this embassy and its lovely if cold garden. It was somewhat unprofessional and Adler knew it.
Japan
had offered a safe haven during those years to a few lucky European Jews, one of whom had become a cabinet secretary under Jimmy Carter. Perhaps if his father had been one of those fortunate few, his attitude might have been different, but his father hadn't, and his wasn't. “For starters we lean on them hard and see what happens.”

“I think that's a mistake,” Cook said after a moment.

“Maybe,” Adler conceded. “But they made the mistake first.”

The military people didn't like it at all. It annoyed the civilians, who had established the site approximately five times as fast as these uniformed boneheads would have managed, not to mention doing it in total secrecy and less expensively.

“It never occurred to you to hide the site?” the Japanese general demanded.

“How could anyone find this?” the senior engineer shot back.

“They have cameras in orbit that can pick up a packet of cigarettes lying on the ground.”

“And a whole country to survey.” The engineer shrugged. “And we are in the bottom of a valley whose sides are so steep that an inbound ballistic warhead can't possibly hit it without striking those peaks first.” The man pointed. “And now they do not even have the missiles they need to do it,” he added.

The General had instructions to be patient, and he was, after his initial outburst. It was his site to command now. “The first principle is to deny information to the other side.”

“So we hide it, then?” the engineer asked politely.

“Yes.”

“Camouflage netting on the catenary towers?” They'd done it during the construction phase.

“If you have them, it's a good beginning. Later we can consider other more permanent measures.”

“By train, eh?” The AMTRAK official noted after the completion of his briefing. “Back when I started in the business, I was with the Great Northern, and the Air Force came to us half a dozen times about how to move missiles around by rail. We ended up moving a lot of concrete in for them.”

“So you've actually thought this one over a few times?” Betsy Fleming asked.

“Oh, yeah.” The official paused. “Can I see the pictures now?” The goddamned security briefing had taken hours of unnecessary threats, after which he'd been sent back to his hotel to contemplate the forms-and to allow the FBI to run a brief security check, he imagined.

Chris Scott flipped the slide projector on. He and Fleming had already made their own analysis, but the purpose of having an outside consultant was to get a free and fresh opinion. The first shot was of the missile, just to give him a feel for the size of the thing. Then they went to the shot of the train car.

“Okay, it sure looks like a flatcar, longer than most, probably specially made for the load. Steel construction. The Japanese are good at this sort of thing. Good engineers. There's a crane to lift something. How much docs one of these monsters weigh?”

“Figure a hundred tons for the missile itself,” Betsy answered. “Maybe twenty for the transporter-container.”

“That's pretty heavy for a single object, but not all that big a deal. Well within limits for the car and the roadbed.” He paused for a moment. “I don't see any obvious electronics connections, just the usual brake lines and stuff. You expect them to launch off the cars?”

“Probably not. You tell us,” Chris Scott said.

“Same thing I told the Air Force twenty-some years ago for the MX. Yeah, you can move them around, but it doesn't make finding them all that hard unless you assume that you're going to make a whole lot of railcars that look exactly alike—and even then, like for the mainline on the Northern, you have a fairly simple target. Just a long, thin line, and guess what, our mainline from
Minneapolis
to
Seattle
was longer than all the standard-gauge track in their country.”

“So?” Fleming asked.

“So this isn't a launch car. It's just a transport car. You didn't need me to tell you that.”