Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (111 page)

Yamata nodded as though acknowledging a property acquisition. “Hai, I have done all these things, and it was not difficult. Tell me, Koga, how hard is it to get a politician to do anything?”

“And your friends, Matsuda and the rest?”

“Everyone needs guidance from time to time.”
Almost everyone,
Yamata didn’t say. “At the end of this, we will have a fully integrated economy, two firm and powerful allies, and in time we will again have our trade because the rest of the world needs us.” Didn’t this politician see that? Didn’t he understand?

“Do you understand America as poorly as that? Our current difficulties began because a single family was burned alive. They are not the same as us. They think differently. Their religion is different. They have the most violent culture in the world, yet they worship justice. They venerate making money, but their roots are found in ideals. Can’t you grasp that?
They will not tolerate
what you have done!” Koga paused. “And your plan for Russia—do you really think that—”

“With China helping us?” Yamata smiled. “The two of us can handle Russia.”

“And China will remain our ally?” Koga asked. “We killed twenty million Chinese in the Second World War, and their political leadership has not forgotten.”

“They need us, and they know they need us. And together—”

“Yamata-san,” Koga said quietly, politely, because it was his nature, “you do not understand politics as well as you understand business. It will be your downfall.”

Yamata replied in kind. “And treason will be yours. I know you have contacts with the Americans.”

“Not so. I have not spoken with an American citizen in weeks.” An indignant reply would not have carried the power of the matter-of-fact tone.

“Well, in any case, you will be my guest here for the time being,” Raizo told him. “We will see how ignorant of political matters I am. In two years I will be Prime Minister, Koga-san. In two years we will be a superpower.” Yamata stood. His apartment covered the entire top floor of the forty-story building, and the Olympian view pleased him. The industrialist stood and walked toward the, floor-to-ceiling windows, surveying the city which would soon be his capital. What a pity that Koga didn’t understand how things really worked. But for the moment he had to fly back to Saipan, to begin his political ascendancy. He turned back.

“You will see. You are my guest for the moment. Behave yourself and you will be treated well. Attempt to escape, and your body will be found in pieces on some railroad tracks along with a note apologizing for your political failures.”

“You will not have that satisfaction,” the former Prime Minister replied coldly.

40

Foxes and Hounds

Scherenko had planned to do the meet himself, but urgent business had prevented him from doing so. It turned out to be just as well. The message, delivered via computer disk, was from his top agent-in-place, the Deputy Director of the PSID. Whatever the man’s personal habits, he was a canny political observer, if somewhat verbose in his reports and evaluations. The Japanese military, he said, was not the least displeased by their immediate prospects. Frustrated by years of having been labeled as a “self-defense force” and relegated in the public’s mind to getting in the way of Godzilla and other unlikely monsters (usually to their misfortune), they deemed themselves custodians of a proud warrior tradition, and now, finally, with political leadership worthy of their mettle, their command leadership relished the chance to show what they could do. Mainly products of American training and professional education, the senior officers had made their estimate of the situation and announced to everyone who would listen that they could and would win this limited contest—and, the PSID director went on, they thought the chances of conquering Siberia were excellent.

This evaluation and the report from the two CIA officers were relayed to Moscow at once. So there was dissension in the Japanese government, and at least one of its professional departments had a slight grasp on reality. It was gratifying to the Russian, but he also remembered how a German intelligence chief named Canaris had done much the same thing in 1939, and had completely failed to accomplish anything. It was an historical model that he intended to break. The trick with wars was to prevent them from growing large. Scherenko didn’t hold with the theory that diplomacy could keep them from starting, but he did believe that good intelligence and decisive action could keep them from going too far—if you had the political will to take the proper action. It worried him, however, that it was Americans who had to show that will.

“It’s called Operation ZORRO, Mr. President,” Robby Jackson said, flipping the cover off the first chart. The Secretaries of State and Defense were there in the Situation Room, along with Ryan and Arnie van Damm. The two cabinet secretaries were ill at ease right now, but then so was the Deputy J-3. Ryan nodded for him to go on.

“The mission is to dislocate the command leadership of the other side by precisely targeting those individuals who—”

“You mean murder them?” Brett Hanson asked. He looked over at SecDef, who didn’t react at all.

“Mr. Secretary, we don’t want to engage their civilian population. That means we cannot attack their economy. We can’t drop bridges in their cities. Their military is too decentralized in location to—”

“We can’t do this,” Hanson interrupted again.

“Mr. Secretary,” Ryan said coolly, “can we at least hear what the plan is before we decide what we should and should not do?”

Hanson nodded gruffly, and Jackson continued his brief. “The pieces,” he concluded, “are largely in place now. We’ve eliminated two of their air-surveillance assets—”

“When did that happen? How did we do it?”

“It happened last night,” Ryan answered. “How we did it is not your concern, sir.”

“Who ordered it?” This question came from President Durling.

“I did, sir. It was well covered, and the operation went off without a hitch.” Durling replied with his eyes that Ryan was pushing his limits again.

“How many people did that kill?” the Secretary of State demanded.

“About fifty, and that’s two hundred or so
less
than the number of our people whom they killed, Mr. Secretary.”

“Look, we can talk them out of the islands if we just take the time,” SecState said, and now the argument was bilateral, with all the others watching.

“That’s not what Adler says.”

“Chris Cook thinks so, and he’s got a guy inside their delegation.”

Durling watched impassively, again letting his staff people—that’s how he thought of them—handle the debate. For him there were other questions. Politics would again raise its ugly head. If he failed to respond to the crisis effectively, then he was
out.
Someone else would be President then, and that someone else would be faced in the following year at the latest with a wider crisis. Even worse, if the Russian intelligence estimate were correct and if Japan and China made their move on Siberia in the coming autumn, then another, larger crisis would strike during an American election cycle, seriously impeding his country’s ability to deal with it, making everything a political debate, with an economy still trying to recover from a hundred-billion-dollar trade shortfall.

“If we fail to act now, Mr. Secretary, there’s no telling how far this thing might go,” Ryan was saying now.

“We can work this out diplomatically,” Hanson insisted.

“And if not?” Durling asked.

“Then in due course we can consider a measured military response.” SecState’s confidence was not reflected in SecDef’s expression.

“You have something to add?” the President asked him.

“It will be some time—years—before we can assemble the forces necessary to—”

“We don’t
have
years,” Ryan snapped.

“No, I don’t think that we do,” Durling observed. “Admiral, will it work?”

“I think it can, sir. We need a few breaks to come our way, but we got the biggest one last night.”

“We don’t have the necessary forces to assure success,” SecDef said. “The Task Force commander just sent in his estimate and—”

“I’ve seen it,” Jackson said, not quite able to conceal his uneasiness at the truth of the report. “But I know the CAG, Captain Bud Sanchez. Known him for years, and he says he can do it, and I believe him. Mr. President, don’t be overly affected by the numbers. It isn’t about numbers. It’s about fighting a war, and we have more experience in that than they do. It’s about psychology, and playing to our strengths rather than theirs. War isn’t what it used to be. Used to be you needed huge forces to destroy the enemy’s capacity to fight and his ability to coordinate and command his forces. Okay, fifty years ago you needed a lot to do that, but the targets you want to hit are actually very small, and if you can hit those small targets, you accomplish the same thing now as you used to need a million men to do before.”

“It’s cold-blooded murder,” Hanson snarled. “That’s what it is.”

Jackson turned from his place at the lectern. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what war is, but this way we’re not killing some poor nineteen-year-old son of a bitch who joined up because he liked the uniform. We’re going to kill the bastard who sent him out to die and doesn’t even know his name. With all due respect, sir, I have killed people, and I know exactly what it feels like. Just once, just one time, I’d like a crack at the people who give the orders instead of the poor dumb bastards who’re stuck with carrying them out.”

Durling almost smiled at that, remembering all the fantasies, and even a TV commercial once, about how different it might be if the president and prime ministers and other senior officials who ordered men off to the field of battle instead met and slugged it out personally.

“You’re still going to have to kill a lot of kids,” the President said. Admiral Jackson drew back from his angry demeanor before answering.

“I know that, sir, but with luck, a lot less.”

“When do you have to know?”

“The pieces are largely in place now. We can initiate the operation in less than five hours. After that, we’re daylight limited. Twenty-four-hour intervals after that.”

“Thank you, Admiral Jackson. Could you all excuse me for a few minutes?” The men filed out until Durling had another thought. “Jack? Could you stay a minute?” Ryan turned and sat back down.

“It had to be done, sir. One way or another, if we’re going to take those nukes out—”

“I know.” The President looked down at his desk. All the briefing papers and maps and charts were spread out. All the order-of-battle documents. At least he’d been spared the casualty estimates, probably at Ryan’s direction. After a second they heard the door close.

Ryan spoke first. “Sir, there’s one other thing. Former Prime Minister Koga has been arrested—excuse me, we only know that he’s kinda disappeared.”

“What does that mean? Why didn’t you bring that up before?”

“The arrest happened less than twenty-four hours after I told Scott Adler that Koga had been contacted. I didn’t even tell him whom he’d been in contact with. Now, that could be a coincidence. Goto and his master just might not want him making political noise while they carry out their operation. It could also mean that there’s a leak somewhere.”

“Who on our side knows?”

“Ed and Mary Pat at CIA. Me. You. Scott Adler and whomever Scott told.”

“But we don’t know for sure that there’s a leak.”

“No, sir, we don’t. But it is extremely likely.”

“Set it aside for now. What if we don’t do anything?”

“Sir, we have to. If we don’t, then sometime in the future you can expect a war between Russia on one hand and Japan and China on the other, with us doing God knows what. CIA is still trying to do its estimate, but I don’t see how the war can fail to go nuclear. ZORRO may not be the prettiest thing we’ve ever tried to do, but it’s the best chance we have. The diplomatic issues are not important,” Ryan went on. “We’re playing for much higher stakes now. But if we can kill off the guys who initiated this mess, then we can cause Goto’s government to fall. And then we can get things back under some sort of control.”

The odd part, Durling realized, was the trade-off concerning which side was pitching which sort of moderation. Hanson and SecDef took the classical diplomatic line—they wanted to take the time to be sure there was no other option to resolve the crisis through peaceful means, but if diplomacy failed, then the door was opened for a much wider and bloodier conflict. Ryan and Jackson wanted to apply violence at once in the hope of avoiding a wider war later. The hell of it was, either side could be right or wrong, and the only way to know for sure was to read the history books twenty years from now.

“If the plan doesn’t work ...”

“Then we’ve killed some of our people for nothing,” Jack said honestly. “You will pay a fairly high price yourself, sir.”

“What about the fleet commander—I mean the guy commanding the carrier group. What about him?”

“If he chokes, the whole thing comes apart.”

“Replace him,” the President said. “The mission is approved.” There was one other item to be discussed. Ryan walked the President through that one, too, before leaving the room and making his phone calls.

The perfect Air Force mission, people in blue uniforms liked to say, was run by a mere captain. This one was commanded locally by a special-operations colonel, but at least he was a man who’d been recently passed over for general’s rank, a fact that endeared him to his subordinates, who knew why he’d failed to screen for flag rank. People in spec-ops just didn’t fit in with the button-down ideal of senior leadership. They were too ... eccentric for that.

The final mission brief evolved from data sent by real-time link from Fort Meade, Maryland, to Verino, and the Americans still cringed at the knowledge that Russians were learning all sorts of things about America’s ability to gather and analyze electronic data via satellite and other means—after all, the capability had been developed for use against
them.
The exact positions of two operating E-767s were precisely plotted. Visual satellite data had counted fighter aircraft—at least those not in protective shelters—and the orbiting KH-12’s last pass had counted airborne aircraft and their positions. The colonel commanding the detachment went over the penetration course that he had personally worked out with the flight crew, and while there were worries, the two young captains who would fly the C-17A transport chewed their gum and nodded final approval. One of them even joked about how it was time a “trash-hauler” got a little respect.