Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (154 page)

“Let’s get moving.” Diggs hopped back into his HMMWV, and the driver moved off to a piece of high ground called the Iron Triangle. A short radio message from his senior OC made the American general growl. “God damn it!”

“Problem?”

General Diggs held up a map. “That hill is the most important piece of real estate in the valley, but they didn’t see it. Well, they’re going to pay for that little misjudgment. Happens every time.” Already, the OpFor had people racing for the unoccupied summit.

“To push that far that fast, is it prudent for Blue?”

“General, it sure as hell ain’t prudent not to, as you will see.”

“WHY HASN’T HE spoken more, appeared in public more?”

The intelligence chief could have said many things. President Ryan was undoubtedly busy. So many things to do. The government of his country was in shambles, and before he could speak, he had to organize it. He had a state funeral to plan. He had to speak to numerous foreign governments, to give them the usual assurances. He had to secure things, not the least of which was his own personal safety. The American Cabinet, the President’s principal advisers, was gone and had to be reconstituted ... but that was not what he wanted to hear.

“We have been researching this Ryan,” was the answer given. Mainly from newspaper stories—a lot of them—faxed from his government’s UN mission. “He has made few public speeches before this day, and then only to present the thoughts of his masters. He was an intelligence officer—actually an ‘inside’ man, an analyst. Evidently a good one, but an inside person.”

“So, why did Durling elevate him so?”

“That was in the American papers yesterday. Their government requires a vice-presidential presence. Durling also wanted someone to firm up his international-affairs team, and in this Ryan had some experience. He performed well, remember, in their conflict with Japan.”

“An assistant then, not a leader.”

“Correct. He has never aspired to high office. Our information is that he agreed to the second post as a caretaker, for less than a year.”

“I am not surprised.” Daryaei looked at the notes:
assistant
to Vice Admiral James Greer, the DDI/CIA; briefly the
acting
DDI; then
Deputy
Director of Central Intelligence; then National Security
Advisor
to President Durling; finally he’d accepted the
temporary
post of Vice President. His impressions of this Ryan person had been correct from the very beginning: a helper. Probably a skilled one, as he himself had skilled assistants, none of whom, however, could assume his own duties. He was not dealing with an equal. Good. “What else?”

“As an intelligence specialist, he will be unusually well informed of foreign affairs. In fact, his knowledge of such things may be the best America has had in recent years, but at the cost of near-ignorance of domestic issues,” the briefing officer went on. This tidbit had come from the
New York Times.

“Ah.” And with that bit of information, the planning started. At this point it was merely a mental exercise, but that would soon change.

“SO, HOW ARE things in your army?” Diggs asked. The two generals stood alone atop the principal terrain feature, watching the battle play out below them with low-light viewing gear. As predicted, the 32nd—Bondarenko had to think of them that way—had overwhelmed the Blue Force reconnaissance screen, maneuvered to the left, and was now rolling up the “enemy” brigade. With the lack of real casualties, it was a lovely thing to watch as the blinking yellow “dead” lights lit up one by one. Then he had to answer the question.

“Dreadful. We face the task of rebuilding everything from the ground up.”

Diggs turned. “Well, sir, that’s where I came in at.” At
least you don’t have to deal with drugs,
the American thought. He could remember being a new second lieutenant, and afraid to enter barracks without sidearms. If the Russians had made their move in the early 1970s... “You really want to use our model?”

“Perhaps.” The only thing the Americans got wrong—and right—was that the Red Force allowed tactical initiative for its sub-unit commanders, something the Soviet Army would never have done. But, combined with doctrine developed by the Voroshilov Academy, the results were plain to see. That was something to remember, and Bondarenko had broken rules in his own tactical encounters, which was one reason why he was a living three-star instead of a dead colonel. He was also the newly appointed chief of operations for the Russian Army. “The problem is money, of course.”

“I’ve heard that song before, General.” Diggs allowed himself a rueful chuckle.

Bondarenko had a plan for that. He wanted to cut the size of his army by fifty percent, and the money saved would go directly into training the remaining half. The results of such a plan he could see before him. Traditionally, the Soviet Army had depended on mass, but the Americans had proven both here and in Iraq that training was master of the battlefield. As good as their equipment was—he’d get his matériel briefing tomorrow—he envied Diggs his personnel more than anything. Proof of that arrived the moment he formed the thought.

“General?” The new arrival saluted. “Blackhorse! We stripped their knickers right off.”

“This is Colonel Al Hamm. He’s CO of the 11th. His second tour here. He used to be OpFor operations officer. Don’t play cards with him,” Diggs warned.

“The general is too kind. Welcome to the desert, General Bondarenko.” Hamm extended a large hand.

“Your attack was well executed, Colonel.” The Russian examined him.

“Thank you, sir. I have some great kids working for me. Blue Force was overly tentative. We caught them between two chairs,” Hamm explained. He looked like a Russian, Bondarenko thought, tall and meaty with a pale, florid complexion surrounding twinkling blue eyes. For this occasion, Hamm was dressed in his old “Russian”-style uniform, complete with a red star on the tanker’s beret, and his pistol belt outside the over-long blouse. It didn’t quite make the Russian feel at home, but he appreciated the respect the Americans showed him.

“Diggs, you were right. Blue should have done everything to get here first. But you made them start too far back to make that option seem attractive.”

“That’s the problem with battlefields,” Hamm answered for his boss. “Too much of the time they choose you instead of the other way around. That’s lesson number one for the boys of the 5th Mech. If you let anybody else define the terms of the battle, well, it isn’t much fun.”

5

ARRANGEMENTS

I
T TURNED OUT THAT both Sato and his co-pilot had donated blood for purposes of helping casualties in the abortive war with America, and the blessedly small numbers of wounded had never called that blood into use. Located by computer search by the Japanese Red Cross, samples had been obtained by the police and dispatched by messenger to Washington, via Vancouver—Japanese commercial aircraft were, understandably, still not permitted to fly into the United States, even Alaska—and an Air Force VC-20 from there to Washington. The courier was a senior police officer, with the aluminum case handcuffed to his left wrist. A trio of FBI agents met him at Andrews and drove him to the Hoover building at Tenth and Pennsylvania. The FBI’s DNA lab took the samples and went to work to compare them with blood and other tissue specimens from the bodies. They already had matches for the blood types, and the results of the tests seemed a foregone conclusion, which would, nonetheless, be treated as though they were the only tenuous clue in a baffling case. Dan Murray, the acting Director, wasn’t exactly a slave to “the book” in criminal investigations, but for the purposes of this case, the book was Holy Writ. Backing him up were Tony Caruso, back from his vacation and working around the clock to head up the Bureau’s side of the investigation, Pat O’Day in his capacity as roving inspector, and a cast of hundreds, if not quite thousands yet. Murray met the Japanese representative in the Director’s conference room. He, too, found it hard to move into Bill Shaw’s office right away.

“We are performing our own tests,” Chief Inspector Jisaburo Tanaka said, checking his watches—he had decided to wear two, one each for Tokyo and Washington time. “They will be faxed here as soon as they are completed.” Then he opened his briefcase again. “Here is our reconstruction of Captain Sato’s schedule for the last week, notes of interviews with family members and colleagues, background on his life.”

“Fast work. Thank you.” Murray took the pages, not quite sure what to do next. It was clear that his visitor wanted to say more. Murray and Tanaka had never met, but the word on his guest was impressive enough. A skilled and experienced investigator, Tanaka had specialized in political-corruption violations, a specialty that had kept him very busy. Tanaka had the Cromwellian look of such a policeman. His professional life had turned him into a priest of the sort used by the Spanish to burn people at the stake. That made him perfect for this case.

“You will have our total cooperation. In fact, if you wish to send a senior official from your agency to oversee our investigation, I am authorized to tell you that we will welcome it.” He paused for a few seconds, looking down before proceeding. “This is a disgrace for my country. The way those people
used
us all ...” For a representative of a country incorrectly known for its lack of emotional display, Tanaka was a surprise. His hands balled tightly, and his dark eyes burned with anger. From the conference room, both men could look down Pennsylvania Avenue to a Capitol Hill scarred by the crash, still lit in the pre-dawn darkness by the hundreds of work lights.

“The co-pilot was murdered,” Murray said. Maybe that would help a little.

“Oh?”

Dan nodded. “Stabbed, and it appears as though that took place prior to the take-off. It appears at the moment that Sato acted alone—at least as far as flying the airplane was concerned.” The lab had already determined that the weapon used was a thin-bladed steak knife with a serrated edge, of the sort used on the airline. As long as he’d been in the investigative business, it still amazed Murray what the lab techs could discern.

“I see. That makes sense,” Tanaka observed. “The co-pilot’s wife is pregnant, with twins, in fact. She is in the hospital now under close observation. What we have learned to date makes him appear to be a devoted husband and a man of no special political interests. My people thought it unlikely that he would end his life in this way.”

“Did Sato have any connections with—”

A shake of the head. “None that we have found. He flew one of the conspirators to Saipan, and they spoke briefly. Aside from that, Sato was an international pilot. His friends were his colleagues. He lived quietly in a modest house near Narita International Airport. But his brother was a senior officer in the Maritime Self-Defense Force, and his son was a fighter pilot. Both died during the hostilities.”

Murray already knew that.
Motive and opportunity.
He scribbled a note to have the legal attaché in Tokyo take up the offer to participate in the Japanese investigation—but he’d have to get approval from Justice and/or State about that. For damned sure the offer seemed sincere enough. Good.

“LOVE THE TRAFFIC,” Chavez observed. They were coming up I-95, passing the Springfield Mall. Normally at this time of day—it was still dark—the highway was wall-to-wall with bureaucrats and lobbyists. Not today, though John and Ding had been called in, confirming their “essential” status to any who might have doubted it. Clark didn’t respond, and the junior officer continued, “How do you suppose Dr. Ryan is doing?”

John grunted and shrugged. “Probably rolling with the punches. Better him than me.”

“Roge-o, Mr. C. All my friends at George Mason are going to have a fine old time.”

“Think so?”

“John, he’s got a government to rebuild. This will be a textbook case in real life. Ain’t nobody ever done that before,
’mano.
You know what we’re going to find out?”

A nod. “Yeah, if this place really works or not.”
Better him than me,
John thought again. They’d been called in for their mission debriefing on operations in Japan. That was ticklish enough. Clark had been in the business for quite a while, but not long enough to be especially happy about telling others the things he’d done. He and Ding had killed—not for the first lime—and now they’d get to describe it in detail to people, most of whom had never even held a gun, much less fired one in anger. Secrecy oaths or not, some of them might talk someday, the least consequence of which would be embarrassing revelations in the press. Somewhere in the middle came sworn testimony before a congressional committee—well, not anytime soon on that, John corrected himself—questioning under oath and the necessity of answering questions from people who didn’t understand any better than the CIA weenies who sat at desks and judged people in the field for a living. The worst case was an actual prosecution, because while the things he had done weren’t exactly illegal, they weren’t exactly legal, either. Somehow the Constitution and the United States Code, Annotated, had never quite reconciled themselves with the activities the government carried out but did not wish to admit in open fora. Though his conscience was clear on that and many other things, his views on tactical morality wouldn’t strike everyone as reasonable. Probably Ryan would understand, though. That was something.

“WHAT’S NEW THIS morning?” Jack asked.

“We expect recovery operations to be completed by this evening, sir.” It was Pat O’Day doing the morning FBI brief. He’d explained that Murray was busy. The inspector passed over a folder with the numbers of bodies recovered. Ryan gave it a quick scan. How the hell was he supposed to eat breakfast with such facts before him? the President wondered. Fortunately, there was just coffee at the moment.