Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (246 page)

“How fast can you set it up?” the President asked.

“Pretty fast,” the Secretary of State replied.

“Do it,” Ryan ordered. “All possible speed. Ben?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I talked with Robby Jackson already. Coordinate with him for a plan to get a modest security force rapid-deployed over there. Enough to show that we’re interested, not enough to provoke them. Let’s also call Kuwait and tell them that we’re here if they need us, and that we
can
deploy to their country if they so request. Who’s on-deck for this?”

“Twenty-fourth Mech, Fort Stewart, Georgia. I checked,” Goodley said, rather proud of himself. “Their second brigade is on rotating alert-status now. Also a brigade of the 82nd at Fort Bragg. With the equipment warehoused in Kuwait, we can do the match-up and be rolling in as little as forty-eight hours. I’d also advise increasing the readiness state of the Maritime Pre-Positioning Ships at Diego Garcia. That we can do quietly.”

“Nice job, Ben. Call the SecDef and tell him I want it done—quietly.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I’ll tell Daryaei that we offer a friendly hand to the United Islamic Republic,” Adler said. “Also that we’re committed to peace and stability in that region, and that means territorial integrity. I wonder what he’ll say ...?”

Eyes turned to Bert Vasco, who was learning to curse his newly acquired status as resident genius. “He might just have wanted to rattle their cage. I don’t think he wants to rattle ours.”

“That’s your first hedge,” Ryan observed.

“Not enough information,” Vasco replied. “I don’t see that he wants a conflict with us. That happened once, and everybody watched. Yes, he doesn’t like us. Yes, he doesn’t like the Saudis or any of the other states. But, no, he doesn’t want to take us on. Maybe he could knock them all off. That’s a military call, and I’m just an FSO. But not with us in the game, and he knows it. So, political pressure on Kuwait and the Kingdom, sure. Beyond that, however, I don’t see enough to be worried about.”

“Yet,” the President added.

“Yes, sir,
yet,”
Vasco agreed.

“Am I leaning on you too hard, Bert?”

“It’s okay, Mr. President. At least you listen to me. It wouldn’t hurt for us to generate a Special National Intelligence Estimate of the UIR’s full capabilities and intentions. I need broader access to what the intel community’s generating.”

Jack turned. “Ben, the SNIE is ordered. Bert’s on the team with full access, by my order. You know, guys, giving orders can be fun,” the President added, with a smile to break up the tension that the meeting had generated. “This is a potential problem, but not a ball-buster yet, correct?” There were nods. “Okay. Thank you, gentlemen. Let’s keep an eye on this one.”

SINGAPORE AIRLINES FLIGHT 26 landed five minutes later, coming to the terminal at 10:25 A.M. The first-class passengers, having enjoyed wider, softer seats, now enjoyed quicker access to the entry rigmarole which America inflicts on her visitors. The traveler recovered his two-suiter from the carousel, and with his carry-on slung on his other shoulder, picked a line to stand in, in his hand held his entry card, which declared nothing of interest to the United States government. The truth would not have been pleasing to them in any case.

“Hello,” the inspector said, taking the card and scanning it. The passport came next. It seemed an old one, its pages liberally covered with exit and entry stamps. He found a blank page and prepared to make a new mark. “Purpose of your visit to America?”

“Business,” the traveler replied. “I am here for the auto show at Javits Center.”

“Uh-huh.” The inspector had scarcely heard the answer. The stamp was placed and the visitor pointed to another line. There his bags were X-rayed instead of opened. “Anything to declare?”

“No.” Simple answers were best. Another inspector looked at the TV display of the bag and saw nothing interesting. The traveler was waved through, and he collected his bags from the conveyor and walked out to where the taxis were.

Amazing, he thought, finding a place in another line, and getting into a cab in less than five minutes. His first concern, being caught at the customs checkpoint, was behind him. For his next, the taxi he was in could not have been pre-selected for him. He’d fumbled with his bags and let a woman go ahead of him in order to keep that from happening. Now he slumped back in his seat and made a show of looking around, while in reality looking to see if there was a car following the cab into town. The pre-lunchtime traffic was so dense that it hardly seemed possible, all the more so that he was in one of thousands of yellow vehicles, darting in and out of traffic like cattle in a stampede. About the only bad news was that his hotel was sufficiently far from the convention center that he’d need another cab. Well, that couldn’t be helped, and he needed to check in first anyway.

Another thirty minutes and he was in the hotel, in the elevator, going up to the sixth floor, a helpful bellman holding his two-suiter while the traveler retained his carry-on. He tipped the bellman two dollars—he’d been briefed on what to tip; better to give a modest one than to be remembered as one who’d tipped too much or not at all—which was taken with gratitude, but not too much. With his entry tasks complete, the traveler unpacked his suits and shirts, also removing extraneous items from his carry-on. The shaving kit he left in, using what the hotel provided to re-shave his bristly face after a cleansing shower. Despite the tension, he was amazed at how good he felt. He’d been on the go for—what? Twenty-two hours? Something like that. But he’d gotten a lot of sleep, and air travel didn’t make him anxious, as it did for so many. He ordered lunch from the room-service menu, then dressed, and slinging his carry-on over his shoulder, walked downstairs and got a cab for the Javits Center. The auto show, he thought. He’d always liked cars.

Behind him in space and time, most of the nineteen others were still in the air. Some were just landing—Boston first, then more in New York, and one at Dulles—to make their own way through customs, testing their knowledge and their luck against the Great Satan, or whatever rubbish Daryaei termed their collective enemy. Satan, after all, had great powers and was worthy of respect. Satan could look in a man’s eyes and see his thoughts, almost as Allah could. No, these Americans were functionaries, only dangerous to them if given warning.

“YOU HAVE TO know how to read people,” Clark told them. It was a good class. Unlike people in a conventional school, they all wanted to learn. It almost took him back to his own days here at the Farm, at the height of the Cold War, when everyone had wanted to be James Bond and actually believed a little in it despite everything the instructors had said. Most of his classmates had been recent college grads, well educated from books but not yet from life. Most had learned pretty well. Some hadn’t, and the flunking grade out in the field could be more than a red mark on a blue book, but mainly it had been less dramatic than what they showed in the movies. Just the realization that it was time for a career change. Clark had higher hopes for this bunch. Maybe they hadn’t arrived with degrees in history from Dartmouth or Brown, but they had studied something, somewhere, then learned more on the streets of some big cities. Maybe they even knew that
everything
they learned would be important to them someday.

“Will they lie to us—our agents, I mean?”

“You’re from Pittsburgh, Mr. Stone, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You worked confidential informants on the street. They ever lie to you?”

“Sometimes,” Stone admitted.

“There’s your answer. They will lie about their importance, the danger they’re in, damned near anything, depending on how they feel today. You have to know them and know their moods. Stone, did you know when your informants were telling sea stories?”

“Most of the time.”

“How did you tell?” Clark asked.

“Whenever they know a little too much, whenever it doesn’t fit—”

“You know,” their instructor observed with a grin, “you people are so smart that sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here. It’s about knowing people. In your careers at the Agency, you will always be running into folks who think they can tell it all from overheads—the satellite knows all and tells all. Not exactly,” Clark went on. “Satellites can be fooled, and it’s easier than people like to admit. People have their weaknesses, too, ego foremost among them, and there is never a substitute for looking them in the eyes. But the nice thing about working agents in the field is, even their lies will reveal some of the truth to you. Case in point, Moscow, Kutuzovkiy Prospyekt, 1983. This agent we brought out, and he’ll be here next week for you to meet. He was having a hard time with his boss and—”

Chavez appeared at the back door and held up a phone-message form. Clark hurried through the rest of the lesson and handed the class over to his assistant.

“What is it, Ding?” John asked.

“Mary Pat wants us up in D.C. in a hurry, something about an SNIE.”

“The United Islamic Republic, I bet.”

“Hardly worth taking the message down, Mr. C,” Chavez observed. “They want us up in time for dinner. Want me to drive?”

THERE WERE FOUR Maritime Pre-Positioning Ships at Diego Garcia. They were relatively new ships, built for their purpose, which was to be floating parking garages for military vehicles. A third of those were tanks, mobile artillery, and armored personnel carriers, and the rest were the less dramatic “trains,” vehicles pre-loaded with everything from ammunition to rations to water. The ships were painted Navy gray, but with colored bands around their funnels to designate them as part of the National Defense Reserve Fleet, crewed by merchant sailors whose job was to maintain them. That wasn’t overly difficult. Every few months they’d light off the huge diesel engines and sail around for a few hours, just to be absolutely sure everything worked. This evening they got a new message to increase their alert status.

One by one, the engine-room crews went below and fired up the engines. Fuel quantities were verified against written records, and various benchmark tests made to ensure that the ship was ready to sail—which was why they were maintained so lovingly. Testing the engines was not abnormal. Testing all at the same time was, and the collection of monster engines made for a thermal bloom that was obvious to infrared detectors overhead, especially at night.

That came to the attention of Sergey Golovko within thirty minutes of its detection, and like intelligence chiefs all over the world, he assembled a team of specialists to discuss it.

“Where is the American carrier battle group?” he asked first of all. America loved to throw them around the oceans of the world.

“They left the atoll yesterday, heading east.”

“Away from the Persian Gulf?”

“Correct. They have exercises scheduled with Australia. It’s called SOUTHERN CUP. We have no information to suggest that the exercise is being canceled.”

“Then why exercise their troopships?”

The analyst gestured. “It could be an exercise, but the turmoil in the Persian Gulf suggests otherwise.”

“Nothing in Washington?” Golovko asked.

“Our friend Ryan continues to navigate the political rapids,” the chief of the American political section reported. “Badly.”

“Will he survive?”

“Our ambassador believes so, and the
rezident
concurs, but neither thinks he is firmly in command. It’s a classic muddle. America has always prided herself on the smooth transition of government power, but their laws did not anticipate such events as we have seen. He cannot move decisively against his political enemy—”

“What Kealty’s doing is state treason,” Golovko observed, the penalty for which in Russia had always been severe. Even the phrase was enough to lower the temperature of a room.

“Not according to their law, but my legal experts tell me that the issue is sufficiently confused that there will be no clear winner, and in such a case Ryan remains in command because of his position—he got there first.”

Golovko nodded, but his expression was decidedly unhappy.
Red October
and the Gerasimov business should never have become public knowledge. He and his government had known the latter, but only suspected the former. On the submarine business, American security had been superb—so
that
was the card Ryan had played to make Kolya defect. It had to be. It all made sense from the distance of time, and a fine play it had been. Except for one thing: it had become public knowledge in Russia as well, and he was now forbidden to contact Ryan directly until the diplomatic fallout had been determined. America was doing something. He did not yet know what that was, and instead of calling to ask, and perhaps even getting a truthful answer, he’d have to wait for his field officers to discern it on their own. The problem lay in the harm that had been done to the American government, and in Ryan’s own habit, learned at CIA, of working with a small number of people instead of playing the entire bureaucracy like a symphony orchestra. Instinct told him that Ryan would be cooperative, he’d trust former enemies to act in collective self-interest, but one thing the traitor Kealty had accomplished—who else could have told the American press those stories!—was to create a political impasse. Politics!

Politics had once been the center of Golovko’s life. A party member since the age of eighteen, he’d studied his Lenin and Marx with all the fervor of a theology student, and though the fervor had changed over time to something else, those logical but foolish theories
had
shaped his adult life, until they’d evaporated, leaving him, at least, a profession at which he excelled. He’d been able to rationalize his previous antipathy to America in historical terms, two great powers, two great alliances, two differing philosophies acting in perverse unison to create the last great world conflict. National pride still wished that his nation had won, but the
Rodina
hadn’t, and that was that. The important part was that the Cold War was over, and with it the deadly confrontation between America and his country. Now they could actually recognize their common interests, and at times act in cooperation. It had actually happened already. Ivan Emmetovich Ryan had come to him for help in the American conflict with Japan, and together the two countries had accomplished a vital goal—something still secret. Why the hell, Golovko thought, couldn’t the traitor Kealty have revealed that secret instead of the others? But, no, now his country was embarrassed, and while the newly freed media had as great a field day with this story as the Americans were having—or even more—he was unable to make a simple phone call.