Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (282 page)

“Things?”

“Virus particles, Mr. President. The size of these things is measured in microns. They’re far smaller than dust particles, smaller than anything you can see.”

“You used to work at Detrick?”

“Yes, sir, I was a colonel, head of pathogens. I retired, and Hopkins hired me.”

“So you have an idea what General Pickett’s plans are, the options, I mean?”

“Yes, sir. That stuff is reevaluated at least once a year. I’ve sat in on the committee that draws the plans up.”

“Sit down, Doctor. I want to hear this.”

THE MARITIME PRE-POSITION Ships had just gotten back from an exercise, and what little maintenance had been required was already done. On receiving orders from CIN-CLANTFLT, they initiated engine-start procedures, which mainly meant warming up the fuel and lubricating oils. To the north, the cruiser Anzio, plus destroyers
Kidd
and
O’Bannon,
got orders of their own and turned west for a projected rendezvous point. The senior officer present was the skipper of the Aegis cruiser, who wondered how the hell he was supposed to get those fat merchants into the Persian Gulf without air cover, if it came to that. The United States Navy didn’t go anywhere without air cover, and the nearest carrier was
Ike,
3,000 miles away, with Malaya in the way. On the other hand, it wasn’t all that bad to be a mere captain in command of a task force without an admiral to look over his shoulder.

The first of the MPS ships to sortie from the large anchorage was USNS
Bob Hope,
a newly built military-type roll-on/roll-off transport displacing close to 80,000 tons, and carrying 952 vehicles. Her civilian crew had a little tradition for their movements. Oversized speakers blared “Thanks for the Memories” at the naval base as she passed by, just after midnight, followed by four of her sisters. Aboard, they had the full vehicle complement for a reinforced heavy brigade. Passing the reef-marked entrance, the handles were pushed down on the enunciators, demanding twenty-six knots of the big Colt-Pielstick diesels.

THEY WAITED FOR Goodley and van Damm to come in, and then it took ten minutes to bring them up to speed on what was going on. By this time, the enormity of it was sinking into the President’s consciousness, and he had to struggle with emotions now in addition to intellect. He noted that Cathy, though she had to be as horrified as he was, was taking everything calmly, at least outwardly so. Well, it was her field, wasn’t it?

“I didn’t think Ebola could survive outside a jungle,” Goodley said.

“It can’t, at least not long-term, or it would have traveled around the world by now.”

“It kills too fast for that,” SURGEON objected.

“Cathy, we’ve had jet travel for over thirty years now. This little bastard is delicate. That works for us.”

“How do we find out who did it?” This came from Arnie.

“We interview all the victims, find out where they’ve been, and try to narrow the focal centers down to one point if we can. That’s an investigative function. Epidemiologists are pretty good at that ... but this one’s a little big,” Alexandre added.

“Could the FBI help, Doctor?” van Damm asked.

“Can’t hurt.”

“I’ll get Murray over here,” the chief of staff told the President.

“You can’t treat it?” POTUS asked.

“No, what happens is the epidemic burns itself out over several generational cycles. What I mean by that—okay, one person gets it. The virus reproduces in them, and then they pass it on to somebody else. Every victim becomes an imperfect host. As the disease reproduces and kills the victim, the victim passes it on to the next one.
But,
and here’s the good news, Ebola doesn’t reproduce efficiently. As it goes through these generational cycles, it becomes less virulent. Most of the survivors in an outbreak happen toward the end, because the virus progressively mutates itself into a less dangerous form. The organism is so primitive that it doesn’t do everything well.”

“How many cycles before that happens, Alex?” Cathy asked.

He shrugged. “It’s empirical. We know the process, but we can’t quantify it.”

“Lots of unknowns.” She grimaced.

“Mr. President?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“The movie you saw?”

“What about it?”

“The budget for that movie is quite a bit more than all the funding for research in virology. Keep that in mind. I guess it isn’t sexy enough.” Arnie started to say something. Alex cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m not on the government payroll anymore, sir. I don’t have any empire to build. My research is privately funded. I’m just stating a fact. What the hell, I guess we can’t fund everything.”

“If we can’t treat it, how do we stop it?” Ryan asked, getting things back on track. His head turned. A shadow crossed the South Lawn, and the roar of a helicopter came through the bulletproof windows.

“AHII,” BADRAYN OBSERVED with a smile. The Internet was designed to give access to information, not to conceal it, and from a friend of a friend of a friend who was a medical student at Emory University in Atlanta, he had the password to crack into that medical center’s electronic mail. Another keyword eliminated all of the clutter, and there it was. It was 1400 hours on America’s east coast, and Emory reported to CDC that it now had six cases of suspected hemorrhagic fever. Better yet, CDC had already replied, and that told him a lot more. Badrayn printed up both letters, and made a telephone call. Now he really had good news to deliver.

RAMAN FELT THE DC-9 thump down in Pittsburgh after a brief flight that had allowed him to sit alone and think through several options. His colleague—brother—in Baghdad had been a little too sacrificial in his attitude, a little too dramatic, and the detail around the Iraqi leader had been pretty large, actually larger than the one on which he himself served. How to do it? The trick was to create as much confusion as possible. Perhaps when Ryan walked into the crowd to press the flesh. Take the shot, kill one or two of the other agents, then race into the crowd. If he could make it past the first line or two of spectators, all he had to do was hold up his Secret Service ID, better than a gun for getting through things—everyone would think that he was chasing the subject. The key to escaping from an assassination—the USSS had taught him this—was in the first thirty seconds. Survive that, and you have a better-than-even chance of surviving it all. And he would be the one setting all the security arrangements for the Friday trip. How, then, could he get the President to a spot in which he would have that option? Take POTUS. Take Price. Take one other. Then melt into the crowd. Probably better to fire from the hip. Best if the citizens didn’t see the gun in his hand until after the shots. Yes, that might work, he thought, taking off the lap belt and standing. There would be a local Treasury agent at the end of the jetway. They’d go right to the hotel whose large dining room would host President Ryan’s speech. Raman would have all day and part of tomorrow to think it through, under the very eyes of fellow agents. How challenging.

MAJOR GENERAL JOHN Pickett, it turned out, was a graduate of Yale Medical School, added to which were a pair of doctorates—molecular biology from Harvard, and public health from UCLA. He was a pale, spare man who looked small in his uniform—he hadn’t had time to change and was wearing camouflage BDUs—making his parachutist’s wings look very out of place. Two colonels came with him, followed by Director Murray of the FBI, who’d raced over from the Hoover Building. The three officers came to attention as they walked in, but now the Oval Office was too small, and the President led them across the hall into the Roosevelt Room. On the way a Secret Service agent handed the general a fax that was still warm from the machine in the secretaries’ room.

“Case count is now one hundred thirty-seven, according to Atlanta,” Pickett said. “Fifteen cities, fifteen states, coast-to-coast.”

“Hi, John,” Alexandre said, taking his hand. “I’ve seen three of them myself.”

“Alex, glad to see you, buddy.” He looked up. “I guess Alex has briefed everybody in on the baseline stuff?”

“Correct,” Ryan said.

“Do you have any immediate questions, Mr. President?”

“You’re certain that this is a deliberate act?”

“Bombs do not go off by accident.” Pickett unfolded a map. A number of cities were marked with red dots. One of his attending colonels placed three more down: San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas.

“Convention cities. Just how I would have done it,” Alexandre breathed. “Looks like Bio-War 95, John.”

“Close. That’s a wargame we played with the Defense Nuclear Agency. We used anthrax for that one. Alex here was one of our best for planning offensive bio,” Pickett told his audience. “He was Red Team commander for this.”

“Isn’t that against the law?” Cathy said, her face outraged at the revelation.

“Offense and defense are two sides of the same coin, Dr. Ryan,” Pickett replied, defending his former subordinate. “We have to think like the bad guys do if we’re going to stop them.”

“Operational concept?” the President asked. He understood that better than his wife did.

“Biological warfare at the strategic level means starting a chain reaction within your target population. You try to infect as many people as possible—and that’s not very many; we’re not talking nuclear weapons here. The idea is for the people, the victims, to spread it for you. That’s the elegance of bio-warfare. Your victims actually do most of the killing. Any epidemic starts low and ramps up, slowly at first, like a tangential curve, and then it rockets up geometrically. So, if you’re using bio in the offensive role, you try to jump-start it by infecting as large a number of people as you can, and you opt for people who travel. Las Vegas is the tip-off. It’s a convention city, and sure enough they just had a big one. The conventioneers get infected, get on the airplanes to fly home, and they spread it for you.”

“Any chance of discovering how they did it?” Murray asked. He showed his ID so that the general would know who he was.

“Probably a waste of time. The other nice thing about bio weapons is—well, in this case the incubation period is a minimum of three days. Whatever distribution system was used has been picked up, bagged, and trucked off to a landfill. No physical evidence, no proof of who did it to us.”

“Save that for later, General. What do we do? I see a lot of states with no infection—”

“That’s just for now, Mr. President. There’s a three- to ten-day lead time on Ebola. We don’t know how far it’s gotten already. The only way we can find out is by waiting.”

“But we have to initiate CURTAIN CALL, John,” Alexandre said. “And we have to do it fast.”

MAHMOUD HAJI WAS reading. He had an office adjoining his bedroom, and actually preferred working here because of the familiar surroundings. He did not enjoy being disturbed here, however, and so his security people were surprised at his response to the telephone call. Twenty minutes later, they let the visitor in, without an escort.

“Has it begun?”

“It has begun.” Badrayn handed over the CDC printout. “We will know more tomorrow.”

“You have served well,” Daryaei told him, dismissing him. When the door was closed, he made a telephone call.

ALAHAD DIDN’T KNOW how circuitous the link to him was, merely that it was an overseas call. He suspected London, but he didn’t know and wouldn’t ask. The inquiry was entirely routine, except for the time of day—it was evening in England, after business hours. The variety of the rug and the price were the key parts, telling him what he needed to know, in a code long since memorized and never written down. In knowing little, he could reveal little. That part of the tradecraft he did fully understand. His own part came next. Placing the Back in a Few Minutes sign in his window, he walked out, locked the door, and went around the corner, proceeding two blocks to a pay phone. There he made a call to pass on his last order to Aref Raman.

THE MEETINGS HAD started in the Oval Office, were transferred to the Roosevelt Room, and were now all the way down the hall in the Cabinet Room, where more than one image of George Washington could watch the proceedings. The Cabinet secretaries arrived almost together, and their arrival couldn’t be a secret. Too many official cars, too many guards, too many faces known to the reporters.

Pat Martin came, representing Justice. Bretano was SecDef, with Admiral Jackson sitting on the wall behind him. (Everyone brought a deputy of some sort, mainly to take notes.) Winston was SecTreas, having walked from across the street. Commerce and Interior were survivors from the Durling presidency, actually having been appointed by Bob Fowler. Most of the rest were of undersecretary rank, holding on from presidential apathy in some cases, and in others because they appeared to know what they were doing. But none of them knew what he was doing now. Ed Foley arrived, summoned by the President despite CIA’s previous loss of Cabinet rank. Also present were Arnie van Damm, Ben Goodley, Director Murray, the First Lady, three Army officers, and Dr. Alexandre.

“We will be in order,” the President said. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. There’s no time for a preamble here. We face a national emergency. The decisions we make here today will have serious effects on our country. In the corner is Major General John Pickett. He’s a physician and scientist, and I will now turn the meeting over to him. General, do your brief.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. Ladies and gentlemen, I am commanding general at Fort Detrick. Earlier today, we started getting some very disturbing reports ...”

Ryan tuned the general out. He’d heard it all twice now. Instead he read over the file Pickett had handed him. The folder was bordered in the usual red-and-white-striped tape. The sticker in the center read TOP SECRET - AFFLICTION, rather an appropriate code name for the special-access compartment this one was in, SWORDSMAN thought. Then he opened the folder and started reading OPPLAN CURTAIN CALL. There were four variants of the plan, Jack saw. He turned to Option Four. That was called SOLITARY, and that name, too, was appropriate. Reading through the executive summary chilled him, and Jack found himself turning to look over at George, hanging there on the wall, and wanting to ask,
Now what the hell do I do?
But George wouldn’t have understood. He didn’t know from airliners and viruses and nuclear weapons, did he?