Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (300 page)

The 10th Cav’s helicopters were flying around the country’s border, their Longbow radars looking deep into the UIR for movement, and so far seeing nothing of particular note. The Kuwaiti air force was standing a four-plane combat air patrol, with the rest of the force on high alert. Outmanned though they were, this would not be a repeat of 1990. The busiest people were the engineers, who were digging holes for all the tanks so that they could fight hull-down, with only their turrets showing. These were covered with netting to make them invisible from the air.

“And so, Colonel?” the senior Kuwaiti commander asked.

“Nothing wrong with your deployments, General,” Magruder replied, scanning the map again. He didn’t show everything he felt. Two or three weeks of intensive training would have been a blessing. He’d run one very simple exercise, one of his squadrons against the Kuwaiti 1st Brigade, and even then he’d gone very easy on them. It wasn’t the time to break their confidence. They had enthusiasm, and their gunnery was about seventy percent of American standards, but they had a lot to learn about maneuver warfare. Well, it took time to raise an army, and more time to train field officers, and they were doing their best.

“YOUR HIGHNESS, I need to thank you for your cooperation to this point,” Ryan said over the phone. The wall clock in the Sit Room said 2:10.

“Jack, with luck they will see this and not move,” Prince Ali bin Sheik replied.

“I wish I could agree with that. It is time for me to tell you something you do not yet know, Ali. Our ambassador will present you with full information later in the day. For the moment, you need to know what your neighbors have been up to. It isn’t just about the oil, Your Highness.” He went on for five minutes.

“Are you certain of this?”

“The evidence we have will be in your hands in four hours,” Ryan promised. “We haven’t even told our soldiers yet.”

“Might they use these weapons against us?” The natural question. Biological warfare made everyone’s skin crawl.

“We don’t think so, Ali. Environmental conditions militate against it.” That had been checked, too. The weather forecast for the next week was hot, dry, and clear.

“Those who would use such weapons, Mr. President, this is an act of utter barbarism.”

“That’s why we do not expect them to back down. They can’t—”

“Not ‘they,’ Mr. President. One man. One godless man. When will you speak to your people about this?”

“Soon,” Ryan replied.

“Please, Jack, this is not our religion, this is not our faith. Please tell your people that.”

“I know that, Your Highness. It isn’t about God. It’s about power. It always is. I’m afraid I have other things to do.”

“As do I. I must see the King.”

“Please give him my respects. We stand together, Ali, just like before.” With that the line went dead.

“Next, where exactly is Adler right now?”

“Shuttling back to Taiwan,” Rutledge answered. Those negotiations were still going on, though their purpose was now rather clear.

“Okay, he has secure comm links on the plane. You brief him in,” he told the Under Secretary. “Anything else I need to do right now?”

“Sleep,” Admiral Jackson told him. “Let us do the all-nighter, Jack.”

“That’s a plan.” Ryan rose. He wobbled a bit from the stress and lack of sleep. “Wake me up if you need me.”

We won’t,
nobody said.

“WELL,” CAPTAIN KEMPER said, reading the CRITIC message from CINCLANT. “That makes things a lot simpler.” Range to the Indian battle group was now two hundred miles, about eight hours of steaming—still the term they used, though all the combatant ships were now powered by jet-turbine engines. Kemper lifted the phone and flipped a switch to speak on the ship’s 1-MC address system. “Now hear this. This is the captain speaking.

“Task Group COMEDY is now at DefCon 1. That means if anybody gets close, we shoot him. The mission is to deliver our tank-carriers to Saudi Arabia. Our country is flying in the soldiers to drive them in anticipation of an attack on our allies in the region by the new United Islamic Republic.

“In sixteen hours, we will link up with a surface action making a speed-run down from the Med. We will then enter the Persian Gulf to make our delivery. The group will have friendly air cover in the form of Air Force F- 16C fighters, but it is to be expected that the UIR—our old Iranian friends—will not be happy with our arrival.

“USS
Anzio
is going to war, people. That is all for now.” He flipped the switch back. “Okay, let’s start running simulations. I want to see everything those bastards might try on us. We will have an updated intelligence estimate here in two hours. For now, let’s see what we can do about aircraft and missile attacks.”

“What about the Indians?” Weps asked.

“We’ll be keeping an eye on them, too.” The main tactical display showed a P-3C Orion passing COMEDY to relieve the aircraft now on station. The battle group was heading east, again recrossing its wake, as it had been doing for some time now.

A KH-11 SATELLITE was just sweeping down, northwest-to-southeast, over the Persian Gulf. Its cameras, having already looked at the three heavy corps of the Army of God, were now photographing the entire Iranian coast, looking for the launch sites of Chinese-made Silkworm missiles. The take from the electronic cameras was cross-linked to a communications satellite over the Indian Ocean, and from there to the Washington area, where technicians still wearing chemically impregnated surgical masks started looking for the airplane-shaped surface-to-surface missiles. The fixed launch sites were well known, but the weapon also could be fired off the back of a large truck, and there were plenty of coastal roads to survey.

THE FIRST GROUP of four airliners touched down without incident outside Dhahran. There was no arrival ceremony. It was already hot. Spring had come early to the region after the surprisingly cold and wet winter season, and that meant noon temperatures close to 100 degrees, as opposed to the 120 of high summer, but night temperatures down in the forties. It was humid this close to the coast as well.

When the first airliner stopped, the truck-mounted stairs were driven up, and Brigadier General Marion Diggs was the first off. He would be the ground commander for this operation. The virus epidemic still raging in America had also compromised MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, home of Central Command, which had responsibility for this area. The briefing papers he’d seen to this point said that the commander of the 366th Air Combat Wing was also a one-star, but junior to him. It had been a long time since so vital an operation had been turned over to someone as junior as himself, Marion Diggs thought on the way down the steps.

At the bottom was a Saudi three-star. The two men exchanged salutes and entered a car for the ride to the local command post, and an intelligence update. Behind Diggs was the command group of the 11th ACR, and on the other three aircraft, a security group and most of the Second Squadron of the Black Horse. Buses waited to take them to the POMCUS site. It was all rather like the RE-FORGER exercises of the Cold War, which had anticipated a NATO-Warsaw Pact clash requiring American soldiers to get off the airplanes, board their vehicles, and march off to the front. That had never happened except in simulation, but now, again, it was happening, and this time it was for real. Two hours later, 2nd of the Blackhorse was rolling into the open.

“WHAT DO YOU mean?” Daryaei asked.

“There appears to be a major troop movement under way,” his intelligence chief told him. “Radar sites in western Iraq have detected commercial aircraft entering Saudi Arabia from Israeli airspace. We also show fighters escorting them and patrolling the border.”

“What else?”

“Nothing at the moment, but it would seem likely that America is moving another force into the Kingdom. I am not sure what it could be—certainly, it cannot be very large. Their German-based divisions are under quarantine, and all their home-quartered divisions are in the same condition. Most of their army is actually deployed for internal security.”

“We should attack them anyway,” his air force adviser urged.

“I think that would be a mistake,” Intelligence said. “It would be an invasion of Saudi airspace, alerting those goatherds too soon. The Americans can at most move one brigade-sized force. There is a second based at Diego Garcia the equipment, that is—but we have no information to suggest that it has moved, and even if it does, we expect that our Indian friends can stop it.”

“We trust pagans?” Air Force asked with contempt. That was how Muslims viewed the official religion of the Subcontinent.

“We can trust their antipathy to America. And we can ask them if their fleet has spotted anything. In any case, the Americans can deploy another brigade-sized force. That is all.”

“Kill it anyway!”

“That throws away operational security,” Intelligence pointed out.

“If they don’t know we are coming by now, then they are fools,” Air Force objected.

“The Americans have no reason to suspect that we have taken hostile actions against them. To attack their aircraft, if that’s what they are, will alert
them
unnecessarily, not just the Saudis. They are probably concerned about our troop movements in Iraq. So they fly in some small reinforcements. We can deal with them when the time comes,” Intelligence told them.

“I will call India,” Daryaei said, temporizing.

“NAVIGATION RADARS ONLY ... make that two air-search, probably from the carriers,” the petty officer said. “Their course track is zero-niner-zero, speed about sixteen.”

The tactical officer on the Orion, called a tacco, looked down at his chart. The Indian battle group was at the extreme eastern edge of the racetrack pattern they’d been following for the last several days. In less than twenty minutes, they should reverse course to head west. If they turned, things would become exciting. COMEDY was now 120 miles away from the other formation, and his aircraft was feeding constant information to
Anzio
and
Kidd.
Under the wings of the four-engine Lockheed turboprop were four Harpoon missiles. White ones, war shots. The aircraft was now under the tactical command of Captain Kemper on
Anzio,
and on his order they could launch those missiles, two each at the Indian carriers, because they were the long gun of the opposing navy. A few minutes behind would be a swarm of Tomahawks and more Harpoons headed the same way.

“Are they EMCON’D?” the officer wondered.

“With nav sets emitting?” the sailor replied. “COMEDY must have ’em on their ESM gear by now. Damned sure our guys are lighting up the sky, sir.” COMEDY had essentially two choices. Adopt EMCON—for emissions control—turning off their radars to make the other side expend time and fuel searching for them, or simply light everything off, creating an electronic bubble which the other side could easily see, but the penetration of which would be dangerous.
Anzio
had gone with the second option.

“Any airplane chatter?” the tacco asked another crewman.

“Negative, sir, none at all.”

“Hmph.” As low as the Orion was flying, its presence was probably not known to the Indians, despite their use of air-search gear. He was sorely tempted to pop up and illuminate himself with his own search radar. What were they up to? Might a few ships have broken away from the group, heading west, say, to launch an off-axis missile attack? He couldn’t know what they were saying or thinking. All he had were computer-generated course tracks based on radar signals. The computer knew exactly where aircraft was at all times off the Global Positioning Satellite system. From that the bearing to the radar sources enabled calculation of their location and ...

“Course change?”

“Negative, system shows them still leading zero-niner-zero at sixteen knots. They are passing out of the box now, sir. This is farther cast than we’ve seen them in three days. They are now thirty miles east of COMEDY’S course to the Strait.”

“I wonder if they changed their minds about this....”

“YES, OUR FLEET is at sea,” the Prime Minister told him.

“Have you seen the American ships?”

The leader of the Indian government was all alone in her office. Her Foreign Minister had been in earlier, and was on his way back at this moment. This phone call had been anticipated, but not hoped for.

The situation had changed. President Ryan, weak though she still thought him to be—who else but a weak man would have threatened a sovereign country so?—had nonetheless frightened her. What if the plague in America had been initiated by Daryaei? She had no evidence that it had, and she would never seek such information out. Her country could never be associated with such an act. Ryan had asked—what was it, four times? five?—for her word that the Indian navy would not hinder the American fleet movement. But only one time had he said
weapons of mass destruction.
That was the deadliest code phrase in international exchange. All the more so, her Foreign Minister had told her, because America only possessed one kind of such weapons, and for that reason, America regarded biological weapons and chemical weapons
to be
nuclear weapons. That led to another calculation. Aircraft fought aircraft. Ships fought ships. Tanks fought tanks. One answered an attack with the same weapon used by one’s enemy.
Full power and rage,
she remembered also. Ryan had overtly suggested that he would take action based on the nature of the supposed attack by the UIR. Nor, finally, did she discount the lunatic attack on his little daughter. She remembered that from the East Room, the reception after the funeral, how Ryan doted on his children. Weak man though he had to be, he was an
angry
weak man, armed with weapons more dangerous than any others.