Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (31 page)

“Yamata-san, there is no time for that,” another corporate chairman chided gently. “What you proposed in our last meeting, it was very bold and very dangerous.”

“It was I who requested this meeting,” Matsuda pointed out with dignity.

“Your pardon, Kozo.” Yamata inclined his head by way of apology.

“These are difficult times, Raizo,” Matsuda replied, accepting it graciously. Then he added, “I find myself leaning toward your direction.”

Yamata took a very deep breath, angry at himself for misreading the man’s intent.
Kozo is right. These
are
difficult times.
“Please, my friend, share your thoughts with us.”

“We need the Americans ... or we need something else.” Every head in the room except for one looked down. Yamata read their faces, and taking a moment to control his excitement, he realized that he saw what he wished to see. It wasn’t a wish or an illusion. It was really there. “It is a grave thing which we must consider now, a great gamble. And yet it is a gamble which I fear we must undertake.”

“Can we really do it?” a very desperate banker asked.

“Yes,” Yamata said. “We can do it. There is an element of risk, of course. I do not discount that, but there is much in our favor.” He outlined the facts briefly. Surprisingly, there was no opposition to his views this time. There were questions, numerous ones, endless ones, all of which he was prepared to answer, but no one really objected this time. Some had to be concerned, even terrified, but the simple fact, he realized, was that they were more terrified by what they knew would happen in the morning, and the next, and the next. They saw the end of their way of life, their perks, their personal prestige, and that frightened them worse than anything else. Their country owed them for all they had done, for the long climb up the corporate ladders, for all their work and diligence, for all the good decisions they had made. And so the decision was made—not with enthusiasm—but made even so.

Mancuso’s first job of the morning was to look over the op-orders.
Asheville
and
Charlotte
would have to discontinue their wonderfully useful work, tracking whales in the Gulf of Alaska, to join up for Exercise DATELINE PARTNERS, along with
John Stennis, Enterprise,
and the usual cast of thousands. The exercise had been planned months in advance, of course. It was a fortunate accident that the script for the event was not entirely divorced from what this half of Pac-Fleet was working up for. On the twenty-seventh, two weeks after the conclusion of PARTNERS,
Stennis
and
Big-E
would deploy southwest for the IO, with a single courtesy stop in Singapore, to relieve
Ike
and
Abe.

“You know, they have us outnumbered now,” Commander (Captain selectee) Wally Chambers observed. A few months earlier he’d relinquished command of USS
Key West,
and Mancuso had asked for him to be his operations officer. The transfer from Groton, where Chambers had expected another staff job, to Honolulu had not exactly been a crushing blow to the officer’s ego. Ten years earlier, Wally would have been up for a boomer command, or maybe a tender, or maybe a squadron. But the boomers were all gone, there were only three tenders operating, and the squadron billets were filled. That put Chambers in a holding pattern until his “major command” ticket could be punched, and until then Mancuso wanted him back. It was not an uncommon failing of naval officers to dip into their own former wardrooms.

Admiral Mancuso looked up, not so much in surprise as in realization. Wally was right. The Japanese Navy had twenty-eight submarines, conventionally powered boats called SSKs, and he only had nineteen.

“How many are up and running?” Bart asked, wondering what their overhaul/availability cycle was like.

“Twenty-two, according to what I saw yesterday. Hell, Admiral, they’re committing
ten
to the exercise, including all the Harushios. From what I gather from Fleet Intel, they’re working up real hard for us, too.” Chambers leaned back and stroked his mustache. It was new, because Chambers had a baby face and he thought a commanding officer should look older than twelve. The problem was, it itched.

“Everybody tells me they’re pretty good,” ComSubPac noted.

“You haven’t had a ride yet?” Sub-Ops asked. The Admiral shook his head.

“Scheduled for next summer.”

“Well, they better be pretty good,” Chambers thought. Five of Mancuso’s subs were tasked to the exercise. Three would be in close to the carrier battle group, with
Asheville
and
Charlotte
conducting independent operations, which weren’t really independent at all. They’d be playing a game with four Japanese subs five hundred miles northwest of Kure Atoll, pretending to do hunter-killer operations against a submarine-barrier patrol.

The exercise was fairly similar to what they expected to do in the Indian Ocean. The Japanese Navy, essentially a defensive collection of destroyers and frigates and diesel subs, would try to withstand an advance of a two-carrier battle group. Their job was to die gloriously—something the Japanese were historically good at, Mancuso told himself with a wispy smile—but also to try to make a good show of it. They’d be as clever as they could, trying to sneak their tin cans in close enough to launch their Harpoon surface-to-surface missiles, and surely their newer destroyers had a fair chance of surviving. The Kongos especially were fine platforms, the Japanese counterpart to the American Arleigh Burke class, with the Aegis radar/missile system. Expensive ships, they all had battleship names from World War II. The original
Kongo
had fallen prey to an American submarine,
Sealion II,
if Mancuso remembered properly. That was also the name of one of the few new American submarines assigned to Atlantic Fleet. Mancuso didn’t have a Seawolfclass under his command yet. In any case, the aviators would have to find a way to deal with an Aegis ship, and that wasn’t something they relished, was it?

All in all, it would be a good workup for Seventh Fleet. They’d need it. The Indians were indeed getting frisky. He now had seven of his boats operating with Mike Dubro, and between those and what he had assigned to DATELINE PARTNERS, that was the whole active collection. How the mighty had fallen, ComSubPac told himself. Well, that’s what the mighty usually did.

The meet procedure was not unlike the courtship ritual between swans. You showed up at a precise place at a precise time, in this case carrying a newspaper—folded, not rolled—in your left hand, and looked in a shop window at a huge collection of cameras and consumer electronics, just as a Russian would automatically do on his first trip to Japan, to marvel at the plethora of products available to those who had hard currency to spend. If he were being trailed—possi—ble but most unlikely—it would appear normal. In due course, exactly on time, a person bumped into him.

“Excuse me,” the voice said in English, which was also normal, for the person he’d inadvertently nudged was clearly gaijin.

“Quite all right,” Clark replied in an accented voice, without looking.

“First time in Japan?”

“No, but my first time in Tokyo.”

“Okay, it’s all clear.” The person bumped him again on the way down the street. Clark waited the requisite four or five minutes before following. It was always so tedious, but necessary. Japan wasn’t enemy soil. It wasn’t like the jobs he’d done in Leningrad (in Clark’s mind that city’s name would never change; besides, his Russian accent was from that region) or Moscow, but the safest course of action was to pretend that it was. Just as well that it wasn’t, though. There were so many foreigners in this city that the Japanese security service, such as it was, would have gone crazy trying to track them all.

In fact it was Clark’s first time here, aside from plane changes and stopovers, and that didn’t count. The crowding on the street was like nothing he’d ever seen; not even New York was this tight. It also made him uneasy to stand out so much. There is nothing worse for an intelligence officer than
not
to be able to blend in, but his six-one height marked him as someone who didn’t belong, visible from a block away to anyone who bothered to look. And so many people looked at him, Clark noted. More surprisingly, people made way for him, especially women, and children positively shrank from his presence as though Godzilla had returned to crush their city. So it was true. He’d heard the stories but never quite believed them. Hairy barbarian.
Funny, I never thought of myself that way,
John told himself, walking into a McDonald’s. It was crowded at lunch hour, and after turning his head he had to take a seat with another man.
Mary Pat was right,
he thought.
Nomuri is pretty good.

“So what’s the story?” Clark asked amid the din of the fast-food place.

“Well, I’ve ID’d her and I’ve got the building she lives in.”

“That’s fast work.”

“Not very hard. Our friend’s security detail doesn’t know shit about countersurveillance.”

Besides,
Clark didn’t say,
you look like you belong, right down to the harried and tense look of a salaryman bolting down his lunch so that he can race back to his desk.
Well, that never came hard to a field spook, did it? It wasn’t hard to be tense on a field assignment. The difficult part, which they emphasized at the Farm, was to appear at ease.

“Okay, then all I have to do is get permission for the pickup.” Among other things. Nomuri wasn’t authorized to know about his work with THISTLE. John wondered if that would change.

“Sayonara.
” And Nomuri made his exit while Clark attacked his rice ball.
Not bad. The kid’s all business,
he thought. His next thought was,
Rice ball at
McDonald’s?

The briefing documents on his desk had nothing at all to do with his being the President, but everything to do with his remaining in the office, and for that reason they were always at the top of the pile. The upward move in the approval ratings was ... very edifying, Durling thought. Of likely voters—and they were the ones who really counted—fully 10 percent more approved of his policies than had done so last week, a numerical improvement that covered both his foreign and domestic performance. All in all, it was about what a fourth-grader might feel on bringing home a particularly good report card to doubtful parents. And that 10 percent was only the beginning, his chief pollster thought, since the implications of the policy changes were taking a little time to sink in. Already the Big Three were speculating publicly about hiring back some of the seven hundred thousand workers laid off in the previous decades, and that was just the assembly workers. Then you had to consider the people in independent parts companies, the tire companies, the glass companies, the battery companies ... That could start to revitalize the Rust Belt, and the Rust Belt accounted for a lot of electoral votes.

What was obvious, or should have been, was that it wouldn’t stop with cars. It couldn’t. The United Auto Workers (cars and related parts) looked forward to the restoration of thousands of paying members. The International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers (TVs, even VCRs?) could not be far behind, and there were additional unions that had just begun to consider how large a piece of the pie they might receive. Though simple in concept, the Trade Reform Act represented, like many simple concepts, a wide-ranging alteration in how the United States of America did business. President Durling had thought he’d understood that concept, but soon the phone on his desk would ring. Looking at it, he already knew the voices that he would hear, and it wasn’t too great a stretch to imagine what words they would speak, what arguments they would put forth, and what promises they would make. And he would be amenable to accepting the promises.

He’d never really planned to be President of the United States, not as Bob Fowler had planned his entire life toward that goal, not even allowing the death of his first wife to turn him from that path. Durling’s last goal had been the governorship of California, and when he’d been offered the chance for the second place on the Fowler ticket he’d taken it more out of patriotism than anything else. That was not something he’d say even to his closest advisers, because patriotism was passé in the modern political world, but Roger Durling had felt it even so, had remembered that the average citizen had a name and a face, remembered having some of them die under his command in Vietnam, and, in remembering, thought that he had to do his best for them.

But what was the best? he asked himself again, as he had done on uncounted occasions. The Oval Office was a lonely place. It was often filled with all manner of visitors, from a foreign chief of state to a schoolchild who’d won an essay contest, but in due course they all left, and the President was alone again with his duty. The oath he’d taken was so simple as to be devoid of meaning. “Faithfully execute the office of ... to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend ...” Fine words, but what did they mean? Perhaps Madison and the others had figured that he’d know. Perhaps in 1789 everyone had—it was just understood—but that was more than two hundred years in the past, and somehow they’d neglected to write it down for the guidance of future generations.

Worse still, there were plenty of people ever ready to tell you what they thought the words meant, and when you added up all the advice, 2 plus 2 ended up as 7. Labor and management, consumer and producer, taxpayer and transfer recipient. They all had their needs. They all had their agendas. They all had arguments, and fine lobbyists to make them, and the scary part was that each one made sense in one way or another, enough that many believed that 2 + 2 really did = 7. Until you announced the sum, that is, and then
everybody
said it was too much, that the country couldn’t afford the
other
groups’
special
interests.