Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (34 page)

“You’re the one who said it first, remember? That girl is an American citizen who probably needs a little help. Let’s not turn into something we are not, okay? It’s Clark and Chavez on this one?”

“Correct.”

“I think we should be careful about it, but to offer the girl a ticket home. If she says no, then
maybe
we can consider something else, but no screwing around on this one. She gets a fair offer of a ride home.” Ryan looked down at Clark’s brief report and read it more carefully. Had it come from someone else, he would not have taken it so seriously, but he knew John Clark, had taken the time to learn everything about him. It would someday make for an enjoyable conversation.

“I’m going to keep this. I think maybe the President needs to read it, too.”

“Concur,” the DDO replied.

“Anything else like this comes in ...”

“You’ll know,” Mary Pat promised.

“Good idea on THISTLE.”

“I want Clark to—well, to press maybe a little harder, and see if we develop similar opinions.”

“Approved,” Ryan said at once. “Push as hard as you want.”

Yamata’s personal jet was an old Gulfstream G-IV. Though fitted with auxiliary fuel tanks, it could not ordinarily non-stop the 6,740-mile hop from Tokyo to New York. Today was different, his pilot told him. The jet stream over the North Pacific was fully one hundred ninety knots, and they’d have it for several hours. That boosted their ground speed to 782 miles per hour. It would knock two full hours off the normal flight time.

Yamata was glad. The time was important. None of what he had in his mind was written down, so there were no plans to go over. Though weary from long days that had of late stretched into longer weeks, he found that his body was unable to rest. A voracious reader, he could not get interested in any of the material that he kept on his aircraft. He was alone; there was no one with whom to speak. There was nothing at all to do, and it seemed strange to Yamata. His G-IV cruised at forty-one thousand feet, and it was a clear morning below him. He could see the surface of the North Pacific clearly, the endless ranks of waves, some of their crests decorated with white, driven by high surface winds. The immortal sea. For almost all of his life, it had been an American lake, dominated by their navy. Did the sea know that? Did the sea know that it would change?

Change. Yamata grunted to himself. It would start within hours of his arrival in New York.

“This is Bud on final. I have the ball with eight thousand pounds of fuel,” Captain Sanchez announced over his radio circuit. As commander of the air wing for USS
John
Stennis (CVN-74), his F/A-18F would be the first aboard. Strangely, though the most senior aviator aboard, he was new to the Hornet, having spent all of his career in the F-14 Tomcat. Lighter and more agile, and finally with enough fuel capacity to do more than take off, circle the deck once, and return (so it often seemed), he found himself liking the chance to fly alone for a change, after a whole career spent in two-seat aircraft.
Maybe the Air Force pukes had a good idea after all....

Ahead of him, on the huge flight deck of the new carrier, enlisted men made the proper tension adjustments on the arrestor wires, took the empty weight of his attack fighter, and added the fuel amount he’d called in. It had to be done every time.
Huge flight deck,
he thought, half a mile out. For those standing on the deck it looked huge enough, but for Sanchez it increasingly looked like a matchbook. He cleared his mind of the thought, concentrating on his task. The Hornet buffeted a little coming through the burble of disturbed air caused by the carrier’s massive “island” structure, but the pilot’s eyes were locked on the “meatball,” a red light reflected off a mirror, keeping it nicely centered. Some called Sanchez “Mister Machine,” for of his sixteen hundred-odd carrier landings—you logged every one—less than fifty had failed to catch the optimum number-three wire.

Gently, gently,
he told himself, easing the stick back with his right hand while the left worked the throttles, watching his sink rate, and ... yes. He could feel the fighter jerk from catching the wire—number three, he was sure—and slow itself, even though the rush to the edge of the angled deck seemed sure to dump him over the side. The aircraft stopped, seemingly inches from the line where black-topped steel fell off to blue water. Really, it was closet to a hundred feet. Sanchez disengaged his tail hook, and allowed the wire to snake back to its proper place. A deck crewman started waving at him, telling him how to get to where he was supposed to go, and the expensive jet aircraft turned into a particularly ungainly land vehicle on the world’s most expensive parking lot. Five minutes later, the engines shut down and, tie-down chains in place, Sanchez popped the canopy and climbed down the steel ladder that his brown-jerseyed plane-captain had set in place.

“Welcome aboard, Skipper. Any problems?”

“Nary a one.” Sanchez handed over his flight helmet and trotted off to the island. Three minutes after that he was observing the remainder of the landings.

Johnnie Reb
was already her semiofficial nickname, since she was named for a long-term U.S. Senator from Mississippi, also a faithful friend of the Navy. The ship even smelled new, Sanchez thought, not so long out of the yards of Newport News Shipbuilding and Drydock. She’d done her trials off the East Coast and sailed around the Horn to Pearl Harbor. Her newest sister,
United States,
would be ready for trials in another year, and yet another was beginning construction. It was good to know that at least one branch of the Navy was still in business—more or less.

The aircraft of his wing came in about ninety seconds apart. Two squadrons, each of twelve F-14 Tomcats, two more with an identical number of F/A-18 Hornets. One medium-attack squadron of ten A-6E Intruders, then the special birds, three E-3C Hawkeye early-warning aircraft, two C-2 CODs, four EA-6B Prowlers ... and that was all, Sanchez thought, not as pleased as he ought to be.

Johnnie Reb
could easily accommodate another twenty aircraft, but a carrier air wing wasn’t what it used to be, Sanchez thought, remembering how crowded a carrier had once been. The good news was that it was easier to move aircraft around the deck now. The bad news was that the actual striking power of his wing was barely two-thirds of what it had once been. Worse, naval aviation had fallen on hard times as an institution. The Tomcat design had begun in the 1960s—Sanchez had been contemplating high school then, and wondering when he’d be able to drive a car. The Hornet had first flown as the YF-17 in the early 1970s. The Intruder had started life in the 1950s, about the time Bud had gotten his first two-wheeler. There was not a single new naval aircraft in the pipeline. The Navy had twice flubbed its chance to buy into Stealth technology, first by not buying into the Air Force’s F-117 project, then by fielding the A-12 Avenger, which had turned out to be stealthy enough, just unable to fly worth a damn. And so now this fighter pilot, after twenty years of carrier operations, a “comer” being fast-tracked for an early flag—now with the last and best flying command of his career, Sanchez had less power to wield than anyone before him. The same was true of
Enterprise,
fifty miles to the east.

But the carrier was still queen of the sea. Even in her diminished capacity,
Johnnie Reb
had more striking power than both Indian carriers combined, and Sanchez judged that keeping India from getting too aggressive ought not to be overly taxing. A damned good thing that was the only problem on the horizon, too.

“That’s it,” the Air Boss observed as the last EA-6B caught the number-two wire. “Recovery complete. Your people look pretty good, Bud.”

“We have been working at it, Todd.” Sanchez rose from his seat and headed below toward his stateroom, where he’d freshen up before meeting first with his squadron commanders, and then with the ops staff to plan the operations for DATELINE PARTNERS. It ought to be a good workup, Sanchez thought. An Atlantic Fleet sailor for most of his career, it would be his first chance to look at the Japanese Navy, and he wondered what his grandfather would have thought of this. Henry Gabriel “Mike” Sanchez had been the CAG on USS
Wasp
in 1942, taking on the Japanese in the Guadalcanal campaign. He wondered what Big Mike would have thought of the upcoming exercise.

“Come on, you have to give me something,” the lobbyist said. It was a mark of just how grim things were that his employers had told him it was possible they might have to cut back on their expenditures in D.C. That was very unwelcome news. It wasn’t just me, the former Congressman from Ohio told himself. He had an office of twenty people to take care of, and they were Americans, too, weren’t they? And so he had chosen his target with care. This Senator had problems, a real contender in his primary, and another, equally real opponent in the general election. He needed a larger war chest. That made him amenable to reason, perhaps.

“Roy, I know we’ve worked together for ten years, but if I vote against TRA, I’m dead, okay? Dead. In the ground, with a wood stake through my heart, back in Chicago teaching bullshit seminars in government operations and selling influence to the highest bidder.”
Maybe even ending up like you,
the Senator didn’t say. He didn’t have to. The message carried quite clearly. It was not a pleasant thought. Almost twelve years on the Hill, and he
liked
it here. He liked the staff, and the life, and the parking privileges, and the free plane rides back to Illinois, and being treated like he was
somebody
everywhere he went. Already he was a member of the “Tuesday-Thursday Club,” flying back home every Thursday evening for a very long weekend of speeches to the local Elks and Rotary clubs, to be seen at PTA meetings, cutting ribbons for every new post office building he’d managed to scrounge money for, campaigning already, just as hard as he’d done to get this goddamned job in the first place. It was not pleasant to have to go through
that
again. It would be less pleasant still to do it in the knowledge that it was all a waste of his time. He
had
to vote for TRA. Didn’t Roy know that?

“I know that, Ernie. But I need something,” the lobbyist persisted. It wasn’t like working on the Hill. He had a staff of the same size, but this time it wasn’t paid for by taxes. Now he actually had to work for it. “I’ve always been your friend, right?”

The question wasn’t really a question. It was a statement, and it was both an implied threat and a promise. If Senator Greening didn’t come over with
something,
then, maybe, Roy would, quietly at first, have a meeting with one of his opponents. More likely both. Roy, the Senator knew, was quite at ease working both sides of any street. He might well write off Ernest Greening as a lost cause and start currying favor with one or both possible replacements. Seed money, in a manner of speaking, something that would pay off in the long run because the Japs were good at thinking long-term. Everyone knew that. On the other hand, if he coughed up something now ...

“Look, I can’t possibly change my vote,” Senator Greening said again.

“What about an amendment? I have an idea that might—”

“No chance, Roy. You’ve seen how the committees are working on this. Hell, the chairmen are sitting down right now at Bullfeathers, working out the last details. You have to make it clear to your friends that we’ve been well and truly rolled on this one.”

“Anything else?” Roy Newton asked, his personal misery not quite showing.
My God, to have to go back to Cincinnati, practice
law
again?

“Well, nothing on point,” Greening said, “but there are a few interesting things going on, on the other side.”

“What’s that?” Newton asked.
Just what I need,
he thought.
Some of the usual damned gossip.
It had been fun while he’d served his six terms, but not—

“Possible impeachment hearings against Ed Kealty.”

“You’re kidding,” the lobbyist breathed, his thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. “Don’t tell me, he got caught with his zipper down again?”

“Rape,” Greening replied. “No shit, rape. The FBI’s been working the case for some time now. You know Dan Murray?”

“Shaw’s lapdog?”

The Senator nodded. “That’s the one. He briefed House Judiciary, but then this trade flap blew up and the President put it on hold. Kealty himself doesn’t know yet, at least not as of last Friday—that’s how tight this one is—but my senior legislative aide is engaged to Sam Fellows’ chief of staff, and it really is too good to keep quiet, isn’t it?”

The old Washington story,
Newton thought with a smirk.
If two people know it, it’s not a secret.

“How serious?”

“From what I hear, Ed Kealty’s in very deep shit. Murray made his position very clear. He wants to put Eddie-boy behind bars. There’s a death involved.”

“Lisa Beringer!” If there was anything a politician was good at, it was remembering names.

Greening nodded. “I see your memory hasn’t failed you.”

Newton almost whistled, but as a former Member, he was supposed to take such things phlegmatically. “No wonder he wants this one under wraps. The front page isn’t big enough, is it?”

“That is the problem. It wouldn’t affect passage of the bill—well, probably not—but who needs the complications? TRA, the Moscow trip, too. So—smart money, it’s announced when he gets back from Russia.”

“He’s hanging Kealty out.”

“Roger never has liked him. He brought Ed on board for his legislative savvy, remember? The President needed somebody who knew the system. Well, what good will he be now, even if he’s cleared? Also, a major liability for the campaign. It makes good political sense,” Greening pointed out, “to toss him overboard right now, doesn’t it? At least, as soon as the other stuff is taken care of.”