Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (69 page)

“Okay, number one, no contact at all with your normal rat-line. Even if they’re allowed out on the street, you don’t know them. You don’t go near them. Your contact points are gone, kid, you understand?” Clark’s mind was going at light-speed toward nowhere at the moment, but the most immediate priority was survival. You had to be alive in order to accomplish something, and Nomuri, like Chavez and himself, were “illegals,” unlikely to receive any sort of clemency after arrest and totally separated from any support from their parent agency.

Chet Nomuri nodded. “That leaves you, sir.”

“That’s right, and if you lose us, you return to your cover and you don’t do anything. Got that? Nothing at all. You’re a loyal Japanese citizen, and you stay in your hole.”

“But—”

“But nothing, kid. You are under my orders now, and if you violate them, you answer to me!” Clark softened his voice. “Your first priority is always survival. We don’t issue suicide pills and we don’t expect movie-type bullshit. A dead officer is a dumb officer.”
Damn,
Clark thought, had the mission been different from the very beginning, they would have had a routine established—dead——drops, a whole collection of signals, a selection of cutouts—but there wasn’t time to do that now, and every second they talked here in the shadows there was the chance that some Tokyoite would let his cat out, see a Japanese national talking to a gaijin, and make note of it. The paranoia curve had risen fast, and would only get steeper.

“Okay, you say so, man.”

“And don’t forget it. Stick to your regular routine. Don’t change anything except maybe to back off some. Fit in. Act like everybody else does. A nail that sticks up gets hammered down. Hammers hurt, boy. Now, here’s what I want you to do.” Clark went on for a minute. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get lost.” Clark headed down the alley, and entered his hotel through the delivery entrance, thankfully un-watched at this time of night. Thank God, he thought, that Tokyo had so little crime. The American equivalent would be locked, or have an alarm, or be patrolled by an armed guard. Even at war, Tokyo was a safer place than Washington, D.C.

“Why don’t you just buy a bottle instead of going out to drink?” “Chekov” asked, not for the first time, when he came back into the room.

“Maybe I should.” Which reply made the younger officer’s eyes jerk up from his paper and his Russian practice. Clark pointed to the TV, turned it on, and found CNN Headline News, in English.

Now for my next trick. How the hell do I get the word in?
he wondered. He didn’t dare use the fax machine to America. Even the Washington Interfax office was far too grave a risk, the one in Moscow didn’t have the encryption gear needed, and he couldn’t go through the Embassy’s CIA connection either. There was one set of rules for operating in a friendly country, and another for a hostile one, and nobody had expected the rules that made the rules to change without warning. That he and other CIA officers should have provided forewarning of the event was just one more thing to anger the experienced spy; the congressional hearings on that one were sure to be entertaining if he lived long enough to enjoy them. The only good news was that he had the name of a probable suspect in the murder of Kimberly Norton. That, at least, gave him something to fantasize about, and his mind had little other useful activity to undertake at the moment. At the half-hour it was clear that even CNN didn’t know what was going on, and if CNN didn’t know, then nobody did. Wasn’t that just great, Clark thought. It was like the legend of Cassandra, the daughter of King Priam of Troy who always knew what was happening, and who was always ignored. But Clark didn’t even have a way of getting the word out... did he?

I wonder if
... ? No. He shook his head. That was too crazy.

“All ahead full,” the Commanding Officer of
Eisenhower
said.

“All ahead full, aye,” the quartermaster on the enunciator pushed the handles forward. A moment later the inner arrow rotated to the same position. “Sir, engine room answers all ahead full.”

“Very well.” The CO looked over at Admiral Dubro. “Care to lay any bets, sir?”

The best information, oddly enough, came from sonar. Two of the battle group’s escorts had their towed-array sonars, called “tails,” streamed, and their data, combined with that of two nuclear submarines to the formation’s starboard, indicated that the Indian formation was a good way off to the south. It was one of those odd instances, more common than one might expect, where sonar far outperformed radar, whose electronic waves were limited by the curve of the earth, while sound waves found their own deep channels. The Indian fleet was over a hundred fifty miles away, and though that was spitting distance for jet attack aircraft, the Indians were looking to their south, not the north, and it further appeared that Admiral Chandraskatta didn’t relish night-flight operations and the risks they entailed for his limited collection of Harriers. Well, both men thought, night landings on a carrier weren’t exactly fun.

“Better than even,” Admiral Dubro replied after a moment’s analysis.

“I think you’re right.”

The formation was blacked out, not an unusual circumstance for warships, all its radars turned off, and the only radios in use were line-of-sight units with burst-transmission capability, which broadcast for hundredths of seconds only. Even satellite sets generated side-lobes that could betray their position, and their covert passage south of Sri Lanka was essential.

“World War Two was like this,” the CO went on, giving voice to his nerves. They were depending on the most human of fundamentals. Extra lookouts had been posted, who used both regular binoculars and “night-eye” electronic devices to sweep the horizon for silhouettes and mast-tops, while others on lower decks looked closer in for the telltale “feather” of a submarine periscope. The Indians had two submarines out on which Dubro did not have even an approximate location. They were probably probing south, too, but if Chandraskatta was really as smart as he feared, he would have left one close in, just as insurance. Maybe. Dubro’s deception operation had been a skillful one.

“Admiral?” Dubro’s head turned. It was a signalman. “FLASH Traffic from CINCPAC.” The petty officer handed over the clipboard and held a red-covered flashlight over the dispatch so that the battle-group commander could read it.

“Did you acknowledge receipt?” the Admiral asked before he started reading.

“No, sir, you left orders to chimp everything down.”

“Very good, sailor.” Dubro started reading. In a second he was holding both the clipboard and the flashlight. “Son of a bitch!”

Special Agent Robberton would drive Cathy home, and with that notification, Ryan again became a government functionary rather than a human being with a wife and family. It was a short walk to Marine One, its rotor already turning. President and Mrs. Durling, JUMPER and JASMINE, had done the requisite smiles for the cameras and had used the opportunity of the long flight to beg off answering any questions. Ryan trailed behind like some sort of equerry.

“Take an hour to get caught up,” Durling said as the helicopter landed on the south lawn of the White House. “When is the Ambassador scheduled in?”

“Eleven-thirty,” Brett Hanson replied.

“I want you, Arnie, and Jack there for the meeting.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Secretary of State acknowledged.

The usual photographers were there, but most of the White House reporters whose shouted questions so annoyed everyone were still back at Andrews collecting their bags. Inside the ground-floor entrance was a larger contingent of Secret Service agents than normal. Ryan headed west and was in his office two minutes later, shedding his coat and sitting down at a desk already decorated with call slips. Those he ignored for the moment, as he lifted the phone and dialed CIA.

“DDO, welcome back, Jack,” Mary Pat Foley said. Ryan didn’t bother asking how she knew it was him. Not that many had her direct line.

“How bad?”

“Our embassy personnel are safe. The embassy has not as yet been entered, and we’re destroying everything.” Station Tokyo, as all CIA stations had become in the last ten years, was completely electronic now. Destroying files was a question of seconds and left no telltale smoke. “Ought to be done by now.” The procedure was straightforward. The various computer disks were erased, reformatted, erased again, then subjected to powerful hand-held magnets. The bad news was that some of the data was irreplaceable, though not so much so as the people who had generated it. There was now a total of three “illegals” in Tokyo, the net human-intelligence assets of the United States in what was—probably—an enemy country.

“What else?”

“They’re letting people travel back and forth to their homes, with escort. Actually they’re playing it pretty cool,” Mrs. Foley said, her surprise not showing. “It’s not like Teheran in ’79, anyway. For communications they’re letting us use satellite links so far, but those are being electronically monitored. The embassy has one STU-6 operating. The rest have been deactivated. We still have TAPDANCE capability, too,” she finished, mentioning the random-pad cipher that all embassies now used through the National Security Agency’s communications net.

“Other assets?” Ryan asked, hoping that his own secure line was not compromised, but using cover procedure even so.

“Without the legals they’re pretty much cut off.” The worry in her voice was clear with that answer, along with quite a bit of self-reproach. The Agency still had operations in quite a few countries that did not absolutely require embassy personnel as part of the loop. But Japan wasn’t one of them, and even Mary Pat couldn’t make hindsight retroactive.

“Do they even know what’s going on?” It was an astute question, the Deputy Director (Operations) thought, and another needle in her flesh.

“Unknown,” Mrs. Foley admitted. “They didn’t get any word to us. They either do not know or have been compromised.” Which was a nicer way of saying arrested.

“Other stations?”

“Jack, we got caught with our knickers down, and that’s a fact.” For all the grief that it had to cause her, Ryan heard, she was reporting facts like a surgeon on the OR. What a shame that Congress would grill her unmercifully for the intelligence lapse. “I have people in Seoul and Beijing shaking the bushes, but I don’t expect anything back from them for hours.”

Ryan was rummaging through his pink call sheets. “I have one here, an hour old, from Golovko ...”

“Hell, call the bastard,” Mary Pat said at once. “Let me know what he says.”

“Will do.” Jack shook his head, remembering what the two men had talked about. “Get down here fast. Bring Ed. I need a gut call on something but not over the phone.”

“Be there in thirty,” Mrs. Foley said.

Jack spread out several faxes on his desk, and scanned them quickly. The Pentagon’s operations people had been faster than the other agencies, but now DIA was checking in, quickly followed by State. The government was awake—nothing like gunfire to accomplish that, Jack thought wryly—but the data was mainly repetitive, different agencies learning the same thing at different times and reporting in as though it were new. He flipped through the call sheets again, and clearly the majority of them would say the same thing. His eyes came back to the one from the chairman of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. Jack lifted the phone and made the call, wondering which of the phones on Golovko’s desk would ring. He took out a scratch pad, noting the time. The Signals Office would take note of the call, of course, and tape it, but he wanted to keep his own notes.

“Hello, Jack.”

“Your private line, Sergey Nikolay’ch?”

“For an old friend, why not?” The Russian paused, ending the joviality for the day. “I presume you know.”

“Oh, yeah.” Ryan thought for a moment before going on. “We were caught by surprise,” he admitted. Jack heard a very Russian grunt of sympathy.

“So were we. Completely. Do you have any idea what the madmen are up to?” the RVS Chairman asked, his voice a mixture of anger and concern.

“No, I see nothing at the moment that makes any sense at all.” And perhaps that was the most worrying part of all.

“What plans do you have?”

“Right now? None,” Ryan said. “Their ambassador is due here in less than an hour.”

“Splendid timing on his part,” the Russian commented. “They’ve done this to you before, if memory serves.”

“And to you,” Ryan said, remembering how the Russo-Japanese War had begun.
They do like their surprises.

“Yes, Ryan, and to us.” And that, Jack knew, was why Sergey had made the call, and why his voice showed genuine concern. Fear of the unknown wasn’t limited to children, after all, was it? “Can you tell me what sort of assets you have in place to deal with the crisis?”

“I’m not sure at the moment, Sergey,” Ryan lied. “If your Washington
rezidentura
is up to speed, you know I just got in. I need time to get caught up. Mary Pat is on her way down to my office now.”

“Ah,” Jack heard over the line. Well, it was an obvious lie he’d told, and Sergey was a wise old pro, wise enough to know. “You were very foolish not to have activated THISTLE sooner, my friend.”

“This is an open line, Sergey Nikolay’ch.” Which was partially true. The phone call was routed through the American Embassy in Moscow on a secure circuit, but from there on it was a standard commercial line, probably, and therefore subject to possible bugging.

“You need not be overly concerned, Ivan Emmetovich. Do you recall our conversation in my office?”

Oh, yeah.
Maybe the Russians really did have the Japanese counterintelligence chief under their control. If so, he was in a position to know if the phone call was secure or not. And if so, there were some other cards in his hand. Nice ones. Was he offering Ryan a peek?

Think fast, Jack,
Ryan commanded himself.
Okay, the Russians have another network up and running ...