Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (8 page)

“But if you can?” Itagake asked.

“As I said,” the Admiral replied patiently, “then they are a frigate navy. I grant you, with superb surface ships, but the ‘bubble’ each ship controls is far smaller. You can protect with a frigate, you cannot
project
power with one.” His choice of words, he saw, stopped the conversation for a moment.

One of the others handled the linguistic niceties, and Itagake leaned back with a long “Ahhhh,” as though he’d just learned something profound. Chandraskatta regarded the point as exceedingly simple—forgetting for a moment that the profound often was. However, he recognized that something important had just taken place.

What are you thinking about?
He would have shed blood, even his own, to know the answer to that question. Whatever it was, with proper warning, it might even be useful. He would have been surprised to learn that the others around the table were churning over exactly the same thought.

“Sure are burning a lot of oil,” the group-operations officer noted as he began his morning brief.

USS
Dwight D. Eisenhower
was on a course of zero-nine-eight degrees, east by south, two hundred nautical miles southeast of Felidu Atoll. Fleet speed was eighteen knots, and would increase for the commencement of flight operations. The main tactical display in flag plot had been updated forty minutes earlier from the radar of an E-3C Hawkeye surveillance aircraft, and, indeed, the Indian Navy was burning a good deal of Bunker-Charlie, or whatever they used now to drive their ships through the water.

The display before him could easily have been that of a U.S. Navy Carrier Battle Group. The two Indian carriers,
Viraat
and
Vikrant,
were in the center of a circular formation, the pattern for which had been invented by an American named Nimitz almost eighty years earlier. Close-in escorts were
Delhi
and
Mysore,
home-built missile destroyers armed with a SAM system about which information was thin—always a worry to aviators. The second ring was composed of the Indian version of the old Russian Kashin-class destroyers, also SAM-equipped. Most interesting, however, were two other factors.

“Replenishment ships
Rajaba Gan Palan and Shakti
have rejoined the battle group after a brief stay in Trivandrum—”

“How long were they in port?” Jackson asked.

“Less than twenty-four hours,” Commander Ed Harrison, the group-operations officer, replied. “They cycled them pretty fast, sir.”

“So they just went in for a quick fill-up. How much gas do they carry?”

“Bunker fuel, about thirteen thousand tons each, another fifteen hundred each of JP. Sister ship
Deepak
has detached from the battle group and is heading northwest, probably for Trivandrum as well, after conducting un-rep operations yesterday.”

“So they’re working extra hard to keep their bunkers topped off. Interesting. Go on,” Jackson ordered.

“Four submarines are believed to be accompanying the group. We have rough positions on one, and we’ve lost two roughly here.” Harrison’s hand drew a rough circle on the display. “The location of number four is unknown, sir. We’ll be working on that today.”

“Our subs out there?” Jackson asked the group commander.

“Santa Fe
in close and
Greeneville
holding between us and them.
Cheyenne
is in closer to the battle group as gatekeeper,” Rear Admiral Mike Dubro replied, sipping his morning coffee.

“Plan for the day, sir,” Harrison went on, “is to launch four F/A-18 Echoes with tankers to head east to this point, designated POINT BAUXITE, from which they will turn northwest, approach to within thirty miles of the Indian battle group, loiter for thirty minutes, then return to BAUXITE to tank again and recover after a flight time of four hours, forty-five minutes.” For the four aircraft to do this, eight were needed to provide midair refueling support. One each on the way out and the return leg as well. That accounted for most of
Ike’s
tanker assets.

“So we want them to think we’re still over that way.” Jackson nodded and smiled, without commenting on the wear-and-tear on the air crews that such a mission profile made necessary. “Still tricky, I see, Mike.”

“They haven’t gotten a line on us yet. We’re going to keep it that way, too,” Dubro added.

“How are the Bugs loaded?” Robby asked, using the service nickname for the F/A-18 Hornet, “Plastic Bug.”

“Four Harpoons each. White ones,” Dubro added. In the Navy, exercise missiles were color-coded blue. Warshots were generally painted white. The Harpoons were air-to-surface missiles. Jackson didn’t have to ask about the Sidewinder and AMRAAM air-to-air missiles that were part of the Hornet’s basic load. “What I want to know is, what the hell are they up to?” the battle-group commander observed quietly.

That was what everyone wanted to know. The Indian battle group—that was what they called it, because that’s exactly what it was—had been at sea for eight days now, cruising off the south coast of Sri Lanka. The putative mission for the group was support for the Indian Army’s peace-keeping team, whose job was to ameliorate the problem with the Tamil Tigers. Except for one thing: the Tamil Tigers were cosseted on the
northern
part of the island nation, and the Indian fleet was to the south. The Indian two-carrier force was maneuvering constantly to avoid merchant traffic, beyond sight of land, but within air range. Staying clear of the Sri Lankan Navy was an easy task. The largest vessel that country owned might have made a nice motor yacht for a nouveau-riche private citizen, but was no more formidable than that. In short, the Indian Navy was conducting a covert-presence operation far from where it was supposed to be. The presence of fleet-replenishment ships meant that they planned to be there for a while, and also that the Indians were gaining considerable at-sea time to conduct workups. The plain truth was that the Indian Navy was operating exactly as the U.S. Navy had done for generations. Except that the United States didn’t have any ambitions with Sri Lanka.

“Exercising every day?” Robby asked.

“They’re being right diligent, sir,” Harrison confirmed. “You can expect a pair of Harriers to form up with our Hornets, real friendly, like.”

“I don’t like it,” Dubro observed. “Tell him about last week.”

“That was a fun one to watch.” Harrison called up the computerized records, which ran at faster-than-normal speed. “Start time for the exercise is about now, sir.”

On the playback, Robby watched a destroyer squadron break off the main formation and head southwest, which had happened to be directly toward the
Lincoln
group at the time, causing a lot of attention in the group-operations department. On cue, the Indian destroyers had started moving randomly, then commenced a high-speed run due north. Their radars and radios blacked out, the team had then headed east, moving quickly.

“The DesRon commander knows his stuff. The carrier group evidently expected him to head east and duck under this stationary front. As you can see, their air assets headed that way.” That miscue had allowed the destroyers to dart within missile-launch range before the Indian Harriers had leaped from their decks to attack the closing surface group.

In the ten minutes required to watch the computerized playback, Robby knew that he’d just seen a simulated attack on an enemy carrier group, launched by a destroyer team whose willingness to sacrifice their ships and their lives for this hazardous mission had been demonstrated to perfection. More disturbingly, the attack had been successfully carried out. Though the tin cans would probably have been sunk, their missiles, some of them anyway, would have penetrated the carriers’ point defenses and crippled their targets. Large, robust ships though aircraft carriers were, it didn’t require all that much damage to prevent them from carrying out flight operations. And that was as good as a kill. The Indians had the only carriers in this ocean, except for the Americans, whose presence, Robby knew, was a source of annoyance for them. The purpose of the exercise wasn’t to take out their own carriers.

“Get the feeling they don’t want us here?” Dubro asked with a wry smile.

“I get the feeling we need better intelligence information on their intentions. We don’t have dick at the moment, Mike.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Dubro observed. “What about their intentions toward Ceylon?” The older name for the nation was more easily remembered.

“Nothing that I know about.” As deputy J-3, the planning directorate for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Robby had access to literally everything generated by the U.S. intelligence community. “But what you just showed me says a lot.”

All you had to do was look at the display, where the water was, where the land was, where the ships were. The Indian Navy was cruising in such a way as to position itself between Sri Lanka and anyone who might approach from the south to come to Sri Lanka. Like the U.S. Navy, for example. It had practiced an attack on such a force. To that end, it was clearly prepared to remain at sea for a long time. If it was an exercise, it was an expensive one. If not? Well, you just couldn’t tell, could you?

“Where are their amphibs?”

“Not close,” Dubro answered. “Aside from that, I don’t know. I don’t have the assets to check, and I don’t have any intel on them. They have a total of sixteen LSTs, and I figure twelve of them can probably operate as a group. Figure they can move a heavy brigade with them, combat-loaded and ready to hit a beach somewhere. There’s a few choice sites on the north coast of that island. We can’t reach them from here, at least not very well. I need more assets, Robby.”

“There aren’t more assets to give, Mike.”

“Two subs. I’m not being greedy. You can see that.” The two SSNs would move to cover the Gulf of Mannar, and that was the most likely invasion area. “I need more intelligence support, too, Rob. You can see why.”

“Yep.” Jackson nodded. “I’ll do what I can. When do I leave?”

“Two hours.” He’d be flying off on an S-3 Viking antisubmarine aircraft. The “Hoover,” as it was known, had good range. That was important. He’d be flying to Singapore, the better to give the impression that Dubro’s battle group was southeast of Sri Lanka, not southwest. Jackson reflected that he would have flown twenty-four thousand miles for what was essentially a half hour’s worth of briefing and the look in the eyes of an experienced carrier aviator. Jackson slid his chair back on the tiled floor as Harrison keyed the display to a smaller scale. It now showed
Abraham Lincoln
heading northeast from Diego Garcia, adding an additional air wing to Dubro’s command. He’d need it. The operational tempo required to cover the Indians—especially to do so deceptively—was putting an incredible strain on men and aircraft. There was just too much ocean in the world for eight working aircraft carriers to handle, and nobody back in Washington understood that.
Enterprise
and
Stennis
were working up to relieve
Ike
and
Abe
in a few months, and even that meant there would be a time when U.S. presence in this area would be short. The Indians would know that, too. You just couldn’t conceal the return time of the battle groups from the families. The word would get out, and the Indians would hear it, and what would they be doing then?

“Hi, Clarice.” Murray stood up for his luncheon guest. He thought of her as his own Dr. Ruth. Short, a tiny bit overweight, Dr. Golden was in her middle fifties, with twinkling blue eyes and a face that always seemed on the edge of delivering the punch line of a particularly good joke. It was that similarity between them that had fostered their bond. Both were bright, serious professionals, and both had elegant intellectual disguises. Hearty-fellow and hearty-lady-well-met, the life of whatever party they might attend, but under the smiles and the chuckles were keen minds that missed little and collected much. Murray thought of Golden as one hell of a potential cop. Golden had much the same professional evaluation of Murray.

“To what do I owe this honor, ma’am?” Dan asked in his usual courtly voice. The waiter delivered the menus, and she waited pleasantly for him to depart. It was Murray’s first clue, and though the smile remained fixed on his face, his eyes focused in a little more sharply on his diminutive lunch guest.

“I need some advice, Mr. Murray,” Golden replied, giving another signal. “Who has jurisdiction over a crime committed on federal property?”

“The Bureau, always,” Dan answered, leaning back in his seat and checking his service pistol. Business to Murray was enforcing the law, and feeling his handgun in its accustomed place acted as a sort of personal touchstone, a reminder that, elevated and important as the sign on his office door said he was today, he had started out doing bank robberies in the Philadelphia Field Division, and his badge and gun still made him a sworn member of his country’s finest police agency.

“Even on Capitol Hill?” Clarice asked.

“Even on Capitol Hill,” Murray repeated. Her subsequent silence surprised him. Golden was never reticent about much. You always knew what she was thinking—well, Murray amended, you knew what she wanted you to know. She played her little games, just as he did. “Talk to me, Dr. Golden.”

“Rape.”

Murray nodded, setting the menu down. “Okay, first of all, please tell me about your patient.”

“Female, age thirty-five, single, never married. She was referred to me by her gynecologist, an old friend. She came to me clinically depressed. I’ve had three sessions with her.”

Only three,
Murray thought. Clarice was a witch at this stuff, so perceptive. Jesus, what an interrogator she would have made with her gentle smile and quiet motherly voice.

“When did it happen?” Names could wait for the moment. Murray would start with the barest facts of the case.

“Three years ago.”

The FBI agent—he still preferred “Special Agent” to his official title of Deputy Assistant Director—frowned immediately. “Long time, Clarice. No forensics, I suppose.”