Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (93 page)

“Three, actually. What is reality?” Jack asked rhetorically. “Reality to them is electrons and computer screens, and if there’s one thing I learned on the Street, it’s that they don’t know investments worth a damn. Except Yamata, I suppose.”

“Well, he did all right, didn’t he?” Durling asked.

“He should have left the records alone. If he’d left us in free-fall ...” Ryan shrugged. “It might just have kept going. It just never occurred to him that we might not play by his rules.” And that, Jack told himself, would be the key to everything. The President’s speech had been a fine mix of things said and unsaid, and the targeting of the speech had been precise. It had been, in fact, the first PsyOp of a war.

“The press can’t stay dumb forever.”

“I know.” Ryan even knew where the leak would start, and the only reason it hadn’t happened already was the FBI. “But we need to keep them dumb just a little longer.”

It started cautiously, not really as part of any operational plan at all, but more as a precursor to one. Four B-1B Lancer bombers lifted off from Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska, followed by two KC-10 tankers. The combination of latitude and time of year guaranteed darkness. Their bomb bays were fitted with fuel tanks instead of weapons. Each aircraft had a crew of four, pilot and copilot, plus two systems operators.

The Lancer was a sleek aircraft, a bomber equipped with a fighter’s stick instead of a more conventional control yoke, and pilots who had flown both said that the B-1B felt and flew like a slightly heavy F-4 Phantom, its greater weight and larger size giving the bomber greater stability and, for now, a smoother ride. For the moment the staggered formation of six flew international route R-220, maintaining the lateral spacing expected of commercial air traffic.

A thousand miles and two hours out, passing Shemya and leaving ground-control radar coverage, the six aircraft turned north briefly. The tankers held steady while the bombers one by one eased underneath to take on fuel, a procedure that lasted about twelve minutes in each case. Finished, the bombers continued southwest while the tankers turned to land at Shemya, where they would refill their own tanks.

The four bombers descended to twenty-five thousand feet, which took them below the regular stream of commercial air traffic and allowed more freedom of maneuver. They continued close to R-220, the westernmost of the commercial flight tracks, skimming down past the Kamchatka Peninsula.

Systems were flipped on in the back. Though designed as a penetrating bomber, the B-1B fulfilled many roles, one of which was electronic intelligence. The body of any military aircraft is studded with small structures that look for all the world like the fins on fish. These objects are invariably antennas of one sort or another, and the graceful fairing has no more sinister purpose than to reduce drag. The Lancer had many of them, designed to gather in radar and other electronic signals and pass them along to internal equipment, which analyzed the data. Some of the work was done in real-time by the flight crew. The idea was for the bomber to monitor hostile radar, the better to allow its crew to avoid detection and deliver its bombs.

At the NOGAL reporting point, about three hundred miles outside the Japanese Air Defense Identification Zone, the bombers split into a patrol line, with roughly fifty miles separating the aircraft, and descended to ten thousand feet. Crewmen rubbed their hands together, pulled their seat belts a little tighter, and started concentrating. Cockpit chatter lessened to that required by the mission, and tape recorders were flipped on. Satellite monitoring told them that the Japanese Air Force had airborne-early-warning aircraft, E-767s, operating almost continuously, and those were the defensive assets that the bomber crews feared most. Flying high, the E-767s could see far. Mobile, they could move to deal with threats with a high degree of efficiency. Worst of all, they invariably operated in conjunction with fighters, and fighters had eyes in them, and behind the eyes were brains, and weapons with brains in them were the most frightening of all.

“Okay, there’s the first one,” one of the systems operators said. It wasn’t really the first. For practice of sorts, they’d calibrated their equipment on Russian air-defense radars, but for the first time in the collective memory of all sixteen airmen, it wasn’t Russian radars and fighters which concerned them. “Low-frequency, fixed, known location.”

They were receiving what operators often called “fuzz.” The radar in question was under the horizon and too far away to detect their semistealthy aircraft. As you can see a person holding a flashlight long before the light reveals your presence to the holder, so it was with radar. The powerful transmitter was as much a warning beacon to unwanted guests as a lookout for its owners. The location, frequency, pulse-repetition rate, and estimated power of the radar was noted and logged. A display on the electronic-warfare officer’s board showed the coverage for that radar. The display was repeated on the pilot’s console, with the danger area marked in red. He’d stay well clear of it.

“Next,” the EWO said. “Wow, talk about power—this one’s airborne. Must be one of their new ones. It’s definitely moving south-to-north, now bearing two-zero-two.”

“Copy,” the pilot acknowledged quietly, his eyes scanning all around the dark sky. The Lancer was really proceeding on autopilot, but his right hand was only inches from the stick, ready to jerk the bomber to the left, dive to the deck, and go to burner. There were fighters somewhere off to his right, probably two F-15s, but they would stay close to E-767s.

“Another one, one-nine-five, just appeared ... different freq and—stand by,” the electronics officer said. “Okay, major frequency change. He’s probably in an over-the-horizon mode now.”

“Could he have us?” the pilot asked, checking his avoidance screen again. Outside the red keep-out zone was a yellow section that the pilot thought of as the “maybe” zone. They were at most a few minutes away from entering that zone, and “maybe” seemed very worrisome indeed at the moment, nearly three thousand miles from Elmendorf Air Force Base.

“Not sure. It’s possible. Recommend we come left,” the EWO said judiciously. On that advice, he felt the aircraft bank five degrees. The mission wasn’t about taking risks. It was about gathering information, as a gambler would observe a table before taking his seat and putting his chips in play.

“I think there’s somebody out there,” one of the E-767 operators said. “Zero-one-five, southerly course. Hard to hold it.”

The rotodome atop the E-767 was like few others in the world, and all of them were Japanese. Three of them were operating on the eastern approaches to their country. Transmitting up to three million watts of electrical energy, it had four times the power of anything the Americans had aloft, but the true sophistication of the system lay not in its power but in its mode of delivery. Essentially a smaller version of the SPY radar carried on the Kongo-class destroyers, the array was composed of thousands of solid-state diodes that could scan both electronically and mechanically, and jump in frequency to suit the needs of the moment. For long-range detection, a relatively low frequency was best. However, though the waves curved around the visible horizon somewhat, it was at the cost of poor resolution. The operator was getting a hit on only every third sweep or so. The system software had not yet learned to distinguish clutter from the purposeful activities of a human mind, at least not in all cases, and not, unfortunately, at this frequency setting....

“Are you sure?” the senior controller asked over the intercom line. He’d just called up the display himself and didn’t see anything yet.

“Here.” The first man moved his cursor and marked the contact when it reappeared. He wished they could improve that software. “Wait! Look here!” He selected another blip and marked it, too. It disappeared almost at once but came back in fifteen seconds. “See, southerly course—speed five hundred knots.”

“Excellent.” The senior controller activated his radio microphone and reported to his ground station that Japanese air defenses were being probed for the first time. The only surprise, really, was that it had taken them so long.
This is where things get interesting,
he thought, wondering what would happen next, now that the games had begun.

“No more of those Es?” the pilot asked.

“No, just the two. I thought I had a little fuzz a minute ago,” the EWO said, “but it faded out.” He didn’t need to explain that with the sensitivity of his instruments, he was probably getting readings on garage-door openers as well. A moment later another ground radar was plotted. The patrol line angled back west one by one as they passed the coverage of the two E-767s, still on a southwesterly base course, now halfway down the largest home island, Honshu, which was well over three hundred miles to their right. The copilots of each of the four aircraft looked exclusively west now, while the aircraft commanders scanned for possible air traffic to their front. It was tense but routine, not unlike driving through a neighborhood in which one didn’t want to live. So long as the lights were all green, you didn’t get too worried—but you didn’t like the looks your car got.

The crew of the third E-767 was unhappy, and their fighter escorts even more so. Enemy aircraft were looking at their coastline, and even if they were six hundred kilometers out, they still didn’t belong in the neighborhood. But they switched their radar systems to standby. Probably EC-135s, they thought, surveillance aircraft, assembling an electronic order of battle for their country. And if the American mission were to gather information, then the smart thing to do was to deny them the information they wanted. And it was easy to do, or so the radar-controller officers told themselves.

We’ll go closer in the next time,
the aircraft commander told himself. First electronics experts would have to examine the data and try to determine what was and what wasn’t safe, betting the lives of fellow Air Force officers with their conclusions. That was a happy thought. The crew relaxed, yawned, and started talking, mainly about the mission and what they had learned. Four and a half hours back to Elmendorf, and a shower, and some mandated crew rest.

The Japanese controllers were still not completely sure that they’d had contacts at all, but that would be determined by examining their onboard tapes. Their patrol patterns returned to their normal monitoring of commercial air traffic, and a few comments were exchanged on why the devil that traffic still continued. The answers were mainly shrugs and raised eyebrows and even more uncertainty than had existed when they’d thought they were tracking contacts. There was just something about looking at a radar screen for more than a few hours. Sooner or later your imagination took over, and the more you thought about it, the worse it got. But that, they knew, was the same for the other side in the game, too.

The central-bank heads were accustomed to VIP treatment. Their flights all arrived at John F. Kennedy International within the same hour. Each was met by a senior diplomat from their respective countries’ U.N. delegations, whisked past customs control, and sent to the city in a car with diplomatic tags. The common destination surprised them all, but the Federal Reserve Chairman explained that for convenience the New York FBI office was a better place for coordination than the local Federal Reserve bank, especially since it was large enough to accommodate the directors of the major trading houses—and since antitrust regulations were being suspended in the interest of American national security. That notification bemused the European visitors. Finally, they thought, America understood the national-security implications of financial matters. It had certainly taken them long enough.

George Winston and Mark Gant began their final briefing on the events of the previous week after an introduction from the Chairman and Secretary Fiedler, and by this time they had the presentation down pat.

“Bloody clever,” the head of the Bank of England observed to his German counterpart.

“Jawohl,”
was the whispered reply.

“How do we prevent something like this from happening again?” one of them wondered aloud.

“Better record-keeping systems for starters,” Fiedler replied alertly after something approaching a decent night’s sleep. “Aside from that ... ? It’s something we need to study for a while. Of greater interest are the remedial measures which we must now consider.”

“The yen must suffer for this,” the French banker observed at once. “And we must help you to protect the dollar in order to protect our own currencies.”

“Yes.” The Fed Chairman nodded at once. “Jean-Jacques, I’m glad you see it the same way we do.”

“And to save your equities markets, what will you do?” the head of the Bundesbank asked.

“This is going to sound somewhat crazy, but we think it will work,” Secretary Fiedler began, outlining the procedures that President Durling had
not
revealed in his speech and whose execution depended to a large degree on European cooperation. The visitors shared a common look, first of incredulity, then of approval.

Fiedler smiled. “Might I suggest that we coordinate our activities for Friday?”

Nine in the morning was considered an ungodly hour for the commencement of diplomatic negotiations, which helped the situation. The American delegation arrived at the Japanese Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, N.W., in private cars, the better to conceal the situation.

The formalities were observed in all particulars. The conference room was large, with a correspondingly large table. The Americans took their places on one side and the Japanese on the other. Handshakes were exchanged because these were diplomats and such things were to be expected. Tea and coffee were available, but most just poured glasses of ice water into crystal glasses. To the annoyance of the Americans, some of the Japanese smoked. Scott Adler wondered if they did it just to unsettle him, and so to break the ice he requested and got a smoke from the Ambassador’s chief aide.