Debt of Honor

by Tom Clancy

  “Excellent. My respects to the captain, make course one-five-five, maximum possible speed.” In less than a minute, Mutsu shuddered with increased engine power and started riding harder through the gentle Pacific swells for her rendezvous with the American battle force. Timing was important.

  On the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, a young trader’s clerk made a posting error on Merck stock at exactly 11:43:02 Eastern Standard Time. It actually went onto the system and appeared on the board at 23⅛, well off the current value. Thirty seconds later he typed it in again, inputting the same amount. This time he got yelled at. He explained that the damned keyboard was sticky, and unplugged it, switching it for a new one. It happened often enough. People spilled coffee and other things in this untidy place. The correction was inputted at once, and the world returned to normal. In the same minute something similar happened with General Motors stock, and someone made the same excuse. It was safe. The people at her particular kiosk didn’t interact all that much with the people who did Merck. Neither had any idea what they were doing, just that they were being paid $50,000 to make an error that would have no effect on the system at all. Had they not done it—they did not know—another pair of individuals had been paid the same amount of money to do the same thing ten minutes later.

  In the Stratus mainframe computers at the Depository Trust Company—more properly in the software that resided in them—the entries were noted, and the Easter Egg started to hatch.

  The cameras and lights were all set up in St. Vladimir Hall of the Great Kremlin Palace, the traditional room for finalizing treaties and a place that Jack had visited at another time and under very different circumstances. In two separate rooms, the President of the United States and the President of the Russian Republic were having their makeup put on, something that was probably more irksome to the Russian, Ryan was sure. Looking good for the cameras was not a traditional requirement for local political figures. Most of the guests were already seated, but the senior members of both official parties could be more relaxed. Final preparations were just about complete. The crystal glasses were on their trays, and the corks on the champagne bottles were unwrapped, awaiting only the word to be popped off.

  “That reminds me. You never did send me any of that Georgian champagne,” Jack told Sergey.

  “Well, today it can be done, and I can get you a good price.”

  “You know, before, 1 would have had to turn it in because of ethics laws.”

  “Yes, I know that every American official is a potential crook,” Golovko noted, checking around to see that everything was done properly.

  “You should be a lawyer.” Jack saw the lead Secret Service agent come through the door, and headed to his seat. “Some place, isn’t it, honey?” he asked his wife.

  “The czars knew how to live,” she whispered back as the TV lights all came on. In America, all the networks interrupted their regular programming. The timing was a little awkward, with the eleven-hour differential between Moscow and the American West Coast. Then there was Russia, which had at least ten time zones of its own, a result of both sheer size and, in the case of Siberia, proximity to the Arctic Circle. But this was something everyone would want to see.

  The two presidents came out, to the applause of the three hundred people present. Roger Durling and Eduard Grushavoy met at the mahogany table and shook hands warmly as only two former enemies could. Durling, the former soldier and paratrooper with Vietnam experience; Grushavoy, also a former soldier, a combat engineer who had been among the first to enter Afghanistan. Trained to hate one another in their youth, now they would put a final end to it all. On this day, they would set aside all the domestic problems that both lived with on every day of the week. For today, the world would change by their hands.

  Grushavoy, the host, gestured Durling to his chair, then moved to the microphone.

  “Mister President,” he said through an interpreter whom he didn’t really need, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to Moscow for the first time ...”

  Ryan didn’t listen to the speech. It was predictable in every phrase. His eyes fixed on a black plastic box that sat on the table exactly between the chairs of the two chiefs of state. It had two red buttons and a cable that led down to the floor. A pair of TV monitors sat against the near wall, and in the rear of the room, large projection TVs were available for everyone to watch. They showed similar sites.

  “Hell of a way to run a railroad,” an Army major noted, twenty miles from Minot, North Dakota. He’d just screwed in the last wire. “Okay, circuits are live. Wires are hot.” Only one safety switch prevented the explosives from going, and he had his hand on it. He’d already done a personal check of everything, and there was a full company of military police patrolling the area because Friends of the Earth was threatening to protest the event by putting people where the explosives were, and as desirable as it might be just to blow the bastards up, the officer would have to disable the firing circuit if that happened. Why the hell, he wondered, would anybody protest this? He’d already wasted an hour trying to explain that to his Soviet counterpart.

  “So like the steppes here,” the man said, shivering in the wind. They both watched a small TV for their cue.

  “It’s a shame we don’t have the politicians around here to give us some hot air.” He took his hand off the safety switch. Why couldn’t they just get on with it?

  The Russian officer knew his American English well enough to laugh at the remark, feeling inside his oversized parka for a surprise he had in waiting for the American.

  “Mr. President, the hospitality we have experienced in this great city is proof positive that there should be, can be, and will be a friendship between our two peoples—just as strong as our old feelings were, but far more productive. Today, we put an end to war,” Durling concluded to warm applause, returning to shake Grushavoy’s hand again. Both men sat down. Oddly, now they had to take their orders from an American TV director who held a headset to his face and talked very quickly.

  “Now,” men said in two languages, “if the audience will turn to the TVs ...”

  “When I was a lieutenant in the pioneers,” the Russian President whispered, “I loved blowing things up.”

  Durling grinned, leaning his head in close. Some things were not for microphones. “You know the job I always wanted as a boy—do you have it over here?”

  “What is that, Roger?”

  “The guy who runs the crane with the big iron ball for knocking buildings down. It has to be the best job in the whole world.”

  “Especially if you can put your parliamentary opposition in the building first!” It was a point of view that both shared.

  “Time,” Durling saw from the director.

  Both men put their thumbs on their buttons.

  “On three, Ed?” Durling asked.

  “Yes, Roger!”

  “One,” Durling said.

  “Two,” Grushavoy continued.

  “Three!” both said, pressing them down.

  The two buttons closed a simple electrical circuit that led to a satellite transmitter outside. It took roughly a third of a second for the signal to go up to the satellite and come back down, then another third for the result to retrace the same path, and for a long moment a lot of people thought that something had gone wrong. But it hadn’t.

  “Whoa!” the Major observed when a hundred pounds of Composition-Four went off. The noise was impressive, even from half a mile, and there followed the tower of flame from the ignition of the solid-fuel rocket motor. That part of the ceremony had been tricky. They’d had to make sure that the thing would burn from the top only. Otherwise the missile might have tried to fly out of the silo, and that would just not have done at all. In fact the whole exercise was unnecessarily complicated and dangerous. The cold wind drove the toxic exhaust smoke to the east, and by the time it got to anything important, it would just be a bad smell, which was pretty much what you could say about the political cond
itions that had occasioned the existence of the burning rocket motor, wasn’t it? There was a certain awe to it, though. The world’s largest firework, burning backwards for about three minutes before there was nothing left but smoke. A sergeant activated the silo fire-suppression system, which actually worked, rather to the Major’s surprise.

  “You know, we had a drawing to see who’d get to do this. I won,” the officer said, getting to his feet.

  “I was just ordered to come. I am glad I did. Is it safe now?”

  “I think so. Come on, Valentin. We have one more job to do, don’t we?”

  Both men got into an HMMWV, the current incarnation of the Army jeep, and the Major started it up, heading for the silo from upwind. Now it was just a hole in the ground, generating steam. A CNN crew followed, still giving a live feed as the vehicle bumped across the uneven prairie. Their vehicle stopped two hundred yards away, somewhat to their annoyance, while the two officers dismounted their vehicle, carrying gas masks against the possibility that there was still enough smoke to be a health concern. There wasn’t. Just the nasty smell. The American officer waved the TV crew in and waited for them to get ready. That took two minutes.

  “Ready!” the unit director said.

  “Are we in agreement that the silo and missile are destroyed?”

  “Yes, we are,” the Russian replied with a salute. Then he reached behind his back and pulled two crystal glasses from his pockets. “Would you hold these please, Comrade Major?”

  Next came a bottle of Georgian champagne. The Russian popped the cork with a wide grin and filled both glasses.

  “I teach you Russian tradition now. First you drink,” he said. The TV crew loved it.

  “I think I know that part.” The American downed the champagne. “And now?”

  “The glasses may never be used for a lesser purpose. Now you must do as I do.” With that the Russian turned and poised himself to hurl his glass into the empty hole. The American laughed and did the same.

  “Now!” With that, both glasses disappeared into the last American Minuteman silo. They disappeared in the steam, but both could hear them shatter against the scorched concrete walls.

  “Fortunately, I have two more glasses,” Valentin said, producing them.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ryan breathed. It turned out that the American at the Russian silo had had a similar idea, and was now explaining what “Miller time!” meant. Unfortunately, aluminum cans didn’t break when thrown.

  “Overly theatrical,” his wife thought.

  “It isn’t exactly Shakespeare, but if t‘were done when t’were done, then at least it’s done, honey.” Then they heard the corks popping off amid the sounds of applause.

  “Is the five-billion-dollars part true?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, Ivan Emmetovich, we can be truly friends now?” Golovko asked, bringing glasses. “We finally meet, Caroline,” he said graciously to Cathy.

  “Sergey and I go way back,” Jack explained, taking the glass and toasting his host.

  “To the time I had a gun to your head,” the Russian observed. Ryan wondered if it were an historical reference ... or a toast to the event?

  “What?” Cathy asked, almost choking on her drink.

  “You never told her?”

  “Jesus, Sergey!”

  “What are you two talking about?”

  “Dr. Ryan, once upon a time your husband and I had a ... professional disagreement that ended up with myself holding a pistol in his face. I never told you, Jack, that the gun wasn’t loaded.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going anywhere anyway, was I?”

  “What are you two talking about? Is this some inside joke?” Cathy demanded.

  “Yeah, honey, that’s about right. How is Andrey Il’ich doing?”

  “He is well. In fact, if you would like to see him, it can be arranged.”

  Jack nodded. “I’d like that.”

  “Excuse me, but who exactly are you?”

  “Honey,” Jack said. “This is Sergey Nikolayevich Golovko, Chairman of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.”

  “KGB? You know each other?”

  “Not KGB, madam. We are much smaller now. Your husband and I have been ... competitors for years now.”

  “Okay, and who won?” she asked.

  Both men had the same thought, but Golovko said it first: “Both of us, of course. Now, if you will permit, let me introduce you to my wife, Yelena. She is a pediatrician.” That was something CIA had never bothered to find out, Jack realized.

  He turned to look at the two presidents, enjoying the moment despite being surrounded by newsies. It was the first time he’d actually been to an event like this, but he was sure they weren’t always this chummy. Perhaps it was the final release of all that tension, the realization that, yes, Virginia, it really was over. He saw people bringing in yet more champagne. It was pretty good stuff, and he fully intended to have his share of it. CNN would soon tire of the party, but these people would not. All the uniforms, and politicians, and spies, and diplomats. Hell, maybe they would all really be friends.

  19

  Strike Two, 1-800-RUN

  Though the overall timing was fortuitous, the plan for exploiting the chance was exquisite, the product of years of study and modeling and simulation. In fact the operation had already begun when six major commercial banks in Hong Kong started going short on U.S. Treasury bonds. These had been bought a few weeks earlier, part of a complex exchange for yen holdings done as a classic hedge against monetary fluctuations. The banks themselves were about to undergo a trauma—a change in ownership of the very ground upon which they stood—and the two factors made their massive purchases seem an entirely ordinary move to maximize their liquidity and flexibility at the same time. In liquidating the bonds, they were just cashing in, albeit in a large way, on the relative change in values of dollar and yen. They would realize a 17 percent profit from the move, in fact, then buy yen, which, currency experts all over the world were now saying, had reached a hard floor and would soon rebound. Still, two hundred ninety billion dollars of U.S. bonds were on the market briefly, and undervalued at that. They were soon snapped up by European banks. The Hong Kong bankers made the proper electronic entries, and the transaction was concluded. Next they wired the fact to Beijing, uneasily happy to show that they had followed orders and demonstrated obeisance to their soon-to-be political masters. So much the better, all thought, that they had taken a profit on the deal.

  In Japan the transaction was noted. Fourteen hours off the local time of New York City, still the world’s foremost trading center, it was not terribly unusual for Tokyo traders to work hours usually associated with night watchmen, and in any case the wire services that communicated financial information never ceased transmitting data. It would have surprised some people to learn that the people in the trading offices were very senior indeed, and that a special room had been established on the top floor of a major office building during the last week. Called the War Room by its current occupants, it had telephone lines leading to every city in the world with major trading activities and computer displays to show what was happening in all of them.

  Other Asian banks went next, repeating the same procedure as in Hong Kong, and the people in the War Room watched their machines. Just after noon, New York time, Friday, which was 2:03 A.M. on Saturday in Tokyo, they saw another three hundred million dollars of U.S. bonds dumped into the market, these at a price even more attractive than that just offered in Hong Kong, and these, also, were rapidly bought by other European bankers for whom the working day and week were just coming to an end. As yet nothing grossly unusual had happened. Only then did the Japanese banks make their move, well covered by the activity of others. The Tokyo banks as well started selling off their U.S. Treasuries, clearly taking action to firm up the yen, it appeared. In the process, however, the entire world’s ready surplus-dollar capacity had been used up in a period of minutes. It could be written off
as a mere coincidence, but the currency traders—at least those not at lunch in New York—were now alerted to the fact that any further trading on those notes would be unsettling, however unlikely that might be, what with the known strength of the dollar.

  The state dinner was reflective of traditional Russian hospitality, made all the more intense by the fact that it celebrated the end of two generations of nuclear terror. The Metropolitan of the Russian Orthodox Church intoned a long and dignified invocation. Himself twice the victim of political imprisonment, his invitation to rejoice was heartfelt, moving a few to tears, which were soon banished by the start of the feast. There was soup, and caviar, and fowl, and fine beef; and huge quantities of alcohol which, for just this once, everyone felt free to imbibe. The real work of the trip was done. There really were no secrets left to hide. Tomorrow was Saturday, and everyone would have the chance to sleep late.

  “You, too, Cathy?” Jack asked. His wife was not normally a heavy drinker, but tonight she was knocking it back.

  “This champagne is wonderful.” It was her first state dinner overseas. She’d had a good day of her own with local ophthalmic surgeons, and had invited two of the best, full professors both, to come to the Wilmer Institute and acquaint themselves with her specialty area. Cathy was in the running for a Lasker Award for her work with laser surgery, the product of eleven years of clinical research, and the reason she had not accepted a department chairmanship twice offered by University of Virginia. Her big paper announcing the breakthrough would soon be published in NEJM, and for her as well, this night and this trip were the culmination of many things.

  “You’re going to pay for it tomorrow,” her husband warned. Jack was going easier on all the drinks, though he had already exceeded his normal nightly limit, which was one. It was the toasts that would do everyone in, he knew, having been through Russian banquets before. It was just a cultural thing. The Russians could drink most Irishmen under any table, something he’d once learned the hard way, but most of the American party either hadn’t learned that lesson or simply didn’t care this night. The National Security Advisor shook his head. They’d sure as hell learn it tomorrow morning. The main course arrived just then, and deep red wine filled the glasses.