by Tom Clancy
The entrance to the National Military Command Center was barred by a wall of bullet-resistant glass, behind which was a black female sergeant armed with a revolver.
“CIA—I have to get in.” Ryan held his badge against the black pad, and again it worked.
“Who are you, sir?” a Navy petty officer asked.
“DDCI. You take me to whoever’s running this.”
“Follow me, sir. The man you want to see is Captain Rosselli.”
“Captain? No flag officer?”
“General Wilkes got lost, sir. We don’t know where the hell he is.” The enlisted man turned through a door.
Ryan saw a Navy captain and an Air Force lieutenant colonel, a status board, and a gang of multiple-line phones. “You Rosselli?”
“That’s right—and you?”
“Jack Ryan, DDCI.”
“You picked a bad place to come to, pal,” Colonel Barnes observed.
“Anything changed?”
“Well, we just had what looked like a missile launch in Russia—”
“Jesus!”
“No bird came up, maybe an explosion in the hole. You have anything we need to know?”
“I need a line into the FBI command center and I need to talk to both of you.”
“That’s crazy,” Rosselli said two minutes later.
“Maybe so.” Ryan lifted the line. “Dan, Jack here.”
“Where the hell are you, Jack? I just called Langley.”
“Pentagon. What do you have on the bomb?”
“Stand by, I have a patch through to Dr. Larry Parsons. He’s the NEST boss. He’s on now.”
“Okay, this is Ryan, Deputy Director of CIA. Talk to me.”
“The bomb was made of American plutonium. That’s definite. They’ve rechecked the sample four times. Savannah River Plant, February 1968, K Reactor.”
“You’re sure?” Jack asked, wishing very hard that the answer would be affirmative.
“Positive. Crazy as it sounds, it was our stuff.”
“What else?”
“Murray tells me you have had problems with the yield estimate. Okay, I’ve been there, okay? This was a small device, less than fifteen—that’s one-five kiloton yield. There are survivors from the scene—not many, but I’ve seen them myself, okay? I’m not sure what screwed up the initial estimate, but I have been there and I’m telling you it was a little one. It also seems to have been a fizzle. We’re trying to ascertain more about that now—but this is the important part, okay? The bomb material was definitely American in origin. One hundred percent sure.”
Rosselli leaned over to make sure that this phone line was a secure one into FBI headquarters. “Wait a minute. Sir, this is Captain Jim Rosselli, U.S. Navy. I have a master’s in nuclear physics. Just to make sure this is what I’m hearing, I want you to give me the 239/240 proportions, okay?”
“Wait a minute and I will.... Okay, 239 was nine eight point nine three; 240 is zero point four five. You want the trace elements also?”
“No, that’ll do it. Thank you, sir.” Rosselli looked up and spoke quietly. “Either he’s telling the truth or he’s one smart fuckin’ liar.”
“Captain, I’m glad you agree. I need you to do something.”
“What’s that?”
“I need to get on the Hot Line.”
“I can’t allow that.”
“Captain, have you been keeping track of the messages?”
“No, Rocky, and I haven’t had time. We’ve got three separate battles going on and—”
“Let’s go look.”
Ryan hadn’t been in there before, which struck him as odd. The printed copies of the messages were being kept on a clipboard. There were six people in the room, and they all looked ashen.
“Christ, Ernie—” Rosselli observed.
“Anything lately?” Jack asked.
“Nothing since the President sent one out twenty minutes ago.”
“It was going fine when I was here right after—oh, my God. ...” Rosselli observed as he got to the bottom.
“The President has lost it,” Jack said. “He refuses to take information from me and he refuses to listen to Vice President Durling. Now this is real simple, okay? I know President Narmonov. He knows me. With what the FBI just gave us, what you just heard, Captain, I think I might be able to accomplish something. If not—”
“Sir, that is not possible,” Rosselli replied.
“Why?” Jack asked. Though his heart was racing, he forced himself to control his breathing. He had to be cool be cool be cool now.
“Sir, the whole point of this link is that the only two people on it are—”
“One of them, maybe both now, is not playing with a full deck. Captain, you can see where we are. I can’t force you to do this. I’m asking you to think. You just used your head a moment ago. Use it again,” Ryan said calmly.
“Sir, they’ll lock us up for doing this,” the Link supervisor said.
“You have to be alive to be locked up,” Jack said. “We are at SNAPCOUNT right now. You people know how serious this is. Captain Rosselli, you are the senior officer present, and you make the call.”
“I see everything you put on that machine before it’s transmitted.”
“Fair enough. Can I type it myself?”
“Yes. You type, and it’s crossloaded and encrypted before it goes out.”
A Marine sergeant made room for him. Jack sat down and lit a cigarette, ignoring the signs prohibiting the vice.
ANDREY IL’YCH, Ryan tapped in slowly, THIS IS JACK RYAN. Do YOU STILL MAKE YOUR OWN FIRES IN THE DACHA?
“Okay?”
Rosselli nodded to the NCO sitting next to Ryan. “Transmit.”
“What is this?” the Defense Minister asked. Four men hovered over the terminal. A Soviet Army major translated.
“Something’s wrong here,” the communications officer said. “This is—”
“Send back, ‘Do you remember who it was who bandaged your knee?’ ”
“What?”
“Send it!” Narmonov said.
They waited for two minutes.
YOUR BODYGUARD ANATOLIY ASSISTED ME, BUT MY TROUSERS WERE RUINED.
“It’s Ryan.”
“Make sure,” Golovko said.
The translator looked at his screen. “It says, ‘And our friend is doing well?’ ”
Ryan typed: HE RECEIVED AN HONORABLE BURIAL AT CAMP DAVID.
“What the hell?” Rosselli asked.
“There’s not twenty people in the world who know this. He’s making sure it’s really me,” Jack said. His fingers were poised over the keys.
“That looks like bullshit.”
“Okay, fine, it’s bullshit, but does it hurt anything?” Ryan demanded.
“Send it.”
“What the hell is this?” Fowler shouted. “Who’s doing this—”
“Sir, we have an incoming from the President. He’s ordering us to—”
“Ignore it,” Jack said coldly.
“Goddamn it, I can’t!”
“Captain, the President has lost control. If you allow him to shut me off, your family, my family, a whole lot of people are going to die. Captain, your oath is to the Constitution, not the President. Now you look over those messages again and tell me that I’m wrong!”
“From Moscow,” the translator said. “‘Ryan, what is happening?’ ”
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
WE HAVE BEEN THE VICTIMS OF A TERRORIST ACT. THERE WAS MUCH CONFUSION HERE, BUT WE NOW HAVE POSITIVE EVIDENCE AS TO THE ORIGIN OF THE WEAPON.
WE ARE CERTAIN THAT THE WEAPON WAS NOT SOVIET. I REPEAT WE ARE CERTAIN THE WEAPON WAS NOT SOVIET.
WE ARE NOW ATTEMPTING TO APPREHEND THE TERRORISTS. WE MAY HAVE THEM WITHIN THE NEXT FEW MINUTES.
“Send back, ‘Why has your President accused us of this?’ ” There was another pause of two minutes.
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
WE HAVE BEEN THE VICTIMS OF GREAT CONFUSION HER
E. WE HAVE HAD SOME INTELLIGENCE REPORTS OF POLITICAL TURMOIL IN THE SOVIET UNION. THESE REPORTS WERE FALSE, BUT THEY CONFUSED US GREATLY. IN ADDITION, THE OTHER INCIDENTS HAVE HAD AN INCENDIARY EFFECT ON BOTH SIDES.
“That’s true enough.”
“Pete, you get people in there just as fast as you can and arrest this man!”
Connor couldn’t say no to that despite the look he received from Helen D’Agustino. He called Secret Service headquarters and relayed the message.
“He asks, ‘What you—what do you suggest?’ ”
I ASK THAT YOU TRUST US AND ALLOW US TO TRUST YOU. WE BOTH MUST BACK AWAY FROM THIS. I SUGGEST THAT BOTH YOU AND WE REDUCE THE ALERT LEVELS OF STRATEGIC FORCES AND GIVE ORDERS TO ALL TROOPS TO EITHER HOLD IN PLACE OR WITHDRAW AWAY FROM ANY SOVIET OR AMERICAN UNIT IN CLOSE PROXIMITY, AND IF POSSIBLE THAT ALL SHOOTING BE STOPPED IMMEDIATELY.
“Well?” Ryan asked.
“Send it.”
“Can it be a trick?” the Defense Minister asked. “Can it not be a trick?”
“Golovko?”
“I believe that it is Ryan, and I believe he is sincere—but can he persuade his President?”
President Narmonov walked away for a moment, thinking of history, thinking of Nikolay II. “If we stand our forces down ... ?”
“Then they can strike us, and our ability to retaliate is cut in half!”
“Is half enough?” Narmonov asked, seeing the escape hatch, leaning toward it, praying for the opening to be real. “Is half enough to destroy them?”
“Well ...” Defense nodded. “Certainly, we have more than double the amount we need to destroy them. We call it overkill.”
“Sir, the Soviet reply reads: ‘Ryan:
“‘On my order, being sent out as you read this, Soviet strategic forces are standing down. We will maintain our defensive alert for the moment, but we will stand down our offensive forces to a lower alert level which is still higher than peacetime standards. If you match our move, I propose a phased mutual stand-down over the next five hours.’ ”
Jack’s head went down on the keyboard, actually placing some characters on the screen.
“Could I have a glass of water? My throat’s a little dry.”
“Mr. President?” Fremont said.
“Yes, General.”
“Sir, however this happened, I think it’s a good idea.”
Part of Bob Fowler wanted to hurl his coffee cup into the wall, but he stopped himself. It didn’t matter, did it? It did, but not that way.
“What do you recommend?”
“Sir, just to make sure, we wait until we see evidence of a stand-down. When we do, we can back off ourselves. For starters—right now—we can rescind SNAPCOUNT without any real degradation of our readiness.”
“General Borstein?”
“Sir, I concur in that,” said the voice from NORAD.
“General Fremont: Approved.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. We’ll get right on it.” General Peter Fremont, United States Air Force, Commander-in-Chief Strategic Air Command, turned to his Deputy Chief of Staff (Operations). “Keep the alert going, posture the birds, but keep them on the ground. Let’s get those missiles uncocked.”
“Contact ... bearing three-five-two ... range seven thousand six hundred meters.” They’d been waiting several minutes for that.
“Set it up. No wires, activation point four thousand meters out.” Dubinin looked up. He didn’t know why the aircraft overhead hadn’t already executed another attack.
“Set!” the weapons officer called a moment later.
“Fire!” Dubinin ordered.
“Captain, message coming in on the ELF,” the communications officer said over the squawk box.
“That’s the message that announces the end of the world.” The Captain sighed. “Well, we fired our shots, didn’t we?” It would have been nice to think that their action would save lives, but he knew better. It would enable the Soviet forces to kill more Americans, which wasn’t quite the same thing. Everything about nuclear weapons was evil, wasn’t it?
“Go deep?”
Dubinin shook his head. “No, they seem to have more trouble with the surface turbulence than I expected. We may actually be safer here. Come right to zero-nine-zero. Suspend pinging. Increase speed to ten knots.”
Another squawk: “We have the message—five-letter group: ‘Cease all hostilities’!”
“Antenna depth, quickly!”
The Mexican police proved to be extremely cooperative, and the literate Spanish of Clark and Chavez hadn’t hurt very much. Four plainclothes detectives from the Federal Police waited with the CIA officers in the lounge while four more uniformed officers with light automatic weapons took unobtrusive positions nearby.
“We don’t have enough people to do this properly,” the senior Federal worried.
“Better to do it off the airplane,” Clark said.
“Muy bien, Señor. You think they may be armed?”
“Actually, no, I don’t. Guns can be dangerous when you’re traveling.”
“Has this something to do with—Denver?”
Clark turned and nodded. “We think so.”
“It will be interesting to see what such men look like.” The detective meant the eyes, of course. He’d seen the photographs.
The DC-10 pulled up to the gate and cut power to its three engines. The jetway moved a few feet to mate with the forward door.
“They travel first class,” John said unnecessarily.
“Sí. The airline says there are fifteen first-class passengers, and they’ve been told to hold the rest. You will see, Senor Clark, we know our business.”
“I have no doubt of that. Forgive me if I gave that impression, Teniente. ”
“You are CIA, no?”
“I am not permitted to say.”
“Then of course you are. What will you do with them?”
“We will speak,” Clark said simply.
The gate attendant opened the door to the jetway. Two Federal Police officers took their places left and right of the door, their jackets open. Clark prayed there would be no gun-play. The people started walking out, and the usual greetings were called from the waiting area.
“Bingo,” Clark said quietly. The police lieutenant straightened his tie to signal the men at the door. They made it easy, the last two first-class passengers to come out. Qati looked sick and pale, Clark noticed. Maybe it had been a bad flight. He stepped over the rope barrier. Chavez did the same, smiling and calling to a passenger who looked at them in open puzzlement.
“Ernesto!” John said, running up to him.
“I’m afraid I’m the wrong—”
Clark went right past the man from Miami.
Ghosn was slow to react, dulled by the flight from America, relaxed by the thought that they had escaped. By the time he started to move, he was tackled from behind. Another policeman placed a gun against the back of his head, and he was handcuffed before they hauled him to his feet.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Chavez said. “You’re the guy with the books! We’ve met before, sweetheart.”
“Qati,” John said to the other one. They’d already been patted down. Neither was armed. “I’ve wanted to meet you for years.”
Clark took out their tickets. The police would collect their luggage. The police moved them out very quickly. The business and tourist passengers would not know that anything untoward had happened until they were told by family members in a few minutes.
“Very smooth, Lieutenant,” John said to the senior officer.
“As I said, we know our business.”
“Could you have your people phone the embassy and tell them that we got ’em both alive.”
“Of course.”
The eight men waited in a small room while the bags were collected. There could be evidence in them, and there wasn’t that much of a hurry. The Mexican police lieutenant examined their faces closely, but saw nothing more or less human tha
n what he’d seen in the faces of a hundred murderers. It was vaguely disappointing, even though he was a good-enough cop to know better. The luggage was searched, but aside from some prescription drugs—they were checked and determined not to be narcotics—there was nothing unusual. The police borrowed a courtesy van for the drive to the Gulfstream.
“I hope you have enjoyed your stay in Mexico,” the lieutenant said in parting.
“What the hell is going on?” the pilot asked. Though in civilian clothes, she was an Air Force major.
“Let me explain it like this,” Clark said. “You Air Scouts are going to drive the airplane to Andrews. Mr. Chavez and I are going to interview these two gentlemen in back. You will not look, not hear, not think about anything that’s going on in back.”
“What—”
“That was a thought, Major. I do not want you to have any thoughts about this. Do I have to explain myself again?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
The pilot and copilot went forward. The two communications technicians sat at their consoles and drew the curtain between themselves and the main cabin.
Clark turned to see his two guests exchanging looks. That was no good. He removed Qati’s tie and wrapped it around his eyes. Chavez did the same to his charge. Next both were gagged, and Clark went forward to find some earplugs. Finally, they set both men in seats as far apart as the airplane’s cabin allowed. John let the plane take off before he did anything else. The fact was that he despised torture, but he needed information now, and he was prepared to do anything to get it.
“Torpedo in the water!”
“Christ, he’s dead aft of us!” Ricks turned. “Best possible speed, come left to two-seven-zero! XO, take the return shot!”
“Aye! Snapshot,” Claggett said. “One-eight-zero, activation point three thousand, initial search depth two hundred.”