by Tom Clancy
“You’re Dr. John Ryan, I take it.” Fowler looked up from his morning paper.
“Yes, sir.”
“Excuse me for not getting up. I sprained my ankle last week, and it hurts like a son of a bitch.” Fowler waved to the cane beside him. Jack hadn’t seen that on the morning news broadcasts. He’d given his acceptance speech, danced around the stage ... on a bum ankle. The man had sand. Jack walked over to shake hands with him.
“They tell me that you are the acting Deputy Director of Intelligence.”
“Excuse me, Governor, but the title is Deputy Director (Intelligence). That means I currently head one of the Agency’s principal directorates. The others are Operations, Science and Technology, and Administration. Admin is what it sounds like. The Ops guys gather data the old-fashioned way; they’re the real field spooks. The S and T guys run the satellite programs and other scientific stuff. The Intel guys try to figure out what Ops and S and T deliver to us. That’s what I try to do. The real DDI is Admiral James Greer, and he’s—”
“I’ve heard. Too bad. I hear he is a fine man. Even his enemies say he’s honest. That’s probably the best compliment any man can have. How about some breakfast?” Fowler fulfilled the first requirement of political life. He was pleasant. He was charming.
“Sounds okay to me, sir. Can I give you a hand?”
“No, I can manage.” Fowler used the cane to rise. “You are an ex-Marine, ex-broker, ex-history teacher. I know about the business with the terrorists a few years back. My people—my informants, I should say,” he added with a grin as he sat back down, “tell me that you’ve moved up the ladder at CIA very quickly, but they will not tell me why. It’s not in the press either. I find that puzzling.”
“We do keep some secrets, sir. I am not at liberty to discuss all the things you might like to know, and in any case you’d have to depend on others to tell you about me. I’m not objective.”
The Governor nodded pleasantly. “You and Al Trent had one pisser of a fight awhile back, but he says things about you that ought to make you blush. How come?”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Trent that, sir.”
“I did. He won’t say. He doesn’t actually like you very much, either.”
“I am not at liberty to discuss that at all. Sorry, sir. If you win in November, you can find that out.” How to explain that Al Trent had helped CIA arrange the defection of the head of KGB—to get even with the people who had put a very close Russian friend of his in a labor camp. Even if he could tell the story, who would ever believe it?
“And you really pissed Beth Elliot off last night.”
“Sir, do you want me to talk like a politician, which I am not, or like what I am?”
“Tell it straight, son. That’s one of the rarest pleasures a man in my position has.” Ryan missed that signal entirely.
“I found Dr. Elliot arrogant and abusive. I’m not used to being jacked around. I may owe her an apology, but maybe she owes me one, too.”
“She wants your ass, and the campaign hasn’t even started yet.” This observation was delivered with a laugh.
“It belongs to someone else, Governor. Maybe she can kick it, but she can’t have it.”
“Don’t ever run for public office, Dr. Ryan.”
“Don’t get me wrong, sir, but there is no way in hell that I would ever subject myself to what people like you have to put up with.”
“How do you like being a government employee? That’s a question, not a threat,” Fowler explained.
“Sir, I do what I do because I think it’s important, and because I think I’m good at it.”
“The country needs you?” the presidential candidate asked lightly. That one rocked the acting DDI back in his chair. “That’s a tough answer to have to make, isn’t it? If you say no, then you ought not to have the job because somebody can do it better. If you say yes, then you’re an arrogant son of a bitch who thinks he’s better than everybody else. Learn something from that, Dr. Ryan. That’s my lesson for the day. Now let me hear yours. Tell me about the world—your version of it, that is.”
Jack took out his notes and talked for just under an hour and just over two cups of coffee. Fowler was a good listener. The questions he asked were pointed ones.
“If I read you right, you say you do not know what the Soviets are up to. You’ve met the General Secretary, haven’t you?”
“Well—” Ryan stopped cold. “Sir, I cannot—that is, I shook hands with him twice at diplomatic receptions.”
“You’ve met him for more than a handshake, but you can’t talk about it? That is most interesting. You’re no politician, Dr. Ryan. You tell the truth before you think to lie. It would appear that you think the world is in pretty good shape at the moment.”
“I can remember when it was in far worse shape, Governor,” Jack said, grateful for having been let off the hook.
“So why not ease back, cut arms, like I propose?”
“I think it’s too soon for that.”
“I don’t.”
“Then we disagree, Governor.”
“What is going on in South America?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does that mean that you do not know what we are doing, or that you do not know if we are doing anything, or that you do know and have been ordered not to discuss it?”
He sure talks like a lawyer. “As I told Ms. Elliot last night, I have no knowledge on that subject. That is the truth. I have already indicated areas in which I do have knowledge which I am not allowed to discuss.”
“I find that very strange, given your position.”
“I was in Europe for a NATO intelligence meeting when all this started, and I’m a European and Soviet specialist.”
“What do you think we ought to do about the killing of Director Jacobs?”
“In the abstract, we should react forcefully to the murder of any of our citizens, even more so in a case like this. But I’m Intelligence, not Operations.”
“Including cold-blooded murder?” Fowler pressed.
“If the government decides that killing people is the correct course of action in the pursuit of our national interests, then such killing falls outside the legal definition of murder, doesn’t it?”
“That’s an interesting position. Go on.”
“Because of the way our government works, such decisions have to be made ... have to reflect the way the American people want things to be, or would want them to be, if they had the knowledge available to the people who make the decisions. That’s why we have congressional oversight of covert operations, both to ensure that the operations are appropriate, and to depoliticize them.”
“So you’re saying that that sort of decision depends upon reasonable men making a reasoned decision—to commit murder.”
“That’s overly simplified, but, yes.”
“I disagree. The American people support capital punishment; that’s wrong, too. We demean ourselves and we betray the ideals of our country when we do things like that. What do you think of that?”
“I think you are wrong, Governor, but I don’t make government policy. I provide information to those who do.”
Bob Fowler’s voice changed to something Jack had not yet heard this morning. “Just so we know where we stand. You’ve lived up to your billing, Dr. Ryan. You are indeed honest, but despite your youth I think that your views reflect times past. People like you do make government policy, by casting your analysis in directions of your own choosing—hold it!” Fowler held up his hand. “I’m not questioning your integrity. I do not doubt that you do the best job you can, but to tell me that people like you do not make government policy is arrant nonsense.”
Ryan flushed red at that, feeling it, trying to control it, but failing miserably. Fowler wasn’t questioning Jack’s integrity, just the second-brightest star in his personal constellation, his intelligence. He wanted to snarl back what he thought, but couldn’t.
“Now you’re going to te
ll me that if I knew what you knew, I’d think differently, right?” Fowler asked.
“No, sir. I don’t use that argument. It sounds and smells like bullshit. Either you believe me or you do not. All I can do is persuade, not convince. Maybe I am wrong sometimes,” Jack allowed as he cooled off. “All I can do is give you the best I have. May I pass along a lesson, too, sir?”
“Go on.”
“The world is not always what we wish it to be, but wishes don’t change it.”
Fowler was amused. “So I should listen to you even when you’re wrong? What if I know you’re wrong?”
A marvelous philosophical discussion might have followed, but Ryan knew when he was beaten. He’d just wasted ninety minutes. Perhaps one final try.
“Governor, there are tigers in the world. Once I saw my daughter lying near death in a hospital because somebody who hated me tried to kill her. I didn’t like it, and I tried to wish it away, but it didn’t work. Maybe I just learned a harder lesson. I hope you never have to.”
“Thank you. Good morning, Dr. Ryan.”
Ryan collected his papers and left. It was like something dimly remembered from the Bible. He’d been measured and found wanting by the man who might be his country’s next President. He was even more disturbed by his reaction to it: Fuck him. He’d fulfilled Fowler’s own observation. It was a very dumb thing to think.
“Kick it loose, big brother!” Tim Jackson said. Robby cracked open one eye to see Timmy clad in his multicolored uniform and boots. “It’s time for our morning run.”
“I remember changing your diapers.”
“You gotta catch me first. Come on, you got five minutes to get ready.”
Captain Jackson grinned up at his little brother. He was in pretty good shape, and a kendo master. “I’m gonna run your ass right into the ground.”
Pride goeth before the fall, Captain Jackson told himself fifteen minutes later. He would have settled for a fall. If he fell down, he might rest for a few seconds. When he started staggering, Tim backed the pace off.
“You win,” Robby gasped. “I ain’t gonna change your diapers again.”
“Hey, we’ve barely done two miles.”
“A carrier’s only a thousand feet long!”
“Yeah, and I bet the steel deck’s bad on the knees, too. Go on, head back and get breakfast ready, sir. I got two more miles to do.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Where are my kendo sticks? Robby thought, I can still whip his ass at that!
It took Robby five minutes to find his way back to the right BOQ building. He passed a number of officers heading to or from their runs, and for the first time in his life, Robby Jackson felt old. It was hardly fair. He was one of the youngest captains in the Navy, and still one hell of a fighter pilot. He also knew how to fix breakfast. It was all on the table when Timmy got back.
“Don’t feel too bad, Rob. This is what I do for a living. I can’t fly airplanes.”
“Shut up and drink your juice.”
“Where the hell did you say you were?”
“Aboard Ranger—that’s a carrier, boy. Observing ops off Panama. My boss gets into Monterey this afternoon and I’m s’posed to meet him there.”
“Down where the bombs are going off,” Tim observed as he buttered his toast.
“Another one last night?” Robby asked. Well, that made sense, didn’t it?
“Looks like we bagged us another druggie. Nice to see the CIA, or somebody, grew hisself a pair of balls for a change. Love to know how the guys are getting the bombs in.”
“What do you mean?” Robby asked. Something wasn’t right.
“Rob, I know what’s going down. It’s some of our people down there doin’ it.”
“Tim, you’ve lost me.”
Second Lieutenant Timothy Jackson, Infantry, leaned across the breakfast table in the conspiratorial way of junior officers. “Look, I know it’s a secret and all, but, hell, how smart do you have to be? One of my people is down there right now. Figure it out, man. One of my best people disappears, don’t show up where he’s supposed to be—where the Army thinks he is, for Christ’s sake. He’s a Spanish speaker. So are some others who checked out funny, Muñoz out of recon, León, two others I heard about. All Spanish speakers, okay? Then all of a sudden there’s some serious ass-kickin’ going on down in banana land. Hey, how smart you gotta be?”
“Have you told anyone about this?”
“Why tell anybody? I’m a little worried about Chavez—he’s one of my people, and I worry a little about him, but he’s one good fucking soldier. Far as I’m concerned, he can kill all the druggies he wants. I just want to know how they did the bombs. That might come in handy someday. I’m thinking about going special-ops.”
The Navy did the bombs, Timmy, Robby thought very loudly indeed.
“How much talk is there about this?”
“About the first bombing, everybody thought that was pretty good, but talk about our people bein’ involved? Uh-uh. Maybe some folks’re thinking the same way I am, but you don’t talk about shit like that. Security, right?”
“That’s right, Tim.”
“You know a senior Agency guy, right?”
“Sort of. Godfather for Jack Junior.”
“Tell him for us, kill all you want.”
“I’ll do that,” Robby said quietly. It had to be an Agency operation. A very “black” Agency operation, but it wasn’t nearly as black as they wanted it to be. If some nugget a year out of the academy could figure it out.... The ordies on Ranger, personnel officers and NCOs all over the Army—lots of people must have put it together by now. Not all of those who heard the talk would be on the good side.
“Let me give you a tip. You hear talk about this, you tell people to clam up. You get talk started about an operation like this, people start disappearing.”
“Hey, Rob, anybody wants to mess with Chavez and Muñoz and—”
“Listen to me, boy! I’ve been there. I’ve been shot at by machine guns, and my Tomcat ate a missile once, damned near killed the best RIO I ever had. It’s dangerous out there, and talk gets people dead. You remember that. This isn’t college anymore, Tim.”
Tim considered that for a moment. His brother was right. His brother was also wondering what, if anything, he should do about it. Rob considered just sitting on it, but he was a Tomcat driver, a man of action, not the sort to do nothing at all. If nothing else, he decided, he’d have to warn Jack that the security on the operation wasn’t as secure as it ought to be.
22.
Disclosures
UNLIKE AIR FORCE and Army generals, most Navy admirals do not have personal aircraft to chauffeur them around, and for the most part they fly commercial. A coterie of aides and drivers waiting at the gates helps ease the pain, of course, and Robby Jackson was not above making points with his boss by appearing at San José Airport just as the 727 pulled up to the jetway that evening. He had to wait for the first-class passengers to deplane, of course, since even flag officers fly coach.
Vice Admiral Joshua Painter was the current Assistant Chief of Naval Operations for Air Warfare, known to insiders by his “designator,” OP-05, or just “oh-five.” His three-star rank was a miracle. Painter was first of all an honest man; second, an outspoken one; third, someone who thought the real Navy was at sea, not alongside the Potomac River; finally and most damagingly, he was that rarest of naval officers, the author of a book. The Navy does not encourage its officers to commit their thoughts to paper, except for the odd piece on thermodynamics or the behavior of neutrons within a reactor vessel. An intellectual, a maverick, and a warrior in a service that was increasingly anti-intellectual, conformist, and bureaucratized, he thought of himself as the token exception in what was turning into The Corporate Navy. Painter was a crusty, acerbic Vermont native, short and slight of build, with pale, almost colorless blue eyes and a tongue sharp enough to chip stone. He was also the living god of the aviation community. He’d flown more than four hundred
missions over North Vietnam in several different models of the F-4 Phantom, and had two MiGs to his credit—the side panel from his jet, with two red stars painted on it, hung in his Pentagon office, along with the caption, SIDEWINDER MEANS NOT HAVING TO SAY YOU’RE SORRY. Though a perfectionist and a very demanding boss, he deemed nothing too good for his pilots or his enlisted crews, especially the latter.
“I see you got the message,” Josh Painter observed, reaching a finger out to tap Robby’s bright new shoulder boards.
“Yes, sir.”
“I also hear your new tactics were a disaster.”
“They could have worked out a little better,” Captain Jackson admitted.
“Yeah, it does help if the carrier survives. Maybe a CAG slot will reinforce that in your mind. I just approved you for one,” OP-05 announced. “You get Wing Six. It chops to Abe Lincoln when Indy goes in for overhaul. Congratulations, Robby. Try not to screw up too badly in the next eighteen months. Now, what went wrong with the Fleet-Ex?” he asked as they walked off toward the waiting car.
“The ‘Russians’ cheated,” Robby answered. “They were smart.” That earned him a laugh from his boss. Though crusty, Painter did have a lively sense of humor. The discussion took care of the drive to flag quarters at the Naval Post-Graduate School on the California coast at Monterey.
“Any more on the news about those drug bastards?” Painter asked while his aide carried his bags in.
“We’re sure giving them a hard time, aren’t we?” Jackson observed.
The Admiral stopped dead in his tracks. “What the hell do you mean?”
“I know that I’m not supposed to know, sir, but I mean, I was there, and I did see what was going on.”
Painter waved Jackson inside. “Check the fridge. See if you can put a martini together while I pump bilges. Fix whatever you want for yourself.”