by Tom Clancy
“Clark is back in Colombia. I’m sending him after Cortez. That would also tie things up.” It was Ritter’s last play, and it wasn’t good enough.
Cutter jerked in his chair. “And what if he blows it? It is not worth the risk. Call off your dog. That, too, is an order. Now give me that information—and shred your files.”
Ritter didn’t want to. But he didn’t see an alternative. The DDO walked to his wall safe—the panel was open at the moment—and pulled out the files. In SHOWBOAT-II was a tactical map showing the programmed exfiltration sites. He gave it to Cutter.
“I want it all done tonight.”
Ritter let out a breath. “It will be.”
“Fine.” Cutter folded the map into his coat pocket. He left the office without another word.
It all came down to this, Ritter told himself. Thirty years of government service, running agents all over the world, doing things that his country needed to have done, and now he had to follow an outrageous order or face Congress, and courts, and prison. And the best alternative would be to take others there with him. It wasn’t worth it. Bob Ritter worried about those kids in the mountains, but Cutter said that he’d take care of it. The Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency told himself that he could trust the man to keep his word, knowing that he wouldn’t, knowing that it was cowardice to pretend that he would.
He lifted the files off the steel shelves himself, taking them to his desk. Against the wall was a paper shredder, one of the more important instruments of contemporary government. These were the only copies of the documents in question. The communications people on that hilltop in Panama shredded everything as soon as they uplinked copies to Ritter’s office. CAPER went through NSA, but there was no operational traffic there, and those files would be lost in the mass of data in the basement of the Fort Meade complex.
The machine was a big one, with a self-feeding hopper. It was entirely normal for senior government officials to destroy records. Extra copies of sensitive files were liabilities, not assets. No notice would be taken of the fact that the clear plastic bag that had been empty was now filled with paper pasta that had once been important intelligence documents. CIA burned tons of the stuff every day, and used some of the heat that was generated to make hot water for the washrooms. Ritter set the papers in the hopper in half-inch lots, watching the entire history of his field operations turn to rubbish.
“There he is,” the junior agent said into his portable radio. “Southbound.”
O‘Day picked the man up three minutes later. The backup car was already on Cutter, and by the time O’Day had caught up, it was clear that he was merely returning to Fort Myer, the VIP section off Sherman Road, east of the officers’ club. Cutter lived in a red brick house with a screen porch overlooking Arlington National Cemetery, the garden of heroes. To Inspector O’Day, who’d served in Vietnam, what little he knew of the man and the case made it seem blasphemous that he should live here. The FBI agent told himself that he might be jumping to an inaccurate conclusion, but his instincts told him otherwise as he watched the man lock his car and walk into the house.
One benefit of being part of the President’s staff was that he had excellent personal security when he wanted it, and the best technical security services as a matter of course. The Secret Service and other government agencies worked very hard and very regularly to make sure that his phone lines were secure. The FBI would have to clear any tap with them, and would also have to get a court order first, neither of which had been done. Cutter called a WATS line number—with a toll-free 800 prefix—and spoke a few words. Had anyone recorded the conversation he would have had a problem explaining it, but then so would the listener. Each word he spoke was the first word on a dictionary page, and the number of each page had three digits. The old paperback dictionary had been given him before he left the house in Panama, and he would soon discard it. The code was as simple and easy to use as it was effective, and the few words he spoke indicated pages whose numbers combined to indicate map coordinates for a few locations in Colombia. The man on the other end of the line repeated them back and hung up. The WATS-LINE call would not show up on Cutter’s phone bill as a long-distance call. The WATS account would be terminated the next day. His final move was to take the small computer disk from his pocket. Like many people he had magnets holding messages to his refrigerator door. Now he waved one of them over the disk a few times to destroy the data on it. The disk itself was the last existing record of the soldiers of Operation SHOWBOAT. It was also the last means of reopening the satellite radio link to them. It went into the trash. SHOWBOAT had never happened.
Or that’s what Vice Admiral James A. Cutter, USN, told himself. He mixed himself a drink and walked out onto his porch, looking down across the green carpet to the countless head-stones. Many times he’d walked over to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, watching the soldiers of the President’s Guard go through their mechanistic routine before the resting places of men who had served their country to the utmost. It occurred to him now that there would be more unknown soldiers, fallen on some nameless field. The original unknown soldier had died in France in World War I, and had known what he fought for—or thought he did, Cutter corrected himself. Most often they never really understood what it was all about. What they were told wasn’t always the truth, but their country called, and off they went to do their duty. But you really needed a perspective to understand what it was all about, how the game was played. And that didn’t always—ever?—jibe with what the soldiers were told. He remembered his own service off the coast of Vietnam, a junior officer on a destroyer, watching five-inch-gun rounds pound the beach, and wondering what it was like to be a soldier, living in the mud. But still they went to serve their country, not knowing that the country herself didn’t know what service she needed or wanted. An army was composed of young kids who did their job without understanding, serving with their lives, and in this case, with their deaths.
“Poor bastards,” he whispered to himself. It really was too bad, wasn’t it? But it couldn’t be helped.
It surprised everyone that they couldn’t get the radio link working. The communications sergeant said that his transmitter was working just fine, but there was no answer from VARIABLE at six o’clock local time. Captain Ramirez didn’t like it, but decided to press on to the extraction point. There had been no fallout from Chavez’s little adventure with the would-be rapist, and the young sergeant led off for what he expected would be the last time. The enemy forces had swept this area, stupidly and oafishly, and wouldn’t be back soon. The night went easily. They moved south in one-hour segments, stopping off at rally points, looping their path of advance to check for trailers, and detecting none. By four the following morning, they were at the extraction site. It was a clearing just downhill from a peak of eight thousand feet, lower than the really big crests, and conducive to a covert approach. The chopper could have picked them up nearly anywhere, of course, but their main consideration was still stealth. They’d be picked up, and no one would ever be the wiser. It was a shame about the men they’d lost, but no one would ever really know what they’d been here for, and the mission, though a costly one, had been a success. Captain Ramirez had said so.
He set his men in a wide perimeter to cover all approaches, with fallback defensive positions in case something untoward and unexpected happened. When that task was completed, he again set up his satellite radio and started transmitting. But again, there was no reply from VARIABLE. He didn’t know what the problem was, but to this point there had been no hint of trouble, and communications foul-ups were hardly unknown to any infantry officer. He wasn’t very worried about this one. Not yet, anyway.
Clark was caught rather short by the message. He and Larson were just planning their flight back to Colombia when it arrived. Just a message form with a few code-words, it was enough to ignite Clark’s temper, so vile a thing that he labored hard to control it in the knowledge that it was his most
dangerous enemy. He wanted to call Langley, but decided against it, fearing that the order might be restated in a way difficult to ignore. As he cooled off, his brain started working again. That was the danger of his temper, Clark reminded himself, it stopped him from thinking. He sure as hell needed to think now. In a minute he decided that it was time for a little initiative.
“Come on, Larson, we’re going to take a little ride.” That was easily accomplished. He was still “Colonel Williams” to the Air Force, and got himself a car. Next came a map, and Clark picked his brain to remember the path to that hilltop.... It took an hour, and the last few hundred yards were a potholed nightmare of a twisted, half-paved road. The van was still there, as was the single armed guard, who came forward to give them a less than eager greeting.
“Stand down, mister, I was here before.”
“Oh, it’s you—but, sir, I’m under orders to—”
Clark cut him off. “Don’t argue with me. I know about your orders. Why the hell do you think I’m here? Now be a good boy and safe that weapon before you hurt yourself.” Clark walked right past him, again amazing Larson, who was far more impressed with loaded and pointed guns.
“What gives?” Clark asked as soon as he was inside. He looked around. All the gear was turned off. The only noise was from the air-conditioning units.
“They shut us down,” the senior communicator answered.
“Who shut you down?”
“Look, I can’t say, all right, I got orders that we’re shut down. That’s it. You want answers, go see Mr. Ritter.”
Clark walked right up to the man. “He’s too far away.”
“I got my orders.”
“What orders?”
“To shut down, damn it! We haven’t transmitted or received anything since lunchtime yesterday,” the man said.
“Who gave you the orders?”
“I can’t say!”
“Who’s looking after the field teams?”
“I don’t know. Somebody else. He said our security was blown and it was being handed over to somebody else.”
“Who—you can tell me this time,” Clark said in an eerily calm voice.
“No, I can’t.”
“Can you call up the field teams?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Their satellite radios are encoded. The algorithm is on computer disk. We downloaded all three copies of the encryption keys and erased two of ’em. He watched us do it and took the third disk himself.”
“How do you reestablish the link?”
“You can’t. It’s a unique algorithm that’s based on the time transmissions from NAVSTAR satellites. Secure as hell, and just about impossible to duplicate.”
“In other words those kids are completely cut off?”
“Well, no, he took the third disk, and there’s somebody else who’s—”
“Do you really believe that?” Clark asked. The man’s hesitation answered the question. When the field officer spoke again, it was in a voice that didn’t brook resistance. “You just told me that the commo link was unbreakable, but you accepted a statement from somebody you never saw before that it had been compromised. We got thirty kids down there, and it sounds like they’ve been abandoned. Now, who gave the orders to do it?”
“Cutter.”
“He was here?”
“Yesterday.”
“Jesus.” Clark looked around. The other officer couldn’t bring himself to look up. Both men had speculated over what was really happening, and had come to the same conclusion that he had. “Who set up the commo plan for this mission?”
“I did.”
“What about their tactical radios?”
“Basically they’re commercial sets, a little customized. They have a choice of ten SSB frequencies.”
“You have the freqs?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Give them to me right now.”
The man thought to say that he couldn’t do that, but decided against it. He’d just say that Clark threatened him, and it didn’t seem like the right time to start a little war in the van. That was accurate enough. He was very much afraid of Mr. Clark at this moment. He pulled the sheet of frequencies from a drawer. It hadn’t occurred to Cutter to destroy that, too, but he had the radio channels memorized anyway.
“If anybody asks ...”
“You were never here, sir.”
“Very good.” Clark walked out into the darkness. “Back to the air base,” Clark told Larson. “We’re looking for a helicopter.”
Cortez had made it back to Anserma without note having been taken of his seven-hour absence, and had left behind a communications link that knew how to find him, and now, rested and bathed, he waited for the phone to ring. He congratulated himself, first, on having set up a communications net in America as soon as he’d taken the job with the Cartel; next on his performance with Cutter, though not as much for this. He could scarcely have lost, though the American had made it easier through his own stupidity, not unlike Carter and the marielitos, though at least the former President had been motivated by humanitarian aims, not political advantage. Now it was just a matter of waiting. The amusing part was the book code that he was using. It was backwards from the usual thing. Normally a book code was transmitted in numbers to identify words, but this time words indicated numbers. Cortez already had the American tactical maps—anyone could buy American military maps from their Defense Mapping Agency, and he’d been using them himself to run his operation against the Green Berets. The book-code system was always a secure method of passing information; now it was even more so.
Waiting was no easier for Cortez than for anyone else, but he amused himself with further planning. He knew what his next two moves were, but what about after that? For one thing, Cortez thought, the Cartel had neglected the European and Japanese markets. Both regions were flush with hard currency, and while Japan might be hard to crack—it was hard to import things legally into that market—Europe would soon get much easier. With the EEC beginning its integration of the continent into a single political entity, trade barriers would soon start to come down. That meant opportunity for Cortez. It was just a matter of finding ports of entry where security was either lax or negotiable, and then setting up a distribution network. Reducing exports to America could not be allowed to interfere with Cartel income, after all. Europe was a market barely tapped, and there he would begin to expand the Cartel horizons with his surplus product. In America, reduced demand would merely increase price. In fact, he expected that his promise to Cutter—a temporary one to be sure—would have a small but positive effect on Cartel income. At the same time, the disorderly American distribution networks would sort themselves out rapidly after the supply was reduced. The strong and efficient would survive, and once firmly established, would conduct business in a more orderly way. Violent crime was more troublesome to the yanquis than the actual drug addiction that caused it. Once the violence abated, drug addiction itself would lose some of the priority in the pantheon of American social problems. The Cartel wouldn’t suffer. It would grow in riches and power so long as people desired its product.
While that was happening, Colombia itself would be further subverted, but more subtly. That was one more area in which Cortez had been given professional training. The current lords used a brute-force approach, offering money while at the same time threatening death. No, that would also have to stop. The lust in the developed countries for cocaine was a temporary thing, was it not? Sooner or later it would become unfashionable, and demand would gradually diminish. That was one thing that the lords didn’t see. When it began to happen, the Cartel had to have a solid political base and a diversified economic foundation if it wished to survive the diminution of its power. That demanded a more accommodating stance with its parent country. Cortez was prepared to establish that, too. Eliminating some of the more obnoxious lords would be a major first step toward that goal. History taught that you could reac
h a modus vivendi with almost anybody. And Cortez had just proven it to be true.
The phone rang. He answered it. He wrote down the words given him and after hanging up, picked up the dictionary. Within a minute he was making marks on his tactical map. The American Green Berets were not fools, he saw. Their encampments were all set on places difficult to approach. Attacking and destroying them would be very costly. Too bad, but all things had their price. He summoned his staff and started getting radio messages out. Within an hour, the hunter groups were coming down off the mountains to redeploy. He’d hit them one at a time, he decided. That would guarantee sufficient strength to overwhelm each detachment, and also guarantee sufficient losses that he’d have to draw further on the retainers of the lords. He would not accompany the teams up the mountains, of course, but that was also too bad. It might have been amusing to watch.
Ryan hadn’t slept at all well. A conspiracy was one thing when aimed at an external enemy. His career at CIA had been nothing more than that, an effort to bring advantage to his own country, often by inflicting disadvantage, or harm, upon another. That was his job as a servant of his country’s government. But now he was in a conspiracy that was arguably against the government itself. The fact denied him sleep.
Jack was sitting in his library, a single reading lamp illuminating his desk. Next to him were two phones, one secure, one not. It was the latter which rang.
“Hello?”
“This is John,” the voice said.
“What’s the problem?”
“Somebody cut off support for the field teams.”
“But why?”
“Maybe somebody wants them to disappear.”
Ryan felt a chill at the back of his neck. “Where are you?”