by Tom Clancy
“ ’Specially not for Yankees?”
“Damn right!” Then it was time for a laugh. Nick Eddington was a teacher, with a flair for the impromptu dramatic. The voice softened. “I know, if we didn’t have IVIS, you’d murder us—”
“Ain’t technology wonderful?”
“It almost makes us your equal, and your men are the best. Everybody knows that,” Eddington conceded. It was a worthy peace gesture.
“With the hours we keep, kinda hard to get a beer at the club when you need one. Can I offer you one at my home, sir?”
“Lead on, Colonel Hamm.”
“What’s your area of specialty?” BLACKHORSE SIX asked on the way to his car.
“My dissertation was on the operational art of Nathan Bedford Forrest.”
“Oh? I’ve always admired Buford, myself.”
“He only had a couple of days, but they were all good days. He might have won the war for Lincoln at Gettysburg.”
“The Spencer carbines gave his troopers the technical edge,” Hamm announced. “People overlook that factor.”
“Choosing the best ground didn’t hurt, and the Spencers helped, but what he did best was to remember his mission,” Eddington replied.
“As opposed to Stuart. Jeb definitely had a bad day. I suppose he was due for one.” Hamm opened the car door for his colleague. It would be a few hours before they had to prepare for the next exercise, and Hamm was a serious student of history, especially of the cavalry. This would be an interesting breakfast: beer, eggs, and the Civil War.
THEY BUMPED INTO each other in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, which was doing a great business in coffee and donuts at the moment.
“Hi, John,” Holtzman said, looking at the crime scene from across the street.
“Bob,” Plumber acknowledged with a nod. The area was alive with cameras, TV and still, recording the scene for history.
“You’re up early for a Saturday—TV guy, too,” the Post reporter noted with a friendly smile. “What do you make of it?”
“This really is a terrible thing.” Plumber was himself a grandfather many times over. “Was it Ma’alot, the one in Israel, back—what? 1975, something like that?” They all seemed to blend together, these terrorist incidents.
Holtzman wasn’t sure, either. “I think so. I have somebody checking it back at the office.”
“Terrorists make for good stories, but, dear God, we’d be better off without them.”
The crime scene was almost pristine. The bodies were gone. The autopsies were complete by now, they both imagined. But everything else was intact, or nearly so. The cars were there, and as the reporters watched, ballistics experts were running strings to simulate shots at mannequins brought in from a local department store, trying to re-create every detail of the event. The black guy in the Secret Service windbreaker was Norman Jeffers, one of the heroes of the day, now demonstrating how he’d come down from the house across the street. Inside was Inspector Patrick O’Day. Some agents were simulating the movements of the terrorists. One man lay on the ground by the front door, aiming a red plastic “play gun” around. In criminal investigations, the dress rehearsals always came after the play.
“His name was Don Russell?” Plumber asked.
“One of the oldest guys in the Service,” Holtzman confirmed.
“Damn.” Plumber shook his head. “Horatius at the bridge, like something from a movie. ‘Heroic’ isn’t a word we use often, is it?”
“No, that isn’t something we’re supposed to believe in anymore, is it? We know better. Everybody’s got an angle, right?” Holtzman finished off his coffee and dumped the cup in the trash bin. “Imagine, giving up your life to protect other people’s kids.”
Some reports talked about it in Western terms. “Gunfight at the Kiddy Corral” some local TV reporter had tried out, winning the low-taste award for last night, and earning his station a few hundred negative calls, confirming to the station manager that his outlet had a solid nighttime viewership. None had been more irate about that than Plumber, Bob Holtzman noted. He still thought it was supposed to mean something, this news business they both shared.
“Any word on Ryan?” Bob asked.
“Just a press release. Callie Weston wrote it, and Arnie delivered it. I can’t blame him for taking the family away. He deserves a break from somebody, John.”
“Bob, I seem to remember when—”
“Yeah, I know. I got snookered. Elizabeth Elliot fed me a story on Ryan back when he was Deputy at CIA.” He turned to look at his older colleague. “It was all a lie. I apologized to him personally. You know what it was really all about?”
“No,” Plumber admitted.
“The Colombian mission. He was there, all right. Along the way, some people got killed. One of them was an Air Force sergeant. Ryan looks after the family. He’s putting them all through college, all on his own.”
“You never printed that,” the TV reporter objected.
“No, I didn’t. The family—well, they’re not public figures, are they? By the time I found out, it was old news. I just didn’t think it was newsworthy.” That last word was one of the keys to their profession. It was news personnel who decided what got before the public eye and what did not, and in choosing what got out and what didn’t, it was they who controlled the news, and decided what, exactly, the public had a right to know. And in so choosing, they could make or break everyone, because not every story started off big enough to notice, especially the political ones.
“Maybe you were wrong.”
Holtzman shrugged. “Maybe I was, but I didn’t expect Ryan to become President any more than he did. He did an honorable thing—hell, a lot more than honorable. John, there are things about the Colombian story that can’t ever see the light of day. I think I know it all now, but I can’t write it. It would hurt the country and it wouldn’t help anybody at all.”
“What did Ryan do, Bob?”
“He prevented an international incident. He saw that the guilty got punished one way or another—”
“Jim Cutter?” Plumber asked, still wondering what Ryan was capable of.
“No, that really was a suicide. Inspector O’Day, the FBI guy who was right there across the street?”
“What about him?”
“He was following Cutter, watched him jump in front of the bus.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“As sure as I’ve ever been. Ryan doesn’t know that I’m into all this. I have a couple of good sources, and everything matches up with the known facts. Either it’s all the truth or it’s the cleverest lie I’ve ever run into. You know what we have in the White House, John?”
“What’s that?”
“An honest man. Not ‘relatively honest,’ not ‘hasn’t been caught yet.’ Honest. I don’t think he’s ever done a crooked thing in his life.”
“He’s still a babe in the woods,” Plumber replied. It was almost bluster, if not disbelief, because his conscience was starting to make noise.
“Maybe he is. But who ever said we were wolves? No, that’s not right. We’re supposed to chase after the crooks, but we’ve been doing it so long and so well that we forgot that there are some people in government who aren’t.” He looked over at his colleague again. “And so then we play one off against another to get our stories and along the way we got corrupted, too. What do we do about that, John?”
“I know what you’re asking. The answer is no.”
“In an age of relative values, nice to find an absolute, Mr. Plumber. Even if it is the wrong one,” Holtzman added, getting the reaction he’d hoped for.
“Bob, you’re good. Very good, in fact, but you can’t roll me, okay?” The commentator managed a smile, though. It was an expert attempt, and he had to admire that. Holtzman was a throwback to the days Plumber remembered so fondly.
“What if I can prove I’m right?”
“Then why didn’t you write the story?” Plumber demanded. No real reporter
could turn away from this one.
“I didn’t print it. I never said I didn’t write it,” Bob corrected his friend.
“Your editor would fire you for—”
“So? Aren’t there things you never did, even after you had everything you needed?”
Plumber dodged that one: “You talked about proof.”
“Thirty minutes away. But this story can’t ever get out.”
“How can I trust you on that?”
“How can I trust you, John? What do we put first? Getting the story out, right? What about the country, what about the people? Where does professional responsibility end and public responsibility begin? I didn’t run this one because a family lost a father. He left a pregnant wife behind. The government couldn’t acknowledge what happened, and so Jack Ryan stepped in himself to make things right. He did it with his own money. He never expected people to find out. So what was I supposed to do? Expose the family? For what, John? To break a story that hurts the country—no, that hurts one family that doesn’t need any more hurt. It could jeopardize the kids’ educations. There’s plenty of news we can cover without that. But I’m telling you this, John: You’ve hurt an innocent man, and your friend with the big smile lied to the public to do it. We’re supposed to care about that.”
“So why don’t you write that?”
Holtzman made him wait a few seconds for the answer. “I’m willing to give you the chance to set things right. That’s why. You were there, too. But I have to have your word, John. I’ll take yours.”
There was more to it than that. There had to be. For Plumber, it was a matter of two professional insults. First, that he’d been steamrolled by his younger associate at NBC, one of the new generation who thought journalism was how you looked in front of a camera. Second, that he’d also been rolled by Ed Kealty—used ... to hurt an innocent man? If nothing else, he had to find out. He had to, otherwise he’d be spending a lot of time looking in mirrors.
The TV commentator took Holtzman’s mini-tape recorder from his hand and punched the record button.
“This is John Plumber, it’s Saturday, seven-fifty in the morning, and we’re standing across the street from the Giant Steps Day Care Center. Robert Holtzman and I are about to leave this location to go somewhere. I have given my word that what we are about to investigate will remain absolutely confidential between us. This tape recording is a permanent record of that promise on my part. John Plumber,” he concluded, “NBC News.” He clicked it off, then clicked it back on again. “However, if Bob has misrepresented himself to me, all bets are off.”
“That’s fair,” Holtzman agreed, removing the tape cassette from the recorder and pocketing it. The promise had no legal standing at all. Even if it had been a contractual agreement, the First Amendment would probably negate it, but it was a man’s word, and both of the reporters knew that something had to hold up, even in the modern age. On the way to Bob’s car, Plumber grabbed his field producer.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so.”
THE PREDATOR WAS circling at just under ten thousand feet. For purposes of convenience, the three UIR army corps were identified as I, II, and III by the intelligence officers at STORM TRACK and PALM BOWL. The UAV was circling I Corps now, a reconstituted Iraqi Republican Guard armored division and a similar division from the former Iranian army, “The Immortals,” it was called, harkening back to the personal guard of Xerxes. The deployment was conventional. The regimental formations were in the classic two-up/one-back disposition, a triangle of sorts, with the third forming the divisional reserve. The two divisions were abreast. Their frontage was surprisingly narrow, however, with each division covering a mere thirty kilometers of linear space, and only a five-kilometer gap between the two.
They were training hard. Every few kilometers were targets, plywood cutouts of tanks. When they came into view, they were shot at. The Predator couldn’t tell how good the gunnery was, though most of the targets were knocked over by the time the first echelon of fighting vehicles passed. The vehicles were mainly of Russian/Soviet origin. The heavy ones were T-72 and T-80 main battle tanks made at the huge Chelyabinsk works. The infantry vehicles were BMPs. The tactics were Soviet, too. That was evident from the way they moved. Sub-units were kept under tight control. The huge formations moved with geometric precision, like harvesting machines in a Kansas wheatfield, sweeping across the terrain in regular lines.
“Geez, I’ve seen the movie,” the chief master sergeant observed at the Kuwaiti ELINT station.
“Yes?” Major Sabah asked.
“The Russians—well, the Soviets, used to make movies of this, sir.”
“How would you compare the two?” And that, the NCO intelligence-specialist thought, was a pretty good question.
“Not much different, Major.” He pointed to the lower half of the screen. “See here? The company commander has everything on line, proper distance and interval. Before, the Predator was over the division reconnaissance screen, and that was right out of the book, too. Have you read up on Soviet tactics, Major Sabah?”
“Only as the Iraqis implemented them,” the Kuwaiti officer admitted.
“Well, it’s pretty close. You hit hard and fast, just go right through your enemy, don’t give him a chance to react. You keep your own people under control. It’s all mathematics to them.”
“And the level of their training?”
“Not bad, sir.”
“ELLIOT HAD SURVEILLANCE on Ryan, right over there,” Holtzman pointed as he brought the car into the 7-Eleven.
“She was having him followed?”
“Liz hated his guts. I never—well, okay, I did figure it out. It was personal. She really had it in for Ryan, something that happened before Bob Fowler got elected. Enough that she leaked a story that was supposed to hurt his family. Nice, eh?”
Plumber wasn’t all that impressed. “That’s Washington.”
“True, but what about using official government assets for a personal vendetta? That may be real Washington, too, but it’s against the law.” He switched off the car and motioned for Plumber to get out.
Inside they found a diminutive owner, female, and a bunch of Amerasian kids stocking the shelves on this Saturday morning.
“Hello,” Carol Zimmer said. She recognized Holtzman from previous visits to buy bread and milk—and to eyeball the establishment. She had no idea he was a reporter. But she did recognize John Plumber. She pointed. “You on TV!”
“Yes, I am,” the commentator admitted with a smile.
The eldest son—his name tag said Laurence—came up with a less friendly look on his face. “Can I help you with something, sir?” His voice was unaccented, his eyes bright and suspicious.
“I’d like to talk to you, if I might,” Plumber asked politely.
“About what, sir?”
“You know the President, don’t you?”
“Coffee machine’s that way, sir. You can see where the doughnuts are.” The young man turned his back. His height must have come from his father, Plumber saw, and he had education.
“Wait a minute!” Plumber said.
Laurence turned back. “Why? We have a business to run here. Excuse me.”
“Larry, be nice to man.”
“Mom, I told you what he did, remember?” When Laurence looked back at the reporters, his eyes told the tale. They wounded Plumber in a way he hadn’t known in years.
“Excuse me. Please,” the commentator said. “I just want to talk to you. There aren’t any cameras with me.”
“Are you in medical school now, Laurence?” Holtzman asked.
“How did you know that? Who the hell are you?”
“Laurence!” his mother objected.
“Wait a minute, please.” Plumber held his hands up. “I just want to talk. No cameras, no recorders. Everything is off the record.”
“Oh, sure. You give us your word on that?”
“Laurence!”
“Mom, let me handle this!”
the student snapped, then instantly apologized. “Sorry, Mom, but you don’t know what this is about.”
“I’m just trying to figure out—”
“I saw what you did, Mr. Plumber. Didn’t anybody tell you? When you spit on the President, you spit on my father, too! Now, why don’t you buy what you need and take a hike.” The back turned again.
“I didn’t know,” John protested. “If I’ve done something wrong, then why don’t you tell me about it? I promise, you have my word, I will not do anything to hurt you or your family. But if I’ve done something wrong, please tell me.”
“Why you hurt Mr. Ryan?” Carol Zimmer asked. “He good man. He look after us. He—”
“Mom, please. These people don’t care about that!” Laurence had to come back and handle this. His mom was just too naive.
“Laurence, my name is Bob Holtzman. I’m with the Washington Post. I’ve known about your family for several years now. I never ran the story because I didn’t want to invade your privacy. I know what President Ryan is doing for you. I want John to hear it from you. It will not become public information. If I wanted that to happen, I would have done it myself.”
“Why should I trust you?” Laurence Zimmer demanded. “You’re reporters.” That remark broke through Plumber’s demeanor hard and sharp enough to cause physical pain. Had his profession sunk so low as that?
“You’re studying to be a doctor?” Plumber asked, starting at square one.
“Second year at Georgetown. I have a brother who’s a senior at MIT, and a sister who just started at UVA.”
“It’s expensive. Too expensive for what you make off this business. I know. I had to educate my kids.”
“We all work here. I work weekends.”
“You’re studying to be a physician. That’s an honorable profession,” Plumber said. “And when you make mistakes, you try to learn from them. So do I, Laurence.”
“You sure talk the talk, Mr. Plumber, but lots of people do that.”
“The President helps, doesn’t he?”
“If I tell you something off the record, does that mean you can’t report it at all?”