by Tom Clancy
“Mr. President, when I was a boy in Mississippi, I remember the Klukkers used to say, when you see a mad dog, don’t kill the poor thing—toss it in somebody’s back-yard. You know, some sheet-head actually did that to us once, ’cause my pap was real big on getting people registered to vote.”
“What did you do, Rob?”
“Pap blew it away with his Fox double,” Admiral Jackson replied. “And continued the mission. We have to move fast if we’re going to move. Problem is, what with?”
“How long before the MPS ships get to Saudi?”
“Just under three days, but there’s somebody in the way. CINCLANT’S cut orders for that surface group to scoot down the Suez, and they can be at the strait in time, but we gotta get those tank-carriers past the Indians first. Those four boats are escorted by one cruiser, two ’cans, and two frigates, and if we lose them, nearest equipment re-supply’s in Savannah, sir.”
“What do we have in storage in Saudi?” Ben Goodley asked.
“Enough for a heavy brigade. Same in Kuwait. The third brigade-set is afloat and standing in harm’s way.”
“Kuwait’s first in line,” the President said. “What can we get there?”
“If we’re balls-to-the-wall, we can fly the 10th ACR out of Israel to mate up with the POMCUS site south of Kuwait City. That we can do in twenty-four hours. The Kuwaitis’ll handle transport. They have a quiet understanding with Israel on that. We helped broker it,” Robby said. “The plan’s called BUFFALO FORWARD.”
“Anybody think that’s a bad idea?” Jack asked.
“One armored cavalry regiment—I don’t think it’s enough to deter them, sir,” Goodley said.
“The man’s right,” the J-3 agreed.
Ryan looked around the table. Knowing was one thing. Being able to act was something else. He could order a strategic nuclear attack on Iran. He had B-2A stealth bombers at Whiteman Air Force Base, and with the information he’d been given in the past two hours, getting CINC-STRIKE to validate the order under the two-man rule would not be a problem. The “Spirits,” as the B-2s were called, could be there in less than eighteen hours, and turn that nation into a smoking, poisoned ruin.
But he couldn’t do that. Even if he had to, he probably couldn’t. Though American Presidents had long been faced with the necessity of telling the world that, yes, we will launch our missiles and bombers if we have to, it was a duty Ryan never expected to carry out. Even this attack on his country, the use of weapons of mass destruction—to America the equivalent of nuclear arms—had been the decision of one man, and carried out by a relative handful. Could he flatten whole cities in response, kill the innocent as Daryaei had done, because the other guy had done it first? And live with himself afterward? There had to be something better, some other option. Killing Daryaei was one.
“Ed?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Where are Clark and Chavez right now?”
“Khartoum, still, awaiting instructions.”
“Think they can get into Tehran again?”
“Won’t be easy, sir.” He turned to his wife.
“The Russians have helped us in the past. I can ask. What would their mission be?”
“Find out if they can get in first. We’ll figure out the mission in a little while. Robby?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“The 10th Regiment moves to Kuwait at once.”
Jackson took a deep and skeptical breath. “Aye aye, sir.”
THERE WAS THE intermediary step of getting the approval of the Kuwaiti government. The Ambassador handled that. It did not prove to be hard. Major Sabah had kept his government informed of developments in their new neighbor to the north, and the satellite photos of the re-tracking of the UIR tanks turned the trick. With their own military fully activated, the Kuwait government telexed a formal request for America to commence an extended training exercise in the western part of their nation. This moved fast. The rulers of the small nation had fresh memories of earlier mistakes. Their only proviso was that the movement be made secretly, and America did not object. Within four hours, the plush, brand-new airliners of the national airline started lifting off, headed southwest over Saudi Arabia, and later turned north, up the Gulf of Aqaba.
The order was issued by Training and Doctrine Command, which administratively owned the 10th ACR, since it was technically a training establishment. Most other stateside units belonged to Forces Command, FORCECOM. The emergency-deployment order went by CRITIC-priority to Colonel Sean Magruder. He had roughly five thousand personnel to move, and that would require twenty jumbo flights. The roundabout routing made for a distance of 1,300 miles and three hours in each direction, with an hour’s turnaround time at both ends. But it had all been thought through, and the diminution of international air travel had made more aircraft available than the plan had anticipated for BUFFALO FORWARD. Even the Israelis cooperated. The pilots of the Kuwaiti jumbos had the singular experience of seeing F-15 fighters with blue Star of David markings flying escort as they came into the big Israeli air base in the Negev.
The first group out comprised senior officers and a security group to supplement the Kuwaiti guard force at the POMCUS site. The site was a group of warehouses containing the complete equipment set of a heavy brigade, which was exactly what the armored cavalry regiment was. The equipment was lovingly maintained by contractors, who were well paid by their Kuwaiti hosts.
The second aircraft had A-Troop, 1st of the 10th. Buses took them through the late-afternoon sun to their vehicles, which in every case started up at once, fully loaded with fuel and ammunition. A troop of the 1st “Guidon” Squadron rolled out under the watchful eyes of their squadron CO, Lieutenant Colonel Duke Masterman. He had family in the Philadelphia area, and he could add two and two together. Something very bad was happening in his country, and out of a clear sky BUFFALO FORWARD had been activated. That was fine with him, he decided, and his troopers.
Magruder and his staff also watched. He’d even insisted that the command group bring the regimental standard. This was the Cav.
“FOLEYEVA, IS IT that bad?” Golovko asked, meaning the epidemic. They were speaking in Russian. Though his English was nearly perfect, the CIA official spoke his native language with a poetic elegance learned from her grandfather.
“We don’t know, Sergey Nikolay’ch, and I have been looking at other things.”
“Ivan Emmetovich is bearing up?”
“What do you think? I know you saw the TV interview a few hours ago.”
“An interesting man, your President. So easy to underestimate. I did that once myself.”
“And Daryaei?”
“Formidable, but an uncultured barbarian.” Mary Pat could almost hear the man spit.
“Quite.”
“Tell Ivan Emmetovich to think the scenario through, Foleyeva,” Golovko suggested. “Yes, we will cooperate,” he added, answering a question not yet asked. “Fully.”
“Spasiba. I will be back to you.” Mary Pat looked over at her husband. “You have to love the guy.”
“I wish he was on our side,” the DCI observed.
“He is, Ed.”
THE DOG HAD stopped barking, they noted in STORM TRACK. The three corps they were trying to observe had stopped using their radios around noon. Zero. As sophisticated as their computer-aided ELINT equipment was, nothing was still nothing. It was an obvious sign, and just as often overlooked. The direct lines to Washington burned constantly now. More Saudi officers were coming in, demonstrating the increased alert state of their own military, which was quietly deploying to the field around King Khalid Military City. That was some comfort to the intelligence people in the listening post, but not much. They were far closer to the mouth of the lion. Being spooks, they thought like spooks, and by consensus they decided that the events in America had somehow started here. Elsewhere, such thoughts engendered a feeling of helplessness; here they had a different effect. The rage was real, and they had
a mission to fulfill, exposed position or not.
“OKAY,” JACKSON SAID on the conference line, “who can we deploy?”
The answer was a brief silence. The Army was half the size it had been less than a decade before. There were two heavy divisions in Europe, V Corps, but they were quarantined by the Germans. The same was true of the two armored divisions at Fort Hood, Texas, and the 1st Infantry Division (Mechanized) at Fort Riley, Kansas. Parts of the 82nd at Fort Bragg and the 101st at Fort Campbell were deployed to support National Guard units, but the units that had been kept back at their bases had soldiers who’d tested positive for Ebola. The same was true of the two stateside Marine divisions, based at Lejeune in North Carolina and Pendleton in California.
“Look,” FORCECOM said. “We got the 11th ACR and a Guard brigade training up at the NTC. That base is totally clean, we can move them out as quick as you can whistle up the airplanes. The rest? Before we can move them, we have to sort everybody out. I don’t dare move them before we’ve tested every soldier for this damned bug, and the kits ain’t out everywhere yet.”
“He’s right,” another voice said. Every head on the conference line nodded. The pharmaceutical companies were racing to produce them. Millions of test kits were needed, but only a few tens of thousands were available, and those were being used for targeted people, the ones who showed symptoms, relatives or close associates of known cases, truckers delivering food and medical supplies, and most of all, the medical personnel themselves, who were the most exposed to the virus. Worse still, one “clear” reading wasn’t enough. Some people would have to be tested daily for three days or more, because although the test was reliable, the immune systems of potential victims were not. The antibodies could start showing up an hour after a negative test reading. Doctors and hospitals throughout the country were screaming for the kits, and in this case the Army was sucking hind tit.
The UIR is going to throw a war, J-3 thought, and nobody’s going to come. Robby wondered if some hippie from the sixties might find that amusing.
“How long on that?”
“End of the week, at best,” FORCECOM replied. “I have an officer on it.”
“I got the 366th Wing at Mountain Home. They’re all clean,” Air Combat Command reported. “We have the F-16 wing in Israel. My European units are being held hostage, though, all of them.”
“Airplanes are nice, Paul,” FORCECOM said. “So are ships, but we need soldiers over there in one big fucking hurry.”
“Cut warning orders to Fort Irwin,” Jackson said. “I’ll have the SecDef authorize their release within the hour.”
“Done.”
“MOSCOW?” CHAVEZ ASKED. “Jesu Cristo, we are getting around.”
“Ours is not to reason why.”
“Yeah, I know the second part, Mr. C. If we’re going to the right place, I’ll take that chance.”
“Your carriage awaits, gents,” Clayton said. “The blue suits are turning the airplane over for you.”
“Yeah, that reminds me.” Clark pulled the uniform shirt out of the closet. In a minute, he was a colonel again. Five minutes after that, they were off for the airport, soon to leave the Sudan to the ministrations of Frank Clayton and memories of “Chinese” Gordon.
THERE WAS AN aspect of schadenfreude about it. O’Day assembled a team of FBI agents to go over the personnel packets of every Secret Service agent who got close to the President, both the plainclothes and Uniformed Division officers. There were quite a few. Ordinarily some would have been tossed for obvious no-hit indicators—a name like O’Connor, for example—but this case was too important for that, and every file had to be examined in full before it could be set aside. This job he left to others. Another team was examining something not widely known. There was a computerized record of every telephone call made in the Washington, D.C., metropolitan area. Legal in a strict sense, the program, had it extended farther afield, would have excited Big Brother-ish outrage from even the most extreme law-enforcement hawk, but the President lived in Washington, and America had lost Presidents there. It was almost too much to hope for. By definition, a conspirator in the Secret Service would be an expert on security measures. Their target, if there was one, would be one of the boys. He might stand out in professional excellence—you had to, in order to make the Detail—but nothing else. He’d fit in. He’d have a good service reputation. He’d tell jokes, bet on ballgames, have a beer at the local hangout—he’d be just like all the others who would willingly guard the life of the President as courageously as Don Russell had done, O’Day knew, and part of him hated the rest of him for having to treat them like suspects in a criminal investigation. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. But then, what was?
DIGGS CALLED BOTH colonels to his office to give them the news: “We have warning orders to deploy overseas.”
“Who?” Eddington asked.
“Both of your units,” the general answered.
“Where to, sir?” Hamm asked next.
“Saudi. We’ve both been there and done that before, Al, and here’s your chance, Colonel Eddington.”
“Why?” the Guardsman asked.
“They haven’t said yet. I have background information coming into the fax machine now. All they told me over the phone was that the UIR is getting frisky. The 10th is mating up with their POMCUS gear right now—”
“BUFFALO FORWARD?” Hamm asked. “No warning?”
“Correct, Al.”
“Is this related to the epidemic?” Eddington asked.
Diggs shook his head. “Nobody’s told me anything about that.”
IT HAD TO be done in Federal District Court in Baltimore. Edward J. Kealty filed a suit naming John Patrick Ryan as defendant. The substance of the complaint was that the former wanted to cross a state line, and the latter wouldn’t let him. The filing asked for summary judgment, the vacating of the executive order of the President (strangely, the complaint named Ryan as President of the United States) immediately. Kealty figured that he’d win this one. The Constitution was on his side, and he’d chosen the judge with care.
THE SPECIAL NATIONAL Intelligence Estimate was now complete, and irrelevant. The intentions of the United Islamic Republic were totally clear. The trick now was to do something about them, but that was not, strictly speaking, an intelligence function.
54
FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS
THEY DIDN’T SEE IT coming, and it did get their attention. By dawn the next day, all three ground squadrons of the 10th Cavalry were fully deployed, while the fourth squadron, composed of attack helicopters, needed one more day to get up to speed. Kuwaiti regular officers—their standing army was still relatively small, with the ranks fleshed out by enthusiastic reservists—greeted their American counterparts with waving swords and embraces in front of the cameras, and serious, quiet conversation in the command tents. For his part, Colonel Magruder arranged for one of his squadrons to assemble in parade formation with standards flying. It was good for everyone’s morale, and the fifty-two tanks massed together looked like the fist of an angry god. The UIR intelligence service expected something to happen, but not this, and not this fast.
“What is this?” Daryaei demanded, allowing his deadly rage to show for once. Ordinarily, it was enough that people knew it was hidden there, somewhere.
“It’s a sham.” After the initial shock, his chief of intelligence had taken the time to get a feel for the reality of the situation. “That is a regiment. Each of the six divisions in the Army of God has three—in two cases, four—brigades. And so, we are twenty to their one. Did you expect that the Americans would not respond at all? That is unrealistic. But here we see they have responded. With one regiment, moved in from Israel, and sent in the wrong place. With this they intend to frighten us.”
“Go on.” The dark eyes softened slightly, merely simmering rather than dangerously hostile.
“America cannot deploy its divisions from Europe. They are contaminated. The same is true
of their heavy divisions in America. So we will face the Saudis first of all. It will be a great battle, which we shall win. The rump states will surrender to us, or be crushed—and then Kuwait will stand alone, at the top of the Gulf, with its own forces and this American regiment, and then we shall see about that. They probably expect us to invade Kuwait first. We will not repeat that error, will we?”
“And if they reinforce the Saudis?”
“Again, they have the equipment for but one brigade in the Kingdom. The second is afloat. You talked to India about that, did you not?” It was so normal that he might have predicted it, the chief UIR spook thought behind outwardly cowed eyes. They always got nervous just before things started, as though expecting everyone to follow the script they’d written. The enemy was the enemy. He didn’t always cooperate. “And I doubt they have the troops to move. Aircraft, perhaps, but there is no carrier within ten thousand kilometers, and aircraft, though they are an annoyance, can neither take nor hold ground.”
“Thank you for making that clear.” The old man’s mood softened.
“AT LAST WE meet, Comrade Colonel,” Golovko said to the CIA officer.
Clark had always wondered if he’d see the inside of KGB headquarters. He’d never quite expected to be offered drinks there in the Chairman’s office. Early in the morning or not, he took a slug of the Starka-brand vodka. “Your hospitality is not what I was trained to expect, Comrade Chairman.”
“We don’t do that here anymore. Lefortovo Prison is more convenient.” He paused, set down his glass, and switched back to tea. A drink with the man was mandatory, but it was early in the day. “I must ask. Was it you who brought Madam Gerasimov and the girl out?”