by Tom Clancy
The officer in command moved down the corridor to the door. His explosives man ran a thin line of det-cord explosive along the door’s edges and stepped aside, looking at his team leader for the word.
“Shoot,” the major told him-
— and before Clark’s brain could register the single-word command, the corridor was sundered with the crash of the explosion that sent the solid-core door into the apartment at about three hundred feet per second. Then the Russian major and a lieutenant tossed in flash-bangs sure to disorient anyone who might have been there with a gun of his own. It was hard enough for Clark and Chavez, and they’d known what was coming and had their hands over their ears. The Russians darted into the apartment in pairs, just as they’d been trained to do, and there was no other sound, except for a scream down the hall from a resident who hadn’t been warned about the day’s activities. That left John Clark and Domingo Chavez just standing there, until an arm appeared and waved them inside.
The inside was a predictable mess. The entry door was now fit only for kindling and toothpicks, and the pictures that decorated the wall did so without any glass in the frames. The blue sofa had a ruinous scorch mark on the right side, and the carpet was cratered by the other flash-bang.
Suvorov and Suslov had been sitting in the kitchen, always the heart of any Russian home. That had placed them far enough away from the explosion to be unhurt, though both looked stunned by the experience, and well they might be. There were no weapons in evidence, which was surprising to the Russians but not to Clark, and the two supposed miscreants were now facedown on the tile floor, their hands manacled behind them and guns not far behind their heads.
“Greetings, Klementi Ivan’ch,” General Kirillin said. “We need to talk.”
The older of the two men on the floor didn’t react much. First, he was not really able to, and second, he knew that talking would not improve his situation. Of all the spectators, Clark felt the most sympathy for him. To run a covert operation was tense enough. To have one blown-it had never happened to John, but he’d thought about the possibility often enough-was not a reality that one wished to contemplate. Especially in this place, though since it was no longer the Soviet Union, Suvorov could take comfort in the fact that things might have been a little worse. But not that much worse, John was sure. It was time for him to say something.
“Well executed, Major. A little heavy on the explosives, but we all do that. I say that to my own people almost every time.”
“Thank you, General Clark.” The senior officer of the strike team beamed, but not too much, trying to look cool for his subordinates. They’d just done their first real-life mission, and pleased as they all were, the attitude they had to adopt was of course we did it right. It was a matter of professional pride.
“So, Yuriy Andreyevich, what will happen with them now?” John asked in his best Leningrad Russian.
“They will be interrogated for murder and conspiracy to commit murder, plus state treason. We picked up Kong half an hour ago, and he’s talking,” Kirillin added, lying. Suvorov might not believe it, but the statement would get his mind wandering in an uncomfortable direction. “Take them out!” the general ordered. No sooner had that happened than an FSS officer came in to light up the desktop computer to begin a detailed check of its contents. The protection program Suvorov had installed was bypassed because they knew the key to it, from the keyboard bug they’d installed earlier. Computers, they all agreed, must have been designed with espionage in mind-but they worked both ways.
“Who are you?” a stranger in civilian clothes asked.
“John Clark” was the surprising answer in Russian. “And you?”
“Provalov. I am a lieutenant-investigator with the militia.”
“Oh, the RPG case?”
“Correct.”
“I guess that’s your man.”
“Yes, a murderer.”
“Worse than that,” Chavez said, joining the conversation.
“There is nothing worse than murder,” Provalov responded, always the cop.
Chavez was more practical in his outlook. “Maybe, depends on if you need an accountant to keep track of all the bodies.”
“So, Clark, what do you think of the operation?” Kirillin asked, hungry for the American’s approval.
“It was perfect. It was a simple operation, but flawlessly done. They’re good kids, Yuriy. They learn fast and they work hard. They’re ready to be trainers for your special-operations people.”
“Yeah, I’d take any of them out on a job,” Ding agreed. Kirillin beamed at the news, unsurprising as it was.
CHAPTER 50 Thunder and Lightning
They got him,” Murray told Ryan. ”Our friend Clark was there to watch. Damned ecumenical of the Russkies.”
“Just want to be an ally back to us, I suppose, and RAINBOW is a NATO asset. You suppose he’ll sing?”
“Like a canary, probably,” the FBI Director predicted. “The Miranda Rule never made it to Russia, Jack, and their interrogation techniques are a little more-uh, enthusiastic than ours are. Anyway, it’s something to put on TV, something to get their public seriously riled up. So, boss, this war going to stop or go?”
“We’re trying to stop it, Dan, but-”
“Yeah, I understand,” Murray said. “Sometimes big shots act just like street hoods. Just with bigger guns.”
This bunch has H-bombs, Jack didn’t say. It wasn’t something you wanted to talk about right after breakfast. Murray hung up and Ryan checked his watch. It was time. He punched the intercom button on his phone.
“Ellen, could you come in, please?”
It took the usual five seconds. “Yes, Mr. President.”
“I need one, and it’s time to call Beijing.”
“Yes, sir.” She handed Ryan a Virginia Slim and went back to the anteroom.
Ryan saw one of the phone lights go on and waited, lighting his smoke. He had his speech to Premier Xu pretty well canned, knowing that the Chinese leader would have a good interpreter nearby. He also knew that Xu would still be in the office. He’d been working pretty late over the past few days-it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Starting a potential world war had to be a time-consuming business. So, it would be less than thirty seconds to make the guy’s phone ring, then Ellen Sumter would talk to the operator on the far end-the Chinese had full-time switchboard operators rather than secretary-receptionists as in the White House-and the call would be put through. So, figure another thirty seconds, and then Jack would get to make his case to Xu: Let’s reconsider this one, buddy, or something bad will happen. Bad for our country. Bad for yours. Probably worse for yours. Mickey Moore had promised something called Hyperwar, and that would be seriously bad news for someone unprepared for it. The phone light stayed on, but Ellen wasn’t beeping him to get on the line … why? Xu was still in his office. The embassy in Beijing was supposed to be keeping an eye on the guy. Ryan didn’t know how, but he was pretty sure they knew their job. It might have been as easy as having an embassy employee-probably an Agency guy-stand on the street with a cell phone and watch a lit-up office window, then report to the embassy, which would have an open line to Foggy Bottom, which had many open lines to the White House. But then the light on the phone blinked out, and the intercom started:
“Mr. President, they say he’s out of the office,” Mrs. Sumter said.
“Oh?” Ryan took a long puff. “Tell State to confirm his location.”
“Yes, Mr. President.” Then forty seconds of silence. “Mr. President, the embassy says he’s in his office, as far as they can tell.”
“And his people said …?”
“They said he’s out, sir.”
“When will he be back?”
“I asked. They said they didn’t know.”
“Shit,” Ryan breathed. “Please get me Secretary Adler.”
“Yeah, Jack,” SecState said a few seconds later.
“He’s dodging my call, Scott.”
“Xu?”
“Yeah.”
“Not surprising. They-the Chinese Politburo-don’t trust him to talk on his own without a script.”
Like Arnie and me, Ryan thought with a mixture of anger and humor. “Okay, what’s it mean, Scott?”
“Nothing good, Jack,” Adler replied. “Nothing good.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“Diplomatically, there’s not much we can do. We’ve sent them a stiff note, and they haven’t answered. Your position vis-à-vis them and the Russian situation is as clear as we can make it. They know what we’re thinking. If they don’t want to talk to us, it means they don’t care anymore.”
“Shit.”
“That’s right,” the Secretary of State agreed.
“You’re telling me we can’t stop it?”
“Correct.” Adler’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“Okay, what else?”
“We tell our civilians to get the hell out of China. We’re set up to do that here.”
“Okay, do it,” Ryan ordered, with a sudden flip of his stomach.
“Right.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Ryan switched lines and punched the button for the Secretary of Defense.
“Yeah,” Tony Bretano answered.
“It looks like it’s going to happen,” Ryan told him.
“Okay, I’ll alert all the CINCs.”
In a matter of minutes, FLASH traffic was dispatched to each of the commanders-in-chief of independent commands. There were many of them, but at the moment the most important was CINCPAC, Admiral Bart Mancuso in Pearl Harbor. It was just after three in the morning when the STU next to his bed started chirping.
“This is Admiral Mancuso,” he said, more than half asleep.
“Sir, this is the watch officer. We have a war warning from Washington. China. ‘Expect the commencement of hostilities between the PRC and the Russian Federation to commence within the next twenty-four hours. You are directed to take all measures consistent with the safety of your command.’ Signed Bretano, SecDef, sir,” the lieutenant commander told him.
Mancuso already had both feet on the floor of the bedroom. “Okay, get my staff together. I’ll be in the office in ten minutes.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The chief petty officer assigned to drive him was already outside the front door, and Mancuso noted the presence of four armed Marines in plain sight. The senior of them saluted while the others studiously looked outward at a threat that probably wasn’t there … but might be. Minutes later, he walked into his hilltop headquarters overlooking the naval base. Brigadier General Lahr was there, waiting for him.
“How’d you get in so fast?” CINCPAC asked him.
“Just happened to be in the neighborhood, Admiral,” the J-2 told him. He followed Mancuso into the inner office.
“What’s happening?”
“The President tried to phone Premier Xu, but he didn’t take the call. Not a good sign from our Chinese brethren,” the theater intelligence officer observed.
“Okay, what’s John Chinaman doing?” Mancuso asked, as a steward’s mate brought in coffee.
“Not much in our area of direct interest, but he’s got a hell of a lot of combat power deployed in the Shenyang Military District, most of it right up on the Amur River.” Lahr set up a map stand and started moving his hand on the acetate overlay, which had a lot of red markings on it. For the first time in his memory, Mancuso saw Russian units drawn in blue, which was the “friendly” color. It was too surprising to comment on.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re moving a lot of air assets into Siberia. The shooters are here at Suntar. Reconnaissance assets back here at Zhigansk. The Dark Stars ought to be up and flying soon. It’ll be the first time we’ve deployed ’em in a real shooting war, and the Air Force has high hopes for them. We have some satellite overheads that show where the Chinese are. They’ve camouflaged their heavy gear, but the Lacrosse imagery sees right through the nets.”
“And?”
“And it’s over half a million men, five Group-A mechanized armies. That’s one armored division, two mechanized infantry, and one motorized infantry each, plus attachments that belong directly to the army commander. The forces deployed are heavy in tanks and APCs, fair in artillery, but light in helicopters. The air assets belong to somebody else. Their command structure for coordinating air and ground isn’t as streamlined as it ought to be, and their air forces aren’t very good by our standards, but their numbers are better than the Russians’. Manpower-wise, the Chinese have a huge advantage on the ground. The Russians have space to play with, but if it comes down to a slugging match, bet your money on the People’s Liberation Army.”
“And at sea?”
“Their navy doesn’t have much out of port at the moment, but overheads show they’re lighting up their boilers alongside. I would expect them to surge some ships out. Expect them to stay close in, defensive posture, deployment just to keep their coast clear.”
Mancuso didn’t have to ask what he had out. Seventh Fleet was pretty much out to sea after the warnings from previous weeks. His carriers were heading west. He had a total of six submarines camped out on the Chinese coast, and his surface forces were spun up. If the People’s Liberation Army Navy wanted to play, they’d regret it.
“Orders?”
“Self-defense only at this point,” Lahr said.
“Okay, we’ll close to within two hundred fifty miles of their coast minimum for surface ships. Keep the carriers an additional hundred back for now. The submarines can close in and shadow any PLAN forces at will, but no shooting unless attacked, and I don’t want anyone counter-detected. The Chinese have that one reconsat up. I don’t want it to see anything painted gray.” Dodging a single reconnaissance satellite wasn’t all that difficult, since it was entirely predictable in course and speed. You could even keep out of the way of two. When the number got to three, things became difficult.
In the Navy, the day never starts because the day never ends, but that wasn’t true for a ship sitting in wooden blocks. Then things changed, if not to an eight-hour day, then at least to a semi-civilian job where most of the crew lived at home and drove in every morning (for the most part) to do their jobs. That was principally preventive maintenance, which is one of the U.S. Navy’s religions. It was the same for Al Gregory; in his case, he drove his rented car in from the Norfolk motel and blew a kiss at the rent-a-cop at the guard shack, who waved everyone in. Once there had been armed Marines at the gates, but they’d gone away when the Navy had been stripped of its tactical nuclear weapons. There were still some nukes at the Yorktown ordnance station, because the Trident warheads hadn’t yet all been disassembled out at Pantex in Texas, and some still occupied their mainly empty bunkers up on the York River, awaiting shipment west for final disposal. But not at Norfolk, and the ships that had guards mainly depended on sailors carrying Beretta M9 pistols which they might, or might not, know how to use properly. That was the case on USS Gettysburg, whose sailors recognized Gregory by sight and waved him aboard with a smile and a greeting.
“Hey, Doc,” Senior Chief Leek said, when the civilian came into CIC. He pointed to the coffee urn. The Navy’s real fuel was coffee, not distillate fuel, at least as far as the chiefs were concerned.
“So, anything good happening?”
“Well, they’re going to put a new wheel on today.”
“Wheel?”
“Propeller,” Leek explained. “Controllable pitch, reversible screw, made of high-grade manganese-bronze. They’re made up in Philadelphia, I think. It’s interesting to watch how they do it, long as they don’t drop the son of a bitch.”
“What about your toy shop?”
“Fully functional, Doc. The last replacement board went in twenty minutes ago, didn’t it, Mr. Olson?” The senior chief addressed his assistant CIC officer, who came wandering out of the darkness and into view. “Mr. Olson, this here’s Dr. Gregory from T
RW.”
“Hello,” the young officer said, stretching his hand out. Gregory took it.
“Dartmouth, right?”
“Yep, physics and mathematics. You?”
“West Point and Stony Brook, math,” Gregory said.
“Hudson High?” Chief Leek asked. “You never told me that.”
“Hell, I even did Ranger School between second-and first-class years,” he told the surprised sailors. People looked at him and often thought “pussy.” He enjoyed surprising them. “Jump School, too. Did nineteen jumps, back when I was young and foolish.”
“Then you went into SDI, I gather,” Olson observed, getting himself some CIC coffee. The black-gang coffee, from the ship’s engineers, was traditionally the best on any ship, but this wasn’t bad.
“Yeah, spent a lot of years in that, but it all kinda fizzled out, and TRW hired me away before I made bird. When you were at Dartmouth, Bob Jastrow ran the department?”
“Yeah, he was involved in SDI, too, wasn’t he?”
Gregory nodded. “Yeah, Bob’s pretty smart.” In his lexicon, pretty smart meant doing the calculus in your head.
“What do you do at TRW?”
“I’m heading up the SAM project at the moment, from my SDI work, but they lend me out a lot to other stuff. I mainly do software and the theoretical engineering.”
“And you’re playing with our SM-2s now?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a software fix for one of the problems. Works on the ’puter, anyway, and the next job’s reprogramming the seeker heads on the Block IVs.”
“How you going to do that?”
“Come on over and I’ll show you,” Gregory said. He and Olson wandered to a desk, with the chief in tow. “The trick is fixing the way the laser nutates. Here’s how the software works …” This started an hour’s worth of discussion, and Senior Chief Leek got to watch a professional software geek explaining his craft to a gifted amateur. Next they’d have to sell all this to the Combat Systems Officer-“Weps”-before they could run the first computer simulations, but it looked to Leek as though Olson was pretty well sold already. Then they’d have to get the ship back in the water to see if all this bullshit actually worked.