the Sum Of All Fears (1991)

by Tom - Jack Ryan 05 Clancy

  "I cannot know for sure, but I believe this to be my personal innovation. The material is perfect. It is light, it is hollow, and it is easily twisted into the proper configuration." Fromm walked over to the assembly table and returned with one. "The base material is polyethylene, and as you see, we have coated the outside with copper and the inside with rhodium. The length of the 'straw' is sixty centimeters, and the inside diameter is just under three millimeters. Many thousands of them surround the Secondary, in bundles twisted one hundred eighty degrees into a geometric shape called a helix. A helix is a useful shape. It can direct energy while retaining its ability to radiate heat in all directions."

  Inside every engineer, Qati thought, was a frustrated teacher. "But what do they do?"

  "Also ... the first emission off the Primary is massive gamma radiation. Just behind that are the X-rays. In both cases we are talking about high-energy photons, quantum particles which carry energy but which have no mass--"

  "Light waves," Bock said, remembering his Gymnasium physics. Fromm nodded.

  "Correct. Extremely energetic light waves of a different--higher--frequency. Now, we have this vast amount of energy radiating from the Primary. Some we can reflect or warp toward the Secondary by use of the channels we have built. Most is lost, of course, but the fact is that we will have so much energy at our fingertips that we need only a small fraction of it. The X-rays sweep down the straws. Much of their energy is absorbed by the metallic coatings, while the oblique surfaces reflect some further down, allowing further energy absorption. The polyethylene also absorbs a good deal of energy. And what do you suppose happens?"

  "Absorb that much energy, and it must explode, of course," Bock said before Qati could.

  "Very good, Herr Bock. When the straws explode--actually they convert into plasma, but having split straws, we will not split hairs, eh?--the plasma expands radially to their axes, thus converting the axial energy from the Primary into radial energy imploding on the Secondary."

  The light bulb went on in Qati's head. "Brilliant--but you lose half of the energy, that part expanding outward."

  "Yes and no. It still makes an energy barrier, and that is what we need. Next, the uranium fins around the body of the Secondary are also converted to plasma--from the same energy flux, but more slowly than the straws due to their mass. This plasma has far greater density, and is pressed inward. Within the actual Secondary casing, there is two centimeters of vacuum, since that space will be evacuated. So we have a 'running start' for the plasma that is racing inward."

  "So you use the energy from the Primary, redirected into a right-angle turn to perform the same function on the Secondary that is first done by chemical explosives?" Qati saw.

  "Excellent, Commander!" Fromm replied, just patronizingly enough to be noticed. "We now have a relatively heavy mass of plasma pressing inward. The vacuum gap gives it room to accelerate before slamming into the Secondary. This compresses the Secondary. The secondary assembly is lithium-deuteride and lithium-hydride, both doped with tritium, surrounded by uranium 238. This assembly is crushed violently by the imploding plasma. It is also being bombarded by neutrons from the Primary, of course. The combination of heat, pressure, and neutron bombardment causes the lithium to fission into tritium. The tritium immediately begins the fusion process, generating vast quantities of high-energy neutrons along with the liberated energy. The neutrons attack the U-238, causing a fast-fission reaction, adding to the overall Secondary yield."

  "The key, as Herr Fromm said," Ghosn explained, "is managing the energy."

  "Straws," Bock noted.

  "Yes, I said the same thing," Ghosn said. "It is truly brilliant. Like building a bridge from paper."

  "And the yield from the Secondary?" Qati asked. He didn't really understand the physics, but he did understand the final number.

  "The Primary will generate approximately seventy kilotons. The Secondary will generate roughly four hundred sixty-five kilotons. The numbers are approximate because of possible irregularities within the weapon, and also because we cannot test to measure actual effects."

  "How confident are you in the performance of the weapon?"

  "Totally," Fromm said.

  "But without testing, you said ..."

  "Commander, I knew from the beginning that a proper test program was not possible. That is the same problem we had in the DDR. For that reason the design is overengineered, in some cases by a factor of forty percent, in others by a factor of more than one hundred. You must understand that an American, British, French, or even Soviet weapon of the same yield would not be a fifth the size of our 'unit.' Such refinements of size and efficiency can come only from extensive testing. The physics of the device are entirely straightforward. Engineering refinements come only from practice. As Herr Ghosn said, building a bridge. The Roman bridges of antiquity were very inefficient structures. By modern standards they use far too much stone, and as a result far too much labor to build them, ja? Over the years we have learned to build bridges more efficiently, using fewer materials and less labor to perform the same task. But do not forget that some Roman bridges still stand. They are still bridges, even if they are inefficient. This bomb design, though inefficient and wasteful of materials, is still a bomb, and it will work as I say."

  Heads turned as the beeper on the lathe went off. An indicator light blinked green. The task was finished. Fromm walked over, telling the technicians to flush the Freon out of the system. Five minutes later the object of so much loving care was visible. The manipulator arm brought it into view. It was finished.

  "Excellent," Fromm said. "We will carefully examine the plutonium, and then we will commence assembly. Meine Herren, the difficult part is behind us." He thought that called for a beer, and made another mental note that he hadn't gotten the palladium yet. Details, details. But that's what engineering was.

  "What gives, Dan?" Ryan asked over his secure phone. He had missed the morning paper at home only to find the offending article waiting on his desk as part of The Bird.

  "It sure as hell didn't come from here, Jack. It must be in your house."

  "Well, I just tore our security director a brand-new asshole. He says he doesn't have anything going. What the hell does a 'very senior' official mean?"

  "It means that this Holtzman guy got carried away with his adjectives. Look, Jack, I've already gone too far. I'm not supposed to discuss ongoing investigations, remember?"

  "I'm not concerned about that. Somebody just leaked material that comes from a closely held source. If the world made any sense, we'd bring Holtzman in for questioning!" Ryan snarled into the phone.

  "You want to rein in a little, boy?"

  The DDCI looked up from the phone and commanded himself to take a deep breath. It wasn't Holtzman's fault, was it? "Okay, I just simmered down."

  "Whatever investigation is under way, it isn't the Bureau running it."

  "No shit?"

  "You have my word on it," Murray said.

  "That's fair enough, Dan." Ryan calmed down further. If it wasn't the FBI and it wasn't his own in-house security arm, then that part of the story was probably fiction.

  "Who could have leaked it?"

  Jack barked out a laugh. "Could have? Ten or fifteen people on the Hill. Maybe five in the White House, twenty--maybe forty here."

  "So the other part could just be camouflage, or somebody who wants a score settled." Murray did not make it a question. He figured at least a third of all press leaks were aimed at settling grudges in one way or another. "The source is sensitive?"

  "This phone isn't all that secure, remember?"

  "Gotcha. Look, I can approach Holtzman quietly and informally. He's a good guy, responsible, a pro. We can talk to him off the record and let him know that he may be endangering people and methods."

  "I have to go to Marcus for that."

  "And I have to talk to Bill, but Bill will play ball."

  "Okay, I'll talk to my Director. I'll be back." Ryan h
ung up and walked again to the Director's office.

  "I've seen it," Director Cabot said. "The Bureau doesn't know about this investigation, and neither do our people. From that we can surmise that the scandal part of the story is pure bull, but somebody's been leaking the take from SPINNAKER, and that sort of thing gets agents killed."

  "What do you suggest?" the DCI asked.

  "Dan Murray and I approach Holtzman informally and let him know that he's stepping on sensitive toes. We ask him to back off."

  "Ask?"

  "Ask. You don't give orders to reporters. Not unless you sign their paychecks, anyway," Jack corrected himself. "I've never actually done this, but Dan has. It was his idea."

  "I have to go upstairs on this," Cabot said.

  "Goddamn it, Marcus, we are upstairs!"

  "Dealing with the press--it has to be decided elsewhere."

  "Super--get in your car and drive down and make sure you ask very nicely." Ryan turned and stormed out before Cabot had a chance to flush at the insult.

  By the time he'd walked the few yards to his private office, Jack's hands were quivering. Can't he back me up on anything? Nothing was going right lately. Jack pounded once on his desk, and the pain brought things back under control. Clark's little operation, that seemed to be heading in the right direction. That was one thing, and one thing was better than nothing.

  Not much better. Jack looked at the photo of his wife and kids.

  "Goddamn it," he swore to himself. He couldn't get that guy to back him up on anything, he'd become a lousy father to his kids, and sure as hell he was no great shakes as a husband lately.

  Liz Elliot read the front-page article with no small degree of satisfaction. Holtzman had delivered exactly what she had expected. Reporters were so easy to manipulate. It opened a whole new world for her, she had belatedly realized. With Marcus Cabot being so weak, and no one within the CIA bureaucracy to back him up, she would have effective control of that, as well. Wasn't that something?

  Removing Ryan from his post was now more than a mere exercise in spite, as desirable as so simple a motive might have been. Ryan was the one who had said no to a few White House requests, who occasionally went directly to Congress on internal matters ... who prevented her from having closer contact with the Agency. With him out of the way, she could give orders--couched as "suggestions"--to Cabot, who would then carry them out with a total absence of resistance. Dennis Bunker would still have Defense and his dumb football team. Brent Talbot would have the State Department. Elizabeth Elliot would have control of the National Security apparatus--be--cause she also had the ear, and all the other important parts, of the President. Her phone beeped.

  "Director Cabot is here."

  "Send him in," Liz said. She stood and walked toward the door. "Good morning, Marcus."

  "Hello, Dr. Elliot."

  "What brings you down?" she asked, waving him to a seat on the couch.

  "This newspaper article."

  "I saw it," the National Security Advisor said sympathetically.

  "Whoever leaked this might have endangered a valuable source."

  "I know. Somebody at your end? I mean, what is this about an in-house investigation?"

  "It isn't us."

  "Really?" Dr. Elliot leaned back and played with her blue silk cravat. "Who, then?"

  "We don't know, Liz." Cabot looked even more uncomfortable than she had expected. Maybe, she thought playfully, he thought he was the target of the investigation ... ? There was an interesting idea. "We want to talk to Holtzman."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean we and the FBI talk to him, informally of course, to let him know that he may be doing something irresponsible."

  "Who came up with that, Marcus?"

  "Ryan and Murray."

  "Really?" She paused, as though considering the matter. "I don't think that's a good idea. You know how reporters are. If you have to stroke them, you have to stroke them properly ... hmm. I can handle that if you wish."

  "This really is serious. SPINNAKER is very important to us." Cabot tended to repeat himself when he got excited.

  "I know it. Ryan was pretty clear in his briefing, back when you were ill. You still haven't confirmed his reports?"

  Cabot shook his head. "No. Jack went off to England to ask the Brits to nose around, but we don't expect anything for a while."

  "What do you want me to tell Holtzman?"

  "Tell him that he may be jeopardizing a highly important source. The man could die over this, and the political fallout might be very serious," Cabot concluded.

  "Yes, it could have undesired effects on their political scene, couldn't it?"

  "If SPINNAKER is right, then they're in for a huge political shakeup. Revealing that we know what we know could jeopardize him. Remember that--"

  Elliot interrupted. "That Kadishev is our main fallback position. Yes. And if he gets 'burned,' then we might have no fallback position. You've made yourself very clear, Marcus. Thank you. I'll work on this myself."

  "That should be quite satisfactory," Cabot said after a moment's pause.

  "Fine. Anything else I need to know this morning?"

  "No, that's why I came down."

  "I think it's time to show you something. Something we've been working on here. Pretty sensitive," she added. Marcus got the message.

  "What is it?" the DCI asked guardedly.

  "This is absolutely confidential." Elliot pulled a large manila envelope from her desk. "I mean absolutely, Marcus. It doesn't leave the building, okay?"

  "Agreed." The DCI was already interested.

  Liz opened the envelope and handed over some photographs. Cabot looked them over.

  "Who's the woman?"

  "Carol Zimmer. She's the widow of an Air Force crewman who got himself killed somehow or other." Elliot filled in some additional details.

  "Ryan, screwing around? I'll be damned."

  "Any chance we could get more information from inside the Agency?"

  "If you mean accomplishing that without any suspicion on his part, it would be very difficult." Cabot shook his head. "His two SPOs, Clark and Chavez, no way. They're very tight. Good friends, I mean."

  "Ryan's friendly with bodyguards? You serious?" Elliot was surprised. It was like being solicitous toward furniture.

  "Clark's an old field officer. Chavez is a new kid, working as a SPO while he finishes his college degree, looking to be a field officer. I've seen the files. Clark'll retire in a few more years, and keeping him around as a SPO is just a matter of being decent. He's done some really interesting things. Good man, good officer."

  Elliot didn't like that, but from what Cabot said, it seemed that it couldn't be helped. "We want Ryan eased out."

  "That might not be easy. They really like him on the Hill."

  "You just said he's insubordinate."

  "It won't wash on the Hill. You know that. You want him fired, the President just has to ask for his resignation."

  But that wouldn't wash on the Hill either, Liz thought, and it seemed immediately clear that Marcus Cabot wouldn't be much help. She hadn't really expected that he would be. Cabot was too soft.

  "We can handle it entirely from this end if you want."

  "Probably a good idea. If it became known at Langley that I had a hand in this, it might look like spite. Can't have that," Cabot demurred. "Bad for morale."

  "Okay." Liz stood, and so did Cabot. "Thanks for coming down."

  Two minutes later she was back in her chair, her feet propped up on a drawer. This was going so well. Exactly as planned. I'm getting good at this....

  "So?"

  "This was published in a Washington paper today," Golovko said. It was seven in the evening in Moscow, the sky outside dark and cold as only Moscow could get cold. That he had to report on something in an American newspaper did not warm the night very much.

  Andrey Il'ych Narmonov took the translation from the First Deputy Chairman and read through it. Finish
ed, he tossed the two pages contemptuously onto his desk top. "What rubbish is this?"

  "Holtzman is a very important Washington reporter. He has access to very senior officials in the Fowler Administration."

  "And he probably writes a good deal of fiction, just as our reporters do."

  "We think not. We think the tone of the report indicates that he was given the data by someone in the White House."

  "Indeed?" Narmonov pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, cursing the cold that the sudden weather change had brought with it. If there was anything for which he did not have time, it was an illness, even a minor one. "I don't believe it. I've told Fowler personally about the difficulty with the missile destruction, and the rest of this political twaddle is just that. You know that I've had to deal with uniformed hotheads--those fools who went off on their own in the Baltic region. So do the Americans. It's incredible to me that they should take such nonsense seriously. Surely their intelligence services tell them the truth--and the truth is what I've told Fowler myself!"

  "Comrade President." Golovko paused for a beat. Comrade was too hard a habit to break. "Just as we have political elements who distrust the Americans, so they have elements who continue to hate and distrust us. Changes between us have come and gone very rapidly. Too rapidly for many to assimilate. I find it plausible that there might be American political officials who believe this report."

  "Fowler is vain, he is far weaker as a man than he would like people to know, he is personally insecure--but he is not a fool, and only a fool would believe this, particularly after meeting me and talking with me." Narmonov handed the translation back to Golovko.

  "My analysts believe otherwise. We think it possible that the Americans really believe this."

  "Thank them for their opinion. I disagree."

  "If the Americans are getting a report saying this, it means that they have a spy within our government."

  "I have no doubt that they have such people--after all, we do also, do we not?--but I do not believe it in this case. The reason is simple, no spy could have reported something which I did not say, correct? I have not said this to anyone. It is not true. What do you do to a spy who lies to us?"