the Sum Of All Fears (1991)

by Tom - Jack Ryan 05 Clancy

  "But--"

  "We have been attacked. Those bastards tried to kill us!"

  "That was an aerial weapon," the executive officer pointed out.

  "I heard no airplane. We have been attacked. We will defend ourselves."

  "Well?"

  Inspector Pat O'Day was making furious notes. American Airlines, like all the major carriers, had its ticket information on computer. With a ticket number and flight numbers, he could track anyone down. "Okay," he told the woman on the other end. "Wait a minute." O'Day turned. "Dan, there were only six first-class tickets on that flight from Denver to Dallas-Fort Worth, the flight was nearly empty--but it hasn't taken off yet because of ice and snow in Dallas. We have the names for two other first-class passengers who changed to a Miami flight. Now, the Dallas connection was for Mexico City. The two who changed through Miami were also booked on a DC- 10 out of Miami into Mexico City. That plane's off, one hour out of Mexico."

  "Turn it around?"

  "They say they can't because of fuel."

  "One hour--Christ!" Murray swore.

  O'Day ran a large hand over his face. As scared as everyone else in America--more so, since everyone in the command center had informed reason to be frightened--Inspector Patrick Sean O'Day was trying mightily to set everything aside and concentrate on whatever he had at hand. It was too slim and too circumstantial to be considered hard evidence as yet. He'd seen too many coincidences in his twenty years with the Bureau. He'd also seen major cases break on thinner stuff than this. You ran with what you had, and they had this.

  "Dan, I--"

  A messenger came in from the Records Division. She handed over two files to Murray. The Deputy Assistant Director opened the Russell file first, rummaging for the Athens photo. Next he took out the most recent photo of Ismael Qati. He set both next to the passport photos just faxed in from Denver.

  "What do you think, Pat?"

  "The passport one of this guy still looks thin for Mr. Qati ... cheekbones and eyes are right, mustache isn't. He's losing hair, too, if this is him...."

  "Go with the eyes?"

  "The eyes are right, Dan, the nose--yeah, it's him. Who's this other mutt?"

  "No name, just these frames from Athens. Fair skin, dark hair, well-groomed. Haircut's right, hairline is right." He checked the descriptive data on the license and passport. "Height, little guy, build--it fits, Pat."

  "I agree, I agree about eighty percent worth, man. Who's the Legal Attache in Mexico City?"

  "Bernie Montgomery--shit! He's in town to meet with Bill."

  "Try Langley?"

  "Yeah." Murray lifted his CIA line. "Where's Ryan?"

  "Right here, Dan. What gives?"

  "We have something. First, a guy named Marvin Russell, Sioux Indian, member of the Warrior Society, he dropped out of sight last year, somewhere in Europe, we thought. He turned up with his throat cut in Denver today. There were two people with him, they flew out. One, we have a picture but no name. The other may be Ismael Qati."

  That bastard! "Where are they?"

  "We think they're aboard an American Airlines flight from Miami to Mexico City, first-class tickets, about an hour out from the terminal."

  "And you think there's a connection?"

  "A vehicle registered to Marvin Russell, a/k/a Robert Friend of Roggen, Colorado, was on the stadium grounds. We have fake IDs from two people, probably Qati and the unknown subject, recovered from the murder scene. There's plenty enough to arrest on suspicion of murder."

  Yeah, Jack thought. Had the situation not been so horrible, Ryan would have laughed at that. "Murder, eh? You going to try and make the arrest?"

  "Unless you have a better idea."

  Ryan was quiet for a moment. "Maybe I do. Hold on for a minute." He lifted another phone and dialed the United States Embassy in Mexico City. "This is Ryan calling for the Station Chief. Tony? Jack Ryan here. Is Clark still there? Good, put him on."

  "Jesus, Jack, what the hell is--" Ryan cut him off.

  "Shut up, John. I have something for you to do. We have two people coming in to the airport there on an American flight from Miami, due in about an hour. We'll fax you the photos in a few minutes. We think they might be involved in this."

  "So it's a terrorist gig?"

  "Best thing we have, John. We want those two, and we want them fast."

  "Might be a problem from the local cops, Jack," Clark warned. "I can't exactly have a shoot-out down here."

  "Is the Ambassador in?"

  "I think so."

  "Transfer me over and stand by."

  "Right."

  "Ambassador's office," a female voice said.

  "This is CIA Headquarters, and I need the Ambassador right now!"

  "Surely." The secretary was a cool one, Ryan thought.

  "Yeah, what is it?"

  "Mr. Ambassador, this is Jack Ryan, Deputy Director of CIA--"

  "This is an open phone line."

  "I know that! Shut up and listen. There are two people coming into Mexico City airport in an American Airlines flight from Miami. We need to pick them up and get them back here just as fast as we can."

  "Our people?"

  "No, we think they're terrorists."

  "That means arresting them, clearing it through the local legal system and--"

  "We don't have time for that!"

  "Ryan, we can't strong-arm these people, they won't stand for it."

  "Mr. Ambassador, I want you to call the President of Mexico right now, and I want you to tell him that we need his cooperation--it's life-and-death, okay? If he doesn't agree immediately, I want you to tell him this, and I need you to write it down. Tell him that we know about his retirement plan. Okay? Use those exact words, We know about his retirement plan. "

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means that you say exactly that, do you understand?"

  "Look, I don't like playing games and--"

  "Mr. Ambassador, if you do not do exactly what I'm telling you, I will have one of my people render you unconscious and then have the DCM make the call."

  "You can't threaten me like that!"

  "I just did, pal, and if you think I'm kidding, you just fucking try me!"

  "Temper, Jack," Ben Goodley cautioned.

  Ryan looked away from the phone. "Sir, excuse me. It's very tense here, okay, we've had a nuclear device go off in Denver, and this may be the best lead we have. Look, there isn't time for niceties. Please. Play along with me. Please."

  "Very well."

  Ryan let out a breath. "Okay. Tell him also that one of our people, a Mr. Clark, will be at the airport security office in a few minutes. Mr. Ambassador, I cannot emphasize enough how important this is. Please do it now."

  "I'll do it. You'd better calm down up there," the career foreign-service officer advised.

  "We're trying very hard, sir. Please have your secretary transfer me back to the Station Chief. Thank you." Ryan looked over to Goodley. "Just hit me over the fucking head if you feel the need, Ben."

  "Clark."

  "We're faxing some photos down, along with their names and seat assignments. Okay, you are to check in with the airport security boss before you grab 'em. You still have the airplane down there?"

  "Right."

  "When you have 'em, get 'em aboard, and get 'em the hell up here."

  "Okay, Jack. We're on it."

  Ryan killed the line and picked up on Murray. "Fax the data you have to our Station Chief Mexico. I have two field officers on the scene, good ones, Clark and Chavez."

  "Clark?" Murray asked as he handed the fax information to Pat O'Day. "The same one who--"

  "That's the man."

  "I wish him luck."

  The tactical problem was complex. Dubinin had an antisubmarine aircraft overhead and could not afford to make a single mistake. Somewhere ahead was an American missile submarine that he fully intended to destroy. He had ordered it to protect himself, the Captain reasoned. He had been fired upon wi
th a live weapon. That changed matters greatly. He really should radio fleet command for instructions, or at least to announce his intentions, but with an aircraft overhead that was suicide, and he'd brushed close enough to death for one day. The attack on Admiral Lunin could only mean that the Americans were planning an attack on his country. They'd violated their favorite international hobbyhorse--the seas were free for the passage of all. They'd attacked him in international waters before he was close enough to commit a hostile act. Someone, therefore, thought there was a state of war. Fine, Dubinin thought. So be it.

  The submarine's towed-array sonar was drooping well below the level of the boat, and the sonar crewmen were now concentrating as they never had.

  "Contact," Lieutenant Rykov called. "Sonar contact, bearing one-one-three, single screw ... noisy, sounds like a damaged submarine...."

  "You're certain it's not a surface contact?" "Positive ... surface traffic is well south of this track because of the storms. The sound is definitely characteristic of a submarine power plant ... noisy, as though from some damage ... southerly drift ... bearing one-one-five now."

  Valentin Borissovich turned to shout into the control room: "Estimated distance to target's reported position?"

  "Seven thousand meters!"

  "Long, long shot ... southerly drift ... speed?"

  "Difficult to tell ... less than six knots, certainly ... there's a blade-rate there, but it's faint and I can't read it."

  "We may not get more than one shot," Dubinin whispered to himself. He went back to control. "Weapons! Set up a torpedo on a course of one-one-five, initial search depth seventy meters, activation point ... four thousand meters."

  "Very well." The Lieutenant made the proper adjustments to his board. "Set for tube one ... weapon is hot, ready! Outer door is closed, Captain."

  Dubinin turned to look at the executive officer. Ordinarily a very sober man--he scarcely drank even at ceremonial dinners--the Starpom nodded approval. The Captain didn't need it, but was grateful for it even so.

  "Open outer door."

  "Outer door is open." The weapons officer flipped the plastic cover off the firing switch.

  "Fire."

  The Lieutenant stabbed the button home. "Weapon is free."

  "Conn, sonar! Transient, transient, bearing one-seven-five--torpedo in the water bearing one-nine-five!"

  "All ahead full!" Ricks shouted to the helm.

  "Captain!" Claggett screamed. "Belay that order!"

  "What?" The youngster at the helm was all of nineteen and had never heard a captain's order countermanded. "What do I do, sir?"

  "Captain, if you goose the engines like that, we lose the shaft in about fifteen seconds!"

  "Shit, you're right." Ricks was pink beneath the red battle lights in the control room. "Tell the engine room, best safe speed, helm, right ten degrees rudder, come north, new course zero-zero-zero."

  "Right ten degrees rudder, aye." The boy's voice quavered as he turned the wheel. Fear is as contagious as plague. "Sir, my rudder is right ten degrees, coming to new course zero-zero-zero."

  Ricks swallowed and nodded. "Very well."

  "Conn, sonar, bearing to torpedo is now bearing one-nine-zero, torpedo going left to right, torpedo is not pinging at this time."

  "Thank you," Claggett replied.

  "Without our tail, we're going to lose track of it real quick."

  "That's true, sir. Captain, how about we let the Orion know what's going on?"

  "Good idea, run up the antenna."

  "Sea Devil One-Three, this is Maine."

  "Maine, this is One-Three, we are still evaluating that torpedo we dropped and--"

  "One-Three, we have a torpedo in the water one-eight-zero. You missed the guy. Start another search pattern south of us. I think this bird is engaging our MOSS."

  "Roger, on the way." The Tacco informed Kodiak that there was a for-real battle going on now.

  "Mr. President," Ryan said, "we may have some useful information here, sir." Jack was sitting down in front of the speakerphone, his hands flat on the table and wet enough to leave marks on the Formica top, Goodley saw. For all that, he envied Ryan's ability to control himself.

  "What might that be?" Fowler asked harshly.

  Ryan's head dropped at the tone of the reply. "Sir, the FBI has just informed us that they have information on two, possibly three, confirmed terrorist suspects in Denver today. Two of them are believed to be on an airliner inbound to Mexico. I have people in the area, and we're going to try and pick them up, sir."

  "Wait a minute," Fowler said. "We know that this wasn't a terrorist act."

  "Ryan, this is General Fremont. How was this information developed?"

  "I don't know all the details, but they have information on an automobile--a truck, I think, a van, that was at the site. They've checked the tag number and the owner--the owner turned up dead, and we ran the other two down by their airline tickets and--"

  "Hold it!" CINC-SAC cut Ryan off. "How the hell can anyone know that--a survivor from the bomb site? For Christ's sake, man, this was a hundred-kiloton weapon--"

  "Uh, General, the best number we have now--it came from the FBI--is fifteen-KT, and--"

  "The FBI?" Borstein said from NORAD. "What the hell do they know about this? Anyway, a fifteen-kiloton weapon wouldn't leave any survivors for over a mile around. Mr. President, that cannot be good information."

  "Mr. President, this is the NMCC," Ryan heard on the same line. "We just received a message from Kodiak. That Soviet submarine is attacking USS Maine. There is a torpedo in the water, Maine is attempting to evade."

  Jack heard something, he wasn't sure what, over the speakerphone.

  "Sir," Fremont said at once, "this is a very ominous development."

  "I understand that, General," the President said just loudly enough to hear. "General-SNAPCOUNT."

  "What the hell's that?" Goodley asked quietly.

  "Mr. President, that is a mistake. We have a solid piece of information here. You wanted information from us and now we have it!" Ryan barked rapidly, almost losing it again. His hands went from flat to fists. Jack struggled with himself again, and regained control. "Sir, this is a real indicator."

  "Ryan, it looks to me like you've been lying and misleading me all day," Fowler said in a voice that hardly sounded human at all. The line went dead for the last time.

  The final alert signal was sent out simultaneously over dozens of circuits. The duplication of channels, their known function, the brevity of the message, and the identical encipherment pattern told the Soviets much, even before the receipted signal was input into their computers. When the single word came out, it was reprinted in the Kremlin command center only seconds later. Golovko took the dispatch off the machine.

  "SNAPCOUNT," he said simply.

  "What is that?" President Narmonov asked.

  "A code word." Golovko's mouth went white for a moment. "It's a term from American football, I think. It means the set of numbers used before the--the quarterback takes the ball to begin a play."

  "I don't understand," Narmonov said.

  "Once the Americans had the code word COCKEDPISTOL to denote complete strategic readiness. The meaning is unambiguous to anyone, yes?" The KGB's Deputy Chairman went on as though in a dream: "This word, to an American, would mean much the same thing. I can only conclude that--"

  "Yes."

  42

  ASP AND SWORD

  PRESIDENT NARMONOV:

  I SEND THIS TO YOU, OR YOUR SUCCESSOR, AS A WARNING.

  WE HAVE JUST RECEIVED A REPORT THAT A SOVIET SUBMARINE IS EVEN NOW ATTACKING AN AMERICAN MISSILE SUBMARINE. AN ATTACK ON OUR STRATEGIC ASSETS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED, AND WILL BE INTERPRETED AS THE PRECURSOR TO AN ATTACK AGAINST THE UNITED STATES.

  I MUST FURTHER ADVISE YOU THAT OUR STRATEGIC FORCES ARE AT THEIR MAXIMUM STATE OF READINESS. WE ARE PREPARED TO DEFEND OURSELVES.

  IF YOU ARE SERIOUS IN YOUR PROTESTATIONS OF INNOCENCE, I URGE YOU TO CEAS
E ALL AGGRESSIVE ACTS WHILE THERE IS STILL TIME.

  "'Successor'? What the hell does that mean?" Narmonov turned away for a moment, then looked at Golovko. "What is happening here? Is Fowler ill? Is he mad? What goes on here? What's this submarine business?" When he finished talking, his mouth remained open like that of a hooked fish. The Soviet President was gulping his breaths now.

  "We had a report of a disabled American missile submarine in the eastern Pacific, and sent a submarine to investigate, but that submarine has no authorization to attack," the Defense Minister said.

  "Are there any circumstances under which our men might do this?"

  "None. Without authorization from Moscow, they may act only in self-defense." The Defense Minister looked away, unable to bear the gaze of his President. He had no wish to speak again, but neither did he have a choice. "I no longer think this is a controllable situation."

  "Mr. President." It was an Army warrant officer. He opened his briefcase--"the football"--and removed a ring binder. The first divider was bordered in red. Fowler flipped to it. The page read:

  SIOP MAJOR ATTACK OPTION **SKYFALL**

  "So, what the hell is SNAPCOUNT?" Goodley asked.

  "That's as high as alerts go, Ben. That means the pistol is cocked and pointed, and you can feel the pressure on the trigger."

  "How the hell did we--"

  "Drop it, Ben! However the fuck we got here, we are here." Ryan stood and started walking around. "We better start thinking very fast, people."

  The senior duty officer started: "We have to make Fowler understand--"

  "He can't understand," Goodley said harshly. "He can't understand if he isn't listening."

  "State and Defense are out--they're both dead," Ryan pointed out.

  "Vice President--Kneecap."

  "Very good, Ben ... do we have a button for that ... yes!" Ryan pushed it.

  "Kneecap."