by Tom Clancy
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 intp 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?"
"No, actually 'off the record' doesn't quite mean that. But if I tell you, right here and right now, that I w
ill never use it in any way—and there are other people around to back you up—and then I break my word, you can wreck my career. People in my business are allowed to get away with a lot, maybe even too much," Plumber conceded, "but we can't lie." And that was the point, wasn't it?
Laurence looked over to his mother. Her poor English did not denote a poor mind. She nodded to him.
"He was with my dad when he got killed," the youth reported. "He promised Pop that he would look after us. He does, and yeah, he pays for school and stuff, him and his friends at CIA."
"They had some trouble here with some rowdies," Holtzman added. "A guy I know at Langley came over here and—"
"He shouldna done that!" Laurence objected. "Mr. Clar—well, he didn't have to."
"How come you didn't go to Johns Hopkins?" Holtzman asked.
"They accepted me," Laurence told them, hostility still in his voice. "This way I can commute easier, and help out here with the store. Dr. Ryan—Mrs. Ryan, I mean—she didn't know at first, but when she found out, well, 'nother sister starts at the university this fall. Pre-med, like me."
"But why…?" Plumber's voice trailed off.
" 'Cuz maybe that's the kind of guy he is, and you fucked him over."
"Laurence!"
Plumber didn't speak for fifteen seconds or so. He turned to the lady behind the counter. "Mrs. Zimmer, thank you for your time. None of this will ever be repeated. I promise." He turned. "Good luck with your studies, Laurence. Thank you for telling me that. I will not be bothering you anymore."
The two reporters walked back outside, straight to Holtzman's Lexus.
Why should I trust you? You're reporters. The artless words of a student, perhaps, but deeply wounding even so. Because those words had been earned, Plumber told himself.
"What else?" he asked.
"As far as I know they don't even know the circumstances of Buck Zimmer's death, just that he died on duty. Evidently, Carol was pregnant with their youngest when he died. Liz Elliot tried to get a story out that Ryan was fooling around and the baby was his. I got suckered."
A long breath. "Yeah. Me, too."
"So, what are you going to do about it, John?"
He looked up. "I want to confirm a few things."
"The one at MIT is named Peter. Computer science. The one going to Charlottesville, I think her name is Al-jsha. I don't know the name of the one graduating high school, but I could look that up. I have dates for the purchase of this business. It's a sub-chapter-S corporation. It all tallies with the Colombian mission. Ryan does Christmas for them every year. Cathy, too. I don't know how they'll work that now. Pretty well, probably." Holtzman chuckled. "He's good at keeping secrets."
"And the CIA guy who—"
"I know him. No names. He found out that some punks were annoying Carol. He had a little chat with them. The police have records. I've seen them," Holtzman told him. "He's an interesting guy. He's the one who got Gerasimov's wife and daughter out. Carol thinks he's a great big teddy bear. He's also the guy who rescued Koga. Serious player."
"Give me a day. One day," Plumber said.
"Fair enough." The drive back to Ritchie Highway passed without another word.
"DR. RYAN?" BOTH heads turned. It was Captain Overton, sticking his head in the door.
"What is it?" Cathy asked, looking up from a journal article.
"Ma'am, there's something happening that the kids might like to see, with your permission. All of you, if you want."
Two minutes later they were all in the back of a Hummer, heading into the woods, close to the perimeter fence. The vehicle stopped two hundred yards away. The captain and a corporal led them the rest of the way, to within fifty feet.
"Shh," the corporal said to SANDBOX. He held binoculars to her eyes.
"Neat!" Jack Junior thought.
"Will she be scared of us?" Sally asked.
"No, nobody hunts them here, and they're used to the vehicles," Overton told them. "That's Elvira, she's the second-oldest doe here."
She'd given birth only minutes before. Elvira was getting up now, licking the newborn fawn whose eyes were confused by a new world it had no reason to expect.
"Bambi!" Katie Ryan observed, being an expert on the Disney film. It only took minutes, and then the fawn wobbled to its—they couldn't tell the gender yet—feet.
"Okay. Katie?"
"Yes?" she asked, not looking away.
"You get to give her her name," Captain Overton told the toddler. It was a tradition here.
"Miss Marlene," SANDBOX said without hesitation.
45 CONFIRMATION
AS THE SAYING WENT, miles and miles of miles and miles. The road was about as boring as any civil engineer could make, but it hadn't been anyone's fault. So was the land. Brown and Holbrook now knew why the Mountain Men had become Mountain Men. At least there was scenery there. They could have driven faster, but it took time to learn the handling characteristics of this beast, and so they rarely got above fifty. That earned them the poisonous looks of every other driver on 1-90, especially the cowboy-hatted K-Whopper owner-operators who thought the unlimited speed limit in eastern Montana was just great, plus the occasional lawyer—they had to be lawyers—in German muscle cars who blazed by their truck as though it were a cattle-feeder.
They also found it was hard work. Both men were pretty tired from all the preparation. All the weeks of effort to set up the truck, mix the explosives, cast the bullets, and then embed them. It had all made for little sleep, and there was nothing like driving a western interstate highway to put a man to sleep. Their first overnight was at a motel in Sheridan, just over the line into Wyoming. Getting that far, their first day driving the damned thing, had almost been their undoing, especially negotiating the split of 1-90 and 1-94 in Billings. They'd known that the cement truck would corner about as well as a hog on ice, but actually experiencing it had exceeded their worst fears. They ended up sleeping past eight that morning.
The motel was actually a truck stop of sorts that catered both to private cars and to interstate freight carriers. The dining room served a hearty breakfast, wolfed down by a lot of rugged-looking independent men, and a few similarly minded women. Breakfast conversation was predictable.
"Gotta be rag-head sunzabitches," opined a big-bellied trucker with tattoos on his beefy forearms.
"Think so?" Ernie Brown asked from down the counter, hoping to get a feel for how these kindred souls felt about things.
"Who else would go after younguns? Sunzabitches." The driver returned to his blueberry pancakes. "If the TV has it right, those two cops got it done," a milk hauler announced. "Five head shots. Whoa!"
"What about the one guy who went down hard, standing up like that against six riflemen! With a pistol. Dropped three of them, maybe four. There died a real American lawman." He looked up from his pancakes again. This one had a load of cattle. "He's earned his place in Valhalla, and that's for damn sure."
"Hey, they were feds, man," Holbrook said, chewing on his toast. "They ain't heroes. What about—"
"You can stick that one, good buddy," the milk hauler warned. "I don't wanna hear it. There was twenty, thirty children in that place." Another driver chimed in. "And that black kid, rollin' on in with his -16. Damn, like when I was in the Cav for the Second of Happy Valley. I wouldn't mind buying that boy a beer, maybe shake his hand."
"You were AirCav?" the cattle hauler asked, turning away from his breakfast. "Charlie, First of the Seventh." He turned to show the oversized patch of the First Air Cavalry Division on his leather jacket.
"Gary Owen, bro'! Delta, Second/Seventh." He stood up from the counter and walked over to take the man's hand. "Where you outa?"
"Seattle. That's mine out there with the machine parts. Heading for St. Louis. Gary Owen. Jesus, nice to hear that one again."
"Every time I drive through here…"
"You bet. We got brothers buried out yonder at Little Big Horn. Always say a little prayer for 'em when I come t
hrough."
"Shit." The two men shook hands again.
"Mike Fallen."
"Tim Yeager." The two Mountain Men had not just come into the room for breakfast. These were their kind of people. Supposed to be, anyway. Rugged individualists. Federal cops as heroes? What the hell was that all about?
"Boy, we find out who bankrolled this job, I hope that Ryan fella knows what to do 'bout it," machine parts said.
"Ex-Marine," cattle replied. "He ain't one of them. He's one of us. Finally."
"You may be right. Somebody's gotta pay for this one, and I hope we get the right people to do the collectin'."
"Damn right." the milk hauler agreed from his spot on the counter.
"Well." Ernie Brown stood. "Time for us to boogie on down the road."
The others nearby took a cursory look, and that was all, as the truckers returned to their informal opinion poll.
"IF YOU DON'T feel better by tomorrow, you're going to the doctor, and that's final!" she said.
"Oh, I'll be all right." But that protestation came out as a groan. He wondered if this was Hong Kong flu or something else. Not that he knew the difference. Few people did, and in a real sense that included docs—and he did know that. What would they tell him? Rest, liquids, aspirin, which he was already doing. He felt as though he'd been placed in a bag and beaten with baseball bats, and all the traveling didn't help. Nobody liked traveling. Everyone liked being somewhere else, but getting there was always a pain in the… everywhere, he grumped. He allowed himself to fade back off to sleep, hoping his wife wouldn't worry too much. He'd feel better by tomorrow. These things always went away. He had a comfortable bed, and a TV controller. As long as he didn't move around it didn't hurt… much. It couldn't get any worse. Then it would get better. It always did.
WHEN PEOPLE GOT to a certain point, their work never really stopped. They could go away, but then the work came to them, found them wherever they might be, and the only issue, really, was how expensive it was to bring the work to them. That was a problem for both Jack Ryan and Robby Jackson.