by Tom Clancy
“Something's wrong here,” the communications officer said. This is—"
“Send back, 'Do you remember who it was who bandaged your knee?'”
“What?”
“Send it!” Narmonov said.
They waited for two minutes.
YOUR BODYGUARD ANATOLIY ASSISTED ME, BUT MY TROUSERS WERE RUINED.
“It's Ryan.”
“Make sure,” Golovko said.
* * *
The translator looked at his screen. “It says, 'And our friend is doing well?'”
Ryan typed: HE RECEIVED AN HONORABLE BURIAL AT CAMP DAVID.
“What the hell?” Rosselli asked.
“There aren't twenty people in the world who know this. He's making sure it's really me,” Jack said. His fingers were poised over the keys.
“That looks like bullshit.”
“Okay, fine, it's bullshit, but does it hurt anything?” Ryan demanded.
“Send it.”
* * *
“What the hell is this?” Fowler shouted. “Who's doing this—”
* * *
“Sir, we have an incoming from the President. He's ordering us to—”
“Ignore it,” Jack said coldly.
“God damn it, I can't!”
“Captain, the President has lost control. If you allow him to shut me off, your family, my family, a whole lot of people are going to die. Captain, your oath is to the Constitution, not to the President. Now, you look over those messages again and tell me that I'm wrong!”
“From Moscow,” the translator said. “'Ryan, what is happening?'”
* * *
P RESIDENT NARMONOV:
WE HAVE BEEN THE VICTIMS OF A TERRORIST ACT. THERE WAS MUCH CONFUSION HERE, BUT WE NOW HAVE POSITIVE EVIDENCE AS TO THE ORIGIN OF THE WEAPON.
WE ARE CERTAIN THAT THE WEAPON WAS NOT SOVIET. I REPEAT WE ARE CERTAIN THE WEAPON WAS NOT SOVIET.
WE ARE NOW ATTEMPTING TO APPREHEND THE TERRORISTS. WE MAY HAVE THEM WITHIN THE NEXT FEW MINUTES.
“Send back, 'Why has your president accused us of this?'” There was another pause of two minutes.
* * *
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
WE HAVE BEEN THE VICTIMS OF GREAT CONFUSION HERE. WE HAVE HAD SOME INTELLIGENCE REPORTS OF POLITICAL TURMOIL IN THE SOVIET UNION. THESE REPORTS WERE FALSE, BUT THEY CONFUSED US GREATLY. IN ADDITION, THE OTHER INCIDENTS HAVE HAD AN INCENDIARY EFFECT ON BOTH SIDES.
“That's true enough.”
* * *
“Pete, you get people in there just as fast as you can and arrest this man!”
Connor couldn't say no to that, despite the look he received from Helen D'Agustino. He called Secret Service headquarters and relayed the message.
* * *
“He asks, 'What you — what do you suggest!'”
I ASK THAT YOU TRUST US, AND ALLOW US TO TRUST YOU. WE BOTH MUST BACK AWAY FROM THIS. I SUGGEST THAT BOTH YOU AND WE REDUCE THE ALERT LEVELS OF STRATEGIC FORCES AND GIVE ORDERS TO ALL TROOPS TO EITHER HOLD IN PLACE OR WITHDRAW AWAY FROM ANY SOVIET OR AMERICAN UNIT IN CLOSE PROXIMITY, AND IF POSSIBLE THAT ALL SHOOTING BE STOPPED IMMEDIATELY.
“Well?” Ryan asked.
“Send it.”
* * *
“Can it be a trick?” the Defense Minister asked. “Can it not be a trick?”
“Golovko?”
“I believe that it is Ryan, and I believe he is sincere — but can he persuade his President?”
President Narmonov walked away for a moment, thinking of history, thinking of Nikolay II. “If we stand our forces down…?”
“Then they can strike us, and our ability to retaliate is cut in half!”
“Is half enough?” Narmonov asked, seeing the escape hatch, leaning towards it, praying for the opening to be real. “Is half enough to destroy them?”
“Well…” Defense nodded. “Certainly, we have more than double the amount we need to destroy them. We call it over-kill.”
* * *
“Sir, the Soviet reply reads: ”Ryan:
“ 'On my order, being sent out as you read this, Soviet strategic forces are standing down. We will maintain our defensive alert for the moment, but we will stand down our offensive forces to a lower alert level which is still higher than peacetime standards. If you match our move, I propose a phased mutual stand-down over the next five hours.'”
* * *
Jack's head went down on the keyboard, actually placing some characters on the screen.
“Could I have a glass of water? My throat's a little dry.”
* * *
“Mr. President?” Fremont said.
“Yes, General.”
“Sir, however this happened, I think it's a good idea.”
Part of Bob Fowler wanted to hurl his coffee cup into the wall, but he stopped himself. It didn't matter, did it? It did, but not that way.
“What do you recommend?”
“Sir, just to make sure, we wait until we see evidence of a stand-down. When we do, we can back off ourselves. For starters — right now — we can rescind SNAPCOUNT without any real degradation of our readiness.”
“General Borstein?”
“Sir, I concur in that,” said the voice from NORAD.
“General Fremont: Approved.”
* * *
“Thank you, Mr. President. We'll get right on it.” General Peter Fremont, United States Air Force, Commander-in-Chief Strategic Air Command turned to his Deputy Chief of Staff (Operations). “Keep the alert going, posture the birds, but keep them on the ground. Let's get those missiles uncocked.”
* * *
“Contact… bearing three-five-two… range seven thousand six hundred meters.” They'd been waiting several minutes for that.
“Set it up. No wires, activation point four thousand meters out.” Dubinin looked up. He didn't know why the aircraft overhead hadn't already executed another attack.
“Set!” the weapons officer called a moment later.
“Fire!” Dubinin ordered.
“Captain, message coming in on the ELF,” the communications officer said over the squawk box.
“That's the message that announces the end of the world,” the captain sighed. “Well, we fired our shots, didn't we?” It would have been nice to think that their action would save lives, but he knew better. It would enable the Soviet forces to kill more Americans, which wasn't quite the same thing. Everything about nuclear weapons was evil, wasn't it?
“Go deep?”
Dubinin shook his head. “No, they seem to have more trouble with the surface turbulence than I expected. We may actually be safer here. Come right to zero-nine-zero. Suspend pinging. Increase speed to ten knots.”
Another squawk: “We have the message — five-letter group: 'Cease all hostilities!'”
“Antenna depth, quickly!”
* * *
The Mexican police proved to be extremely cooperative, and the literate Spanish of Clark and Chavez hadn't hurt very much. Four plainclothes detectives from the Federal Police waited with the CIA officers in the lounge while four more uniformed officers with light automatic weapons took unobtrusive positions nearby.
“We don't have enough people to do this properly,” the senior Federal worried.
“Better to do it off the airplane,” Clark said.
“Muy bien, Señor. You think they may be armed?”
“Actually, no, I don't. Guns can be dangerous when you're traveling.”
“Has this something to do with— Denver?”
Clark turned and nodded. “We think so.”
“It will be interesting to see what such men look like.” The detective meant the eyes, of course. He'd seen the photographs.
The DC-10 pulled up to the gate and cut power to its three engines. The jetway moved a few feet to mate with the forward door.
“They travel first class,” John said unnecessarily.
“Sí. The airline says there are fifteen first-class passengers, and they've been told to
hold the rest. You will see, Señor Clark, we know our business.”
“I have no doubt of that. Forgive me if I gave that impression, Teniente.”
“You are CIA, no?”
“I am not permitted to say.”
“Then of course you are. What will you do with them?”
“We will speak,” Clark said simply.
The gate attendant opened the door to the jetway. Two Federal Police officers took their places left and right of the door, their jackets open. Clark prayed there would be no gunplay. The people started walking out, and the usual greetings were called from the waiting area.
“Bingo,” Clark said quietly. The police lieutenant straightened his tie to signal the men at the door. They made it easy, the last two first-class passengers to come out. Qati looked sick and pale, Clark noticed. Maybe it had been a bad flight. He stepped over the rope barrier. Chavez did the same, smiling and calling to a passenger who looked at them in open puzzlement.
“Ernesto!” John said, running up to him.
“I'm afraid I'm the wrong—”
Clark went right past the man from Miami.
Ghosn was slow to react, dulled by the flight from America, relaxed by the thought that they had escaped. By the time he started to move, he was tackled from behind. Another policeman placed a gun against the back of his head, and he was handcuffed before they hauled him to his feet.
“Well, I'll be a son-of-a-bitch,” Chavez said. “You're the guy with the books! We've met before, sweetheart.”
“Qati,” John said to the other one. They'd already been patted down. Neither was armed. “I've wanted to meet you for years.”
Clark took out their tickets. The police would collect their luggage. The police moved them out very quickly. The business and tourist passengers would not know that anything untoward had happened until they were told by family members in a few minutes.
“Very smooth, Lieutenant,” John said to the senior officer.
“As I said, we know our business.”
“Could you have your people phone the embassy and tell them that we got 'em both alive.”
“Of course.”
The eight men waited in a small room while the bags were collected. There could be evidence in them, and there wasn't that much of a hurry. The Mexican police lieutenant examined their faces closely, but saw nothing more or less human than what he'd seen in the faces of a hundred murderers. It was vaguely disappointing, even though he was a good-enough cop to know better. The luggage was searched, but aside from some prescription drugs — they were checked and determined not to be narcotics — there was nothing unusual. The police borrowed a courtesy van for the drive to the Gulfstream.
“I hope you have enjoyed your stay in Mexico,” the lieutenant said in parting.
“What the hell is going on?” the pilot asked. Though in civilian clothes, she was an Air Force major.
“Let me explain it like this,” Clark said. “You Air Scouts are going to drive the airplane to Andrews. Mr. Chavez and I are going to interview these two gentlemen in back. You will not look, not hear, not think about anything that's going on in back.”
“What—”
“That was a thought, Major. I do not want you to have any thoughts about this. Do I have to explain myself again?”
“No, sir.”
“Then let's get the hell out of here.”
The pilot and co-pilot went forward. The two communications technicians sat at their consoles and drew the curtain between themselves and the main cabin.
Clark turned to see his two guests exchanging looks. That was no good. He removed Qati's tie and wrapped it around his eyes. Chavez did the same to his charge. Next both were gagged, and Clark went forward to find some earplugs. Finally, they set both men in seats as far apart as the airplane's cabin allowed. John let the plane take off before he did anything else. The fact was that he despised torture, but he needed information now, and he was prepared to do anything to get it.
* * *
“Torpedo in the water!”
“Christ, he's dead aft of us!” Ricks turned. “Best possible speed, come left to two-seven-zero. XO, take the return shot!”
“Aye! Snapshot,” Claggett said. “One-eight-zero, activation point three thousand, initial search depth two hundred.”
“Ready!”
“Match and shoot!”
“Three fired, sir.” It was a standard tactic. The torpedo fired on the reciprocal heading would at least force the other guy to cut the control wires to his weapon. Ricks was already in sonar.
“Missed the launch transient, sir, and didn't catch the fish very soon either. Surface noise…”
“Take her deep?” Ricks asked Claggett.
“This surface noise may be our best friend.”
“Okay, Dutch… you were right before, I should have dropped the outboard.”
“ELF message, sir — SNAPCOUNT is cancelled, sir.”
“Cancelled?” Ricks asked incredulously.
“Cancelled, yes, sir.”
“Well, isn't that good news,” Claggett said.
* * *
“Now what?” the Tacco asked himself. The message in his hand made no sense at all.
“Sir, we finally got the bastard.”
“Run your track.”
“Sir, he fired at Maine!”
“I know, but I can't engage.”
“That's crazy, sir.”
“Sure as hell is,” the tactical officer agreed.
* * *
“Speed?”
“Six knots, sir — maneuvering says the shaft bearings are pretty bad, sir.”
“If we try any more…” Ricks frowned.
Claggett nodded. “… the whole thing comes apart. I think it's about time for some counter-measures.”
“Do it.”
“Five-inch room, launch a spread.” Claggett turned back. “We're not going fast enough to make a turn very useful.”
“I figure it's about even money.”
“Could be worse. Why the hell do you think they cancelled SNAPCOUNT?” the XO asked, staring at the sonar scope.
“X, I guess the danger of war is over… I haven't handled this well, have I?”
“Shit, skipper, who would have known?”
Ricks turned. “Thanks, X.”
“The torpedo is now active, ping-and-listen mode, bearing one-six zero.”
* * *
“Torpedo, American Mark 48, bearing three-four-five, just went active!”
“Ahead full, maintain course,” Dubinin ordered.
“Countermeasures?” the Starpom asked.
The captain shook his head. “No, no — we're at the edge of its acquisition range… and that would just give it a reason to turn this way. The surface conditions will help. We're not supposed to have battles in heavy weather,” Dubinin pointed out. “It's hard on the instruments.”
“Captain, I have the satellite signal — it's an all-forces message, 'Disengage and withdraw from any hostile forces, take action only for self-defense.'”
“I'm going to be court-martialed,” Valentin Borissovich Dubinin observed quietly.
“You did nothing wrong, you reacted correctly at every—”
“Thank you. I hope you will testify to that effect.”
“Change in signal — change in aspect, torpedo just turned west away from us,” Lieutenant Rykov said. “The first programmed turn must have been to the right.”
“Thank God it wasn't to the left. I think we've survived. Now, if only our weapon can miss…”
* * *
“Sir, it's continuing to close. The torpedo is probably in acquisition — continuous pinging now.”
“Less than two thousand yards,” Ricks said.
“Yeah,” Claggett agreed.
“Try some more countermeasures — hell, go continuous on them.” The tactical situation was getting worse. Maine was not moving quickly enough to make an evasive course worthwhile. The countermeas
ures filled the sea with bubbles, and while they might draw the Russian torpedo into a turn — their only real hope — the sad fact of the matter was that as the fish penetrated the bubbles it would find Maine with its sonar again. Perhaps a continuous set of such false targets would saturate the seeker. That was their best shot right now.
“Let's keep her near the surface,” Ricks added. Claggett looked at him and nodded in understanding.
“Not working, sir. sir, I've lost the fish aft, in the baffles now.”
“Surface the ship,” Ricks called. “Emergency blow!”
“Surface capture?” 995
“And now I'm out of ideas, X.”
“Come left, parallel to the seas?”
“Okay, you do it.”
Claggett went into control. “Up 'scope!” He took a quick look, and checked the submarine's course. “Come right to new course zero-five-five!”
USS Maine surfaced for the last time into thirty-five foot seas and nearly total darkness. Her circular hull wallowed in the rolling waves, and she was slow to turn.
The countermeasures were a mistake. Though the Russian torpedo was pinging, it was mainly a wake-follower. Its seeker head tracked bubbles, and the string of countermeasures made for a perfect trail, which suddenly stopped. When Maine surfaced, the submarine left the bubble stream. Again, the factors involved were technical. The surface turbulence confused the wake-following software and the torpedo began its programmed circular search pattern, just under the surface. On its third circuit, it found an unusually hard echo amid the confusing shapes over its head. The torpedo turned to close, now activating its magnetic-influence fusing system. The Russian weapon was less sophisticated than the American Mark 5o. It could not go higher than twenty meters of depth and so was not drawn up to the surface. The active magnetic field it generated was cast out like an invisible spiderweb, and when that net was disturbed by the presence of a metallic mass—
The thousand-kilo warhead exploded fifty feet from Maine 's already crippled stern. The twenty-thousand-ton warship shook as though rammed.
An alarm sounded instantly: “Flooding flooding flooding in the engine room!”
Ricks lifted the phone. “How bad?”