by Tom Clancy
It angered President Roger Durling that, in the end, the easy way out might be the just way out, as well—but nobody would ever know. They would only know that his final action was politically expedient in a moment of history that demanded political expediency. An economy potentially in ruins, a war just started—he didn’t have the time to fool with this. A young woman had died. Others claimed to have been molested. But what if the dead young girl had died for other reasons, and what if the others—Goddamn it, he swore in his mind. That was something for a jury to decide. But it had to pass through three separate legal procedures before a jury could decide, and then any defense lawyer with half a brain could say that a fair trial was impossible anyway after C-SPAN had done its level best to tell the whole world every bit of evidence, tainting everything, and denying Kealty his constitutional right to a fair and impartial trial before disinterested jurors. That ruling was likely enough in a Federal district court trial, and even more so on appeal—and would gain the victims nothing. And what if the bastard actually was, technically speaking, innocent of a crime? An open zipper, distasteful though it was, did not constitute a crime.
And neither he nor the country needed the distraction. Roger Durling buzzed his secretary.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Get me the Attorney General.”
He’d been wrong, Durling thought. Sure, he could interfere with a criminal investigation. He had to. And it was easy. Damn.
26
Catch-up
“He really said that?” Ed Foley leaned forward. It was easier for Mary Pat to grasp it than for her husband.
“Sure enough, and it’s all on his honor as a spy,” Jack confirmed, quoting the Russian’s words.
“I always did like his sense of humor,” the DDO said, getting her first laugh of the day, and probably the last. “He’s studied us so hard that he’s more American than Russian.”
Oh, Jack thought, that’s it. That explained Ed. The opposite was true of him. A Soviet specialist for nearly all of his career, he was more Russian than American. The realization occasioned his own smile.
“Thoughts?” the National Security Advisor asked.
“Jack, it gives them the ID of the only three humint assets we have on the ground over there. Bad joss, man,” Edward Foley said.
“That’s a consideration,” Mary Patricia Foley agreed. “But there’s another consideration. Those three assets are cut off. Unless we can communicate with them, they might as well not be there. Jack, how serious is this situation?”
“We are for all practical purposes at war, MP.” Jack had already relayed the gist of the meeting with the Ambassador, including his parting comment.
She nodded. “Okay, they’re giving a war. Are we going to come?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan admitted. “We have dead people out there. We have U.S. territory with another flag flying over it right now. But our ability to respond effectively is severely compromised—and we have this little problem at home. Tomorrow the markets and the banking system are going to have to come to terms with some very unpleasant realities.”
“Interesting coincidence,” Ed noted. He was too old a hand in the intelligence business to believe in coincidences. “What’s going to happen with that stuff, Jack? You know a lot about it.”
“I don’t have a clue, guys. It’s going to be bad, but how bad, and how it’s going to be bad ... nobody’s been here before. I suppose the good news is that things can’t fall further. The bad news is the mentality that goes with the situation will be like a person trapped in a burning building. You may be safe where you are, but you can’t get out, either.”
“What agencies are looking into things?” Ed Foley asked.
“Just about all of them. The Bureau’s the lead agency. It has the most available investigators. The SEC is better suited to it, but they don’t have the troops for something this big.”
“Jack, in a period of less than twenty-four hours, somebody leaked the news on the Vice President”—he was in the Oval Office right now, they all knew—“the market went in the crapper, and we had the attack on Pacific Fleet, and you just told us the most harmful thing to us is this economic thing. If I were you, sir—”
“I see your point,” Ryan said, cutting Ed off a moment too soon for a complete picture. He made a few notes, wondering how the hell he’d be able to prove anything, as complex as the market situation was. “Is anybody that smart?”
“Lots of smart people in the world, Jack. Not all of them like us.” It was very much like talking with Sergey Nikolay’ch, Ryan thought, and like Golovko, Ed Foley was an experienced pro for whom paranoia was always a way of life and often a tangible reality. “But we have something immediate to consider here.”
“These are three good officers,” Mary Pat said, taking the ball from her husband. “Nomuri’s been doing a fine job sliding himself into their society, taking his time, developing a good network of contacts. Clark and Chavez are as good a team of operators as we have. They have good cover identities and they ought to be pretty safe.”
“Except for one thing,” Jack added.
“What’s that?” Ed Foley asked, cutting his wife off.
“The PSID knows they’re working.”
“Golovko?” Mary Pat asked. Jack nodded soberly. “That son of a bitch,” she went on. “You know, they still are the best in the world.” Which was not an altogether pleasant admission from the Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Don’t tell me they have the head of Japanese counter-intel under their control?” her husband inquired delicately.
“Why not, honey? They do it to everybody else.” Which was true. “You know, sometimes I think we ought to hire some of their people just to give lessons.” She paused for a second. “We don’t have a choice.”
“Sergey didn’t actually come out and say that, but I don’t know how else he could have known. No,” Jack agreed with the DDO, “we don’t really have any choice at all.”
Even Ed saw that now, which was not the same as liking it. “What’s the quid on this one?”
“They want everything we get out of THISTLE. They’re a little concerned about this situation. They were caught by surprise, too, Sergey tells me.”
“But they have another network operating there. He told you that, too,” MP observed. “And it has to be a good one, too.”
“Giving them the ‘take’ from THISTLE in return for not being hassled is one thing—and a pretty big thing. This goes too far. Did you think this one all the way through, Jack? It means that they’ll actually be running our people for us.” Ed didn’t like that one at all, but on a moment’s additional consideration, it was plain that he didn’t see an alternative either.
“Interesting circumstances, but Sergey says he was caught with his drawers down. Go figure.” Ryan shrugged, wondering yet again how it was possible for three of the best-informed intelligence professionals in his country not to be able to understand what was going on.
“A lie on his part?” Ed wondered. “On the face of it, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“Neither does lying,” Mary Pat said. “Oh, I love these matryoshka puzzles. Okay, at least we know there are things we don’t know yet. That means we have a lot of things to find out, the quicker the better. If we let RVS run our people ... it’s risky, Jack, but—damn, I don’t see that we have a choice.”
“I tell him yes?” Jack asked. He had to get the President’s approval, too, but that would be easier than getting theirs.
The Foleys traded a look and nodded.
An oceangoing commercial tug was located by a helicopter fifty miles from the Enterprise formation, and in a remarkable set of circumstances, the frigate Gary took custody of the barge and dispatched the tug to the carrier, where she could relieve the Aegis cruiser, and, by the way, increase Big-E’s speed of advance to nine knots. The tug’s skipper contemplated the magnitude of the fee he’d garner under t
he Lloyd’s Open Form salvage contract, which the carrier’s CO had signed and ferried back by helicopter. The typical court award was 10 to 15 percent of the value of the property salved. A carrier, an air wing, and six thousand people, the tugboat crew thought. What was 10 percent of three billion dollars? Maybe they’d be generous and settle for five.
It was a mixture of the simple and the complex, as always. There were now P-3C Orion patrol aircraft operating out of Midway to support the retreating battle force. It had taken a full day to reactivate the facilities at the midocean atoll, possible only because there was a team of ornithologists there studying the goonies. The Orions were in turn supported by C-130s of the Hawaiian Air National Guard. However it had happened, the admiral who still flew his flag on the crippled aircraft carrier could look at a radar picture with four antisubmarine aircraft arrayed around his fleet and start to feel a little safer. His outer ring of escorts were hammering the ocean with their active sonars, and, after an initial period of near panic, finding nothing much to worry about. He’d make Pearl Harbor by Friday evening, and maybe with a little wind could get his aircraft off, further safeguarding them.
The crew was smiling now, Admiral Sato could see, as he headed down the passageway. Only two days before, they’d been embarrassed and shamed by the “mistake” their ship had made. But not now. He’d gone by ship’s helicopter to all four of the Kongos personally to deliver the briefings. Two days away from the Marianas, they now knew what they had accomplished. Or at least part of it. The submarine incidents were still guarded information, and for the moment they knew that they had avenged a great wrong to their country, done so in a very clever way, allowing Japan to reclaim land that was historically hers—and without, they thought, taking lives in the process. The initial reaction had been shock. Going to war with America? The Admiral had explained that, no, it was not really a war unless the Americans chose to make an issue of it, which he thought unlikely, but also something, he warned them, for which they had to be prepared. The formation was spread out now, three thousand meters between ships, racing west at maximum sustainable speed. That was using up fuel at a dangerous rate, but there would be a tanker at Guam to refuel them, and Sato wanted to be under his own ASW umbrella as soon as possible. Once at Guam he could consider future operations. The first one had been successful. With luck there would not have to be a second, but if there were, he had many things to consider.
“Contacts?” the Admiral asked, entering the Combat Information Center.
“Everything in the air is squawking commercial,” the air-warfare officer replied.
“Military aircraft all carry transponders,” Sato reminded him. “And they all work the same way.”
“Nothing is approaching us.” The formation was on a course deliberately offset from normal commercial air corridors, and on looking at the billboard display, the Admiral could see that traffic was in all those corridors. True, a military-surveillance aircraft could see them from some of the commercial tracks, but the Americans had satellites that were just as good. His intelligence estimates had so far proved accurate. The only threat that really concerned him was from submarines, and that one was manageable. Submarine-launched Harpoon or Tomahawk missiles were a danger with which he was prepared to deal. Each of the destroyers had her SPY-ID radar up and operating, scanning the surface. Every fire-control director was manned. Any inbound cruise missile would be detected and engaged, first by his American-made (and Japanese-improved) SM-2MR missiles, and behind those weapons were CIWS gatling-gun point-defense systems. They would stop most of the inbound “vampires,” the generic term for cruise missiles. A submarine could close and engage with torpedoes, and one of the larger warheads could kill any ship in his formation. But they would hear the torpedo coming in, and his ASW helicopters would do their very best to pounce on the attacking sub, deny her the chance to continue the engagement, and just maybe kill her. The Americans didn’t have all that many submarines, and their commanders would be correspondingly cautious, especially if he managed to add a third kill to the two already accomplished.
What would the Americans do? Well, what could they do now? he asked himself. It was a question he’d asked himself again and again, and he always had the same answer. They’d drawn down too much. They depended on their ability to deter, forgetting that deterrence hinged on the perceived ability to take action if deterrence failed: the same old equation of don‘t-want-to but can. Unfortunately for them, the Americans had leaned too much on the former and neglected the latter, and by all the rules Sato knew, by the time they could again, their adversary would be able to stop them. The overall strategic plan he’d helped to execute was not new at all—just better-executed than it had been the first time, he thought, standing close to the triple billboard display and watching the radar symbols of commercial aircraft march along their defined pathways, their very action proclaiming that the world was resuming its normal shape without so much as a blip.
The hard part always seemed to come after the decisions were made, Ryan knew. It wasn’t making them that wore on the soul so much as having to live with them. Had he done the right things? There was no measure except hindsight, and that always came too late. Worse, hindsight was always negative because you rarely looked back to reconsider things that had gone right. At a certain level, things stopped being clear-cut. You weighed options, and you weighed the factors, but very often you knew that no matter which way you jumped, somebody would be hurt. In those cases the idea was to hurt the least number of people or things, but even then real people were hurt who would otherwise not be hurt at all, and you were choosing, really, whose lives would be injured—or lost—like a disinterested god-figure from mythology. It was worse still if you knew some of the players, because they had faces your mind could see and voices it could hear. The ability to make such decisions was called moral courage by those who didn’t have to do it, and stress by those who did.
And yet he had to do it. He’d undertaken this job in the knowledge that such moments would come. He’d placed Clark and Chavez at risk before in the East African desert, and he vaguely remembered worrying about that, but the mission had come off and after that it had seemed like trick-or-treat on Halloween, a wonderfully clever little game played by nation against nation. The fact that a real human being in the person of Mohammed Abdul Corp had lost his life as a result—well, it was easy to say, now, that he’d deserved his fate. Ryan had allowed himself to file that entire memory away in some locked drawer, to be dredged out years later should he ever succumb to the urge to write memoirs. But now the memory was back, removed from the files by the necessity to put the lives of real men at risk again. Jack locked his confidential papers away before heading toward the Oval Office.
“Off to see the boss,” he told a Secret Service agent in the north-south corridor.
“SWORDSMAN heading to JUMPER,” the agent said into his microphone, for to those who protected everyone in what to them was known as the House, they were as much symbols as men, designations, really, for what their functions were.
But I’m not a symbol, Jack wanted to tell him. I’m a man, with doubts. He passed four more agents on the way, and saw how they looked at him, the trust and respect, how they expected him to know what to do, what to tell the Boss, as though he were somehow greater than they, and only Ryan knew that he wasn’t. He’d been foolish enough to accept a job with greater responsibilities than theirs, that’s all, greater than he’d ever wanted.
“Not fun, is it?” Durling said when he entered the office.
“Not much.” Jack took his seat.
The President read his advisor’s face and mind at the same time, and smiled. “Let’s see. I’m supposed to tell you to relax, and you’re supposed to tell me the same thing, right?”
“Hard to make a correct decision if you’re overstressed,” Ryan agreed.
“Yeah, except for one thing. If you’re not stressed, then it isn’t much of a decision, and it’s handled at a lo
wer level. The hard ones come here. A lot of people have commented on that,” the President said. It was a remarkably generous observation, Jack realized, for it voluntarily took some of the burden off his shoulders by reminding him that he did, after all, merely advise the President. There was greatness in the man at the ancient oak desk. Jack wondered how difficult a burden it was to bear, and if its discovery had come as a surprise—or merely, perhaps, as just one more necessity with which one had to deal.
“Okay, what is it?”
“I need your permission for something.” Ryan explained the Golovko offers—the first made in Moscow, and the second only a few hours earlier—and their implications.
“Does this give us a larger picture?” Durling asked.
“Possibly, but we don’t have enough to go with.”
“And?”
“A decision of this type always goes up to your level,” Ryan told him.
“Why do I have to—”
“Sir, it reveals both the identity of intelligence officers and methods of operation. I suppose technically it doesn’t have to be your decision, but it is something you should know about.”
“You recommend approval.” Durling didn’t have to ask.
“Yes, sir.”
“We can trust the Russians?”
“I didn’t say trust, Mr. President. What we have here is a confluence of needs and abilities, with a little potential blackmail on the side.”
“Run with it,” the President said without much in the way of consideration. Perhaps it was a measure of his trust in Ryan, thus returning the burden of responsibility back to his visitor. Durling paused for a few seconds before posing his next question. “What are they up to, Jack?”
“The Japanese? On the face of it, this makes no objective sense at all. What I keep coming back to is, why kill the submarines? Why kill people? It just doesn’t seem necessary to have crossed that threshold.”