Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “He’s with the carrier now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it would seem that he’s the man for the job, wouldn’t it?” the President asked rhetorically, clearly relieved at the evening’s news. “And now?”

  “And now, Mr. President, we try to settle this one down once and for all.”

  The phone rang just then. Durling lifted it. “Oh. Yes, Tish?”

  “There’s an announcement from the Japanese government that they have nuclear weapons and they hope—”

  “Not anymore, they don’t,” Durling said, cutting off his communications director. “We’d better make an announcement of our own.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jones said, looking at the wall chart. “You did that one in a big hurry, Bart.”

  The line was west of the Marianas. Nevada was the northernmost boat. Thirty miles south of her was West Virginia. Another thirty and there was Pennsylvania. Maryland was the southernmost former missile submarine. The line was ninety miles across, and really extended a theoretical thirty more, fifteen to the north and south of the end-boats, and they were two hundred miles west of the westward-moving line of Japanese SSKs. They had just arrived in place after the warning from Washington that the word had been leaked somehow or other to the Japanese.

  “Something like this happened once before, didn’t it?” Jones asked, remembering that these were all battleship names, and more than that, the names of battlewagons caught alongside the quays one morning in December, long before his birth. The original holders of the names had been resurrected from the mud and sent off to take islands back, supporting soldiers and Marines under the command of Jesse Oldendorf, and one dark night in Surigao Strait ... but it wasn’t a time for history lessons.

  “What about the ’cans?” Chambers asked.

  “We lost them when they went behind the Bonins, sir. Speed and course were fairly constant. They ought to pass over Tennessee around midnight, local time, but by that time our carrier—”

  “You have the operation all figured out,” Mancuso observed.

  “Sir, I’ve been tracking the whole ocean for you. What d’ya expect?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the President said in the White House Press Room. He was winging it, Ryan saw, just working off some scribbled notes, never something to make the Chief Executive comfortable. “You’ve just this evening heard an announcement by the Japanese government that they have fabricated and deployed nuclear-tipped intercontinental missiles.

  “That fact has been known to your government for several weeks now, and the existence of those weapons is the reason for the careful and circumspect way in which the Administration has dealt with the Pacific Crisis. As you can well imagine, that development has weighed heavily on us, and has affected our response to Japanese aggression against U.S. soil and citizens in the Marianas.

  “I can now tell you that those missiles have been destroyed. They no longer exist,” Durling said in a forceful voice.

  “The current situation is this: the Japanese military still hold the Marianas Islands. That is not acceptable to the United States of America. The people living on those islands are American citizens, and American forces will do anything necessary to redeem their freedom and human rights. I repeat : we will do anything necessary to restore those islands to U.S. rule.

  “We call tonight on Prime Minister Goto to announce his willingness to evacuate Japanese forces from the Marianas forthwith. Failure to do so will compel us to use whatever force is necessary to remove them.

  “That is all I have to say right now. For whatever questions you have on the events of this evening, I turn you over to my National Security Advisor, Dr. John Ryan.” The President walked toward the door, ignoring a riot of shouted questions, while a few easels were set up for visual displays. Ryan stood at the lectern, making everyone wait as he told himself to speak slowly and clearly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this was called Operation TIBBETS. First of all let me show you what the targets were.” The cover came off the first photo, and for the first time the American people saw just what the nation’s reconnaissance satellites were capable of. Ryan lifted his pointer and started identifying the scene for everyone, giving the cameras time to close in on them.

  “Holy shit,” Manuel Oreza observed. “That’s why.”

  “Looks like a pretty good reason to me,” Pete Burroughs observed. Then the screen went blank.

  “We’re sorry, but a technical problem has temporarily interrupted the CNN satellite feed,” a voice told them.

  “My ass!” Portagee snarled back.

  “They’ll come here next, won’t they?”

  “About fuckin’ time, too,” Oreza thought.

  “Manny, what about that missile thing on the next hill?” his wife wanted to know.

  “We’re preparing copies of all these photos for you. They should be ready in about an hour or so. Sorry for the delay,” Jack told them. “It’s been rather a busy time for us.

  “Now, the mission was carried out by B-2 bombers based at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri—”

  “Staging out of where?” a reporter asked.

  “You know we’re not going to discuss that,” Jack said in reply.

  “That’s a nuclear-weapons platform,” another voice said. “Did we—”

  “No. The strike was carried out with precision-guided conventional munitions. Next card, please,” Ryan said to the man at the easel. “As you can see here, the valley is largely intact ...” It was easier than he’d expected, and perhaps better that he’d not had much time to worry about it, and Ryan remembered his first time delivering a briefing in the White House. It had been harder than this one, despite the blaze of TV lights now in his face.

  “You destroyed a dam?”

  “Yes, we did. It was necessary to be completely certain that these weapons were destroyed and—”

  “What about casualties?”

  “All of our aircraft are on their way back—might already be there, but I haven’t—”

  “What about Japanese deaths?” the reporter insisted.

  “I don’t know about that,” Jack replied evenly.

  “Do you care?” she demanded, wondering what sort of answer she’d get.

  “The mission, ma’am, was to eliminate nuclear arms targeted on the United States by a country that has already attacked U.S. forces. Did we kill Japanese citizens in this attack? Yes, we did. How many? I do not know. Our concern in this case was American lives at risk. I wish you would keep in mind that we didn’t start this war. Japan did. When you start a war you take risks. This is one risk they undertook—and in this case they lost. I am the President’s National Security Advisor, and my job description is to help President Durling safeguard this country first of all. Is that clear?” Ryan asked. He’d allowed just a little anger to enter his reply, and the indignant look on the reporter’s face didn’t prevent a few nods from her colleagues.

  “What about asking the press to lie in order to—”

  “Stop!” Ryan commanded, his face reddening. “Do you wish to place the lives of American servicemen at risk? Why do that? Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  “You bullied the networks into—”

  “This feed is going worldwide. You do know that, don’t you?” Ryan paused to take a breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would remind you that most of the people in this room are American citizens. Speaking for myself now”—he was afraid to look to where the President was standing—“you do realize that the President is responsible to the mothers and fathers and wives and children of the people who wear our country’s uniform for their safety. Real people are at risk today, and I wish you folks in the press would bear that in mind from time to time.”

  “Jesus,” Tish Brown whispered behind Durling. “Mr. President, it might be a good idea to—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Let him go on.”

  The Press Room became silent. Someone whispered something sharp to
the standing journalist, who managed to take her seat, flushing as she did so.

  “Dr. Ryan, Bob Holtzman of the Washington Post,” he said unnecessarily. “What are the chances of ending this conflict without further violence?”

  “Sir, that is entirely up to the Japanese government. The citizens of the Marianas are, as the President said, American citizens, and this country does not allow other nations to change such things. If Japan is willing to withdraw her forces, they may do so in peace. If not, then other operations will take place.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Ryan,” Holtzman said loudly, effectively ending the press conference. Jack hustled toward the door, ignoring the additional questions.

  “Nice job,” Durling said. “Why don’t you go home for some sleep?”

  “And what is this?” the customs officer asked.

  “My photographic equipment,” Chekov replied. He opened the case without an order to do so. It was warm in the terminal, the noon tropical sun beating through the wall of windows and overpowering the air conditioning for the moment. Their newest orders had been easily implemented. The Japanese wanted journalists in the islands, both to check up on the election campaign and to safeguard against American attack by their mere presence in the islands.

  The customs officer looked at the cameras, gratified to see that it was all Japanese. “And this?”

  “My lighting equipment is Russian,” Ding explained in slow English. “We make very fine lights. Perhaps one day we will sell them in your country,” he added with a smile.

  “Yes, perhaps so,” the official said, closing the case and marking it with chalk. “Where will you be staying?”

  “We weren’t able to make hotel arrangements,” “Klerk” replied. “We’ll check the local hotels.”

  Good luck, the official didn’t say. This idea had come off half-baked, and every hotel room on Saipan, he was sure, was already filled. Well, that wasn’t his problem.

  “Can we rent a car?”

  “Yes, over that way.” The man pointed. The older Russian looked nervous, he thought.

  “You’re late.”

  “Well, sorry about that,” Oreza replied tersely. “There’s nothing new happening at all. Well, maybe the fighters are a little more active, but not much, and they’ve been pretty busy anyw—”

  “You’re going to get some company soon,” the National Military Command Center told him.

  “Who?”

  “Two reporters. They have some questions for you,” was the answer because of the renewed concern for Oreza’s secure status.

  “When?”

  “Anytime, probably today. Everything okay with you, Chief?”

  Master Chief, you turkey, Portagee didn’t say. “Just great. We saw part of the President’s speech, and we’re a little worried because that missile site is so close to us and—”

  “You’ll have enough warning. Does your house have a basement?” the voice asked.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Well, that’s okay. We’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Sure, sir. Out.” Does your house have a basement? No. Well, that’s okay. If it’s okay, why did you ask, goddamn it? Oreza deactivated the phone after taking it out of the mixing bowl and walked to the window. Two Eagles were taking off. Such a mechanical thing to watch. Something was happening. He didn’t know what. Perhaps their pilots didn’t either, but you couldn’t tell what they were thinking from looking at their aircraft.

  Shiro Sato reefed his F-15J into a right turn to clear the civilian air traffic. If the Americans attacked, they would do it as the attacks on the Home Islands had come, off island bases, supported by tankers, from a long way off. Wake was a possibility, and so were a few other islands. He’d face aircraft not unlike his own. They would have airborne radar support, and so would he. It would be a fair fight unless the bastards brought down their stealth aircraft. Damn the things. Damn their ability to defeat the Kamis! But the Americans had only a few of them, and if they flew in daylight, he’d take his chances. At least there would be no real surprises. There was a huge air-defense radar on Saipan’s highest point, and with the squadrons based on Guam, this would be a real fight, he told himself, climbing up to patrol altitude.

  “So what’s the big deal?” Chavez asked, playing with the map.

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  “Well, take the next left, I think, by Lizama’s Mobil.” Chavez looked up from the map. There were soldiers everywhere, and they were digging in, something they ought to have done sooner, he thought. “Is that a Patriot battery?”

  “Sure looks like one to me.” How the hell am I going to handle this? Clark asked himself, finding the last turn and heading into the cul-de-sac. The house number was the one he’d memorized. He pulled into the driveway and got out, heading for the front door.

  Oreza had been in the bathroom, finishing a needed shower while Burroughs handled the running count on the aircraft in and out of Kobler when the doorbell rang.

  “Who are you?”

  “Didn’t they tell you?” Clark asked, looking around. Who the hell was this guy?

  “Reporters, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Okay.” Burroughs opened the door with a look up and down the street.

  “Who are you, anyway? I thought this was the house of—”

  “You’re dead!” Oreza was standing in the hall, wearing just khaki shorts, his chest a mass of hair as thick as the remaining jungle on the island. The hair looked especially dark now, with the rest of the man’s skin turning rapidly to the color of milk. “You’re fuckin’ dead!”

  “Hi, Portagee,” Klerk/Clark/Kelly said with a smile. “Long time.”

  He couldn’t make himself move. “I saw you die. I went to the goddamned memorial service. I was there!”

  “Hey, I know you,” Chavez said. “You were on the boat our chopper landed on. What the hell is this? You Agency?”

  It was almost too much for Oreza. He didn’t remember the little one at all, but the big one, the old one, his age, about, was—couldn’t be—was. It wasn’t possible. Was it?

  “John?” he asked after a few seconds of further incredulity.

  It was too much for the man who used to be known as John Kelly. He set his bag down and came over to embrace the man, surprised by the tears in his eyes. “Yeah, Portagee—it’s me. How you doin’, man?”

  “But how—”

  “At the memorial service, did they use the line about ‘sure and certain hope that the sea will give up its dead’?” He paused, then he had to grin. “Well, it did.”

  Oreza closed his eyes, thinking back over twenty years. “Those two admirals, right?”

  “You got it.”

  “So—what the hell have you been—”

  “CIA, man. They decided they needed somebody who could, well—”

  “I remember that part.” He really hadn’t changed all that much. Older, but the same hair, and the same eyes, warm and open to him as they had always been, Portagee thought, but underneath always the hint of something else, like an animal in a cage, but an animal who knew how to pick the lock whenever he wanted.

  “I hear you’ve been doing okay for a retired coastie.”

  “Command Master Chief.” The man shook his head. The past could wait. “What’s going on?”

  “Well, we’ve been out of the loop for a few hours. Anything new that you know?”

  “The President was on. They cut him off, but—”

  “Did they really have nukes?” Burroughs asked.

  “ ‘Did’?” Ding asked. “We got’em?”

  “That what he said. Who the hell are you, by the way?” Oreza wanted to know.

  “Domingo Chavez.” The young man extended his hand. “I see you and Mr. C know each other.”

  “I go by ‘Clark’ now,” John explained. It was odd how good it felt to talk with a man who knew his real name.

  “Does he know?”


  John shook his head. “Not many people know. Most of them are dead. Admiral Maxwell and Admiral Greer both. Too bad, they saved my ass.”

  Oreza turned to his other new guest. “Tough luck, kid. It’s some fuckin’ sea story. You still drink beer, John?”

  “Especially if it’s free,” Chavez confirmed.

  “Don’t you see? It’s finished now!”

  “Who else did they get?” Yamata asked.

  “Matsuda, Itagake-they got every patron of every minister, all except you and me,” Murakami said, not adding that they had nearly gotten him. “Raizo, it is time to put an end to this. Call Goto and tell him to negotiate a peace.”

  “I will not!” Yamata snarled back.

  “Don’t you see? Our missiles are destroyed and—”

  “And we can make new ones. We have the ability to make more warheads, and we have more missiles at Yoshinobu.”

  “If we attempt that, you know what the Americans will do, you fool!”

  “They wouldn’t dare.”

  “You told us that they could not repair the damage you did to their financial systems. You told us that our air defenses were invincible. You told us that they could never strike back at us effectively.” Murakami paused for a breath. “You told us all these things—and you were wrong. Now I am the last one to whom you may speak, and I am not listening. You tell Goto to make peace!”

  “They’ll never take these islands back. Never! They do not have the ability.”

  “Say what you please, Raizo-chan. For my part it is over.”

  “Find a good place to hide then!” Yamata would have slammed the phone down, but a portable didn’t offer that option. “Murderers,” he muttered. It had taken most of the morning to assemble the necessary information. Somehow the Americans had struck at his own council of zaibatsu. How? Nobody knew. Somehow they’d penetrated the defenses that every consultant had told him were invincible, even to the point of destroying the intercontinental missiles. “How?” he asked.