by Tom Clancy
“Mr. President, I don’t—”
“The hell you don’t. I want one.”
Price nodded and disappeared into the secretaries’ room. She knew the signs as well as anyone. Switching from regular coffee to decaf, and now a smoke. In a way it was surprising that it had taken this long, and it told her more about the intelligence briefing than the words of Dr. Benjamin Goodley did.
It had to be a woman smoker, the President saw a minute later. Another one of the thin ones. Price even brought a match and an ashtray along with her disapproving look. He wondered if they’d acted the same way with FDR and Eisenhower.
Ryan took his first drag, deep in thought. China had been the silent partner in the conflict—he still couldn’t use the word war, not even in his own mind—with Japan. At least that was the supposition. It all made sense, and it all fitted together nicely, but there was no proof of the sort to flesh out a SNIE—a Special National Intelligence Estimate—much less present to the media, which often as not required the same degree of reliability as an especially conservative judge. So... Ryan lifted the phone. “I want Director Murray.”
One of the nice things about the presidency was the use of the telephone. “Please hold for the President,” a simple phrase spoken by a White House secretary in the same voice one might use for ordering out a pizza, never failed to cause an instant, almost panicked, reaction on the other end of whatever line she might use. It rarely took longer than ten seconds to get the call through. This time it took six.
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Morning, Dan. I need something. What’s the name of that Japanese police inspector who came over?”
“Jisaburo Tanaka,” Murray replied at once.
“Is he any good?” Jack said next.
“Solid. As good as anybody I have working here. What do you want from him?”
“I presume they’re talking a lot with that Yamata guy.”
“You may safely assume that a wild bear goes potty in the woods, too, Mr. President,” the acting Director of the FBI managed to say without a laugh.
“I want to know about his conversations with China, especially who his contact was.”
“That we can do. I’ll try to get him right now. Call back to you?”
“No, brief Ben Goodley in, and he’ll coordinate with the people down the hall,” Ryan said, using an old catch-phrase between the two. “Ben’s here now in my old office.”
“Yes, sir. Let me do it now. It’s heading up to midnight in Tokyo.”
“Thanks, Dan. Bye.” Jack put the phone back. “Let’s start figuring this one out.”
“You got it, boss,” Goodley promised.
“Anything else happening in the world? Iraq?”
“Same news as yesterday, lots of people executed. The Russians fed us this ‘United Islamic Republic’ thing, and we all think it likely, but no overt move yet. That’s what I’d planned to do today, and—”
“Okay, then, get to it.”
“OKAY, WHAT’S THE drill for this?” Tony Bretano asked.
Robby Jackson didn’t especially like doing things on the fly, but that was the job of the newly promoted J-3, Director of Operations for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In the previous week, he’d come to like the designate—Secretary of Defense. Bretano was one tough-minded little guy, but his snarl was mainly for show, and concealed a very thoughtful brain able to make quick decisions. And the man was an engineer-he knew what he didn’t know, and was quick to ask questions.
“We have Pasadena-fast-attack sub—in the strait already doing routine surveillance. We break her off the current job of trailing the PRC SSN and have her move northwest. Next, we move two or three additional boats into the area, assign them operating areas, and let them keep an eye on things. We open a line of communications with Taipei and have them feed us what they see and know. They’ll play ball. They always do. Ordinarily, we’d move a carrier a little closer, but this time, well, we don’t have one very close, and absent a political threat to Taiwan, it would appear to be an overreaction. We stage electronics-intelligence aircraft over the area out of Anderson Air Force Base in Guam. We’re hampered by the lack of a nearby base.”
“So, essentially we gather intelligence information and do nothing substantive?” the SecDef asked.
“Gathering intelligence is substantive, sir, but, yes.”
Bretano smiled. “I know. I built the satellites you’ll be using. What will they tell us?”
“We’ll probably get a lot of in-the-clear chatter that’ll use up every Mandarin-speaker they have at Fort Meade and tell us not very much about their overall intentions. The operational stuff will be useful—it’ll tell us a lot about their capabilities. If I know Admiral Mancuso—COMSUBPAC—he’ ll have one or two of his boats play a little fast and loose to see if the Chinese can acquire one and prosecute it, but nothing overt. That’s one of our options if we don’t like the way this exercise is going.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean if you really want to put the fear of God in a naval officer, you let him know there’s a submarine around which is to say, Mr. Secretary, one appears unexpectedly in the middle of your formation and immediately disappears again. It’s a head game, and a nasty one. Our people are good at that, and Bart Mancuso knows how to use his boats. We couldn’t have defeated the Japanese without him,” Jackson said positively.
“He’s that good?” Mancuso was just a name to the new SecDef.
“None better. He’s one of the people you listen to. So’s your CINCPAC, Dave Seaton.”
“Admiral DeMarco told me—”
“Sir, may I speak freely?” the J-3 asked.
“Jackson, in here that’s the only way.”
“Bruno DeMarco was made Vice Chief of Naval Operations for a reason.”
Bretano got it at once. “Oh, to give speeches and not do anything that can hurt the Navy?” Robby’s reply was a nod. “Noted, Admiral Jackson.”
“Sir, I don’t know much about industry, but there’s something you need to learn about this building. There’s two kinds of officers in the Pentagon, operators and bureaucrats. Admiral DeMarco has been here for more than half of his career. Mancuso and Seaton are operators, and they try very hard to stay out of this building.”
“So have you,” Bretano observed.
“I guess I just like the smell of salt air, Mr. Secretary. I’m not polishing my own apple here, sir. You’ll decide if you like me or not—what the hell, I’m out of the flying business anyway, and that’s what I signed up to do. But, damn it, when Seaton and Mancuso talk, I hope you’ll listen.”
“What’s the matter with you, Robby?” the SecDef asked with sudden concern. He knew a good employee when he saw one.
Jackson shrugged. “Arthritis. Runs in the family. Could be worse, sir. It won’t hurt my golf game, and flag officers don’t get to fly very much anyway.”
“You don’t care about getting promoted, do you?” Bretano was about to recommend another star for Jackson.
“Mr. Secretary, I’m the son of a preacher man in Mississippi. I got into Annapolis, flew fighters for twenty years, and I’m still alive to talk about it.” All too many of his friends were not, a fact Robby never forgot. “I can retire whenever I want and get a good job. I figure I’m ahead of the game whatever happens. But America’s been pretty good to me, and I owe something back. What I owe, sir, is to tell the truth and do my best and screw the consequences.”
“So you’re not a bureaucrat, either.” Bretano wondered what Jackson’s degree was in. He sure talked like a competent engineer. He even smiled like one.
“I’d rather play piano in a whorehouse, sir. It’s more honest work.”
“We’re going to get along, Robby. Put a plan together. Let’s keep a close eye on the Chinese.”
“Actually, I’m just supposed to advise and—”
“Then coordinate with Seaton. I imagine he listens to you, too.”
THE UN I
NSPECTION teams had become so accustomed to frustration that they hardly knew how to deal with satisfaction. The various staffs at the various facilities had given over reams of paper, still photographs, and videotapes, and practically raced the inspectors through the installations, pointing out the important aspects of the workings, and often demonstrating the easiest method of deactivating the more offensive features. There was the minor problem that the difference between a chemical-weapons plant and a factory for insecticide was essentially nil. Nerve gas had been an accidental invention of research into killing bugs (most insecticides are nerve poisons), and what it came down to, really, were the chemical ingredients, called “precursors.” Besides which, any country with oil resources and a petrochemical industry routinely produced all manner of specialized products, most of them toxic to humans anyway.
But the game had rules, and one of the rules was that honest people were assumed not to produce forbidden weapons, and overnight Iraq had become an honest member of the world community.
This fact was made clear at the meeting of the United Nations Security Council. The Iraqi ambassador spoke from his seat at the annular table, using charts to show what had already been opened to the inspection teams, and lamenting the fact that he’d been unable to speak the truth before. The other diplomats in the room understood. Many of them lied so much that they scarcely knew what the truth was. And so it was now that they saw truth and didn’t recognize the lie behind it.
“In view of the full compliance of my country with all United Nations resolutions, we respectfully request that, in view of the needs of the citizens of my country, the embargo on foodstuffs be lifted as quickly as possible,” the ambassador concluded. Even his tone was reasonable now, the other diplomats noted with satisfaction.
“The chair recognizes the ambassador of the Islamic Republic of Iran,” said the Chinese ambassador, who currently had the rotating chairmanship for the Security Council.
“No country in this body has greater reason to dislike Iraq. The chemical-weapons plants inspected today manufactured weapons of mass destruction which were then used against the people of my country. At the same time, we feel it is incumbent upon us to recognize the new day that has dawned over our neighbor. The citizens of Iraq have suffered long because of the actions of their former ruler. That ruler is gone, and the new government shows every sign of reentering the community of nations. In view of that, the Islamic Republic of Iran will support an immediate suspension of the embargo. We will, moreover, initiate an emergency transfer of foodstuffs to bring relief to the Iraqi citizens. Iran proposes that the suspension should be conditional upon Iraq’s continued good faith. To that end, we submit Draft Resolution 3659 ...”
Scott Adler had flown up to New York to take the American seat at the Council. The American ambassador to the UN was an experienced diplomat, but for some situations the proximity of Washington was just too convenient, and this was one. For what little good it did, Adler thought. The Secretary of State had no cards to play at all. Often the cleverest ploy in diplomacy was to do exactly what your adversary requested. That had been the greatest fear in 1991, that Iraq could have simply withdrawn from Kuwait, leaving America and her allies with nothing to do, and preserving the Iraqi military to fight another day. It had been, fortunately, an option just a little too clever for Iraq to exercise. But someone had learned from that. When you demanded that someone should do something or else be denied something that he needed, and then that person did it—well, then you could no longer deny what he wanted, could you?
Adler had been fully briefed on the situation, for all the good it did him. It was rather like sitting at a poker game with three aces after the draw, only to learn that your opponent had a straight flush. Good information didn’t always help. The only thing that could delay the proceedings was the turgid pace of the United Nations, and even that had limitations when diplomats had an attack of enthusiasm. Adler could have asked for a postponement of the vote to ensure Iraqi compliance with the long-standing UN demands, but Iran had already handled that by submitting a resolution that specified the temporary and conditional nature of the embargo suspension. They’d also made it very clear that they were going to ship food anyway—in fact already had, via truck, on the theory that doing something illegal in public made it acceptable. The SecState looked over at his ambassador—they’d been friends for years—and caught the ironic wink. The British ambassador was looking down at a pad of penciled doodles. The Russian one was reading dispatches. Nobody was listening, really. They didn’t have to. In two hours, the Iranian resolution would pass. Well, it could have been worse. At least he’d have a chance to speak face-to-face with the Chinese ambassador and ask about their naval maneuvers. He knew the answer he’d get, but he wouldn’t know if it was the truth or not. Of course. I’m the Secretary of State of the world’s most powerful nation, Adler thought, but I’m just a spectator today.
26
WEEDS
THERE WERE FEW THINGS sadder than a sick child. Sohaila, her name was, Dr. MacGregor remembered. A pretty name, for a pretty, elfin little girl. Her father carried her in his arms. He appeared to be a brutish man—that was MacGregor’s first impression, and he’d learned to trust them—but if so, one transformed by concern for his child. His wife was in his wake, along with another Arabic-appearing man wearing a jacket, and behind him was an official-looking Sudanese, all of which the physician noted and ignored. They weren’t sick. Sohaila was.
“Well, hello again, young lady,” he said, with a comforting smile. “You are not feeling at all well, are you? We’ll have to see about that, won’t we? Come with me,” he said to the father.
Clearly these people were important to someone, and they would be treated accordingly. MacGregor led them to an examining room. The father set the little girl down on the table and backed away, letting his wife hold Sohaila’s hand. The bodyguards—that’s what they had to be—remained outside. The physician touched his hand to the child’s forehead. She was burning up—39 at least. Okay. He washed his hands thoroughly and donned gloves, again because this was Africa, and in Africa you took every precaution. His first considered action was to take her temperature via the ear: 39.4. Pulse was rapid but not worrisome for a child. A quick check with a stethoscope confirmed normal heart sounds and no particular problem with the lungs, though her breathing was rapid as well. So far she had a fever, something hardly uncommon with young children, especially those recently arrived into a new environment. He looked up.
“What seems to be the problem with your daughter?” The father answered this time.
“She cannot eat, and her other end—”
“Vomiting and diarrhea?” MacGregor asked, checking her eyes out next. They seemed unremarkable as well.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“You’ve arrived here recently, I believe?” He looked up when the answer was hesitation. “I need to know.”
“Correct. From Iraq, just a few days.”
“And your daughter has a mild case of asthma, nothing else, no other health problems, correct?”
“That is true, yes. She’s had all her shots and such. She’s never been ill like this.” The mother just nodded. The father clearly had taken over, probably to get the feeling of authority, to make things happen, the physician surmised. It was fine with him.
“Since arriving here, any unusual things to cat? You see,” MacGregor explained, “travel can be very unsettling to some people, and children are unusually vulnerable. It could just be the local water.”
“I gave her the medicine, but it got worse,” the mother said.
“It is not the water,” the father said positively. “The house has its own well. The water is good.”
As though on cue, Sohaila moaned and turned, vomiting off the examining table and onto the tile floor. It wasn’t the right color. There were traces of red and black. Red for new blood, black for old. It wasn’t jet lag or bad water. Perhaps an ulcer? Food poisoning? MacGregor blin
ked and instinctively checked to be sure his hands were gloved. The mother was looking for a paper towel to—
“Don’t touch that,” he said mildly. He next took the child’s blood pressure. It was low, confirming an internal bleed. “Sohaila, I’m afraid you will be spending the night with us so that we can make you well again.”
It could have been many things, but the doctor had been in Africa long enough to know that you acted as though it were the worst. The young physician consoled himself with the belief that it couldn’t be all that bad.
IT WASN’T QUITE like the old days—what was?—but Mancuso enjoyed the work. He’d had a good war—he thought of it as a war; his submarines had done exactly what they’d been designed to do. After losing Asheville and Charlotte—those before the known commencement of hostilities—he’d lost no more. His boats had delivered on every mission assigned, savaging the enemy submarine force in a carefully planned ambush, supporting a brilliant special operation, conducting deep-strike missile launches, and, as always, gathering vital tactical intelligence. His best play, COMSUBPAC judged, had been in recalling the boomers from retirement. They were too big and too unwieldy to be fast-attack boats, but God damn if they hadn’t done the job for him. Enough so that they were all down the hill from his headquarters, tied alongside, their crews swaggering around town a bit, with brooms still prominent on their sails. Okay, so he wasn’t Charlie Lock-wood exactly, modesty told him. He’d done the job he’d been paid to do. And now he had another.
“So what are they supposed to be up to?” he asked his immediate boss, Admiral Dave Seaton.
“Nobody seems to know.” Seaton had come over to look around. Like any good officer, he tried to get the hell out of his office as much as possible, even if it only meant visiting another. “Maybe just a FleetEx, but with a new President, maybe they want to flex their muscles and see what happens.” People in uniform did not like such international examinations, since they were usually the ones whose lives were part of the grading procedure.