by Tom Clancy
“So the key to the guy is there’s nothing to figure out ... son of a bitch,” Bob concluded. “He hates the job, doesn’t he?”
“Most of the time. You should have been there when he spoke in the Midwest. He got it then. All those people loving him, and he loved them back, and it showed—and it scared the shit out of him. Nothing to figure out? Exactly. Like they say in golf, the hardest thing to do is to hit a straight ball, right? Everybody’s looking for curves. There aren’t any.”
Holtzman snorted. “So, what’s the angle if there isn’t an angle?”
“Bob, I just try to control the media, remember? Damned if I know how you report this, except to state the facts—you know, like you’re supposed to do.”
That was a lot for the journalist to take. He’d been in Washington for all of his professional life. “And every politician is supposed to be like Ryan. But they’re not.”
“This one is,” Arnie shot back.
“How am I supposed to tell my readers that? Who’ll believe it?”
“Ain’t that the problem?” he breathed. “I’ve been in politics all my life, and I thought I knew it all. Hell, I do know it all. I’m one of the best operators ever was, everybody knows that, and all of a sudden this yahoo comes into the Oval Office and says the emperor’s naked, and he’s right, and nobody knows what to do about it except to say that he isn’t. The system isn’t ready for this. The system is only ready for itself.”
“And the system will destroy anybody who says different.” Holtzman snorted with the thought: If Hans Christian Andersen had written “The Emperor’s Clothes” about Washington, then the kid who’d spoken the truth out loud would have been killed on the spot by the assembled crowd of insiders.
“It’ll try,” Arnie agreed.
“And what are we supposed to do about it?”
“You’re the one who said that you don’t want to officiate at the hanging of an innocent man, remember?”
“Where’s that leave us?”
“Maybe to talk about the unruly mob,” Arnie suggested, “or the emperor’s corrupt court.”
NEXT TO GO was Austrian Airlines 774. It was down to a routine now, and the arrangements were well within the technical parameters. The cans of shaving cream had been filled a bare forty minutes before departure. The proximity of the Monkey House to the airport helped, as did the time of day, and having people race the last few hundred meters to the gate was not unusual anywhere in the world, particularly for flights like this one. The “soup” was sprayed into the bottom of the can, by a plastic valve that was invisible to X-ray examination. The nitrogen went in the top to a separate insulated container located in the center of the cans. The process was clean and safe—for extra but really unnecessary safety, the cans were sprayed and wiped; that was just to make the travelers happy. The cans were quite cold, of course, though not dangerously so. As the liquid nitrogen boiled off, it would vent through a pressure valve into the ambient atmosphere, where it merely joined the air. Though nitrogen is an important element in explosives, by itself it is totally inert, clear, and odorless. Nor would it react chemically with the contents of the cans, and so the pressure-relief valve retained a precise quantity of the warming gas to act as a safe propellant for the “soup” when the time came.
The filling was done by the medical corpsmen in their protective suits—they refused to work without them, and ordering them otherwise would only have made them nervous and sloppy, and so the director indulged their fears. Two groups of five remained to be done. The cans could really all have been prepared at the same time, Moudi knew, but no unnecessary chances were being taken, a thought that made him stop cold. No unnecessary chances? Sure.
DARYAEI DIDN’T SLEEP that night, which was unusual for him. Though with increasing years he found that he needed less of it, getting off to sleep had never been difficult for him. On a really quiet night, if the winds were right, he could hear the airliners bring their engines to the roar of takeoff power—a distant sound, rather like a waterfall, he sometimes thought, or perhaps an earthquake. Some fundamental sound of nature, distant and foreboding. And now he found himself listening for it, and with his imagination, wondering if he heard it or not.
Had he gone too fast? He was an old man in a country where so many died young. He remembered the diseases of his youth, and later he’d learned their scientific causes, mainly poor water and sanitation, for Iran had been a backward country for most of his lifetime, despite its long history of civilization and power. Then it had been resurrected by oil and the immense riches that had come with it. Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, Shahanshah—King of kings! the phrase proclaimed—had begun to raise the country, but made the mistake of moving too fast and making too many enemies. In Iran’s dark age, as in every other such time, secular power had devolved to the Islamic clergy, and in liberating the nation’s peasantry, he’d trod on too many toes, making enemies of people whose power was spiritual and to whom the common folk looked for order in lives made chaotic by change. Even so, the Shah had almost succeeded, but not quite, and not quite was as damning a curse as the world produced for those who would be great.
What did such men think? Just as he himself was old, so the Shah had grown old and sick with cancer, and watched the work of a lifetime evaporate in a matter of weeks, his associates executed in a brief orgy of settled scores, bitter at his betrayal by his American friends. Had he thought that he’d gone too far—or not far enough? Daryaei didn’t know, and now he would have liked to know, as he listened for the distant sounds of waterfalls in the still of a Persian night.
To move too fast was a grievous error, which the young learned and the old knew, but not to move enough, fast enough, far enough, strongly enough, that was what really denied goals to those who would be great. How bitter it must be to lie in bed, without the sleep one needed to think clearly, and wonder and curse oneself for chances missed and chances lost.
Perhaps he knew what the Shah had thought, Daryaei admitted to himself. His own country was drifting again. Even insulated as he was, he knew the signs. It showed up as subtle differences in dress, especially the dress of women. Not much, not quite enough for his true believers to persecute them, for even the true believers had softened their devotion, and there were gray areas into which people could venture to see what might happen. Yes, the people still believed in Islam, and yes, they still believed in him, but, really, the Holy Koran wasn’t that strict, and their nation was rich, and to grow richer it needed to do business. How could it be a champion of the Faith unless it grew richer, after all? The best and brightest of Iran’s young went abroad to be educated, for his country did not possess the schools that the infidel West had—and, for the most part, they came back, educated in skills which his country needed. But they also came back with other things, invisible, doubts and questions, and memories of a freewheeling life in a different society where the pleasures of the flesh were available to the weak, and all men were weak. What if all Khomeini and he had accomplished was to delay what the Shah had started? The people who had come back to Islam in reaction to Pahlavi were now drifting back to the promise of freedom he’d offered them. Didn’t they know? Didn’t they see? They could have all the trappings of power and all the blessings of what people called civilization and still remain faithful, still have the spiritual anchor—without which all was nothing.
But to have all that, his country needed to be more than it was, and so he could not afford to be not quite. Daryaei had to deliver the things that would show he’d been right all along, that uncompromising faith was the true root of power.
The assassination of the Iraqi leader, the misfortune that had befallen America—these things had to be a sign, didn’t they? He’d studied them carefully. Now Iraq and Iran were one, and that had been the quest of decades—and at virtually the same instant, America had been crippled. It wasn’t just Badrayn who was telling him things. He had his own America experts who knew the workings of that country’s government.
He knew Ryan from a single important meeting, had seen his eyes, heard the bold but hollow words, and so he knew the measure of the man who might be his principal adversary. He knew that Ryan had not, and by the laws of his country could not, have a replacement selected for himself, and so there was only this moment, and he had to act in it, or else assume for himself the curse of not quite.
No, he would not be remembered as another Mohammad Pahlavi. If he did not covet the trappings of power, he lusted for the fact of it. Before his death he would lead all Islam. In a month he would have the oil of the Persian Gulf and the keys to Mecca, secular and spiritual power. From that his influence would expand in all directions. In but a few years his country would be a superpower in every way, and he would leave to his successors a legacy such as the world hadn’t seen since Alexander, but with the added security that it was founded in the words of God. To achieve that end, to unite Islam, to fulfill the Will of Allah and the words of the Prophet Mohammed, he would do what was needed, and if that meant moving fast, then he would move fast. Overall, the process was a simple one, three simple steps, the third and most difficult of which was already established and nothing could stop, even if Badrayn’s plans all failed completely.
Was he moving too fast? Daryaei asked himself for the last time. No, he was moving decisively, with surprise, with calculation, with boldness. That was what history would say.
“FLYING AT NIGHT is a big deal?” Jack asked.
“Sure is, for them it is,” Robby replied. He liked briefing the President this way, late evening in the Oval Office, with a drink. “They’ve always been more parsimonious with equipment than they are with people. Helicopters—French ones in this case, same model the Coast Guard has a bunch of—cost money, and we haven’t seen much in the way of night operations. The operation they’re running is heavy on ASW. So maybe they’re thinking about dealing with all those Dutch subs the Republic of China bought last year. We’re also seeing a lot of combined operations with their air force.”
“Conclusion?”
“They’re training up for something.” The Pentagon’s Director of Operations closed his briefing book. “Sir, we—”
“Robby,” Ryan said, looking over the new reading glasses Cathy had just gotten him, “if you don’t start calling me ‘Jack’ when we’re alone, I’m going to break you back to ensign by executive order.”
“We’re not alone,” Admiral Jackson objected, nodding toward Agent Price.
“Andrea doesn’t count—oh, shit, I mean—” Ryan blushed.
“He’s right, Admiral, I don’t count,” she said, with a barely contained laugh. “Mr. President, I’ve been waiting weeks for you to say that.”
Jack looked down at the table and shook his head. “This is no way for a man to live. Now my best friend calls me ‘sir,’ and I’m being impolite to a lady.”
“Jack, you are my commander-in-chief,” Robby pointed out, with a relaxed grin at his friend’s discomfort. “And I’m just a poor sailor man.”
First things first, the President thought: “Agent Price?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Pour yourself a drink and sit down.”
“Sir, I’m on duty, and regulations—”
“Then make it a light one, but that’s an order from your President. Do it!”
She actually hesitated, but then decided that POTUS was trying to make some sort of point. Price poured a large thimbleful of whiskey into the Old Fashioned glass and added a lot of ice and Evian to it. Then she sat next to the J-3. His wife, Sissy, was upstairs in the House with the Ryan family.
“As a practical matter, people, the President needs to relax, and it’s easier for me to do that if I don’t make ladies stand up, and my friend can call me by my name once in a while. Are we agreed on that?”
“Aye aye,” Robby said, still smiling but seeing the logic and desperation of the moment. “Yes, Jack, we are all relaxed now, and we will enjoy it.” He looked over at Price. “You’re here to shoot me if I misbehave, right?”
“Right in the head,” she confirmed.
“I prefer missiles myself. Safer,” he added.
“You did okay with a shotgun one night, or so the Boss has told me. By the way, thanks.”
“Huh?”
“For keeping him alive. We actually like taking care of the Boss, even if he gets too familiar with the hired help.”
Jack freshened his drink while they relaxed on the other sofa. Remarkable, he thought. For the first time, there was a genuinely relaxed atmosphere in the office, to the point that two people could joke about him, right in front of him, as though he were a human being instead of POTUS.
“I like this a lot better.” The President looked up. “Robby, this gal has been around more crap than we have, listened in on all sorts of things. She has a master’s degree, she’s smart, but I’m supposed to treat her like she’s a knuckle-dragger.”
“Well, hell, I’m just a fighter jock with a bad knee.”
“And I still don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be. Andrea?”
“Yes, Mr. President?” Getting her to call him by his name was an impossible goal, Jack knew.
“China, what do you think?”
“I think I’m no expert, but since you ask, I don’t know.”
“You’re expert enough,” Robby observed with a grunt. “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men don’t know much, either. The additional subs are arriving,” he told the President. “Mancuso wants them on the north-south line between the two navies. I’ve concurred on that, and the Secretary’s signed off on it.”
“How’s Bretano doing?”
“He knows what he doesn’t know, Jack. He listens to us on operational stuff, asks good questions, and listens some more. He wants to start getting out into the field next week, poke around and see the kids at work to educate himself. His managerial skills are downright awesome, but he’s swinging a big ax—he’s going to, that is. I’ve seen his draft plan for downsizing the bureaucracy. Whoa,” Admiral Jackson concluded, with an eye-roll.
“You have problems with that?” Jack asked.
“No way. It’s about fifty years overdue. Ms. Price, I’m an operator,” he explained. “I like greasy flight suits and the smell of jet fuel and pulling g’s. But us guys at the sharp end always have the desk-sitters after us like a bunch of little dogs at our ankles all the time. Bretano loves engineers and people who do things, but along the way he’s learned to hate bureaucrats and cost accountants. My kind of guy.”
“Back to China,” Ryan said.
“Okay, we still have the electronics-intelligence flights working out of Kadena. We’re getting routine training stuff. We do not know what intentions the ChiComs have. CIA isn’t giving us much. Signal intelligence is unremarkable. State says that their government says, ‘What’s the big deal?’ And that’s it. The Taiwanese navy is big enough to handle the threat, if there is one, unless they get coldcocked. That’s not going to happen. They’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, doing their own training ops. A lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing I can make out.”
“The Gulf?”
“Well, we’re hearing from our people in Israel that they’re taking a very close look, but I gather they’re not getting much in the way of hard intel. Whatever sources they had were probably with the generals who bugged out to Sudan—aides and such, probably. I got a fax in from Sean Magruder—”
“Who’s that?” Ryan asked.
“He’s an Army colonel, boss-man of the 10th Cav in the Negev. I met him last year; he’s a guy we listen to. ‘Most dangerous man in the world,’ is what our good pal Avi ben Jakob says of Daryaei. Magruder thought that was insightful enough to pass it along.”
“And?”
“And we need to keep an eye on it. It’s probably a ways off, but Daryaei has imperial ambitions. The Saudis are playing it wrong. We should have people on the way over now, maybe not many, but some, to show the other side that we�
��re in the game.”
“I talked to Ali about that. His government wants to cool it.”
“Wrong signal,” Jackson observed.
“Agreed.” POTUS nodded. “We’ll work on that.”
“What’s the state of the Saudi military?” Price asked.
“Not as good as it ought to be. After the Persian Gulf War, it got fashionable to join their National Guard, and they bought equipment like it was a bunch of Mercedes cars from a wholesaler. For a while they had themselves a fine old time playing soldier, but then they found out that you have to maintain the stuff. They hired people to do that for them. Kinda like squires and knights back in the old days. Ain’t the same,” Jackson said. “And now they’re not training. Oh, sure, they run around in their tanks, and they do their gunnery—the M1 is a fun tank to shoot, and they do a lot of that—but they’re not training in units. Knights and squires. Their tradition is guys on horses going after other guys on horses—one-on-one, like in the movies. War ain’t like that. War is a great big team working together. Their culture and history are against that model, and they haven’t had the chance to learn. Bottom line, they’re not as good as they think they are. If the UIR gets its military act together someday and comes south, the Saudis are outgunned and damned sure outmanned.”
“How do we fix that?” Ryan asked.
“For starters, get some of our people over there, and some of their people over here, out to the National Training Center for a crash course in reality. I’ve talked it over with Mary Diggs at the NTC—”
“Mary?”
“General Marion Diggs. ‘Mary’ goes back to the Point. It’s a uniform thing,” Robby told Price. “I’d like to fly a Saudi heavy battalion over here and have the OpFor pound them into the sand for a few weeks to get the message across. That’s how our people learned. That’s how the Israelis learned. And that’s how the Saudis are going to have to learn, damned sight easier that way than in a shooting war. Diggs is for it, big time. Give us two or three years, maybe less if we set up a proper training establishment in Saudi, and we can snap their army into shape—except for politics,” he added.