by Tom Clancy
Raman was of Iranian birth. But America was a nation of immigrants. The FBI had originally been constructed of Irish-Americans, preferably those educated at Jesuit institutions—Boston College and Holy Cross were the favorites, according to the legend—because J. Edgar Hoover was supposed to have believed that no Irish-American with a Jesuit education could conceivably betray his country. Doubtless, there had been some words about that at the time, and even today, anti-Catholicism was the last of the respectable prejudices. But it was well-known that immigrants so often made the most loyal of citizens, some ferociously so. The military and other security agencies often profited from that. Well, Pat thought, it was easily settled. Just check out the rug thing and let it be. He wondered who Mr. Sloan was. A guy who wanted a rug, probably.
THERE WAS A quiet to the streets of Tehran. Clark didn’t remember them that way from 1979-80. His more recent trip had been different, more like the rest of the region, bustling but not dangerous. Being journalists, they acted like journalists. Clark reentered market areas, talking politely to people about business conditions, the availability of food, what they thought of the unification with Iraq, what their hopes for the future were, and what he got was pure vanilla. Platitudes. The political comments were especially bland, singularly lacking in the passion he remembered from the hostage crisis, when every heart and mind had been turned against the entire outside world—especially America. Death to America. Well, they’d given substance to that wish, John thought. Or someone had. He didn’t sense that animus anymore among the people, remembering the strangely cordial jeweler. Probably they just wanted to live, just like everyone else. The apathy reminded him of Soviet citizens in the 1980s. They’d just wanted to get along, just wanted to live a little better, just wanted their society to respond to their needs. There was no revolutionary rage left in them. So why, then, had Daryaei taken his action? How would the people respond to that? The obvious answer was that he’d lost touch, as Great Men so often did. He’d have his coterie of true believers, and a larger number of people willing to ride the bus and enjoy the comfortable seating while everyone else walked and kept out of the way, but that was it. It was fertile ground to recruit agents, to identify those who’d had enough and were willing to talk. What a shame that there was no time to run a proper intelligence operation here. He checked his watch. Time to head back to the hotel. Their first day had been both a waste and part of their cover. Their Russian colleagues would arrive tomorrow.
THE FIRST ORDER of business was to check out the names Sloan and Alahad. That started with a check of the telephone book. Sure enough, there was a Mohammed Alahad. He had an ad in the Yellow Pages. Persian and Oriental Rugs. For some reason, people didn’t connect “Persia” with “Iran,” a saving grace for a lot of rug merchants. The shop was on Wisconsin Avenue, about a mile from Raman’s apartment, which was not in the least way remarkable. Similarly, there was a Mr. Joseph Sloan in the crisscross, whose telephone number was 536-4040, as opposed to Raman’s 536-3040. A one-digit goof, which easily explained the wrong number on the Secret Service agent’s answering machine.
The next step was pure form. The computer records of telephone calls were run by command. The massive numbers of them took almost a minute to run, even with knowledge of the probable dates ... and there it came up on the agent’s screen, a call to 202-536-3040 from 202-459- 6777. But that wasn’t Alahad’s store number, was it? A further check showed -6777 as a pay phone two blocks from the shop. Odd. If he were that close to his shop, why drop a dime—actually a quarter now—to make the call?
Why not make another check? The agent was his squad’s techno-genius, with a mustache and a marginal haircut. He’d been something less than a raving success working bank robberies, but had found foreign counterintelligence to his liking. It was like the engineering classes of his college days. You just kept picking at things. He’d also found that the foreign spies he chased thought the same way he did. Toss in his technical prowess ... hmph, in the past month there had not been a call from the rug shop to 536-4040. He went back another month. No. How about the other direction? No, 536-4040 had never called 457-1100. Now, if he’d ordered a rug, and those things took time—must have, if the dealer had called to let the guy know it had finally come in ... why hadn’t there been a call about it in either direction?
The agent leaned over to the next desk. “Sylvia, want to take a look at this?”
“What is it, Donny?”
THE BLACKHORSE WAS fully on the ground now. Most of them were in their vehicles or attending their aircraft. The 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment comprised 123 M1A2 Abrams main-battle tanks, 127 M3A4 Bradley scout vehicles, 16 M109A6 Paladin 155mm mobile guns, and 8 M270 Multiple-Launch Rocket System tracks, plus a total of 83 helicopters, 26 of which were AH-54D Apache attack choppers. Those were the shooting platforms. They were supported by hundreds of soft vehicles—mostly trucks to carry fuel, food, and ammunition—plus twenty extras locally called Water Buffaloes, a vital need in this part of the world.
The first order of business was to get everyone away from the POMCUS site. The tracked vehicles were driven onto low-boy trailers for the ride north to Abu Hadriyah, a small town with an airport and the designated assembly point for the 11th Cav. As every vehicle rolled out of its warehouse, it stopped on a pre-selected spot painted red. There the GPS navigation systems were checked against a known reference point. Two of the IVIS boxes were down. One of them announced the fact all by itself, sending a coded radio message to the regiment’s support troop, demanding that it be replaced and repaired. The other was completely dead, and the crew had to figure it out for themselves. The large red square helped.
The trailer trucks were driven by Pakistanis, a few hundred of the thousands imported into the Saudi Kingdom to do menial labor. For the Abrams and Bradley crews, it would prove to be exciting, while they worked inside their tracks to make sure that everything was working. With the routine tasks done, drivers, loaders, and commanders stuck their heads out of their hatches, hoping to enjoy the view. What they saw was different from Fort Irwin but not terribly exciting. To the east was an oil pipeline. To the west was a lot of nothing. The crews watched anyway—the view was better than they’d experienced on the flight—except for the gunners, many of whom fought motion-sickness, a common problem for people in that position. It was almost as bad for those who could see. The local truckers, it seemed, were paid by the mile and not the hour. They drove like maniacs.
The Guardsmen were beginning to arrive now. They had nothing to do at the moment except set up the tents provided for them, drink lots of water, and exercise.
SUPERVISOR SPECIAL AGENT Hazel Loomis commanded this squad of ten agents. “Sissy” Loomis had been in FCI from the beginning of her career, virtually all of it in Washington. Approaching forty now, she still had the cheerleader look that had served her so well earlier in her time as a street agent. She also had a number of successful cases under her belt.
“This looks a little odd,” Donny Selig told her, laying out his notes on her desk.
It didn’t require much by way of explanation. Phone contacts between intelligence agents never included the words, “I have the microfilm.” The most innocuous of messages were pre-selected to convey the proper information. Which was why they were called “code words.” And it wasn’t that the tradecraft was bad. It was just that if you knew what to look for, it looked like tradecraft. Loomis looked the data over, then looked up.
“Got addresses?”
“You bet, Sis,” Selig told her.
“Then let’s go see Mr. Sloan.” The one bad part about promotion was that being a supervisor denied her the chance to hit the bricks. Not for this one, Loomis told herself.
AT LEAST THE F-15E Strike Eagle had a crew of two, allowing the pilot and weapons-systems operator to engage in conversation for the endless flight. The same was true of the six B-1B bomber crews; the Lancer even had enough area that people could lie down and sleep—not to mention
a sit-down toilet. This meant that, unlike the fighter crews, they didn’t have to shower immediately upon reaching A1 Kharj, their final destination, south of Riyadh. The 366th Air Combat Wing had three designated “checkered flag” locations throughout the world. These were bases in anticipated trouble spots, with support equipment, fuel, and ordnance facilities maintained by small caretaker crews, who would be augmented by the 366th’s own personnel, mainly flying in by chartered airliners. That included additional flight crews, so that, theoretically, the crew which had flown in from Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho could indulge in crew rest, while another relief crew could, theoretically, fly the aircraft off to battle. Fortunately for all concerned, this wasn’t necessary. Thoroughly exhausted airmen (and, now, -women) brought their birds in for landing, taxied off to their shelters, and dismounted, handing their charges over to maintenance personnel. The bomb-bay fuel tanks were removed first of all, and replaced with the appliances made to hold weapons, while the crews went off for long showers and briefings from intelligence officers. Over a period of five hours, the entire 366th combat strength was in Saudi, less one F-16C, which had developed avionics trouble and diverted to Bentwaters Royal Air Force Base in England.
“YES?” THE ELDERLY woman wasn’t wearing a surgical mask. Sissy Loomis handed her one. It was the new form of greeting in America.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sloan. FBI,” the agent said, holding up her ID.
“Yes?” She wasn’t intimidated, but she was surprised.
“Mrs. Sloan, we’re conducting an investigation, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. We just need to clear something up. Could you help us, please?”
“I suppose.” Mrs. Joseph Sloan was over sixty, dressed neatly, and looked pleasant enough, if somewhat surprised by all this. Inside the apartment the TV was on, tuned to a local station by the sound of it. The weather forecast was running.
“May we come in? This is Agent Don Selig,” she said, nodding her head to the techno-weenie. As usual, her friendly smile won the day; Mrs. Sloan didn’t even put the mask on.
“Surely.” The lady of the house backed away from the door.
It took only a single glance to tell Sissy Loomis that something was not quite right here. For one thing, there was no Persian rug to be seen in the living room—in her experience people didn’t just buy one of the things. For another, this apartment was just too neat.
“Excuse me, is your husband in?” The response was immediate, and pained.
“My husband passed away last September,” she told the agent.
“Oh, I am sorry, Mrs. Sloan. We didn’t know.” And with that a fairly routine follow-up changed into something very different indeed.
“He was older than me. Joe was seventy-eight,” she said, pointing to a picture on the coffee table of two people a long time ago, one about thirty and one in her late teens.
“Does the name Alahad mean anything to you, Mrs. Sloan?” Loomis asked after sitting down.
“No. Should it?”
“He deals in Persian and Oriental rugs.”
“Oh, we don’t have any of those. I’m allergic to wool, you see.”
57
NIGHT PASSAGE
JACK?” RYAN’S EYES clicked open to see that there was bright sunlight coming through the windows. His watch said it was just after eight in the morning.
“What the hell? Why didn’t anybody—”
“You even slept through the alarm,” Cathy told him. “Andrea said that Arnie said to let you sleep till about now. I guess I needed it, too,” SURGEON added. She’d been in bed for over ten hours before waking at seven. “Dave told me to take the day off,” she added.
Jack jolted up and moved at once into the bathroom. When he came back, Cathy, in her housecoat, handed over his briefing papers. The President stood in the center of the room, reading them. Reason told him that if anything serious had happened he would have been awakened—he had slept through the clock-radio alarm before, but he’d never failed to be aroused by a phone. The papers told him that all was, if not exactly well, then relatively stable. Ten minutes after that, he was dressed. He took the time to say hello to his kids, and kiss his wife. Then he headed out.
“SWORDSMAN is moving,” Andrea said into her radio mike. “Sit Room?” she asked POTUS.
“Yeah. Whose idea was it to—”
“Mr. President, that was the chief of staff, but he was right, sir.”
Ryan looked at her as she punched the elevator button for the ground floor. “I guess I’m outvoted, then.”
The national-security team had clearly been up all night on his behalf. Ryan had coffee waiting at his place. They’d been living on it.
“Okay, what’s happening over there?”
“COMEDY is now one hundred thirty miles beyond the Indians—would you believe they resumed their patrol station behind us?” Admiral Jackson told his Commander-in-Chief.
“Playing both sides of the street,” Ben Goodley concluded.
“It’s a good way to get hit by traffic in both directions,” Arnie put in.
“Go on.”
“Operation CUSTER is just about done. The 366th is also in Saudi, less one broke fighter that diverted to England. The 11th Cav is rolling out of its storage site to an assembly area. So far,” the J-3 said, “so good. The other side sortied some fighters to the border, but we and the Saudis had a blocking force, and nothing happened aside from some mean looks.”
“Anybody think they’re going to back down?” Ryan asked.
“No.” This came from Ed Foley. “They can’t, not now.”
THE RENDEZVOUS TOOK place fifty miles off Cape Rass al Hadd, the far southeast corner of the Arabian Peninsula. Cruisers Normandy and Yorktown, destroyer John Paul Jones, and frigates Underwood, Doyle, and Nicholas took a trailing position so that Platte and Supply could take them alongside after their high-speed run down from Alexandria, to top off their bunkers. Helicopters ferried the captains to Anzio, whose captain was senior, for an hour’s worth of discussion of the mission. Their destination was Dhahran. To get there they had to drive northwest into the Strait of Hormuz. Getting there would take just over six hours, 2200 hours local time. The strait was twenty miles across and speckled with islands, plus it was one of the most heavily traveled waterways in the world—even now, despite the growing crisis. Supertankers, one of which displaced more water than all of the warships in the now-designated TF-61.1 combined, were merely the best-known vessels transiting the area. There were also massive container ships wearing the flags often nations, and even a multilevel sheep carrier which looked like a big-city parking garage, which was bringing in live mutton from Australia. The smell of it was famous on all the oceans of the world. The strait was covered by radar to establish traffic control—the possibility of a ramming incident between two supertankers didn’t bear thinking about—which meant that TF-61.1 would be unlikely to sneak in entirely unnoticed. But they could do a few things. At the narrowest point, the Navy ships would hold to the south, dodging between islands belonging to Oman, and hopefully somewhat obscured by the clutter. Next they’d move south of Abu Musa, past the crowd of oil platforms, again using them for radar cover, and then make a straight run for Dhahran, past the mini-states of Qatar and Bahrain. Opposition, the intelligence officers said, included ships of American, British, Chinese, Russian, and French origin, all of them armed with one sort of missile or another. The most important ships in the group, of course, were totally unarmed. Maintaining their box formation, Anzio would lead them, 2,000 yards in front. Normandy and Yorktown would take position 2,000 yards to starboard, with Jones in trail. The two under way-replenishment ships, with O’Bannon and all the frigates in close escort, would form a second, decoy group. Helicopters would be aloft, both to patrol and, with their radar transponders on, to simulate much larger targets. The various COs agreed on the plan and waited for their helicopters to return them to their commands. It was the first time in ages that an American naval f
ormation had stood in harm’s way without a carrier in close support. Their bunkers full of fuel, the group formed up as planned, pointed their bows northwest, and bent on twenty-six knots. At 1800 local time, a flight of four F-16 fighters blazed overhead, both to give the Aegis ships a chance to practice fire-control against live targets and also to verify the IFF codes to be used for the night’s mission.
MOHAMMED ALAHAD, THEY saw, was just as ordinary as hell. He’d come to America more than fifteen years earlier. He was said to be widowed and childless. He ran a decent and profitable business on one of Washington’s nicer shopping streets. He was, in fact, in there right now. Though the CLOSED sign was on the door, they supposed he had nothing better to do but sit in his shop and go over his bills.
One of Loomis’s squad went up to the shop and knocked on the door. Alahad came to open it, and a brief conversation ensued, with the expected gestures, and they could figure what was being said. I’m sorry, but all businesses are closed because of the President’s order—Yeah, sure, but I don’t have anything to do, and neither do you, right?—Yes, but it is an order—Hey, who’s gonna know, what’d’ya say? Finally the agent went in, wearing a surgical mask. He stayed there for ten minutes before coming back out, walking around the corner, and making a radio call from his car.
“It’s a rug shop,” the agent told Loomis over the encrypted radio channel. “If we want to toss the place, we’ll have to wait.” There was already a tap on the phone line, but so far there had not been a single call in or out.