Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Yeah, I’ve seen enough, too. Let’s get the hell away from this place.” He turned to the Polish guide and thanked him for words he’d scarcely heard and started walking back to where the car was. Once more they passed under the wrought-iron arch of a lie, doing what two or three million people had never done.

  If there were such a thing as ghosts, they’d spoken to him without words, but done it in one voice: Never again. And silently, Ryan agreed. Not while he lived. Not while America lived.

  CHAPTER 46

  Journey Home

  They waited for SORGE, and rarely had anyone waited more expectantly even for the arrival of a firstborn child. There was a little drama to it, too, because SORGE didn’t deliver every day, and they could not always see a pattern when it appeared and when it didn’t. Ed and Mary Pat Foley both awoke early that morning, and lay in bed for over an hour with nothing to do, then finally arose to drink their breakfast coffee and read the papers in the kitchen of their middle-class home in suburban Virginia. The kids went off to school, and then the parents finished dressing and walked out to their “company” car, complete with driver and escort vehicle. The odd part was that their car was guarded but their house was not, and so a terrorist only had to be smart enough to attack the house, which was not all that hard. The Early Bird was waiting for them in the car, but it had little attraction for either of them this morning. The comic strips in the Post had been more interesting, especially “Non Sequitur,” their favorite morning chuckle, and the sports pages.

  “What do you think?” Mary Pat asked Ed. That managed to surprise him, since his wife didn’t often ask his opinion of a field-operations question.

  He shrugged as they passed a Dunkin’ Donuts box. “Coin toss, Mary.”

  “I suppose. I sure hope it comes up heads this time.”

  “Jack’s going to ask us in ... an hour and a half, I suppose.”

  “Something like that,” the DDO agreed in a breathy voice.

  “The NATO thing ought to work, ought to make them think things over,” the DCI thought aloud.

  “Don’t bet the ranch on it, honey bunny,” Mary Pat warned.

  “I know.” Pause. “When does Jack get on the airplane to come home?”

  She checked her watch. “About two hours.”

  “We should know by then.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed.

  Ten minutes later, informed of the shape of the world en route by National Public Radio’s Morning Edition, they arrived at Langley, again parking in the underground garage, and again taking the elevator up to the seventh floor, where, again, they split up, going to their separate offices. In this, Ed surprised his wife. She’d expected him to hover over her shoulder as she flipped on her office computer, looking for another brownie recipe, as she called it. This happened at seven-fifty-four.

  “You’ve got mail,” the electronic voice announced as she accessed her special Internet account. Her hand wasn’t quite shaking when she moved the mouse to click on the proper icon, but nearly so. The letter came up, went through the descrambling process, and came up as clear-text she couldn’t read. As always, MP saved the document to her hard drive, confirmed that it was saved, then printed up a hard copy, and finally deleted the letter from her electronic in-box, completely erasing it off the Internet. Then she lifted her phone.

  “Please have Dr. Sears come up right away,” she told her secretary.

  Joshua Sears had also come in early this morning, and was sitting at his desk reading the New York Times financial page when the call came. He was in the elevator in under a minute, and then in the office of the Deputy Director (Operations).

  “Here,” Mary Pat said, handing over the six pages of ideographs. “Take a seat.”

  Sears sat in a comfortable chair and started his translation. He could see that the DDO was a little exercised about this, and his initial diagnosis came as he turned to page two.

  “This isn’t good news,” he said, without looking up. “Looks like Zhang is guiding Premier Xu in the direction he wants. Fang is uneasy about it, but he’s going along, too. Marshal Luo is fully on the team. I guess that’s to be expected. Luo’s always been a hardball guy,” Sears commented. “Talk here’s about operational security, concern that we might know what they’re up to—but they think they’re secure,” Sears assured the DDO.

  As many times as she’d heard that sort of thing, it never failed to give her a severe case of the chills, hearing the enemy (to Mary Pat nearly everyone was an enemy) discuss the very possibility that she’d devoted her entire professional life to realizing. And almost always you heard their voices saying that, no, there wasn’t anyone like her out there hearing them. She’d never really left her post in Moscow, when she’d been control officer for Agent CARDINAL. He’d been old enough to have been her grandfather, but she’d thought of him as her own newborn, as she gave him taskings, and collected his take, forwarding it back to Langley, always worried for his safety. She was out of that game now, but it came down to the same thing. Somewhere out there was a foreign national sending America information of vital interest. She knew the person’s name, but not her face, not her motivation, just that she liked to share her bed with one of her officers, and she kept the official diary for this Minister Fang, and her computer sent it out on the Web, on a path that ended at her seventh-floor desk.

  “Summary?” she asked Dr. Sears.

  “They’re still on the warpath,” the analyst replied. “Maybe they’ll turn off it at some later date, but there is no such indication here.”

  “If we warn them off ... ?”

  Sears shrugged. “No telling. Their real concern is internal political dissension and possible collapse. This economic crisis has them worried about political ruin for them all, and that’s all they’re worried about.”

  “Wars are begun by frightened men,” the DDO observed.

  “That’s what history tells us,” Sears agreed. “And it’s happening again, right before our eyes.”

  “Shit,” Mrs. Foley observed. “Okay, print it up and get it back to me, fast as you can.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Half hour. You want me to show this to George Weaver, right?”

  “Yeah.” She nodded. The academic had been going over the SORGE data for several days, taking his time to formulate his part of the SNIE slowly and carefully, which was the way he worked. “You mind working with him?”

  “Not really. He knows their heads pretty well, maybe a little better than I do—he has a master’s in psychology from Yale. Just he’s a little slow formulating his conclusions.”

  “Tell him I want something I can use by the end of the day.”

  “Will do,” Sears promised, rising for the door. Mary Pat followed him out, but took a different turn.

  “Yeah?” Ed Foley said, when she came into his office.

  “You’ll have the write-up in half an hour or so. Short version: They are not impressed by the NATO play.”

  “Oh, shit,” the DCI observed at once.

  “Yeah,” his wife agreed. “Better find out how quick we can get the information to Jack.”

  “Okay.” The DCI lifted his secure phone and punched the speed-dial button for the White House.

  There was one last semi-official meeting at the American Embassy before departure, and again it was Golovko speaking for his President, who was away schmoozing with the British Prime Minister.

  “What did you make of Auschwitz?” the Russian asked.

  “It ain’t Disney World,” Jack replied, taking a sip of coffee. “Have you been there?”

  “My uncle Sasha was part of the force that liberated the camp,” Sergey replied. “He was a tank commander—a colonel—in the Great Motherland War.”

  “Did you talk to him about it?”

  “When I was a boy. Sasha—my mother’s brother, he was—was a true soldier, a hard man with hard rules for life, and a committed communist. That must have shaken him, though,” Golovko went on. “He didn’t really
talk about what effect it had on him. Just that it was ugly, and proof to him of the correctness of his cause. He said he had an especially good war after that—he got to kill more Germans.”

  “And what about the things—”

  “Stalin did? We never spoke of that in my family. My father was NKVD, as you know. He thought that whatever the state did was correct. Not unlike what the fascisti thought at Auschwitz, I admit, but he would not have seen it that way. Those were different times, Ivan Emmetovich. Harder times. Your father served in the war as well, as I recall.”

  “Paratrooper, One-Oh-First. He never talked much about it, just the funny things that happened. He said the night drop into Normandy was pretty scary, but that’s all—he never said what it was like running around in the dark with people shooting at him.”

  “It cannot be very enjoyable, to be a soldier in combat.”

  “I don’t suppose it is. Sending people out to do it isn’t fun, either. God damn it, Sergey! I’m supposed to protect people, not risk their lives.”

  “So, you are not like Hitler. And not like Stalin,” the Russian added graciously. “And neither is Eduard Petrovich. It is a gentler world we live in, gentler than that of our fathers and our uncles. But not gentle enough yet. When will you know how our Chinese friends reacted to yesterday’s events?”

  “Soon, I hope, but we’re not exactly sure. You know how that works.”

  “Da.” You depended on the reports of your agents, but you were never sure when they would come in, and in the expectation came frustration. Sometimes you wanted to wring their necks, but that was both foolish and morally wrong, as they both knew.

  “Any public reaction?” Ryan asked. The Russians would have seen it sooner than his own people.

  “A nonreaction, Mr. President. No public comment at all. Not unexpected, but somewhat disappointing.”

  “If they move, can you stop them?”

  “President Grushavoy has asked that very question of Stavka, his military chiefs, but they have not yet answered substantively. We are concerned with operational security. We do not wish the PRC to know that we know anything.”

  “That can work against you,” Ryan warned.

  “I said that very thing this morning, but soldiers have their own ways, don’t they? We are calling up some reserves, and warning orders have gone out to some mechanized troops. The cupboard, however, as you Americans say, is somewhat bare at the moment.”

  “What have you done about the people who tried to kill you?” Ryan asked, changing the subject.

  “The main one is under constant observation at the moment. If he tries something else, we will then speak to him,” Golovko promised. “The connection, again, is Chinese, as you know.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Your FBI agent in Moscow, that Reilly fellow, is very talented. We could have used him in Second Directorate.”

  “Yeah, Dan Murray thinks a lot of him.”

  “If this Chinese matter goes further, we need to set up a liaison group between your military and ours.”

  “Work through SACEUR,” Ryan told him. He’d already thought that one through. “He has instructions to cooperate with your people.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. I will pass that along. So, your family, it is well?” You couldn’t have this sort of meeting without irrelevant pleasantries.

  “My oldest, Sally, is dating. That’s hard on Daddy,” Ryan admitted.

  “Yes.” Golovko allowed himself a smile. “You live in fear that she will come upon such a boy as you were, yes?”

  “Well, the Secret Service helps keep the little bastards under control.”

  “There is much to be said for men with guns, yes,” the Russian agreed with some amusement, to lighten the moment.

  “Yeah, but I think daughters are God’s punishment on us for being men.” That observation earned Ryan a laugh.

  “Just so, Ivan Emmetovich, just so.” And Sergey paused again. Back to business: “It is a hard time for both of us, is it not?”

  “Yeah, it is that.”

  “Perhaps the Chinese will see us standing together and reconsider their greed. Together our fathers’ generation killed Hitler, after all. Who can stand against the two of us?”

  “Sergey, wars are not rational acts. They are not begun by rational men. They’re begun by people who don’t care a rat-fuck about the people they rule, who’re willing to get their fellow men killed for their own narrow purposes. This morning I saw such a place. It was Satan’s amusement park, I suppose, but not a place for a man like me. I came away angry. I wouldn’t mind having a chance to see Hitler, long as I have a gun in my hand when I do.” It was a foolish thing to say, but Golovko understood.

  “With luck, together we will prevent this Chinese adventure.”

  “And if not?”

  “Then together we will defeat them, my friend. And perhaps that will be the last war of all.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” the President replied. “I’ve had that thought before myself, but I suppose it’s a worthy goal.”

  “When you find out what the Chinese say ... ?”

  “We’ll get the word to you.”

  Golovko rose. “Thank you. I will convey that to my President.”

  Ryan walked the Russian to the door, then headed off to the ambassador’s office.

  “This just came in.” Ambassador Lewendowski handed over the fax. “Is this as bad as it looks?” The fax was headed EYES-ONLY PRESIDENT, but it had come into his embassy.

  Ryan took the pages and started reading. “Probably. If the Russians need help via NATO, will the Poles throw in?”

  “I don’t know. I can ask.”

  The President shook his head. “Too soon for that.”

  “Did we bring the Russians into NATO with the knowledge of this?” The question showed concern that stopped short of outrage at the violation of diplomatic etiquette.

  Ryan looked up. “What do you think?” He paused. “I need your secure phone.”

  Forty minutes later, Jack and Cathy Ryan walked up the steps into their airplane for the ride home. SURGEON was not surprised to see her husband disappear into the aircraft’s upper communications level, along with the Secretary of State. She suspected that her husband might have stolen a smoke or two up there, but she was asleep by the time he came back down.

  For his part, Ryan wished he had, but couldn’t find a smoker up there. The two who indulged had left their smokes in their luggage to avoid the temptation to violate USAF regulations. The President had a single drink and got into his seat, rocking it back for a nap, during which he found himself dreaming of Auschwitz, mixing it up with scenes remembered from Schindler’s List. He awoke over Iceland, sweating, to see his wife’s angelic sleeping face, and to remind himself that, bad as the world was, it wasn’t quite that bad anymore. And his job was to keep it that way.

  Okay, is there any way to make them back off?” Robby Jackson asked the people assembled in the White House Situation Room.

  Professor Weaver struck him as just one more academic, long of wind and short of conclusion. Jackson listened anyway. This guy knew more about the way the Chinese thought. He must. His explanation was about as incomprehensible as the thought processes he was attempting to make clear.

  “Professor,” Jackson said finally, “that’s all well and good, but what the hell does something that happened nine centuries ago tell us about today? These are Maoists, not royalists.”

  “Ideology is usually just an excuse for behavior, Mr. Vice President, not a reason for it. Their motivations are the same today as they would have been under the Chin Dynasty, and they fear exactly the same thing: the revolt of the peasantry if the economy goes completely bad,” Weaver explained to this pilot, a technician, he thought, and decidedly not an intellectual. At least the President had some credentials as a historian, though they weren’t impressive to the tenured Ivy League department chairman.

  “Back to the real question here: W
hat can we do to make them back off, short of war?”

  “Telling them that we know of their plans might give them pause, but they will make their decision on the overall correlation of forces, which they evidently believe to be fully in their favor, judging from what I’ve been reading from this SORGE fellow.”

  “So, they won’t back off?” the VP asked.

  “I cannot guarantee that,” Weaver answered.

  “And blowing our source gets somebody killed,” Mary Pat Foley reminded the assembly.

  “Which is just one life against many,” Weaver pointed out.

  Remarkably, the DDO didn’t leap across the table to rip his academic face off. She respected Weaver as an area specialist/consultant. But fundamentally he was one more ivory-tower theoretician who didn’t consider the human lives that rode on decisions like that one. Real people had their lives end, and that was a big deal to those real people, even if it wasn’t to this professor in his comfortable office in Providence, Rhode Island.

  “It also cancels out a vital source of information in the event that they go forward anyway—which could adversely affect our ability to deal with the real-world military threat, by the way.”

  “There is that, I suppose,” Weaver conceded diffidently.

  “Can the Russians stop them?” Jackson asked. General Moore took the question.

  “It’s six-five and pick ’em,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs answered. “The Chinese have a lot of combat power to unleash. The Russians have a lot of room to absorb it, but not the combat power to repel it per se. If I had to bet, I’d put my money on the PRC—unless we come in. Our air-power could alter the equation somewhat, and if NATO comes in with ground forces, the odds change. It depends on what reinforcements we and the Russians can get into the theater.”

  “Logistics?”

  “A real problem,” Mickey Moore conceded. “It all comes down one railway line. It’s double-tracked and electrified, but that’s the only good news about it.”

  “Does anybody know how to run an operation like that down a railroad? Hell, we haven’t done it since the Civil War,” Jackson thought aloud.