by Tom Clancy
“Very good,” Orlov said. “Let me know as soon as you have it.”
As soon as Orlov hung up, he put in a call to Mike Rodgers to let him know about the apparent NSA-HARPOONER connection and the possible location of the Harpooner. Then he called Odette. He hoped that the American she had saved was ready to move out. Orlov did not want to send Odette against the Harpooner unassisted, but he would if he had to. Because more than that, he did not want to lose the Harpooner.
As Orlov punched in Odette’s number, he began to feel hopeful and upbeat. The technology that he had helped put into space was actually a two-edged sword. The Harpooner had been using a secure satellite uplink to help destroy lives. Now, with luck, that uplink would have an unexpected use.
To pinpoint the Harpooner and help destroy him.
THIRTY-NINE
Teheran, Iran
Tuesday, 10:07 A.M.
The chief of the Supreme Command Council of the Armed Forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran had been called at home shortly after dawn. Teheran maintained listening posts on many of their oil rigs in the Caspian Sea. From there, they eavesdropped electronically on foreign shipping and on military sites along the Caspian coast. Each post sent a pulse every five minutes to indicate that the electronics were still on-line. The sudden silence of Post Four was the first indication anyone in Teheran had that something was wrong in the Caspian.
An F-14 Tomcat was immediately dispatched from the Doshan Tapeh Air Base outside of Teheran. The Tomcat was one of ten that remained of the seventy-seven that had been a part of the shah’s state-of-the-art air force. The fighter confirmed that the oil rig had been destroyed. Salvage experts and military engineers were immediately parachuted into the region by a Kawasaki C-1 transport. While rescue patrol boats hurried to the site from Caspian fleet headquarters in Bandar-e Anzelli, the engineers found burn marks on the platform that were consistent with powerful high explosives. The fact that the underside had been struck suggested a submarine attack that had somehow eluded sonar detection. At nine-thirty A.M., the salvage experts found something more. The body of Russian terrorist Sergei Cherkassov.
The report galvanized the often fractious officers of the SCCAF as well as the minister of the Islamic Revolutions Guards Corps, the minster of foreign affairs, the minister of the interior, and the minister of intelligence. The moderates had joined the extremists, and by ten A.M., the order had been given: the IRI military was ordered to defend Iranian interests in the Caspian at any and all cost.
On the sea, the initial thrust was to be an antisubmarine defense. That was spearheaded by antisubmarine aircraft and helicopters. Marine battalions in the region were also mobilized. The second wave would consist of destroyers and frigates, which were to be stationed around the remaining rigs. Chinese-made Silkworm missiles were rushed to the forces defending the Caspian.
In the air, Chinese-made Shenyang F-6s began regular patrols from both the Doshan Tapeh Air Base and the Mehrabad Air Base. Three surface-to-air missile battalions in the region were also put on high alert.
At the same time, Iranian embassies in Moscow and Baku were ordered to notify the Russian and Azerbaijani governments that while the attack was under investigation, any further moves against Iranian interests would be regarded as a declaration of war by those governments. Iranian diplomats were informed by both governments that they had had no hand in the attack on the Iranian oil facility. Representatives of Moscow and Baku added that Iran’s increased military presence was unwelcome. Both nations indicated that their own navies and air forces would be placed on alert and would increase patrols in the region.
By late morning, waters that had given lives to fishermen and oilmen the night before were rich with something else.
The promise of death.
FORTY
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 1:33 A.M.
Mike Rodgers was in his office when General Orlov called. After hearing what the Russian had to say, Rodgers immediately called Paul Hood in his car and gave him the new information about the Harpooner.
“How certain is General Orlov about the NSA-Harpooner connection?” Hood asked.
“I asked him that,” Rodgers told Hood. “Orlov answered that he is very certain. Though I’m not sure the president is going to put a lot of credence in what a Russian general thinks.”
“Especially if several of the president’s top advisers refute that information,” Hood said.
“Paul, if Orlov is correct, we’re going to have to do more than tell the president,” Rodgers said. “There’s going to have to be a massive housecleaning in the NSA. We can’t have American intelligence agencies hiring terrorists who have attacked American interests, taken American lives.”
“Didn’t we do that with the German rocket scientists after World War Two?” Hood asked.
“The operative phrase is, ‘after World War Two,’ ” Rodgers said. “We didn’t hire German scientists to work for us while they were still building missiles to attack Great Britain.”
“Good point,” Hood said.
“Paul, this is the guy that helped kill Bob Herbert’s wife,” Rodgers said. “If Orlov’s intel is true, the NSA has to be held accountable for this.”
“I hear you,” Hood said. “Look, I’ll be at the White House soon. Work on trying to get me any kind of backup you can. See if Bob can dig up signal intelligence that backs up Orlov’s claims.”
“He’s working on that now,” Rodgers said.
Hood hung up, and Rodgers got up. He poured coffee from the pot that sat on a cart in the back of his room. It was an aluminum cart from the 1950s. He’d picked it up at a Pentagon garage sale ten years before. He wondered if the sounds of crisis still resonated somewhere deep in its molecular structure. Arguments and decisions about Korea, the Cold War, Vietnam.
Or were they arguments about whose turn it was to treat for coffee and Danish? Rodgers wondered. That was part of war, too, of course. The moments of down-time that let decision makers catch their breath. Do something real instead of theoretical. Remind themselves that they were talking about people’s lives and not just statistics.
When he sat back down, Rodgers started going through the files of the NSA’s top officials. He was looking for people who had previous ties with Jack Fenwick or had ever investigated Middle Eastern terrorist groups. The NSA could not have contacted the Harpooner unless someone in one of those groups had helped. If it turned out that Orlov was right, Rodgers wanted to be ready to help with the purge. A purge of Americans who had collaborated with a man who had murdered American men and women, soldiers, and civilians.
He wanted to be ready with a vengeance.
FORTY-ONE
Washington, D.C
Tuesday, 1:34 A.M.
The White House is an aging monument in constant need of repair. There is peeling paint on the southern columns and splitting wood on the third-floor terraces.
But in the West Wing, especially in the Oval Office, there is a sense of constant renewal. To outsiders, power is a large part of the appeal of the Oval Office. To insiders, it is the idea that an intense new drama presents itself every hour of every day. Whether it’s small, cautious maneuvering against a political rival or the mobilization of the military for a massive offensive and possible casualties, each situation starts, builds, and ends. For someone who thrives on outthinking an adversary or on extrapolating short- and long-term results from quiet decisions, the Oval Office is the ultimate challenge. It clears the game board every few minutes and offers new contests with new rules. Some presidents are aged and drained by the process. Other presidents thrive on it.
There was a time until very recently when Michael Lawrence was invigorated by the problems that crossed his desk. He was undaunted by crises, even those that required quick military action and possible casualties. That was part of the job description. A president’s task was to minimize the damage caused by inevitable aggression.
But something had changed over the
past few days. Lawrence had always felt that however stressful situations got, he was at least in control of the process. He could chair meetings with confidence. Lately, that was no longer the case. It was difficult for him even to focus.
Lawrence had worked with Jack Fenwick and Red Gable for many years. They were old friends of the vice president, and Lawrence trusted Jack Cotten. He trusted his judgment. Lawrence would not have selected him as a running mate otherwise. As vice president, Cotten had been more closely involved in the activities of the NSA than any previous vice president. Lawrence had wanted it that way. For years, the CIA, the FBI, and military intelligence had had their own agendas. The Executive Branch needed its own eyes and ears abroad. Lawrence and Cotten had more or less appropriated the NSA for that task. The military could still utilize the NSA’s chartered assets, which were the centralized coordination and direction of U.S. government intelligence technical functions and communications. Under Cotten, its role had quietly been expanded to increase the breadth and detail of intelligence that was coming directly to the president. Or, rather, to Fenwick and the vice president and then to the president.
The president stared at the open laptop on his desk. Jack Fenwick was talking about Iran. Data was downloading quickly from the NSA. Fenwick had some facts and a good deal of supposition. He also had an edge. He appeared to be going somewhere, though he had not yet indicated where.
Meanwhile, Lawrence’s eyes stung, and his vision was foggy. It was difficult to concentrate. He was tired, but he was also distracted. He did not know who to believe or even what to believe. Was the data from the NSA real or falsified? Was Fenwick’s intelligence accurate or fabricated?
Paul Hood suspected Fenwick of deception. Hood appeared to have the evidence for it. But what if it were Hood’s evidence that wasn’t trustworthy? Hood was going through an extremely stressful time. He had resigned his post at Op-Center, then returned. He had been at ground zero of the explosive UN hostage crisis. His daughter was suffering from an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Hood was in the process of getting a divorce.
What if it were Hood who had the agenda, not Fenwick, the president wondered. When Fenwick had arrived at the White House before, he admitted that he had been to the Iranian mission. He admitted it openly. But he insisted that the president had been informed. The vice president corroborated that fact. So did the calendar on the president’s computer. As for the call regarding the United Nations initiative, Fenwick insisted that was not placed by him. He said the NSA would investigate. Could it have been placed by Hood?
“Mr. President?” Fenwick said.
The president looked at Fenwick. The national security adviser was seated in an armchair to the left of the desk. Gable was to the right, and the vice president was in the center.
“Yes, Jack?” the president replied.
“Are you all right, sir?” Fenwick asked.
“Yes,” Lawrence replied. “Go on.”
Fenwick smiled and nodded and continued.
The president sat up taller. He had to focus on the issue at hand. When he got through this crisis, he would schedule a short vacation. Very soon. And he would invite his childhood friend and golfing buddy, Dr. Edmond Leidesdorf, and his wife. Leidesdorf was a psychiatrist attached to Walter Reed. The president had not wanted to see him officially with this problem because the press would find out about it. Once that happened, his political career would be over. But they had played golf and gone sailing before. They could talk on a golf course or boat without raising suspicion.
“The latest intelligence puts the Russian terrorist Sergei Cherkassov at the scene of the explosion,” Fenwick continued. “He had escaped from prison three days before the attack on the rig. His body was found at sea. There were burn marks consistent with flash explosives. There was also very little bloating. Cherkassov had not been in the water for very long.”
“Do the Azerbaijanis have that information?” the president asked.
“We suspect they do,” Fenwick replied. “The Iranian naval patrol that found Cherkassov radioed shore on an open channel. Those channels are routinely monitored by the Azerbaijanis.”
“Maybe Teheran wanted the rest of the world to have the information,” the president suggested. “It might turn them against Russia.”
“That’s possible,” Fenwick agreed. “It’s also possible that Cherkassov was working for Azerbaijan.”
“He was being held in an Azerbaijani prison,” the vice president said. “They might have allowed him to escape so that he could be blamed for the attack.”
“How likely is that?” the president asked.
“We’re checking with sources at the prison now,” Fenwick said. “But it’s looking very likely.”
“Which means that instead of the attack turning Iran against Russia, Azerbaijan may have succeeded in uniting both nations against them,” the vice president said.
Fenwick leaned forward. “Mr. President, there’s one thing more. We suspect that creating a union between Russia and Iran may actually have been the ultimate goal of the Azerbaijani government.”
“Why in hell would they do that?” the president asked.
“Because they are practically at war with Iran in the Nagorno-Karabakh region,” Fenwick said. “And both Russia and Iran have been pressing claims on some of their oil fields in the Caspian.”
“Azerbaijan wouldn’t stand a chance against either nation individually,” the president pointed out. “Why unite them?”
Even as he said it, the president knew why.
To win allies.
“How much of our oil do we get from that region?” the president asked.
“We’re up to seventeen percent this year with a projection of twenty percent next year,” Gable informed him. “We’re getting much better prices from Baku than we are from the Middle East. That was guaranteed by the trade agreement we signed with Baku in March 1993. And they’ve been very good about upholding their end of the agreement.”
“Shit,” the president said. “What about the other members of the Commonwealth of Independent States?” he asked. “Where will they stand if two of their members go to war?”
“I took the liberty of having my staff put in calls to all of our ambassadors before I came over here,” the vice president said. “We’re in the process of ascertaining exactly where everyone stands. But a preliminary guess is that it will pretty much be split. Five or six of the poorer, smaller republics will side with Azerbaijan in the hopes of forming a new union with a share of the oil money. The other half will go with Russia for pretty much the same reason.”
“So we risk a wider war as well,” the president said.
“But this is more than just the possibility of us losing oil and watching a war erupt,” Fenwick pointed out. “It’s Iran and the Russian black market getting their hands on petrodollars that scares me.”
The president shook his head. “I’m going to have to bring the joint chiefs in on this.”
The vice president nodded. “We’re going to have to move quickly. It’s midmorning in the region. Things are going to happen very quickly. If they get ahead of us—”
“I know,” the president said. He was suddenly energized, ready to deal with the situation. He looked at his watch and then at Gable. “Red, would you notify the joint chiefs to be here at three? Also, get the press secretary out of bed. I want him here as well.” He looked at the vice president. “We’ll need to alert the thirty-ninth Wing at Incirlik and the naval resources in the region.”
“That would be the Constellation in the North Arabian Sea and the Ronald Reagan in the Persian Gulf, sir,” Fenwick said.
“I’ll put them on alert,” the vice president said. He excused himself and went to the president’s private study. It was a small room that adjoined the Oval Office on the western side. That was also where the president’s private lavatory and dining parlor were located.
“We’ll also have to brief NATO command,” the p
resident told Gable. “I don’t want them holding us up if we decide to act. And we’re going to need a complete chemical and biological workup of the Azerbaijani military. See how far they’ll go if we don’t join in.”
“I already have that, sir,” Fenwick said. “They’ve got deep reserves of anthrax as well as methyl cyanide and acetonitrile on the chemical side. All have surface-to-surface missile delivery systems. Most of the reserves are stored in or near the NK. We’re watching to see if any of them are moved.”
The president nodded as his intercom beeped. It was his deputy executive secretary Charlotte Parker.
“Mr. President,” said Parker, “Paul Hood would like to see you. He says it’s very important.”
Fenwick did not appear to react. He turned to Gable and began talking softly as he pointed to data on his notepad.
Are they talking about the Caspian or about Hood? the president wondered. Lawrence thought for a moment. If Hood were the one who had lost his way — either intentionally or because of external pressures — this would be the time and the place to find out.
“Tell him to come in,” said the president.
FORTY-TWO
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Tuesday, 9:56 A.M.
“We have the Harpooner’s location!” Korsov shouted.
Orlov looked up as Korsov rushed into his office. The young intelligence officer was followed by Boris Grosky, who looked less glum than Orlov had ever seen him. He did not look happy, but he did not look miserable. Korsov was holding several papers in his hands.
“Where is he?” Orlov asked.
Korsov slapped a computer printout on Orlov’s desk. There was a map and an arrow pointing to a building. Another arrow pointed to a street several blocks away.