Commander-In-Chief

by Tom Clancy

  Ryan thought this over. “Regarding the MEU in Scotland. Any chance they can pack everyone up into their ships and head up the North Sea for a day? Make it look like it’s part of their exercise? It would get them that much closer if we decide to pull the trigger, and it wouldn’t necessarily look like we were considering using them.”

  Burgess said, “I’ll talk to Nate Bradford, the Marine commandant. I think that sounds like a reasonable measure. If this gets any worse over there, hours will count.”

  Ryan said, “If somebody is killing CIA officers and trying to yank station chiefs over the border, then it already is worse over there. I think the only way to plan to succeed in Lithuania is to go ahead and plan on failing here in Copenhagen. Barring an Art Five violation before the consensus vote tomorrow, this one is in the bag, folks. We’ve lost.”

  • • •

  As Ryan said this, just eight miles to his east, the Russian Severodvinsk-class submarine Kazan passed under the bridge that connected Malmo, Sweden, with Copenhagen, Denmark.

  Directly above the silent vessel, European Union commuters passed in their cars between Denmark and Sweden, blissfully unaware that a massive predator skulked in the cold waters below them.

  The Kazan was twenty-four hours away from initiating hostile actions off the coast of Kaliningrad, and no one in the West knew it had even left port in the Arctic.

  55

  Twenty-four hours after the attempted kidnapping of CIA chief of station Peter Branyon, no one in Lithuania knew anything more about what had actually happened than they did during the event.

  The two men of The Campus had spent the hours hard at work, beginning the moment Chavez and Caruso drove the wounded Branyon away from the border. Once they were out of range of whatever technology was jamming both cell and satellite signals near the border, Ding called Branyon’s second-in-command at the U.S. embassy. When he got through he put Branyon himself on the phone with his deputy, and the CoS gave a sit rep and orders even as he fought vomiting from the pain and losing consciousness from the blood loss.

  The Campus men delivered Branyon to the hospital and handed him off to a team of CIA security officers, another group of whom was already racing to Tabariškės, along with a contingent of Lithuanian troops, to collect Donlin’s body and to check the location near the border where the gunfight had taken place.

  Once Chavez and Caruso were clear of the hospital, they headed back to their safe house, conducting a long SDR in the process.

  Chavez called Mary Pat Foley while still in the middle of the SDR. He didn’t have to tell her about the incident because she’d already spoken directly with the deputy chief of station, but he filled her in on some key details.

  When he was finished with his brief after-action review, Mary Pat said, “What do you think, Domingo? My first feeling is you both need to get out of there tonight.”

  Chavez replied, “Of course we’ll do whatever you say, but I think there is still a role for us over here.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Ding said, “Right now you don’t have a station chief in the city. I know Branyon and Donlin were burned, apparently by the network of agents run out of Tabariškės. I don’t know how many more case officers at the embassy were known to that network and compromised, but we have no reason to believe we’ve been compromised to the Russians, or even to this other group obviously working on their behalf. Let us stay here in the field, continue working under the DataPlanet cover, and get the rest of our images knocked out during the day tomorrow. At night maybe we can support the local station in some way, even if it’s just keeping an eye out here in the city.”

  Mary Pat said, “All right. That would be helpful, but I want you two to have a plan to get out of there.”

  “Trust me,” Chavez said. “With the Russians peering over the walls on two sides, we are keeping our bags packed.”

  • • •

  The next morning Chavez and Caruso were picked up by the DataPlanet van at six, same as every other day they’d been in country. When they climbed into the vehicle, however, they could immediately tell something was wrong. Herkus Zarkus sat behind the wheel looking ahead. He wasn’t his normal laid-back self.

  Caruso and Chavez both instantly assumed he knew about what happened the evening before somehow, and he was scared to be traveling with the two Americans who’d shot it out with some sort of foreign special mission unit.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Dom, but he thought he knew the answer to the question.

  Herkus let the van idle while he turned to the other men. “Guys, I hate to do this to you, but I just came to bring you the van. I can’t go out with you today.”

  Dom nodded sympathetically, certain now Herkus didn’t want to continue the relationship with the American intelligence agents. “I understand,” he said.

  But he did not understand at all.

  Herkus said, “The president has asked everyone between the ages of eighteen and forty to join the national defense militia. I’m leaving today. I don’t think they know what the hell they are going to do with us, but I figure since I have American military experience, they ought to make me a general or something.”

  He chuckled at his own joke, but the two Campus men could see his nerves showing.

  Chavez realized he’d been wrong about Herkus. He wasn’t scared of being around the Americans. On the contrary, he was going to volunteer to move even closer to the danger. “That’s very noble, but you were an electronics-repair technician. What the hell good do you think you can do against a Russian invasion?”

  Herkus said, “This is home now, guys. I can’t ask you to understand, but I can’t leave Lithuania to the Russians. Better that I die with a gun in my hand than driving my van around repairing the Internet.”

  Chavez put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Better you don’t die, friend. Any idea where they are sending you?”

  Herkus just shrugged. “I heard they are passing out thirty-year-old M16s they have in their wartime reserves, and sending men to trenches being built at the border. Don’t know if I’m going to the Kaliningrad side or the Belarus side.” He shrugged again. “It’s not like it matters.”

  Dom said, “An M16 isn’t going to stop a tank, Herkus.”

  “I know.” Dom could see the Lithuanian American was scared but resolute. Herkus said, “My decision is made, guys. I hope whatever it is they have you doing here, it helps us out.”

  Herkus drove the van to a streetcar stop near the Neris River, which bisected Vilnius, then climbed out of the vehicle, followed by the two Campus operatives. He already had a backpack ready in the back. He loaded up and shook Ding’s and Dom’s hands and climbed aboard a waiting streetcar without looking back.

  Ding climbed behind the wheel, and the two men drove off for a day of high-resolution imagery.

  Caruso said, “Is he brave or crazy?”

  Chavez replied, “He’s brave, for sure. I don’t like his odds at all, but if this was my country, and my family could be twenty-four hours away from being ruled by a Russian puppet, I’d like to think I’d make the same decision.”

  Caruso shook his head. “I’d fight, but I wouldn’t fight with an old rifle in a muddy trench.”

  Chavez just shrugged. “Whatever we’re doing here, I’ve got to think we’re force multipliers. We’re going to make the fight easier for Herkus and his side. The harder we work, the more chance he and a few thousand guys just like him make it out of their ditch alive.”

  • • •

  John Clark had put in his second full day as a ship’s captain, beginning at first light. Just after dawn the day before, he’d sailed into Scrub Island Marina and tied off at the back of a massive array of sailboats, easily seventy-five different vessels lined up in neat rows and bobbing in the peaceful water. He climbed into his dinghy and was halfway to the marina dock b
efore he was able to rule out any chance that the Spinnaker II was in the mooring field. But still he tied off and went to shore, where he waited for the harbor services office to open.

  As soon as attendants arrived, Clark filled up his dinghy’s gas tank and, in a tone as nonchalant as he could make it, asked them if they’d seen a sixty-eight-foot gunboat. The men knew of the Spinnaker II; they said it was one of the fastest sailing ships in the Virgin Islands, and they told him its home port was Saint Thomas over in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

  But the men said they hadn’t seen it in the BVIs in months.

  Clark headed back to his boat and then uncoupled from his moorings. He had another dozen stops planned for the day.

  Day one of his search for the cobalt-gray catamaran turned up nothing, as did the first six stops on day two. But on his seventh, this time at a dockside bar in Spanish Town in Virgin Gorda, he was told the cobalt-gray catamaran had arrived in the predawn hours, and had only just departed ninety minutes before he arrived. Clark asked if they’d seen which way the boat had gone. Of course, there was no way to pass his line of questioning off as idle conversation, but he was concerned he might not get another good sighting.

  The captain sitting at the bar said he’d not paid attention, then he went back to his drink.

  Clark left, and a man who had been sitting next to the conversation reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone.

  • • •

  It was after six p.m. on a long afternoon of searching the cays, bays, and marinas around Virgin Gorda when Clark noticed a dive boat returning to the dock in Little Dix Bay. He assumed the boat might have run dives at one of the more remote locations near Virgin Gorda, so he carefully took his Irwin into the bay, following the dive boat toward the dock.

  His persistence paid off. The captain of the dive boat told him he’d seen the Spinnaker II sail into a remote cove of tiny West Seal Dog Island, an uninhabited rock a few miles northwest of the bay.

  Clark knew he would have to make his approach carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was appear in front of the already suspicious men on the boat. He almost considered renting a new sailboat in Spanish Town to take into the area, but he worried this would just make the men on the Spinnaker II know he was up to no good if they recognized him on a different vessel.

  After thinking it over for a long time, he decided he’d go to another nearby island and drop anchor for the night, far enough away from where the men were holding the Walkers that they couldn’t possibly detect him. And then the following day he would move into position along with the other boats approaching the uninhabited West Seal Dog for a day of diving, fishing, and snorkeling.

  There would be safety in numbers, he told himself. He’d try to stay out of sight and blend in with the rest of the crowd.

  Clark had picked up provisions in Spanish Town, so he decided to spend the night in some secluded spot, just on the off chance that the Spinnaker II might leave West Seal Dog and head to a Virgin Gorda marina for the night. He found a suitable secluded spot on Mosquito Island just before sundown, and he dropped anchor.

  Clark had decided he would take up watch on the catamaran the following day, probably from shore on West Seal Dog, and then make a scuba approach to the Spinnaker II, not at night but during the daylight hours. A nighttime raid on the boat might have seemed to give him the most potential for success, but Clark assumed all five of the men he’d seen on his earlier surveillance of the catamaran would be on board during the overnight hours.

  But if he arrived close enough to do surveillance tomorrow, he might well catch at least two of the men off the boat and ashore. Confronting three men who were wide awake but not expecting action was preferable to five men, even if some were asleep, especially if they had someone keeping watch.

  Clark was all but exhausted from his full day of hunting for the Spinnaker II, but he’d achieved his objective. Now all he could do was get a good night’s sleep, and prepare himself mentally for the confrontation to come.

  56

  Tatiana Molchanova had interviewed world leaders before, but she’d never met any foreign leader with nearly the power of her own president. Today all that would change, and this would be thrilling enough to her, but the added element to this evening’s meeting with the American President had her positively electrified.

  Molchanova spoke excellent English; she was the daughter of parents who’d immigrated to the UK in the early nineties, when anyone who had the means and the desire to get out did just that. She’d spent nine years in Sheffield, and she’d only returned to the land of her birth for college. She’d remained in Russia ever since, so she spoke her English with something of a British accent but she retained the lilt of Russian in her vowels.

  It had added to her cachet in Russia that she had returned to the nation of her birth, eschewing the lures of the West because of the pride she felt in her heart in being a Russian woman.

  This was a good selling point for Molchanova, but it had nothing to do with the reason she had really returned home. She wanted to be a broadcaster, and she knew her accent, while limited, would preclude her from making any name for herself in English because she was not a native speaker.

  The interview was conducted in the living room of a suite at the Radisson Blu Royal Hotel in Copenhagen. It wasn’t the President’s actual suite, but rather one reserved for media broadcasts. A simple set had been assembled by moving furniture around, and behind the set was a window with a view overlooking the Tivoli Gardens.

  President Ryan appeared right on time in the center of his large entourage of Secret Service agents and aides.

  Molchanova was instantly struck by Ryan’s physical size as compared to Volodin’s—he was half a head taller—as well as his calm, relaxed mannerisms, again as compared to her own leader’s. Ryan smiled easily and shook her hand gently and with deference.

  She had an icebreaker prepared. “Mr. President, I know the people of Russia appreciate you taking time to give your view on matters important to both of our nations.”

  Ryan just nodded and said, “Happy to be with you, Miss Molchanova.”

  She said, “With your permission, we will conduct our interview in English and interpreters will dub in the translations before this goes to air tomorrow evening.”

  Ryan then surprised the Channel Seven anchor by switching into slow but understandable Russian. “Unfortunately, I am forgetting more and more Russian every year. One needs to practice, and I have no time.”

  Molchanova had no idea Ryan knew a word in her language, and she was taken aback, but she retained the presence of mind to use the moment. In Russian she said, “Very impressive, Mr. President. I assume you learned when you were in the CIA?”

  Ryan switched back to English and shook his head. “No, ma’am. In college.” He smiled. “But since your English is flawless, let’s stick with your plan to use the interpreters.”

  As Ryan was miked and Tatiana readied herself in the chair next to him, she realized she hadn’t really known what to expect from the American President. She’d thought he would immediately try to get her to confirm that Channel Seven would play his comments unedited, or at least his aides would push her and her staff to commit. But the White House staff had been accommodating to the needs of the producers and technical people, much more accommodating than what she encountered when she interviewed mid-level Russian politicians in their offices.

  And the President had said nothing on the matter himself. She wondered if she had expected him to be some sort of thug, or if, perhaps, she was accustomed to interviewing thugs.

  The cameras began to roll, and Tatiana Molchanova read her introduction. After this, with a large white grin and a sparkle in her eyes, she turned to President Ryan.

  “Mr. President, thank you for your time this evening, on what is obviously a day that is very important to you.”

/>   “It’s my pleasure to speak to Russians in their homes. Thank you for the opportunity.”

  “Of course.” Her smile evaporated and she read her first question. “You are here, in Copenhagen, to ask NATO to move combat forces to the Russian border with Lithuania. How do you think this action will be received in Russia?”

  Ryan said, “Defensive combat forces, Miss Molchanova. There is a difference.”

  “Will they be armed? Could not their weapons be used for both offensive and defensive actions?”

  “Any weapon is just a tool. But NATO is a strictly defensive alliance. If it were an offensive alliance, I imagine NATO would have probably gone on the offensive at least once in Europe in the sixty-seven years since the charter was signed. It has not. I hope your audience understands that. For all the talk the West is at your door and about to knock it down, the NATO nations that border Russia have the absolute least military presence in them.”

  “But you wish to change that by sending troops to Lithuania.”

  “I am requesting NATO move its Very High Readiness Joint Task Force into Lithuania, yes. Russia has twenty-five thousand troops on the eastern border there, and twenty-five thousand troops on the western border. The VHRJTF is five thousand, seven hundred men and women.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss Molchanova. If your leader really wants to invade and conquer Lithuania, like he did in Georgia, like he did in the Crimea and Donetsk, like he tried to do in Estonia . . . I am sure he can pull it off. You will just have to come on television for him and explain to your viewers why they are suddenly at war with the West, why sanctions have been raised to the point where your only trading partners will be Cuba, Iran, and North Korea, and why no Russian will be allowed free travel outside their national borders.”

  Ryan could see it in her eyes: she thought she had a perfect riposte to his statement. “Such a long array of threats against the Russian people, Mr. President? Is that wise?”