Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Six hours, nothing less.”

  The Foreign Minister whispered instruction to an aide, who left the room at once to call the chief negotiator. Next he leaned forward. “That leaves only the question of which arms will be eliminated—the hardest question of all, of course. That will require another session—a long one.”

  “We are scheduled to have our summit in three months ...” Narmonov observed.

  “Yes. It should be decided by then. Preliminary excursions into this question have not met any serious obstacles.”

  “And the American defensive systems?” Alexandrov asked. “What of them?” Heads turned again, now to the KGB Chairman.

  “Our efforts to penetrate the American Tea Clipper program continue. As you know, it corresponds very closely to our Project Bright Star, though it would seem that we are further along in the most important areas,” Gerasimov said, without looking up from his scratch pad.

  “We cut our missile force in half while the Americans learn to shoot our missiles down,” Alexandrov groused.

  “And they will cut their force in half while we work to the same end,” Narmonov went on. “Mikhail Petrovich, we’ve been working along these lines for over thirty years, and much harder than they have.”

  “We are also further along in testing,” Yazov pointed out. “And—”

  “They know of it,” Gerasimov said. He referred to the test the Americans had observed from the Cobra Belle aircraft, but Yazov didn’t know about that, and even the KGB hadn’t discovered how the test had been observed, merely that the Americans knew of it. “They have intelligence services too, remember.”

  “But they haven’t said anything about it,” Narmonov observed.

  “The Americans have occasionally been reticent to discuss such things. They complain about some technical aspects of our defense activity, but not all of them, for fear of compromising their intelligence-gathering methods,” Gerasimov explained casually. “Possibly they have conducted similar tests, though we have not learned of it. The Americans, too, are able to maintain secrecy when they wish.” Taussig had never gotten that information out either. Gerasimov leaned back to let others speak.

  “In other words, both sides will continue as before,” Narmonov concluded.

  “Unless we are able to win a concession,” the Foreign Minister said. “Which is unlikely to happen. Is there anyone at this table who thinks we should restrict our missile-defense programs?” There wasn’t. “Then why should we realistically expect the Americans to feel any differently?”

  “But what if they get ahead of us!” Alexandrov demanded.

  “An excellent point, Mikhail Petrovich,” Narmonov seized the opportunity. “Why do the Americans always seem to get ahead of us?” he asked the assembled chieftains of his country.

  “They do so not because they are magicians, but because we allow them to—because we cannot make our economy perform as it should. That denies Marshal Yazov the tools our men in uniform need, denies our people the good things of life that they are coming to expect, and denies us the ability to face the West as equals.”

  “Our weapons make us equals!” Alexandrov objected.

  “But what advantage do they give us when the West has weapons, too? Is there anyone around this table who is content to be equal to the West? Our rockets do that for us,” Narmonov said, “but there is more to national greatness than the ability to kill. If we are to defeat the West, it cannot be with nuclear bombs—unless you want the Chinese to inherit our world.” Narmonov paused. “Comrades, if we are to prevail we have to get our economy moving!”

  “It is moving,” Alexandrov said.

  “Where? Do any of us know that?” Vaneyev asked, igniting the room’s atmosphere.

  The discussion turned boisterous for several minutes before settling down to the collegial sort of discussion normal to the Politburo. Narmonov used it to measure the strength of his opposition. He deemed his faction more than equal to that of Alexandrov’s. Vaneyev hadn’t tipped his hand—Alexandrov expected him to pretend to be on the Secretary’s side, didn’t he? And the General Secretary still had Yazov. Narmonov had also used the session to defuse the political dimension of his country’s economic problems by couching the need for reforms as a means of improving the country’s military power—which was true, of course, but was also an issue difficult for Alexandrov and his clique to deny. By taking the initiative, Narmonov judged, he’d been able to evaluate the other side’s strength yet again, and by putting the argument in the open, he’d put them on the psychological defensive at least temporarily. It was all he could hope for at the moment. He’d lived to fight another day, Narmonov told himself. Once the arms-control treaty went through, his power at this table would increase another notch. The people would like that—and for the first time in Soviet history, the feelings of the people were beginning to matter. Once it had been decided which arms would be eliminated, and over what sort of schedule, they’d know how much additional money there would be to spend. Narmonov could control that discussion from his seat, using the funds to barter for additional power in the Politburo as members vied for it in pursuit of their own pet projects. Alexandrov could not interfere with that, since his power base was ideological rather than economic. It occurred to Narmonov that he would probably win out. With Defense at his back, and with Vaneyev in his pocket, he would win the confrontation, break KGB to his will, and put Alexandrov out to pasture. It was only a matter of deciding when to force the issue. There had to be agreement on the treaty, and he would gladly trade away small advantages on that score in order to secure his position at home. The West would be surprised by that, but someday it would be more surprised to see what a viable economy would do for its principal rival. Narmonov’s immediate concern was his political survival. After that came the task of bringing life back into his country’s economy. There was a further objective, one that hadn’t changed in three generations, though the West was always discovering new ways to ignore it. Narmonov’s eyes weren’t fixed on it, but it was still there.

  Last session, Ryan told himself. Thank God. The nervousness was back. There was no reason that everything shouldn’t go well—the odd part was that Ryan had no idea what would happen with Gerasimov’s family. “Need-to-know” had again raised its wearisome head on that score, but the part about getting Gerasimov and CARDINAL out was so breathtakingly simple that he would never have come up with it. That part was Ritter’s doing, and the crusty old bastard did have a flair.

  The Russians spoke first this time, and five minutes into the speech, they proposed a warning time for surprise on-site inspections. Jack would have preferred zero-time, but that was unreasonable. It wasn’t necessary to see what the insides of the birds looked like, desirable as that would be. It was enough to count the launchers and the warheads, and anything under ten hours was probably enough for that—especially if the snap visits were coordinated with satellite passes to catch any attempt at sleight-of-hand. The Russians offered ten hours. Ernest Allen, in his reply, demanded three. Two hours later the respective figures were seven and five. Two hours after that, much to everyone’s surprise, the Americans said six, and the chief Russian delegate nodded consent. Both men rose and leaned across the table to shake hands. Jack was glad it was all over, but would have held out for five. After all, he and Golovko had agreed on four, hadn’t they?

  Four and a half hours to settle on one damned number, Jack thought. And that may be an all-time record. There was even some applause when everyone stood, and Jack joined the line for the nearest men’s room. A few minutes later he returned. Golovko was there.

  “Your people let us off easy,” the KGB officer said.

  “I guess you’re lucky it wasn’t my job,” Jack agreed. “This is a hell of a lot of work for two or three little things.”

  “You think them little?”

  “In the Great Scheme of Things ... well, they’re significant, but not overly so. Mainly what this means is that we can fly home
,” Jack observed, and some unease crept into his voice. It isn’t over yet.

  “You look forward to this?” Golovko asked.

  “Not exactly, but there you are.” It isn’t the flight that makes me nervous this time, sport.

  The flight crew had stayed at the Hotel Ukrania, just on the Moscow River, doubling up in the huge rooms, shopping in the “friendship store” for souvenirs, and generally seeing what they could while maintaining a guard team on the aircraft. Now they checked out together and boarded a fifty-passenger tourist bus that crossed over the river and headed east on Kalinina Prospekt on its way to the airport, a half-hour drive in the light traffic.

  When Colonel von Eich arrived, the British Airways ground crew that provided maintenance support was finishing up the fueling under the watchful eyes of his crew chief—the chief master sergeant who “owned” the aircraft—and the Captain who’d serve as copilot in the VC-137’s right seat. The members of the crew checked through the KGB control point, whose officers were assiduously thorough in verifying everyone’s identity. Finished, the crew filed aboard, stowed its gear, and began getting the converted 707 ready for its flight back to Andrews Air Force Base. The pilot gathered five of his people together in the cockpit, and under the covering noise of somebody’s boomer-box, informed them of what they’d be doing tonight that was “a little different.”

  “Christ, sir,” the crew chief noted, “that’s different all right.”

  “What’s life without a little excitement?” von Eich asked. “Everybody clear on your duties?” He got nods. “Then let’s get to work, people.” The pilot and copilot picked up their checklists and went outside with the crew chief to pre-flight the aircraft. It would be good to get back home, they all agreed—assuming that they could unstick the tires from the pavement. It was, the crew chief observed, as cold as a witch’s tit. Their hands gloved, and dressed now in Air Force-issue parkas, they took their time as they walked around the aircraft. The 89th Military Airlift Wing had a spotless safety record ferrying “DVs” all over the world, and the way they maintained that was through uncompromising attention to every detail. Von Eich wondered if their 700,000 hours of accident-free flying would be undone tonight.

  Ryan was already packed. They’d be leaving right from the reception to the airport. He decided to shave and brush his teeth again before putting his shaving kit in one of the pockets of his two-suiter. He was wearing one of his English suits. It was almost warm enough for the local climate, but Jack promised himself that if he ever again came to Moscow in the winter, he’d remember to bring long johns. It was almost time when a knock came at the door. It was Tony Candela.

  “Enjoy the flight home,” he said.

  “Yeah.” Ryan chuckled.

  “Thought I’d give you a hand.” He hefted the two-suiter, and Jack merely had to grab his briefcase. Together they walked to the elevator, which took them from the seventh floor up to the ninth, where they waited for another elevator to take them down to the lobby.

  “Do you know who designed this building?”

  “Obviously someone with a sense of humor,” Candela replied. “They hired the same fellow to handle construction of the new embassy.” Both men laughed. That story was worthy of a Hollywood disaster epic. There were enough electronic devices in that building to cobble up a mainframe computer. The elevator came a minute later, taking both men to the lobby. Candela handed Ryan his suitcase.

  “Break a leg,” he said before walking away.

  Jack walked out to where the cars were waiting and dropped his case in the open trunk. The night was clear. There were stars in the sky, and the hint of the aurora borealis on the northern horizon. He’d heard that this natural phenomenon was occasionally seen from Moscow, but it was something that he’d never witnessed.

  The motorcade left ten minutes later and made its way south to the Foreign Ministry, repeating the route that nearly encapsulated Ryan’s slim knowledge of this city of eight million souls. One by one the cars curved onto the small traffic circle and their occupants were guided into the building. This reception was not nearly as elaborate as the last one in the Kremlin had been, but this session had not accomplished quite as much. The next one would be a bear, as the summit deadline approached, but the next session was scheduled to be in Washington. The reporters were already waiting, mainly print, with a few TV cameras present. Someone approached Jack as soon as he handed off his topcoat.

  “Dr. Ryan?”

  “Yeah?” He turned.

  “Mike Paster, Washington Post. There’s a report in Washington that your SEC problems have been settled.”

  Jack laughed. “God, it’s nice not to talk about the arms business for a change! As I said earlier, I didn’t do anything wrong. I guess those—jerks, but don’t quote me on that—folks finally figured it out. Good. I didn’t want to have to hire a lawyer.”

  “There’s talk that CIA had a hand in—” Ryan cut him off.

  “Tell you what. Tell your Washington bureau that if they give me a couple days to unwind from this business, I’ll show them everything I did. I do all my transactions by computer, and I keep hard copies of everything. Fair enough?”

  “Sure—but why didn’t—”

  “You tell me,” Jack said, reaching for a glass of wine as a waiter went past. He had to have one, but tonight it would be one only. “Maybe some people in D.C. have a hard-on for the Agency. For Christ’s sake don’t quote me on that, either.”

  “So how’d the talks go?” the reporter asked next.

  “You can get the details from Ernie, but off the record, pretty good. Not as good as last time, and there’s a lot left to handle, but we settled a couple of tough ones, and that’s about all we expected for this trip.”

  “Will the agreement go through in time for the summit?” Paster inquired next.

  “Off the record,” Jack said immediately. The reporter nodded. “I’d call the chances better than two out of three.”

  “How’s the Agency feel about it?”

  “We’re not supposed to be political, remember? From a technical point of view, the fifty-percent reduction is something I think we can live with. It doesn’t really change anything, does it? But it is ‘nice.’ I grant you that.”

  “How do you want me to quote this?” Paster asked.

  “Call me a Very Junior Administration Official.” Jack grinned. “Fair enough? Uncle Ernie can speak on the record, but I’m not allowed to.”

  “What about the effect this will have on Narmonov’s remaining in power?”

  “Not my turf,” Ryan lied smoothly. “My opinions on that are private, not professional.”

  “So ...”

  “So ask somebody else about that,” Jack suggested. “Ask me the really important things, like who the ’Skins ought to draft in the first round.”

  “Olson, the quarterback at Baylor,” the reporter said at once.

  “I like that defensive end at Penn State myself, but he’ll probably go too early.”

  “Good trip,” the reporter said as he closed his note pad.

  “Yeah, you enjoy the rest of the winter, pal.” The reporter made to go away, then paused. “Can you say anything, completely off the record, about the Foley couple that the Russians sent home last—”

  “Who? Oh, the ones they accused of spying? Off the record, and you never heard this from me, it’s bullshit. Any other way, no comment.”

  “Right.” The reporter walked off with a smile.

  Jack was left standing alone. He looked around for Golovko, but couldn’t find him. He was disappointed. Enemy or not, they could always talk, and Ryan had come to enjoy their conversations. The Foreign Minister showed up, then Narmonov. All the other fixtures were there: the violins, the tables laden with snacks, the circulating waiters with silver trays of wine, vodka, and champagne. The State Department people were knotted in conversation with their Soviet colleagues. Ernie Allen was laughing with his Soviet counterpart. Only Jack was standing alo
ne, and that wouldn’t do. He walked over to the nearest group and hung on the periphery, scarcely noticed as he checked his watch from time to time and took tiny sips of the wine.

  “Time,” Clark said.

  Getting to this point had been difficult enough. Clark’s equipment was already set in the watertight trunk that ran from the Attack Center to the top of the sail. It had hatches at both ends and was completely watertight, unlike the rest of the sail, which was free-flooding. One more sailor had volunteered to go in with him, and then the bottom hatch was closed and dogged down tight. Mancuso lifted a phone.

  “Communications check.”

  “Loud and clear, sir,” Clark replied. “Ready whenever you are.”

  “Don’t touch the hatch until I say so.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

  The Captain turned around. “I have the conn,” he announced.

  “Captain has the conn,” the officer of the deck agreed.

  “Diving Officer, pump out three thousand pounds. We’re taking her off the bottom. Engine room, stand by to answer bells.”

  “Aye.” The diving officer, who was also Chief of the Boat, gave the necessary orders. Electric trim pumps ejected a ton and a half of saltwater, and Dallas slowly righted herself. Mancuso looked around. The submarine was at battle stations. The fire-control tracking party stood ready. Ramius was with the navigator. The weapons-control panels were manned. Below in the torpedo room, all four tubes were loaded, and one was already flooded.

  “Sonar, conn. Anything to report?” Mancuso asked next.

  “Negative, conn. Nothing at all, sir.”

  “Very well. Diving Officer, make your depth nine-zero feet.”

  “Nine-zero feet, aye.”

  They had to get off the bottom before giving the submarine any forward movement. Mancuso watched the depth gauge change slowly as the Chief of the Boat, also known as the Cob, slowly and skillfully adjusted the submarine’s trim.