Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “I really don’t have the time, sir.”

  Ali waved Jack to a chair. “For some things one should make time.”

  Both sat, and things became formal. A servant appeared with a silver tray, and poured coffee for both men before withdrawing.

  “I sincerely regret the news on Dr. Alden. For so fine a man to be brought down so foolishly ... May God have mercy on his soul. At the same time, I have looked forward to meeting you for some time, Dr. Ryan.”

  Jack sipped at his coffee. It was thick, bitter, and hideously strong.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you also for agreeing to see me in the place of a more senior official.”

  “The most effective efforts at diplomacy often begin informally. So how may I be of service?” Ali smiled and leaned back in his chair. The fingers of his left hand toyed with his beard. His eyes were as dark as flint, and though they seemed to gaze casually at his visitor, the atmosphere in the room was now businesslike. And that, Ryan saw, was fast enough.

  “My country wishes to explore a means of—that is, the rough outline of a plan with which to alleviate tensions in this area.”

  “With Israel, of course. Adler, I presume, is delivering the same proposal to the Israelis at this moment?”

  “Correct, Your Highness.”

  “That is dramatic,” the Prince observed with an amused smile. “Do go on.”

  Jack began his pitch: “Sir, our foremost consideration in this matter must be the physical security of the State of Israel. Before either of us was born, America and other countries stood by and did very little to prevent the extermination of six million Jews. The guilt attending that infamy lies heavy on my country.”

  Ali nodded gravely before speaking. “I have never understood that. Perhaps you might have done better, but the strategic decisions made during the war by Roosevelt and Churchill were made in good faith. The issue with the shipload of Jews that nobody wanted prior to the outbreak of war, of course, is another issue entirely. I find it very strange indeed that your country did not grant asylum to those poor people. Fundamentally, however, no one saw what was coming, not the Jews, nor the Gentiles, and by the time it became clear what was happening, Hitler had physical control of Europe, and no direct intervention on your part was possible. Your leaders decided at that time that the best way to end the slaughter was to win the war as expeditiously as possible. That was logical. They might have made a political issue of the ongoing Endlösung, I believe the term was, but they decided that it would be ineffective from a practical point of view. That, in retrospect, was probably incorrect, but the decision was not made in malice.” Ali paused to let his history lesson sink in for a moment. “In any case, we understand and conditionally accept the reasons behind your national goal to preserve the State of Israel. Our acceptance, as I am sure you will understand, is conditional upon your recognition of other people’s rights. This part of the world is not composed of Jews and savages.”

  “And that, sir, is the basis of our proposal,” Ryan replied. “If we can find a formula that recognizes those other rights, will you accept a plan in which America is the guarantor of Israeli security?” Jack didn’t have time to hold his breath for the reply.

  “Of course. Have we not made that clear? Who else but America can guarantee the peace? If you must put troops in Israel to make them feel secure, if you must execute a treaty to formalize your guarantee, those are things we can accept, but what of Arab rights?”

  “What is your view of how we should address those rights?” Jack asked.

  Prince Ali was stunned by the question. Was not Ryan’s mission to present the American plan? He almost lapsed into anger, but Ali was too clever for that. It wasn’t a trap he saw. It was a fundamental change in American policy.

  “Dr. Ryan, you asked that question for a reason, but it was a rhetorical question nonetheless. I believe the answer to that question is yours to make.”

  The answer took three minutes.

  Ali shook his head sadly. “That, Dr. Ryan, is something we would probably find acceptable, but the Israelis will never agree to it even though we might—more precisely, they would reject it for the very reason that we would accept it. They should agree to it, of course, but they will not.”

  “Is it acceptable to your government, sir?”

  “I must, of course, present it to others, but I think our response would be favorable.”

  “Any objections at all?”

  The Prince paused to finish his coffee. He stared over Ryan’s head toward something on the far wall. “We could offer several modifications, none of them really substantive to the central thesis of your scheme. Actually, I think the negotiations on those minor issues would be easily and quickly accomplished, since they are not matters of consequence to the other interested parties.”

  “And who would be your choice for the Muslim representative?”

  Ali leaned forward. “That is simple. Anyone could tell you. The Imam of the Al-Aqusa Mosque is a distinguished scholar and linguist. His name is Ahmed bin Yussif. Ahmed is con-suited by scholars throughout Islam for his opinions on matters of theology. Sunni, Shi’a, all defer to him on selected issues. He is even a Palestinian by birth.”

  “That easy?” Ryan closed his eyes and let out a breath. He’d guessed right on that one. Yussif was not exactly a political moderate, and had called for the expulsion of Israel from the West Bank. But he had also denounced terrorism per se on theological grounds. He wasn’t quite perfect, but if the Muslims could live with him, he was perfect enough.

  “You are very confident, Dr. Ryan.” Ali shook his head. “Too confident. I grant you that your plan is fairer than anything I or my government expected, but it will never happen.” Ali paused again and fixed Ryan with his eyes. “Now I must ask myself if this was ever a serious proposal, or merely something to give the appearance of fairness.”

  “Your Highness, President Fowler addresses the United Nations General Assembly next Thursday. He will present this very plan then, live and in color. I am authorized to extend your government an invitation to the Vatican to negotiate the treaty formally.”

  The Prince was sufficiently surprised by that that he lapsed into an Americanism: “Do you really think you can bring this off?”

  “Your Highness, we’re going to give it one hell of a try.”

  Ali rose and walked to his desk. There he lifted a phone, pushed a button and spoke rapidly and, to Ryan, incomprehensibly. Jack had a sudden, giddy moment of whimsy. The Arabic language, as with the Hebrew, went from right to left instead of left to right, and Ryan wondered how one’s brain dealt with that.

  Son of a BITCH, Jack thought to himself. This just might work!

  Ali replaced the phone and turned to his visitor. “I think it is time for us to see His Majesty.”

  “That fast?”

  “One advantage to our form of government is that when one government minister wishes access to another, it is merely a matter of calling a cousin or an uncle. We are a family business. I trust that your President is a man of his word.”

  “The UN speech is already written. I’ve seen it. He expects to take heat from the Israeli lobby at home. He’s ready for that.”

  “I’ve seen them in action, Dr. Ryan. Even when we were fighting for our lives alongside American soldiers, they denied us weapons we needed for our own security. Do you think that will change?”

  “Soviet communism is at an end. The Warsaw Pact is at an end. So many things that shaped the world I grew up in are gone, and gone forever. It’s time to get rid of the rest of the turmoil in the world. You ask if we can do it—why not? Sir, the only constant factor in human existence is change.” Jack knew that he was being outrageously confident, and wondered how Scott Adler was doing in Jerusalem. Adler wasn’t a screamer, but he knew how to lay down the word. That hadn’t been done with the Israelis for a long enough time that Jack didn’t know when it had last been—or ever been—tried. But the President was commi
tted to this. If the Israelis tried to stop it, they might just find out how lonely the world was.

  “You forgot God, Dr. Ryan.”

  Jack smiled. “No, Your Highness. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

  Prince Ali wanted to smile, but didn’t. It wasn’t time yet. He pointed to the door. “Our car is waiting.”

  At the New Cumberland Army Depot in Pennsylvania, the storage facility for standards and flags dating back to Revolutionary times, a brigadier general and a professional antiquarian laid flat on a table the dusty regimental colors once carried by the 10th United States Cavalry. The General wondered if some of the grit on the standard was left over from Colonel Benjamin Henry Grierson’s campaign against the Apaches. This standard would go to the regiment. It wouldn’t see much use. Maybe once a year it would be taken out, but from this pattern a new one would be made. That this was happening at all was a curiosity. In an age of cutbacks, a new unit was forming. Not that the General objected. The 10th had a distinguished history, but had never gotten its fair shake from Hollywood, for example, which had made but a single movie about the Black regiments. For the 10th was one of four Black units—the 9th and 10th Cavalry, the 24th and 25th Infantry—each of which had played its part in settling the West. This regimental standard dated back to 1866. Its centerpiece was a buffalo, since the Indians who’d fought the troopers of the 10th thought their hair similar to the rough coat of an American bison. Black soldiers had been there at the defeat of Geronimo, and saved Teddy Roosevelt’s ass on the charge up San Juan Hill, the General knew. It was about time that they got a little official recognition, and if the President had ordered it for political reasons, so what? The 10th had an honorable history, politics notwithstanding.

  “Take a week,” the civilian said. “I’ll do this one personally. God, I wonder what Grierson would have thought of the TO & E for the Buffalos today!”

  “It is substantial,” the General allowed. He’d commanded the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment a few years earlier. The Black Horse Cav was still in Germany, though he wondered how much longer that would last. But the historian was right. With 129 tanks, 228 armored personnel carriers, 24 self-propelled guns, 83 helicopters, and 5,000 troopers, a modern Armored Cavalry Regiment was in fact a reinforced brigade, fast-moving and very hard-hitting.

  “Where are they going to be based?”

  “The regiment will form up at Fort Stewart. After that, I’m not sure. Maybe it’ll be the round-out for 18th Airborne Corps.”

  “Paint them brown, then?”

  “Probably. The regiment knows about deserts, doesn’t it?” The General felt the standard. Yeah, there was still grit in the fabric, from Texas, and New Mexico, and Arizona. He wondered if the troopers who had followed this standard knew that their outfit was being born anew. Maybe so.

  6

  MANEUVERS

  The Navy’s change-of-command ceremony, little changed since the time of John Paul Jones, concluded on schedule at 11:24. It had been held two weeks earlier than expected, so that the departing skipper could more quickly assume the Pentagon duty that he would just as happily have avoided. Captain Jim Rosselli had brought USS Maine through the final eighteen months of her construction at General Dynamics’ Electric Boat Division at Groton, Connecticut, through the launching and final outfitting, through builder’s trials and acceptance trials, through commissioning, through shakedown and post-shakedown availability, through a day of practice missile shoots out of Port Canaveral, and through the Panama Canal for her trip to the missile-submarine base at Bangor, Washington. His last job had been to take the boat—Maine was huge, but in U.S. Navy parlance still a “boat”—on her first deterrence patrol into the Gulf of Alaska. That was over now, and, four days after returning his boat to port, he ended his association with the boat by turning her over to his relief, Captain Harry Ricks. It was slightly more complicated than that, of course. Missile submarines since the first, USS George Washington —long since converted to razor blades and other useful consumer items—had two complete crews, called “Blue” and “Gold.” The idea was simply that the missile boats could spend more time at sea if the crews switched off duty. Though expensive, it worked very effectively. The “Ohio” class of fleet ballistic missile submarines was averaging over two-thirds of their time at sea, with continuing seventy-day patrols divided by twenty-five-day refit periods. Rosselli had, therefore, really given Ricks half of the command of the massive submarine, and full command of the “Gold” crew, which was now vacating the ship for the “Blue” crew, which would conduct the next patrol.

  The ceremony concluded, Rosselli retired one last time to his stateroom. As the “plankowner” commanding officer, certain special souvenirs were his for the asking. A piece of teak decking material drilled for cribbage pegs was part of the tradition. That the skipper had never played cribbage in his life, after a single failed attempt, was beside the point. These traditions were not quite as old as Captain John Paul Jones, but were just as firm. His ball-cap, with C.O. and Plankowner emblazoned in gold on the back, would form part of his permanent collection, as would a ship’s plaque, a photo signed by the entire crew, and various gifts from Electric Boat.

  “God, I’ve wanted one of these!” Ricks said.

  “They are pretty nice, Captain,” Rosselli replied with a wistful smile. It really wasn’t fair. Only the best of officers got to do what he’d done, of course. He’d had command of a fast-attack, USS Honolulu, whose reputation as a hot and lucky boat he had continued for his two-and-a-half-year tour as CO. Then he’d been given the Gold crew of USS Tecumseh, where he’d excelled yet again. This third—and most unusual—command tour had been necessarily abbreviated. His job had been to oversee the shipwrights at Groton, then get the boat “dialed in” for her first real team of COs. He’d only had the boat under way for—what? A hundred days, something like that. Just enough to get to know the girl.

  “You’re not making it any easier on yourself, Rosey,” said the squadron commander, Captain (now a Rear Admiral Selectee) Bart Mancuso.

  Rosselli tried to put humor in his voice. “Hey, Bart, one wop to another, show some pity, eh?”

  “I hear ya’, paisan. It isn’t supposed to be easy.”

  Rosselli turned to Ricks. “Best crew I ever had. The XO is going to be one hell of a skipper when the time comes. The boat is fuckin’ perfect. Everything works. The refit’s a waste of time. The only thing on the gripe sheet that matters is the wiring in the wardroom pantry. Some yard electrician crossed a few cables, and the breakers aren’t labeled right. Regs say we have to reset the wiring instead of relabeling the breakers. And that’s it. Nothing else.”

  “Power plant?”

  “Four-point-oh, people and equipment. You’ve seen the results of the ORSE, right?”

  “Um-hum.” Ricks nodded. The ship had scored almost perfectly on the Operational Reactor Safeguards Examination, which was the Holy Grail of the nuclear community.

  “Sonar?”

  “The equipment is the best in the fleet—we got the new upgrade before it became standard. I worked a deal with the guys at SubGru Two right before we commissioned. One of your old guys, Bart. Dr. Ron Jones. He’s with Sonosystems, even rode for a week with us. The ray-path analyzer is like magic. Torpedo department needs a little work, but not much. I figure they can knock another thirty seconds off their average time. A young chief—matter of fact that department’s pretty young across the board. Hasn’t quite settled in yet, but they’re not much slower than the guys I had on Tecumseh, and if I’d had a little more time I could have gotten them completely worked up.”

  “No sweat,” Ricks observed comfortably. “Hell, Jim, I have to have something to do. How many contacts did you have on the patrol?”

  “One Akula-class, the Admiral Lunin. Picked her up three times, never closer than sixty thousand yards. If he got a sniff of us—hell, he didn’t. Never turned toward us. We held him for sixteen hours once. Had really good water, and, well—�
� Rosselli smiled—“I decided to trail him for a while, way the hell away, of course.”

  “Once a fast-attack, always a fast-attack,” Ricks said with a grin. He was a lifelong boomer driver, and the idea did not appeal to him, but what the hell, it wasn’t a time to criticize.

  “Nice profile you did on him,” Mancuso put in, to show that he wasn’t the least offended by Rosselli’s action. “Pretty good boat, isn’t it?”

  “The Akula? Too good. But not good enough,” Rosselli said. “I wouldn’t start worrying until we find a way to track these mothers. I tried when I had Honolulu, against Richie Seitz on Alabama. He greased my ass for me. Only time that ever happened. I figure God could find an Ohio, but He’ll have to have a good day.”

  Rosselli wasn’t kidding. The Ohio-class of missile submarines were more than just quiet. Their level of radiated noise was actually lower than the background noise level of the ocean, like a whisper at a rock concert. To hear them you had to get incredibly close, but to prevent that from happening, the Ohios had the best sonar systems yet devised. The Navy had done everything right with this class. The original contract had specified a maximum speed of 26-7 knots. The first Ohio had made 28.5. On builder’s trials, Maine had made 29.1 due to a new and very slick super-polymer paint. The seven-bladed propeller enabled almost twenty knots without a hint of noisy cavitation, and the reactor plant operated in almost all regimes on natural convection circulation, obviating the need for potentially noisy feed-pumps. The Navy’s mania for noise-control had reached its pinnacle in this class of submarine. Even the blades of the galley mixer were coated with vinyl to prevent metal-to-metal clatter. What Rolls-Royce was to cars, Ohio was to submarines.

  Rosselli turned. “Well, she’s yours now, Harry.”

  “You couldn’t have set her up much better, Jim. Come on, the O-Club’s open, and I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Yeah,” the former commanding officer observed with a husky voice. On the way out, members of the crew lined up to shake his hand one last time. By the time Rosselli got to the ladder, there were tears in his eyes. On the walk down the brow, they were running down his cheeks. Mancuso understood. It had been the same for him. A good CO developed a genuine love for his boat and his men, and for Rosselli it was worse still. He’d had his extra shots at command, more than even he had gotten, and that made the last one all the harder to leave. Like Mancuso, all Rosselli could look forward to now was a staff job, commanding a desk, nevermore to hold that godlike post of commanding officer of a ship of war. He’d be able to ride the boats, of course, to rate skippers, check ideas and tactics, but henceforth he’d be a tolerated visitor, never really welcome aboard. Most uncomfortable of all, he’d have to avoid revisiting his former command, lest the crew compare his command style to that of their new CO, possibly undermining the new man’s command authority. It was, Mancuso reflected, like it must have been for immigrants, as it had been for his own ancestors, looking back one last time at Italy, knowing that they would never return to it, that their lives were irrevocably changed.