by Tom Clancy
“My young friend is correct. The physics are the same for all of us.”
“Then don’t let us stop you,” Qati said.
Fromm went immediately back to work. Part of him was already counting the money he’d receive, but most concerned itself with the job at hand. Only half of the machinists had actually worked on the bomb’s physics package itself. The rest had been employed entirely with manufacturing other fittings, most of which could be called cradles. These would hold the bomb components in place, and were mainly made from stainless steel for strength and compactness. Each was set in place according to a precise sequence, as the bomb was more complex than most machines, and required assembly according to a rigid set of instructions. Here again the process was made simpler by the quality of the design and the precision of the machine tools. Even the machinists were amazed that the parts all fit, and they murmured among themselves that whatever Fromm might be—and on this subject their speculation had been wide-ranging and colorful—he was an inhumanly skilled designer. The hardest part was installing the various uranium blocks. Installation of the lighter and milder materials went much more smoothly.
“The procedure for the tritium transfer?” Ghosn asked.
“We’ll leave that for last, of course,” Fromm said, backing off from checking a measurement.
“Just heat the battery to release the gas, correct?”
“Yes,” Fromm said with a nod, “but—no, no, not that way!”
“What did I do wrong?”
“This must twist in,” Fromm told the machinist. He stepped forward to demonstrate. “Like that, do you see?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“The elliptical reflectors hang on these—”
“Yes, thank you, I know.”
“Very good.”
Fromm waved to Ghosn. “Come over here. You see how this works now?” Fromm pointed to two series of elliptical surfaces which nested together one after the other—there was a total of nineteen—each made of a different material. “The energy off the Primary impacts the first set of these surfaces, destroying each in its turn, but in the process ...”
“Yes, it is always more clear to see the physical model than to extract it from a sheet of figures.” This portion of the weapon derived its utility from the fact that light waves have no mass but do carry momentum. They were not “light” waves at all, technically speaking, but since the energy was all in the form of photons, the same principle held. The energy would immolate each of the elliptical surfaces, but in the process each surface would transfer a small but reliable percentage of the energy in another direction, adding to the energy already headed that way from the Primary itself.
“Your energy budget is lavish, Herr Fromm,” Ghosn observed not for the first time.
The German shrugged. “Yes, it must be. If you cannot test, you must overengineer. The first American bomb—the one used on Hiroshima—was an untested design. It was wasteful of materials and disgustingly inefficient, but it was overengineered. And it did work. With a proper test program ...” With a proper test program he could measure the empirical effects, determine exactly what the necessary energy budget was, and how well he managed it, determine the exact performance of each component, improve those that needed improvement, and reduce the size of those which were too large or too massive for the task at hand, just as the Americans, and Russians, and British, and French had done over a period of decades, constantly refining their designs, making them more and more efficient, and because of that, smaller, lighter, simpler, more reliable, less expensive. This, Fromm thought, was the ultimate engineering discipline, and he was immeasurably grateful that he had finally gotten the chance to try his hand at it. This design was crude and heavy, no masterpiece of design. It would function—of that he was certain—but with time he could have done so much better....
“Yes, I see. A man of your skill could reduce this entire unit to the size of a large bucket.”
It was a vast compliment. “Thank you, Herr Ghosn. Probably not that small, but small enough for the nose of a rocket.”
“If our Iraqi brothers had taken the time ...”
“Indeed, there would be no Israel. But they were foolish, were they not?”
“They were impatient,” Ibrahim said, silently cursing them for it.
“One must be cold and clearheaded about such things. Such decisions must be made on the basis of logic, not emotion.”
“Indeed.”
Achmed was feeling very poorly indeed. He’d made his excuses and taken his leave, heading off to see the Commander’s own physician, as per orders from Qati. Achmed had little experience of doctors. It was, he thought, something to be avoided if possible. He’d seen combat action and seen death and wounds, but never to himself. Even that was preferable to his current situation. One could understand injury from a bullet or a grenade, but what had made him ill so quickly and unexpectedly?
The doctor listened to his description of his condition, asked a few questions that were not entirely foolish, and noted that Achmed was a smoker—that had earned the fighter a head-shake and a cluck, as though cigarettes had anything to do with his situation. What rubbish, Achmed thought. Didn’t he run six kilometers each day—or had, until very recently?
The physical examination came next. The doctor placed a stethoscope on his chest and listened. Instantly, Achmed noted, the doctor’s eyes became guarded in a way not unlike the expression of a courageous fighter who didn’t wish to betray his feelings.
“Breathe in,” the physician ordered. Achmed did so. “Now, out slowly.”
The stethoscope moved. “Again, please.” The procedure was repeated six more times, front and back.
“Well?” Achmed asked when the examination was finished.
“I don’t know. I want to take you to see someone who understands these lung problems better.”
“I have no time for that.”
“You have time for this. I will talk to your Commander if necessary.”
Achmed managed not to grumble. “Very well.”
It was a measure of Ryan’s own situation that he took no note of it, or more correctly that he was grateful for the diminished attention his wife accorded him. It helped. It took some of the pressure off. Maybe she understood that he just needed to be left alone for a while. He’d make it up to her, Jack promised himself. He sure as hell would, when he got it all back together. He was sure of that, or told himself that he was, though a distant part of his mind was less sure and announced the fact to a consciousness that preferred not to listen. He tried to cut back on the drinking, but with the reduced demands he could, he decided, get a little more sleep, and the wine helped him sleep. In the spring, when things warmed up, he’d get back into a healthier routine. Yeah, that was it. He’d jog. He’d take the time at work, at lunch he’d get outside with the rest of the local sweat squad and run around the perimeter road inside the CIA enclosure. Clark would be a good trainer for this. Clark was a rock. Better him than Chavez, who was disgustingly fit and singularly unsympathetic to those who failed to keep in good shape—doubtless a carryover from his time in the infantry, Ryan thought. Ding would learn as he got closer to thirty. That number was the great equalizer, when you stopped being young and had to face the fact that everything had limits.
Christmas could have gone better, he thought, sitting at his desk. But it had been in the middle of the week, which meant that the kids were home two full weeks. It also meant that Cathy had to miss time at work, and that was a little hard on her. She liked her work, and as much as she loved the kids, and as fine a mother as she was, she resented the time away from Hopkins and her patients. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t fair for her, Jack admitted to himself. She, too, was a professional and a fine one, despite which she was the one who always got tapped with kid duty while he never got relief from his work. But there were thousands of eye surgeons, and even a few hundred professors of eye surgery, but there was only one DDCI, and that was that. Not
fair, perhaps, but a fact.
So much the better if he were able to accomplish something, Ryan told himself. Letting Elizabeth Elliot handle that damned newsie had been a mistake. Not that he’d expected much else from Marcus Cabot. The man was a drone. It really was that simple. He enjoyed the prestige that went with his post, but he didn’t do anything. Ryan got most of the work, none of the credit, and all of the blame. Maybe that would change. He had the Mexican operation fully in hand, had taken that over entirely from the Directorate of Operations, and, by God, he’d get the credit for this. Maybe then things would get better. He pulled out the file for the operation and decided that he’d go over every detail, check every possible contingency. This one would work, and he’d make those White House bastards respect him.
“Go to your room!” Cathy shouted at Little Jack. Both an order and an admission of failure. Then she walked out of the room, tears in her eyes. She was acting stupidly, shouting at the kids when she should be confronting her own husband. But how? What could she say? What if—what if it were true? Then what? She kept telling herself that it couldn’t be, but that was too hard to believe. How else to explain it? Jack had never failed at anything in his life. She remembered with pride the fact that he’d risked his life for her and the children. She’d been terrified, the breath frozen in her throat, walking along the beach, watching her man advance toward men with guns, with his life and others in the balance. How could a man who had done that betray his own wife? It didn’t make any sense.
But what other explanation was there? Didn’t he find her exciting anymore? If so, why not? Wasn’t she pretty enough? Didn’t she do everything—and more—that a wife could? The simple rejection was bad enough—but to be set aside, to know that his energy and vigor was serving some other, unknown woman with cheap perfume was more than she could bear.
She had to confront him, had to get it into the open, had to find out.
How? she asked herself. That was the question. Could she discuss it with someone at Hopkins ... a psychiatrist, perhaps? Get professional advice ... ?
And risk having it get out, risk having her shame widely known? Caroline Ryan, Associate Professor, pretty, bright Cathy Ryan can’t even hold on to her own husband? What do you suppose she did wrong? her friends would whisper when she was elsewhere. Sure, they’d all say that it couldn’t be her fault, but then they’d pause and look embarrassed, and after a moment they’d wonder aloud what she might have done differently, why she hadn’t noticed the signals, because, after all, a failed marriage was rarely the work of a single partner, and Jack wasn’t really the sort to play around, was he? The embarrassment of it would be worse than anything in her life, she thought, forgetting for the moment times that had been far worse.
It didn’t make any sense. But she didn’t know what to do about it, though at the same time she knew that doing nothing was probably the worst thing of all. Was it all a trap? Did she have any choices at all?
“What’s the matter, Mommy?” Sally asked, a Barbie in her hands.
“Nothing, honey, just leave Mommy alone for a little while, okay?”
“Jack says he’s sorry and can he come out of his room?”
“Yes, if he promises to be good.”
“Okay!” Sally ran out of the room.
Was it that simple? Cathy wondered. She could forgive him almost anything. Could she forgive him this? Not because she would want to forgive him. Because there was more to it than her pride. There were also the kids, and kids needed a father, even a neglectful one. Was her pride more important than their needs? The other side of that—what sort of household would they have if Mom and Dad didn’t get along? Wasn’t that even more destructive? After all, she could always find ...
... another Jack?
She started crying again. She cried for herself, for her own inability to make a decision, for the injury to her character. It was the sort of weeping that did nothing for the problem except make it worse. Part wanted him gone. Part wanted him back. No part knew what to do.
“You understand that this is strictly confidential,” the investigator said rather than asked. The man before him was short and overweight, with soft, pink hands. The Bismarck mustache was obviously an affectation to make him look manly. In fact he didn’t look terribly impressive at all until you took a close look at his face. Those dark eyes didn’t miss a thing.
“Doctors are accustomed to confidentiality,” Bernie Katz replied, handing the credentials back. “Make it fast. I have rounds in twenty minutes.”
The investigator thought that his assignment did have a certain elegance to it, though he wasn’t sure that he approved. The problem was that playing around wasn’t exactly a felony, though it did usually disqualify a man from a high security clearance. After all, if a man could break a promise made in a church, then why not one made merely of paper?
Bernie Katz leaned back, waiting as patiently as he was able, which wasn’t very patient. He was a surgeon, accustomed to doing things and making his own decisions, not waiting for others. One hand twirled at his mustache as he rocked in the chair.
“How well do you know Dr. Caroline Ryan?”
“Cathy? I’ve worked with her on and off for eleven years.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“She’s a brilliant surgeon, technically speaking, exceptional judgment, superbly skilled. She’s one of the best instructors we have on staff. She’s also a good friend. What seems to be the problem here?” Katz’s eyes narrowed on his visitor.
“Sorry, I’m the guy asking the questions.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Get on with it,” Katz said coldly, examining the man, watching body language, expression, demeanor. He didn’t like what he saw.
“Has she made any comments lately ... I mean, trouble at home, that sort of thing?”
“You do understand, I hope, that I am a physician, and things said to me are privileged.”
“Is Cathy Ryan your patient?” the man asked.
“I’ve examined her in the past. We all do that here.”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
Katz nearly growled back an answer. Like most surgeons he had a temper. “You know the answer to that.”
The investigator looked up from his notes and spoke matter-of-factly. “In that case privilege does not apply. Now, could you answer the question, please?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, she has made no such comments to the best of my knowledge.”
“Comments on her husband, his behavior, changes in the way he’s acting?”
“No. I know Jack pretty well, too. I really like the guy. He’s evidently a good husband. They have two great kids, and you know the story on what happened to them some years back as well as I do, right?”
“Correct, but people change.”
“Not them.” Katz’s comment had the finality of a death sentence.
“You seem quite certain.”
“I’m a doctor. I live by my judgment. What you are alleging is crap.”
“I’m alleging nothing,” the investigator said, knowing it was a lie, and knowing that Katz knew it for a lie. He’d judged the man correctly from the first moment. Katz was a hotheaded, passionate man unlikely to keep any secret he deemed unworthy of being kept. Probably one hell of a doctor, too.
“I return to my original question. Has Caroline Ryan acted in any way different from, say, a year ago?”
“She’s a year older. They have kids, the kids are growing up, and kids can be a bother. I have a few of my own. Okay, so she’s gained a pound or two, maybe—not a bad thing, she tries to be too thin—and she’s a little tireder than she ought to be. She has a long commute, and work is hard here, especially for a mother with kids.”
“That’s all, you think?”
“Hey, I’m an eye-cutter, not a marriage counselor. Not my field.”
“Why did you say you’re not a marriage counselor. I never brought that up, did I
?”
Clever son of a bitch, aren’t you? Katz thought, letting go of his mustache. Degree in psychology, maybe ... more likely self-taught. Cops were pretty good at reading people. Reading me, even? “Trouble at home for a married person generally means a troubled marriage,” Katz said slowly. “No, there has been no such comment.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Okay, thank you for your time, Dr. Katz. Sorry to have bothered you.” He handed over a card. “If you hear anything like that, I’d appreciate it if you called me.”
“What gives?” Katz asked. “If you want my cooperation, I want an answer. I don’t spy on people for the fun of it.”
“Doctor, her husband holds a very high and very sensitive government position. We routinely keep an eye on such people for reasons of national security. You do the same thing, even if you don’t think much about it. If a surgeon shows up with liquor on his breath, for example, you take note of it and you take action, correct?”
“That doesn’t happen here, ever,” Katz assured him.
“But you would take note of such a thing if it did happen.”
“You bet we would.”
“Glad to hear it. As you know, John Ryan has access to all sorts of highly sensitive information. Were we not to keep an eye on such people, we would be irresponsible. We’ve—this is a highly sensitive matter, Dr. Katz.”
“I understand that.”
“We’ve had indications that her husband might be acting ... irregularly. We have to check that out. Understand? We have to.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all we ask.”
“Very well.”
“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” The investigator shook hands and left.
Katz managed not to flush until the man was gone. He didn’t really know Jack all that well. They’d met at parties perhaps five or six times, traded a few jokes, talked about baseball or the weather or maybe international relations. Jack had never begged off on an answer, had never said I can’t discuss that or anything. Pleasant-enough guy, Bernie thought. A good father by all accounts. But he didn’t know the man at all.