by Tom Clancy
“We are committed to the integrity of Israel,” Adler pointed out.
“Israel is not, strictly speaking, a neighbor,” Daryaei replied. “But if Israel can live in peace, then we can also live in peace.”
The guy was good, Adler thought. He wasn’t revealing very much, just denying everything. He made no policy statements aside from the usual protestations of peaceful intent. Every chief of state did that, though not many invoked the name of God so much. Peace. Peace. Peace.
Except that Adler didn’t believe him for an instant on the subject of Israel. If he’d had peaceful intentions, he would have told Jerusalem first, the better to get them on his side for dealing with Washington. Israel had been the unnamed middleman for the arms-for-hostages disaster, and they’d been suckered, too.
“I hope that is a foundation upon which we can build.”
“If your country treats my country with respect, then we can talk. Then we can discuss an improvement in relations.”
“I will tell my President that.”
“Your country, too, has endured much sorrow of late. I wish him the strength to heal your nation’s wounds.”
“Thank you.” Both men stood. Handshakes were exchanged again, and Daryaei conducted Adler to the door.
CLARK NOTED THE way the office staff jumped to their feet. Daryaei conveyed Adler to the outer door, took his hand one more time, and let the man leave with his escorts. Two minutes later, they were in their official cars and on the way directly to the airport.
“I wonder how that went?” John asked nobody in particular. Everyone else wondered the same thing, but not another word was spoken. Thirty minutes later, aided by their official escort, the cars were back at Mehrabad International, and pulling up to the air force part of the facility, where their French jet was waiting.
There had to be a departure ceremony, too. The French ambassador talked with Adler for several minutes, all the while holding his hand in an extended farewell shake. With ample UIR-ian security, there was nothing for Clark and Chavez to do but look around, as they were supposed to do. In plain view were six fighter aircraft, with maintenance people working on them. The mechanics walked in and out of a large hangar that had doubtless been built under the Shah. Ding looked inside, and nobody made a fuss about it. Another airplane was in there, seemingly half disassembled. An engine was sitting on a cart, with another team of people tinkering with it.
“Chicken coops, you believe it?” Chavez asked.
“What’s that?” Clark said, looking the other way.
“Check it out, Mr. C.”
John turned. Stacked against the far wall of the hangar were rows of wire cages, about the size of those used for moving poultry. Hundreds of them. Funny thing for an air force base, he thought.
ON THE OTHER side of the airport, the Movie Star watched the last of his team board a flight to Vienna. He happened to gaze across the expansive vista to see the private jets on the far side, with some people and cars close to one of them. He wondered briefly what that was about. Probably some government function. So was what he had planned, of course, but one that would never be acknowledged. The Austrian Airlines flight pulled away from the gate on time, and would head off just behind the business jet, or whatever it was. Then he walked to another gate to board his own flight.
40
OPENINGS
MOST AMERICANS WOKE up to learn what their President already knew. Eleven American citizens were dead, with three more unaccounted for, in an airliner disaster on the opposite side of the world. A local TV crew had made it to the airport just in time, having learned of the emergency from a helpful source at the terminal. Their video showed little more than a distant fireball erupting into the sky, followed by some closer shots that were so typical that they, too, might have come from anywhere. Ten fire trucks surrounded the burning wreckage, blasting it with foam and water, both too late to save anyone. Ambulances scurried about. Some people, obvious survivors, wandered in the haze of shock and disorientation. Others, their faces blackened, staggered into the arms of rescue personnel. There were wives without husbands, parents without children, and the sort of chaos that always appeared dramatic but which passed on nothing in the way of explanation, even as it cried out for action of some kind.
The Republic of China’s government issued a blistering statement about air piracy, then requested an emergency meeting of the U.N. Security Council. Beijing issued its own statement minutes later, stating that its aircraft, on a peaceful training exercise, had been attacked entirely without provocation, then returned fire in self-defense. Beijing totally disavowed any involvement in the damage to the airliner, and blamed the entire episode on their rebellious province.
“So, what else have we turned up?” Ryan asked Admiral Jackson at seven-thirty.
“We went over both tapes for about two hours. I brought in a few fighter pilots I’ve worked with, and a pair of Air Force guys, and we kicked it around some. Number one, the ChiComs—”
“Not supposed to call them that, Robby,” the President observed.
“Old habit, sorry. The gentlemen of the PRC—hey, they knew we had ships there. The electronic signature of an Aegis ship is like Mount St. Helens with an attitude, okay? And the capabilities of the ships ain’t exactly a secret. They’ve been in service for almost twenty years. So they knew we were watching, and they knew we’d see everything. Let’s keep that one in mind.”
“Keep going,” Jack told his friend.
“Number two, we have a spook team on the Chandler, listening in on radio chatter. We have translated the voice transmissions of the Chinese fighter pilots. Quoting now—this is thirty seconds into the engagement—‘I have him, I have him, taking the shot.’ Okay, the time stamp on that is exactly the same as the heat-seeker launch on the airliner.
“Number three, every driver I talked to said the same as I did—why shoot at an airliner on the edge of your missile range when you have fighters in your face? Jack, this one smells—real bad, man.
“Unfortunately, we can’t prove the voice transmission came from the fighter that launched on the Airbus, but it is my opinion, and that of my pals across the river, that this was a deliberate act. They tried to splash that airliner on purpose,” the Pentagon’s director of operations concluded. “We’re lucky anybody got off at all.”
“Admiral,” Arnie van Damm asked, “could you take that into a court of law?”
“Sir, I’m not a lawyer. I’m an airplane driver. I don’t have to prove things for a living, but I’m telling you, it’s a hundred-to-one against that we’re wrong on this.”
“I can’t say this in front of the cameras, though,” Ryan said, checking his watch. He’d have to do makeup in a few minutes. “If they did it on purpose—”
“No ‘if,’ Jack, okay?”
“Damn it, Robby, I heard you the first time!” Ryan snapped. He paused and took a breath. “I can’t accuse a sovereign country of an act of war without absolute proof. Next, okay, fine, they did do it on purpose, and they did it with the knowledge that we’d know they did. What’s that mean?”
Jack’s national security team had had a long night. Goodley took the lead. “Hard to say, Mr. President.”
“Are they making a move on Taiwan?” the President asked.
“They can’t,” Jackson said, shaking off his Commander-in-Chief’s tantrum. “They do not have the physical ability to invade. There is no sign of unusual activity in their ground forces in this area, just the stuff they’ve been doing in the northwest that has the Russians so annoyed. So from a military point of view the answer is no.
“Airborne invasion?” Ed Foley asked. Robby shook his head.
“They don’t have the airlift capacity, and even if they tried, the ROC has enough air-defense assets to turn it into early duck season. They could stage an air-sea battle like I told you last night, but it’ll cost them ships and planes—for what purpose?” the J-3 asked.
“So did they splash an airl
iner to test us?” POTUS wondered. “That doesn’t make sense, either.”
“If you say ‘me’ instead of ‘us,’ that’s a possibility,” the DCI said quietly.
“Come on, Director,” Goodley objected. “There were two hundred people on that plane, and they must have thought they’d kill them all.”
“Let’s not be too naive, Ben,” Foley observed tolerantly. “They don’t share our sentimentality for human life over there, do they?”
“No, but—”
Ryan interrupted: “Okay, hold it. We think this was a deliberate act, but we don’t have positive proof, and we have no idea what its purpose might have been—and if we don’t, I can’t call it a deliberate act, right?” There were nods. “Fine, now in fifteen minutes I have to go down to the Press Room and deliver this statement and then the reporters will ask me questions, and the only answers I can give them will be lies.”
“That about sums it up, Mr. President,” van Damm confirmed.
“Well, isn’t that just great, ” Jack snarled. “And Beijing will know, or at least suspect, that I’m lying.”
“Possible, but not certain on that,” Ed Foley observed.
“I’m not good at lying,” Ryan told them.
“Learn how,” the chief of staff advised. “Quickly.”
THERE WAS NO talking on the flight from Tehran to Paris. Adler took a comfortable seat in the back, got out a legal pad, and wrote the whole way, using his trained memory to reconstruct the conversation, then added a series of personal observations on everything from Daryaei’s physical appearance to the clutter on his desk. After that, he examined the notes for an hour, and started making analytical comments. In the process, he wore down half a dozen pencils. The layover in Paris lasted less than an hour, enough for Adler to spend a little time with Claude again and for his escorts to have a quick drink. Then it was off again in their Air Force VC-20B.
“How’d it go?” John asked.
Adler had to remind himself that Clark was on the SNIE team, and not just a gun-toting SPO.
“First, what did you find out on your walk?”
The senior CIA officer reached in his pocket and handed the Secretary of State a gold necklace.
“Does this mean we’re engaged?” Adler asked, with a surprised chuckle.
Clark gestured to his partner. “No, sir. He’s engaged.”
Now that they were aloft, the cabin crewman who ran the communications panel turned on his equipment. The fax machine started chirping at once.
“... WE HAVE CONFIRMED eleven American deaths, with three more U.S. citizens missing. Four of the American survivors are injured and are being treated in local hospitals. That concludes my opening statement,” the President told them.
“Mister President!” thirty voices called at once.
“One at a time, please.” Jack pointed to a woman in the front row.
“Beijing claims that Taiwan shot first. Can we confirm that?”
“We are examining some information, but it takes a while to figure these things out, and until such time as we have definitive information, I do not think it proper to draw any conclusions at this time.”
“But both sides traded shots, didn’t they?” she asked as a follow-up.
“That would seem to be the case, yes.”
“So then do we know whose missile hit the Airbus?”
“As I said, we are still examining the data.” Keep it short, Jack, he told himself. And that wasn’t quite a lie, was it? “Yes?” He pointed to another reporter.
“Mr. President, with so many American citizens lost, what action will you be taking to ensure this does not happen again?” At least this one he could answer truthfully.
“We are examining options right now. Beyond that, I have nothing to say, except that we call on both Chinas to step back and think about their actions. The loss of innocent life is in the interest of no country. Military exercises there have been ongoing for some time now, and the resulting tension is not helpful to regional stability.”
“So you’re asking both countries to suspend their exercises?”
“We’re going to ask them to consider that, yes.”
“Mr. President,” said John Plumber, “this is your first foreign policy crisis and ...”
Ryan looked down at the elderly reporter and wanted to observe that his first domestic crisis had been of his making, but you couldn’t afford to make enemies of the press, and you could only make friends with them if they liked you—an altogether unlikely possibility, he’d come to understand.
“Mr. Plumber, before you do anything, you have to find out the facts. We’re working on that just as hard as we can. I had my national security team in this morning ”
“But not Secretary Adler,” Plumber pointed out. Good reporter that he was, he’d checked the official cars on West Executive Drive. “Why wasn’t he here?”
“He’ll be in later today,” Ryan dodged.
“Where is he now?” Plumber persisted.
Ryan just shook his head. “Can we limit this to just one topic? It’s a little early in the morning for so many questions, and as you pointed out, I do have a situation to deal with, Mr. Plumber.”
“And he is your principal foreign policy adviser, sir. Where is he now?”
“Next question,” the President said tersely. He got about what he deserved from Barry of CNN:
“Mr. President, a moment ago you said both Chinas. Sir, does this signal a change in our China policy, and if so—”
IT WAS JUST after eight in the evening in Beijing, and things were good. He could see it on TV. How strange to watch a political figure so singularly lacking in charm and adroitness, especially an American. Zhang Han San lit a cigarette and congratulated himself. He’d done it again. There had been a danger in staging the “exercise,” most particularly the recent air sorties—but then the Republic’s aviators had so kindly obliged by shooting first, just as he’d hoped they would, and now there was a crisis which he could control precisely, and end it at any time, merely by recalling his own forces to their bases. He’d force America to react not so much by action as by inaction—and then someone else would take the lead in provoking its new President. He had no idea what Daryaei had in mind. An assassination attempt, perhaps? Something else? All he had to do was watch, as he was doing now, and reap the harvest when the opportunity arose, which it surely would. America couldn’t stay lucky forever. Not with this young fool in the White House.
“BARRY, ONE COUNTRY calls itself the People’s Republic of China, and the other calls itself the Republic of China. I have to call them something, don’t I?” Ryan asked testily. Oh, shit, have I done it again?
“Yes, Mr. President, but—”
“But we probably have fourteen American citizens dead, and this is not a time to worry about semantics.” There, take that.
“What are we going to do?” a female voice demanded.
“First, we’re going to try to find out what took place. Then we can start thinking about reactions.”
“But why don’t we know yet?”
“Because as much as we would like to know everything that takes place in the world every minute, it’s simply impossible.”
“Is that why your administration is radically increasing the size of the CIA?”
“As I have said before, we do not discuss intelligence matters, ever.”
“Mr. President, there are published reports that—”
“There are published reports that UFOs land here on a regular basis,” Ryan shot back. “Do you believe that, too?”
The room actually went quiet for a moment. It wasn’t every day that you saw a President lose his temper. They loved it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret the fact that I cannot answer all your questions to your satisfaction. In fact, I am asking some of the same questions myself, but correct answers take time. If I have to wait for the information, so do you,” he said, trying to get the news conference back on track.
“Mr. President, a man who looks very much like the former Chairman of the Soviet KGB has appeared on live television and—” The reporter stopped, as he saw Ryan’s face glow red under the makeup. He expected another blowup, but it didn’t happen. The President’s knuckles went ivory-white on the lectern, and he took a breath.
“Please go on with your question, Sam.”
“And that gentleman said that he is who he is. Now, sir, the cat is well out of the bag, and I think my question is a legitimate one.”
“I haven’t heard a question yet, Sam.”
“Is he who he says he is?”
“You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Mr. President, this event, this... operation has great international significance. At some point, intelligence operations, sensitive though they may well be, have a serious effect on our foreign relations. At that point, the American people want to know what such things are all about.”
“Sam, I will say this one last time: I will never, not ever, discuss intelligence matters. I am here this morning to inform our citizens of a tragic and so far unexplained incident in which over a hundred people, including fourteen American citizens, have lost their lives. This government will do its utmost to determine what took place, and then to decide upon a proper course of action.”
“Very well, Mr. President. Do we have a one-China policy, or a two-China policy?”
“We have made no changes.”
“Might a change result from this incident?”
“I will not speculate on something so important as that. And now, with your permission, I have to get back to work.”
“Thank you, Mr. President!” Jack heard on his way out the door. Just around the corner was a well-hidden gun cabinet. POTUS slammed it with his hand hard enough to rattle a few of the Uzis inside.
