by Tom Clancy
“No,” she told him, choosing her words carefully. “Our fleet units have seen American patrol aircraft, but no ships at all. We have heard, as you perhaps have, that an American ship group is transiting Suez, but only warships and nothing more.”
“You are sure of this?” Daryaei asked.
“My friend, neither our ships nor our naval aircraft have spotted any American ships in the Arabian Sea at all.” The one overflight had been by land-based MiG-23s of the Indian air force. She hadn’t lied to her supposed ally. Quite. “The sea is large,” she added. “But the Americans are not that clever, are they?”
“Your friendship will not be forgotten,” Daryaei promised her.
The Prime Minister replaced the phone, wondering if she’d done the right thing. Well. If the American ships got to the Gulf, she could always say that they hadn’t been spotted. That was the truth, wasn’t it? Mistakes happened, didn’t they?
“HEADS UP. I got four aircraft lifting off from Gasr Amu,” a captain said aboard the AWACS. The newly-constituted UIR air force had been working up, too, but mainly over what was the central part of the new country, and hard to spot even from the airborne radar platform.
Whoever had timed this wasn’t doing all that badly. The fourth quartet of inbound airliners had just crossed into Saudi airspace, less than two hundred miles from the UIR fighters doing their climb-out. It had been quiet on the air front to this point. Two fighters had been tracked over the last few hours, but those appeared to be check-hops from the mission profiles, probably aircraft that had been fixed for some major or minor defect, then taken up to see if the new widgets worked properly. But this was a flight of four which had taken off in two closely spaced elements. That made them fighters on a mission.
The current air cover for Operation CUSTER in this sector was a flight of four American F-16s, orbiting within twenty miles of the border.
“Kingston Lead, this is Sky-Eye Six, over.”
“Sky, Lead.”
“We have four bandits, zero-three-five your position, angels ten and climbing, course two-niner-zero.” The four American fighters moved west to interpose themselves between the UIR fighters and the inbound airliners.
Aboard the AWACS, a Saudi officer listened in to the radio chatter between the ground radar station controlling the flight of four and the fighters. The UIR fighters, now identified as French-made F-1s, continued to close the border, then turn ten miles short of it, finally tracing only one mile inside. The F-16s did much the same, and the pilots saw each other, and examined one another’s aircraft from four thousand yards apart, through the protective visors of their helmets. The air-to-air missiles were clearly visible under the wings of all the aircraft.
“Y’all want to come over and say hello?” the USAF major leading the F-16s said over guard. There was no response. The next installment of Operation CUSTER proceeded unhindered to Dhahran.
O’DAY WAS IN early. His sitter, with no classes to worry about, rather enjoyed the thought of all the money that would come in from this, and the most important bit of news for everyone was that not a single case of the new illness had happened within ten miles of his home. Despite the inconvenience, he had slept at home every night—even though on one occasion that had been a mere four hours. He couldn’t be a daddy if he didn’t kiss his little girl at least once a day, even in her sleep. At least the ride into work was easy. He’d gotten a Bureau car. It was faster than his pickup, complete with a flashing light that allowed him to zip through all the checkpoints on the way.
On his desk were the case summaries from the background checks of all the Secret Service personnel. The work in nearly every case had been stultifyingly duplicative. Full background checks had been done on every USSS employee, or else they could not have held the security clearances that were an automatic part of their jobs. Birth certificates, high-school photos, and everything else matched up perfectly. But ten files showed loose ends, and all of those would be run down later in the day. O’Day went over all of them. He kept coming back to one.
Raman was of Iranian birth. But America was a nation of immigrants. The FBI had originally been constructed of Irish-Americans, preferably those educated at Jesuit institutions—Boston College and Holy Cross were the favorites, according to the legend—because J. Edgar Hoover was supposed to have believed that no Irish-American with a Jesuit education could conceivably betray his country. Doubtless, there had been some words about that at the time, and even today, anti-Catholicism was the last of the respectable prejudices. But it was well-known that immigrants so often made the most loyal of citizens, some ferociously so. The military and other security agencies often profited from that. Well, Pat thought, it was easily settled. Just check out the rug thing and let it be. He wondered who Mr. Sloan was. A guy who wanted a rug, probably.
THERE WAS A quiet to the streets of Tehran. Clark didn’t remember them that way from 1979-80. His more recent trip had been different, more like the rest of the region, bustling but not dangerous. Being journalists, they acted like journalists. Clark reentered market areas, talking politely to people about business conditions, the availability of food, what they thought of the unification with Iraq, what their hopes for the future were, and what he got was pure vanilla. Platitudes. The political comments were especially bland, singularly lacking in the passion he remembered from the hostage crisis, when every heart and mind had been turned against the entire outside world—especially America. Death to America. Well, they’d given substance to that wish, John thought. Or someone had. He didn’t sense that animus anymore among the people, remembering the strangely cordial jeweler. Probably they just wanted to live, just like everyone else. The apathy reminded him of Soviet citizens in the 1980s. They’d just wanted to get along, just wanted to live a little better, just wanted their society to respond to their needs. There was no revolutionary rage left in them. So why, then, had Daryaei taken his action? How would the people respond to that? The obvious answer was that he’d lost touch, as Great Men so often did. He’d have his coterie of true believers, and a larger number of people willing to ride the bus and enjoy the comfortable seating while everyone else walked and kept out of the way, but that was it. It was fertile ground to recruit agents, to identify those who’d had enough and were willing to talk. What a shame that there was no time to run a proper intelligence operation here. He checked his watch. Time to head back to the hotel. Their first day had been both a waste and part of their cover. Their Russian colleagues would arrive tomorrow.
THE FIRST ORDER of business was to check out the names Sloan and Alahad. That started with a check of the telephone book. Sure enough, there was a Mohammed Alahad. He had an ad in the Yellow Pages. Persian and Oriental Rugs. For some reason, people didn’t connect “Persia” with “Iran,” a saving grace for a lot of rug merchants. The shop was on Wisconsin Avenue, about a mile from Raman’s apartment, which was not in the least way remarkable. Similarly, there was a Mr. Joseph Sloan in the crisscross, whose telephone number was 536-4040, as opposed to Raman’s 536-3040. A one-digit goof, which easily explained the wrong number on the Secret Service agent’s answering machine.
The next step was pure form. The computer records of telephone calls were run by command. The massive numbers of them took almost a minute to run, even with knowledge of the probable dates ... and there it came up on the agent’s screen, a call to 202-536-3040 from 202-459- 6777. But that wasn’t Alahad’s store number, was it? A further check showed -6777 as a pay phone two blocks from the shop. Odd. If he were that close to his shop, why drop a dime—actually a quarter now—to make the call?
Why not make another check? The agent was his squad’s techno-genius, with a mustache and a marginal haircut. He’d been something less than a raving success working bank robberies, but had found foreign counterintelligence to his liking. It was like the engineering classes of his college days. You just kept picking at things. He’d also found that the foreign spies he chased thought the same way he did. T
oss in his technical prowess ... hmph, in the past month there had not been a call from the rug shop to 536-4040. He went back another month. No. How about the other direction? No, 536-4040 had never called 457-1100. Now, if he’d ordered a rug, and those things took time—must have, if the dealer had called to let the guy know it had finally come in ... why hadn’t there been a call about it in either direction?
The agent leaned over to the next desk. “Sylvia, want to take a look at this?”
“What is it, Donny?”
THE BLACKHORSE WAS fully on the ground now. Most of them were in their vehicles or attending their aircraft. The 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment comprised 123 M1A2 Abrams main-battle tanks, 127 M3A4 Bradley scout vehicles, 16 M109A6 Paladin 155mm mobile guns, and 8 M270 Multiple-Launch Rocket System tracks, plus a total of 83 helicopters, 26 of which were AH-54D Apache attack choppers. Those were the shooting platforms. They were supported by hundreds of soft vehicles—mostly trucks to carry fuel, food, and ammunition—plus twenty extras locally called Water Buffaloes, a vital need in this part of the world.
The first order of business was to get everyone away from the POMCUS site. The tracked vehicles were driven onto low-boy trailers for the ride north to Abu Hadriyah, a small town with an airport and the designated assembly point for the 11th Cav. As every vehicle rolled out of its warehouse, it stopped on a pre-selected spot painted red. There the GPS navigation systems were checked against a known reference point. Two of the IVIS boxes were down. One of them announced the fact all by itself, sending a coded radio message to the regiment’s support troop, demanding that it be replaced and repaired. The other was completely dead, and the crew had to figure it out for themselves. The large red square helped.
The trailer trucks were driven by Pakistanis, a few hundred of the thousands imported into the Saudi Kingdom to do menial labor. For the Abrams and Bradley crews, it would prove to be exciting, while they worked inside their tracks to make sure that everything was working. With the routine tasks done, drivers, loaders, and commanders stuck their heads out of their hatches, hoping to enjoy the view. What they saw was different from Fort Irwin but not terribly exciting. To the east was an oil pipeline. To the west was a lot of nothing. The crews watched anyway—the view was better than they’d experienced on the flight—except for the gunners, many of whom fought motion-sickness, a common problem for people in that position. It was almost as bad for those who could see. The local truckers, it seemed, were paid by the mile and not the hour. They drove like maniacs.
The Guardsmen were beginning to arrive now. They had nothing to do at the moment except set up the tents provided for them, drink lots of water, and exercise.
SUPERVISOR SPECIAL AGENT Hazel Loomis commanded this squad of ten agents. “Sissy” Loomis had been in FCI from the beginning of her career, virtually all of it in Washington. Approaching forty now, she still had the cheerleader look that had served her so well earlier in her time as a street agent. She also had a number of successful cases under her belt.
“This looks a little odd,” Donny Selig told her, laying out his notes on her desk.
It didn’t require much by way of explanation. Phone contacts between intelligence agents never included the words, “I have the microfilm.” The most innocuous of messages were pre-selected to convey the proper information. Which was why they were called “code words.” And it wasn’t that the tradecraft was bad. It was just that if you knew what to look for, it looked like tradecraft. Loomis looked the data over, then looked up.
“Got addresses?”
“You bet, Sis,” Selig told her.
“Then let’s go see Mr. Sloan.” The one bad part about promotion was that being a supervisor denied her the chance to hit the bricks. Not for this one, Loomis told herself.
AT LEAST THE F-15E Strike Eagle had a crew of two, allowing the pilot and weapons-systems operator to engage in conversation for the endless flight. The same was true of the six B-1B bomber crews; the Lancer even had enough area that people could lie down and sleep—not to mention a sit-down toilet. This meant that, unlike the fighter crews, they didn’t have to shower immediately upon reaching A1 Kharj, their final destination, south of Riyadh. The 366th Air Combat Wing had three designated “checkered flag” locations throughout the world. These were bases in anticipated trouble spots, with support equipment, fuel, and ordnance facilities maintained by small caretaker crews, who would be augmented by the 366th’s own personnel, mainly flying in by chartered airliners. That included additional flight crews, so that, theoretically, the crew which had flown in from Mountain Home Air Force Base in Idaho could indulge in crew rest, while another relief crew could, theoretically, fly the aircraft off to battle. Fortunately for all concerned, this wasn’t necessary. Thoroughly exhausted airmen (and, now, -women) brought their birds in for landing, taxied off to their shelters, and dismounted, handing their charges over to maintenance personnel. The bomb-bay fuel tanks were removed first of all, and replaced with the appliances made to hold weapons, while the crews went off for long showers and briefings from intelligence officers. Over a period of five hours, the entire 366th combat strength was in Saudi, less one F-16C, which had developed avionics trouble and diverted to Bentwaters Royal Air Force Base in England.
“YES?” THE ELDERLY woman wasn’t wearing a surgical mask. Sissy Loomis handed her one. It was the new form of greeting in America.
“Good morning, Mrs. Sloan. FBI,” the agent said, holding up her ID.
“Yes?” She wasn’t intimidated, but she was surprised.
“Mrs. Sloan, we’re conducting an investigation, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. We just need to clear something up. Could you help us, please?”
“I suppose.” Mrs. Joseph Sloan was over sixty, dressed neatly, and looked pleasant enough, if somewhat surprised by all this. Inside the apartment the TV was on, tuned to a local station by the sound of it. The weather forecast was running.
“May we come in? This is Agent Don Selig,” she said, nodding her head to the techno-weenie. As usual, her friendly smile won the day; Mrs. Sloan didn’t even put the mask on.
“Surely.” The lady of the house backed away from the door.
It took only a single glance to tell Sissy Loomis that something was not quite right here. For one thing, there was no Persian rug to be seen in the living room—in her experience people didn’t just buy one of the things. For another, this apartment was just too neat.
“Excuse me, is your husband in?” The response was immediate, and pained.
“My husband passed away last September,” she told the agent.
“Oh, I am sorry, Mrs. Sloan. We didn’t know.” And with that a fairly routine follow-up changed into something very different indeed.
“He was older than me. Joe was seventy-eight,” she said, pointing to a picture on the coffee table of two people a long time ago, one about thirty and one in her late teens.
“Does the name Alahad mean anything to you, Mrs. Sloan?” Loomis asked after sitting down.
“No. Should it?”
“He deals in Persian and Oriental rugs.”
“Oh, we don’t have any of those. I’m allergic to wool, you see.”
57
NIGHT PASSAGE
JACK?” RYAN’S EYES clicked open to see that there was bright sunlight coming through the windows. His watch said it was just after eight in the morning.
“What the hell? Why didn’t anybody—”
“You even slept through the alarm,” Cathy told him. “Andrea said that Arnie said to let you sleep till about now. I guess I needed it, too,” SURGEON added. She’d been in bed for over ten hours before waking at seven. “Dave told me to take the day off,” she added.
Jack jolted up and moved at once into the bathroom. When he came back, Cathy, in her housecoat, handed over his briefing papers. The President stood in the center of the room, reading them. Reason told him that if anything serious had happened he would have been awakened—he had slept th
rough the clock-radio alarm before, but he’d never failed to be aroused by a phone. The papers told him that all was, if not exactly well, then relatively stable. Ten minutes after that, he was dressed. He took the time to say hello to his kids, and kiss his wife. Then he headed out.
“SWORDSMAN is moving,” Andrea said into her radio mike. “Sit Room?” she asked POTUS.
“Yeah. Whose idea was it to—”
“Mr. President, that was the chief of staff, but he was right, sir.”
Ryan looked at her as she punched the elevator button for the ground floor. “I guess I’m outvoted, then.”
The national-security team had clearly been up all night on his behalf. Ryan had coffee waiting at his place. They’d been living on it.
“Okay, what’s happening over there?”
“COMEDY is now one hundred thirty miles beyond the Indians—would you believe they resumed their patrol station behind us?” Admiral Jackson told his Commander-in-Chief.
“Playing both sides of the street,” Ben Goodley concluded.
“It’s a good way to get hit by traffic in both directions,” Arnie put in.
“Go on.”
“Operation CUSTER is just about done. The 366th is also in Saudi, less one broke fighter that diverted to England. The 11th Cav is rolling out of its storage site to an assembly area. So far,” the J-3 said, “so good. The other side sortied some fighters to the border, but we and the Saudis had a blocking force, and nothing happened aside from some mean looks.”
“Anybody think they’re going to back down?” Ryan asked.
“No.” This came from Ed Foley. “They can’t, not now.”
