by Tom Clancy
Ghosn got the keys for a Czech-built GAZ-66 truck. It wasn’t as reliable as a Mercedes, but a lot easier to obtain—in this case it had been funneled to his organization through the Syrians years before. On the back was a home-built A-frame. Ghosn loaded the American in the cab with himself and the driver. Two other men rode on the loadbed as the truck pulled out of the camp.
Marvin Russell examined the terrain with the interest of a hunter in a new territory. The heat was oppressive, but really no worse than the Badlands during a bad summer wind, and the vegetation—or lack of it—wasn’t all that different from the reservation of his youth. What appeared to others as bleak was just another dusty place to an American raised on one. Except here they didn’t have the towering thunderstorms—and the tornados they spawned—of the American Plains. The hills were also higher than the rolling Badlands. Russell had never seen mountains before. Here he saw them, high and dry and hot enough to make a climber gasp. Most climbers, Marvin Russell thought. He could hack it. He was in shape, better shape than these Arabs.
The Arabs, on the other hand, seemed to be believers in guns. So many guns, mostly Russian AK-47s at first, but soon he was seeing heavy antiaircraft guns and the odd battery of surface-to-air missiles, tanks, and self-propelled field guns belonging to the Syrian Army. Ghosn noted his guest’s interest and started explaining things.
“These are here to keep the Israelis out,” he said, casting his explanation in accordance with his own beliefs. “Your country arms the Israelis and the Russians arm us.” He didn’t add that this was becoming increasingly tenuous.
“Ibrahim, have you been attacked?”
“Many times, Marvin. They send their aircraft. They send commando teams. They have killed thousands of my people. They drove us from our land, you see. We are forced to live in camps that—”
“Yeah, man. They’re called reservations where I come from.” That was something Ghosn didn’t know about. “They came to our land, the land of our ancestors, killed off the buffalo, sent in their army, and massacred us. Mainly they attacked camps of women and children. We tried to fight back. We killed a whole regiment under General Custer at a place called the Little Big Horn—that’s the name of a river—under a leader named Crazy Horse. But they didn’t stop coming. Just too many of them, too many soldiers, too many guns, and they took the best of our land, and left us shit, man. They make us live like beggars. No, that’s not right. Like animals, like we’re not people, even, ‘cause we look different, speak different, got a different religion. They did all that ’cause we were in a place they wanted to have, and they just moved us out, like sweepin’ away the garbage.”
“I didn’t know about that,” Ghosn said, amazed that his were not the only people to be treated that way by the Americans and their Israeli vassals. “When did it happen?”
“Hundred years ago. Actually started around 1865. We fought, man, we did the best we could, but we didn’t have much of a chance. We didn’t have friends, see? Didn’t have friends like you got. Nobody gave us guns and tanks. So they killed off the bravest. Mainly they trapped the leaders and murdered them—Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull died like that. Then they squeezed us and starved us until we had to surrender. Left us dusty, shitty places to live, sent us enough food to keep us alive, but not enough to be strong. When some of us try to fight back, try to be men—well, I told you what they did to my brother. Shot him from ambush like he was an animal. Did it on television, even, so’s people would know what happened when an Indian got too big for his britches.”
The man was a comrade, Ghosn realized. This was no infiltrator, and his story was no different from the story of a Palestinian. Amazing.
“So why did you come here, Marvin?”
“I had to leave before they got me, man. I ain’t proud of it, but what else could I do—you want me to wait till they could ambush me?” Russell shrugged. “I figured I’d come someplace, find people like me, maybe learn a few things, learn how I could go back, maybe, teach my people how to fight back some.” Russell shook his head. “Hell, maybe it’s all hopeless, but I ain’t gonna give in—you understand that?”
“Yes, my friend, I understand. It has been so with my people since before I was born. But you, too, must understand: it is not hopeless. So long as you stand up and fight back, there is always hope. That is why they hunt you—because they fear you!”
“Hope you’re right, man.” Russell stared out the open window, and the dust stung his eyes, 7,000 miles from home. “So, what are we doing?”
“When you fought the Americans, how did your warriors get weapons?”
“Mainly we took what they left behind.”
“So it is with us, Marvin.”
Fowler woke up about halfway across the Atlantic. Well, that was a first, he told himself. He’d never managed to do it in an airplane before. He wondered if any U.S. president had, or done it on the way to see the Pope, or with his National Security Advisor. He looked out the windows. It was bright this far north—the aircraft was close to Greenland—and he wondered for a moment if it were morning or still night. That was almost a metaphysical question on an airplane, of course, which changed the time far faster than a watch could.
Also metaphysical was his mission. This would be remembered. Fowler knew his history. This was something unique. It had never happened before. Perhaps it was the beginning of the process, perhaps the end of it, but what he was up to was simply expressed. He would put an end to war. J. Robert Fowler’s name would be associated with this treaty. It was the initiative of his presidential administration. His speech at the U.N. had called the nations of the world to the Vatican. His subordinates had run the negotiations. His name would be the first on the treaty documents. His armed forces would guarantee the peace. He had truly earned his place in history. That was immortality, the kind that all men wanted but few earned. Was it any wonder that he was excited? he asked himself with dispassionate reflectivity.
A president’s greatest fear was gone now. He’d asked himself that question from the first moment, the first fleeting self-directed thought, while still a prosecutor chasing after the capo of the Cleveland family of the Cosa Nostra—if you’re the President, what if you have to push the button? Could he have done it? Could he have decided that the security of his country required the deaths of thousands—millions—of other human beings? Probably not, he judged. He was too good a man for that. His job was to protect people, to show them the way, to lead them along a beneficial path. They might not always understand that he was right and they wrong, that his vision was the correct one, the logical one. Fowler knew himself to be cold and aloof on such matters, but he was always right. Of that he was certain. He had to be certain, of himself and his motivations. Were he ever wrong, he knew, his conviction would be mere arrogance, and he’d faced that charge often enough. The one thing he was unsure about was his ability to face a nuclear war.
But that was no longer an issue, was it? Though he’d never admit it publicly, Reagan and Bush had ended that chance, forcing the Soviets to face their own contradictions, and facing them, to change their ways. And it had all happened in peace, because men really were more logical than beasts. There would continue to be hot spots, but so long as he did his job right they would not get out of hand—and the trip he was making now would end the most dangerous problem remaining in the world, the one with which no recent administration could cope. What Nixon and Kissinger had failed to do, what had defied the valiant efforts of Carter, the halfhearted attempts of Reagan, and the well-meaning gambits of Bush and his own predecessor, what all had failed to do, Bob Fowler would accomplish. It was a thought in which to bask. Not only would he find his place in the history books, but he would also make the rest of his presidency that much easier to manage. This would also put the seal on his second term, a forty-five-state majority, solid control of Congress, and the remainder of his sweeping social programs. With historic accomplishments like this one came international prestige and imme
nse domestic clout. It was power of the best kind, earned in the best way, and the sort that he could put to the best possible use. With a stroke of a pen—actually several pens, for that was the custom—Fowler became great, a giant among the good, and a good man among the powerful. Not once in a generation did a single man have such a moment as this. Maybe not once in a century. And no one could take it away.
The aircraft was traveling at 43,000 feet, moving at a ground speed of 633 knots. The placement of his cabin allowed him to look forward, as a president should look, and down at a world whose affairs he was managing so well. The ride was silky smooth, and Bob Fowler was going to make history. He looked over to Elizabeth, lying on her back, her right hand up around her head and the covers down at her waist, exposing her lovely chest to his eyes. While most of the rest of the passengers fidgeted in their seats, trying to get some sleep, he looked. Fowler didn’t want to sleep right now. The President had never felt more like a man, a great man to be sure, but at this moment, just a man. His hand slid across her breasts. Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide and she smiled, as though in her dreams she had read his thoughts.
Just like home, Russell thought to himself. The house was made of stones instead of block, and the roof was flat instead of peaked, but the dust was the same, and the pathetic little garden was the same. And the man might as easily have been a Sioux, the tiredness in his eyes, the bent back, the old, gnarled hands of one defeated by others.
“This must be the place,” he said as the truck slowed.
“The old man’s son fought the Israelis and was badly wounded. Both have been friends to us.”
“You have to look out for your friends,” Marvin agreed. The truck stopped, and Russell had to hop out to allow Ghosn to step down.
“Come along, I will introduce you.”
It was all surprisingly formal to the American. He didn’t understand a word, of course, but he didn’t have to. The respect of his friend Ghosn for the old one was good to see. After a few more remarks the farmer looked at Russell and bowed his head, which embarrassed the American. Marvin took his hand gently and shook it in the manner of his people, muttering something that Ghosn translated. Then the farmer led them into his garden.
“Damn,” Russell observed when he saw it.
“American Mark 84 2,000-pound bomb, it would appear. ...” Ghosn said offhandedly, then knew he was wrong ... the nose wasn’t quite right ... of course, the nose was crushed and distorted ... but oddly so.... He thanked the farmer and waved him back to the truck. “First we must uncover it. Carefully, very carefully.”
“I can handle that,” Russell said. He went back to the truck and selected a folding shovel of a military design.
“We have people—”
The American cut Ghosn off. “Let me do it. I’ll be careful.”
“Do not touch it. Use the shovel to dig around it, but use your hands to remove the soil from the bomb itself. Marvin, I warn you, this is very dangerous.”
“Better step back, then.” Russell turned and grinned. He had to show this man that he was courageous. Killing the cop had been easy, no challenge at all. This was different.
“And leave my comrade in danger?” Ghosn asked rhetorically. He knew that this was the intelligent thing to do, what he would have done had his own people done the digging, because his skills were too valuable to be risked stupidly, but he could not show weakness in front of the American, could he? Besides, he could watch and see if the man was as courageous as he seemed.
Ghosn was not disappointed. Russell stripped to the waist and got on his knees to dig around the periphery of the bomb. He was even careful of the garden, far more so than Ghosn’s men would have been. It took an hour until he’d dug a shallow pit around the device, piling up the soil in four neat mounds. Already Ghosn knew that there was something odd here. It was not a Mark 84. It had roughly the same size, but the shape was wrong, and the bombcase was ... just wasn’t right. The Mark 84 had a sturdy case made of cast steel, so that when the explosive filler detonated, the case would be transformed into a million razor-sharp fragments, the better to tear men to bits. But not this one. In two visible places the case was broken, and it wasn’t quite thick enough for that kind of bomb. So what the hell was it?
Russell moved in closer and used his hands to pull the dirt off the surface of the bomb itself. He was careful and thorough. The American worked up a good sweat but didn’t slacken his efforts even once. The muscles in his arm rippled, and Ghosn admired him for that. The man had a physical power like none he had ever seen. Even Israeli paratroopers didn’t look so formidable. He’d excavated two or three tons of dirt, yet he barely showed the effort, his movements as steady and powerful as a machine.
“Stop for a minute,” Ghosn said. “I must get my tools.”
“Okay,” Russell replied, sitting back and staring at the bomb.
Ghosn returned with a rucksack and a canteen, which he handed to the American.
“Thanks, man. It is a little warm here.” Russell drank half a liter of water. “Now what?”
Ghosn took a paintbrush from the sack and began sweeping the last of the dirt from the weapon. “You should leave now,” he warned.
“That’s okay, Ibrahim. I’ll stay if you don’t mind.”
“This is the dangerous part.”
“You stayed by me, man,” Russell pointed out.
“As you wish. I am now looking for the fuse.”
“Not in the front?” Russell pointed to the nose of the bomb.
“Not there. There is usually one at the front—it appears to be missing; that’s just a screw-on cap—one in the middle and one at the back.”
“How come it don’t have no fins on it?” Russell asked. “Don’t bombs have fins on ’em, you know, like an arrow?”
“The fins were probably stripped off when it hit the ground. That’s often how we find such bombs, because the fins come off and lie on the surface.”
“Want me to uncover the back of the thing, then?”
“Very, very carefully, Marvin. Please.”
“Okay, man.” Russell moved around his friend and resumed pulling the dirt off the back end of the bombcase. Ghosn, he noted, was one cool son of a bitch. Marvin was as scared as he had ever been, this close to a shitload of explosives, but he could not and damned well would not show anything that looked like fear to this guy. Ibrahim might be a little pencil-necked geek, but the dude had real balls, dicking with a bomb like this. He noted that Ghosn was sweeping the dirt off like he was using the brush on a girl’s tits, and made his own efforts just as cautious. Ten minutes later, he had uncovered the back.
“Ibrahim?”
“Yes, Marvin?” Ghosn said without looking.
“There ain’t nothing here. The back’s just a hole, man.”
Ghosn lifted the brush from the case and turned to look. That was odd. But he had other things to do. “Thank you. You can stop now. I still have not found a fuse.”
Russell backed off, sat on a mound of dirt, and proceeded to empty the rest of the canteen. On reflection he walked over to the truck. The three men there along with the farmer were just standing—the farmer watching in the open, the others observing more circumspectly behind the stone walls of the house. Russell tossed one man the empty canteen, and had a full one returned the same way. He gave a thumbs-up sign to all of them and walked back to the bomb.
“Back off for a minute and have a drink,” Marvin said on his return.
“Good idea,” Ghosn agreed, setting his brush down next to the bomb.
“Find anything?”
“A plug connection, nothing else.” That was odd, too, Ghosn thought, pulling the top off the canteen. There were no stenciled markings, just a silver-and-red label block near the nose. Color codes were common on bombs, but he’d never seen that one before. So, what was this damned thing? Maybe a FAE or some kind of submunition canister? Something old and obsolete that he’d never seen before. It had come down in 1973, after al
l. Maybe something that had long since gone out of service. That was very bad news. If it were something he’d never seen before, it might have a fusing system that he didn’t know. His manual for dealing with such things was Russian in origin, though printed in Arabic. Ghosn had long since committed it to memory, but there was no description for anything like this. And that was truly frightening. Ghosn took a long pull from the canteen and then poured a little across his face.
