Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Gonna be a quiet day.” This was Rosselli’s XO, an Air Force F-15 pilot, Lieutenant Colonel Richard Barnes.

  “I think you’re right, Rocky.” Just what I wanted to hear! Rosselli checked his watch. It was a twelve-hour shift, with five hours left to go. “Hell, it’s getting to be a pretty quiet world.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.” Barnes turned back to the display screen. Well, I got my two MiGs over the Persian Gulf At least it hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

  Rosselli stood and decided to walk around. The duty watch officers thought this was to look at what they were doing, to make sure they were doing something. One senior civilian ostentatiously continued doing the Post crossword. It was his “lunch” break and he preferred eating here to the mostly empty cafeterias. Here he could watch TV. Rosselli next wandered over to the left into the Hot Line room, and he was lucky for a change. A message was announced by the dinging of a little bell. The actual message received looked like random garbage, but the encryption machine changed that into clear-text Russian which a Marine translated:

  “So you think you know the real meaning of fear? Yeah, you think you do know, but I doubt it. When you sit in a shelter with bombs falling all over. And the houses around you are burning like torches. I agree that you experience horror and fright For such moments are dreadful, for as long as they last, But the all-clear sounds-then it’s okay-

  You take a deep breath, the stress has passed by. But real fear is a stone deep down in your chest. You hear me? A stone. That’s what it is, no more.

  “Ilya Selvinskiy,” the Marine Lieutenant said.

  “Hmph?”

  “Ilya Selvinskiy, Russian poet, did some famous work during the Second World War. I know this one, Sprakh, the title is, ‘Fear.’ It’s very good.” The young officer grinned. “My opposite number is pretty literate. So ...” TRANSMISSION RECEIVED. THE REST OF THE POEM IS EVEN BETTER, ALEKSEY, the Lieutenant typed, STAND BY FOR REPLY.

  “What do you send back?” Rosselli asked.

  “Today ... maybe a little Emily Dickinson. She was a morbid bitch, always talking about death and stuff. No, better yet—Edgar Allan Poe. They really like him over there. Hmmm, which one ... ?” The Lieutenant opened a desk drawer and pulled out a volume.

  “Don’t you do it in advance?” Rosselli asked.

  The Marine grinned up at his boss. “No, sir, that’s cheating. We used to do it that way, but we changed things about two years ago, when things lightened up. Now it’s sort of a game. He picks a poem, and I have to respond with a corresponding passage from an American poet. It helps pass the time, Cap’n. Good for language skills on both sides. Translating poetry is a bitch—good exercise.” The Soviet side transmitted its messages in Russian, and the Americans in English, necessitating skilled translators at both ends.

  “Much real business on the line?”

  “Captain, I’ve never seen much more than test messages. Oh, when we have the SecState flying over, sometimes we check weather data. We even chatted a little about hockey when their national team came over to play with the NHL guys last August, but mainly it’s duller than dirt, and that’s why we trade poetry passages. Weren’t for that, we’d all go nuts. Shame we can’t talk like on CB or something, but the rules are the rules.”

  “Guess so. They say anything about the treaty stuff in Rome?”

  “Not a word. We don’t do that, sir.”

  “I see.” Rosselli watched the Lieutenant pick a stanza from “Annabel Lee.” He was surprised. Rosey had expected something from “The Raven.” Nevermore ...

  The arrival day was one of rest and ceremony—and mystery. The treaty terms had still not been leaked, and news agencies, knowing that something “historic” had happened, were frantic to discover exactly what it was. To no avail. The chiefs of state of Israel, Saudi Arabia, Switzerland, the Soviet Union, the United States of America, and their host, Italy, arrayed themselves around a massive 15th-century table, punctuated with their chief diplomats and representatives of the Vatican and the Eastern Orthodox Church. In deference to the Saudis, toasts were offered in water or orange juice, which was the only discordant note of the evening. Soviet President Andrey Il’ych Narmonov was particularly effusive. His country’s participation in the treaty was a matter of great importance, and the inclusion of the Russian Orthodox Church on the Commission for Christian Shrines would have major political import in Moscow. The dinner lasted three hours, after which the guests departed in view of the cameras on the far side of the avenue, and once more the newsies were thunderstruck by the fellowship. A jovial Fowler and Narmonov traveled together to the former’s hotel and availed themselves for only the second time of the opportunity to discuss matters of bilateral interest.

  “You have fallen behind in your deactivation of your missile forces,” Fowler observed after pleasantries were dispensed with. He eased the blow by handing over a glass of wine.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. As we told your people last week, our disposal facility has proven inadequate. We can’t dismantle the damned things fast enough, and our nature-lovers in parliament are objecting to our method of neutralizing the propellant stocks.”

  Fowler smiled in sympathy. “I know the problem, Mr. President.” The environmental movement had taken off in the Soviet Union the previous spring, with the Russian parliament passing a new set of laws modeled on—but much tougher than—American statutes. The amazing part was that the central Soviet government was abiding by the laws, but Fowler couldn’t say that. The environmental nightmare inflicted on that country by more than seventy years of Marxism would take a generation of tough laws to fix. “Will this affect the deadline for fulfilling the treaty requirements?”

  “You have my word, Robert,” Narmonov said solemnly. “The missiles will be destroyed by 1st March even if I must blow them up myself.”

  “That is good enough for me, Andrey.”

  The reduction treaty, a carryover from the previous administration, mandated a fifty-percent reduction in intercontinental launchers by the coming spring. All of America’s Minuteman-II missiles had been tagged for destruction, and the U.S. side of the treaty obligations was fully on track. As had been done under the Intermediate Nuclear Forces Treaty, the surplus missiles were dismantled to their component stages, which were either crushed or otherwise destroyed before witnesses. The news had covered the first few destructions, then grown tired of it. The missile silos, also under inspection, were stripped of their electronic equipment and, in the case of American structures, fifteen had already been declared surplus and sold—in four cases, farmers had purchased them and converted them to real silos. A Japanese conglomerate that had large holdings in North Dakota had further purchased a command bunker and made it into a wine cellar for the hunting lodge its executives used each fall.

  American inspectors on the Soviet side reported that the Russians were trying mightily, but that the plant built for dismantlement of the Russian missiles had been poorly designed, as a result of which the Soviets were thirty percent behind schedule. Fully a hundred missiles were sitting on trailers outside the plant, the silos they’d left already destroyed by explosives. Though the Soviets had in each case removed and burned the guidance package in front of American inspectors, there were lingering intelligence evaluations that it was all a sham—the erector trailers, some argued, could elevate and fire the missiles. Suspicion of the Soviets was too hard a habit to break for some in the U.S. intelligence community, as was doubtless true of the Russians as well, Fowler thought.

  “This treaty is a major step forward, Robert,” Narmonov said after a sip from his wineglass—now that they were alone they could relax like gentlemen, the Russian thought with a sly grin. “You and your people are to be congratulated.”

  “Your help was crucial to its success, Andrey,” Fowler replied graciously. It was a lie, but a politic one which both men understood. In fact it was not a lie, but neither man knew that.

  “One less trouble s
pot for us to worry about. How blind we were!”

  “That is true, my friend, but it is behind us. How are your people dealing with Germany?”

  “The Army is not happy, as you might imagine—”

  “Neither is mine.” Fowler interrupted gently with his pronouncement. “Soldiers are like dogs. Useful, of course, but they must know who the master is. Like dogs, they can be forgetful and must be reminded from time to time.”

  Narmonov nodded thoughtfully as the translation came across. It was amazing how arrogant this man was. Just what his intelligence briefings had told him, the Soviet President noted. And patronizing, too. Well, the American had the luxury of a firm political system, Andrey Il’ych told himself. It allowed Fowler to be so sure of himself while he, Narmonov, had to struggle every day with a system not yet set in stone. Or even wood, the Russian thought bleakly. What a luxury indeed to be able to look on soldiers as dogs to be cowed. Didn’t he know that dogs also had teeth? So strange the Americans were. Throughout communist rule in the Soviet Union, they had fretted about the political muscle of the Red Army—when in fact it had had none at all after Stalin’s elimination of Tukhachevskiy. But now they discounted all such stories while the dissolution of the iron hand of Marxism-Leninism was allowing soldiers to think in ways that would have ended in execution only a few years earlier. Well, this was no time to disabuse the American of his illusions, was it?

  “Tell me, Robert, this treaty idea—where exactly did it come from?” Narmonov asked. He knew the truth and wanted to see Fowler’s abilities as a liar.

  “Many places, as with all such ideas,” the President replied lightly. “The moving force was Charles Alden—poor bastard. When the Israelis had that terrible incident, he activated his plan immediately and—well, it worked, didn’t it?”

  The Russian nodded again, and made his mental notes. Fowler lied with skill, evading the substance of the question to give a truthful but evasive answer. Khrushchev was right, as he’d already known. Politicians all the world over are not terribly different. It was something to remember about Fowler. He didn’t like sharing credit, and was not above lying in the face of a peer, even over something so small as this. Narmonov was vaguely disappointed. Not that he’d expected anything else, but Fowler could have shown grace and humanity. He’d stood to lose nothing by it, after all. Instead he was as petty as any local Party apparatchik. Tell me, Robert, Narmonov asked behind a poker face that would have stood him well in Las Vegas, what sort of man are you?

  “It is late, my friend,” Narmonov observed. “Tomorrow afternoon, then?”

  Fowler stood. “Tomorrow afternoon, Andrey.”

  Bob Fowler escorted the Russian to the door and saw him off, then returned to his suite of rooms. Once there he pulled the handwritten checklist out of his pocket to make sure he’d asked all the questions.

  “Well?”

  “Well, the missile problem, he says, is exactly what our inspectors said it is. That ought to satisfy the guys at DIA.” A grimace; it wouldn’t. “I think he’s worried about his military.”

  Dr. Elliot sat down. “Anything else?”

  The President poured her a glass of wine, then sat beside his National Security Advisor. “The normal pleasantries. He’s a very busy, very worried man. Well, we knew that, didn’t we?”

  Liz swirled the wine around the glass and sniffed at it. She didn’t like Italian wines, but this one wasn’t bad. “I’ve been thinking, Robert ...”

  “Yes, Elizabeth?”

  “What happened to Charlie ... we need to do something. It isn’t fair that he should have disappeared like that. He’s the guy who put this treaty on track, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yes,” Fowler agreed, sipping at his own replenished glass. “You’re right, Elizabeth. It really was his effort.”

  “I think we should let that out—quietly, of course. At the very least—”

  “Yes, he should be remembered for something other than a pregnant grad student. That’s very gracious of you, Elizabeth.” Fowler tapped his glass against hers. “You handle the media people. You’re releasing the treaty details tomorrow before lunch?”

  “That’s right, about nine, I think.”

  “Then after you’re finished, take a few of the journalists aside and give it to them on background. Maybe Charlie will rest a little easier.”

  “No problem, Mr. President,” Liz agreed. Exorcizing that particular demon came easily enough, didn’t it? Was there anything she could not talk him into?

  “Big day tomorrow.”

  “The biggest, Bob, the biggest.” Elliot leaned back and loosened the scarf from her throat. “I never thought I’d ever have a moment like this.”

  “I did,” Fowler observed with a twinkle in his eye. There came a momentary pang of conscience. He’d expected to have it with someone else, but that was fate, wasn’t it? Fate. The world was so strange. But he had no control over that, did he? And fate had decreed that he would be here at the moment in question, with Elizabeth. It wasn’t his doing, was it? Therefore, he decided, there was no guilt, was there? How could there be guilt? He was making the world into a better, safer, more peaceful place. How could guilt attach to that?

  Elliot closed her eyes as the President’s hand caressed her offered neck. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected a moment like this.

  The entire floor of the hotel was reserved for the President’s party, and the two floors under it. Italian and American guards stood at all the entrances, and at various places in the buildings along the street. But the corridor outside the President’s suite of rooms was the exclusive domain of the Presidential Protective Detail. Connor and D’Agustino made their own final check before retiring for the evening. A full squad of ten agents were in view, and another ten were behind various closed doors. Three of the visible agents had FAG-bags, black satchels across their chests. Officially called fast-action-gun bags, each contained an Uzi submachine gun which could be extracted and fired in about a second and a half. Anyone who got this far would find a warm reception.

  “I see HAWK and HARPY are discussing affairs of state,” Daga observed quietly.

  “Helen, I didn’t think you were so much of a prude,” Pete Connor replied with a sly grin.

  “None of my business, but in the old days people outside the door had to be eunuchs or something.”

  “Keep talking like that and Santa will drop coal in your stocking.”

  “I’d settle for that new automatic the FBI adopted,” Daga said with a chuckle. “They’re like teenagers. It’s unseemly.”

  “Daga ...”

  “I know, he’s the Boss, and he’s a big boy, and we have to look the other way. Relax, Pete, you think I’m going to blab to a reporter?” She opened the door to the fire stairs and saw three agents, two of whom had their FAG-bags at the ready.

  “And I was about to offer you a drink, too....” Connor said deadpan. It was a joke. He and Daga were nondrinkers while on duty, and they were nearly always on duty. It wasn’t that he had never thought about getting into her pants. He was divorced, as was she, but it would never have worked, and that was that. She knew it, too, and grinned at him.

  “I could use one—the stuff they have here is what I was raised on. What a crummy job this is!” A final look down the corridor. “Everybody’s in place, Pete. I think we can call it a night.”

  “You really like the ten-millimeter?”

  “Fired one last week up at Greenbelt. Got a possible with my first string. It doesn’t get much better than that, lover.”

  Connor stopped dead in his tracks and laughed. “Christ, Daga!”

  “People might notice?” D’Agustino batted her eyes at him. “See what I mean, Pete?”

  “God, who ever heard of a Guinea puritan?”

  Helen D’Agustino elbowed the senior agent in the ribs and made her way to the elevator. Pete was right. She was turning into a damned prude, and she’d never ever been like that. A passionate woman whose singl
e attempt at marriage had collapsed because one household wasn’t large enough for two assertive egos—at least not two Italian ones—she knew she was allowing her prejudices to color her judgment. That was not a healthy thing, even over something both trivial and divorced from her job. What HAWK did on his own time was his business, but the look in his eyes.... He was infatuated with the bitch. Daga wondered if any president had allowed that to happen. Probably, she admitted. They were only men, after all, and all men sometimes thought from the testicles instead of the brain. That the President should become a lackey of such a shallow woman as this—that was what offended her. But that, she admitted to herself, was both odd and inconsistent. After all, women didn’t come much more liberated than she was. So why, she asked herself, was it bothering her? It had been too long a day for that. She needed sleep, and knew that she’d only get five or six hours before she was on duty again. Damn these overseas trips....

  “So what is it?” Qati asked just after dawn. He’d been away the previous day, meeting some other guerrilla leaders, and also for a trip to the doctor, Ghosn knew, though he could not ask about that.

  “Not sure,” the engineer replied. “I’d guess a jamming pod, something like that.”

  “That’s useful,” the Commander said at once. Despite the rapprochement, or whatever the key phrase was, between East and West, business was still business. The Russians still had a military, and that military still had weapons. Countermeasures against those weapons were items of interest. Israeli equipment was particularly prized, since the Americans copied it. Even old equipment showed how the Israeli engineers thought through problems, and could provide useful clues to newer systems.

  “Yes, we should be able to sell it to our Russian friends.”

  “How did the American work out?” Qati asked next.