by Tom Clancy
“Bomb? I thought—” Qati stopped himself. His face cleared for a moment and the Commander’s expression formed a question. “Tonight, you say?”
“I’ll drive you over myself.”
Qati’s strength of character prevailed. “Very well. Let me get my clothes on.”
Ghosn waited downstairs. “The Commander and I have to go see about something.”
“Mohammed!” the chief guard called, but Ghosn cut him off.
“I’ll take the Commander myself. There is no security problem at my shop.”
“But—”
“But you worry like an old woman! If the Israelis were that clever, you’d already be dead, and the Commander with you!” It was too dark to see the expression on the guard’s face, but Ghosn could feel the rage that radiated toward him from the man, an experienced front-line fighter.
“We’ll see what the Commander says!”
“What’s the problem now?” Qati emerged from the door, tucking his shirt in.
“I’ll drive you myself, Commander. We don’t need a security force for this.”
“As you say, Ibrahim.” Qati walked to the jeep and got in. Ghosn drove off past some astonished security guards.
“What exactly is this all about?”
“It’s a bomb after all, not an electronics pod,” the engineer replied.
“So? We’ve retrieved scores of the cursed things! What is this all about?”
“It is easier to show you.” The engineer drove rapidly, watching the road. “If you think I have wasted your time—when we are done, feel free to end my life.”
Qati’s head turned at that. The thought had already occurred to him, but he was too good a leader for that. Ghosn might not be the material of a fighter, but he was an expert at what he did. His service to the organization was as valuable as any man’s. The Commander endured the rest of the ride in silence, wishing the medicines he was taking allowed him to eat—no, to retain what he ate.
Fifteen minutes later, Ghosn parked his jeep fifty meters from the shop and led his Commander to the building by an indirect route. By this time Qati was thoroughly confused and more than a little angry. When the lights went on, he saw the bombcase.
“So, what about it?”
“Come here.” Ghosn led him to the corner. The engineer bent down and lifted the toolbox. “Behold!”
“What is it?” It looked like a small cannonball, a sphere of metal. Ghosn was enjoying this. Qati was angry, but that would soon change.
“It’s plutonium.”
The Commander’s head snapped around as though driven by a steel spring. “What? What do—”
Ghosn held up his hand. He spoke softly but positively. “What I am sure of, Commander, is that this is the explosive portion of an atomic bomb. An Israeli atomic bomb.”
“Impossible!” the Commander whispered.
“Touch it,” Ghosn suggested.
The Commander bent down and touched a finger to it. “It’s warm, why?”
“From the decay of alpha particles. A form of radiation that is not harmful—here it is not, in any case. That is plutonium, the explosive element of an atomic bomb. It can be nothing else.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive, absolutely positive. It can only be what I say it is.” Ghosn walked over to the bombcase. “These”—he held up some tiny electronic parts—“they look like glass spiders, no? They are called kryton switches, they perform their function with total precision, and that kind of precision is necessary for only one application found inside a bombcase. These explosive blocks, the intact ones, note that some are hexagons, some are pentagons? That is necessary to make a perfect explosive sphere. A shaped charge, like that for an RPG, but the focus is inward. These explosive blocks are designed to crush that sphere to the size of a walnut.”
“But it’s metal! What you say is not possible.”
“Commander, I do not know as much as I should of these matters, but I do know a little. When the explosives go off, they compress that metal sphere as though it were made of rubber. It is possible—you know what an RPG does to the metal on a tank, no? There is enough explosive here for a hundred RPG projectiles. They will crush the metal as I say. When it is compressed, the proximity of the atoms begins a nuclear chain-reaction. Think, Commander:
“The bomb fell into the old man’s garden on the first day of the October War. The Israelis were frightened by the force of the Syrian attack, and they were immensely surprised by the effectiveness of the Russian rockets. The aircraft was shot down, and the bomb was lost. The exact circumstances don’t matter. What matters, Ismael, is that we have the parts of a nuclear bomb.” Ghosn pulled out another cigarette and lit it.
“Can you ...
“Possibly,” the engineer said. Qati’s face was suddenly cleared of the pain he’d known for over a month.
“Truly Allah is beneficent.”
“Truly He is. Commander, we need to think about this, very carefully, very thoroughly. And security ...”
Qati nodded. “Oh, yes. You did well to bring me here alone. For this matter we can trust no one ... no one at all....” Qati let his voice trail off, then turned to his man. “What do you need to do?”
“My first need is for information—books, Commander. And do you know where I must go to get them?”
“Russia?”
Ghosn shook his head. “Israel, Commander. Where else?”
Representative Alan Trent met with Ryan in a House hearing room. It was the one used for closed-door hearings, and was swept daily for bugs.
“How’s life treating you, Jack?” the congressman asked.
“No special complaints, Al. The President had a good day.”
“Indeed he did—the whole world did. The country owes you a debt of thanks, Dr. Ryan.”
Jack’s smile dripped with irony. “Let’s not allow anybody to learn that, okay?”
Trent shrugged. “Rules of the game. You should be used to it by now. So. What brings you down on such short notice?”
“We have a new operation going. It’s called NIITAKA.” The DDCI explained on for several minutes. At a later date he would have to hand over some documentation. All that was required now was notification of the operation and its purpose.
“A million dollars a month. That’s all he wants?” Trent laughed aloud.
“The Director was appalled,” Jack reported.
“I’ve always liked Marcus, but he’s a tightfisted son of a bitch. We’ve got two certified Japan-bashers on the oversight committee, Jack. It’s going to be hard to rein them in with this stuff.”
“Three, counting you, Al.”
Trent looked very hurt. “Me, a Japan-basher? Just because there used to be two TV factories in my district, and a major auto-parts supplier has laid off half its people? Why the hell should I be the least bit angry about that? Let me see the cabinet minutes,” the congressman commanded.
Ryan opened his case. “You can’t copy them, you can’t quote from them. Look, Al, this is a long-term op and—”
“Jack, I didn’t just get into town from the chicken ranch, did I? You’ve turned into a humorless SOB. What’s the problem?”
“Long hours,” Jack explained as he handed the papers over. A1 Trent was a speed reader, and flicked through the pages with indecent speed. His face went into neutral, and he turned back into what he was before all things, a cold, calculating politician. He was well to the left side of the spectrum, but unlike most of his ilk Trent let his ideology stop at the water’s edge. He also saved his passion for the House floor and his bed at home. Elsewhere he was icily analytical.
“Fowler will go ballistic when he sees this. They are the most arrogant people. You’ve sat in on cabinet meetings. Ever hear stuff like this?” Trent asked.
“Only on political matters. I was surprised by the tone of the language, too, but it might just be a cultural thing, remember.”
The congressman looked up briefly. “True. Benea
th the patina of good manners, they can be wild and crazy folks, kind of like the Brits, but this is like Animal House.... Christ, Jack, this is explosive. Who recruited him?”
“The usual mating dance. He shows up at various receptions, and Chief of Station Tokyo caught a whiff, let it simmer for a few weeks, then made his move. The Russian handed over the packet and his contractual demands.”
“Why Operation NIITAKA, by the way? I’ve heard that before somewhere, haven’t I?”
“I picked it myself. When the Japanese strike force was heading for Pearl Harbor, the mission-execute signal was ‘Climb Mount Niitaka.’ Remember, you’re the only guy here who knows that word. We’re going onto a monthly-change identification cycle on this. This is hot enough that we’re giving him the whole treatment.”
“Right,” Trent agreed. “What if this guy’s an agent provocateur?”
“We’ve wondered about that. It’s possible but unlikely. For KGB to do that—well, it kinda breaks the rules as they are understood now, doesn’t it?”
“Wait!” Trent read over the last page again. “What the hell’s this about communications?”
“What it is, is scary.” Ryan explained what he wanted to do.
“Fifty million? You sure?”
“That’s the one-time start-up costs. Then there’s the new communicators. Total annual costs after start-up are about fifteen million.”
“Pretty reasonable, actually.” Trent shook his head. “NSA is quoting a much higher price to switch over to their system.”
“They have a bigger infrastructure to worry about. That number I gave you ought to be solid. MERCURY is pretty small.”
“How soon do you want it?” Trent knew that Ryan quoted hard budget numbers. It came from his business experience, Al knew, which was pretty thin in government service.
“Last week would be nice, sir.”
Trent nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. You want it ‘black,’ of course?”
“Like a cloudy midnight,” Ryan answered.
“Goddamn it!” Trent swore. “I’ve told Olson about this. His technical weenies do their rain dance and he buys it every time. What if—”
“Yeah, what if all our communications are compromised.” Jack did not make it a question. “Thank God for glasnost, eh?”
“Does Marcus understand the implications?”
“I explained it to him this morning. He understands. Al, Cabot may not have all the experience you or I would like, but he’s a fast learner. I’ve had worse bosses.”
“You’re too loyal. Must be a lingering symptom of your time in the Marines,” Trent observed. “You’d be a good director.”
“Never happen.”
“True. Now that Liz Elliot is National Security Advisor, you’ll have to cover your ass. You know that.”
“Yep.”
“What in hell did you do to piss her off? Not that it’s all that hard to do.”
“It was back right after the convention,” Ryan explained. “I was up in Chicago to brief Fowler. She caught me tired from a couple of long trips and she yanked my chain pretty hard. I yanked back.”
“Learn to be nice to her,” Trent suggested.
“Admiral Greer said that.”
Trent handed the papers back to Ryan. “It is difficult, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.”
“Learn anyway. Best advice I can give you.” Probably a total waste of time, of course.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good timing on the request, by the way. The rest of the committee will be impressed as hell with the new operation. The Japan-bashers will put the word out to their friends on Appropriations that the Agency is really doing something useful. We’ll have the money to you in two weeks if we’re lucky. What the hell, fifty million bucks—chicken feed. Thanks for coming down.”
Ryan locked his case and stood. “Always a pleasure.”
Trent shook his hand. “You’re a good man, Ryan. What a damned shame you’re straight.”
Jack laughed. “We all have our handicaps, Al.”
Ryan returned to Langley to put the NIITAKA documents back in secure storage, and that ended his work for the day. He and Clark took the elevator down to the garage and left the building an hour early, something they did every two weeks or so. Forty minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven between Washington and Annapolis.
“Hello, Doc Ryan!” Carol Zimmer said from behind the register. One of her sons relieved her there, and she led Jack into the back room. John Clark checked out the store. He wasn’t worried about Ryan’s security, but he had some lingering worries about the way some local toughs felt about the Zimmer enterprise. He and Chavez had taken care of that one gang leader, having done so in front of three of his minions, one of whom had tried to interfere. Chavez had shown mercy to that lad, who hadn’t required an overnight stay at the local hospital. That, Clark judged, was a sign of Ding’s growing maturity.
“How is business?” Jack asked in the back room.
“We up twenty-six ’rcent from this time las’ year.”
Carol Zimmer had been born in Laos less than forty years before, rescued from a hilltop fortress by an Air Force special-operations helicopter just as the North Vietnamese Army had overrun that last outpost of American power in Northern Laos. She’d been sixteen at the time, the last living child of a Hmong chieftain who’d served American interests, and his own—he’d been a willing agent—courageously and well, and to the death. She’d married Air Force sergeant Buck Zimmer, who’d died in yet another helicopter after yet another betrayal, and then Ryan had stepped in. He hadn’t lost his business sense despite his years of government service. He’d selected a good site for the store, and as fate had it, they hadn’t needed his educational trust fund for the first of the kids now in college. With a kind word from Ryan to Father Tim Riley, the lad had a full scholarship at Georgetown and was already dean’s-listed in pre-med. Like most Asians, Carol had a reverence for learning that bordered on religious fanaticism, and which she passed on to all of her kids. She also ran her store with the mechanistic precision a Prussian sergeant expected of an infantry squad. Cathy Ryan could have performed a surgical procedure on the register counter. It was that clean. Jack smiled at the thought. Maybe Laurence Alvin Zimmer, Jr., would do just that.
Ryan looked over the books. His CPA certificate had lapsed, but he could still read a balance sheet.
“You eat dinnah with us?”
“Carol, I can’t. I have to get home. My son has a Little League game tonight. Everything’s okay? No problems—not even those punks?”
“They not come back. Mistah Clark scare them away fo’ good!”
“If they ever come back, I want you to call me right away,” Jack said seriously.
“Okay, okay. I learn lesson,” she promised him.
“Fine. You take care.” Ryan stood.
“Doc Ryan?”
“Yes?”
“Air Force say Buck die in accident. I never ask anybody, but I ask you: accident, no accident?”
“Carol, Buck lost his life doing his job, saving lives. I was there. So was Mr. Clark.”
“The ones make Buck die ... ?”
“You have nothing to fear from them,” Ryan said evenly. “Nothing at all.” Jack saw the recognition in her eyes. Though Carol had modest language skills, she’d caught what he’d meant by his answer.
“Thank you, Doc Ryan. I never ask again, but I must know.”
“It’s okay.” He was surprised she’d waited so long.
The bulkhead-mounted speaker rattled. “Conn, sonar. I have a routine noise level bearing zero-four-seven, designate contact Sierra-5. No further information at this time. Will advise.”
“Very well.” Captain Ricks turned to the plotting table. “Tracking party, begin your TMA.” The Captain looked around the room. Instruments showed a speed of seven knots, a depth of four hundred feet, and a course of three-zero-three. The contact was broad on his star
board beam.
The ensign commanding the tracking party immediately consulted the Hewlett-Packard minicomputer located in the starboard-after corner of the attack center. “Okay,” he announced, “I have a trace angle ... little shaky ... computing now.” That took the machine all of two seconds. “Okay, I have a range gate ... it’s a convergence zone, range between three-five and four-five thousand yards if he’s in CZ-1, five-five and six-one thousand yards for CZ-2.”
“It’s almost too easy,” the XO observed to the skipper.
“You’re right, X, disable the computer,” Ricks ordered.
Lieutenant Commander Wally Claggett, Executive Officer, “Gold,” USS Maine, walked back to the machine and switched it off. “We have a casualty to the HP computer ... looks like it’ll take hours to fix,” he announced. “Pity.”
“Thanks a lot,” Ensign Ken Shaw observed quietly to the quartermaster hunched next to him at the chart table.
“Be cool, Mr. Shaw,” the petty officer whispered back. “We’ll take care o’ ya. Don’t need that thing now anyway, sir.”
“Let’s keep it quiet in the attack center!” Captain Ricks observed.
The submarine’s course took her northwest. The sonar operators fed information to the attack center as she did so. Ten minutes later, the tracking party made its decision.
“Captain,” Ensign Shaw announced. “Estimate contact Sierra-5 is in the first CZ, range looks like three-nine thousand yards, course is generally southerly, speed between eight and ten knots.”
“You can do better than that!” the CO announced sharply.
“Conn, sonar, Sierra-5 looks like Akula-class Soviet fast-attack, preliminary target ident is Akula number six, the Admiral Lunin. Stand by”—a moment’s silence—“possible aspect change on Sierra-5, possible turn. Conn, we have a definite aspect change. Sierra-5 is now beam-on, definite beam-aspect on target.”
“Captain,” the XO said, “that maximizes the effectiveness of his towed array.”
“Right. Sonar, conn, I want a self-noise check.”
