Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “I bet.” Jack closed his eyes, and rubbed them.

  “Sir, you don’t have much choice in the matter,” General Pickett told the President.

  “How do I get back to Hopkins?” Alexandre asked. “I have a department to run and patients to treat.”

  “I told Bretano that people will be allowed to leave Washington,” van Damm informed the others in the room. “The same will be true of all big cities with borders nearby. New York, Philadelphia and like that. We have to let people go home, right?”

  Pickett nodded. “Yes, they’re safer there. It’s unrealistic to assume that the plan will be properly implemented until midnight or so.”

  Then Cathy spoke: “Alex, I guess you’ll come with me. I have to fly up, too.”

  “What?” Ryan’s eyes opened.

  “Jack, I’m a doctor, remember?”

  “You’re an eye doctor, Cathy. People can wait to get new glasses,” Jack insisted.

  “At the staff meeting today, we agreed that everybody has to pitch in. We can’t just leave it to the nurses and the kids—the residents—to treat these patients. I’m a clinician. We all have to take our turn on this, honey,” SURGEON told her husband.

  “No! No, Cathy, it’s too dangerous.” Jack turned to face her. “I won’t let you.”

  “Jack, all those times you went away, the things you never told me about, the dangerous things, you were doing your job,” she said reasonably. “I’m a doctor. I have a job, too.”

  “It’s not all that dangerous, Mr. President,” Alexandre put in. “You just have to follow the procedures. I work with AIDS patients every day and—”

  “No, God damn it!”

  “Because I’m a girl?” Caroline Ryan asked gently. “It worries me some, too, Jack, but I’m a professor at a medical school. I teach students how to be doctors. I teach them what their professional responsibilities are. One of those responsibilities is to be there for your patients. You can’t run away from your duties. I can’t, either, Jack.”

  “I’d like to see the procedures you’ve set up, Alex,” Pickett said.

  “Glad to have you, John.”

  Jack continued to look in his wife’s face. He knew she was strong, and he’d always known that she sometimes treated patients with contagious diseases—AIDS produced some serious eye complications. He’d just never thought much about it. Now he had to: “What if—”

  “It won’t. I have to be careful. I think you did it to me again.” She kissed him in front of the others. “My husband has the most remarkable timing,” she told the audience.

  It was too much for Ryan. His hands started to shake a little and his eyes teared up. He blinked them away. “Please, Cathy ...”

  “Would you have listened to me on the way to that submarine, Jack?” She kissed him again and stood.

  THERE WAS RESISTANCE, but not all that much. Four governors told their adjutant generals—the usual title for a state’s senior National Guard officer—not to obey the presidential order, and three of those wavered until the Secretary of Defense called to make the order clear and personal, threatening them with immediate relief, arrest, and court-martial. Some talked about organizing protests, but that took time, and the green vehicles were already starting to move, their orders modified in many cases, like the Philadelphia Cavalry, one of the Army’s most ancient and revered units, whose members had escorted George Washington to his inauguration more than two centuries earlier, and whose current troopers now headed for the bridges on the Delaware River. Local TV and radio told people that commuters would be allowed to go home without inhibitions until nine that night, and until midnight with identification check. If it was easy, people would be allowed to get home. That happened in most cases, but not all, and motels filled up all across America.

  Children, told that schools would be closed for at least a week, greeted the news with enthusiasm, puzzled at the concern and even outright fear their parents displayed.

  Pharmacies which sold things like surgical masks ran out of them in a matter of minutes, their clerks mainly not knowing why until someone switched on a radio.

  IN PITTSBURGH, STRANGELY, the Secret Service agents going over security arrangements for President Ryan’s coming visit were late getting the word. While most on the advance team hustled into the bar to watch the President on TV, Raman broke away to make a phone call. He called his home, waited for the four rings until his answering machine kicked in, then punched the code to access the messages. It was a false one, as before, announcing the arrival of a rug he hadn’t ordered and a price he would not have to pay. Raman experienced a slight chill. He was now free to complete his mission at his discretion. That meant soon, as it was expected that he would die in the effort. This he was willing to do, though he thought he might have a chance now, as he walked to the bar. The other three agents stood right by the TV. When someone objected to their blockage of his view, a set of credentials were held up.

  “Holy shit!” the senior man from the Pittsburgh office said for the rest. “Now what do we do?”

  IT WAS TRICKY with international flights. The word was only now getting to the embassies in Washington. They communicated the nature of the emergency to their governments, but for the European ones, senior officials were at home, many getting into bed when the calls came. These had to get into their offices, have their own meetings, and decide what to do, but the long duration of over-water flights mainly gave time for that. Soon it was decided that all passengers on flights from America would be quarantined—how long, they didn’t know yet. Urgent calls to the American Federal Aviation Administration made arrangements to allow flights to America to sit on the ground, be refueled, and then depart for their points of origin. These aircraft were identified as uncontaminated, their passengers allowed to proceed home, though there would be bureaucratic mistakes along the way.

  That the financial markets would be closed was made apparent by an Ebola case which arrived in Northwestern University Medical Center. He was a commodities trader who customarily worked on the raucous floor of the Chicago Board of Trade, and the news was quick to get out. All the exchanges would be closed, and the next worry for the business and financial community was the effect this would have on their activities. But mainly people watched the TV coverage. Every network found its medical expert and gave him or her free rein to explain the problem, usually in too much detail. Cable channels ran science specials on Ebola outbreaks in Zaire, showing just how far flu symptoms might lead. What resulted was a quiet, private sort of panic throughout the nation, people in their homes, inspecting their pantries to see how much food they had, watching TV and worrying as they also struggled to ignore. When neighbors talked, it was at a distance.

  THE CASE COUNT reached five hundred just before eight o’clock in Atlanta. It had been a long day for Gus Lorenz, gyrating as he did between his laboratory and his office. There was danger for him and his staff. Fatigue made for errors and accidents. Normally a sedate establishment, one of the world’s finest research laboratories, the people there were accustomed to working in a calm, orderly way. Now it was frantic. Blood samples couriered to them had to be tagged and tested, and the results faxed to the hospital of origin. Lorenz struggled throughout the day to reorganize his people and their functions, so as to keep staff on duty around the clock, but also not to overly fatigue anyone. He had to apply that to himself as well, and when he returned to his office to catch a nap, he found someone waiting inside.

  “FBI,” the man said, holding up his ID folder. It was actually the local SAC, a very senior agent who’d been running his own office over a cellular phone. He was a tall, quiet man, slow to excite. In crisis situations, he told his force of agents, you think first. There was always time to screw things up, and there had to be time to get them right, too.

  “What can I do for you?” Lorenz asked, taking his seat.

  “Sir, I need you to brief me in. The Bureau is working with a few other agencies to see how this all started
. We’re interviewing every victim to try and determine where they got sick, and we figure you’re the expert to ask about the overall situation. Where did all this start?”

  THE MILITARY DIDN’T know where it had started, but it was rapidly becoming apparent where it had gotten to. Fort Stewart, Georgia, had only been the first. Nearly every Army base was near some big city or other. Fort Stewart was within easy driving distance of Savannah and Atlanta. Fort Hood was close to Dallas-Fort Worth. Fort Campbell an hour from Nashville, where Vanderbilt had already reported cases. The personnel lived mainly in barracks, where they shared common showers and toilet facilities, and at these bases the senior medical officers were quite literally terrified. Naval personnel lived the most closely of all. Their ships were enclosed environments. Those ships at sea were instantly ordered to remain there while the shoreside situation was evaluated. It was soon determined that every major base was at risk, and though some units—mainly infantry and military police—deployed to augment the National Guard, medics kept an eye on every soldier and Marine. Soon they started finding men and women with flu symptoms. These were instantly isolated, put in protective MOPP gear and flown by helicopter to the nearest hospital that was receiving suspected Ebola cases. By midnight it would be clear that, until further notice, the U.S. military was a contaminated instrument. Urgent calls into the National Military Command Center reported which units had found cases, and on that information whole battalions were separated from others and kept that way, the personnel eating combat rations because their mess halls were closed, and thinking about an enemy they couldn’t see.

  “JESUS, JOHN,” CHAVEZ said in the latter’s office.

  Clark nodded silently. His wife, Sandy, was an instructor in nursing in a teaching hospital, and her life, he knew, might be at risk. She worked a medical floor. If an infected patient arrived, he would come to her unit, and Sandy would take the lead to show her students how to treat such patients safely.

  Safely? he asked himself. Sure. The thought brought back dark memories and the sort of fear he hadn’t known in many years. This attack on his country—Clark hadn’t been told yet, but he never had learned to believe in coincidences—didn’t put him at risk, but it put his wife at risk.

  “Who do you suppose did it?” It was a dumb question, and it generated a dumber reply.

  “Somebody who doesn’t like us a whole hell of a lot,” John answered crossly.

  “Sorry.” Chavez looked out the window and thought for a few seconds. “It’s one hell of a gamble, John.”

  “If we find out it is ... and operational security on something like this is a motherfucker.”

  “Roge-o, Mr. C. The people we’ve been looking at?”

  “That’s a possibility. Others, too, I suppose.” He checked his watch. Director Foley should be back from Washington by now, and they should head up to his office. It took only a couple of minutes.

  “Hi, John,” the DCI said, looking up from his desk. Mary Pat was there, too.

  “Not an accident, is it?” Clark asked.

  “No, it’s not. We’re setting up a joint task force. The FBI is talking to people inside the country. If we get leads, it’ll be our job to work outside the borders. You two will stand by to handle that. I’m trying to figure a way now to get people overseas.”

  “The SNIE?” Ding asked.

  “Everything else is on the back burner now. Jack even gave me authority to order NSA and DIA around.” Though the DCI by law had the power to do just that, in fact the other large agencies had always been their own independent empires. Until now.

  “How are the kids, guys?” Clark asked.

  “Home,” Mary Pat replied. Queen spook or not, she was still a mother with a mother’s concerns. “They say they feel fine.”

  “Weapons of mass destruction,” Chavez said next. He didn’t have to say anything more.

  “Yeah.” The DCI nodded. Somebody either had overlooked or didn’t care about the fact that United States policy for years had been explicit on that issue. A nuke was a germ was a gas shell, and the reply to a germ or a gas shell was a nuke, because America had those, and didn’t have the others. Foley’s desk phone rang. “Yes?” He listened for a few seconds. “Fine, could you send a team here for that? Good, thank you.”

  “What was that?”

  “USAMRIID at Fort Detrick. Okay, they’ll be here in an hour. We can send people overseas, but they have to have their blood tested first. The European countries are—well, you can imagine. Shit, you can’t take a fucking dog into England without leaving him in a kennel for a month to make sure he doesn’t have rabies. You’ll probably have to be tested on the other side of the pond, too. Flight crew also,” the DCI added.

  “We’re not packed,” Clark said.

  “Buy what you need over there, John, okay?” Mary Pat paused. “Sorry.”

  “Do we have any leads to run down?”

  “Not yet, but that will change. You can’t do something like this without leaving some footprints.”

  “Something’s strange here,” Chavez observed, looking down the long, narrow top-floor office. “John, remember what I said the other day?”

  “No,” Clark said. “What do you mean?”

  “Some things you can’t retaliate about, some things you can’t reverse. Hey, if this was a terrorist op—”

  “Too big,” Mary Pat objected. “Too sophisticated.” “Fine, ma’am, even if it was, hell, we could turn the Bekaa Valley into a parking lot, and send the Marines in to paint the lines after it cools down. That ain’t no secret. Same thing’s true of a nation-state, isn’t it? We ditched the ballistic missiles, but we still have nuclear bombs. We can burn any country down to bedrock, and President Ryan would do it least I wouldn’t bet the house against it. I’ve seen the guy in action, and he ain’t no pantywaist.”

  “So?” the DCI asked. He didn’t say that it wasn’t that simple. Before Ryan or anyone else initiated a nuclear-release order, the evidence would have to be of the sort to pass scrutiny with the Supreme Court, and he didn’t think Ryan was the sort to do such a thing under most circumstances.

  “So whoever ran this op is thinking one of two things. Either it won’t matter if we find out, or we can’t respond that way, or ...” There was a third one, wasn’t there? It was almost there, but not quite.

  “Or they take the President out but then why try for his little girl first?” Mary Pat asked. “That just increases security around him, makes the job harder instead of easier. We have things happening all over. The Chinese thing. The UIR. The Indian navy sneaked out to sea. All the political crap here, and now this Ebola. There’s no picture. All these things are unconnected.”

  “Except they’re all making our life hard, aren’t they?” The room got quiet for a few seconds.

  “The boy’s got a point,” Clark told the other two.

  “IT ALWAYS STARTS in Africa,” Lorenz said, filling his pipe. “That’s where it lives. There was an outbreak in Zaire a few months ago.”

  “Didn’t make the news,” the FBI agent said.

  “Only two victims, a young boy and a nurse—nursing nun, I think, but she was lost in a plane crash. Then there was a mini-break in Sudan, again two victims, an adult male and a little girl. The man died. The child survived. That was weeks ago, too. We have blood samples from the Index Case. We’ve been experimenting with that one for a while now.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “You culture the virus in tissue. Monkey kidneys, as a matter of fact—oh, yeah,” he remembered.

  “What’s that?”

  “I put in an order for some African greens. That’s the monkey we use. You euthanatize them and extract the kidneys. Somebody got there first, and I had to wait for another order.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  Lorenz shook his head. “No, never found out. Put me back a week, ten days, that’s all.”

  “Who else would want the monkeys?” the SAC asked.

&nbs
p; “Pharmaceutical houses, medical labs, like that.”

  “Who would I talk to about that?”

  “You serious?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lorenz shrugged and pulled the card off his Rolodex. “Here.”

  THE BREAKFAST MEETING had taken a little time to arrange. Ambassador David L. Williams left his car, then was escorted into the Prime Minister’s official residence. He was grateful for the time of day. India could be a furnace, and at his age the heat became increasingly oppressive, especially since he had to dress like an Ambassador, instead of a governor of Pennsylvania, where it was okay to look working class. In this country, working class meant even more informal clothing, and that made the upper crust even haughtier with their beloved symbols of status. World’s largest democracy they liked to call this place, the retired politician thought. Sure.

  The P.M. was already seated at the table. She rose when he entered the room, took his hand and conveyed him to his seat. The china was gold-trimmed, and a liveried servant came in to serve coffee. Breakfast started with melon.

  “Thank you for receiving me,” Williams said.

  “You are always welcome in my house,” the P.M. replied graciously. About as much as a snake, the Ambassador knew. The hi-how-are-you chitchat lasted for ten minutes. Spouses were fine. Children were fine. Grandchildren were fine. Yes, it was warming up with the approach of summer. “So what business do we have to discuss?”

  “I understand that your navy has sailed.”

  “Yes, it has, I believe. After the unpleasantness your forces inflicted on us, they had to make repairs. I suppose they are making sure all their machines work,” the P.M. replied.

  “Just exercises?” Williams asked. “My government merely asks the question, madam.”