Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

“What about my murder case?” Provalov demanded.

  “What about it? This is an espionage case now, Comrade Lieutenant, and that takes precedence.”

  Which was true, Oleg Gregoriyevich had to admit to himself. The murder of a pimp, a whore, and a driver was a small thing compared to state treason.

  His naval career might never end, Admiral Joshua Painter, USN (Ret.), thought to himself. And that wasn’t so bad a thing, was it? A farm boy from Vermont, he’d graduated the Naval Academy almost forty years earlier, made it through Pensacola, then gotten his life’s ambition, flying jets off aircraft carriers. He’d done it for the next twenty years, plus a stint as a test pilot, commanded a carrier air wing, then a carrier, then a group, and finally topped out as SACLANT/CINCLANT/CINCLANTFLT, three very weighty hats that he’d worn comfortably enough for just over three years before removing the uniform forever. Retirement had meant a civilian job paying about four times what the government had, mainly consulting with admirals he’d watched on the way up and telling them how he would have done it. In fact, it was something he would have done for free in any officers’ club on any Navy base in America, maybe for the cost of dinner and a few beers and a chance to smell the salt air.

  But now he was in the Pentagon, back on the government payroll, this time as a civilian supergrade and special assistant to the Secretary of Defense. Tony Bretano, Josh Painter thought, was smart enough, a downright brilliant engineer and manager of engineers. He was prone to look for mathematical solutions to problems rather than human ones, and he tended to drive people a little hard. All in all, Bretano might have made a decent naval officer, Painter thought, especially a nuc.

  His Pentagon office was smaller than the one he’d occupied as OP-05—Assistant Chief of Naval Operations for Air—ten years earlier, a job since de-established. He had his own secretary and a smart young commander to look after him. He was an entry-port to the SecDef’s office for a lot of people, one of whom, oddly enough, was the Vice President.

  “Hold for the Vice President,” a White House operator told him on his private line.

  “You bet,” Painter replied.

  “Josh, Robby.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Painter replied. This annoyed Jackson, who’d served under Painter more than once, but Josh Painter wasn’t a man able to call an elected official by his Christian name. “What can I do for you?”

  “Got a question. The President and I were going over something this morning, and I didn’t have the answer to his question. Can an Aegis intercept and kill a ballistic inbound?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t think so. We looked at that during the Gulf War and—oh, okay, yeah, I remember now. We decided they could probably stop one of those Scuds because of its relatively slow speed, but that’s the top end of their ability. It’s a software problem, software on the SAM itself.” Which was the same story for the Patriot missiles as well, both men then remembered. “Why did that one come up?”

  “The President’s worried that if the Chinese toss one at Taiwan and we have a ship alongside, well, he’d prefer that the ship could look after herself, y’know?”

  “I can look into that,” Painter promised. “Want me to bring it up with Tony today?”

  “That’s affirmative,” TOMCAT confirmed.

  “Roger that, sir. I’ll get back to you later today.”

  “Thanks, Josh,” Jackson replied, hanging up.

  Painter checked his watch. It was about time for him to head in anyway. The walk took him out into the busy E-Ring corridor, then right again into the SecDef’s office, past the security people and the various private secretaries and aides. He was right on time, and the door to the inner office was open.

  “Morning, Josh,” Bretano greeted.

  “Good morning, Mr. Secretary.”

  “Okay, what’s new and interesting in the world today?”

  “Well, sir, we have an inquiry from the White House that just came in.”

  “And what might that be?” THUNDER asked. Painter explained. “Good question. Why is the answer so hard to figure out?”

  “It’s something we’ve looked at on and off, but really Aegis was set up to deal with cruise-missile threats, and they top out at about Mach Three or so.”

  “But the Aegis radar is practically ideal for that sort of threat, isn’t it?” The Secretary of Defense was fully briefed in on how the radar-computer system worked.

  “It’s a hell of a radar system, sir, yes,” Painter agreed.

  “And making it capable for this mission is just a question of software?”

  “Essentially yes. Certainly it involves software in the missile’s seekerhead, maybe also for the SPY and SPG radars as well. That’s not exactly my field, sir.”

  “Software isn’t all that difficult to write, and it isn’t that expensive either. Hell, I had a world-class guy at TRW who’s an expert on this stuff, used to work in SDIO downstairs. Alan Gregory, retired from the Army as a half-colonel, Ph.D. from Stony Brook, I think. Why not have him come in to check it out?”

  It amazed Painter that Bretano, who’d run one major corporation and had almost been headhunted away to head Lockheed-Martin before President Ryan had intercepted him, had so little appreciation for procedure.

  “Mr. Secretary, to do that, we have to—”

  “My ass,” THUNDER interrupted. “I have discretionary authority over small amounts of money, don’t I?”

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary,” Painter confirmed.

  “And I’ve sold all my stock in TRW, remember?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, I am not in violation of any of those fucking ethics laws, am I?”

  “No, sir,” Painter had to agree.

  “Good, so call TRW in Sunnyvale, get Alan Gregory, I think he’s a junior vice president now, and tell him we need him to fly here right away and look into this, to see how easy it would be to upgrade Aegis to providing a limited ballistic-missile-defense capability.”

  “Sir, it won’t make some of the other contractors happy.” Including, Painter did not add, TRW.

  “I’m not here to make them happy, Admiral. Somebody told me I was here to defend the country efficiently.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was hard not to like the guy, even if he did have the bureaucratic sensibilities of a pissed-off rhinoceros.

  “So let’s find out if Aegis has the technical capabilities to do this particular job.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “What time do I have to drive up to the Hill?” the SecDef asked next.

  “About thirty minutes, sir.”

  Bretano grumbled. Half his working time seemed to be spent explaining things to Congress, talking to people who’d already made up their minds and who only asked questions to look good on C-SPAN. For Tony Bretano, an engineer’s engineer, it seemed like a hellishly unproductive way to spend his time. But they called it public service, didn’t they? In a slightly different context, it was called slavery, but Ryan was even more trapped than he was, leaving THUNDER with little room to complain. And besides, he’d volunteered, too.

  They were eager enough, these Spetsnaz junior officers, and Clark remembered that what makes elite troops is often the simple act of telling them that they are elite—then waiting for them to live up to their own self-image. There was a little more to it, of course. The Spetsnaz were special in terms of their mission. Essentially they’d been copies of the British Special Air Service. As so often happened in military life, what one country invented, other countries tended to copy, and so the Soviet Army had selected troops for unusually good fitness tests and a high degree of political reliability—Clark never learned exactly how one tested for that characteristic—and then assigned them a different training regimen, turning them into commandos. The initial concept had failed for a reason predictable to anyone but the political leadership of the Soviet Union: The great majority of Soviet soldiers were drafted, served two years, then went back home. The average member of the British SAS
wasn’t even considered for membership until he’d served four years and had corporal’s stripes, for the simple reason that it takes more than two years to learn to be a competent soldier in ordinary duties, much less the sort that required thinking under fire—yet another problem for the Soviets, who didn’t encourage independent thought for any of those in uniform, much less conscripted non-officers. To compensate for this, some clever weapons had been thought up. The spring-loaded knife was one with which Chavez had played earlier in the day. At the push of a button, it shot off the blade of a serious combat knife with a fair degree of accuracy over a range of five or six meters. But the Soviet engineer who’d come up with this idea must have been a movie watcher, because only in the movies do men fall silently and instantly dead from a knife in the chest. Most people find this experience painful, and most people respond to pain by making noise. As an instructor at The Farm, Clark had always warned, “Never cut a man’s throat with a knife. They flop around and make noise when you do that.”

  By contrast, after all the thought and good engineering that had gone into the spring-knife, their pistol silencers were garbage, cans loaded with steel wool that self-destructed after less than ten shots, when manufacturing a decent suppressor required only about fifteen minutes of work from a semi-skilled machinist. John sighed to himself. There was no understanding these people.

  But the individual troopers were just fine. He’d watched them run with Ding’s Team-2, and not one of the Russians fell out of the formation. Part of that had been pride, of course, but most of it had been ability. The shoot-house experience had been less impressive. They weren’t as carefully trained as the boys from Hereford, and not nearly so well equipped. Their supposedly suppressed weapons were sufficiently noisy to make John and Ding both jump ... but for all that, the eagerness of these kids was impressive. Every one of the Russians was a senior lieutenant in rank, and each was airborne-qualified. They all were pretty good with light weapons—and the Russian snipers were as good as Homer Johnston and Dieter Weber, much to the surprise of the latter. The Russian sniper rifles looked a little clunky, but they shot pretty well—at least out to eight hundred meters.

  “Mr. C, they have a ways to go, but they got spirit. Two weeks, and they’ll be right on line,” Chavez pronounced, looking skeptically at the vodka. They were in a Russian officers’ club, and there was plenty of the stuff about.

  “Only two?” John asked.

  “In two weeks, they’ll have all their skills down pat, and they’ll master the new weapons.” RAINBOW was transferring five complete team-sets of weapons to the Russian Spetsnaz team: MP-10 submachine guns, Beretta .45 pistols, and most important, the radio gear that allowed the team to communicate even when under fire. The Russians were keeping their own Dragunov long-rifles, which was partly pride, but the things could shoot, and that was sufficient to the mission. “The rest is just experience, John, and we can’t really give ‘em that. All we can really do is set up a good training system for ’em, and the rest they’ll do for themselves.”

  “Well, nobody ever said Ivan couldn’t fight.” Clark downed a shot. The working day was over, and everybody else was doing it.

  “Shame their country’s in such a mess,” Chavez observed.

  “It’s their mess to clean up, Domingo. They’ll do it if we keep out of their way.” Probably, John didn’t add. The hard part for him was thinking of them as something other than the enemy. He’d been here in the Bad Old Days, operating briefly on several occasions in Moscow as an “illegal” field officer, which in retrospect seemed like parading around Fifth Avenue in New York stark naked holding up a sign saying he hated Jews, blacks, and NYPD cops. At the time, it had just seemed like part of the job, John remembered. But now he was older, a grandfather, and evidently a lot more chicken than he’d been back in the ‘70s and ’80s. Jesus, the chances he’d taken back then! More recently, he’d been in KGB—to him it would always be KGB—headquarters at #2 Dzerzhinskiy Square as a guest of the Chairman. Sure, Wilbur, and soon he’d hop in the alien spacecraft that landed every month in his backyard and accept their invitation for a luncheon flight to Mars. It felt about that crazy, John thought.

  “Ivan Sergeyevich!” a voice called. It was Lieutenant General Yuriy Kirillin, the newly selected chief of Russian special forces—a man defining his own job as he went along, which was not the usual thing in this part of the world.

  “Yuriy Andreyevich,” Clark responded. He’d kept his given name and patronymic from his CIA cover as a convenience that, he was sure, the Russians knew all about anyway. So, no harm was done. He lifted a vodka bottle. It was apple vodka, flavored by some apple skins at the bottom of the bottle, and not bad to the taste. In any case, vodka was the fuel for any sort of business meeting in Russia, and since he was in Rome it was time to act Italian.

  Kirillin gunned down his first shot as though he’d been waiting all week for it. He refilled and toasted John’s companion: “Domingo Stepanovich,” which was close enough. Chavez reciprocated the gesture. “Your men are excellent, comrades. We will learn much from them.”

  Comrades, John thought. Son of a bitch! “Your boys are eager, Yuriy, and hard workers.”

  “How long?” Kirillin asked. His eyes didn’t show the vodka one little bit. Perhaps they were immune, Ding thought. He had to go easy on the stuff, lest John have to guide him home.

  “Two weeks,” Clark answered. “That’s what Domingo tells me.”

  “That fast?” Kirillin asked, not displeased by the estimate.

  “They’re good troops, General,” Ding said. “Their basic skills are there. They’re in superb physical condition, and they’re smart. All they need is familiarization with their new weapons, and some more directed training that we’ll set up for them. And after that, they’ll be training the rest of your forces, right?”

  “Correct, Major. We will be establishing regional special-operations and counterterror forces throughout the country. The men you train this week will be training others in a few months. The problem with the Chechens came as a surprise to us, and we need to pay serious attention to terrorism as a security threat.”

  Clark didn’t envy Kirillin the mission. Russia was a big country containing too many leftover nationalities from the Soviet Union—and for that matter from the time of the czars—many of whom had never particularly liked the idea of being part of Russia. America had had the problem once, but never to the extent that the Russians did, and here it wouldn’t be getting better anytime soon. Economic prosperity was the only sure cure—prosperous people don’t squabble; it’s too rough on the china and the silverware—but prosperity was a way off in the future yet.

  “Well, sir,” Chavez went on, “in a year you’ll have a serious and credible force, assuming you have the funding support you’re going to need.”

  Kirillin grunted. “That is the question here, and probably in your country as well, yes?”

  “Yeah.” Clark had himself a laugh. “It helps if Congress loves you.”

  “You have many nationalities on your team,” the Russian general observed.

  “Yeah, well, we’re mainly a NATO service, but we’re used to working together. Our best shooter now is Italian.”

  “Really? I saw him, but—”

  Chavez cut him off. “General, in a previous life, Ettore was James Butler Hickok. Excuse me, Wild Bill Hickok to you. That son of a bitch can sign his name with a handgun.”

  Clark refilled the vodka glasses. “Yuriy, he’s won money off all of us at the pistol range. Even me.”

  “Is that a fact?” Kirillin mused, with the same look in his eyes that Clark had had a few weeks earlier. John punched him on the arm.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Bring money when you have your match with him, Comrade General,” John advised. “You’ll need it to pay off his winnings.”

  “This I must see,” the Russian announced.

  “Hey, Eddie!” Chavez waved his number-two over.

 
“Yes, sir?”

  “Tell the general here how good Ettore is with a pistol.”

  “That fucking Eyetalian!” Sergeant Major Price swore. “He’s even taken twenty pounds off Dave Woods.”

  “Dave’s the range-master at Hereford, and he’s pretty good, too,” Ding explained. “Ettore really ought to be in the Olympics or something—maybe Camp Perry, John?”

  “I thought of that, maybe enter him in the President’s Cup match next year . . .” Clark mused. Then he turned. “Go ahead, Yuriy. Take him on. Maybe you will succeed where all of us failed.”

  “All of you, eh?”

  “Every bloody one of us,” Eddie Price confirmed. “I wonder why the Italian government gave him to us. If the Mafia want to go after him, I wish the bastards luck.”

  “This I must see,” Kirillin persisted, leading his visitors to wonder how smart he was.

  “Then you will see it, Tovarisch General,” Clark promised.

  Kirillin, who’d been on the Red Army pistol team as a lieutenant and a captain, couldn’t conceive of being beaten in a pistol match. He figured these NATO people were just having fun with him, as he might do if the situation were reversed. He waved to the bartender and ordered pepper vodka for his own next round. But all that said, he liked these NATO visitors, and their reputation spoke forcefully for itself. This Chavez, a major—he was really CIA, Kirillin knew, and evidently a good spy at that, according to his briefing from the SVR—had the look of a good soldier, with confidence won in the field, the way a soldier ought to win his confidence. Clark was much the same—and also very capable, so the book on him read—with his own ample experience both as a soldier and a spy. And his spoken Russian was superb and very literate, his accent of St. Petersburg, where he probably could—and probably once or twice had, Kirillin reflected—pass for a native. It was so strange that such men as these had once been his sworn enemies. Had battle happened, it would have been bloody, and its outcome very sad. Kirillin had spent three years in Afghanistan, and had learned firsthand just how horrid a thing combat was. He’d heard the stories from his father, a much-decorated infantry general, but hearing them wasn’t the same as seeing, and besides, you never told the really awful parts because you tended to edit them out of your memory. One did not discuss seeing a friend’s face turn to liquid from a rifle bullet over a few drinks in a bar, because it was just not the sort of thing you could describe to one who didn’t understand, and you didn’t need to describe it to one who did. You just lifted your glass to toast the memory of Grisha or Mirka, or one of the others, and in the community of arms, that was enough. Did these men do it? Probably. They’d lost men once, when Irish terrorists had attacked their own home station, to their ultimate cost, but not without inflicting their own harm on highly trained men.