by Tom Clancy
“How much to set it up?”
“Fifty million dollars. We have to increase the size of M ERCURY, and set up the manufacturing facility. We have the space, but the machinery is expensive. From the time we get the money, we could have it up and running in maybe as little as three months.”
“I see your point. It's probably worth doing, but getting the money…?”
“With your permission, sir, I could talk to Mr. Trent about it.”
“Hmmm.” Cabot stared down at his desk. “Okay, feel him out very gently. I'll bring this up with the President when he gets back. I'll trust you on M USHASHI. You and who else know his real name?”
“The DO, Chief of Station Tokyo, and his case officer.” The Director of Operations was Harry Wren, and if he were not quite Cabot's man, he was the man Cabot had picked for the job. Wren was on his way to Europe at the moment. A year ago Jack had thought the choice a mistake, but Wren was doing well. He'd also picked a superb deputy, actually a pair of them: the famous Ed and Mary Pat Foley, one of whom — Ryan could never decide which — would have been his choice for DO. Ed was the organization man, and Mary Pat was the cowboy side of the best husband-wife team the Agency had ever fielded. Making Mary Pat a senior executive would have been a worldwide first, and probably worth a few votes in Congress. She was pregnant again with her third, but that wasn't expected to slow Supergirl down. The Agency had its own day-care center, complete to cipher locks on the doors, a heavily-armed response team of security officers, and the best play equipment Jack had ever seen.
“Sounds good, Jack. I'm sorry I faxed the President as soon as I did. I ought to have waited.”
“No problem, sir. The information was thoroughly laundered.”
“Let me know what Trent thinks about the funding.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack left for his office. He was getting good at this, the DDCI told himself. Cabot wasn't all that hard to manage.
Ghosn took his time to think. This was not a time for excitement, not a time for precipitous action. He sat down in the corner of his shop and chain-smoked his cigarettes for several hours, all the time staring at the gleaming metal ball that lay on the dirt floor. How radioactive is it! one part of his brain wondered almost continuously, but it was a little late for that. If that heavy sphere were giving off hard gammas, he was already dead, another part of his brain had already decided. This was a time to think and evaluate. It required a supreme act of will for him to sit still, but he managed it.
For the first time in many years he was ashamed of his education. He had expertise both in electrical and mechanical engineering, but he'd hardly bothered cracking a book about their nuclear equivalent. What possible use could such a thing have for him! he asked himself on the rare occasions that he'd considered acquiring knowledge in that area. Obviously none. As a result of that, he'd limited himself to broadening and deepening his knowledge in areas of direct interest: mechanical and electronic fusing systems, electronic counter-measure gear, the physical characteristics of explosives, the capabilities of explosive-sensing systems. He was a real expert on this last category of study. He read everything he could find on the instrumentation used in detecting explosives at airports and other areas of interest.
Number One, Ghosn told himself on lighting cigarette number fifty-four of the day, every book I can find on nuclear materials, their physical and chemical properties: bomb technology, bomb physics: radiological signatures… the Israelis must know the bomb is missing — since 1973! he thought in amazement. Then why…? Of course. The Golan Heights are volcanic in origin. The underlying rock and the soil in which those poor farmers tried to raise their vegetables were largely basaltic, and basalt had a relatively high background-radiation count… the bomb was buried two or three meters in rocky soil, and whatever emissions it gave off were lost in background count…
I'm safe! Ghosn realized.
Of course! If the weapon were that “hot”, it would have been better shielded! Praise be to Allah for that!
Can I… can I? That was the question, wasn't it?
Why not?
“Why not?” Ghosn said aloud. “Why not. I have all the necessary pieces, damaged, but.. ”
Ghosn stubbed the cigarette out in the dirt next to all the others and rose. His body was racked by coughing — he knew that cigarettes were killing him… more dangerous than that… but they were good for thinking.
The engineer lifted the sphere. What to do with it? For the moment, he set it in the corner and covered it with a tool box. Then he walked out of the building towards his jeep. The drive to headquarters took fifteen minutes.
“I need to see the Commander,” Ghosn told the chief guard.
“He just retired for the evening,” the guard said. The entire detail was becoming protective of their commander.
“He'll see me.” Ghosn walked right past him and into the building.
Qati's quarters were on the second floor. Ghosn went up the steps, past another guard and pulled open the bedroom door. He heard retching from the adjoining bathroom.
“Who the devil is it?” a cross voice asked. “I told you that I didn't want to be disturbed!”
“It's Ghosn. We need to talk.”
“Can't it wait?” Qati appeared from the lighted doorway. His face was ashen. It came out as a question, not an order, and that told Ibrahim more than he'd ever known of his Commander's condition. Perhaps this would make him feel better.
“My friend, I need to show you something. I need to show it to you tonight.” Ghosn strained to keep his voice level and unexcited.
“Is it that important?” Almost a moan.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ghosn just shook his head, tapping his ear as he did so. “It's something interesting. That Israeli bomb has some new fusing systems. It nearly killed me. We need to warn our colleagues about it.”
“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 in 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 towards 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 th
oroughly 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 tool box. “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. Al 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. Beneath 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. M ERCURY 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.
“God damn 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.”
