Dead Or Alive

by Tom Clancy; Grant Blackwood

  “Then no. I came to offer you a job, Sam.” Here Clark knew he was overstepping his bounds a tad, but he doubted he’d have any trouble selling Driscoll’s qualifications.

  “Doing what?”

  “Sort of what you’ve been doing, but no rucksack and better wages.”

  “You getting me into something illegal, John?”

  “Nothing you won’t be comfortable with. Nothing you haven’t done before. Plus, it comes with a get-out-of-jail-free card. You’d have to relocate, though. Winters are colder than Georgia.”

  “Washington?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  Driscoll nodded slowly, chewing on Clark’s offer. Then: “What’s this?” He grabbed the remote from the bedside table and unmuted the wall-mounted TV.

  “. . . Kealty has turned the full weight of the United States Department of Justice loose on a distinguished soldier of the United States Army. That soldier was in Afghanistan looking for the Emir, Saif Rahman Yasin. The mission to apprehend him failed, probably due to poor intelligence, but in carrying out that mission, this soldier killed several enemy combatants. Now the Department of Justice is investigating him for murder. I’ve looked in to this particular incident. This soldier did exactly what soldiers have been doing since the beginning of time: He killed enemies of our country. ...”

  Driscoll muted the TV. “What the fuck . . . How the hell?” Clark was smiling. “What?” Driscoll said. “You did that?”

  “Shit, no. That’s all General Marion Diggs and Jack Ryan.”

  “Your timing is damned incredible, John.”

  “Dumb coincidence. I had a hunch he was going to do something like that, but beyond that ...” Clark shrugged. “I’d say that about takes care of your CID problem, wouldn’t you?”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Ryan’s running for President, Sam, and he just bitch-slapped Kealty on national television. He can either let this bullshit prosecution eat up a few weeks of news cycle or he can dump it and hope people forget about it. As of right now, Kealty’s shit pile of worry just got a lot bigger, and you’ve become small potatoes.”

  “I’ll be damned. Thanks, John.”

  “Didn’t do anything.”

  “My chances of getting Jack Ryan or General Diggs on the phone are pretty slim, so you’ll have to do.”

  “I’ll pass it along. Think about my offer. We’ll keep it open till you’re back on your feet, then bring you up for a meet and greet. What do you say?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Forty-three hours after Adnan opened the seacocks on Salychev’s Halmadic trawler and sunk it along with his three comrades beneath the surface of the Barents Sea 700 feet below, the second package arrived at the Dubai warehouse.

  Since Musa’s arrival, the engineer had been hard at work, setting up the lead-lined containment tent on the warehouse’s floor and checking his inventory list of component parts. Like the tent itself, which had been manufactured in Malaysia based on specifications stolen from the online curriculum for Fort Leonard Wood’s Operational Radiation Safety (OPRAD) course, the component parts had been laser-milled and lathed in Morocco-based Ukrainian schematics.

  The beauty of simplicity, Musa thought.

  Each of the device’s components was born either from benign dual-use technology or from plans that had long ago been discontinued, considered obsolete according to modern standards.

  The component he and his team had recovered existed only because of what most environmental groups considered Russia’s lax attitude toward nuclear material, but Musa knew that was only part of the equation, the others being the Russian government’s love affair with innovative nuclear-power programs and its tendency toward circumspection when it came to telling the world about those programs.

  Spread along Russia’s northern shipping routes were some 380 RTG—radioisotope thermoelectric generator—lighthouses, the vast majority of which were powered by strontium 90 cores, a low-level, heat-producing radioisotope with a half-life of twenty-nine years and an output capacity ranging from a few watts to eighty watts. Distributed among the four RTG models— Beta-M, Efir-MA, Gorn, and Gong—were a handful designed to use a core of a wholly different sort: plutonium-238, a material that, unlike strontium, which could at worst be used in the construction of a dirty bomb, was of fissionable quality. However, the amount of salvageable core material alone would not be sufficient for their purposes. A second source was required. This had been Adnan’s task. One for which he and his men had given their lives. The prize they’d recovered from the abandoned icebreaking ship on that godforsaken island had been the final piece of the puzzle: an OK-900A pressurized water reactor core containing 150 kilograms, or some 330 pounds, of enriched uranium-235.

  Both elements free for the taking, Musa thought. Nominal security and virtually nonexistent record-keeping. Would the fools even notice the loss, and if so, how long would it take them? he wondered. In any case, it would be too late.

  However complex the processes and theories behind the device’s actual function, the construction of it was no more complex than building a four-cylinder automobile engine from scratch, the engineer had told him. The fittings had to, of course, be of exacting standards, down to the micrometer scale, which made the assembly process painstaking, but Musa’s choice of the Dubai warehouse would assure them of privacy and anonymity. The Emir’s timetable would assure them ample time to allow proper assembly.

  The engineer emerged from the zippered door of the tent’s work area, stripped off his protective gear in the change room, then stepped out into the warehouse. “Both assemblies were packed correctly,” he announced, accepting a bottle of water from Musa. “Aside from trace residual radiation on the exterior of the containers, there are no leaks. After lunch I will extract the contents. My biggest worry is the second package.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The fittings where the control-rod drive actuators enter the vessel could be problematic. They were likely sealed off during the original rescue operation, but by what method and how well is the question. Until I see them, there’s no way of telling if they’ve maintained their integrity.”

  Musa thought about this, then nodded. “And the yield?”

  “Again, once I’ve dismantled them.”

  “You understand the minimum output we require, yes?”

  “I do, and I suspect we’ll have no trouble reaching that, but I cannot promise anything. This is important: You are certain neither of them came from military platforms, correct?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It matters a great deal. It is everything, my friend. We are, in essence, reverse-engineering the device. To complicate matters, we’re dealing with very different sources, used for very different purposes. How we go about disassembly is almost as important as how we go about assembly. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. They were obtained just as we told you. The schematics you have are for these two devices.”

  “Good, that’s good. Then I don’t foresee any insurmountable problems.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Disassembly another day. Assembly . . . two to three days. Say, four days until it is ready for departure.”

  62

  THE CONSULATE GENERAL of the Republic of Indonesia sat on Columbus Avenue, a few blocks south of the Embarcadero, flanked by Telegraph Hill and Lombard Street and within sight of Alcatraz Island. Clark found a parking spot on Jones Street, one block south of the consulate, and parked their rented Fort Taurus.

  “Ever been to Frisco, Jack?” Chavez asked from the backseat.

  “When I was a little kid. All I remember is Fisherman’s Wharf, that museum submarine—”

  “USS Pampanito,” Clark said.

  “Right. And Treasure Island. As my dad tells it, I cried when he told me it wasn’t the same Treasure Island from the book.”

  Clark laughed. “Was that before he broke the news about the Easter Bunny and Santa
Claus?”

  Jack laughed in return. “Same day, I think.”

  Clark pulled out his cell phone, one of three sanitized pay-as-you-go push-to-talk models they’d picked up at the airport. He dialed a number and said after a moment, “Yes, good morning, is Mr. Nayoan in this morning? Yes, thanks.” Clark hung up. “He’s in. Let’s take a walk, get a lay of the land.”

  “What’re we looking for?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing and everything,” Clark responded. “The map isn’t the territory, Jack. You’re acclimatizing. Find out where the coffee shops are. ATMs, alleys and side streets, newspaper vendors, pay phones. Where’re the best places to catch taxis or hop a cable car? Learn to feel like you live here.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  Chavez answered that one. “No. How do the people move, how do they interact? Do they wait for Walk lights, or do they jaywalk? Do they meet one another’s eyes on the sidewalks or exchange pleasantries? How many cop cars do you see? Check for parking. Is it metered or free? Nail down the BART entrances.”

  “Bay Area Rapid Transit,” Clark added before Jack could ask. “Their subway.”

  “That’s a lot of shit to absorb.”

  “That’s the job,” Clark replied. “Wanna go home?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “It’s a mind-set, Jack. Change the way you see the landscape. Soldiers look for cover and ambush spots; spooks look for dead drops and surveillance boxes. Two questions you should always be asking: How would I follow somebody here, and how would I lose somebody here?”

  “Okay.”

  Clark checked his watch. “We’ll take an hour, then meet back at the car and see if Nayoan’s ready for lunch. Jack, you head south; Ding and me will take northeast and northwest.”

  “Why that coverage?” Jack asked.

  “Gets more residential to the south. At least during the day Nayoan will be on the clock—meetings, lunch, that sort of thing. Use the stroll to acclimatize.”

  As instructed, Jack walked south down Jones Street, then west up Lombard, getting a workout on the steep and winding pavement, until he reached the tennis courts at the top of Telegraph Hill, where he turned south again. The houses here were tightly packed and colorfully painted, many with balconies and porches overflowing with flowers. Jack had seen plenty of pictures of the 1906 earthquake here, and it was hard to mentally overlay that with what he was seeing now. The earth’s crust slips along a seam a couple of feet, maybe inches, and a city is ruined. Truly, you do not mess with Mother Nature. Hurricane Katrina had reminded America of that most recently, though nature had only costarred in that one. The rest was bad logistics and inadequate supplies. Made you wonder what things would be like if something worse befell the country, natural or man-made. Were we really ready for something like that? Jack pondered. Better question: Was there such a thing as being truly ready? China and India and Indonesia had been dealing with tsunamis and earthquakes since time immemorial, and still when it happened today the response and recovery looked like barely controlled chaos. Maybe the problem was the definition itself. All systems, whether they be governments or fire departments or police departments, had breaking points where circumstances outdistanced manpower and resources. Come to think of it, humans were probably different, and if so, doesn’t the concept of readiness become a matter of life and death, of survival or extinction? If after the catastrophe you find yourself alive, were you then ready for it?

  Mind back in the game, Jack commanded himself.

  At the forty-minute mark, he turned back north at the Feusier Octagon House and returned to the car. Clark and Chavez weren’t back yet, so he found a bench across the street under a tree and read the newspaper he’d picked up during his walk.

  “Smart not to get back in the car,” Jack heard behind him. Clark and Chavez were standing there. “Why?”

  “On a nice day like this? Who’d do that except for cops, detectives, or stalkers?”

  “Attaboy. Stand up, come over here. Same principle: Three guys don’t just sit around on a bench together unless they’re waiting for a bus or they’re bums.” Jack joined them under the tree and they stood in a semicircle. “Okay, we’re business schmucks,” Clark said, “standing around talking about the game last night or our asshole boss. So what’d you see?”

  “The vibe’s more laid-back than New York or Baltimore,” Jack replied. “People don’t seem to be in as big a hurry. More eye contact and smiles.”

  “Good, what else?”

  “Good mass-transit system, plenty of stops. Saw five cop cars but no lights and sirens. Just about everyone is wearing or carrying a jacket or sweater. Not a lot of honking. A lot of compact cars and hybrids and bicycles. A lot of little shops and cafés with back entrances.”

  “Not bad, Jack,” Chavez said. “Maybe a little spook in the boy’s DNA, huh, John?”

  “Could be.”

  After ten minutes more of the businessmen routine, Clark said, “Okay, almost lunchtime. Ding, you’re driving. Jack and I’ll roam a bit. Main entrance to the consulate is on Columbus and Jones, but there’s a side entrance, farther south down Jones.”

  “Saw a vending delivery truck pull up there during our walk,” Chavez said. “And a couple staff outside there smoking.”

  “Good. Let’s move.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, Jack was on the phone: “Got him. Coming out the main entrance. On foot, heading south down Columbus.”

  “Ding, stay put. Jack, stay on him, twenty yards back at least. I’m a block east of you, coming up on Taylor.”

  “Roger.” A minute later: “Passing the Motor Coach Inn. About thirty seconds from the corner of Taylor.”

  “I’m there, heading south,” Clark replied. “No matter what he does at the corner, cross the street and head west down Chestnut. I’ll pick him up.”

  “Gotcha. He’s at the corner now. Turning north up Taylor.”

  “I see him. Break off, keep going.”

  Jack strolled through the crosswalk to Chestnut and kept going. In the corner of his eye he could see Nayoan. “Losing him . . . now,” Jack called.

  Clark: “He’s heading right at me. Stand by.” A moment later, Clark’s voice changed. “No, no, I’m telling ya, their pitching roster is for shit. They got no depth. Man, you’re wrong. Ten bucks they tank the first game. ...” A few seconds passed. “Just passed me. He’s stepping into a restaurant—Pat’s Café, east side of the street. Jack, let’s have some lunch. I’ll get us a table.”

  Ding chimed in: “I’ll take a pastrami on wheat.”

  Jack turned north at the corner of Chestnut and Mason, then north again to Taylor. He found Clark at a table near the door, facing the window. The place was getting busy, catching the early lunch crowd. Jack sat down.

  “At the counter,” Clark said. “Third from the end.”

  “Yep, saw him.”

  “Who’s sitting on either side of him?”

  “What?”

  “Keeping track of your principal is only half the battle, Jack. He talk to anybody while you were on him, make any stops?”

  “No, and no close passes, either.”

  Clark shrugged. “Even mutts gotta eat.”

  Jack ordered a tuna fish on rye, Clark a BLT and a doggie bag for Ding. “He’s finishing up,” Clark said. “I’ll get the tab. We shake hands at the door, say, ‘See you next month,’ then you head back to the car. I’ll take our boy home, then meet you at the Starbucks on Bay.”

  Thirty minutes later they were sharing three cups of Gold Coast dark roast at a booth near the window. Outside, pedestrians and cars slipped by in the bright sunlight. On the TV mounted in the corner, Jack Ryan Sr. was standing behind a podium speaking. The sound was muted, but all three of them knew what was going on. So did the rest of the customers and the baristas, most of whom were either staring at the set or catching glimpses of the news ticker as they went about their business.

  “Man, he’s really doing it,” Chavez sai
d. “Your dad’s got some brass ones, Jack.”

  Jack nodded.

  Clark asked, “He told you about it, I assume?”

  Another nod. “I don’t think he’s overjoyed at the whole idea, but it’s the call of duty, you know? To whom much is given, much is asked.”

  “Well, he’s given a lot already. Okay, to business: What’d we learn?”

  Jack took a sip of coffee, then said, “Nayoan likes pea soup, and he’s a bad tipper.”

  “Huh?” Chavez said.

  “He had pea soup and a club sandwich. Twelve bucks, give or take, according to the menu. He left a few quarters. Besides that, I’m not sure what we learned.”

  “Not much,” Clark agreed. “Didn’t expect much. If he’s in the bag for the URC, it could be a once-in-a-while thing. The odds of us catching him dirty in one day were nil.”

  “So what next?”

  “According to the consulate website, they’ve got a reception at the Holiday Inn Express tonight. Some kind of joint benefit party with the Polish consulate.”

  “Left my tux at home,” Chavez said.

  “Not going to need it. Point is, we know where Nayoan’s going to be tonight, and it ain’t at home.”

  Eight thousand miles away, the engineer emerged from the tent’s changing room and used a rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck. On wobbly legs, he walked to a nearby stool and sat down.

  “Well?” Musa asked.

  “It’s done.”

  “And the yield?”

  “Seven to eight kilotons. Smallish by today’s standards—for example, the Hiroshima bomb was fifteen kilotons—but it will be more than sufficient for what you’re planning. It should give you, say, fifteen pounds per square inch out to a distance of five hundred meters.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much.”

  The engineer smiled wearily. “Fifteen psi is enough to demolish reinforced concrete. You said the floor is mostly earthen?”