Dead Or Alive

by Tom Clancy; Grant Blackwood

  “It’s not that that’s important to me. It’s you.”

  Arms still folded, she turned to face him. She forced some tears into her eyes. He held out his hand to her. “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  “Just come here.”

  She stepped over to him, to his hand. He said, “Just don’t tell anybody I talked about this stuff, okay? They’d throw me in jail.”

  She smiled and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Promise.”

  The Panamax cargo ship Losan was three days from its destination, having made the bulk of the Atlantic crossing on calm seas and under clear skies. Losan’s captain, a forty-seven-year-old German named Hans Groder, had been the box ship’s master for eight years, having spent ten months out of every one of those years at sea. A tougher schedule than his previous job—captain of a German Navy Type 702 Berlin-class replenishment oiler—but the pay was much better and the stresses much fewer. Better still, Losan was a blue-water ship, a nice change for Groder after twenty-two years of navigating the labyrinthian waters around Eckendorf and Kiel Naval Bases. Such a pleasure to simply point one’s bow into the Atlantic and steam away with hundreds and thousands of feet beneath your keel and not a speck of land on your radar. Of course, on his more introspective days Groder indulged that sense of melancholy all sailors and soldiers felt once they’ve left military life behind, but on balance he enjoyed his life and the autonomy it allowed. He answered to only one man, the owner, not a chain of stuffed-shirt flag officers who wouldn’t know the difference between a chock and a cleat.

  Groder strolled across the bridge and glanced at the radar. There wasn’t another vessel within twenty miles. Their nav radar wasn’t the most powerful in the world but was sufficient for their purposes. For a watchful captain and crew, twenty miles was plenty of time to adjust course and give fellow travelers a wide berth. Groder walked to the windows and stared out across the foredeck, going through his instinctive scan of the stacked bulktainers. They’d experienced some shifting, most of the time due to those damned propane tanks. Packed four to a container, they were secure enough, but their shape lacked the user-friendly geometry of crates and pallets. It could be worse, Groder knew. At least the damned things were empty.

  71

  LATER, GERRY HENDLEY would reflect that the hardest part of the whole damned affair—aside from the event that prompted it, that was—was simply finding a private place to bring them in. Former President Ryan had finally stepped in, making one phone call to the chief of staff of the Air Force, CSAF, who in turn called the commander of the 316th Wing, the host unit at Andrews Air Force Base.

  They arrived in two black Chevy Tahoes, Hendley, Jerry Rounds, Tom Davis, Rick Bell, Pete Alexander, and Sam Granger in the first; Clark, Chavez, and Jack Ryan Jr. in the second. Both vehicles turned left onto C Street and coasted to a stop beside a hangar at the edge of the tarmac. Former President Ryan arrived five minutes later in a Town Car flanked by the Secret Service detail in two Suburbans.

  The Gulfstream V touched down eleven minutes later, three minutes behind schedule, and taxied to a stop fifty yards away. The engines spooled down, and the scaffold stairs were rolled out and locked onto the plane’s main door.

  Jack Ryan Jr. climbed out of the Tahoe, followed by the rest, who stood a few feet behind him.

  The Gulfstream’s door opened, and thirty seconds later Dominic Caruso appeared at the threshold. He blinked at the sunlight, then started down the stairs. His face was drawn and showed five days’ worth of stubble. Jack walked out and met him halfway. They embraced.

  “I’m so sorry, man,” Jack whispered.

  Dominic didn’t respond but broke the hug and nodded. “Yeah” was all he said.

  “Where is he?”

  “Cargo hold. They wouldn’t let me take him in the cabin.”

  After leaving the quarry, Bari had driven as fast as possible with the Opel’s headlights off, making it back to the main highway in less than ten minutes. Brian drifted in and out of consciousness as they raced west along the coast, as Dominic gripped his hand and cradled his head in his lap. He kept his other hand pressed to the bullet wound, which kept oozing dark blood, coating Dominic’s hand and forearm and soaking the seat beneath his legs. Seven miles from Zuwarah, Brian started coughing, lightly at first, then spasmodically, his body heaving off the seat as Dominic lay across his torso and whispered for him to hang on. After a few minutes, Brian seemed to relax and his breathing steadied. Then stopped. Dominic wouldn’t realize it until much later, but he’d felt that moment, that too-slight gap between Brian being alive and dead. Dominic straightened up in his seat and found Brian’s head lolled to one side, his sightless eyes staring at the back of the seat.

  He told Bari to pull over and stop the car, which he did, then Dominic took the keys from the ignition, got out of the car, and walked ten yards away. To the east, the first faint rays of pink sunlight were showing over the horizon. Dominic sat in silence, watching the sunrise and not wanting to look at Brian, half hoping that when he did he’d find his brother breathing again and looking at him with a stupid, goofy smile. Of course, that didn’t happen. After ten minutes, he got back into the car and ordered the Libyan to get off the main highway and find them a place to hole up. After thirty minutes of driving, Bari found a shaded grove of palm trees and pulled in.

  Dominic called Archie’s cell phone; help from The Campus would take too long. In two curt sentences, he told the Aussie what had happened, then handed the phone to Bari, who gave Archie directions to their location. It took two hours. Archie arrived in a Range Rover, and without a word pulled Dominic out of the Opel, put him the Rover’s backseat, then retrieved a plastic body bag from the hatch and returned to the Opel, where he and Bari carefully slid Brian’s body from the backseat and sealed him in the bag. After placing the bag in the Rover’s cargo area, he returned to the Opel and cleaned it out, dumping all the gear and weapons into the trunk. Once he was sure the car was clean, Archie doused the Opel’s interior with the contents of a five-gallon gas can and lit it on fire.

  They were back in Tripoli by noon. Archie bypassed the consulate and drove straight to what Dominic assumed was a safe house off Bassel el Asad near the stadium. Bari, bound hand and foot, was locked in the bathroom, then Archie made sure the landline’s scrambler was running, then left Dominic alone to make the call home.

  Who else knows?” Dominic now asked his cousin.

  “No one,” Jack replied. “Just who’s here. I figured you’d want to do it. Or if you want, I can—”

  “No.”

  Jack asked, “You wanna go home?”

  “No. We got some stuff. You guys are going to want it. Let’s go back to the office. Hendley or somebody needs to get with Archie in Tripoli. If we want Bari back here, we’re going to have to—”

  “Dom, you don’t have to worry about that stuff. We’ll handle it.”

  Former President Ryan walked up, and he and Dominic embraced. “Sorry doesn’t quite seem to do it, son, but I am.”

  Dominic nodded. To Jack: “Let’s just go, okay.”

  “Sure.”

  Jack turned and signaled to Clark and Chavez, who walked up and escorted Dominic back to the second Tahoe. Jack asked his dad, “Get a ride with you?”

  “Of course.”

  Jack gave Hendley a nod, then followed his dad to the Town Car.

  They rode in silence until the cars cleared the main gate, then Ryan Senior said, “The hell of it is, we’ll probably never know what happened. As much as I want to, I’m not going to ask Gerry.”

  “Ask me,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “They were in Tripoli, Dad, chasing down something.”

  “What’re you talking about? How do you know that?”

  “How do you think?”

  Ryan Senior didn’t answer right away but simply stared at his son. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus, Jack.”

 
“You’ve always told me I gotta make my own way in life. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “How long?”

  “Year and a half. I kind of put two and two together and figured out there was more to Gerry’s shop than met the eye. I went in and talked to him. Talked my way into a job, I guess.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Mostly analysis.”

  “‘Mostly.’ What does that mean?” Ryan Senior’s voice was harder now.

  “I’ve been doing a little field stuff. Not much, just getting my feet wet.”

  “No way, Jack. That’s done. I’m not going to have you—”

  “Not your decision.”

  “The hell it isn’t. The Campus was my idea. I went to Gerry and—”

  “And it’s his show, right? I’m halfway sharp, Dad. I don’t need you watching over me. We’ve done some good work there. Same kind of stuff you used to do. If it was okay for you, then why not me?”

  “Because you’re my son, goddamn it.”

  Here Jack offered a half-smile to his father. “Then maybe it’s in my blood.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Look, I did the financial world, and it was okay, but it didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t want to do it the rest of my life. I want to do something. Make a difference, serve my country.”

  “So go teach Sunday school.”

  “Next thing on my list.”

  Ryan Senior sighed. “You’re not a kid anymore, I guess.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, it doesn’t mean I have to like it, and I probably never will, but I suppose that’s my problem. Your mom, though, that’s going to be a different story.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “No, you won’t. I will, when the time’s right.”

  “I don’t like lying to her.” Ryan Senior opened his mouth to speak, but Jack quickly added, “And I didn’t like lying to either of you. Hell, if not for John, I might not have ever told you.”

  “John Clark?”

  Jack nodded. “He’s sort of my de facto training officer. Him and Ding.”

  “Nobody better at this stuff than those two.”

  “So you’re okay with this?”

  “Sorta-kinda. I’ll tell you a secret, Jack. The older you get, the less you like change. Last week, Starbucks stopped selling my favorite roast. Threw me off for days.”

  Jack laughed. “I’m a Dunkin’ Donuts kind of guy.”

  “That’s good, too. You’re careful, right?”

  “With the coffee. Yeah—”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “Yeah, I’m careful.”

  “So what’s he got you working on?”

  Another smile from Jack. “Sorry, Dad, your need to know expired a while ago. If you win the election, we’ll talk again.”

  Ryan Senior shook his head. “Fuckin’ spooks.”

  Frank Weaver had spent four years in the Army, so he was well familiar with the maddening ways in which the government often went about its business, but he’d thought he’d left that all behind when he got his honorable discharge and went to truck-driving school. He’d spent ten years doing that, doing long hauls from coast to coast, sometimes taking his wife along, but mostly eating up the miles while listening to classic rock. God love XM satellite radio, he thought, and thank God the government was going to let him keep it for this new job. He hadn’t relished the idea of working for the government again, but the pay had been too good to pass up, what with the hazardous-duty bonuses and all. They didn’t call it that, exactly, but that’s what it amounted to. He’d gone through a special training program and background checks by the FBI, but he had nothing to hide and he was a damned good driver. In truth, there was nothing extraordinary about what they had him doing—except for the cargo, that was, but he never had to touch the stuff. Just show up, let someone else load it, then get it safely to its destination and let someone else unload it. Mostly they drilled him on emergency procedures: what to do if someone tried to hijack the load; what to do if he got into an accident; what to do if a UFO came down and beamed him out of the cab . . . The Department of Energy and Nuclear Regulatory Commission trainers had “what-if” drills for everything you could think of, then a hundred more you’d never imagine. Besides, he’d never be driving the route alone. They hadn’t told him yet whether his escorts would be in marked or unmarked cars, but you could bet they’d be armed to the teeth.

  There’d be no guards this time, though, which surprised Weaver a bit. Yeah, it was only a trial run and his load would be empty, but given the way the DOE played everything as if it was real, he’d expected an escort. Then again, maybe they were lying; maybe he’d have an escort he wasn’t supposed to see. Still didn’t change his job.

  Weaver downshifted and braked, swinging the rig into the entrance drive of the Callaway Nuclear Power Plant. A hundred yards ahead he could see the guard shack. He braked to a stop and handed his ID card down to the guard. The entrance was blocked by five steel-core concrete pillars.

  “Engine off, please.”

  Weaver complied.

  The guard looked over his ID, then slipped it into his front shirt pocket and had him sign in on the clipboard. Weaver’s flatbed was empty, but the guard did his job, first walking a complete circle around the rig, then checking the undercarriage with one of those rolling mirror-cart things.

  The guard reappeared below the window.

  “Please step out of the truck.” Weaver climbed down. The guard again examined Weaver’s ID, taking a good ten seconds to check to make sure the faces matched. “Please stand beside the guard shack.”

  Weaver did so, and the guard climbed into the truck’s cab and spent two minutes searching the interior before climbing down. He handed Weaver his ID card.

  “Dock number four. You’ll be directed along the way. Speed limit is ten miles an hour.”

  “Got it.”

  Weaver climbed back into the cab and started the engine. The guard lifted his portable radio to his lips and said something. A moment later, the concrete pillars retracted into the ground. The guard waved Weaver through.

  Dock four was only a hundred yards away, on the back side of the plant. At the halfway point a hard-hatted man in coveralls waved him on. Weaver did a Y-turn, backed up to the dock, and shut off the engine.

  The dock foreman walked up to Weaver’s door. “You can wait in the lounge, if you want. Take us about an hour.”

  It took almost ninety minutes. Though Weaver had seen pictures of the thing during training, he’d never seen one in person. He and the other drivers had nicknamed it “King Kong’s Dumbbell,” but the DOE people had gone to a lot of trouble drumming the particulars into their brains. Officially known as the GA-4 Legal Weight Truck (LWT) Spent Fuel Cask, the container was an impressive piece of engineering. How they’d settled on the dumbbell shape Weaver didn’t know, but he assumed it had something to do with durability. According to the trainers, the GA-4’s designers had torture-tested the thing, subjecting it to dead-fall drops, incineration, puncture hazards, and submersion. For every ton of nuclear waste—fuel assemblies from either pressure water reactors or boiling water reactors—four tons of shielding went into the GA-4’s shell.

  Hell, Weaver thought, you could no more get into the damned thing than you could steal it with anything short of a truck, a crane, and perhaps a heavy-lift chopper. It would be like those idiots you occasionally see on television who hook a chain to an ATM, drag it off, then dump it somewhere because they can’t break it open.

  “Never seen one up close,” Weaver told the dock foreman.

  “Looks like something from a sci-fi movie, doesn’t it?”

  “Sort of is, in a way.”

  Per protocol, the two of them walked around the flatbed, checking “preflight” items off their forms as they went. Each tie-down chain was new, and had been stress-tested at the plant, as had the ratchets, each of those secured by dual padlocks. Satisfied the cask wasn’t go
ing anywhere before it reached its destination, Weaver and the foreman signed and countersigned the forms, each taking his own copy.

  Weaver waved good-bye and climbed into his cab. Once the engine was going, he powered up the GPS nav system affixed to his dash, then scrolled through the touch-screen menu and selected his route; the unit had been preprogrammed with dozens of them by the DOE. Another safeguard, he’d been told. No driver would be given his until leaving a pickup facility.

  The route popped up on the screen as a purple line overlaid on a map of the United States. Not bad, Weaver thought. Major highways for most of the trip, 1,632 miles total. Four days.

  72

  TEXT MESSAGE from our Russian girl,” Tariq said, striding into the living room. The Emir stood at the window, staring out at the desert. He turned.

  “Good news, I trust.”

  “We will know in sixty seconds.”

  Tariq powered up his laptop, opened his Web browser, and went to a website called storespot.com, one of dozens of free online file-storage sites available on the Internet. All that was required to open an account was a user name, a password, and an e-mail address, and for that there were sites that offered throw-away “self-destructing” e-mail addresses.

  Tariq logged in to the account, clicked on three links, and found himself in the upload/download area of the site. There was one item waiting, a plain text file. According to the annotation, the file had been uploaded twelve minutes ago. Tariq opened the file, copied the contents to his clipboard, then deleted the file from the account. Next he opened the laptop’s built-in text program and pasted the contents into a new file. He took two minutes to scan the contents.

  “It’s all here. Everything we need.”