by Tom Clancy
Mental-health professionals are skilled at hiding their emotions, a talent necessary for obvious reasons. Clarice Golden had been doing this job for just under thirty years, and to her God-given talent had been added a lifetime of professional experience. Especially good at helping the victims of sexual abuse, she displayed compassion, understanding, and support in great quantity and outstanding quality, but while real, it was all a disguise for her true feelings. She loathed sexual predators as much as any police officer, maybe even more. A cop saw the victim’s body, saw her bruises and her tears, heard her cries. The psychologist was there longer, probing into the mind for the malignant memories, trying to find a way to expunge them. Rape was a crime against the mind, not the body, and as dreadful as the things were that the policeman saw, worse still were the hidden injuries whose cure was Clarice Golden’s life’s work. A gentle, caring person who could never have avenged the crimes physically, she hated these creatures nonetheless.
But this one was a special problem. She maintained a regular working relationship with the sexual-crime units of every police department in a fifty-mile radius, but this crime had happened on federal property, and she’d have to check to see who had jurisdiction. For that she’d talk to her neighbor, Dan Murray of the FBI. And there was one other complication. The criminal in question had been a U.S. senator at the time, and indeed he still had an office in the Capitol Building. But this criminal had changed jobs. No longer a senator from New England, he was now Vice President of the United States.
ComSubPac had once been as grand a goal as any man might have, but that was one more thing of history. The first great commander had been Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood, and of all the men who’d defeated Japan, only Chester Nimitz and maybe Charles Layton had been more important. It was Lockwood, sitting in this very office on the heights overlooking Pearl Harbor, who had sent out Mush Morton and Dick O’Kane and Gene Fluckey, and the rest of the legends to do battle in their fleet boats. The same office, the same door, and even the same title on the door—Commander, Submarine Force, United States Pacific Fleet—but the rank required for it was lower now. Rear Admiral Bart Mancuso, USN, knew that he’d been lucky to make it this far. That was the good news.
The bad news was that he was essentially the receiver of a dying business. Lockwood had commanded a genuine fleet of submarines and tenders. More recently, Austin Smith had sent his forty or so around the world’s largest ocean, but Mancuso was down to nineteen fast-attack boats and six boomers—and all of the latter were alongside, awaiting dismantlement at Bremerton. None would be kept, not even as a museum exhibit of a bygone age, which didn’t trouble Mancuso as much as it might have. He’d never liked the missile submarines, never liked their ugly purpose, never liked their boring patrol pattern, never liked the mind-set of their commanders. Raised in fast-attack, Mancuso had always preferred to be where the action is—was, he corrected himself.
Was. It was all over now, or nearly so. The mission of the nuclear-powered fast-attack submarine had changed since Lockwood. Once the hunters of surface ships, whether merchants or men-of-war, they’d become specialists in the elimination of enemy subs, like fighter aircraft dedicated to the extermination of their foreign cousins. That specialization had narrowed their purpose, focusing their equipment and their training until they’d become supreme at it. Nothing could excel an SSN in the hunting of another.
What nobody had ever expected was that the other side’s SSNs would go away. Mancuso had spent his professional life practicing for something he’d hoped would never come, detecting, localizing, closing on, and killing Soviet subs, whether missile boats or other fast-attacks. In fact, he’d achieved something that no other sub skipper had ever dreamed of doing. He’d assisted in the capture of a Russian sub, a feat of arms still among his country’s most secret accomplishments—and a capture was better than a kill, wasn’t it?—but then the world had changed. He’d played his role in it, and was proud of that. The Soviet Union was no more.
Unfortunately—as he thought of it—so was the Soviet Navy, and without enemy submarines to worry about, his country, as it had done many times in the past, had rewarded its warriors by forgetting them. There was little mission for his boats to do now. The once large and formidable Soviet Navy was essentially a memory. Only the previous week he’d seen satellite photos of the bases at Petropavlovsk and Vladivostok. Every boat the Soviets—Russians!—were known to have had been tied alongside, and on some of the overheads he’d been able to see the orange streaks of rust on the hulls where the black paint had eroded off.
The other possible missions? Hunting merchant traffic was largely a joke—worse, the Orion drivers, with their own huge collection of P-3C aircraft, also designed for submarine hunting, had long since modified their aircraft to carry air-to-surface missiles, and had ten times the speed of any sub, and in the unlikely event that someone wanted to clobber a merchant ship, they could do it better and faster.
The same was true of surface warships—what there were of them. The sad truth, if you could call it that, was that the U.S. Navy, even gutted and downsized as it was, could handle any three other navies in the world in less time than it would take the enemies to assemble their forces and send out a press release of their malicious intent.
And so now what? Even if you won the Super Bowl, there were still teams to play against next season. But in this most serious of human games, victory meant exactly that. There were no enemies left at sea, and few enough on land, and in the way of the new world, the submarine force was the first of many uniformed groups to be without work. The only reason there was a ComSubPac at all was bureaucratic inertia. There was a Com-everything-else-Pac, and the submarine force had to have its senior officer as the social and military equal of the other communities, Air, Surface, and Service.
Of his nineteen fast-attack boats, only seven were currently at sea. Four were in overhaul status, and the yards were stretching out their work as much as possible to justify their own infrastructure. The rest were alongside their tenders or their piers while the ship-service people found new and interesting things to do, protecting their infrastructure and military/civilian identity. Of the seven boats at sea, one was tracking a Chinese nuclear fast-attack boat; those submarines were so noisy that Mancuso hoped the sonarmen’s ears weren’t being seriously hurt. Stalking them was about as demanding as watching a blind man on an empty parking lot in broad daylight. Two others were doing environmental research, actually tracking midocean whale populations—not for whalers, but for the environmental community. In so doing, his boats had achieved a real march on the tree-huggers. There were more whales out there than expected. Extinction wasn’t nearly the threat everyone had once believed it to be, and the various environmental groups were having their own funding problems as a result. All of which was fine with Mancuso. He’d never wanted to kill a whale.
The other four boats were doing workups, mainly practicing against one another. But the environmentalists were taking their own revenge on Submarine Force, United States Pacific Fleet. Having protested the construction and operation of the boats for thirty years, they were now protesting their dismantlement, and more than half of Mancuso’s working time was relegated to filing all manner of reports, answers to questions, and detailed explanations of his answers. “Ungrateful bastards,” Mancuso grumbled. He was helping out with the whales, wasn’t he? The Admiral growled into his coffee mug and flipped open a new folder.
“Good news, Skipper,” a voice called without warning.
“Who the hell let you in?”
“I have an understanding with your chief,” Ron Jones replied. “He says you’re buried by paperwork.”
“He ought to know.” Mancuso stood to greet his guest. Dr. Jones had problems of his own. The end of the Cold War had hurt defense contractors, too, and Jones had specialized in sonar systems used by submarines. The difference was that Jones had made himself a pile of money first. “So what’s the good news?”
&
nbsp; “Our new processing software is optimized for listening to our warm-blooded oppressed fellow mammals. Chicago just phoned in. They have identified another twenty humpbacks in the Gulf of Alaska. I think I’ll get the contract from NOAA. I can afford to buy you lunch now,” Jones concluded, settling into a leather chair. He liked Hawaii, and was dressed for it, in casual shirt and no socks to clutter up his formal Reeboks.
“You ever miss the good old days?” Bart asked with a wry look.
“You mean chasing around the ocean, four hundred feet down, stuck inside a steel pipe two months at a time, smelling like the inside of an oilcan, with a touch of locker room for ambience, eating the same food every week, watching old movies and TV shows on tape, on a TV the size of a sheet of paper, working six on and twelve off, getting maybe five decent hours of sleep a night, and concentrating like a brain surgeon all the time? Yeah, Bart, those were the days.” Jones paused and thought for a second. “1 miss being young enough to think it was fun. We were pretty good, weren’t we?”
“Better ’n average,” Mancuso allowed. “What’s the deal with the whales?”
“The new software my guys put together is good at picking out their breathing and heartbeats. It turns out to be a nice clear hertz line. When those guys are swimming—well, if you put a stethoscope up against them, your eardrums would probably meet in the middle of your head.”
“What was the software really for?”
“Tracking Kilo-class boats, of course.” Jones grinned as he looked out the windows at the largely empty naval base. “But I can’t say that anymore. We changed a few hundred lines of code and ginned up a new wrapper for the box, and talked to NOAA about it.”
Mancuso might have said something about taking that software into the Persian Gulf to track the Kilo-class boats the Iranians owned, but intelligence reported that one of them was missing. The submarine had probably gotten in the way of a supertanker and been squashed, simply crushed against the bottom of that shallow body of water by a tanker whose crew had never even noticed the rumble. In any case, the other Kilos were securely tied to their piers. Or maybe the Iranians had finally heard the old seaman’s moniker for submarines and decided not to touch their new naval vessels again—they’d once been known as “pigboats,” after all.
“Sure looks empty out there.” Jones pointed to what had once been one of the greatest naval facilities ever made. Not a single carrier in view, only two cruisers, half a squadron of destroyers, roughly the same number of frigates, five fleet-support ships. “Who commands Pac Fleet now, a chief?”
“Christ, Ron, let’s not give anybody ideas, okay?”
2
Fraternity
“You got him?” President Durling asked.
“Less than half an hour ago,” Ryan confirmed, taking his seat.
“Nobody hurt?” That was important to the President. It was important to Ryan, too, but not morbidly so.
“Clark reports no friendly casualties.”
“What about the other side?” This question came from Brett Hanson, the current Secretary of State. Choate School and Yale. The government was having a run on Yalies, Ryan thought, but Hanson wasn’t as good as the last Eli he’d worked with. Short, thin, and hyper, Hanson was an in-and-out guy whose career had oscillated between government service, consulting, a sideline as a talking head on PBS—where you could exercise real influence—and a lucrative practice in one of the city’s pricier firms. He was a specialist in corporate and international law, an area of expertise he’d once used to negotiate multinational business deals. He’d been good at that, Jack knew. Unfortunately he’d come into his cabinet post thinking that the same niceties ought to—worse, did—apply to the business of nation-states.
Ryan took a second or two before replying. “I didn’t ask.”
“Why?”
Jack could have said any one of several things, but he decided that it was time to establish his position. Therefore, a goad: “Because it wasn’t important. The objective, Mr. Secretary, was to apprehend Corp. That was done. In about thirty minutes he will be handed over to the legal authorities, such as they are, in his country, for trial in accordance with their law, before a jury of his peers, or however they do it over there.” Ryan hadn’t troubled himself to find out.
“That’s tantamount to murder.”
“It’s not my fault his peers don’t like him, Mr. Secretary. He’s also responsible for the deaths of American soldiers. Had we decided to eliminate him ourselves, even that would not be murder. It would have been a straightforward national-security exercise. Well, in another age it would have been,” Ryan allowed. Times had changed, and Ryan had to adapt himself to a new reality as well. “Instead, we are acting as good world-citizens by apprehending a dangerous international criminal and turning him over to the government of his country, which will put him on trial for drug-running, which is a felony in every legal jurisdiction of which I am aware. What happens next is up to the criminal-justice system of his country. That is a country with which we have diplomatic relations and other informal agreements of assistance, and whose laws, therefore, we must respect.”
Hanson didn’t like it. That was clear from the way he leaned back in his chair. But he would support it in public because he had no choice. The State Department had announced official American support for that government half a dozen times in the previous year. What stung worse for Hanson was being outmaneuvered by this young upstart in front of him.
“They might even have a chance to make it now, Brett,” Durling observed gently, putting his own seal of approval on Operation WALKMAN. “And it never happened.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Jack, you were evidently right about this Clark fellow. What do we do about him?”
“I’ll leave that to the DCI, sir. Maybe another Intelligence Star for him,” Ryan suggested, hoping that Durling would forward it to Langley. If not, maybe a discreet call of his own to Mary Pat. Then it was time for fence-mending, a new skill for Ryan. “Mr. Secretary, in case you didn’t know, our people were under orders to use nonlethal force if possible. Beyond that, my only concern is the lives of our people.”
“I wish you’d cleared it through my people first,” Hanson grumped.
Deep breath, Ryan commanded himself. The mess was of State’s making, along with that of Ryan’s predecessor. Having entered the country to restore order after it had been destroyed by local warlords—another term used by the media to give a label to common thugs—the powers-that-be had later decided, after the entire mission had gone to hell, that the “warlords” in question had to be part of the “political solution” to the problem. That the problem had been created by the warlords in the first place was conveniently forgotten. It was the circularity of the logic that offended Ryan most of all, who wondered if they taught a logic course at Yale. Probably an elective, he decided. At Boston College it had been mandatory.
“It’s done, Brett,” Durling said quietly, “and nobody will mourn the passing of Mr. Corp. What’s next?” the President asked Ryan.
“The Indians are getting rather frisky. They’ve increased the operating tempo of their navy, and they’re conducting operations around Sri Lanka—”
“They’ve done that before,” SecState cut in.
“Not in this strength, and I don’t like the way they’ve continued their talks with the ‘Tamil Tigers,’ or whatever the hell those maniacs call themselves now. Conducting extended negotiations with a guerrilla group operating on the soil of a neighbor is not an act of friendship.”
This was a new concern for the U.S. government. The two former British colonies had lived as friendly neighbors for a long time, but for years the Tamil people on the island of Sri Lanka had maintained a nasty little insurgency. The Sri Lankans, with relatives on the Indian mainland, had asked for foreign troops to maintain a peace-keeping presence. India had obliged, but what had started in an honorable fashion was now changing. There were rumbles that the Sri Lank
an government would soon ask for the Indian soldiers to leave. There were also rumbles that there would be some “technical difficulties” in effecting their removal. Concurrent with that had come word of a conversation between the Indian Foreign Minister and the U.S. Ambassador at a reception in Delhi.
“You know,” the Minister had said after a few too many, but probably purposeful drinks, “that body of water to our south is called the Indian Ocean, and we have a navy to guard it. With the demise of the former Soviet threat, we wonder why the U.S. Navy seems so determined to maintain a force there.”
The U.S. Ambassador was a political appointee—for some reason India had turned into a prestige post, despite the climate—but was also a striking exception to Scott Adler’s professional snobbery. The former governor of Pennsylvania had smiled and mumbled something about freedom of the seas, then fired off an encrypted report to Foggy Bottom before going to bed that night. Adler needed to learn that they weren’t all dumb.
“We see no indication of an aggressive act in that direction,” Hanson said after a moment’s reflection.
“The ethnic element is troubling. India can’t go north, with the mountains in the way. West is out. The Pakis have nukes, too. East is Bangladesh—why buy trouble? Sri Lanka has real strategic possibilities for them, maybe as a stepping-stone.”
“To where?” the President asked.
“Australia. Space and resources, not many people in the way, and not much of a military to stop them.”
