by Tom Clancy
Robby took a deep breath. This was what he’d been preparing for.
“There’s a third part, too,” Jackson announced.
The two men with him froze.
“What’s that, Rob?” Ryan asked after a moment.
“We just figured it out, Jack. The Indian task-force commander, Chandraskatta? He went to Newport a while back. Guess who was in the same class.” He paused. “A certain Japanese admiral named Sato.”
Ryan closed his eyes. Why hadn’t somebody turned this up before? “So, three countries with imperial ambitions ...”
“It looks that way to me, Jack. Remember the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere? Good ideas keep coming back. We need to stop it all,” Jackson said forcefully. “I spent twenty-some years training for a war that nobody wanted to fight—with the Russians. I’d rather train to keep the peace. That means stopping these guys right now.”
“Will this work?” the President asked.
“No guarantees, sir. Jack tells me there’s a diplomatic and political clock on the operation. This isn’t Iraq. Whatever international consensus we have is just with the Europeans, and that’ll evaporate sooner or later.”
“Jack?” Durling asked.
“If we’re going to do it, this is probably the way.”
“Risky.”
“Mr. President, yes, sir, it’s risky,” Robby Jackson agreed. “If you think diplomacy will work to get the Marianas back, fine. I don’t especially want to kill anybody. But if I were in their shoes, I would not give those islands back. They need them for Phase Two, and if that happens, even if the Russians don’t go nuke ...”
A giant step backwards, Ryan thought. A new alliance of sorts, one that could stretch from the Arctic Circle to Australia. Three countries with nuclear capacity, a huge resource base, massive economies, and the political will to use violence to achieve their ends. The Nineteenth Century all over again, played on a far larger field. Economic competition backed by force, the classic formula for unending war.
“Jack?” the President asked again.
Ryan nodded slowly. “I think we have to. You can pick any reason you want. They all come out the same way.”
“Approved.”
37
Going Deep
“Normalcy” was the word the various commentators consistently used, usually with adjectives like “eerie” and/or “reassuring” to describe the week’s routine. People on the political left were gratified that the government was using diplomatic means to address the crisis, while those on the political right were enraged that the White House was low-keying everything. Indeed, it was the absence of leadership, and the absence of real policy statements that showed everyone that Roger Durling was a domestic-policy president who didn’t have much of a clue on how to handle international crises. Further criticism found its way to the National Security Advisor, John P. Ryan, who, though he had supposedly good credentials in intelligence, had never really established himself as a player in national-security matters per se, and certainly was not taking a very forceful position now. Others found his circumspection admirable. The downsizing of the American military, pundits observed, made effective counteraction extremely difficult at best, and though lights remained on at the Pentagon throughout the nights, there obviously was no way to deal with the situation in the Marianas. As a result, other observers said in front of any TV camera with a red light, the Administration would do its best to appear to remain calm and steady while doing the best it could. Hence the illusion of normalcy to conceal the inherent weakness of the American position.
“You ask us to do nothing?” Golovko asked in exasperation.
“It’s our battle to fight. If you move too soon, it alerts China, and it alerts Japan.” Besides, Ryan could not add, what can you do? The Russian military was in far worse shape than America’s. They could move additional aircraft to Eastern Siberia. Moving ground troops to firm up the light-strength formations of border guards could well trigger a Chinese response. “Your satellites are telling you the same thing ours are, Sergey. China isn’t mobilizing.”
“Yet.” The single word had a sting to it.
“Correct. Not yet. And if we play our cards right, that won’t happen.” Ryan paused. “Any further information on the missiles?”
“We have several sites under surveillance,” Golovko reported. “We have confirmed that the rockets at Yoshinobu are being used for civilian purposes. That is probably a cover for military testing, but nothing more than that. My technical people are quite confident.”
“Don’t you just love how confident they can be,” Ryan observed.
“What are you going to do, Jack?” the Chairman of the RVS asked directly.
“Even as we speak, Sergey Nikolay’ch, we are telling them that their occupation of the islands is not acceptable.” Jack paused for a breath and reminded himself that like it or not, he had to trust the man. “And if they don’t leave on their own, we’ll find a way to force them off.”
“But how?” the man demanded, looking down at the estimates prepared by military experts in the nearby Defense Ministry.
“Ten, fifteen years ago, did you tell your political masters that we were worthy of your fear?”
“As you did of us,” Golovko confirmed.
“We are more fortunate now. They don’t fear us. They think they’ve already won. I cannot say more at the moment. Perhaps by tomorrow,” Jack thought. “For now, instructions are on the way for you to relay to our people.”
“It will be done,” Sergey promised.
“My government will honor the wishes of the people on all of the islands,” the Ambassador repeated, then added a new provision. “We also may be willing to discuss the difference in status between Guam and the rest of the Mariana Archipelago. American interest in that island does go back nearly a hundred years,” he allowed for the first time.
Adler accepted the statement impassively, as the rules of the proceedings required. “Mr. Ambassador, the people of all those islands are American citizens. They are so by their own choice.”
“And they will again have the opportunity to express that choice. Is it the position of your government that self-determination is only allowed one time?” he asked in reply. “That seems quite odd for a country with a tradition of easy immigration and emigration. As I have stated earlier, we will gladly permit dual citizenship for those natives who prefer to keep their American passports. We will compensate them for their property should they decide to leave, and ...” The rest of his statement was the same.
As often as he had observed or engaged in it, diplomatic exchange, Adler thought, combined the worst aspects of explaining things to a toddler and talking with a mother-in-law. It was dull. It was tedious. It was exasperating. And it was necessary. A moment earlier, Japan had conceded something. It hadn’t been unexpected. Cook had wheedled the information out of Nagumo the previous week, but now it was on the table. That was the good news. The bad news was that he was now expected to offer something in return. The rules of diplomatic exchange were based on compromise. You never got all of what you wanted, and you never gave the other guy all of what he wanted. The problem was that diplomacy assumed that neither side would ever be forced to give away anything of vital interest—and that both sides recognized what those vital interests were. But so often they didn’t, and then diplomacy was fated to fail, much to the chagrin of those who falsely believed that wars were always the product of inept diplomats. Much more often they were the result of national interests so incompatible that compromise simply was not possible. And so now the Ambassador expected Adler to give just a little ground.
“Speaking for myself, I am gratified that you acknowledge the unconditional rights of the Guamian people to remain American citizens. I am further pleased to note that your country allows the people of the Northern Marianas to determine their own destiny. Do you assure me that your country will abide by the results of the election?”
“I believe w
e have made that clear,” the Ambassador replied, wondering if he’d just won something or not.
“And the elections will be open to—”
“All residents of the islands, of course. My country believes in universal suffrage, as does yours. In fact,” he added, “we will make an additional concession. In Japan the vote comes at age twenty, but for the purposes of this election, we will lower the voting age to eighteen. We want no one to protest that the plebiscite is unfair in any way.”
You clever bastard, Adler thought. It made such good sense, too. All the soldiers there could now vote, and the move would look just ducky to international observers. The Deputy Secretary of State nodded as though surprised, then made a note on his pad. Across the table, the Ambassador made a mental note that he’d just scored a point of his own. It had taken long enough.
“It’s real simple,” the National Security Advisor said. “Will you help us?”
The rules of the meeting were not calculated to make anyone happy. It had begun with an explanation from a Justice Department lawyer of how the Espionage Act, Title 18 United States Code, Section 793E, applied to all American citizens, and how the freedoms of speech and the press did not extend to violation of that statute.
“You’re asking us to help you lie,” one of the senior journalists said.
“Exactly right,” Ryan responded.
“We have a professional obligation—”
“You’re American citizens,” Jack reminded them. “So are the people on those islands. My job is not to exercise the rights you’re thinking about now. My job is to guarantee those rights to you and everyone else in this country. Either you help us or you don’t. If you do, then we can do our job more easily, cheaply, and with less bloodshed. If you don’t, then some additional people are probably going to get hurt.”
“I doubt that Madison and the rest ever intended the American press to help an enemy in time of war,” the lady from Justice said.
“We would never do that,” the man from NBC protested. “But to take action in the other direction—”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I do not have time for a discourse on constitutional law. This is quite literally a matter of life and death. Your government is asking for your help. If you do not give that help, you will sooner or later have to explain to the American people why you did not.” Jack wondered if anyone had ever threatened them in this way. Turnabout, he supposed, was fair play, though he didn’t expect they would see things quite the same way. It was time for the olive branch. “I will take the heat on this. If you help us out, no one will ever hear it from me.”
“Don’t give me that. It’ll get out,” CNN protested.
“Then you will have to explain to the American people that you acted as patriotic citizens.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Dr. Ryan!”
“I did,” Jack said with a smile. “Think about it. How will it hurt you? Besides, how will it get out? Who else is going to report it?”
The journalists were cynical enough—it was almost a professional requirement—to see the humor, but it was Ryan’s earlier statement that had scored. They were in a profound professional quandary, and the natural result was to evade it by thinking in other terms. In this case, business. Failure to act in support of their country, however much they might proclaim principle and professional ethics—well, the people who watched their TV were not as impressed with those high-flying standards as they ought to be. And besides, Ryan wasn’t asking all that much. Just one thing, and if they were clever about it, maybe nobody really would notice.
The news executives would have preferred to leave the room and discuss the request in privacy, but no one offered that opportunity, and none of them had the nerve to ask. So they looked at one another, and all five nodded.
You’ll pay for this one someday, their eyes told Ryan. It was something he was willing to deal with, he thought.
“Thank you.” When they made their way out, Ryan walked toward the Oval Office.
“We got it,” he told the President.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t back you up on that.”
“It’s an election year,” Jack acknowledged. The Iowa caucuses were two weeks away, then New Hampshire, and though Durling had no opposition in his party, he would on the whole have preferred to be elsewhere. He could also not afford offending the media. But that’s why he had a National Security Advisor. Appointed officials were always expendable.
“When this is all over ...”
“Back to golfing? I need the practice.”
That was another thing he liked about him, Durling told himself. Ryan didn’t mind telling a joke once in a while, though the circles under his eyes duplicated his own. It was one more reason to thank Bob Fowler for his contrarian advice, and perhaps a reason to lament Ryan’s choice of political affiliation.
“He wants to help,” Kimura said.
“The best way for him to do that,” Clark replied, “is to act normally. He’s an honorable man. Your country needs a voice of moderation.” It wasn’t exactly the instructions he’d expected, and he found himself hoping that Washington knew what the hell it was doing. The orders were coming through Ryan’s office, which was some consolation but not all that much. At least his agent-in-place was relieved.
“Thank you. I do not wish to put his life at risk.”
“He’s too valuable for that. Perhaps America and Japan can reach a diplomatic solution.” Clark didn’t believe it, but saying such things always made diplomats happy. “In that case, Goto’s government will fall, and perhaps Koga-san will regain his former place.”
“But from what I hear, Goto will not back down.”
“It is also what I hear, but things can change. In any case, that is our request for Koga. Further contact between us is dangerous,” “Klerk” went on. “Thank you for your assistance. If we need you again, we will contact you through normal channels.”
In gratitude, Kimura paid the bill before leaving.
“That’s all, eh?” Ding asked.
“Somebody thinks it’s enough, and we have other things to do.”
Back in the saddle again, Chavez thought to himself. But at least they had orders, incomprehensible though they might be. It was ten in the morning, local time, and they split up after hitting the street, and spent the next several hours buying cellular phones, three each of a new digital model, before meeting again. The units were compact and fit into a shirt pocket. Even the packing boxes were small, and neither officer had the least problem concealing them.
Chet Nomuri had already done the same, giving his address as an apartment in Hanamatsu, a preselected cover complete with credit cards and driver’s license. Whatever was going on, he had less than thirty days in-country to accomplish it. His next job was to return to the bathhouse one last time before disappearing from the face of the earth.
“One question,” Ryan said quietly. The look in his eyes made Trent and Fellows uneasy.
“Are you going to make us wait for it?” Sam asked.
“You know the limitations we face in the Pacific.”
Trent stirred in his seat. “If you mean that we don’t have the horses to—”
“It depends on which horses we use,” Jack said. Both insiders considered that for a moment.
“Gloves off?” Al Trent asked.
Ryan nodded. “All the way off. Will you hassle us about it?”
“Depends on what you mean by that. Tell us,” Fellows ordered. Ryan did.
“You’re really willing to stick it out that far?” Trent asked.
“We don’t have a choice. I suppose it would be nice to fight it out with cavalry charges on the field of honor and all that stuff, but we don’t have the horses, remember? The President needs to know if Congress will back him up. Only you people will know the black part. If you support us, then the rest of the people on the Hill will fall in line.”
“If it doesn’t work?” Fellows wondered.
“Then there�
��s a hanging party for all hands. Including you,” Ryan added.
“We’ll keep the committee in line,” Trent promised. “You’re playing a high-risk game, my friend.”
“True enough,” Jack agreed, thinking of the lives at risk. He knew that Al Trent was talking about the political side, too, but Ryan had commanded himself to set those thoughts aside. He couldn’t say so, of course. Trent would have considered it a weakness. It was remarkable how many things they could disagree on. But the important thing was that Trent’s word was good.
“Keep us informed?”
“In accordance with the law,” the National Security Advisor replied with a smile. The law required that Congress be notified after “black” operations were carried out.
“What about the Executive Order?” An Order dating back to the Ford administration prohibited the country’s intelligence agencies from conducting assassinations.
“We have a Finding,” Ryan replied. “It doesn’t apply in time of hostilities.” A Finding was essentially a Presidential decree that the law meant what the President thought it meant. In short, everything that Ryan had proposed was now, technically speaking, legal, so long as Congress agreed. It was a hell of a way to run a railroad, but democracies were like that.
“Then the i’s are dotted,” Trent observed. Fellows concurred with a nod: “And the t’s are crossed.” Both congressmen watched their host lift a phone and punch a speed-dial button.
“This is Ryan. Get things moving.”
The first move was electronic. Over the outraged protests of CINCPAC, three TV crews set up their cameras on the edge of the side-by-side dry docks now containing Enterprise and John Stennis.
“We’re not allowed to show you the damage to the ships’ sterns, but informed sources tell us that it’s even worse than it appears to be,” the reporters all said, with only minor changes. When the live reports were done, the cameras were moved and more shots made of the carriers, then still more from the other side of the harbor. They were just backgrounders, like file footage, and showed the ships and the yards without any reporters standing in the way. These tapes were turned over to someone else and digitalized for further use.
