by Tom Clancy
But they couldn’t watch everything everywhere, and one place they didn’t watch was Bombay, western headquarters of the Indian navy. The orbits of the American KH-11 satellites were well defined, as were their schedules. Just after the newest satelite swept over the area, with the other new one on the far side of the world, came a four-hour window, which would end with the overhead passage of the oldest and least reliable of the trio. Happily, it also coincided with a high tide.
Two carriers, their repairs recently completed, and their escorts, slipped their mooring lines and stood out to sea. They would be conducting training exercises in the Arabian Sea, in case anyone noticed and asked about it.
DAMN. THE COBRA representative woke up, feeling a little feverish. It took him a few seconds to orient himself. Different motel, different city, different room lights. He fumbled for the proper switch, then put on his glasses, squinting in the uncomfortable light, and spotted his bag. Yeah. Shaving kit. He took that into the bathroom, pulled the paper cover off the glass, and half filled it with water. Then he worked the childproof top on the aspirin bottle, tipped two tablets into his hand and washed them down. He ought not to have had all those beers after dinner, the sales rep told himself, but he’d made a fairly decent deal with a couple of club pros, and beer was always a good lubricant for the golf business. He’d feel better in the morning. A former touring professional who hadn’t been quite good enough to make it big, he was now a very successful manufacturer’s representative. What the hell, he thought, heading back to his bed. He still had a minus handicap, the pace was easier, and he was making a pretty good living—plus being able to play a new course practically every week, the better to demonstrate his wares. He hoped the aspirin would work. He had an eight-thirty tee time.
STORM TRACK AND PALM BOWL were connected by a fiber-optic communications cable, the better to share information. Another training exercise was under way in the former Iraq and this one wasn’t a CPX. The three heavy corps of integrated Iraqi and Iranian units were in the field. Direction-finding radios placed them well away from the Saudi and Kuwaiti borders, and so no special danger was attached to their activities, but the ELINT troops were listening closely to get a feel for the skill level of the commanders who were moving tanks and infantry fighting vehicles across the broad, dry plains southeast of Baghdad.
“Here’s good news, Major,” the American lieutenant said, handing over a telex. The UIR SNIE had generated something positive for a change.
Two hundred miles northwest of Kuwait, at a spot five miles south of the “berm”—actually a man-made dune—that marked the border between the Kingdom and the UIR, a deuce-and-a-half truck stopped. The crew got out, attached the extension to the launch ramp and fired up their Predator drone. But “drone” was an obsolete term. This mini-aircraft was an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, or UAV, a blue-gray-colored, propeller-driven spy. It took about twenty minutes to attach the wings, run diagnostics on the electronics, and spin up the engine, and then it was launched, the annoying buzz of its engine fading rapidly as it climbed to its operating altitude and headed north.
The product of three decades of research, Predator was fairly stealthy, difficult to detect on radar due to its small size, the inclusion of radar-absorbing material in its design, and the fact that its operating speed was so slow that modern computer-controlled radars, if they caught it at all, classified it as a bird and erased it from the operator’s scope. The paint covering the airframe was the same IR-suppressive product the Navy had taken to using. It was both ugly and prone to provide a sticky home to anything that touched it—the technicians had to brush sand off their baby all the time—but that was balanced by the fact that the color blended in with the sky exceedingly well. Armed only with a TV camera, this one soared up to ten thousand feet, and cruised north under the control of another team at STORM TRACK, the better to keep an eye on the UIR exercises. It was a technical violation of the new country’s sovereignty, but two pounds of explosive in the UAV would ensure that if it hit the ground in the wrong place, no one would be able to tell what it was. A directional antenna beamed the “take” from the camera to receivers in the Kingdom.
The fiber-optic data link crossloaded the same signal to PALM BOWL, and when a USAF enlisted woman switched on the room’s monitor, they were looking down at a nearly featureless landscape while the Predator was guided to its destination by its operators.
“It’ll be good to see if they know what they’re doing,” the lieutenant observed to Major Sabah.
“Better if we see that they don’t,” the Kuwaiti officer replied thoughtfully. Other members of his extended family were increasingly concerned. Enough so, the major thought, that their country’s military was quietly ramping up to a very high state of readiness. Like the Saudis, the Kuwaiti citizens who’d flocked enthusiastically to man the best equipment that their small but wealthy country could obtain felt that maintenance of their tanks was a task for lesser men, but, unlike their Saudi cousins, they had experience with being on the bottom side of conquest. Many of them had lost family members, and a long memory was characteristic of this part of the world. For that reason, they trained with a will. They weren’t yet near the level of the Americans who taught them or the Israelis who held them in distant contempt, Major Sabah knew. His countrymen had first of all learned how to shoot. They’d burned out at least one gun tube per tank in the pure joy of learning that skill, and they had been firing real rounds, not just practice—war shots fly straighter and farther—as they combined a diverting hobby with a national survival skill. Able now to hit their targets, their current task was to learn to maneuver and fight on the move. Again, they couldn’t do it well, not yet, but they were learning. The developing crisis put emphasis on their training, and even now his countrymen were leaving their banking, oil, and trading offices to mount their vehicles. An American advisory team would take them into the field again, give them a battle problem, and watch their performance. While it pained the major that his countrymen, many of them relatives, were not yet ready, it was a source of pride to him that they were making a real effort. Bright as he was, however, it never occurred to him how close his military was to the Israeli model: citizen soldiers learning to fight after the harsh lesson of not having known.
“SWORDSMAN IS AWAKE,” Andrea Price heard in her earpiece. They were in the kitchen, the Detail commander with her sub-detail chiefs, standing and sipping coffee around one of the stainless-steel countertops used for preparing food. “Roy?”
“Another routine day,” Special Agent Altman said. “She’s got three procedures scheduled for the morning, then a lecture to some Spanish docs in the afternoon—University of Barcelona, ten of them, eight males, two females. We checked the names with the Spanish police. They’re all clean. No special threats reported against SURGEON. Looks like a normal day at the office.”
“Mike?” she asked Special Agent Michael Brennan, principal agent to Little Jack.
“Well, SHORTSTOP has a first-period biology test today and baseball practice after school. Pretty good with a glove, but his batting needs help,” the agent added. “Otherwise, same-o same-o.”
“Wendy?” Special Agent Gwendolyn Merritt was principal agent for Sally Ryan.
“Chemistry exam for SHADOW in third period today. She’s getting very interested in Kenny. Nice kid, needs a haircut and a new tie. She’s thinking about going out for the girls’ lacrosse team.” A few faces winced at that revelation. How do you protect someone being chased by teenagers with sticks?
“What’s the family background on Master Kenny again?” Price asked. Even she couldn’t remember everything.
“Father and mother both lawyers, tax stuff mainly.” “SHADOW needs better taste,” Brennan observed to general amusement around the counter. He was the joker on the crew. “There is a potential threat there, Wendy.”
“Huh? What?”
“If POTUS gets the new tax laws passed, they’re in the shitter.”
And
rea Price made another check mark on her morning list. “Don?”
“Today’s routine is the same as usual, Introductory Crayon. I’m still not happy with the setup, Andrea. I want some more people, one more inside, and two more for overwatch on the south side,” Don Russell announced. “We’re too exposed. We just don’t have enough defensive depth there. The outer perimeter is essentially the only one, and I am not comfortable with that.”
“SURGEON doesn’t want us to overpower the place. You have yourself and two agents inside, three for immediate backup, and one surveillance agent across the road,” Price reminded him.
“Andrea, I want three more. We’re too exposed there,” Russell repeated. His voice was reasonable and professional as ever. “The family has to listen to us on professional questions.”
“How about I come over tomorrow afternoon to look things over again?” Price asked. “If I agree, then I go to the Boss.”
“Fine.” Special Agent Russell nodded.
“Any more problems with Mrs. Walker?”
“Sheila tried to get a petition drive started with the other Giant Steps parents—get SANDBOX out of there, that sort of thing. It turns out that Mrs. Daggett gets a lot of repeat business, and more than half the parents know the Ryans and like ’em. So, that crapped out in a hurry. You know what the only real problem is?”
“What’s that, Don?”
He smiled. “At that age—sometimes I turn around and the kids move and when I turn back I can’t tell which one SANDBOX is. You know there’s only two kinds of haircuts for little girls, and half the mothers there think Oshkosh is the only brand of kid’s clothes.”
“Don, it’s a woman thing,” Wendy Merritt observed. “If the First Toddler wears it, it has to be fashionable.”
“Probably the same thing with the hair,” Andrea added. “By the way, I forgot to tell you, Pat O’Day wants a little match with you,” she told the Detail’s most senior member.
“The Bureau guy?” Russell’s eyes lit up. “Where? When? Tell him to bring money, Andrea.” It occurred to Russell that he was due to have some playtime of his own. He hadn’t lost a pistol match in seven years—his last bout with the flu.
“We all set?” Price asked her senior agents.
“How’s the Boss doing?” Altman asked.
“They’re keeping him pretty busy. Cutting into his sleep time.”
“Want me to talk to SURGEON about it? She keeps a good eye on him,” Roy told her.
“Well—”
“I know how. Gee, Dr. Ryan, is the Boss doing okay? He looked a little tired this morning ...,” Altman suggested.
The four agents exchanged looks. President-management was their most delicate duty. This President listened to his wife almost as though he were a normal husband. So why not make SURGEON into an ally? All four nodded at once.
“Go with it,” Price told him.
“SON OF A BITCH.” Colonel Hamm said inside his command track.
“Surprised you, did they?” General Diggs inquired delicately.
“They have a ringer in there?” the CO of the Blackhorse Cav wanted to know.
“No, but they sprung one on me, Al. They didn’t let anybody know they had IVIS training. Well, that is, I found out last night.”
“Nice guy, sir.”
“Surprises work both ways, Colonel,” Diggs reminded him.
“How the hell did they get the funding for that?”
“Their fairy god-senators, I suppose.”
Visiting units didn’t bring their own equipment to Fort Irwin, for the obvious reason that it was too expensive to transport it all back and forth. Instead they mated up with vehicle sets permanent to the base, and those were top-of-the-line. Included in all of them was IVIS, the Inter-Vehicle Information System, a battlefield data link that projected data onto a computer screen inside the tanks and Bradleys. It was something the 11th Cav had been issued for only its own vehicles (their real ones, not the simulated enemy sets) six months earlier. Seemingly a simple system for trading data—it even ordered spare parts automatically when something broke it presented the crew with a comprehensive overview of the battlefield, and converted hard-won reconnaissance information into general knowledge in a matter of seconds. No longer was data on a developing engagement limited to a harried and distracted unit commander. Now sergeants knew everything the colonel did, and information was still the most valuable commodity known to man. The visiting tankers from the Carolina Guard were fully trained up on its use. So were the troopers of the Blackhorse, but their pseudo-Soviet OpFor vehicles didn’t have it.
“Colonel, now we really know how good the system is. It beat you.”
The simulated engagement had been a bloody one. Hamm and his operations officer had contrived a devilish ambush, only to have the Weekend Warriors detect it, avoid it, and enter into a battle of maneuver which had caught the OpFor leaning the wrong way. A daring counterstroke by one of his squadron commanders had almost saved the day, and killed off half of the Blue Force, but it hadn’t been enough. The first night engagement had gone to the good guys, and the Guardsmen were whooping it up as if after an ACC basketball game.
“I’ll know better next time,” Hamm promised.
“Humility is good for the soul,” Marion Diggs said, enjoying the sunrise.
“Death is bad for the body, sir,” the colonel reminded him.
“Baaaaaaaaa,” Diggs said, grinning on the way to his personal Hummer. Even Al Hamm needed the occasional lesson.
THEY TOOK THEIR time. Movie Star handled the car rentals. He had duplicate IDs, enough to rent four vehicles, three four-door private cars and a U-Haul van. The former had been selected to match vehicles owned by parents who had children at the nursery school. The latter was for their escape—an eventuality which he now thought likely and not merely possible. His men were smarter than he’d appreciated. Driving past the objective in their rented cars, they didn’t turn their heads to stare, but allowed their peripheral vision to take in the scene. They already had exact knowledge from the model they’d built, based on data from their leader’s photographs. Driving past the site gave them a better full-size, three-dimensional view, and added more substance to their mental image, and to their growing confidence. With that task done, they drove west, turned off Route 50 and proceeded to a lonely farmhouse in southern Anne Arundel County.
The house was owned by a man thought by his neighbors to be a Syrian-born Jew who’d lived in the area for eleven years, but who was a sleeper agent. Over the past few years, he’d made discreet purchases of arms and ammunition, all of them legal, and all made before restrictive laws on some of the weapons had been passed—he could have evaded them anyway. In his coat pocket were airline tickets under a different name and passport. This was the final rendezvous point. They would bring the child here. Then six of them would leave the country at once, all on separate flights, and the remaining three would enter the homeowner’s personal car and drive to yet another pre-determined location to await developments. America was a vast country, with many roads. Cellular telephones were difficult to track. They’d give a devil of a time to their pursuers, Movie Star thought. He knew how he’d do things, if it got that far. The team with the child would have one phone. He would have two, one to make brief calls to the American government, and another to call his friends. They would demand much for the life of the child, enough to throw this country into chaos. Perhaps the child might even be set free alive. He wasn’t sure about that, but he supposed it was possible.
42
PREDATOR/PREY
CIA HAS ITS OWN PHOTO shop, of course. The film shot out the aircraft window by Field Officer Domingo Chavez was tagged by the technician in a manner little different from that used by commercial shops, and then processed on standard equipment. There the routine treatment stopped. The grainy ASA- 1200 film produced a poor-quality image, and one couldn’t give that to the people on the seventh floor. The employees in the photo shop knew about th
e RIF order, and the best way to avoid being laid off, in this or any other business, was to be indispensable. So the developed roll of film went into a computer-enhancement system. It took only three minutes per frame to convert the images into something that might have been shot by an expert with a Hasselblad under studio conditions. Less than an hour after the film’s arrival, the tech produced a set of eight-by-ten glossies that positively identified the airplane passenger as the Ayatollah Mahmoud Haji Daryaei, and provided a shot of his aircraft, so clear and dramatic that the manufacturer might have used it on a sales brochure. The film was put in an envelope and sent off to secure storage. The photos themselves were stored in digital form on tape, their precise identity—date, time of day, location, photographer, and subject—also coded into a computer register for extensive cross-referencing. It was standard procedure. The technician had long since stopped caring about what he developed, though he still did see the occasional frame showing someone on the news in a position that never made the TV screen ... but not this guy. From what he’d heard about Daryaei, the man probably didn’t have much interest in boys or girls, and the dour expression on his face seemed to confirm it. What the hell, he did have nice taste in airplanes, a G-IV, it looked like. Odd, wasn’t that a Swiss registration code on the tail, though ... ?
