by Tom Clancy
“IT’S CALLED TASK Group COMEDY,” Robby told him. “They got their doorbell rung this morning.” The J-3 explained on for a few minutes.
“Playing rough?” the President asked.
“Evidently, they gave the P-3 a real air show. I’ve done that myself a few times, back in my young-and-foolish days. They want us to know they’re there, and they’re not intimidated. The group commander is Greg Kemper. I don’t know him, but his rep’s pretty good. CINCLANT likes him. He’s asking for a ROE change.”
“Not yet. Later today.”
“Okay. I would not expect a night attack, but remember dawn there is midnight here, sir.”
“Arnie, what’s the book on the P.M.?”
“She and Ambassador Williams don’t exchange Christmas presents,” the chief of staff replied. “You met her in the East Room a while back.”
“Warning her off risks having her call Daryaei,” Ben Goodley reminded them all. “If you confront her, she’ll weasel on you.”
“And? Robby?”
“If we get past the Indians, but she warns Daryaei? They can try to block the strait. The Med force will turn the corner in a few hours and join up fifty miles off the entrance. We’ll have air cover. It could be exciting, but they should make it. Mines are the scary part. The strait there is pretty deep for them. Closer into Dhahran is another story. The longer the UIR’s in the dark, the better, but they may already know what COMEDY is made up of.”
“Or maybe not,” van Damm thought. “If she thinks she can handle it herself, she might just try to show him what kind of balls she has.”
THE TRANSFER WAS called Operation CUSTER. All forty aircraft were aloft now, each carrying roughly 250 soldiers in a sky train six thousand miles long. The lead aircraft were now six hours out from Dhahran, leaving Russian airspace and overflying Ukraine.
The F-15 pilots had traded waves with a handful of Russian fighters which had come up to say hello. They were tired now. Their rumps were like painful lead from all the time in the same seat—the airliner pilots behind them could get up and move around; they even had toilets, quite a luxury for a fighter pilot who had an appliance called a relief tube. Arms tightened up. Muscles were sore from staying in the same position. It was to the point that tanking from their KC-135s was becoming difficult, and gradually they came to the opinion that an air-to-air engagement an hour out from their destination might not be much fun at all. Most drank coffee, tried to shift hands on the stick, and stretched as much as they could.
The soldiers were mainly sleeping, still ignorant of the nature of their mission. The airlines had stocked their aircraft normally, and the troops indulged what would be their last chance to have a drink for some time to come. Those who had deployed to Saudi in 1990 and 1991 told their war stories, chief among which was the memory that the Kingdom wasn’t a place you went to for the nightlife.
NEITHER WAS INDIANA. Brown and Holbrook had found, at least not now. They had at least been smart enough to get into a motel before the general panic, and here they were trapped. This motel, like the ones they’d used in Wyoming and Nebraska, catered to truckers. It had a large restaurant, the old-fashioned sort with a counter and booths, and now with masked waitresses and customers who didn’t group closely together to socialize. Instead, they ate their meals and went back to their rooms, or to sleep in their trucks. There was a daily dance of sorts. The trucks had to be moved, lest staying in the exact same spot damage the tires. Everyone listened to the radio for hourly news broadcasts. The rooms, the restaurant, and even some of the trucks had televisions for further information and distraction. There was boredom, the tense sort familiar to soldiers but not known to the two Mountain Men.
“Goddamned government,” a furniture hauler said. He had family two states away.
“I guess they showed us who was boss, eh?” Ernie Brown said, for general consumption.
Later, data would show that not a single interstate trucker had caught the virus. Their existence was too solitary for that. But their working lives depended on movement, both because they earned their living that way and because they had chosen to do so. Sitting still was not in their nature. Being told to sit still was even less so.
“What the hell,” another driver added. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Goddamned glad I got outa Chicago when I did. That news is scary.”
“You suppose this all makes sense?” someone asked.
“Since when does the government make sense?” Holbrook griped.
“I hear that,” a voice chimed in, and finally the Mountain Men felt at home somewhere. Then, by unspoken consent, it was time for them to leave.
“How the hell much longer will we be stuck here, Pete?” Ernie Brown wanted to know.
“You’re askin’ me?”
“A WHOLE LOT of nothing,” concluded the lead agent. Aref Raman was a little neat for a single man living alone, but not grossly so. One of the FBI agents had noted with surprise that even the man’s socks were neatly folded, along with everything else in the bureau drawers. Then one of the group remembered a study of NFL football players. A psychologist had determined after months of study that offensive linemen, whose job was to protect the quarterback, had neat lockers, while defensive linemen, whose job it was to pound the opposing quarterbacks into the turf, were slobs in every respect. It was good for a laugh, and an explanation. Nothing else was found. There was a photo of his parents, both dead. He subscribed to two news magazines, had the full cable options for his two televisions, had no booze in the house, and ate healthy. He had a particular affinity for kosher hot dogs, judging by the freezer. There were no hidden drawers or compartments they would have found them—and nothing the least bit suspicious. That was both good news and bad.
The phone rang. Nobody answered it, because they weren’t there, and they had beepers and cellular phones for their own communications needs.
“Hello, this is 536-3040,” the recording of Raman’s voice said, after the second ring. “Nobody’s here to answer the phone right now, but if you leave a message, somebody will get back to you.” Followed by a beep, and in this case, a click.
“Wrong number,” one of the agents said.
“Pull the messages,” the lead agent ordered the technical genius on the team.
Raman owned a digital recording system, and again there was a punch code programmed in by the manufacturer. The agent hit the six digits and another took notes. There were three clicks and a wrong number. Somebody calling for Mr. Sloan, whoever that was.
“Rug? Mr. Alahad?”
“Sounds like the name of a rug dealer,” another one said. But when they looked around, there was no such rug in the apartment, just the usual cheap wall-to-wall carpet you found in apartments of this type.
“Wrong number.”
“Run the names anyway.” It was more habit than anything else. You checked everything. It was like working FCI. You just never knew.
Just then the phone rang again, and all five of the agents turned to stare at the answering machine, as though it were a real witness with a real voice.
SHIT, RAMAN THOUGHT, he’d forgotten to erase the messages from before. There was nothing new. His control officer hadn’t called again. It would have been a surprise if he had. With that determined, Raman, sitting in a Pittsburgh hotel room, punched the erase-all code. One nice thing about the new digitals was that, once erased, they were gone forever. That wasn’t necessarily true of the ones using tape cassettes.
THE FBI AGENTS took note of that, sharing looks.
“Hey, we all do that.” There was general agreement. And everybody got wrong numbers, too. And this was a brother officer. But they’d run the numbers anyway.
SURGEON, TO THE relief of her detail, was sleeping upstairs in the residence. Roy Altman and the rest assigned to guard her had been going crazy with her on the fever ward—their term for it—at Johns Hopkins, as much from the physical danger as for the fact that she had run herself right into the
ground. The kids, being kids, had spent the time like most other American children, watching TV and playing under the eyes of their agents, who now worried about seeing the onset of flu symptoms, blessedly absent from the entire campus. SWORDSMAN was in the Situation Room.
“What’s the time there?”
“Ten hours ahead, sir.”
“Make the call,” POTUS ordered.
THE FIRST 747, in United livery, crossed into Saudi airspace a few minutes earlier than expected, due to favorable arctic winds. A more circuitous routing at this point would not have helped very much. Sudan had airports and radars, too, as did Egypt and Jordan, and it was assumed that the UIR had informants somewhere in those countries. The Saudi Air Force, augmented by the F-16Cs which had sneaked in from Israel the previous day as part of BUFFALO FORWARD, stood combat air patrol along the Saudi-UIR border. Two E-3B AWACS were up and turning their rotodomes. The sun was rising now in that part of the world—at least one could see first light from their cruising altitude, though the surface, six miles below, was still black.
“GOOD MORNING, PRIME Minister. This is Jack Ryan,” the President said.
“A pleasure to hear your voice. It is late in Washington, is it not?” she asked.
“We both work irregular hours. I imagine your day is just beginning.”
“So it is,” the voice answered. Ryan had a conventional receiver to his ear. The conversation was on speakerphone as well, and feeding into a digital tape recorder. The CIA had even supplied a voice-stress analyzer. “Mr. President, the troubles in your country, have they improved?”
“We have some hope, but, no, not quite yet.”
“Is there any way in which we might be of assistance?” Neither voice showed the least emotion beyond the false amity of people suspicious of each other, and trying to hide it.
“Well, yes, actually, there is.”
“Please, then, how may we be of help?”
“Prime Minister, we have some ships heading through the Arabian Sea at the moment,” Ryan told her.
“Is that so?” Total neutrality in the voice.
“Yes, ma’am, it is, and you know it is, and I want your personal assurance that your navy, which is also at sea, will not interfere with their passage.”
“But why do you ask this? Why should we interfere—for that matter, what is the purpose of your ship movement?”
“Your word on the matter will suffice, Prime Minister,” Ryan told her. His right hand gripped a number 2 lead pencil.
“But, Mr. President, I fail to understand the purpose of this call.”
“The purpose of this call is to seek your personal assurance that the Indian navy will not interfere with the peaceful passage of United States Navy ships through the Arabian Sea.”
HE WAS SO weak, she thought, repeating himself that way.
“Mr. President, I find your call unsettling. America has never spoken to us about such a matter before. You say you move warships close to my country, but not the purpose for the move. The movement of such vessels without an explanation is not the act of a friend.” What if she could make him back down?
WHAT DID I TELL YOU? the note from Ben Goodley read.
“Very well, Prime Minister, for the third time, will you give me your assurance that there will be no interference in this activity?”
“But why are you invading our waters?” she asked again.
“Very well.” Ryan paused, and then his voice changed. “Prime Minister, the purpose of the movement does not directly concern your country, but I assure you, those ships will sail on to their destination. Since their mission is one of importance to us, we will not, I repeat not, brook interference of any kind, and I must warn you that should any unidentified ship or aircraft approach our formation, there might be adverse consequences. No, please excuse me, there will be such consequences. To avoid that, I give you notice of the passage, and I request your personal assurance to the United States of America that there will be no attack on our ships.”
“And now you threaten me? Mr. President, I understand the stress which has come to you of late, but, please, you may not treat sovereign countries in this way.”
“Prime Minister, then I will speak very clearly. An overt act of war has been committed against the United States of America. Any interference with, or attack on, any part of our military will be deemed a further act of war, and whatever country commits such an act will face the most serious possible consequences.”
“But who has done this to you?”
“Prime Minister, that is not your concern unless you wish it to be. I think in the interests of both your country and mine, it would be well if your navy returned to port forthwith.”
“And you blame us, you order us?”
“I began with a request, Prime Minister. You saw fit to evade my request three times. I regard that as an unfriendly act. And so I have a new question: Is it your desire to be at war with the United States of America?”
“Mr. President—”
“Because if those ships don’t move, Prime Minister, you will be.” The pencil snapped in Ryan’s hand. “I think you may have associated yourself with the wrong friends, Prime Minister. I hope I am incorrect, but if my impression is correct, then your country could well pay dearly for that misjudgment. We have experienced a direct attack on our citizens. It is a particularly cruel and barbaric attack, utilizing weapons of mass destruction.” He enunciated these words very clearly. “This is not yet known to our citizens. That will soon change,” he told her. “When it does, Prime Minister, those guilty of launching that attack will face our justice. We will not send notes of protest. We will not call a special meeting of the UN Security Council in New York. We will make war, Prime Minister. We will make war with all the power and rage this country and her citizens can muster. Do you now understand what I am saying? Ordinary men, women, and now even children have been murdered within our borders by a foreign power. There has even been an attack upon my own child, Prime Minister. Does your country wish to be associated with those acts? If so, Prime Minister, if you wish to be part of that, then the war commences now.”
56
DEPLOYMENT
JESUS, JACK, YOU HAD ME convinced,” Jackson breathed.
“Our friend in the clergy won’t be as easy,” the President said. He rubbed his two sweaty hands together. “And we still don’t know if she’ll keep her word. Okay, Task Group COMEDY is at DEFCON 1. If they think it’s hostile, kill it. But for Christ’s sake, make sure that commander knows how to use his head.”
The Situation Room was quiet now, and President Ryan felt very alone, despite the people assembled around him. Secretary Bretano and the Joint Chiefs were there. Rutledge was there for State. Secretary Winston, because Ryan trusted his judgment. Goodley, because he was fully briefed in on all the intelligence information; plus his chief of staff and the usual bodyguards. They all showed their support, but it really didn’t help all that much. He alone had talked to India, because despite all the help and staff and advice, Jack Ryan was now the United States of America, and the country was going to war.
THE MEDIA POOL learned that over the Atlantic Ocean. America expected an attack at any time from the United Islamic Republic into the other Gulf states. They would be there to cover the story. They also learned about the forces being deployed.
“That’s all?” one of the more knowledgeable of them asked.
“That’s it for the moment,” the public affairs officer confirmed. “We hope that the show of force will be sufficient to deter the attack, but if not, it’s going to be exciting.”
“Exciting ain’t the word.”
Then the PAO told them why it was happening, and the windowless KC-135 that was taking them to Saudi Arabia became very quiet indeed.
KUWAIT ESSENTIALLY HAD two heavy brigades, complemented by a motorized reconnaissance brigade equipped with antitank weapons and designed to be a screening force on the border. The two heavy brigades, equipped and traine
d on the American model, were held back from the border in the usual way so as to be able to move to counter an incursion rather than having to meet the initial attack—possibly in the wrong place. The 10th U.S. Cavalry stood between and slightly behind those two. Overall command was somewhat equivocal. Colonel Magruder was the most senior officer in time of service, and the most experienced tactician, but there were Kuwaitis more senior in rank—all three brigades were commanded by brigadier generals—and it was their country. On the other hand, the country was small enough to require only one primary command post, and Magruder was there, both to command his regiment and to advise the Kuwaiti commanders. The latter were both proud and nervous. They were understandably pleased by the strides their small country had made since 1990. No longer the comic-opera force which had disintegrated on the Iraqi invasion—though some sub-units had fought bravely—they had what looked on paper and to the eye like a very capable mechanized force. They were nervous because they were heavily outnumbered, and their mainly reservist soldiers had a long way to go before they met the American training standards to which they aspired. But the one thing they knew was gunnery. Shooting tanks is as enjoyable a pastime as it is a vital one; the empty slots in their formations were explained by the fact that twenty tanks were in the shop for replacement of their main gun tubes. That was being done by civilian contractors while the tank crews paced and waited.
The 10th Cav’s helicopters were flying around the country’s border, their Longbow radars looking deep into the UIR for movement, and so far seeing nothing of particular note. The Kuwaiti air force was standing a four-plane combat air patrol, with the rest of the force on high alert. Outmanned though they were, this would not be a repeat of 1990. The busiest people were the engineers, who were digging holes for all the tanks so that they could fight hull-down, with only their turrets showing. These were covered with netting to make them invisible from the air.
