Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  What they didn’t say, and what both she and Mayflower knew, was that once the oil was safely out of the ground, safely transported through the monster pipeline, safely conveyed over the sea by the newly double-hulled supertankers, then it just became more air pollution, out the tailpipes of cars and trucks and the smokestacks of electric-power stations. So it really was all a joke, and that joke included Kevin’s bitching about hurting the permafrost. At most, what would be seriously damaged? Ten or twenty acres, probably, and the oil companies would make more commercials about how they cleaned that up, as though the polluting end-use of the oil was not an issue at all!

  Because to the ignorant Joe Sixpack, sitting there in front of his TV, watching football games, it wasn’t an issue, was it? There were a hundred or so million motor vehicles in the United States, and a larger number across the world, and they all polluted the air, and that was the real issue. How did one stop that from poisoning the planet?

  Well, there were ways, weren’t there? she reflected.

  “Kevin, I’ll do my best,” she promised. “I will advise the President not to support this bill.”

  The bill was S-1768, submitted and sponsored by both Alaskan senators, whom the oil companies had bought long before, which would authorize the Department of the Interior to auction off the drilling rights into the AAMP area. The money involved would be huge, both for the federal government and for the state of Alaska. Even the Native American tribes up there would look the other way. The money they got from the oil would buy them lots of snowmobiles with which to chase and shoot the caribou, and motorboats to fish and kill the odd whale, which was part of their racial and cultural heritage. Snowmobiles weren’t needed in the modern age of plastic-wrapped USDA Choice Iowa beef, but the Native Americans clung to the end-result of their traditions, if not the traditional methods. It was a depressing truth that even these people had set aside their history and their very gods in homage to a new age of mechanistic worship to oil and its products. Both the Alaskan senators would bring down tribal elders to testify in favor of S-1768, and they would be listened to, since who more than Native Americans knew what it was like to live in harmony with nature? Only today they did it with Ski-Do snowmobiles, Johnson outboard motors, and Winchester hunting rifles. . . . She sighed at the madness of it all.

  “Will he listen?” Mayflower asked, getting back to business. Even environmentalists had to live in the real world of politics.

  “Honest answer? Probably not,” Carol Brightling admitted quietly.

  “You know,” Kevin observed in a low voice. “There are times when I understand John Wilkes Booth.”

  “Kevin, I didn’t hear that, and you didn’t say it. Not here. Not in this building.”

  “Damn it, Carol, you know how I feel. And you know I’m right. How the hell are we supposed to protect the planet if the idiots who run the world don’t give a fuck about the world we live on?”

  “What are you going to say? That Homo sapiens is a parasitic species that hurts the earth and the ecosystem? That we don’t belong here?”

  “A lot of us don’t, and that’s a fact.”

  “Maybe so, but what do you do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mayflower had to admit.

  Some of us know, Carol Brightling thought, looking up into his sad eyes. But are you ready for that one, Kevin? She thought he was, but recruitment was always a troublesome step, even for true believers like Kevin Mayflower. . . .

  Construction was about ninety percent complete. There were twenty whole sections around the site, twenty one-square-mile blocks of land, mainly flat, a slight roll to it, with a four-lane paved road leading north to Interstate 70, which was still covered with trucks heading in and out. The last two miles of the highway were set up without a median strip, the rebarred concrete paving a full thirty inches deep, as though it had been built to land airplanes on, the construction superintendent had observed, big ones, even. The road led into an equally sturdy and massively wide parking lot. He didn’t care enough about it, though, to mention it at his country club in Salina.

  The buildings were fairly pedestrian, except for their environmental-control systems, which were so state-of-the-art that the Navy could have used them on nuclear submarines. It was all part of the company’s leading-edge posture on its systems, the chairman had told him on his last visit. They had a tradition of doing everything ahead of everyone else, and besides, the nature of their work required careful attention to every little squiggly detail. You didn’t make vaccines in the open. But even the worker housing and offices had the same systems, the super thought, and that was odd, to say the least. Every building had a basement—it was a sensible thing to build here in tornado country, but few ever bothered with it, partly out of sloth, and partly from the fact that the ground was not all that easy to dig here, the famous Kansas hardpan whose top was scratched to grow wheat. That was the other interesting part. They’d continue to farm most of the area. The winter wheat was already in, and two miles away was the farm-operations center, down its own over-wide two-lane road, outfitted with the newest and best farm equipment he’d ever seen, even in an area where growing wheat was essentially an art form.

  Three hundred million dollars, total, was going into this project. The buildings were huge—you could convert them to living space for five or six thousand people, the super thought. The office building had classrooms for continuing education. The site had its own power plant, along with a huge fuel-tank farm, whose tanks were semiburied in deference to local weather conditions, and connected by their own pipeline to a filling point just off I-70 at Kanopolis. Despite the local lake, there were no fewer than ten twelve-inch artesian wells drilled well down into—and past—the Cherokee Aquifer that local farmers used to water their fields. Hell, that was enough water to supply a small city. But the company was footing the bill, and he was getting his usual percentage of the total job cost to bring it in on time, with a substantial bonus for coming in early, which he was determined to earn. It had been twenty-five months to this point, with two more to go. And he’d make it, the super thought, and he’d get that bonus, after which he’d take the family to Disney World for two weeks of Mickey and golf on the wonderful courses there, which he needed in order to get his game back in shape after two years of seven-day weeks.

  But the bonus meant he wouldn’t need to work again for a couple of years. He specialized in large jobs. He’d done two skyscrapers in New York, an oil refinery in Delaware, an amusement park in Ohio, and two huge housing projects elsewhere, earning a reputation for bringing things in early and under budget—not a bad rep for someone in his business. He parked his Jeep Cherokee, and checked notes for the things remaining this afternoon. Yeah, the window-seal tests in Building One. He used his cell phone to call ahead, and headed off, across the landing strip, as he called it, where the access roads came together. He remembered his time as an engineer in the Air Force. Two miles long, and almost a yard thick, yeah, you could land a 747 on this road if you wanted. Well, the company had a fleet of its own Gulfstream business jets, and why not land them here instead of the dinky little airfield at Ellsworth? And if they ever bought a jumbo, he chuckled, they could do that here, too. Three minutes later, he was parked just outside of One. This building was complete, three weeks early, and the last thing to be done was the environmental checks. Fine. He walked in through the revolving door—an unusually heavy, robust one, which was immediately locked upon his entry.

  “Okay, we ready, Gil?”

  “We are now, Mr. Hollister.”

  “Run her up, then,” Charlie Hollister ordered.

  Gil Trains was the supervisor of all the environmental systems at the project. Ex-Navy, and something of a control freak, he punched the wall-mounted controls himself. There was no noise associated with the pressurization—the systems were too far away for that—but the effect was almost immediate. On the walk over to Gil, Hollister felt it in his ears, like driving down a mountain road, yo
ur ears clicked, and you had to work your jaw around to equalize the pressure, which was announced by another click.

  “How’s it holding?”

  “So far, so good,” Trains replied. “Zero-point-seven-five PSI overpressure, holding steady.” His eyes were on the gauges mounted in this control station. “You know what this is like, Charlie?”

  “Nope,” the superintendent admitted.

  “Testing watertight integrity on a submarine. Same method, we overpressure a compartment.”

  “Really? It’s all reminded me of stuff I did in Europe at fighter bases.”

  “What’s that?” Gil asked.

  “Overpressurizing pilots’ quarters to keep gas out.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I guess it works both ways. Pressure is holding nicely.”

  Damned well ought to, Hollister thought, with all the hell we went through to make sure every fucking window was sealed with vinyl gaskets. Not that there were all that many windows. That had struck him as pretty odd. The views here were pretty nice. Why shut them out?

  The building was spec’d for a full 1.3 pounds of overpressure. They’d told him it was tornado protection, and that sorta-kinda made sense, along with the increased efficiency of the HVAC systems that came along with the seals. But it could also make for sick-building syndrome. Buildings with overly good environmental isolation kept flu germs in, and helped colds spread like a goddamned prairie fire. Well, that had to be part of the idea, too. The company worked on drugs and vaccines and stuff, and that meant that this place was like a germ-warfare factory, didn’t it? So, it made sense to keep stuff in—and keep stuff out, right? Ten minutes later they were sure. Instruments all over the building confirmed that the over-pressurization systems worked—on the first trial. The guys who’d done the windows and doors had earned all that extra pay for getting it right.

  “Looks pretty good. Gil, I have to run over to the uplink center.” The complex also had a lavish collection of satellite-communications systems.

  “Use the air lock.” Trains pointed.

  “See you later,” the super said on his way out.

  “Sure thing, Charlie.”

  It wasn’t pleasant. They now had eleven people, healthy ones, eight women and three men—segregated by gender, of course—and eleven was actually one more than they’d planned, but after kidnapping them you couldn’t very well give them back. Their clothing had been taken away—in some cases it had been removed while they’d been unconscious—and replaced with tops and bottoms that were rather like prison garb, if made of somewhat better material. No undergarments were permitted—imprisoned women had actually used bras to hang themselves on occasion, and that couldn’t be allowed here. Slippers for shoes, and the food was heavily laced with Valium, which helped to calm people down somewhat, but not completely. It wouldn’t have been very smart to drug them that much, since the depression of all their bodily systems might skew the test, and they couldn’t allow that either.

  “What is all this?” the woman demanded of Dr. Archer.

  “It’s a medical test,” Barbara replied, filling out the form. “You volunteered for it, remember? We’re paying you for this, and after it’s over you can go back home.”

  “When did I do that?”

  “Last week,” Dr. Archer told her.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, you did. We have your signature on the consent form. And we’re taking good care of you, aren’t we?”

  “I feel dopey all the time.”

  “That’s normal,” Dr. Archer assured her. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  She—Subject F4—was a legal secretary. Three of the women subjects were that, which was mildly troubling to Dr. Archer. What if the lawyers they worked for called the police? Letters of resignation had been sent, with the signatures expertly forged, and plausible explanations for the supposed event included in the text of the letters. Maybe it would hold up. In any case, the kidnappings had been expertly done, and nobody here would talk to anybody about it, would they?

  Subject F4 was nude, and sitting in a comfortable cloth-covered chair. Fairly attractive, though she needed to lose about ten pounds, Archer thought. The physical examination had revealed nothing unusual. Blood pressure was normal. Blood chemistry showed slightly elevated cholesterol, but nothing to worry about. She appeared to be a normal, healthy, twenty-six-year-old female. The interview for her medical history was similarly unremarkable. She was not a virgin, of course, having had twelve lovers over the nine years of her sexual activity. One abortion carried out at age twenty by her gynecologist, after which she’d practiced safe sex. She had a current love interest, but he was out of town for a few weeks on business, and she suspected that he had another woman in his life anyway.

  “Okay, that about does it, Mary.” Archer stood and smiled. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  “Can I get dressed now?”

  “First there’s something we want you to do. Please walk through the green door. There’s a fogging system in there. You’ll find it feels nice and cool. Your clothes will be on the other side. You can get dressed there.”

  “Okay.” Subject F4 rose and did as she was told. Inside the sealed room was—nothing, really. She stood there in drugged puzzlement for a few seconds, noting that it was hot in there, over ninety degrees, but then invisible spray ports in the wall sent out a mist . . . fog, something like that, which cooled her down instantly and comfortably for about ten seconds. Then the fog stopped, and the far door clicked open. As promised, there was a dressing room there, and she donned her green jamms, then walked out into the corridor, where a security guard waved her to the door at the far end—he never got closer than ten feet—back to the dormitory, where lunch was waiting. Meals were pretty good here, and after meals she always felt like a nap.

  “Feeling bad, Pete?” Dr. Killgore asked in a different part of the building.

  “Must be the flu or something. I feel beat-up all over, and I can’t keep anything down.” Even the booze, he didn’t say, though that was especially disconcerting for the alcoholic. Booze was the one thing he could always keep down.

  “Okay, let’s give it a look, then.” Killgore stood, donning a mask and putting on latex gloves for his examination. “Gotta take a blood sample, okay?”

  “Sure, doc.”

  Killgore did that very carefully indeed, giving him the usual stick inside the elbow, and filling four five-cc test tubes. Next he checked Pete’s eyes, mouth, and did the normal prodding, which drew a reaction over the subject’s liver—

  “Ouch! That hurts, doc.”

  “Oh? Doesn’t feel very different from before, Pete. How’s it hurt?” he asked, feeling the liver, which, as in most alcoholics, felt like a soft brick.

  “Like you just stabbed me with a knife, doc. Real sore there.”

  “Sorry, Pete. How about here?” the physician asked, probing lower with both hands.

  “Not as sharp, but it hurts a little. Somethin’ I ate, maybe?”

  “Could be. I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Killgore replied. Okay, this one was symptomatic, a few days earlier than expected, but small irregularities were to be expected. Pete was one of the healthier subjects, but alcoholics were never really what one could call healthy. So, Pete would be Number 2. Bad luck, Pete, Killgore thought. “Let me give you something to take the edge off.”

  The doctor turned and pulled open a drawer on the wall cabinet. Five milligrams, he thought, filling the plastic syringe to the right line, then turning and sticking the vein on the back of the hand.

  “Oooh!” Pete said a few seconds later. “Oooh . . . that feels okay. Lot better, doc. Thanks.” The rheumy eyes went wide, then relaxed.

  Heroin was a superb analgesic, and best of all, it gave its recipient a dazzling rush in the first few seconds, then reduced him to a comfortable stupor for the next few hours. So, Pete would feel just fine for a while. Killgore helped him stand, then sent him back. Next he took the
blood samples off for testing. In thirty minutes, he was sure. The antibody tests still showed positive, and microscopic examination showed what the antibodies were fighting against . . . and losing to.

  Only two years earlier, people had tried to infect America with the natural version of this bug, this “shepherd’s crook,” some called it. It had been somewhat modified in the genetic-engineering lab with the addition of cancer DNA to make this negative-strand RNA virus more robust, but that was really like putting a raincoat on the bug. The best news of all was that the genetic engineering had more than tripled the latency period. Once thought to be four to ten days, now it was almost a month. Maggie really knew her stuff, and she’d even picked the right name for it. Shiva was one nasty little son of a bitch. It had killed Chester—well, the potassium had done that, but Chester had been doomed—and it was now starting to kill Pete. There would be no merciful help for this one. Pete would be allowed to live until the disease took his life. His physical condition was close enough to normal that they’d work to see what good supportive care could do to fight off the effects of the Ebola-Shiva. Probably nothing, but they had to establish that. Nine remaining primary test subjects, and then eleven more on the other side of the building—they would be the real test. They were all healthy, or so the company thought. They’d be testing both the method of primary transmission and the viability of Shiva as a plague agent, plus the utility of the vaccines Steve Berg had isolated the previous week.