Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  The reporter wasn’t as used to answering questions as to asking them. Then she saw that the cameras were pointed her way, and she was having a bad-hair day. Her response, therefore, could have been a little better: “Mr. President, is it possible that your views of abortion have affected your reaction to this event?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve disapproved of murder even longer than I’ve objected to abortion,” Ryan replied coldly.

  “But you’ve just compared the People’s Republic of China to Hitler’s Germany,” the Globe reporter pointed out. You can’t say that about them!

  “Both countries shared a view of population control that is antithetical to American traditions. Or do you approve of imposing late-term abortions on women who choose not to have one?”

  “Sir, I’m not the President,” the Globe replied, as she sat down, avoiding the question, but not the embarrassed blush.

  “Mr. President,” began the San Francisco Examiner, “whether we like it or not, China has decided for itself what sort of laws it wants to have, and the two men who died this morning were interfering with those laws, weren’t they?”

  “The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King interfered with the laws of Mississippi and Alabama back when I was in high school. Did the Examiner object to his actions then?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “But we regard the personal human conscience as a sovereign force, don’t we?” Jack shot back. “The principle goes back to St. Augustine, when he said that an unjust law is no law. Now, you guys in the media agree with that principle. Is it only when you happen to agree with the person operating on that principle? Isn’t that intellectually dishonest? I do not personally approve of abortion. You all know that. I’ve taken a considerable amount of heat for that personal belief, some of which has been laid on me by you good people. Fine. The Constitution allows us all to feel the way we choose. But the Constitution does not allow me not to enforce the law against people who blow up abortion clinics. I can sympathize with their overall point of view, but I cannot agree or sympathize with the use of violence to pursue a political position. We call that terrorism, and it’s against the law, and I have sworn an oath to enforce the law fully and fairly in all cases, regardless of how I may or may not feel on a particular issue.

  “Therefore, if you do not apply it evenhandedly, ladies and gentlemen, it is not a principle at all, but ideology, and it is not very helpful to the way we govern our lives and our country.

  “Now, on the broader question, you said that China has chosen its laws. Has it? Has it really? The People’s Republic is not, unfortunately, a democratic country. It is a place where the laws are imposed by an elite few. Two courageous men died yesterday objecting to those laws, and in the successful attempt to save the life of an unborn child. Throughout history, men have given up their lives for worse causes than that. Those men are heroes by any definition, but I do not think anyone in this room, or for that matter anyone in our country, believes that they deserved to die, heroically or not. The penalty for civil disobedience is not supposed to be death. Even in the darkest days of the 1960s, when black Americans were working to secure their civil rights, the police in the southern states did not commit wholesale murder. And those local cops and members of the Ku Klux Klan who did step over that line were arrested and convicted by the FBI and the Justice Department.

  “In short, there are fundamental differences between the People’s Republic of China and America, and of the two systems, I much prefer ours.”

  Ryan escaped the press room ten minutes later, to find Arnie standing at the top of the ramp.

  “Very good, Jack.”

  “Oh?” The President had learned to fear that tone of voice.

  “Yeah, you just compared the People’s Republic of China to Nazi Germany and the Ku Klux Klan.”

  “Arnie, why is it that the media feel such great solicitude for communist countries?”

  “They don’t, and—”

  “The hell they don’t! I just compared the PRC to Nazi Germany and they damned near wet their pants. Well, guess what? Mao murdered more people than Hitler did. That’s public knowledge—I remember when CIA released the study that documented it—but they ignore it. Is some Chinese citizen killed by Mao less dead than some poor Polish bastard killed by Hitler?”

  “Jack, they have their sensibilities,” van Damm told his President.

  “Yeah? Well, just once in a while, I wish they’d display something I can recognize as a principle.” With that, Ryan strode back to his office, practically trailing smoke from his ears.

  “Temper, Jack, temper,” Arnie said to no one in particular. The President still had to learn the first principle of political life, the ability to treat a son of a bitch like your best friend, because the needs of your nation depended on it. The world would be a better place if it were as simple as Ryan wished, the Chief of Staff thought. But it wasn’t, and it showed no prospect of becoming so.

  A few blocks away at Foggy Bottom, Scott Adler had finished cringing and was making notes on how to mend the fences that his President had just kicked over. He’d have to sit down with Jack and go over a few things, like the principles he held so dear.

  What did you think of that, Gerry?”

  “Hosiah, I think we have a real President here. What does your son think of him?”

  “Gerry, they’ve been friends for twenty years, back to when they both taught at the Naval Academy. I’ve met the man. He’s a Catholic, but I think we can overlook that.”

  “We have to.” Patterson almost laughed. “So was one of the guys who got shot yesterday, remember?”

  “Italian, too, probably drank a lot of wine.”

  “Well, Skip was known to have the occasional drink,” Patterson told his black colleague.

  “I didn’t know,” Reverend Jackson replied, disturbed at the thought.

  “Hosiah, it is an imperfect world we live in.”

  “Just so he wasn’t a dancer.” That was almost a joke, but not quite.

  “Skip? No, I’ve never known him to dance,” Reverend Patterson assured his friend. “By the way, I have an idea.”

  “What’s that, Gerry?”

  “How about this Sunday you preach at my church, and I preach at yours? I’m sure we’re both going to speak on the life and martyrdom of a Chinese man.”

  “And what passage will you base your sermon on?” Hosiah asked, surprised and interested by the suggestion.

  “Acts,” Patterson replied at once.

  Reverend Jackson considered that. It wasn’t hard to guess the exact passage. Gerry was a fine biblical scholar. “I admire your choice, sir.”

  “Thank you, Pastor Jackson. What do you think of my other suggestion?”

  Reverend Jackson hesitated only a few seconds. “Reverend Patterson, I would be honored to preach at your church, and I gladly extend to you the invitation to preach at my own.”

  Forty years earlier, when Gerry Patterson had been playing baseball in the church-sponsored Little League, Hosiah Jackson had been a young Baptist preacher, and the mere idea of preaching in Patterson’s church could have incited a lynching. But, by the Good Lord, they were men of God, and they were mourning the death—the martyrdom—of another man of God of yet another color. Before God, all men were equal, and that was the whole point of the Faith they shared. Both men were thinking quickly of how they might have to alter their styles, because though both were Baptists, and though both preached the Gospel of Jesus Christ to Baptist congregations, their communities were a little bit different and required slightly different approaches. But it was an accommodation both men could easily make.

  “Thank you, Hosiah. You know, sometimes we have to acknowledge that our faith is bigger than we are.”

  For his part, Reverend Jackson was impressed. He never doubted the sincerity of his white colleague, and they’d chatted often on matters of religion and scripture. Hosiah would even admit, quietly, to himself, that Patterson was his superior
as a scholar of the Holy Word, due to his somewhat lengthier formal education, but of the two, Hosiah Jackson was marginally the better speaker, and so their relative talents played well off each other.

  “How about we get together for lunch to work out the details?” Jackson asked.

  “Today? I’m free.”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “The country club? You’re not a golfer, are you?” Patterson asked hopefully. He felt like a round, and his afternoon was free today for a change.

  “Never touched a golf club in my life, Gerry.” Hosiah had a good laugh at that. “Robert is, learned at Annapolis and been playing ever since. Says he kicks the President’s backside every time they go out.” He’d never been to the Willow Glen Country Club either, and wondered if the club had any black members. Probably not. Mississippi hadn’t changed quite that much yet, though Tiger Woods had played at a PGA tournament there, and so that color line had been breached, at least.

  “Well, he’d probably whip me, too. Next time he comes down, maybe we can play a round.” Patterson’s membership at Willow Glen was complimentary, another advantage to being pastor of a well-to-do congregation.

  And the truth of the matter was that, white or not, Gerry Patterson was not the least bit bigoted, Reverend Jackson knew. He preached the Gospel with a pure heart. Hosiah was old enough to remember when that had not been so, but that, too, had changed once and for all. Praise God.

  For Admiral Mancuso, the issues were the same, and a little different. An early riser, he’d caught CNN the same as everyone else. So had Brigadier General Mike Lahr.

  “Okay, Mike, what the hell is this all about?” CINCPAC asked when his J-2 arrived for his morning intel brief.

  “Admiral, it looks like a monumental cluster-fuck. Those clergy stuck their noses in a tight crack and paid the price for it. More to the point, NCA is seriously pissed.” NCA was the code-acronym for National Command Authority, President Jack Ryan.

  “What do I need to know about this?”

  “Well, things are likely to heat up between America and China, for starters. The trade delegation we have in Beijing is probably going to catch some heat. If they catch too much, well . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Give me worst case,” CINCPAC ordered.

  “Worst case, the PRC gets its collective back up, and we recall the trade delegation and the ambassador, and things get real chilly for a while.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then—that’s more of a political question, but it wouldn’t hurt for us to take it a little seriously, sir,” Lahr told his boss, who took just about everything seriously.

  Mancuso looked at his wall map of the Pacific. Enterprise was back at sea doing exercises between Marcus Island and the Marianas. John Stennis was alongside in Pearl Harbor. Harry Truman was en route to Pearl Harbor after taking the long way around Cape Horn—modern aircraft carriers are far too beamy for the Panama Canal. Lincoln was finishing up a bobtail refit in San Diego and about to go back to sea. Kitty Hawk and Independence, his two old, oil-fired carriers, were both in the Indian Ocean. At that, he was lucky. First and Seventh Fleets had six carriers fully operational for the first time in years. So, if he needed to project power, he had the assets to give people something to think about. He also had a lot of Air Force aircraft at his disposal. The 3rd Marine Division and the Army’s 25th Light based right there in Hawaii wouldn’t play in this picture. The Navy might bump heads with the ChiComms, and the Air Force, but he lacked the amphibious assets to invade China, and besides, he wasn’t insane enough to think that was a rational course of action under any circumstances.

  “What do we have in Taiwan right now?”

  “Mobile Bay, Milius, Chandler, and Fletcher are showing the flag. Frigates Curtis and Reid are doing operations with the ROC navy. The submarines La Jolla, Helena, and Tennessee are trolling in the Formosa Strait or along the Chinese coast looking at their fleet units.”

  Mancuso nodded. He usually kept some high-end SAM ships close to Taiwan. Milius was a Burke-class destroyer, and Mobile Bay was a cruiser, both of them with the Aegis system aboard to make the ROC feel a little better about the putative missile threat to their island. Mancuso didn’t think the Chinese were foolish enough to launch an attack against a city with some U.S. Navy ships tied alongside, and the Aegis ships had a fair chance of stopping anything that flew their way. But you never knew, and if this Beijing incident blew up any more . . . He lifted the phone for SURFPAC, the three-star who administratively owned Pacific Fleet’s surface ships.

  “Yeah,” answered Vice Admiral Ed Goldsmith.

  “Ed, Bart. What material shape are those ships we have in Taipei harbor in?”

  “You’re calling about the thing on CNN, right?”

  “Correct,” CINCPAC confirmed.

  “Pretty good. No material deficiencies I know about. They’re doing the usual port-visit routine, letting people aboard and all. Crews are spending a lot of time on the beach.”

  Mancuso didn’t have to ask what they were doing on the beach. He’d been a young sailor once, though never on Taiwan.

  “Might not hurt for them to keep their ears perked up some.”

  “Noted,” SURFPAC acknowledged. Mancuso didn’t have to say more. The ships would now stand alternating Condition-Three on their combat systems. The SPY radars would be turned on aboard one of the Aegis ships at all times. One nice thing about Aegis ships was that they could go from half-asleep to fully operational in about sixty seconds; it was just a matter of turning some keys. They’d have to be a little careful. The SPY radar put out enough power to fry electronic components for miles around, but it was just a matter of how you steered the electronic beams, and that was computer-controlled. “Okay, sir, I’ll get the word out right now.”

  “Thanks, Ed. I’ll get you fully briefed in later today.”

  “Aye, aye,” SURFPAC replied. He’d put a call to his squadron commanders immediately.

  “What else?” Mancuso wondered.

  “We haven’t heard anything directly from Washington, Admiral,” BG Lahr told his boss.

  “Nice thing about being a CINC, Mike. You’re allowed to think on your own a little.”

  What a fucking mess,” General-Colonel Bondarenko observed to his drink. He wasn’t talking about the news of the day, but about his command, even though the officers’ club in Chabarsovil was comfortable. Russian general officers have always liked their comforts, and the building dated back to the czars. It had been built during the Russo-Japanese war at the beginning of the previous century and expanded several times. You could see the border between pre-revolution and post-revolution workmanship. Evidently, German POWs hadn’t been trained this far east—they’d built most of the dachas for the party elite of the old days. But the vodka was fine, and the fellowship wasn’t too bad, either.

  “Things could be better, Comrade General,” Bondarenko’s operations officer agreed. “But there is much that can be done the right way, and little bad to undo.”

  That was a gentle way of saying that the Far East Military District was less of a military command than it was a theoretical exercise. Of the five motor-rifle divisions nominally under his command, only one, the 265th, was at eighty-percent strength. The rest were at best regimental-size formations, or mere cadres. He also had theoretical command of a tank division—about a regiment and a half—plus thirteen reserve divisions that existed not so much on paper as in some staff officer’s dreams. The one thing he did have was huge equipment stores, but a lot of that equipment dated back to the 1960s, or even earlier. The best troops in his area of command responsibility were not actually his to command. These were the Border Guards, battalion-sized formations once part of the KGB, now a semi-independent armed service under the command of the Russian president.

  There was also a defense line of sorts, which dated back to the 1930s and showed it. For this line, numerous tanks—some of them actually German in origin—were buried as bunkers. I
n fact, more than anything else the line was reminiscent of the French Maginot Line, also a thing of the 1930s. It had been built to protect the Soviet Union against an attack by the Japanese, and then upgraded halfheartedly over the years to protect against the People’s Republic of China—a defense never forgotten, but never fully remembered either. Bondarenko had toured parts of it the previous day. As far back as the czars, the engineering officers of the Russian Army had never been fools. Some of the bunkers were sited with shrewd, even brilliant appreciation for the land, but the problem with bunkers was explained by a recent American aphorism: If you can see it, you can hit it, and if you can hit it, you can kill it. The line had been conceived and built when artillery fire had been a chancy thing, and an aircraft bomb was fortunate to hit the right county. Now you could use a fifteen-centimeter gun as accurately as a sniper rifle, and an aircraft could select which window-pane to put the bomb through on a specific building.

  “Andrey Petrovich, I am pleased to hear your optimism. What is your first recommendation?”

  “It will be simple to improve the camouflage on the border bunkers. That’s been badly neglected over the years,” Colonel Aliyev told his commander-in-chief. “That will reduce their vulnerability considerably.”

  “Allowing them to survive a serious attack for ... sixty minutes, Andrushka?”

  “Maybe even ninety, Comrade General. It’s better than five minutes, is it not?” He paused for a sip of vodka. Both had been drinking for half an hour. “For the 265th, we must begin a serious training program at once. Honestly, the division commander did not impress me greatly, but I suppose we must give him a chance.”