by Tom Clancy
“And you, brother.”
“Toss me your bowline and come aboard. It will take at least two of you to lift.”
While Adnan wrapped the line around the gunwale cleat, two of the men climbed aboard, unchained the containment vessel from its position on the deck, and carried it back to the gunwale, where the two men aboard the speedboat took it and set it on the deck. The last two men joined their partners.
“Any problems?” the leader asked.
“None. Everything went as planned.”
“Can we help you any further?”
Adnan shook his head. “No, thank you. It’s almost done. It’s deep here, almost three hundred meters. The sea will do the rest.”
60
THIS, Admiral Stephen Netters knew, was going to be an unpleasant meeting, and it had as much to do with who wasn’t attending as it did with who was. By all rights, the man sitting on the other side of the desk from him should have been Robby Jackson, but it wasn’t. Some redneck with a heart full of hate had seen to that. Instead, they had Edward Kealty. The wrong man for any season. Netters and Jackson had come up together, starting at the Naval Academy, their careers intersecting now and again as they climbed the ladder until finally, in the waning days of the Ryan administration, Netters had been appointed chairman of the JCS. He’d taken the job for a variety of reasons, ambition being the lowest among them, respect for Ryan being paramount.
It’d been hard not to quit after that, and especially after it became clear that Kealty was going to win the Oval Office not on merit but by dumb fate and tragedy. But even as the votes were being counted and the electoral map inexorably tipped in favor of Kealty, Netters knew he’d stay on, lest the new President appoint one of the Pentagon’s “perfumed princes.” One only had to look at the depth (or lack thereof) of Kealty’s cabinet to know what the man expected from his people. And therein was the rub. Contradict the king too often or with too much zeal and a more amenable prince would be found. Fail to contradict the king and the kingdom goes to the barbarians.
“Tell me what I’m looking at, Admiral,” President Kealty said with a grunt, and shoved the satellite photo back across the desk at Netters.
“Mr. President, what we’re seeing is a large-scale movement of tanks and mechanized infantry moving west toward the border.”
“I can see that, Admiral. What kind of numbers are we talking about, and what the hell are they up to?”
“As for the first question, we’ve identified an armored division consisting of three tank brigades with a mix of older Soviet T-54s, T-62s, and Zulfiqar main battle tanks; four artillery battalions; and two mechanized infantry divisions. As for what they’re up to, Mr. President, we can’t think in those terms yet. We need to concentrate on what they’re capable of, then work forward to intention.”
“Explain that,” National Security Adviser Ann Reynolds said.
Translation: I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Like Scott Kilborn, the Democratic congresswoman from Michigan was unqualified in the extreme, but both her demographically friendly gender and her seat on the House Intelligence Committee had made her a shoo-in for Kealty’s cabinet. As the CEO of a Detroit-based social-networking website company, Reynolds had been savvy and capable, skills she assumed were easily transferable to the role of politician and legislator. Netters suspected it hadn’t quite sunk in that she was in over her head, a fact that scared the living hell out of him. The National Security Adviser was white-knuckling it, hoping her Donna Karan power suits, severe glasses, and rapid-fire speaking style would keep the wolves at bay.
“Say I intend to beat the Olympic record for the marathon. That’s my intention. Problem is, both my legs are broken and I’ve got a heart condition. That’s my capacity. The latter dictates the former.”
Reynolds nodded sagely.
Scott Kilborn, the DCI, said, “Mr. President, Tehran is going to call it an ‘exercise,’ but we can’t ignore the obvious: First of all, the force is moving toward the Ilam salient—as the crow flies, it’s as close to Baghdad as any point in Iran. Eighty or so miles. Second, we just put into motion our drawdown plan in Iraq. Best case, they’re sending a warning to the Sunnis to mind their manners. Worst case, this is the real deal and they’re planning an incursion.”
“To what end?”
Kealty had asked the question, which was good, Netters thought, but there was no curiosity behind it. When it came to Iraq, the President was solution-focused to a fault. From day one, he’d made it clear that he intended to withdraw U.S. forces as quickly as possible, with only token regard paid to tactical safety. Kealty lacked two critical ingredients for good leadership: flexibility and curiosity. He had each in abundance in the political arena, but that was about power, not genuine leadership.
“Testing the waters, see how we react,” Kilborn replied. “The longer we delay in drawing down, the more time Tehran has to work behind the scenes with the Shia militias. If an incursion doesn’t reverse our drawdown now they’ve got a preview.”
“I disagree,” Admiral Netters said. “They’ve got nothing to gain and everything to lose by crossing the border. Moreover, they’re light on triple-A.”
“Explain.”
“They’re fielding only token antiair elements. That’s not an oversight. They know if we come at them, it’ll be from carriers in the Gulf first.”
Kealty’s National Security Adviser, Ann Reynolds, said, “A message?”
“Again, Ms. Reynolds, that falls into the ‘intentions’ category, but I’ll tell you this much: For all their shortcomings, the Iranians aren’t blind, and they’re big believers in the Soviet order of battle model, which is big on mobile antiaircraft systems. They saw what we did during Gulf One and Two, and they haven’t forgotten it. You don’t strip out your antiair elements just for the hell of it.”
“What about air cover?” This from NSA Reynolds. “Fighters?”
“No change,” Netters replied. “Nothing moving but routine patrol flights.”
President Kealty was frowning. A fly in his soup, Netters thought. He’d promised the country he’d get the United States out of Iraq, and the clock was ticking, but not on the troops or America’s strategic welfare but rather on Kealty’s chances for a second term. Of course, Netters had from the outset his own reservations about the Iraq War, and he still did, but those were dwarfed by the very real possibility of getting it wrong over there. Like it or not, the United States was up to its eyeballs in the Middle East, more so than it had in perhaps its entire history. A painless withdrawal was a pipe dream Kealty had sold to an understandably war-weary nation. While the current drawdown plan would never succeed, it was measured enough that Iraq would slowly slip into chaos rather than fall headfirst into it, in which case he hoped Kealty would have the good goddamned sense to regroup and listen to the theater commanders.
In one respect, Scott Kilborn was correct: This business on the border may well be a preview of Kealty’s endgame for Iraq without American troops, though whether Iran would actually put troops on the ground once U.S. forces were gone was anyone’s guess. If they did, however, they’d use soaring Sunni-on-Shia violence to justify it.
It was a perplexing game the Iranians were playing. A delay in U.S. troop withdrawal seemed contrary to Tehran’s interests—or at least those visible from Washington.
Kealty leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “So, Admiral, since you’re not willing to talk about intentions, I’m going to do it for you,” Kealty said. “The Iranians are saber rattling. Testing our resolve. We ignore them, keep to the drawdown plan, and give them a message of our own.”
“Such as?” Admiral Netters said.
“Another carrier group.”
A message. Another mission without a goal. While it was true enough that carrier groups were all about projection of power, the concept was analogous to basic firearm safety: Never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot. In this case, Kealty just wanted
to wave the gun around.
“What assets do we have available?” Kealty demanded.
Before Netters could answer, Kilborn said, “The Stennis—”
Netters interrupted. “Sir, we’re stretched thin as it is. Stennis group was just relieved on station ten days ago. It’s long overdue for a—”
“Goddamn it, Admiral, I’m getting tired of hearing about what we can’t do, is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. President, but you need to understand the—”
“No, I don’t. That’s what you’re paid to do, Admiral. Get it done, and get me the plan, or I’ll find someone who will.”
Tariq walked into the living room, where the Emir was reading, and picked up the television remote control. “Something you should see.” He turned on the TV and changed the channel to a cable news station. The pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed anchor was in mid-sentence.
“—again, a Pentagon spokesperson just confirmed an earlier BBC report of an Iranian Army exercise being conducted on its border with Iraq. While the Pentagon admitted the government in Tehran failed to announce the exercise, it went on to say such events are not uncommon, citing a similar movement of troops and equipment in early 2008. ...”
Tariq muted the television.
“Strange bedfellows,” the Emir murmured.
“Pardon?”
While Tehran had been generally unsupportive of the URC’s cause, neither had it been a hindrance, knowing well that one never knew where interests might intersect. In this case, the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence and National Security, or VEVAK, had in recent years turned its attention to how a postoccupation Iraq might look. Though well represented by several militias and bolstered by both Hezbollah and Pasdaran aid, the Iraqi Shia population was still a minority, and therefore vulnerable to Sunni persecution, an imbalance of power that Tehran despised and the URC was only too happy to exploit. Even as the United States had begun banging the drum for war in 2002, the Emir had conducted his own cost-benefit analysis and developed a strategy to further the URC’s aim. The fact that the strategy was obliquely based on the American economic model was something that would likely never occur to Washington.
The United States would eventually leave, or at least decrease its presence to a nominal level, at which time Iran would begin its play for domination in Iraq, a feat it couldn’t hope to accomplish without an advantage over the Sunni majority. In this, Iran had a need. It was a customer-in-the-making.
The URC’s involvement in Iraq had begun in August of 2003 with an influx of men, matériel, and expertise, all of which were freely offered to Sunni extremist groups. Based on a mutual hatred of the U.S. occupiers, resources were shared and goals intertwined, and by 2006 the URC held sway over great portions of Baghdad and most of the Sunni Triangle. This was the good or service for which Tehran was willing to pay.
As Mary Pat Foley and the NCTC well knew and Jack Ryan Jr. had recently realized, information availability in the digital age could be as much a hindrance to intelligence work as it could be a blessing. Computers can categorize, collate, and disseminate massive amounts of information, but the human mind can absorb and use only so much of it. The application of information is the pivot on which decisions—good, bad, and neutral—are made, a fact that engineers, game wardens, casinos, and hundreds of other seemingly unrelated disciplines had long ago recognized. Who does what, and where and when do they do it? To a city planner, a list of intersections prone to traffic gridlock was virtually useless; a dynamic map on which he or she could see hot spots and trends, invaluable. Sadly, as was too often the case, the U.S. government was playing catch-up in the fields of Data Visualization and information architecture, having to outsource such services to private cyber-savvy firms while the federal bureaucracy threw millions of dollars and lost time at the issue.
For Jack and Gavin Biery, the project they eventually dubbed PLOWSHARE began as a technical challenge: how to take the flood of open-source information on the Internet and beat it into something useful—a sword with which they could pare down the overload. The slightly overwrought metaphor notwithstanding, they made rapid progress, starting with a software program designed to gather obituaries from the eastern seaboard and map them according to various groupings: age, location, cause of death, vocation, etc. Many of the patterns that emerged were predictable—such as elderly deaths clustered around retirement homes—but some were not, such as the recent raising of the drinking age in one state preceding more young-adult deaths on highways leading to a nearby state with a lower drinking age. This, too, was somewhat predictable, they admitted, but seeing the clusters on the map was the proverbial picture that paints a thousand words.
The other surprise was the depth and scope of open-source information. The truly useful data, while not inaccessible, were tucked away deep within local, state, and federal government websites, available to anyone with enough patience and technological literacy to find it. Second and Third World countries, the ones in which most terrorist incidents took place, were the easiest prey, often failing to close the gap between online record-keeping and online database security. Otherwise confidential information such as arrest reports and investigatory case files were stored in unsecured servers without so much as a firewall or password between them and government website portals.
And such was the case with Libya. Within four hours of getting the go-ahead from Hendley, Jack and Gavin had PLOWSHARE chewing on gigabytes of data from both open-source and government databases. Two hours after that, PLOWSHARE regurgitated the information onto Gavin’s hacked copy of Google Earth Pro. Jack called Hendley, Granger, Rounds, and the Caruso brothers into the dimmed conference room. The PLOWSHARE-ENHANCED satellite view of tripoli was overlaid with crisscrossing multicolored lines, clusters, and squares. Jack stood by the LCD screen with remote in hand; Biery sat in the back against the wall, his laptop open on his legs.
“Looks like a Jackson Pollock painting,” Brian observed. “You trying to give us a seizure, Jack?”
“Bear with me,” Jack replied, then touched a button on the remote. The “data tracery,” as he and Gavin had come to call it, disappeared. Jack gave the group a five-minute primer on PLOWSHARE, then touched the remote again. The image zoomed in on the Tripoli airport, which was now overlaid with what looked like the head of a flower, its center a stigma divided into colored pie slices, its petals squared off and of various lengths.
“The stigma represents average arrival volume per day. Mornings are busiest; afternoons the slowest. The petals represent average number of special searches conducted at airport checkpoints. As you can see, there’s a spike in the mornings, from seven to ten, and a drop-off the closer you move toward noon. Translation: Thursdays between ten-thirty and noon are the best times to try to sneak something through the screeners.”
“Why?” asked Granger.
“The checkpoints are fully manned in the morning, but personnel are rotated through lunch breaks in late morning; less staff plus more transitions equals less security. Plus, almost two-thirds of the screeners and security guards work Sundays through Thursdays.”
“So Thursdays are their Fridays,” Dominic said. “Already thinking about the weekend.”
Jack nodded. “That’s what we thought. We’ve also got a corresponding departures graph. Might be of more use to you.”
Jack cycled through a series of colored overlays depicting traffic patterns, acts of violence, kidnappings, raids conducted by both police and military units, anti-Western demonstrations . . . all categorized by dates and times, demographics, neighborhoods, ethnicity, foreign involvement, religious and political affiliations, until finally summarizing the data into a “do’s and don’ts” for Brian and Dominic: areas to avoid, and at what times of the day, neighborhoods in which they were likely to find strong URC support, streets on which military checkpoints and police raids were most common.
“Jack, this is great stuff,” Brian commented. “Kind of our own bizarro Frommer’s g
uidebook.”
“How much does the data vary?” This from Dominic.
“Not by much. There’s some fluctuation on and around major Islamic observances, but unless you stay more than ten days or so, you won’t encounter any of it.”
Granger asked, “Can they access this in the field?”
“Gavin’s hacked a couple of Sony Vaio VGNs—eight-inch screen with Ubuntu OS and a one-point-three—”
“English, Jack,” said Rounds.
“Tiny laptop. It’ll have all the data on it in Flash format. You can change and review the PLOWSHARE overlays on the fly. We’ll give you a walk-through when we’re done here.”
Hendley said, “Nicely done, Jack . . . Gavin. Any questions, guys?”
Brian and Dominic shook their heads.
“Okay, safe travels.”
61
JACK RYAN SENIOR knotted his tie and looked in the mirror. He decided he looked good enough. His lucky suit, a plain white button-down shirt, a red tie. He got a haircut the previous day, and his hair showed enough gray to make certain he wasn’t exactly a kid anymore, but he looked youthful enough for a man in his early fifties. A test smile showed that he’d brushed his teeth properly. Game time.
It would start in an hour, in front of twenty or so TV cameras and the hundreds of reporter/commentators behind them, few of whom had any real affection for him. But they didn’t have to. Their job was to report the facts as they saw them, fairly and honestly. Most, or at least some, of them would, God willing. But Ryan had to deliver his lines properly, not throw up or fall down in front of the cameras, however entertaining that would be to Jay Leno later this day.
There was a knock on the door. Ryan walked to answer it. He didn’t have to be overly careful. His Secret Service detail had this whole floor guarded like an Air Force nuke locker.
“Hey, Arnie, Callie,” he said in greeting.
