Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  It was in any case a chance he would never have. Bob Fowler was physically healthy and politically as secure as any President had been since ... Eisenhower? Durling wondered. Maybe even FDR. The important, almost co-equal role for the Vice President that Carter had initiated with Walter Mondale—something largely ignored but highly constructive—was a thing of the past. Fowler did not need Durling anymore. The President had made that quite clear.

  And so Durling was relegated to subsidiary—not even secondary—duties. Fowler got to fly about in a converted 747 dedicated to his use alone. Roger Durling got whatever aircraft might be available, in this case one of the VC-20B Gulfstreams that were used by anyone who had the right credentials. Senators and House members on junkets got them if they were on the right committees, or if the President sensed a need to stroke their egos.

  You’re being petty, Durling told himself. By being petty, you justify all the crap you have to put up with.

  His misjudgment had been at least as great as Madison’s, the Vice President told himself as the aircraft taxied out. In deciding that a political figure would place country above his own ambition, Madison had merely been optimistic. Durling, on the other hand, had ignored an evident political reality, that the real difference in importance between President and Vice President was far greater than the difference between Fowler and any of a dozen committee chairmen in the House or Senate. The President had to deal with Congress to get any work done. He didn’t need to deal with his Vice President.

  How had he allowed himself to get here? That earned an amused grunt, though the question had occurred to Durling a thousand times. Patriotism, of course, or at least the political version of it. He’d delivered California, and without California he and Fowler would both still be governors. The one substantive concession he’d gotten—the accession of Charlie Alden to the post of National Security Advisor—had been for naught, but he had been the deciding factor in changing the Presidency from one party to another. And his reward for that was drawing every crap detail in the executive branch, delivering speeches that would rarely make the news, though those of various cabinet officials did, speeches to keep faithful the party faithful, speeches to float new ideas—usually bad ones, and rarely his own—and wait for lightning to strike himself instead of the President. Today he was going out to talk about the need to raise taxes to pay for the peace in the Middle East. What a marvelous political opportunity! he thought. Roger Durling would outline the need for new taxes in St. Louis before a convention of purchasing managers, and he was sure the applause would be deafening.

  But he had accepted the job, had given his word to perform the duties of the office, and if he did any less, then what would he be?

  The aircraft rolled unevenly past the hangars and various aircraft, including NEACP, the 747 configured as the National Emergency Airborne Command Post, known as “Kneecap,” or more dramatically as “The Doomsday Plane.” Always within two flying hours of wherever the President might be (a real headache when the President visited Russia or China), it was the only safe place the President might occupy in a nuclear crisis—but that didn’t really matter anymore, did it? Durling saw people shuffling in and out of the aircraft. Funding hadn’t been reduced on that yet—well, it was part of the President’s personal fleet—and it was still kept ready for a rapid departure. He wondered how soon that might change. Everything else had.

  “We’re ready for departure. All buckled, sir?” the sergeant-attendant asked.

  “You bet! Let’s get this show on the road,” Durling replied with a smile. On Air Force One, he knew, people often showed their confidence in the aircraft and the crew by not buckling. More evidence that his airplane was second-best, but he could hardly growl at the sergeant for being a pro, and to this man Roger Durling was important. The Vice President reflected that this made the sergeant E-6 in the U.S. Air Force a more honorable man than most of the people in politics, but that wasn’t much of a surprise, was it?

  “That’s a roger.”

  “Again?” Ryan asked.

  “Yes, sir,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

  “Okay, give me a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ryan finished off his coffee and walked off toward Cabot’s office. He was surprised to see Goodley in there again. The youngster was keeping his distance from the Director’s cigar smoke, and even Jack thought that Marcus was overdoing the Patton act or whatever the hell Cabot thought he was trying to look like.

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “CAMELOT,” Jack replied with visible annoyance. “Those White House pukes have bowed out again. They want me to join in instead.”

  “Well, are you that tied up?”

  “Sir, we talked about that four months ago. It’s important for the people at the White House to—”

  “The President and his people are busy on some things,” the DCI explained tiredly.

  “Sir, these things are scheduled weeks in advance, and it’s the fourth straight time that—”

  “I know, Jack.”

  Ryan stood his ground. “Director, somebody has to explain to them how important this is.”

  “I’ve tried, dammit!” Cabot shot back. He had done so, Jack knew.

  “Have you tried working through Secretary Talbot, or maybe Dennis Bunker?” Jack asked. At least the President listens to them, Jack didn’t add.

  He didn’t have to. Cabot got the message. “Look, Jack, we can’t give orders to the President. We can only give advice. He doesn’t always take it. You’re pretty good at this, anyway. Dennis likes playing with you.”

  “Fine, sir, but it’s not my job—do they even read the washup notes?”

  “Charlie Alden did. I suppose Liz Elliot does too.”

  “I bet,” Ryan observed icily, ignoring Goodley’s presence. “Sir, they are being irresponsible.”

  “That’s a little strong, Jack.”

  “It’s a little true, Director,” Ryan said as calmly as he could.

  “Can I ask what CAMELOT is?” Ben Goodley asked.

  “It’s a game,” Cabot answered. “Crisis-management, usually.”

  “Oh, like SAGA and GLOBAL?”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said. “The President never plays. The reason is that we cannot risk knowledge of how he would act in a given situation—and yes, that is overly Byzantine, but it’s always been that way. Instead, the National Security Advisor or some other senior staff member takes his place, and the President is supposed to be briefed on how it goes. Except that President Fowler thinks that he doesn’t have to bother, and now his people are starting to act the same dumb way.” Jack was sufficiently annoyed that he used the words “President Fowler” and “dumb” in the same sentence.

  “Well, I mean, is it really necessary?” Goodley asked. “Sounds like an anachronism to me.”

  “You have car insurance, Ben?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Ever have an auto accident?”

  “Not one that was my fault,” Goodley replied.

  “Then why bother with insurance?” Jack answered the question: “Because it’s insurance, right? You don’t expect to need it, you never want to need it, but because you might need it, you spend the money—or time, in this case—to have it.”

  The Presidential Scholar made a dismissive gesture. “Come on, it’s a different thing altogether.”

  “That’s right. In a car it’s just your ass.” Ryan stopped the sermon. “Okay, Director, I’m off for the rest of the day.”

  “Your objections and recommendations are noted, Jack. I will bring them up at my first opportunity—oh, before you leave, about NIITAKA ...”

  Ryan stopped in his tracks and stared down at Cabot. “Sir, Mr. Goodley is not cleared for that word, much less that file.”

  “We are not discussing the substance of the case. When will the people downstairs”—Ryan was grateful he didn’t say MERCURY—“ be ready for the, uh, modified operations?
I want to improve data-transfer.”

  “Six weeks. Until then we have to use the other methods we discussed.”

  The Director of Central Intelligence nodded. “Very well. The White House is very interested in that, Jack. Good job to all concerned.”

  “Glad to hear that, sir. See you tomorrow.” Jack walked out.

  “NIITAKA?” Goodley asked after the door closed. “Sounds Japanese.”

  “Sorry, Goodley. You can forget that word at your earliest opportunity.” Cabot had spoken it only to remind Ryan of his place, and the honorable part of the man already regretted having done so.

  “Yes, sir. May I ask an unrelated question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is Ryan as good as people say?”

  Cabot stubbed out the remains of his cigar, to the relief of his visitor. “He’s got quite a record.”

  “Really? I’ve heard that. You know, that’s the whole reason I’m here, to examine the personality types that really make a difference. I mean, how does someone grow into the job? Ryan’s skyrocketed up the ladder here. I’d be very interested in seeing how he managed to do that.”

  “He’s done it by being right a lot more often than he’s wrong, by making some tough calls, and with some field jobs that even I can hardly believe,” Cabot said after a moment’s consideration. “And you can never, ever reveal that to anyone, Dr. Goodley.”

  “I understand, sir. Could I see his record, his personnel file?”

  The DCI’s eyebrows arched. “Everything you see in there is classified. Anything you try to write about it—”

  “Excuse me, but I know that, sir. Everything I write is subject to security review. I signed off on that. It’s important that I learn how a person really fits in here, and Ryan would seem to be an ideal case study for examining how that process happens. I mean, that’s why the White House sent me over here,” Goodley pointed out. “I’m supposed to report to them on what I find.”

  Cabot was silent for a moment. “I suppose that’s okay, then.”

  Ryan’s car arrived at the Pentagon’s River Entrance. He was met by an Air Force one-star and conducted inside, bypassing the metal detector. Two minutes later he was in one of many subterranean rooms that lie under and around this ugliest of official buildings.

  “Hello, Jack,” Dennis Bunker called from the far end of the room.

  “Mr. Secretary.” Jack nodded as he took his National Security Advisor’s chair. The game started immediately. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Aside from the fact that Liz Elliot has decided not to grace us with her presence?” The Secretary of Defense chuckled, then went serious. “There has been an attack on one of our cruisers in the Eastern Med. The information is still sketchy, but the ship has been severely damaged and may be sinking. We presume heavy casualties.”

  “What do we know?” Jack asked, settling into the game. He put on a color-coded name tag that identified which part he was playing. A card hanging from the ceiling over his chair had the same purpose.

  “Not much.” Bunker looked up as a Navy lieutenant entered the room.

  “Sir, USS Kidd reports that Valley Forge exploded and sank five minutes ago as a result of the initial damage. There are no more than twenty survivors, and rescue operations are under way.”

  “What is the cause of the loss?” Ryan asked.

  “Unknown, sir. Kidd was thirty miles from Valley Forge at the time of the incident. Her helo is on the scene now. Commander Sixth Fleet has brought all his ships to full-alert status. USS Theodore Roosevelt is launching aircraft to sweep the area.”

  “I know the CAG on TR, Robby Jackson,” Ryan said to nobody in particular. Not that it mattered. Theodore Roosevelt was actually in Norfolk, and Robby was still preparing for his next cruise. The names in the war game were generic, and personal knowledge of the players didn’t matter since they were not supposed to be real people. But if it were real, Robby was Commander Air Group on USS Theodore Roosevelt, and his would be the first plane off the cats. It was well to remember that though this might be a game, its purpose was deadly serious. “Background information?” Jack asked. He didn’t remember all of the pre-brief on the scenario being played out.

  “CIA reports a possible mutiny in the Soviet Union by Red Army units in Kazakhstan, and disturbances in two Navy bases there also,” the game narrator, a Navy commander, reported.

  “Soviet units in the vicinity of Valley Forge?” Bunker asked.

  “Possibly a submarine,” the naval officer answered.

  “Flash Message,” the wall speaker announced. “USS Kidd reports that it has destroyed an inbound surface-to-surface missile with its Close-In Weapons System. Superficial damage to the ship, no casualties.”

  Jack walked to the corner to pour himself a cup of coffee. He smiled as he did so. These games were fun, he admitted to himself. He really did enjoy them. They were also realistic. He’d been swept away from a normal day’s routine, dumped in a stuffy room, given confused and fragmented information, and had no idea at all what the hell was supposed to be going on. That was reality. The old joke: How do crisis-managers resemble mushrooms? They’re kept in the dark and fed horseshit.

  “Sir, we have an incoming HOTLINE message ...”

  Okay, Ryan thought, it’s that kind of game today. The Pentagon must have come up with the scenario. Let’s see if it ’s still possible to blow the world up....

  “More concrete?” Qati asked.

  “Much more concrete,” Fromm answered. “The machines each weigh several tons, and they must be totally stable. The room must be totally stable, and totally sealed. It must be clean like a hospital—no, much better than any hospital you have ever seen.” Fromm looked down at his list. Not cleaner than a German hospital, of course. “Next, electrical power. We’ll need three large backup generators, and at least two UPSs—”

  “What?” Qati asked.

  “Un-interruptible power supplies,” Ghosn translated. “We’ll keep one of the backup generators turning at all times, of course?”

  “Correct,” Fromm answered. “Since this is a primitive operation, we’ll try not to use more than one machine at a time. The real problem with electricity is ensuring a secure circuit. So, we take the line current through the UPSs to protect against spikes. The computer systems on the milling machines are highly sensitive.

  “Next!” Fromm said. “Skilled operators.”

  “That will be highly difficult,” Ghosn observed.

  The German smiled, amazing everyone present. “Not so. It will be easier than you think.”

  “Really?” Qati asked. Good news from this infidel?

  “We’ll need perhaps five highly trained men, but you have them in the region, I am sure.”

  “Where? There is no machine shop in the region that—”

  “Certainly there is. People here wear spectacles, do they not?”

  “But—”

  “Of course!” Ghosn said, rolling his eyes in amazement.

  “The degree of precision, you see,” Fromm explained to Qati, “is no different from what is required for eyeglasses. The machines are very similar in design, just larger, and what we are attempting to do is simply to produce precise and predictable curves in a rigid material. Nuclear bombs are produced to exacting specifications. So are spectacles. Our desired object is larger, but the principle is the same, and with the proper machinery it is merely a matter of scale, not of substance. So: can you obtain skilled lens-makers?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Qati replied, hiding his annoyance.

  “They must be highly skilled,” Fromm said like a schoolmaster. “The best you can find, people with long experience, preferably with training in Germany or England.”

  “There will be a security problem,” Ghosn said quietly.

  “Oh? Why is that?” Fromm asked with a feigned bafflement that struck both of the others as the summit of arrogance.

  “Quite so,” Qati agreed.

  “
Next, we need sturdy tables on which to mount the machines.”

  Halfway point, Lieutenant Commander Walter Claggett told himself. In forty-five more days, USS Maine would surface outside Juan de Fuca Straits, link up with the tugboat, and follow Little Toot into Bangor, where she would then tie up and begin the handoff process to the “Blue” crew for the next deterrence-patrol cycle. And not a moment too soon.

  Walter Claggett—friends called him Dutch, a nickname that had originated at the Naval Academy for a reason he no longer remembered; Claggett was Black—was thirty-six years old, and it had been made known to him before sailing that he was being “deep-dipped” for early selection to commander and had a chance for an early crack at a fast-attack boat. That was fine with him. His two attempts at marriage had both ended in failure, which was not uncommon for submariners—thank—fully, there were no kids involved in either union—and the Navy was his life. He was just as happy to spend all of his time at sea, saving his carousing time for those not really brief intervals on the beach. To be at sea, to slide through black water in control of a majestic ship of war, that was the best of all things to Walter Claggett. The company of good men, respect truly earned in a most demanding profession, the acquired ability to know every time what the right thing to do was, the relaxed banter in the wardroom, the responsibility he had to counsel his men—Claggett relished every aspect of his career.