Jack Ryan 5 - The Cardinal of the Kremlin (42 page)

“It better be good!” Mancuso snarled, snapping the covers off the bunk. He walked aft in his skivvies to the communications room, to port and just aft of the attack center. Ten minutes later he emerged and handed a slip of paper to the navigator.

“I want to be there in ten hours.”

“No sweat, Cap'n.”

“The next person who bothers me, it better be a grave national emergency!” He walked forward, barefoot on the tile deck.

“Message delivered,”
Henderson
told Loomis over dinner.

“Anything else?” Candlelight and all, she thought.

“Just wanted to confirm. They didn't want new info, just to back up what they already had from some different sources. At least, that's the way I read it. I have another delivery for them.”

“Which one's that?”

“The new battlefield air-defense report. I never could understand why they bother. They can read it in Aviation Week before the end of the month anyway.”

“Let's not blow the routine now, Mr. Henderson.”

This time the message could be handled as routine intelligence traffic. It would be flagged to the Chairman's attention because it was “personal” information on a senior enemy intelligence official. Gerasimov was known in the higher echelons of KGB to be a man interested as much in Western gossip as Russian.

It was waiting when he arrived the next morning. The KGB Chairman hated the eight-hour time differential between
Moscow
and
Washington
—it made things so damned inconvenient! For Moscow Center to order any immediate action automatically risked having his field officers cue the Americans as to who they were. As a result, few real “immediate-action” signals were ever sent out, and it offended the KGB Chairman that his personal power could be undone by something as prosaic as longitudinal lines.

“Subject P,” the dispatch began, the English “R” being a “P” in the Cyrillic alphabet, “is now the target of a secret criminal investigation as part of a nonintelligence matter. It is suspected, however, that interest in P is politically based, probably an effort on the part of progressive congressional elements to damage CIA because of an unknown operational failure—possibly involving
Central Europe
, but this is not RPT not confirmed. P's criminal disgrace will be damaging to higher CIA officials due to his placement. This station grades the intelligence reliability of the case as A. Three independent sources now confirm the allegations dispatched in my 88(B)531-C/EOC. Full details to follow via pouch. Station recommends pursuing. Rezident
Washington
. Ends.”

 Gerasimov tucked the report away in his desk.

“Well,” the Chairman murmured to himself. He checked his watch. He had to be at the regular Thursday-morning Politburo meeting in two hours. How would it go? One thing he knew: it would be an interesting one. He planned to introduce a new variant on his game—the Power Game.

His daily operational briefing was always a little longer on Thursdays. It never hurt to drop a few harmless tidbits at the meetings. His fellow Politburo members were all men to whom conspiracy came as easily as breathing, and there hadn't been a government anywhere in the last century whose senior members did not enjoy hearing about covert operations. Gerasimov made a few notes, careful to choose only things that he could discuss without compromising important cases. His car came around at the appointed time, as always accompanied by a lead car of bodyguards, and sped off to the Kremlin.

Gerasimov was never the first to arrive, and never the last. This time he walked in just behind the Defense Minister.

“Good morning, Dmitri Timofeyevich,” the Chairman said without a smile, but cordially enough for all that.

“And to you, Comrade Chairman,” Yazov said warily. Both men took their seats. Yazov had more than one reason to be wary. In addition to the fact that Filitov was hanging over his head like a sword out of myth, he was not a full voting member of the supreme Soviet council. Gerasimov was. That gave KGB more political power than Defense, but the only times in recent history that the Defense Minister had had a vote in this room, he'd been a Party man first—like
Ustinov
had been. Yazov was a soldier first. A loyal Party member for all that, his uniform was not the costume it had been for
Ustinov
. Yazov would never have a vote at this table.

Andrey Il'ych Narmonov came into the room with his usual vigor. Of all the Politburo members, only the KGB Chairman was younger than he, and Narmonov felt the need to show bustling energy whenever he appeared before the older men who were arrayed around “his” conference table. The strain and stress of his job were telling on him. Everyone could see it. The black bush of hair was beginning to gray rapidly, and it also seemed that his hairline was receding. But that was hardly unusual for a man in his fifties. He gestured for everyone to sit.

“Good morning, Comrades,” Narmonov said in a businesslike voice. “The initial discussion will concern the arrival of the American arms-negotiations team.”

“I have good news to report,” Gerasimov said at once.

“Indeed?” Alexandrov asked before the General Secretary could, staking out his own position.

“We have information that suggests that the Americans are willing in principle to place their strategic-defense program on the table,” the KGB Chairman reported. “We do not know what concessions they will demand for this, nor the extent of the concessions in their program that they are willing to make, but this is nevertheless a change in the American posture.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Yazov spoke up. “Their program is well along—as you yourself told me last week, Nikolay Borissovich.”

“There are some political dissenters within the American government, and possibly a power struggle under way within CIA itself at the moment, we have just learned. In any case, that is our information, and we regard it to be fairly reliable.”

“That is quite a surprise.” Heads turned to where the Foreign Minister was sitting. He looked skeptical. “The Americans have been totally adamant on this point. You say 'fairly reliable,' but not totally so?”

“The source is highly placed, but the information has not been adequately confirmed as yet. We will know more by the weekend.”

Heads nodded around the table. The American delegation would arrive
noon
Saturday, and negotiations would not begin until Monday. The Americans would be given thirty-six hours to overcome their jet lag, during which there would be a welcoming dinner at the Academy of Sciences Hotel, and little else.

“Such information is obviously a matter of great interest to my negotiating team, but I find it most surprising, particularly in view of the briefings we've been given here on our Bright Star Program, and their counterpart to it.”

“There is reason to believe that the Americans have learned of Bright Star,” Gerasimov replied smoothly. “Perhaps they have found our progress sobering.”

“Bright Star penetrated?” another member asked. “How?”

“We're not sure. We're working on it,” Gerasimov replied, careful not to look in Yazov's direction. Your move, Comrade Defense Minister.

“So the Americans might really be more interested in shutting our program down than in curtailing theirs,” Alexandrov observed.

“And they think that our efforts have been the reverse of that.” The Foreign Minister grunted. “It would be nice for me to be able to tell my people what the real issues are!”

“Marshal Yazov?” Narmonov said. He didn't know that he was putting his own man on the spot.

Until now, Gerasimov hadn't been sure about Yazov, about whether he might not feel safe taking his political vulnerability over the Filitov matter to his master. This would give him the answer. Yazov was afraid of the possibility—CERTAINTY, he corrected himself, Yazov has to know that by now—that we can disgrace him. He's also afraid that Narmonov won't risk his own position to save him. So have I co-opted both Yazov and Vaneyev? If so, I wonder if it might be worth keeping Yazov on after I replace the General Secretary . . . Your decision, Yazov . . .

"We have overcome the problem of laser power output. The remaining problem is in computer control. Here we are far behind American techniques due to the superiority of their computer industry. Only last week, Comrade Gerasimov furnished us with some of the American control program, but we had not even begun to examine it when we learned that the program was itself overtaken by events.

“I do not mean this to be criticism of the KGB, of course—”

Yes!
In that moment Gerasimov was sure. He's making his own overture to me. And the best part—no other man in the room, not even Alexandrov, understands what just happened.

“—actually, it illustrates the technical problem rather clearly. But it is only a technical problem. Comrades. This one, too, can be overcome. My opinion is that we are ahead of the Americans. If they know this, they will be fearful of it. Our negotiating position to this point has been to object to space-based programs only, never ground-based, since we have known all along that our ground-based systems have greater promise than their American counterparts. Possibly the change in the American position confirms this. If so, I would recommend against trading Bright Star for anything.”

“That is a defensible opinion,” Gerasimov commented after a moment. “Dmitri Timofeyevich has raised a thoughtful issue here.” Heads nodded around the table—knowingly, they all thought, but more wrongly than any would dare guess—as the Chairman of the Committee for State Security and the Minister of Defense consummated their bargain with nothing more than a glance and a raised eyebrow.

Gerasimov turned back to the head of the table as the discussion went on around him. General Secretary Narmonov watched the debate with interest, making a few notes, not noticing the gaze of his KGB Chairman.

I wonder if that chair is more comfortable than mine.

Travelers

E
VEN
the 89th Military Airlift Wing worried about security, Ryan was glad to see. The sentries who guarded the “President's Wing” at Andrews Air Force Base carried loaded rifles and wore serious looks to impress the “Distinguished Visitors”—the U.S. Air Force eschews the term Very Important Persons. The combination of armed troops and the usual airport rigamarole made it certain that no one would hijack the airplane and take it to . . .
Moscow
. They had a flight crew to accomplish that.

Ryan always had the same thought before flying. As he waited to pass through the doorway-shaped magnetometer, he imagined that someone had engraved on the lintel:
ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE.
He'd just about overcome his terror of flying; his anxiety now was of something else entirely, he told himself. It didn't work. Fears are additive, not parallel, he discovered as he walked out of the building.

They were taking the same plane as the last time. The tail number was 86971. It was a 707 that had rolled out of Boeing's
Seattle
plant in 1958 and had been converted to the VC-137 configuration. More comfortable than the VC-135, it also had windows. If there was anything Ryan hated, it was being aboard a windowless aircraft. There was no level jetway to traverse into the bird. Everyone climbed up an old-fashioned wheeled stairway. Once inside, the plane was a curious mix of the commonplace and the unique. The forward washroom was in the usual place, just across from the front door, but aft of that was the communications console that gave the plane instantaneous, secure satellite-radio links with anyplace in the world. Next came the relatively comfortable crew accommodations, and then the galley. Food aboard the airplane was pretty good. Ryan's seat was in the almost-DV area, on one of two couches set on either side of the fuselage, just forward of the six-seat space for the really important folks. Aft of that was the five-across seating for reporters, Secret Service, and other people considered less distinguished by whoever made such decisions. It was mainly empty for this trip, though some junior members of the delegation would be back there, able to stretch out a bit for a change.

The only really bad thing about the VC-137 was its limited range. It couldn't one-hop all the way to
Moscow
, and usually stopped off for refueling at
Shannon
before making the final leg. The President's aircraft—actually there were two Air Force Ones—were based on the longer-range 707-320, and would soon be replaced with ultramodern 747s. The Air Force was looking forward to having a presidential aircraft that was younger than most of its flight crew. So was Ryan. This one had rolled out of the factory door when he'd been in second grade, and it struck him as odd that it should be so. But what should have happened? he wondered. Should his father have taken him to
Seattle
, pointed to the airplane and said. See, you'll fly to
Russia
on that one someday . . . ?

I wonder how you predict fate? I wonder how you predict the future . . .
At first playful, in a moment the thought chilled him.

Your business is predicting the future, but what makes you think that you can really do it? What have you guessed wrong on this time, Jack?

Goddamn it!
he raged at himself. Every time I get on a fucking airplane . . . He strapped himself in, facing across the airplane some State Department technical expert who loved to fly.

The engines started a minute later, and presently the airplane started to roll. The announcements over the intercom weren't very different from that on an airliner, just enough to let you know that the ownership of the plane was not corporate. Jack had already deduced that. The stewardess had a mustache. It was something to chuckle about as the aircraft taxied to the end of runway One-Left.

The winds were northerly, and the VC-137 took off into them, turning right a minute after it lifted off. Jack turned, too, looking down at U.S. Route 50. It was the road that led to his home in
Annapolis
. He lost sight of it as the aircraft entered the clouds. The impersonal white veil had often seemed a beautiful curtain, but now . . . but now it just meant that he couldn't see the way home. Well, there wasn't much he could do about that. Ryan had the couch to himself, and decided to take advantage of the fact. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out for a nap. One thing he'd need would be rest. He was sure of that.

Dallas
had surfaced at the appointed time and place, then been told of a hitch in the plans. Now she surfaced again. Mancuso was the first one up the ladder to the control station atop the sail, followed by a junior officer and a pair of lookouts. Already the periscope was up, scanning the surface for traffic, of course. The night was calm and clear, the sort of sky you get only at sea, ablaze with stars, like gemstones on a velvet sheet.

“Bridge, conn.”

Mancuso pressed the button. “Bridge, aye.”

“ESM reports an airborne radar transmitter bearing one-four-zero, bearing appears steady.”

“Very well.” The Captain turned. “You can flip on the running lights.”

“All clear starboard,” one lookout said.

“All clear port,” echoed the other.

“ESM reports contact is still steady on one-four-zero. Signal strength is increasing.”

“Possible aircraft fine on the port bow!” a lookout called.

Mancuso raised his binoculars to his eyes and started searching the blackness. If it was here already, it didn't have his running lights on . . . but then he saw a handful of stars disappear, occulted by something . . .

“I got him. Good eye, Everly! Oh, there go his flying lights,”

“Bridge, conn, we have a radio message coming in.”

“Patch it,” Mancuso replied at once.

“Done, sir.”

“Echo-Golf-Nine, this is Alfa-Whiskey-Five, over.”

“Alfa-Whiskey-Five, this is Echo-Golf-Nine. I read you loud and clear. Authenticate, over.”

“Bravo-Delta-Hotel, over.”

“Roger, thank you. We are standing by. Wind is calm. Sea is flat.” Mancuso reached down and flipped on the lights for the control station instruments. Not actually needed at the moment—the
Attack
Center
still had the conn—they'd give the approaching helicopter a target.

They heard it a moment later, first the flutter of the rotor blades, then the whine of the turboshaft engines. Less than a minute later they could feel the downdraft as the helicopter circled twice overhead for the pilot to orient himself. Mancuso wondered if he'd turn on his landing lights . . . or hot-dog it.

He hot-dogged it, or more properly, he treated it as what it was, a covert personnel transfer: a “combat” mission. The pilot fixed on the submarine's cockpit lights and brought the aircraft to a hover fifty yards to port. Next he reduced altitude and sideslipped the helo toward the submarine. Aft, they saw the cargo door slide open. A hand reached out and grabbed the hook-end of the winch cable.

“Stand by, everybody,” Mancuso told his people. “We've done it before. Check your safety lines. Everybody just be careful.”

The prop wash from the helicopter threatened to blow them all down the ladder into the
Attack
Center
as it hovered almost directly overhead. As Mancuso watched, a man-shape emerged from the cargo door and was lowered straight down. The thirty feet seemed to last forever as the shape came down, twirling slightly from the torsion of the steel winch cable. One of his seamen reached and grabbed a foot, pulling the man toward them. The Captain got his hand and both men pulled him inboard.

“Okay, we got ya,” Mancuso said. The man slipped from the collar and turned as the cable went back up.

“Mancuso!”

“Son of a bitch!” the Captain exclaimed.

“Is this any way to greet a comrade?”

“Damn!” But business came first. Mancuso looked up. The helicopter was already two hundred feet overhead. He reached down and blinked the sub's running fights on and off three times:
TRANSFER COMPLETE
. The helicopter immediately dropped its nose and headed back toward the German coast.

“Get on below.” Bart laughed. “Lookouts below. Clear the bridge. Son of a bitch,” he said to himself. The Captain watched his men go down the ladder, switched off the cockpit lights, and made a final safety check before heading down behind them. A minute later he was in the
Attack
Center
.

“Now do I request permission to come aboard?” Marko Ramius asked.

“ 'Gator?”

“All systems aligned and checked for dive. We are rigged for dive,” the navigator reported. Mancuso turned automatically to check the status boards.

“Very well. Dive. Make your depth one hundred feet, course zero-seven-one, one-third.” He turned. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Ramius wrapped Mancuso in a ferocious bear-hug and kissed him on the cheek. Next he slipped off the backpack he was wearing. “Can we talk?”

“Come on forward.”

“First time I come aboard your submarine,” Ramius observed. A moment later a head poked out of the sonar room.

“Captain Ramius! I thought I recognized your voice!” Jones looked at Mancuso. “Beg pardon, sir. We just got a contact, bearing zero-eight-one. Sounds like a merchant. Single screw, slow-speed diesels driving it. Probably a ways off. Being reported to the ODD now, sir.”

“Thanks, Jonesy.” Mancuso took Ramius into his stateroom and closed the door.

“What the hell was that?” a young sonarman asked Jones a moment later.

“We just got some company.”

“Didn't he have an accent, sort of?”

“Something like that.” Jones pointed to the sonar display. “That contact has an accent, too. Let's see how fast you can decide what kinda
merchie he is,”

It was dangerous, but all life was dangerous, the Archer thought. The Soviet-Afghan border here was a snow-fed river that snaked through gorges it had carved through the mountains. The border was also heavily guarded. It helped that his men were all dressed in Soviet-style uniforms. The Russians have long put their soldiers in simple but warm winter gear. Those they had on were mainly white to suit the snowy background, with just enough stripes and spots to break up their outline. Here they had to be patient. The Archer lay athwart a ridge, using Russian-issue binoculars to sweep the terrain while his men rested a few meters behind and below him. He might have gotten a local guerrilla band to provide help, but he'd come too far to risk that. Some of the northern tribes had been co-opted by the Russians, or at least that was what he'd been told. True or not, he was running enough risks.

There was a Russian guard post atop the mountain to his left, six kilometers away. A large one, perhaps a full platoon lived there, and those KGB soldiers were responsible for patrolling this sector. The border itself was covered with a fence and minefields. The Russians loved their minefields . . . but the ground was frozen solid, and Soviet mines often didn't work well in frozen ground, although occasionally they'd set themselves off when the frost heaved around them.

He'd chosen the spot with care. The border here looked virtually impassable—on a map. Smugglers had used it for centuries, however. Once across the river, there was a snaky path formed by centuries of snowmelt. Steep, and slippery, it was also a mini-canyon hidden from any view except direct overhead. If Russians guarded it, of course, it would be a deathtrap. That would be Allah's will, he told himself, and consigned himself to destiny. It was time.

He saw the flashes first. Ten men with a heavy machine gun and one of his precious mortars. A few yellow tracer streaks cut across the border into the Russian base camp. As he watched, a few of the bullets caromed off the rocks, tracing erratic paths in the velvet sky. Then the Russians started returning fire. The sound reached them soon after that. He hoped that his men would get away as he turned and waved his group forward.

They ran down the forward slope of the mountain, heedless of safety. The only good news was that winds had swept the snow off the rocks, making for decent footing. The Archer led them down toward the river. Amazingly enough, it was not frozen, its path too steep for the water to stop, even in subzero temperatures. There was the wire!

A young man with a two-handed pair of cutters made a path, and again the Archer led them through. His eyes were accustomed to the darkness, and he went more slowly now, looking at the ground for the telltale humps that indicated mines in the frozen ground. He didn't need to tell those behind him to stay in single file and walk on rocks wherever possible. Off to the left flares now decorated the sky, but the firing had died down somewhat.

It took over an hour, but he got all of his men across and into the smugglers' trail. Two men would stay behind, each on a hilltop overlooking the wire. They watched the amateur sapper who'd cut the wire make repairs to conceal their entry. Then he, too, faded into the darkness.

The Archer didn't stop until dawn. They were on schedule as they all paused a few hours for rest and food. All had gone well, his officers told him, better than they had hoped.

The stopover in
Shannon
was a brief one, just long enough to refuel and take aboard a Soviet pilot whose job it was to talk them through the Russian air-traffic-control system. Jack awoke on landing and thought about stretching his legs, but decided that the duty-free shops could wait until the return leg. The Russian took his place in the cockpit jump seat, and 86971 started rolling again.

It was night now. The pilot was in a loquacious mood tonight, announcing their next landfall at Wallasey. All of
Europe
, he said, was enjoying clear, cold weather, and Jack watched the orange-yellow city lights of
England
slide beneath them. Tension on the aircraft increased—or perhaps anticipation was a better word, he thought, as he listened to the pitch of the voices around him increase somewhat, though their volume dropped. You couldn't fly toward the
Soviet Union
without becoming a little conspiratorial. Soon all the conversations were in raspy whispers. Jack smiled thinly at the plastic windows, and his reflection asked what was so damned funny. Water appeared below them again as they flew across the
North Sea
toward
Denmark
.