Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (102 page)

“Don, it's a woman thing,” Wendy Merritt observed. “If the First Toddler wears it, it has to be fashionable.”

“Probably the same thing with the hair,” Andrea added. “By the way, I forgot to tell you, Pat O'Day wants a little match with you,” she told the Detail's most senior member.

“The Bureau guy?” Russell's eyes lit up. “Where? When? Tell him to bring money, Andrea.” It occurred to Russell that he was due to have some playtime of his own. He hadn't lost a pistol match in seven years—his last bout with the flu.

“We all set?” Price asked her senior agents.

“How's the Boss doing?” Altman asked.

“They're keeping him pretty busy. Cutting into his sleep time.”

“Want me to talk to S
URGEON
about it? She keeps a good eye on him,” Roy told her.

“Well—”

“I know how. Gee, Dr. Ryan, is the Boss doing okay? He looked a little tired this morning . . . ,” Altman suggested.

The   four   agents   exchanged   looks.    President management was their most delicate duty. This President listened to his wife almost as though he were a normal husband. So why not make S
URGEON
into an ally? All four nodded at once.

“Go with it,” Price told him.

“S
ON OF A BITCH
,” Colonel Hamm said inside his command track.

“Surprised you, did they?” General Diggs inquired delicately.

“They have a ringer in there?” the CO of the Blackhorse Cav wanted to know.

“No, but they sprung one on me, Al. They didn't let anybody know they had IVIS training. Well, that is, I found out last night.”

“Nice guy, sir.”

“Surprises work both ways, Colonel,” Diggs reminded him.

“How the hell did they get the funding for that?”

“Their fairy god-senators, I suppose.”

Visiting units didn't bring their own equipment to Fort Irwin, for the obvious reason that it was too expensive to transport it all back and forth. Instead they mated up with vehicle sets permanent to the base, and those were top-of-the-line. Included in all of them was IVIS, the Inter-Vehicle Information System, a battlefield data link that projected data onto a computer screen inside the tanks and Bradleys. It was something the 11th Cav had been issued for only its own vehicles (their real ones, not the simulated enemy sets) six months earlier. Seemingly a simple system for trading data—it even ordered spare parts automatically when something broke—it presented the crew with a comprehensive overview of the battlefield, and converted hard-won reconnaissance information into general knowledge in a matter of seconds. No longer was data on a developing engagement limited to a harried and distracted unit commander. Now sergeants knew everything the colonel did, and information was still the most valuable commodity known to man. The visiting tankers from the Carolina Guard were fully trained up on its use. So were the troopers of the Blackhorse, but their pseudo-Soviet OpFor vehicles didn't have it.

“Colonel, now we really know how good the system is. It beat you.”

The simulated engagement had been a bloody one. Hamm and his operations officer had contrived a devilish ambush, only to have the Weekend Warriors detect it, avoid it, and enter into a battle of maneuver which had caught the OpFor leaning the wrong way. A daring counterstroke by one of his squadron commanders had almost saved the day, and killed off half of the Blue Force, but it hadn't been enough. The first night engagement had gone to the good guys, and the Guardsmen were whooping it up as if after an ACC basketball game.

“I'll know better next time,” Hamm promised.

“Humility is good for the soul,” Marion Diggs said, enjoying the sunrise.

“Death is bad for the body, sir,” the colonel reminded him.

“Baaaaaaaaa,” Diggs said, grinning on the way to his personal Hummer. Even Al Hamm needed the occasional lesson.

T
HEY TOOK THEIR
time. Movie Star handled the car rentals. He had duplicate IDs, enough to rent four vehicles, three four-door private cars and a U-Haul van. The former had been selected to match vehicles owned by parents who had children at the nursery school. The latter was for their escape—an eventuality which he now thought likely and not merely possible. His men were smarter than he'd appreciated. Driving past the objective in their rented cars, they didn't turn their heads to stare, but allowed their peripheral vision to take in the scene. They already had exact knowledge from the model they'd built, based on data from their leader's photographs. Driving past the site gave them a better full-size, three-dimensional view, and added more substance to their mental image, and to their growing confidence. With that task done, they drove west, turned off Route 50 and proceeded to a lonely farmhouse in southern Anne Arundel County.

The house was owned by a man thought by his neighbors to be a Syrian-born Jew who'd lived in the area for eleven years, but who was a sleeper agent. Over the past few years, he'd made discreet purchases of arms and ammunition, all of them legal, and all made before restrictive laws on some of the weapons had been passed—he could have evaded them anyway. In his coat pocket were airline tickets under a different name and passport. This was the final rendezvous point. They would bring the child here. Then six of them would leave the country at once, all on separate flights, and the remaining three would enter the homeowner's personal car and drive to yet another pre-determined location to await developments. America was a vast country, with many roads. Cellular telephones were difficult to track. They'd give a devil of a time to their pursuers, Movie Star thought. He knew how he'd do things, if it got that far. The team with the child would have one phone. He would have two, one to make brief calls to the American government, and another to call his friends. They would demand much for the life of the child, enough to throw this country into chaos. Perhaps the child might even be set free alive. He wasn't sure about that, but he supposed it was possible.

PREDATOR/PREY

C
IA HAS ITS OWN PHOTO SHOP
, of course. The film shot out the aircraft window by Field Officer Domingo Chavez was tagged by the technician in a manner little different from that used by commercial shops, and then processed on standard equipment. There the routine treatment stopped. The grainy ASA-1200 film produced a poor-quality image, and one couldn't give that to the people on the seventh floor. The employees in the photo shop knew about the RIF order, and the best way to avoid being laid off, in this or any other business, was to be indispensable. So the developed roll of film went into a computer-enhancement system. It took only three minutes per frame to convert the images into something that might have been shot by an expert with a Hasselblad under studio conditions. Less than an hour after the film's arrival, the tech produced a set of eight-by-ten glossies that positively identified the airplane passenger as the Ayatollah Mahmoud Haji Daryaei, and provided a shot of his aircraft, so clear and dramatic that the manufacturer might have used it on a sales brochure. The film was put in an envelope and sent off to secure storage. The photos themselves were stored in digital form on tape, their precise identity—date, time of day, location, photographer, and subject—also coded into a computer register for extensive cross-referencing. It was standard procedure. The technician had long since stopped caring about what he developed, though he still did see the occasional frame showing someone on the news in a position that never made the TV screen . . . but not this guy. From what he'd heard about Daryaei, the man probably didn't have much interest in boys or girls, and the dour expression on his face seemed to confirm it. What the hell, he did have nice taste in airplanes, a G-IV, it looked like. Odd, wasn't that a Swiss registration code on the tail, though . . . ?

When the photos went upstairs, one complete set was also set aside for a different kind of analysis. A physician would examine them closely. Some diseases left visible signs, and the Agency always kept an eye on the health of foreign leaders.

“ . . . S
ECRETARY
A
DLER
will be leaving for Beijing this morning,” Ryan told them. Arnie had told him that, as unpleasant as these news appearances were, being seen on TV doing presidential things was good for him politically—and that, Arnie always went on, meant being more effective in the job. The President also remembered hearing from his mom how important it was to go to the dentist twice a year, too, and just as the antiseptic smells of that place were certain to frighten a child, so he had come to loathe the damp of this room. The walls leaked, some of the windows were cracked, and this part of the West Wing of the White House was about as neat and well kept as a high-school locker room, something the citizens couldn't tell from watching TV. Though the area was only a few yards from his own office, nobody really cared much about tidying things up. Reporters were such slobs, the staff claimed, that it wouldn't have mattered much anyway. What the hell, the reporters didn't seem to worry about it.

“Mr. President, have we learned anything more about the airliner incident?”

“It's been announced that the body count is complete. The flight-data recorders have been recovered and—”

“Will we have access to the black-box information?”

Why did they call it the black box when it was orange? Jack had always wondered about that, but knew he'd never get a sensible answer. “We've asked for that access, and the Republic of China government has promised its full cooperation. They don't have to do that. The aircraft is registered in that country, and the aircraft is made in Europe. But they are being helpful. We acknowledge that with thanks. I should add that none of the Americans who survived the crash itself are in any medical danger—some of the injuries are severe, but not life-threatening.”

“Who shot it down?” another reporter asked.

“We're still examining the data, and—”

“Mr. President, the Navy has two Aegis-class ships in that immediate area. You must have a good idea of what happened.” This guy had done his homework.

“I really can't comment further on that. Secretary Adler will discuss the incident with the parties concerned. We want, first of all, to make sure that no further loss of life takes place.”

“Mr. President, a follow-up: you must know more than you're saying. Fourteen Americans were killed in this incident. The American people have a right to know why.”

The hell of it was, the man was right. The hell of it also was that Ryan had to evade: “We really do not know exactly what happened yet. I cannot make a definitive statement until we do.” Which was philosophically true, anyway. He knew who'd taken the shot. He didn't know why. Adler had made a good point yesterday on keeping that knowledge close.

“Mr. Adler returned from somewhere yesterday. Why is that a secret?” It was Plumber again, chasing down his question from the previous day.

I'm going to kill Arnie for exposing me this way all the time.
“John, the Secretary was engaged in some important consultations. That's all I have to say on the issue.”

“He was in the Middle East, wasn't he?”

“Next question?”

“Sir, the Pentagon has announced that the carrier Eisenhower is moving into the South China Sea. Did you order that?”

“Yes, I did. We feel that the situation warrants our close attention. We have vital interests in that region. I point out that we are not taking sides in this dispute, but we are going to look after our own interests.”

“Will moving the carrier cool things down or heat them up?”

“Obviously, we're not trying to make things worse. We're trying to make them better. It's in the interests of both parties to take a step back and think about what they are doing. Lives have been lost,” the President reminded them. “Some of those were American lives. That gives us a direct interest in the matter. The reason we have a government and a military is to look after American interests and to protect the lives of our citizens. The naval forces heading for the region will observe what is happening and conduct routine training operations. That is all.”

Z
HANG
H
AN
S
AN
checked his watch again and remarked to himself that it was becoming a fine way to end his working day—the sight of the American President doing exactly what he wanted him to do. Now China had fulfilled her obligations to that Daryaei barbarian. The Indian Ocean was devoid of a major American naval presence for the first time in twenty years. The American foreign minister would leave Washington in another two hours or so. Another eighteen hours to fly to Beijing, and then the platitudes could be exchanged. He'd see what concessions he could wring out of America and the Taiwanese puppet state. Maybe a few good ones, he thought, with the trouble America was sure to face elsewhere. . . .

A
DLER WAS IN
his office. His bags were packed and in his official car, which would take him to the White House to catch a helicopter to Andrews after a presidential handshake and a brief departure statement which would be as bland as oatmeal. The more dramatic departure would look good on TV, make his mission appear to be a matter of importance, and cause additional wrinkling to his clothes—but the Air Force crew had an ironing board on the plane.

“What do we know?” Under Secretary Rutledge asked of the Secretary's senior staff.

“The missile was shot by a PRC aircraft. That's pretty positive from the Navy's radar tapes. No idea why, though Admiral Jackson is very positive in saying that it was not an accident.”

“How was it in Tehran?” another assistant secretary inquired.

“Equivocal. I'll get that written up on the flight and fax it back here.” Adler, too, was pressed for time and hadn't had enough to think through his meeting with Daryaei.

“We need that if we're going to be much use on the SNIE,” Rutledge pointed out. He really wanted that document. With it, Ed Kealty could prove that Ryan was up to his old tricks, playing secret agent man, and even suborning Scott Adler into doing the same. It was out there somewhere, the key to destroying Ryan's political legitimacy. He was dodging and counterpunching well, doubtless due to Arnie van Damm's coaching, but his gaffe yesterday on China policy had sent rumbles throughout the building. Like many people at State, he wished that Taiwan would just go away, and enable America to get on with the business of conducting normal relations with the world's newest superpower.

“One thing at a time, Cliff.”

The meeting returned to the China issue. By mutual consent, it was decided that the UIR problem was on the back burner for the next few days.

“Any change in China policy from the White House?” Rutledge asked.

Adler shook his head. “No, the President was just trying to talk his way through things—and, yeah, I know, he shouldn't have called the Republic of China China, but maybe it rattled their cage just a little in Beijing, and I'm not all that displeased about it. They do need to learn about not killing Americans. We have crossed a line here, people. One of the things I have to do is let them know that we take that line seriously.”

“Accidents happen,” someone observed.

“The Navy says it wasn't an accident.”

“Come on, Mr. Secretary,” Rutledge groaned. “Why the hell would they do that on purpose?”

“It's our job to find out. Admiral Jackson made a good case for his position. If you're a cop on the street and you have an armed robber in front of you, why shoot the little old lady down the block?”

“Accident, obviously,” Rutledge persisted.

“Cliff, there are accidents, and there are accidents. This one killed Americans, and in case anybody in this room forgot, we are supposed to take that seriously.”

They weren't used to that sort of reprimand. What was with Adler, anyway? The job of the State Department was to maintain the peace, to forestall conflict that killed people in the thousands. Accidents were accidents. They were unfortunate, but they happened, like cancer and heart attacks. State was supposed to deal with the Big Picture.

“T
HANK YOU
, Mr. President.” Ryan left the podium, having again survived the slings and arrows of the media. He checked his watch. Damn. He'd missed seeing the kids off to school—again—and hadn't kissed Cathy good-bye, either. Where in the Constitution, he wondered, was it written down that the President wasn't a human being?

On reaching his office, he scanned the printed sheet of his daily schedule. Adler was due over in an hour for the send-off to China. Winston at ten o'clock to go over the details of his administrative changes across the street at Treasury. Arnie and Callie at eleven to go through his speeches for next week. Lunch with Tony Bretano. A meeting after lunch with—who? The Anaheim Mighty Ducks? Ryan shook his head. Oh. They'd won the Stanley Cup, and this would be a photo opportunity for them and for him. He had to talk to Arnie about that political crap. Hmph. Ought to have Ed Foley over for that, Jack smiled to himself. He was a hockey fanatic . . .

“Y
OU
'
RE RUNNING LATE
,” Don Russell said, as Pat O'Day dropped Megan off.

The FBI inspector continued past him, saw to Megan's coat and blanky, then returned. “The power went off last night and reset my clock-radio for me,” he explained.

“Big day planned?”

Pat shook his head. “Desk day. I have to finish up a few things—you know the drill.” Both did. It was essentially editing and indexing reports, a secretarial function which on sensitive cases was often done by sworn, gun-toting agents.

“I hear you want to have a little contest,” Russell said.

“They say you're pretty good.”

“Oh, fair, I guess,” the Secret Service agent allowed.

“Yeah, I try to keep the shots inside the lines, too.”

“Like the SigSauer?”

The FBI agent shook his head. “Smith 1076 stainless.”

“The ten-millimeter.”

“It makes a bigger hole,” O'Day pointed out.

“Nine's always been enough for me,” Russell reported. Then both men laughed.

“You hustle pool, too?” the FBI agent asked.

“Not since high school, Pat. Shall we set the amount of the wager?”

“It has to be serious,” O'Day thought.

“Case of Samuel Adams?” Russell suggested.

“An honorable bet, sir,” the inspector agreed.

“How about at Beltsville?” That was the site of the Secret Service Academy. “The outside range. Indoors is always too artificial.”

“Standard combat match?”

“I haven't shot bull's-eye in years. I don't ever expect one of my principals to be attacked by a black dot.”

“Tomorrow?” It seemed a good Saturday diversion.

“That's probably a little quick. I can check. I'll know this afternoon.”

“Don, you have a deal. And may the best man win.” They shook hands.

“The best man will, Pat. He always does.” Both men knew who it would be, though one of them would have to be wrong. Both also knew that the other would be a good guy to have at your back, and that the beer would taste pretty good either way when the issue was decided.

T
HE WEAPONS WEREN
'
T
fully automatic. A good machinist could have changed that, but the sleeper agent wasn't one of those. Movie Star and his people didn't mind all that much. They were trained marksmen and knew that full-auto was only good for three rounds unless you had the arms of a gorilla—after that, the gun jumped up and you were just drilling holes in the sky instead of the target, who just might fire back at you. There was neither time nor space for another round of shooting, but they were familiar with the weapon type, the Chinese knock-off of the Soviet AK-47, itself a development of a German weapon from the 1940s. It fired a short-case 7.62mm cartridge. The magazines held thirty rounds each. The team members used duct tape to double them up, inserting and ejecting the magazines to be sure that everything fit properly. With that task completed, they resumed their examination of the objective. Each of them knew his place and his task. Each also knew the dangers involved, but they didn't dwell on that. Nor, Movie Star saw, did they dwell on the nature of the mission. They were so dehumanized by their years of activity within the terrorist community that, though this was the first real mission, for most of them, all they really thought about was proving themselves. How they did it, exactly, was less important.