Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (134 page)

“How the hell much longer will we be stuck here, Pete?” Ernie Brown wanted to know.

“You're askin' me?”

“A
WHOLE LOT
of nothing,” concluded the lead agent. Aref Raman was a little neat for a single man living alone, but not grossly so. One of the FBI agents had noted with surprise that even the man's socks were neatly folded, along with everything else in the bureau drawers. Then one of the group remembered a study of NFL football players. A psychologist had determined after months of study that offensive linemen, whose job was to protect the quarterback, had neat lockers, while defensive linemen, whose job it was to pound the opposing quarterbacks into the turf, were slobs in every respect. It was good for a laugh, and an explanation. Nothing else was found. There was a photo of his parents, both dead. He subscribed to two news magazines, had the full cable options for his two televisions, had no booze in the house, and ate healthy. He had a particular affinity for kosher hot dogs, judging by the freezer. There were no hidden drawers or compartments—they would have found them—and nothing the least bit suspicious. That was both good news and bad.

The phone rang. Nobody answered it, because they weren't there, and they had beepers and cellular phones for their own communications needs.

“Hello, this is 536-3040,” the recording of Raman's voice said, after the second ring. “Nobody's here to answer the phone right now, but if you leave a message, somebody will get back to you.” Followed by a beep, and in this case, a click.

“Wrong number,” one of the agents said.

“Pull the messages,” the lead agent ordered the technical genius on the team.

Raman owned a digital recording system, and again there was a punch code programmed in by the manufacturer. The agent hit the six digits and another took notes. There were three clicks and a wrong number. Somebody calling for Mr. Sloan, whoever that was.

“Rug? Mr. Alahad?”

“Sounds like the name of a rug dealer,” another one said. But when they looked around, there was no such rug in the apartment, just the usual cheap wall-to-wall carpet you found in apartments of this type.

“Wrong number.”

“Run the names anyway.” It was more habit than anything else. You checked everything. It was like working FCI. You just never knew.

Just then the phone rang again, and all five of the agents turned to stare at the answering machine, as though it were a real witness with a real voice.

S
HIT,
R
AMAN THOUGHT
, he'd forgotten to erase the messages from before. There was nothing new. His control officer hadn't called again. It would have been a surprise if he had. With that determined, Raman, sitting in a Pittsburgh hotel room, punched the erase-all code. One nice thing about the new digitals was that, once erased, they were gone forever. That wasn't necessarily true of the ones using tape cassettes.

T
HE
FBI
AGENTS
took note of that, sharing looks.

“Hey, we all do that.” There was general agreement. And everybody got wrong numbers, too. And this was a brother officer. But they'd run the numbers anyway.

S
URGEON, TO THE
relief of her detail, was sleeping upstairs in the residence. Roy Altman and the rest assigned to guard her had been going crazy with her on the fever ward—their term for it—at Johns Hopkins, as much from the physical danger as for the fact that she had run herself right into the ground. The kids, being kids, had spent the time like most other American children, watching TV and playing under the eyes of their agents, who now worried about seeing the onset of flu symptoms, blessedly absent from the entire campus. S
WORDSMAN
was in the Situation Room.

“What's the time there?”

“Ten hours ahead, sir.”

“Make the call,” POTUS ordered.

T
HE FIRST
747, in United livery, crossed into Saudi airspace a few minutes earlier than expected, due to favorable arctic winds. A more circuitous routing at this point would not have helped very much. Sudan had airports and radars, too, as did Egypt and Jordan, and it was assumed that the UIR had informants somewhere in those countries. The Saudi Air Force, augmented by the F-16Cs which had sneaked in from Israel the previous day as part of B
UFFALO
F
ORWARD
, stood combat air patrol along the Saudi-UIR border. Two E-3B AW ACS were up and turning their rotodomes. The sun was rising now in that part of the world—at least one could see first light from their cruising altitude, though the surface, six miles below, was still black.

“G
OOD MORNING
, P
RIME
Minister. This is Jack Ryan,” the President said.

“A pleasure to hear your voice. It is late in Washington, is it not?” she asked.

“We both work irregular hours. I imagine your day is just beginning.”

“So it is,” the voice answered. Ryan had a conventional receiver to his ear. The conversation was on speakerphone as well, and feeding into a digital tape recorder. The CIA had even supplied a voice-stress analyzer. “Mr. President, the troubles in your country, have they improved?”

“We have some hope, but, no, not quite yet.”

“Is there any way in which we might be of assistance?”

Neither voice showed the least emotion beyond the false amity of people suspicious of each other, and trying to hide it.

“Well, yes, actually, there is.”

“Please, then, how may we be of help?”

“Prime Minister, we have some ships heading through the Arabian Sea at the moment,” Ryan told her.

“Is that so?” Total neutrality in the voice.

“Yes, ma'am, it is, and you know it is, and I want your personal assurance that your navy, which is also at sea, will not interfere with their passage.”

“But why do you ask this? Why should we interfere—for that matter, what is the purpose of your ship movement?”

“Your word on the matter will suffice, Prime Minister,” Ryan told her. His right hand gripped a number 2 lead pencil.

“But, Mr. President, I fail to understand the purpose of this call.”

“The purpose of this call is to seek your personal assurance that the Indian navy will not interfere with the peaceful passage of United States Navy ships through the Arabian Sea.”

H
E WAS SO
weak, she thought, repeating himself that way. “Mr. President, I find your call unsettling. America has never spoken to us about such a matter before. You say you move warships close to my country, but not the purpose for the move. The movement of such vessels without an explanation is not the act of a friend.” What if she could make him back down?

W
HAT DID I TELL YOU
? the note from Ben Goodley read.

“Very well, Prime Minister, for the third time, will you give me your assurance that there will be no interference in this activity?”

“But why are you invading our waters?” she asked again.

“Very well.” Ryan paused, and then his voice changed.

“Prime Minister, the purpose of the movement does not directly concern your country, but I assure you, those ships will sail on to their destination. Since their mission is one of importance to us, we will not, I repeat not, brook interference of any kind, and I must warn you that should any unidentified ship or aircraft approach our formation, there might be adverse consequences. No, please excuse me, there will be such consequences. To avoid that, I give you notice of the passage, and I request your personal assurance to the United States of America that there will be no attack on our ships.”

“And now you threaten me? Mr. President, I understand the stress which has come to you of late, but, please, you may not treat sovereign countries in this way.”

“Prime Minister, then I will speak very clearly. An overt act of war has been committed against the United States of America. Any interference with, or attack on, any part of our military will be deemed a further act of war, and whatever country commits such an act will face the most serious possible consequences.”

“But who has done this to you?”

“Prime Minister, that is not your concern unless you wish it to be. I think in the interests of both your country and mine, it would be well if your navy returned to port forthwith.”

“And you blame us, you order us?”

“I began with a request, Prime Minister. You saw fit to evade my request three times. I regard that as an unfriendly act. And so I have a new question: Is it your desire to be at war with the United States of America?”

“Mr. President—”

“Because if those ships don't move, Prime Minister, you will be.” The pencil snapped in Ryan's hand. “I think you may have associated yourself with the wrong friends, Prime Minister. I hope I am incorrect, but if my impression is correct, then your country could well pay dearly for that misjudgment. We have experienced a direct attack on our citizens. It is a particularly cruel and barbaric attack, utilizing weapons of mass destruction.” He enunciated these words very clearly. “This is not yet known to our citizens. That will soon change,” he told her. “When it does, Prime Minister, those guilty of launching that attack will face our justice. We will not send notes of protest. We will not call a special meeting of the UN Security Council in New York. We will make war, Prime Minister. We will make war with all the power and rage this country and her citizens can muster. Do you now understand what I am saying? Ordinary men, women, and now even children have been murdered within our borders by a foreign power. There has even been an attack upon my own child, Prime Minister. Does your country wish to be associated with those acts? If so, Prime Minister, if you wish to be part of that, then the war commences now.”

DEPLOYMENT

J
ESUS
, J
ACK, YOU HAD ME CONVINCED
," Jackson breathed.

“Our friend in the clergy won't be as easy,” the President said. He rubbed his two sweaty hands together. “And we still don't know if she'll keep her word. Okay, Task Group C
OMEDY
is at D
EF
C
ON
1. If they think it's hostile, kill it. But for Christ's sake, make sure that commander knows how to use his head.”

The Situation Room was quiet now, and President Ryan felt very alone, despite the people assembled around him. Secretary Bretano and the Joint Chiefs were there. Rutledge was there for State. Secretary Winston, because Ryan trusted his judgment. Goodley, because he was fully briefed in on all the intelligence information; plus his chief of staff and the usual bodyguards. They all showed their support, but it really didn't help all that much. He alone had talked to India, because despite all the help and staff and advice, Jack Ryan was now the United States of America, and the country was going to war.

T
HE MEDIA POOL
learned that over the Atlantic Ocean. America expected an attack at any time from the United Islamic Republic into the other Gulf states. They would be there to cover the story. They also learned about the forces being deployed.

“That's all?” one of the more knowledgeable of them asked.

“That's it for the moment,” the public affairs officer confirmed. “We hope that the show of force will be sufficient to deter the attack, but if not, it's going to be exciting.”

“Exciting ain't the word.”

Then the PAO told them why it was happening, and the windowless KC-135 that was taking them to Saudi Arabia became very quiet indeed.

K
UWAIT ESSENTIALLY HAD
two heavy brigades, complemented by a motorized reconnaissance brigade equipped with antitank weapons and designed to be a screening force on the border. The two heavy brigades, equipped and trained on the American model, were held back from the border in the usual way so as to be able to move to counter an incursion rather than having to meet the initial attack—possibly in the wrong place. The 10th U.S. Cavalry stood between and slightly behind those two. Overall command was somewhat equivocal. Colonel Magruder was the most senior officer in time of service, and the most experienced tactician, but there were Kuwaitis more senior in rank—all three brigades were commanded by brigadier generals—and it was their country. On the other hand, the country was small enough to require only one primary command post, and Magruder was there, both to command his regiment and to advise the Kuwaiti commanders. The latter were both proud and nervous. They were understandably pleased by the strides their small country had made since 1990. No longer the comic-opera force which had disintegrated on the Iraqi invasion—though some sub-units had fought bravely—they had what looked on paper and to the eye like a very capable mechanized force. They were nervous because they were heavily outnumbered, and their mainly reservist soldiers had a long way to go before they met the American training standards to which they aspired. But the one thing they knew was gunnery. Shooting tanks is as enjoyable a pastime as it is a vital one; the empty slots in their formations were explained by the fact that twenty tanks were in the shop for replacement of their main gun tubes. That was being done by civilian contractors while the tank crews paced and waited.

The 10th Cav's helicopters were flying around the country's border, their Longbow radars looking deep into the UIR for movement, and so far seeing nothing of particular note. The Kuwaiti air force was standing a four-plane combat air patrol, with the rest of the force on high alert. Outmanned though they were, this would not be a repeat of 1990. The busiest people were the engineers, who were digging holes for all the tanks so that they could fight hull-down, with only their turrets showing. These were covered with netting to make them invisible from the air.

“And so, Colonel?” the senior Kuwaiti commander asked.

“Nothing wrong with your deployments, General,” Magruder replied, scanning the map again. He didn't show everything he felt. Two or three weeks of intensive training would have been a blessing. He'd run one very simple exercise, one of his squadrons against the Kuwaiti 1st Brigade, and even then he'd gone very easy on them. It wasn't the time to break their confidence. They had enthusiasm, and their gunnery was about seventy percent of American standards, but they had a lot to learn about maneuver warfare. Well, it took time to raise an army, and more time to train field officers, and they were doing their best.

“Y
OUR HIGHNESS
, I need to thank you for your cooperation to this point,” Ryan said over the phone. The wall clock in the Sit Room said 2:10.

“Jack, with luck they will see this and not move,” Prince Ali bin Sheik replied.

“I wish I could agree with that. It is time for me to tell you something you do not yet know, Ali. Our ambassador will present you with full information later in the day. For the moment, you need to know what your neighbors have been up to. It isn't just about the oil, Your Highness.” He went on for five minutes.

“Are you certain of this?”

“The evidence we have will be in your hands in four hours,” Ryan promised. “We haven't even told our soldiers yet.”

“Might they use these weapons against us?” The natural question. Biological warfare made everyone's skin crawl.

“We don't think so, Ali. Environmental conditions militate against it.” That had been checked, too. The weather forecast for the next week was hot, dry, and clear.

“Those who would use such weapons, Mr. President, this is an act of utter barbarism.”

“That's why we do not expect them to back down. They can't—”

“Not 'they,' Mr. President. One man. One godless man. When will you speak to your people about this?”

“Soon,” Ryan replied.

“Please, Jack, this is not our religion, this is not our faith. Please tell your people that.”

“I know that, Your Highness. It isn't about God. It's about power. It always is. I'm afraid I have other things to do.”

“As do I. I must see the King.”

“Please give him my respects. We stand together, Ali, just like before.” With that the line went dead.

“Next, where exactly is Adler right now?”

“Shuttling back to Taiwan,” Rutledge answered. Those negotiations were still going on, though their purpose was now rather clear.

“Okay, he has secure comm links on the plane. You brief him in,” he told the Under Secretary. “Anything else I need to do right now?”

“Sleep,” Admiral Jackson told him. “Let us do the all-nighter, Jack.”

“That's a plan.” Ryan rose. He wobbled a bit from the stress and lack of sleep. “Wake me up if you need me.”

We won't
, nobody said.

“W
ELL
,” C
APTAIN
K
EMPER
said, reading the C
RITIC
message from C
IN
C
LANT
. “That makes things a lot simpler.” Range to the Indian battle group was now two hundred miles, about eight hours of steaming—still the term they used, though all the combatant ships were now powered by jet-turbine engines. Kemper lifted the phone and flipped a switch to speak on the ship's 1-MC address system. "Now hear this. This is the captain speaking.

"Task Group C
OMEDY
is now at DefCon 1. That means if anybody gets close, we shoot him. The mission is to deliver our tank-carriers to Saudi Arabia. Our country is flying in the soldiers to drive them in anticipation of an attack on our allies in the region by the new United Islamic Republic.

"In sixteen hours, we will link up with a surface action making a speed-run down from the Med. We will then enter the Persian Gulf to make our delivery. The group will have friendly air cover in the form of Air Force F-16C fighters, but it is to be expected that the UIR—our old Iranian friends—will not be happy with our arrival.

“USS Anzio is going to war, people. That is all for now.” He flipped the switch back. “Okay, let's start running simulations. I want to see everything those bastards might try on us. We will have an updated intelligence estimate here in two hours. For now, let's see what we can do about aircraft and missile attacks.”

“What about the Indians?” Weps asked.

“We'll be keeping an eye on them, too.” The main tactical display showed a P-3C Orion passing C
OMEDY
to relieve the aircraft now on station. The battle group was heading east, again recrossing its wake, as it had been doing for some time now.

A KH-11
SATELLITE
was just sweeping down, northwest-to-southeast, over the Persian Gulf. Its cameras, having already looked at the three heavy corps of the Army of God, were now photographing the entire Iranian coast, looking for the launch sites of Chinese-made Silkworm missiles. The take from the electronic cameras was cross-linked to a communications satellite over the Indian Ocean, and from there to the Washington area, where technicians still wearing chemically impregnated surgical masks started looking for the airplane-shaped surface-to-surface missiles. The fixed launch sites were well known, but the weapon also could be fired off the back of a large truck, and there were plenty of coastal roads to survey.

T
HE FIRST GROUP
of four airliners touched down without incident outside Dhahran. There was no arrival ceremony. It was already hot. Spring had come early to the region after the surprisingly cold and wet winter season, and that meant noon temperatures close to 100 degrees, as opposed to the 120 of high summer, but night temperatures down in the forties. It was humid this close to the coast as well.

When the first airliner stopped, the truck-mounted stairs were driven up, and Brigadier General Marion Diggs was the first off. He would be the ground commander for this operation. The virus epidemic still raging in America had also compromised MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, home of Central Command, which had responsibility for this area. The briefing papers he'd seen to this point said that the commander of the 366th Air Combat Wing was also a one-star, but junior to him. It had been a long time since so vital an operation had been turned over to someone as junior as himself, Marion Diggs thought on the way down the steps.

At the bottom was a Saudi three-star. The two men exchanged salutes and entered a car for the ride to the local command post, and an intelligence update. Behind Diggs was the command group of the 11th ACR, and on the other three aircraft, a security group and most of the Second Squadron of the Black Horse. Buses waited to take them to the POMCUS site. It was all rather like the R
EFORGER
exercises of the Cold War, which had anticipated a NATO-Warsaw Pact clash requiring American soldiers to get off the airplanes, board their vehicles, and march off to the front. That had never happened except in simulation, but now, again, it was happening, and this time it was for real. Two hours later, 2nd of the Blackhorse was rolling into the open.

“W
HAT DO YOU
mean?” Daryaei asked.

“There appears to be a major troop movement under way,” his intelligence chief told him. “Radar sites in western Iraq have detected commercial aircraft entering Saudi Arabia from Israeli airspace. We also show fighters escorting them and patrolling the border.”

“What else?”

“Nothing at the moment, but it would seem likely that America is moving another force into the Kingdom. I am not sure what it could be—certainly, it cannot be very large. Their German-based divisions are under quarantine, and all their home-quartered divisions are in the same condition. Most of their army is actually deployed for internal security.”

“We should attack them anyway,” his air force adviser urged.

“I think that would be a mistake,” Intelligence said. “It would be an invasion of Saudi airspace, alerting those goatherds too soon. The Americans can at most move one brigade-sized force. There is a second based at Diego Garcia—the equipment, that is—but we have no information to suggest that it has moved, and even if it does, we expect that our Indian friends can stop it.”

“We trust pagans?” Air Force asked with contempt. That was how Muslims viewed the official religion of the Subcontinent.

“We can trust their antipathy to America. And we can ask them if their fleet has spotted anything. In any case, the Americans can deploy another brigade-sized force. That is all.”

“Kill it anyway!”

“That throws away operational security,” Intelligence pointed out.

“If they don't know we are coming by now, then they are fools,” Air Force objected.

“The Americans have no reason to suspect that we have taken hostile actions against them. To attack their aircraft, if that's what they are, will alert them unnecessarily, not just the Saudis. They are probably concerned about our troop movements in Iraq. So they fly in some small reinforcements. We can deal with them when the time comes,” Intelligence told them.

“I will call India,” Daryaei said, temporizing.

“N
AVIGATION RADARS ONLY
. . . make that two air-search, probably from the carriers,” the petty officer said. “Their course track is zero-niner-zero, speed about sixteen.”

The tactical officer on the Orion, called a tacco, looked down at his chart. The Indian battle group was at the extreme eastern edge of the racetrack pattern they'd been following for the last several days. In less than twenty minutes, they should reverse course to head west. If they turned, things would become exciting. C
OMEDY
was now 120 miles away from the other formation, and his aircraft was feeding constant information to Anzio and Kidd. Under the wings of the four-engine Lockheed turboprop were four Harpoon missiles. White ones, war shots. The aircraft was now under the tactical command of Captain Kemper on Anzio, and on his order they could launch those missiles, two each at the Indian carriers, because they were the long gun of the opposing navy. A few minutes behind would be a swarm of Tomahawks and more Harpoons headed the same way.