Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (62 page)

“Y
OU KNOW,
A
RNIE
, you were right,” Jack said, in the breezeway to the West Wing. “It was great to get the hell out of here.”

The chief of staff noted the spring in his step, but didn't get overly excited about it. Air Force One had brought the President back in time for a quiet dinner with his family instead of the usual rigors of three or four such speeches, endless hours of schmoozing with major contributors, and the usual four-hour night that resulted- -and that, often enough, in the aircraft—followed by a quick shower and a working day artificially extended by the revelries in the hustings. It was remarkable, he thought, that any President was able to do any work at all. The real duties of the office were difficult enough, and those were almost always subordinated to what was little more than public relations, albeit a necessary function in a democracy, in which the people needed to see the President doing more than sitting at his desk and doing . . . his work. The presidency was a job which one could love without liking it, a phrase seemingly contradictory until you came here and saw it.

“You did just fine,” van Damm said. “The stuff on TV was perfect, and the segment NBC ran with your wife was okay, too.”

“She didn't like it. She didn't think they used her best line,” Ryan reported lightly.

“Could have been a lot worse.” They didn't ask her about abortion, Arnie thought. To keep that from happening, he'd used up a few large markers with NBC, and made sure that Tom Donner had been treated at least as well as a senator, maybe even a Cabinet member, on the flight the previous day, including a rare taped segment in flight. The following week, Donner would be the first network anchor to have a one-on-one with the President in the upstairs sitting room, and for that there was no agreement on the scope of the questions, meaning that Ryan would have to be briefed for hours to make sure he didn't step on the presidential crank. But for now the chief of staff allowed his President to bask in the afterglow of what had been a pretty good day in the Midwest, whose real mission, aside from getting Ryan out of Washington and so get a feel for what the presidency really was, was to have him look like a President, and further marginalize that bastard Kealty.

The Secret Service people were as upbeat as their President, as they so often drew their mood from POTUS, returning his smiles and nods with spoken greetings of their own: “Good morning, Mr. President!” repeated by four of them as Ryan passed, finding his way to the Oval Office.

“Good morning, Ben,” Ryan said cheerily, heading to his desk and falling into the comfortable swivel chair. “Tell me how the world looks.”

“We may have a problem. The PRC navy's putting to sea,” the acting National Security Advisor said. The Secret Service had just assigned him a code name, CARD-SHARP.

“And?” Ryan asked, annoyed that the morning might be spoiled.

“And it looks like a major fleet exercise, and they're saying there will be live-fire missile shoots. No reaction from
Taipei
yet.”

“They don't have elections or anything coming up, do they?” Jack asked.

Goodley shook his head. “No, not for another year. The ROC has continued to spend money with the UN, and they're quietly lobbying a lot of countries in case they go through with a request for representation, but nothing remarkable about that, either.
Taipei
is playing its cards close to the vest, and not making any noise to offend the mainland. Their commercial relationship is stable. In short, we have no explanation for the exercise.”

“What do we have in the area?”

“One submarine in the
Formosa Strait
, keeping an eye on a Chinese SSN.”

“Carriers?”

“Nothing closer than the
Indian Ocean
. Stennis is back in
Pearl
for engine repairs, along with
Enterprise
, and they'll be there for a while. The cupboard is still pretty bare.” C
ARDSHARP
reminded the President what he had himself said to his President only months before.

“What about their army?” the President asked next.

“Again, nothing new. We have higher-than-usual levels of activity, like the Russians said, but that's been going on for a while.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair and contemplated a cup of decaf. He'd found on his speechifying trip that his stomach really did feel better that way, and remarked on it to Cathy, who'd merely smiled and said I told you so! “Okay, Ben, speculate.”

“I talked it over with some
China
people at State and the Agency,” Goodley replied. “Maybe their military is making a political move, interior politics, I mean, increasing their readiness state to let the other people on the Beijing Politburo know that they're still around and still matter. Aside from that, anything else is pure speculation, and I'm not supposed to do that here, boss, remember?”

“And 'don't know' means don't know, doesn't it?” It was a rhetorical question, and one of Ryan's favored aphorisms.

“You taught me that on the other side of the river, Mr. President,” Goodley agreed, but without the expected smile. “You also taught me not to like things I can't explain.” The national intelligence officer paused. “They know we'll know, and they know we'll be interested, and they know you're new here, and they know you don't need a hassle. So, why do it?” Goodley asked, also rhetorically.

“Yeah,” the President agreed quietly. “Andrea?” he said. Price, as usual, was in the room, pretending not to pay attention.

“Yes, sir?”

“Where's the nearest smoker?” Ryan said it entirely without shame.

“Mr. President, I don't—”

“The hell you don't. I want one.”

Price nodded and disappeared into the secretaries' room. She knew the signs as well as anyone. Switching from regular coffee to decaf, and now a smoke. In a way it was surprising that it had taken this long, and it told her more about the intelligence briefing than the words of Dr. Benjamin Goodley did.

It had to be a woman smoker, the President saw a minute later. Another one of the thin ones. Price even brought a match and an ashtray along with her disapproving look. He wondered if they'd acted the same way with FDR and Eisenhower.

Ryan took his first drag, deep in thought.
China
had been the silent partner in the conflict—he still couldn't use the word war, not even in his own mind—with
Japan
. At least that was the supposition. It all made sense, and it all fitted together nicely, but there was no proof of the sort to flesh out a SNIE—a Special National Intelligence Estimate—much less present to the media, which often as not required the same degree of reliability as an especially conservative judge. So . . . Ryan lifted the phone. “I want Director Murray.”

One of the nice things about the presidency was the use of the telephone. “Please hold for the President,” a simple phrase spoken by a White House secretary in the same voice one might use for ordering out a pizza, never failed to cause an instant, almost panicked, reaction on the other end of whatever line she might use. It rarely took longer than ten seconds to get the call through. This time it took six.

“Good morning, Mr. President.”

“Morning, Dan. I need something. What's the name of that Japanese police inspector who came over?”

“Jisaburo Tanaka,”
Murray
replied at once.

“Is he any good?” Jack said next.

“Solid. As good as anybody I have working here. What do you want from him?”

“I presume they're talking a lot with that Yamata guy.”

“You may safely assume that a wild bear goes potty in the woods, too, Mr. President,” the acting Director of the FBI managed to say without a laugh.

“I want to know about his conversations with
China
, especially who his contact was.”

“That we can do. I'll try to get him right now. Call back to you?”

“No, brief Ben Goodley in, and hell coordinate with the people down the hall,” Ryan said, using an old catch-phrase between the two. “Ben's here now in my old office.”

“Yes, sir. Let me do it now. It's heading up to
midnight
in
Tokyo
.”

“Thanks, Dan. Bye.” Jack put the phone back. “Let's start figuring this one out.”

“You got it, boss,” Goodley promised.

“Anything else happening in the world?
Iraq
?”

“Same news as yesterday, lots of people executed. The Russians fed us this 'United Islamic Republic' thing, and we all think it likely, but no overt move yet. That's what I'd planned to do today, and—”

“Okay, then, get to it.”

“O
KAY. WHAT
'
S THE
drill for this?” Tony Bretano asked.

Robby
Jackson
didn't especially like doing things on the fly, but that was the job of the newly promoted J-3, Director of Operations for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In the previous week, he'd come to like the designate-Secretary of Defense. Bretano was one tough-minded little guy, but his snarl was mainly for show, and concealed a very thoughtful brain able to make quick decisions. And the man was an engineer—he knew what he didn't know, and was quick to ask questions.

“We have
Pasadena
—fast-attack sub—in the strait already doing routine surveillance. We break her off the current job of trailing the PRC SSN and have her move northwest. Next, we move two or three additional boats into the area, assign them operating areas, and let them keep an eye on things. We open a line of communications with
Taipei
and have them feed us what they see and know. They'll play ball. They always do. Ordinarily, we'd move a carrier a little closer, but this time, well, we don't have one very close, and absent a political threat to
Taiwan
, it would appear to be an overreaction. We stage electronics-intelligence aircraft over the area out of Anderson Air Force Base in
Guam
. We're hampered by the lack of a nearby base.”

“So, essentially we gather intelligence information and do nothing substantive?” the SecDef asked.

“Gathering intelligence is substantive, sir, but, yes.”

Bretano smiled. “I know. I built the satellites you'll be using. What will they tell us?”

“We'll probably get a lot of in-the-clear chatter that'll use up every Mandarin-speaker they have at
Fort
Meade
and tell us not very much about their overall intentions. The operational stuff will be useful—it'll tell us a lot about their capabilities. If 1 know Admiral Mancuso—C
OM
S
UB
P
AC
—he'll have one or two of his boats play a little fast and loose to see if the Chinese can acquire one and prosecute it, but nothing overt. That's one of our options if we don't like the way this exercise is going.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you really want to put the fear of God in a naval officer, you let him know there's a submarine around—which is to say, Mr. Secretary, one appears unexpectedly in the middle of your formation and immediately disappears again. It's a head game, and a nasty one. Our people are good at that, and Bart Mancuso knows how to use his boats. We couldn't have defeated the Japanese without him,”
Jackson
said positively.

“He's that good?” Mancuso was just a name to the new SecDef.

“None better. He's one of the people you listen to. So's your C
IN
CP
AC
, Dave Seaton.”

“Admiral DeMarco told me—”

“Sir, may I speak freely?” the J-3 asked.

“
Jackson
, in here that's the only way.”

“Bruno DeMarco was made Vice Chief of Naval Operations for a reason.”

Bretano got it at once. “Oh, to give speeches and not do anything that can hurt the Navy?” Robby's reply was a nod. “Noted, Admiral Jackson.”

“Sir, I don't know much about industry, but there's something you need to learn about this building. There's two kinds of officers in the Pentagon, operators and bureaucrats. Admiral DeMarco has been here for more than half of his career. Mancuso and Seaton are operators, and they try very hard to stay out of this building.”

“So have you,” Bretano observed.

“I guess I just like the smell of salt air, Mr. Secretary. I'm not polishing my own apple here, sir. You'll decide if you like me or not—what the hell, I'm out of the flying business anyway, and that's what I signed up to do. But, damn it, when Seaton and Mancuso talk, I hope you'll listen.”

“What's the matter with you, Robby?” the SecDef asked with sudden concern. He knew a good employee when he saw one.

Jackson
shrugged. “Arthritis. Runs in the family. Could be worse, sir. It won't hurt my golf game, and flag officers don't get to fly very much anyway.”

“You don't care about getting promoted, do you?” Bretano was about to recommend another star for
Jackson
.

“Mr. Secretary, I'm the son of a preacher man in
Mississippi
. I got into
Annapolis
, flew fighters for twenty years, and I'm still alive to talk about it.” All too many of his friends were not, a fact Robby never forgot. “I can retire whenever I want and get a good job. I figure I'm ahead of the game whatever happens. But
America
's been pretty good to me, and I owe something back. What I owe, sir, is to tell the truth and do my best and screw the consequences.”

“So you're not a bureaucrat, either.” Bretano wondered what
Jackson
's degree was in. He sure talked like a competent engineer. He even smiled like one.

“I'd rather play piano in a whorehouse, sir. It's more honest work.”

“We're going to get along, Robby. Put a plan together. Let's keep a close eye on the Chinese.”

“Actually, I'm just supposed to advise and—”

“Then coordinate with Seaton. I imagine he listens to you, too.”

T
HE
UN
INSPECTION
teams had become so accustomed to frustration that they hardly knew how to deal with satisfaction. The various staffs at the various facilities had given over reams of paper, still photographs, and videotapes, and practically raced the inspectors through the installations, pointing out the important aspects of the workings, and often demonstrating the easiest method of deactivating the more offensive features. There was the minor problem that the difference between a chemical-weapons plant and a factory for insecticide was essentially nil. Nerve gas had been an accidental invention of research into killing bugs (most insecticides are nerve poisons), and what it came down to, really, were the chemical ingredients, called “precursors.” Besides which, any country with oil resources and a petrochemical industry routinely produced all manner of specialized products, most of them toxic to humans anyway.