Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (96 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador.” Adler was too tired to say much else.

“Any idea what happened?” Chavez asked in the trail car.

“We have only what your government has told us to pass along. Evidently there was a brief clash over the Strait of Taiwan, and a missile hit an unintended target.”

“Casualties?” Clark said next.

“Unknown at this time,” the local DGSE station chief said.

“Kinda hard to hit an airliner without killing somebody.” Ding closed his eyes in anticipation of a soft bed at the embassy.

T
HE SAME NEWS
was given to Daryaei at exactly the same time. He surprised his fellow cleric by taking it without a visible reaction. Mahmoud Haji had long since decided that people who didn't know anything couldn't interfere with much.

F
RENCH HOSPITALITY WAS
not disgraced even by its transplantation to a place which could hardly have been more different from the City of Light. Inside the compound, three uniformed soldiers collected the Americans' bags, while another man in some sort of livery conducted them to their quarters. The beds were turned down, and there was ice water on the nightstands. Chavez checked his watches again, groaned, and collapsed into the bed. For Clark, sleep came harder. The last time he'd looked at an embassy compound in this city . . . what was it? he asked himself. What was bothering him so much about this?

A
DMIRAL
J
ACKSON DID
the brief, complete with videotape.

“This is the upload from Port Royal. We have a similar tape from The Sullivans, no real differences, so we'll just use the one,” he told those in the Sit Room. He had a wooden pointer and started moving it around the large-screen TV display.

“This is a flight of four fighters, probably Jianjiji Hongzhaji-7s—we call it the B-7 for the obvious reason. Two engines and two seats, performance and capabilities like an old F-4 Phantom. The flight departs the mainland, and comes out a little too far. There's a no-man's-land right about here that neither side had violated until today. Here's another flight, probably the same aircraft and—”

“You're not sure?” Ben Goodley asked.

“We've ID'd the aircraft from their avionics, their radar emissions. A radar can't directly identify an airplane by type,” Robby explained. “You have to deduce types by what they do, or from the electronic signatures of their equipment, okay? Anyway, the lead group is coming east, and crosses the invisible line here.” The pointer moved. “Here's a flight of four Taiwanese F-16s with all the bells and whistles. They see the lead PRC group come too far and vector in on them. Then the lead group turns back west. Soon thereafter, right about . . . now, the trailing group lights off their radars, but instead of tracking their own lead group, they're hitting the F-16s.”

“What are you saying, Rob?” the President asked.

“What this looks like, the lead group was simulating a dawn attack on the mainland, and the trail group was supposed to defend against the simulated attack. On the surface, it looks like a fairly standard training exercise. The trail group, however, lit up the wrong people, and when they shifted radar modes to the attack setting, one of the Taiwanese pilots must have thought he was under attack and so he pickled off a missile. Then his wingman did the same. Zap! Right here, a B-7 eats a Slammer, but this one evades it—damned lucky for him—and he gets off a missile of his own. Then everybody starts shooting. This F-16 jinks around one but walks right into another—see here, the pilot ejects, and we think he survived. But this element launches four missiles, and one of those acquires this airliner. Must have just barely made it all the way. We've checked the range, and it's actually two miles over what we thought the missile could do. By the time it caught up and hit, the fighters have all turned back, the PRC guys because they were probably bingo-fuel, and the ROC guys because they were Winchester—out of missiles. All in all, it was a fairly sloppy engagement on both sides.”

“You're saying it was a goof?” This came from Tony Bretano.

“It certainly looks that way, except for one thing—”

“Why carry live missiles on an exercise?” Ryan said.

“Close, Mr. President. The ROC pilots, sure, they're carrying white ones because they see the whole PRC exercise as a threat—”

“White ones?” It was Bretano again.

“Excuse me, Mr. Secretary. White missiles are war shots. Exercise missiles are usually painted blue. The PRC guys, though, why carry heat-seekers? In situations like this, we usually don't, because you can't turn them off—once they go they're entirely on their own, fire-and-forget, we call it. One other thing. All the birds fired at the F-16s were radar-homers. This one, the one that went for the airliner, seems to be the only heat-seeker that was launched. I don't much like the smell of that.”

“Deliberate act?” Jack asked quietly.

“That is a possibility, Mr. President. The whole show looks just like a screwup, classic case. A couple fighter jocks get really hyped on something, you have an instant fur-ball, some people get killed, and we'll never be able to prove otherwise, but if you look at this two-plane element, I think they were aiming for the airliner all along—unless they took it for a ROC fighter, and I don't buy that—”

“Why?”

“It was heading the wrong way all the time,” Admiral Jackson answered.

“Buck fever,” Secretary Bretano offered.

“Why not engage people heading right for you instead of somebody heading away? Mr. Secretary, I'm a fighter pilot. I don't buy it. If I'm in an unexpected combat situation, first thing I do is identify the threats to me and shoot 'em right in the lips.”

“How many deaths?” Jack asked bleakly.

Ben Goodley handled that one: “News reports say over a hundred. There are survivors, but we don't have any kind of count yet. And we should expect that there were some Americans aboard. A lot of business goes on between Hong Kong and Taiwan.”

“Options?”

“Before we do anything, Mr. President, we need to know if any of our people are involved. We only have one carrier anywhere close, the Eisenhower battle group on the way to Australia for S
OUTHERN
C
UP
. But it's a good bet that this won't exactly help things out between Beijing and Taipei.”

“We'll need some kind of press release,” Arnie told the President.

“We need to know if we lost any citizens first,” Ryan said. “If we did . . . well, what do we do, demand an explanation?”

“They'll say it was a mistake.” Jackson repeated. “They might even blame the Taiwanese for shooting first and starting it, then disclaim all responsibility.”

“But you don't buy it, Robby?”

“No, Jack—excuse me, no, Mr. President. I don't think so. I want to go over the tapes with a few people, to back-check me some. Maybe I'm wrong . . . but I don't think so. Fighter pilots are fighter pilots. The only reason to shoot the guy who's running away instead of the guy who's closing in is because you want to.”

“Move the Ike group north?” Bretano wondered.

“Get me contingency plans to do just that,” the President said.

“That leaves the Indian Ocean uncovered, sir,” Jackson pointed out. “Carl Vinson is most of the way home to Norfolk now. John Stennis and Enterprise are still in the yard at Pearl, and we do not have a deployable carrier in the Pacific. We're out of carriers on that whole half of the world, and we'll need a month at best to move another one in from LantFleet.”

Ryan turned to Ed Foley. “What are the chances this could blow all the way up?”

“Taiwan's going to be pretty unhappy about this. We have shots fired and people dead. National-flag airline clobbered. Countries tend to be protective of those,” the DCI observed. “It's possible.”

“Intentions?” Goodley asked the DCI.

“If Admiral Jackson is correct—I'm not ready to buy into that yet, by the way,” Ed Foley added for Robby's benefit. He got an understanding nod. “Then we have something going on, but what it is, I don't know. Better for everybody if this was an accident. I can't say I like the idea of pulling the carrier out of the Indian Ocean with the developing situation in the Persian Gulf.”

“What's the worst thing that can happen between the PRC and Taiwan?” Bretano asked, annoyed that he had to ask the question at all. He was still too new in his job to be as effective as his President needed.

“Mr. Secretary, the People's Republic has nuclear-tipped missiles, enough to turn Formosa into a cinder, but we have reason to believe that the Republic of China has them too and—”

“Roughly twenty,” Foley interrupted. “And those F-16s can one-way a couple all the way to Beijing if they want. They can't destroy the People's Republic, but twenty thermonuclear weapons will knock their economy back at least ten years, maybe twenty. The PRC does not want that to happen. They're not crazy, Admiral. Keep it conventional, okay?”

“Very well, sir. The PRC does not have the ability to invade Taiwan. They lack the necessary amphibious assets to move large numbers of troops for a forced-entry assault. So what happens if things blow up anyway? Most likely scenario is a nasty air and sea battle, but one that leads to no resolution, since neither side can finish off the other. That also means a shooting war astride one of the world's most important trade routes, with all sorts of adverse diplomatic consequences for all the players. I can't see the purpose in doing this intentionally. Just too destructive to be deliberate policy. . . I think.” He shrugged. It didn't make sense, but neither did a deliberate attack on a harmless airliner—and he'd just told his audience that had probably been deliberate.

“And we have large trade relationships with both,” the President noted. “We want to prevent that, don't we? I'm afraid it's looking like we have to move that carrier, Robby. Let's get some options put together, and let's try to figure out what the hell the PRC might be up to.”

C
LARK WOKE UP
first, feeling quite miserable. But that wasn't allowed under the circumstances. Ten minutes later, he was shaved, dressed, and heading out the door, leaving Chavez in bed. Ding didn't speak the language anyway.

“Morning walk?” It was the guy who'd brought them in from the airport.

“I could use a stretch,” John admitted. “And you are?”

“Marcel Lefevre.”

“Station chief?” John asked bluntly.

“Actually, I am the commercial attaché,” the Frenchman replied—meaning, yes. “You mind if I come along?”

“Not at all,” Clark replied, surprising his companion as they headed for the door. “Just wanted to take a walk. Any markets around here?”

“Yes, I will show you.”

Ten minutes later, they were in a street of commerce. Two Iranian shadows were fifty feet behind them, and obvious about it, though they did nothing more than to observe.

The sounds brought it all back. Clark's Farsi was not all that impressive, especially since it was over fifteen years since he'd practiced it, but though his speech might not have been terribly good, his hearing clicked back in, soon catching the chatter and bargaining as the two Westerners passed stalls on both sides of the street.

“How are food prices?”

“Fairly high,” Lefevre answered. “Especially with all the supplies they shipped to Iraq. A few grumbles about that.”

There was something lacking, John saw, after a few minutes of contemplation. Passing half a block of food stalls, they were now in another area—gold, always a popular trade item in this part of the world. People were buying and selling. But there wasn't the enthusiasm he remembered from before. He looked at the stalls as he passed, trying to figure what it was.

“Something for your wife?” Lefevre asked.

Clark tried an unconvincing smile. “Oh, you never know. Anniversary coming up soon.” He stopped to look at a necklace.

“Where are you from?” the dealer asked.

“America,” John replied, also in English. The man had picked out his nationality at once, probably from his clothes, and taken the chance to speak in that language.

“We do not see many Americans here.”

“Too bad. In my younger days I traveled here quite a lot.” It was actually rather a nice necklace, and on checking the price tag and doing the mental calculation, the cost was reasonable as hell. And he did have an anniversary approaching.

“Perhaps someday that will change,” the goldsmith said.

“There are many differences between my country and yours,” John observed sadly. Yes, he could afford it, and as usual he had plenty of cash with him. One nice thing about American currency was that it was damned near universally accepted.

“Things change,” the man said next.

“Things have changed,” John agreed. He looked at a slightly more expensive necklace. It wasn't any problem handling them. One thing about Islamic countries, they had a way of discouraging thieves. “There's so little smiling here, and this is a market street.”

“You have two men following you.”

“Really? Well, I'm not breaking any laws, am I?” Clark asked with some obvious concern.

“No, you are not.” But the man was nervous.

“This one,” John said, handing it to the goldsmith.

“How will you pay?”

“American dollars, is that okay?”

“Yes, and the price is nine hundred of your dollars.”

It required all of his control not to show surprise. Even in a New York wholesale shop, this necklace would have been triple that, and while he wasn't quite prepared to spend that much, haggling was part of the fun of shopping in this part of the world. He'd figured that he could talk the guy down to maybe fifteen hundred, still a considerable bargain. Had he heard the man properly?

“Nine hundred?”

An emphatic finger pointed right at his heart. “Eight hundred, not a dollar less—you wish to ruin me?” he added loudly.

“You bargain hard.” Clark adopted a defensive posture for the benefit of the watchers, who were coming closer.

“You are an unbeliever! You expect charity? This is a fine necklace, and I hope you will give it to your honorable wife and not a lesser, debauched woman!”

Clark figured he'd put the man in enough danger. He pulled out his wallet and counted off the bills, handing them over.