Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (101 page)

“But why would they do it?” Elliot asked again.

“Maybe they're afraid somebody will attack them.”

“God damn it, Ryan!” the President shouted.

“Mr. President, excuse me. That was not a flippant remark. It is literally true. Voyska PVO is a defense system like our NORAD. Our air-defense and warning systems are now at a higher alert status. So are theirs. It's a defensive move only. They have to know that we've had this event. When there's trouble of this sort, it's natural to activate your own defenses, just as we have done.”

“It's potentially disturbing,” General Borstein said at NORAD HQ. “Ryan, you forget we have been attacked. They have not. Now, before they've even bothered to call us, they're jacking up their alert levels. I find that a little worrisome.”

“Ryan, what about those reports that we got about missing Soviet nuclear weapons?” Fowler asked. “Could that fit into this situation?”

“What missing nukes!” C
IN
C-SAC demanded. “Why the hell didn't I hear about that?”

“What kind of nukes?” Borstein asked a second later. 

“That was an unconfirmed report from a penetration agent. There are no details,” Ryan answered, then realized he had to press on. “The sum of the information received is this: We've been told that Narmonov has political problems with his military; that they are unhappy with the way he's doing things; that in the ongoing pullback from Germany, an unspecified number of nuclear weapons—probably tactical ones—have turned up missing; that KGB is conducting an operation to determine what, if anything, is missing. Supposedly Narmonov is personally concerned that he might be the target of political blackmail, and that the blackmail could have a nuclear dimension. But, and I must emphasize the but, we have been totally unable to confirm these reports, despite repeated attempts, and we are examining the possibility that our agent is lying to us.”

“Why didn't you tell us that?” Fowler asked.

“Mr. President, we're in the process of formulating our assessment now. The work is still on-going, sir, I mean, we've been doing it over the weekend.”

“Well, it sure as hell wasn't one of ours,” General Fremont said heatedly. “And it's no goddamned terrorist bomb, it's too goddamned big for that. Now you tell us that the Russians may have a short inventory. That's more than disturbing, Ryan.”

“And it could explain the increased alert level at PVO,” Borstein added ominously.

“Are you two telling me,” the President asked, “that this could have been a Soviet device?”

“There aren't all that many nuclear powers around,” Borstein replied first. “And the yield of this device is just too damned big for amateurs.”

“Wait a minute.” Jack jumped in again. “You have to remember that the facts we have here are very thin. There is a difference between information and speculation. You have to remember that.”

“How big are Soviet tactical nuclear weapons?” Liz Elliot wanted to know.

C
IN
C-SAC handled that one: “A lot like ours. They have little one-kiloton ones for artillery rounds, and they have warheads up to five hundred-KT left over from the SS-20s they did away with.”

“In other words, the yield of this explosion falls into the range of the Soviet warhead types that we have heard are missing?”

“Correct, Dr. Elliot,” General Fremont replied.

At
Camp David
, Elizabeth Elliot leaned back in her chair and turned to the President. She spoke too softly for the speaker-phone to catch her words.

“Robert, you were supposed to be at that game, along with Brent and Dennis.”

It was strange that he hadn't had that thought enter his mind yet, Fowler told himself. He, too, leaned back. “No,” he replied. “I cannot believe that the Russians would attempt such a thing.”

“What was that?” a voice on the speaker asked.

“Wait a minute,” the President said too quietly.

“Mr. President, I didn't catch what you said.”

“I said, wait a minute!” Fowler shouted. He put his hand over the speaker for a moment. “
Elizabeth
, it's our job to get control of this situation and we will. Let's try to put this personal stuff aside for the moment.”

“Mr. President, I want you on Kneecap just as fast as you can get there,” C
IN
C-SAC said. “This situation could be very serious indeed.”

“If we're going to get control, Robert, we must do it quickly.”

Fowler turned to the naval officer standing behind him. “When's the chopper due in?”

“Twenty-five minutes, sir, then thirty more to get you to Andrews for Kneecap.”

“Almost an hour . . .” Fowler looked at the wall clock, as people do when they know what time it is, know what time it will take to do something, and look at the clock anyway. “The radio links on the chopper aren't enough for this. Tell the chopper to take Vice President Durling to Kneecap. General Fremont?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“You have extra Kneecaps there, don't you?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“I'm sending the Vice President up on the primary. You send a spare down here. You can land it at
Hagerstown
, can't you?”

“Yes, sir, we can use the Fairchild-Republic airfield, where they used to build the A-10s.”

“Okay, do that. it'll take me an hour to get to Andrews, and I cannot afford to waste an hour. It's my job to settle this thing down, and I need that hour.”

“That, sir, is a mistake,”
Fremont
said in the coldest voice he had. It would take two hours to get the aircraft to central
Maryland
.

“That may be, but it's what I'm going to do. This is not a time for me to run away.”

Behind the President, Pete Connor and Helen D'Agustino traded a baleful look. They had no illusions on what would happen if there were a nuclear attack on the
United States
. Mobility was the President's best defense, and he had just thrown that away.

The radio message from
Camp David
went out at once. The Presidential helicopter was just crossing the Washington Beltway when it turned and went back southeast. It landed on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory. Vice President Roger Durling and his entire family jumped aboard. They didn't even bother strapping in. Secret Service agents, with their Uzi sub-machineguns out, knelt inside the aircraft. All Durling knew was what the Secret Service detail had told him. Durling told himself that he had to relax, that he had to keep his head. He looked at his youngest child, a boy only four years old. To be that age again, he'd thought only the day before, to be that age again and be able to grow up in a world where the chance of a major war no longer existed. All the horrors of his youth, the Cuban Missile Crisis that had marked his freshman year in college, his service as a platoon leader in the 82nd Airborne, a year of which had been in
Vietnam
. War experience made Durling a most unusual liberal politician. He hadn't run from it. He'd taken his chances and remembered having two men die in his arms. Just yesterday, he'd looked at his son and thanked God that he wouldn't have to know any of that.

And now, this. His son still didn't know anything more than that they were getting a surprise helicopter ride, and he loved to fly. His wife knew more, and there were tears streaming from her eyes as she stared back at him.

The Marine VH-3 touched down within fifty yards of the aircraft. The first Secret Service agent leaped off and saw a platoon of Air Force security police marking the way to the stairs. The Vice President was practically dragged towards them, while a burly agent picked up his young son and ran the distance. Two minutes later, before people had even strapped in, the pilot of the National Emergency Airborne Command Post—Kneecap—firewalled his engines and roared down runway, Zero-One Left. He headed east for the
Atlantic Ocean
, where a KC-10 tanker was already orbiting to top off the Boeing's tanks.

“We have a major problem here,” Ricks said in the maneuvering room.
Maine
had just tried to move. At any speed over three knots, the propeller screeched like a banshee. The shaft was slightly bent, but they'd live with that for a while. “All seven blades must be damaged. If we try for anything over three we make noise. Over five and we'll lose the shaft bearings in a matter of minutes. The outboard motor can give us two or three knots, but that's noisy too. Comments?” There were none. No one aboard doubted Ricks' engineering expertise. “Options?”

“Kinda thin, aren't they?” Dutch Claggett observed.

Maine
had to stay near the surface. At this alert level, she had to be ready to launch in minutes. Ordinarily they could have gone to a deeper depth, if for no other reason than to reduce the horrible motion the ship was taking right now from surface turbulence, but her reduced speed made coming up too time-consuming.

“How close is
Omaha
?” the chief engineer asked.

“Probably within a hundred miles, and there's P-3s at Kodiak—but we still have that Akula out there to worry about,” Claggett said. “Sir, we can hang tough right here and wait it out.”

“No, we have a hurt boomer. We need some kind of support.”

“That means radiating,” the XO pointed out.

“We'll use a SLOT buoy.”

“At two knots through the water, that doesn't buy us much, sir. Captain, radiating is a mistake.”

Ricks looked at his chief engineer, who said, “I like the idea of having a friend around.”

“So do I,” the Captain said. It didn't take long. The buoy was on the surface in seconds and immediately began broadcasting a short message in UHF. It was programmed to continue broadcasting for hours.

“We're going to have a nationwide panic on our hands,” Fowler said. That was not his most penetrating observation. He had a growing panic in his own command center, and knew it. “Is there anything coming out of
Denver
?”

“Nothing on any commercial TV or radio channel that I know of,” a voice at NORAD replied.

“Okay, you people stand by.” Fowler searched his panel for another button.

“
FBI
Command
Center
. Inspector O'Day speaking.”

“This is the President,” Fowler said unnecessarily. It was a direct line and the light on the FBI panel was neatly labeled. “Who's in charge down there?”

“I am Deputy Assistant Director Murray, Mr. President. I'm the senior man at the moment.”

“How are your communications?”

“They're okay, sir. We have access to the military commsats.”

“One thing we have to worry about is a nationwide panic. To prevent that, I want you to send people to all the TV network headquarters. I want your people to explain to them that they may not broadcast anything about this. If necessary, you are directed to use force to prevent it.”

Murray
didn't like that. “Mr. President, that is against—”

“I know the law, okay? I used to be a prosecutor. This is necessary to preserve life and order, and it will be done, Mr. Murray. That is a Presidential Order. Get to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

— 38 —

FIRST CONTACTS

The various communications-satellite operators were fiercely independent companies and very often ruthless competitors, but they were not enemies. Between them were agreements informally called treaties. There was always the possibility that one satellite or another could go down, whether from an internal breakdown or collision with space debris that was becoming a real worry for them. Accordingly, there were mutual-assistance agreements specifying that in the event one operator lost a bird, his associates would take up the slack, just as newspapers in the same city traditionally agreed to share printing facilities in the event of a fire or natural disaster. To back up these agreements, there were open phone lines between the various corporate headquarters. Intel-sat was the first to call Telstar.

“Bert, we just had two birds go down,” Intelsat's duty engineer reported in a slightly shaken voice. “What gives?”

“Shit, we just lost three, and Westar 4 and Teleglobe are down, too. We've had complete system failures here. Running checks now—you?”

“Same here, Bert. Any ideas?”

“None. We're talking like nine birds down, Stacy. Fuck!” The man paused. “Ideas? Wait a minute, getting something . . . okay, it's software. We're interrogating 301 now . . . they got spiked . . . Jesus! 301 got spiked on over a hundred freqs! Somebody just tried to zorch us.”

“That's how it looks here, too. But who?”

“Sure as hell wasn't a hacker . . . this would take megawatts to do that on just one channel.”

“Bert, that's exactly what I'm getting. Phone links, everything spiked at once. You in any hurry to light them back up?”

“You kidding me? I got a billion worth of hardware up there. Till I find out what the hell clobbered them, they stay down. I've got my senior VP on the way in now. The Pres was out in
Denver
,” Bert added.

“Mine, too, but my chief engineer is snowed in. Damned if I'm going to put my ass on the line. I think we should cooperate on this, Bert.”

“No arguments with me, Stace. I'll whistle up Fred Kent at Hughes and see what he thinks. It'll take a while for us to review everything and do full systems checks. I'm staying down until I know—and I mean know—what happened here. We got an industry to protect, man.”

“Agreed. I won't light back up without talking to you.”

“Keep me posted on anything you find out?”

“You got it, Bert. I'll be back to you in an hour, one way or another.”

The
Soviet Union
is a vast country, by far the largest in the world both in area and in the expanse of its borders. All of those borders are guarded, since both the current country and all its precursors have been invaded many times. Border defenses include the obvious—troop concentrations, airfields, and radar posts—and the subtle, like radio reception antennas. The latter were designed to listen in on radio and other electronic emissions. The information was passed on by landline or microwave links to
Moscow
Center
, the headquarters of the Committee for State Security, the KGB, at
#2 Dzerzhinskiy Square
. The KGB's Eighth Chief Directorate is tasked to communications intelligence and communications security. It has a long and distinguished history that has benefited from another traditional Russian strength, a fascination with theoretical mathematics. The relationship between ciphers and mathematics is a logical one, and the most recent manifestation of this was the work of a bearded, thirtyish gnome of a man who was fascinated with the work of Benoit Mandelbrot at
Harvard
University
, the man who had effectively invented fractal geometry. Uniting this work with that of MacKenzie's work on Chaos Theory at
Cambridge
University
in
England
, the young Russian genius had invented a genuinely new theoretical way of looking at mathematical formulae. It was generally conceded by that handful of people who understood what he was talking about that his work was easily worth a Planck Medal. It was an historical accident that his father happened to be a General in the KGB's Chief Border Guards Directorate, and that as a result the Committee for State Security had taken immediate note of his work. The mathematician now had everything a grateful Motherland could offer, and someday he'd probably have that Planck Medal also.