Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (109 page)

“The best thing is to say that we have no knowledge of this incident,” Elliot said. “If we admit knowledge, we have to assume some responsibility.”

“This is a singularly bad time to lie,” Ryan said forcefully. Even he thought he was overdoing it. They won't listen to you if you shout, Jack, boy . . .

“Tell that to Narmonov,” Elliot shot back. “They attacked us, remember?”

“So the reports say, but—”

“Ryan, are you saying our people lied?” Borstein snarled from
Cheyenne
Mountain
.

“No, General, but at times like this the news is chancy, and you know that as well as I do!”

“If we deny knowledge, we can avoid taking a stand that we might have to back down from, and we avoid challenging them for the moment,” the National Security Advisor insisted. “Why are they bringing this up now?” she asked.

“Mr. President, you used to be a prosecutor,” Ryan said. “You know how unreliable eyewitness accounts can be. Narmonov could be asking that question in good faith. My advice is to answer it honestly.” Jack turned to Goodley, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“Robert, we're not dealing with civilians, we're dealing with professional soldiers, and they ought to be good observers. Narmonov is accusing us of something we didn't do,” Elliot countered. “Soviet troops do not initiate combat operations without orders. Therefore, he must know that his accusation is false. If we admit knowledge, we will appear to admit his charge is true. I don't know what game he's playing—whoever that is at the other end of the line—but if we simply say we don't know what he's talking about, we buy ourselves time.”

“I strongly disagree with that,” Jack said, as calmly as he could manage.

P
RESIDENT
N
ARMONOV
:

A
S YOU KNOW,
I
AM MAINLY CONCERNED WITH EVENTS WITHIN OUR OWN BORDERS.
I
HAVE AS YET NO INFORMATION FROM
B
ERLIN
.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY.
I
JUST ORDERED MY PEOPLE TO CHECK INTO IT.

“Opinions?”

“The bastard's lying through his teeth,” the Defense Minister said. “Their communications system is too good for that.”

“Robert, Robert, why do you lie when I know you are lying . . . ?” Narmonov said, his head down. The Soviet president now had his own questions to ask. Over the past two or three months, his contacts with
America
had grown slightly cold. When he asked for some additional credits, he was put off. The Americans were insisting on full compliance with the arms-reduction agreement, even though they knew what the problem was, and even though he'd given Fowler his word face-to-face that everything would be done. What had changed? Why had Fowler retreated from his promises? What the hell was he doing now?

“It's more than just a lie, more than just this lie,” the Defense Minister observed, after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“He has emphasized again that his interest is in rescue of casualties in the
Denver
area, but we know he has placed his strategic forces on full alert. Why has he not told us of this?”

“Because he is afraid of provoking us . . . ?” Narmonov asked. His words seemed rather hollow even to himself.

“Possibly,” Defense admitted. “But they do not know the success we've had reading their codes. Perhaps they think they have concealed this from us.”

“No,” Kuropatkin said in his command center. “I must disagree with that. We could hardly fail to see some of these indicators. They should know that we are aware of some aspects of their strategic alert.”

“But not all.” The Defense Minister turned to stare at Narmonov. “We must face the possibility that the American president is no longer rational.”

“The first time?” Fowler asked.

Elizabeth Elliot nodded. She was quite pale now. “It's not widely known, Robert, but it is true. The Russians have never placed their Strategic Rocket Forces on alert. Until now.”

“Why now?” the President asked.

“Robert, the only thing that makes sense is that it isn't Narmonov over there.”

“But how can we be sure?”

“We can't. All we have is this computer link. There's no voice link, no visual link.”

“Dear God.”

— 40 —

COLLISIONS

“Ryan, how do we know it's really Narmonov over there?”

“Mr. President, who else would it be?”

“God damn it, Ryan! You're the one who brought me the reports!”

“Mr. President, you have to settle down,” Jack said, in a voice that wasn't particularly calm. “Yes, I brought you that information, and I also told you it was unconfirmed, and I just told you a few minutes ago that we have reason to believe that it may not ever have been true at all.”

“Can't you see your own data? You're the one who warned us that there might be some missing nukes!” Elliot pointed out. “Well, they turned up—they turned up here, right where we were supposed to be!”

Christ, she's even more rattled than he is
, Helen D'Agustino told herself. She traded a look with Pete Connor, who was pasty-white. This is going too fast.

“Look, Liz, I keep telling you that our information is too damned thin. We don't have enough to make any kind of informed judgment here.”

“But why have they gone on nuclear alert?”

“For the same reason that we have!” Ryan shouted back. “Maybe if both sides would back off—”

“Ryan, don't tell me what to do,” Fowler said quietly. “What I want from you is information. We make the decisions here.”

Jack turned away from the speaker-phone. Now he was losing it, Goodley thought, now Ryan was pale and sick-looking. The Deputy Director of Central Intelligence stared out the windows at the CIA courtyard and the largely empty building beyond. He took a few deep breaths and turned back.

“Mr. President,” Jack said under taut control, “our opinion is that President Narmonov is in control of the Soviet government. We do not know the origin of the explosion in
Denver
, but there is no information in our possession that would lead us to believe that it was a Soviet weapon. Our opinion is that for the Soviets to undertake such an operation would be lunacy, and even if their military were in control—after a coup about which we have no information at all, sir—such a miscalculation is unlikely to the point of—the likelihood is so low as to approach zero, sir. That is CIA's position.”

“And Kadishev?” Fowler asked.

“Sir, we have evidence just developed yesterday and today to suggest that his reports may be false. We cannot confirm one of the meetings that should—”

“One? You can't confirm one meeting?” Elliot asked.

“Will you let me talk?” Jack snarled, losing it again. “Damn it, it was Goodley who did this work, not me!” He paused for a breath. “Dr. Goodley noted some subtle differences in the nature of the reports and decided to check up on them. All of Kadishev's reports supposedly came from face-to-face meetings with Narmonov. In one case we cannot reconcile the schedules of both men. We cannot be sure they met in that case at all. If they didn't meet, then Kadishev is a liar.”

“I suppose you've considered the possibility that they met in secret?” Elliot inquired acidly. “Or do you think that a subject like this would be handled as a routine business matter! Do you think he'd be discussing a possible coup in a routine scheduled meeting!”

“I keep telling you that his information has never been confirmed, not by us, not by the Brits, not by anybody.”

“Ryan, would you expect that a conspiracy leading to a military coup, especially in a country like the
Soviet Union
, would be handled in the utmost secrecy?” Fowler asked.

“Of course.”

“Then would you necessarily expect to have it confirmed by other sources?” Fowler asked, talking like a lawyer in a courtroom.

“No, sir,” Ryan admitted.

“Then this is the best information we have, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mr. President, if it's true.”

“You say that you have no firm evidence to confirm it?”

“Correct, Mr. President.”

“But you have no hard information to contradict it, either, do you?”

“Sir, we have reasons—”

“Answer my question!”

Ryan's right hand compressed into a tight, white fist. “No, Mr. President, nothing hard.”

“And for the past few years he's given us good, reliable information?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, based on the record of Mr. Kadishev, this is the best available information?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. I suggest, Dr. Ryan, that you try to develop additional information. When you get it, I'll listen to it.” The line clicked off.

Jack stood slowly. His legs were stiff and sore from the stress of the moment. He took one step to the window and lit a cigarette. “I blew it,” he told the world. “Oh, Christ, I've blown it . . .”

“Not your fault, Jack,” Goodley offered.

Jack spun around. “That'll look real good on my fucking tombstone, won't it? 'It wasn't his fault' the fucking world blew up!”

“Come on, Jack, it's not that bad.”

“Think so? Did you hear their voices?”

The Soviet carrier Kuznetzov didn't launch aircraft in the manner of
U.S.
carriers. Rather, it had a ski-jump bow configuration. The first MiG-29 raced forward from its starting point and went up the angled ramp and into the air. This manner of takeoff was hard on pilots and aircraft, but it worked. Another aircraft followed, and both turned to head east. They'd barely gotten to altitude when the flight leader noted a buzz in his headphones.

“Sounds like an emergency beeper on the guard frequency,” he said to his wingman. “Sounds like one of ours.”

“Da, east-south-east. It is one of ours. Who do you suppose it is?”

“I have no idea.” The flight leader passed this information on to Kuznetzov, and received instructions to investigate.

*     *     *

“This is Falcon-Two,” the Hawkeye reported. “We have two inbounds from the Russkie carrier, fast movers, bearing three-one-five and two-five-zero miles from Stick.”

Captain Richards looked at the tactical display. “Spade, this is Stick. Close and warn them off.”

“Roger,”
Jackson
replied. He'd just topped his fuel tanks off.
Jackson
could stay up for another three hours or so, and he still carried six missiles.

“'Warn them off?'” Lieutenant Walter asked.

“Shredder, I don't know what's going on, either.”
Jackson
brought the stick around. Sanchez did the same, again splitting out to a wide interval.

The two pairs of aircraft flew on reciprocal courses at a closing speed of just under a thousand miles an hour. Four minutes later, both Tomcats went active on their radars. Ordinarily that would have alerted the Russians to the fact that American fighters were in the area, and that the area might not be totally healthy. But the new American radars were stealthy, and were not picked up.

It turned out that this didn't matter. A few seconds later, the Russians activated their own radar systems.

“Two fighters coming in towards us!”

The Russian flight leader checked his own radar display and frowned. The two MiGs were only supposed to be guarding their own task force. The alert had come in, and the fighters went up. Now he was on what might be a rescue mission, and had no particular desire to play foolish games with American aircraft, especially at night. He knew that the Americans knew he was about.

His threat receiver did detect the emanations from their airborne early-warning aircraft. “Come right,” he ordered. “Down to one thousand meters to look for that beeper.” He'd leave his radar on, however, to show that he didn't wish to be trifled with.

“They're evading to the left, going down.”

“Bud, you have the lead,”
Jackson
said. Sanchez had the most missiles. Robby would cover his tail.

“Stick, this is Falcon-Two, both inbounds are breaking south and diving for the deck.”

As Richards watched, the course vectors changed on both inbound aircraft. Their course tracks were not actually converging with the
Roosevelt
group at the moment, though they would be coming fairly close.

“What are they up to?”

“Well, they don't know where we are, do they?” the Operations Officer pointed out. Their radars are on, though."

“Looking for us, then?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Well, now we know where the other four came from.” Captain Richards picked up the mike to talk to Jackson and Sanchez.

“Splash 'em,” was the order. Robby took high cover. Sanchez went down, pulling behind and below both MiGs.

“I've lost the Americans.”

“Forget them! We're looking for a rescue beeper, remember?” The flight leader craned his neck. “Is that a strobe light? On the surface at
two o'clock
. . . ?”

“I have it.”

“Follow me down!”

“Evading, down and right!” Bud called. “Engaging now.”

He was a bare two thousand yards aft of the MiGs. Sanchez selected a Sidewinder and lined his aircraft up on the “south guy,” the trailing wingman. As the Tomcat continued to close, the pilot got the warbling tone in his earphones, and triggered off his missile. The AIM-9M Sidewinder leaped off its launch rail, straight into the starboard engine of the MiG-29, which exploded. Barely had that happened when Sanchez triggered off a second 'Winder.

“Splash one.”

“What the hell!” The flight leader caught the flash out the comer of his eye and turned to see his wingman's aircraft heading down before a trail of yellow. He wrenched his stick left, his throttle hand punching the flare/chaff-release button, as his eyes searched the darkness for his attacker.

Sanchez's second missile missed right. It didn't matter. He was still tracking, and the MiG's turn brought the target right into the path of his 2omm cannon. One quick burst detached part of the MiG's wing. The pilot barely ejected in time. Sanchez watched the chute deploy. A minute later, as he orbited overhead, he saw that both Russians seemed to have survived the incident. That was fine with Bud.

“Splash two. Stick, we have two good chutes on the splashes . . . wait a minute, there's three strobes down there,”
Jackson
called. He gave the position, and almost instantly a helicopter lifted off from Theodore Roosevelt.