Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (114 page)

“What sort of advice is Fowler getting?”

“I don't know,” Golovko admitted. “Secretaries Talbot and Bunker are both dead. Both were watching the football match—Defense Secretary Bunker was the owner of one of the teams, in fact. The Director of CIA is either still in
Japan
or on his way back from there.”

“The Deputy Director is Ryan, correct?”

“That is true.”

“I know him. He is not a fool.”

“No, he is not, but he is also being dismissed. Fowler dislikes him, and we have learned that Ryan has been asked to resign. Therefore, I cannot say who is advising President Fowler, except for Elizabeth Elliot, the National Security Advisor, with whom our ambassador is not impressed.”

“You tell me, then, that this weak, vain man is probably not getting good advice from anyone?”

“Yes.”

“That explains much.” Narmonov leaned back and closed his eyes. “So, I am the only one who can give him good advice, but he probably thinks I am the one who killed his city. Splendid.” It was perhaps the most penetrating analysis of the night, but wrong.

P
RESIDENT
F
OWLER
:

F
IRST OF ALL,
I
HAVE DISCUSSED THIS MATTER WITH MY MILITARY COMMANDERS AND HAVE BEEN ASSURED THAT NO
S
OVIET ATOMIC WARHEAD IS MISSING.

S
ECOND, WE HAVE MET, YOU AND
I
, AND
I
HOPE YOU KNOW THAT
I
WOULD NEVER HAVE GIVEN SUCH A CRIMINAL ORDER AS THIS.

T
HIRD, ALL OF OUR ORDERS TO OUR MILITARY FORCES HAVE BEEN OF A DEFENSIVE NATURE.
I
HAVE AUTHORIZED NO OFFENSIVE ACTION WHATEVER.

F
OURTH,
I
HAVE ALSO MADE INQUIRIES WITH OUR INTELLIGENCE SERVICES, AND
I
REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT WE TOO HAVE NO IDEA WHO COULD HAVE COMMITTED THIS INHUMAN ACT.
W
E WILL WORK TO CHANGE THAT, AND ANY INFORMATION WE DEVELOP WILL BE SENT TO YOU AT ONCE.

M
R.
P
RESIDENT,
I
WILL GIVE NO FURTHER ORDERS TO MY FORCES OF ANY KIND UNLESS PROVOKED.
T
HE
S
OVIET MILITARY IS IN A DEFENSIVE POSTURE AND WILL REMAIN SO.

“Oh, God,” Elliot rasped. “How many lies do we have here?” Her finger traced down the computer screen.

"One, we know that they have missing warheads. That is a lie.

"Two, why is he stressing the fact that it's really him, that you two met in
Rome
? Why bother doing that unless he thinks that we suspect it's not Narmonov at all? The real guy wouldn't do that, he wouldn't have to, would he? Probably a lie.

"Three, we know that they've attacked us in
Berlin
. That's a lie.

"Four, he brings up the KGB for the first time. I wonder why. What if they actually have a cover plan . . . after intimidating us—beautiful, after intimidating us, they offer us their cover plan, and we have to buy it.

“Five, now he's warning us not to provoke him. They're in a 'defensive posture,' eh? Some posture.” Liz paused. “Robert, this is spin-control pure and simple. He's trying to take us out.”

“That's the way I read it, too. Comments, anyone?”

“The non-provocation statement is troubling,” C
IN
C-SAC replied. General Fremont was watching his status boards. He now had ninety-six bombers in the air, and over a hundred tankers. His missile fields were on line. The Defense Support Program satellites had their Cassegrain-focus telescopic cameras zoomed in on the Soviet missile fields instead of on wide-field scanning mode. “Mr. President, there is something we need to discuss right about now.”

“What is that, General?”

Fremont
spoke in his best calm-professional voice. "Sir, the builddown of the respective strategic-missile forces on both sides has affected the calculus of a nuclear strike. Before, when we had over a thousand ICBMs, neither we nor the Soviets ever expected that a disarming first-strike was a real strategic possibility. It just demanded too much. Things are different now. Improvements in missile technology plus the reduction in the number of fixed high-value targets now means that such a strike is a theoretical possibility. Add to that Soviet delays in deactivating their older SS-18s to comply with the strategic-arms treaty, and we have what may well be a strategic posture on their part in which such a strike may be an attractive option. Remember that we've been reducing our missile stocks faster than they. Now, I know that Narmonov gave you a personal assurance that he'd be fully in compliance with the treaty in four more weeks, but those missile regiments are still active as far as we can tell.

“Now,”
Fremont
went on, “if that intelligence you have that Narmonov was being threatened by his military is correct—well, sir, the situation is pretty clear, isn't it?”

“Make it clearer, General,” Fowler said, so quietly that C
IN
C-SAC barely heard him.

“Sir, what if Dr. Elliot is right, what if they really expected you to be at the game? Along with Secretary Bunker, I mean. The way our command-and-control works, that would have severely crippled us. I'm not saying they would have attacked, but certainly they would have been in a position, while denying responsibility for the Denver explosion, to—well, to announce their change in government in such a way as to prevent us, by simple intimidation, from acting against them. That's bad enough. But they've missed their target, so to speak, haven't they? Okay, now what are they thinking? They may be thinking that you suspect that they've done this thing, and that you're angry enough to retaliate in one way or another. If they're thinking that, sir, they might also be thinking that their best way of protecting themselves is to disarm us quickly. Mr. President, I'm not saying that they are thinking that way, but that they might be.” And a cold evening grew colder still.

“And how do we stop them from launching, General?” Fowler asked.

“Sir, the only thing that will keep them from launching is the certainty that the strike will not work. That's particularly true if we're dealing with their military. They're good. They're smart. They're rational. They think before they act, like all good soldiers. If they know we're ready to shoot at the first hint of an attack, then that attack becomes militarily futile, and it will not be initiated.”

*      *      *

“That's good advice, Robert,” Elliot said.

“What's NORAD think?” Fowler asked. The President didn't think to consider that he was asking a two-star general to evaluate the opinion of a four-star.

“Mr. President, if we are to get some rationality back into this situation, that would appear to be the way to do it.”

“Very well. General Fremont, what do you propose?”

“Sir, at this point, we can advance our strategic-forces readiness to DEFCON-ONE. The codeword for that is S
NAPCOUNT
. At that point we are at maximum readiness.”

“Won't that provoke them?”

“Mr. President, no, it should not. Two reasons. First, we are already at a high state of alert, they know it, and while they are clearly concerned, they have not objected in any way. That's the one sign of rationality we've seen to this point. Second, they won't know until we tell them that we've upped things a notch. We don't have to tell them until they do something provocative.”

Fowler sipped at his newest cup of coffee. He'd have to visit the bathroom soon, he realized.

“General, I'm going to hold off on that. Let me think that one over for a few minutes.”

“Very well, sir.”
Fremont
's voice did not reveal any overt disappointment, but a thousand miles from
Camp David
, C
IN
C-SAC turned to look at his Deputy Chief of Staff (Operations).

“What is it?” Parsons asked. There was nothing more for him to do at the moment. Having made his urgent phone call, and having decided to let his fellow NEST team members handle the lab work, he'd decided to assist the doctors. He'd brought instruments to evaluate the radiation exposure to the firefighters and handful of survivors, something in which the average physician has little expertise. The situation was not especially cheerful. Of the seven people who had survived the explosion at the stadium, five already showed signs of extreme radiation sickness. Parsons evaluated their exposures at anywhere from four hundred to over a thousand Rems. Six hundred was the maximum exposure normally compatible with survival, though, with heroic treatment, higher exposures had been survived. If one called living another year or two with three or four varieties of cancer breaking out in one's body “survival.” The last one, fortunately, seemed to have the least. He was still cold, though his hands and face were badly burned, but he hadn't vomited yet. He was also quite deaf.

It was a young man, Parsons saw. The clothing in the bag next to his bed included a handgun and a badge—a cop. He also held something in his hand, and when the boy looked up, he saw the FBI agent standing next to the NEST leader.

Officer Pete Dawkins was deep in shock, nearly insensate. His shaking came both from being cold and wet, and from the aftermath of more terror than any man had ever faced and survived. His mind had divided itself into three or four separate areas, all of which were operating along different paths and at different speeds, and none of them were particularly sane or coherent. What held part of one such area together was training. While Parsons ran some sort of instrument over the clothing he'd worn only a short time before, Dawkins' damaged eyes saw standing next to him another man in a blue plastic wind-breaker. On the sleeves and over the chest were printed “FBI.” The young officer sprang upwards, disconnecting himself from the IV line. That caused both a doctor and a nurse to push him back down, but Dawkins fought them with the strength of madness, holding out his hand to the agent.

Special Agent Bill Clinton was also badly shaken. Only the vagaries of scheduling had saved his life. He, too, had had a ticket for the game, but he'd had to give it to another member of his squad. From that misfortune, which had enraged the young agent only four days earlier, his life had been spared. What he'd seen at the stadium had stunned him. His exposure to radiation—only forty Rems, according to Parsons—terrified him, but
Clinton
, too, was a cop, and he took the paper from Dawkins' hand.

It was, he saw, a list of cars. One was circled and had a question-mark scribbled next to the license plate.

“What's this mean?”
Clinton
asked, leaning past a nurse who was trying to restart Dawkins' IV line.

“Van,” the man gasped, not hearing, but knowing the question. “Got in . . . asked Sarge to check it out, but—south side, by the TV trucks. ABC van, little one, two guys, I let them in. Not on my list.”

“South side, does that mean anything?”
Clinton
asked Parsons.

“That's where it was.” Parsons leaned down. “What did they look like, the two men?” He gestured at the paper, then pointed at himself and Clinton.

“White, both thirties, ordinary . . . said they came from
Omaha
. . . with a tape machine. Thought it was funny they came from
Omaha
. . . told Sergeant Yankevich . . . went to check it out right before.”

“Look,” a doctor said, “this man is in very bad shape, and I have to—”

“Back off,”
Clinton
said.

“Did you look in the truck?”

Dawkins only stared. Parsons grabbed a piece of paper and drew a truck on it, stabbing at the picture with his pencil.

Dawkins nodded, on the edge of consciousness. “Big box, three feet 'Sony' printed on it—they said it was a tape deck. Truck from
Omaha
.. . but—” he pointed at the list.

Clinton
looked. “
Colorado
tags!”

“I let it in,” Dawkins said just before he collapsed.

“Three-foot box . . .” Parsons said quietly.

“Come on.”
Clinton
ran out of the emergency room. The nearest phone was at the admitting desk. All four were being used.
Clinton
took one right out of the hand of an admitting clerk, hung up and cleared the line.

“What are you doing!”

“Shut up!” the agent commanded. “I need Hoskins . . . Walt, this is
Clinton
at the hospital. I need you to run a tag number.
Colorado
E-R-P-five-two-zero. Suspicious van at the stadium. Two men were driving it, white, thirties, ordinary-looking. The witness is a cop, but now he's passed out.”

“Okay. Who's with you?”

“Parsons, the NEST guy.”

“Get down here—no, stay put, but keep this line open.” Hoskins put that line on hold, then dialed another from memory. It was for the Colorado Department of Motor Vehicles. This is the FBI, I need a quick tag check. Your computer up?"

“Yes, sir,” a female voice assured him.

“Edward Robert Paul Five Two Zero.” Hoskins looked down at his desk. Why did that sound familiar?

“Very well.” Hoskins heard the tapping. “Here we go, that's a brand-new van registered to Mr. Robert Friend of Roggen. You need the license number for Mr. Friend?”

“Christ,” Hoskins said.

“Excuse me, sir?” He read off the number. “That's correct.”

“Can you check two other license numbers?”

“Surely.” He read them off. “First one's an incorrect number . . . so's the second—wait a minute, these numbers are just like—”

“I know. Thank you.” Hoskins set the phone down. “Okay, Walt, think fast. . . .” First he needed more information from
Clinton
.

“
Murray
.”

“Dan, this is Walt Hoskins. Something just came in you need to know.”

“Shoot.”

“Our friend Marvin Russell parked a van at the stadium. The NEST guy says that the place where he parked it is pretty close to where the bomb went off. There was at least one—no, wait a minute—okay. There was one other guy in there with him, and the other one must have been driving the rental car. Okay. Inside the van was a large box. The van was painted up like an ABC vehicle, but Russell was found dead a couple miles away. So, he must have dropped off the van and left. Dan, this looks like how the bomb might have gotten there.”

“What else do you have, Walt?”

“I have passport photos and other ID for two other people.”

“Fax 'em.”

“On the way.” Hoskins left for the communications room. On the way he grabbed another agent. “Get the
Denver
homicide guys who're working the Russell case—wherever they are, get 'em on the phone real fast.”