Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (116 page)

“Madman madman madman, smoke away!” the system operator called. He pushed a button to release a smoke float. In front, the pilot immediately turned left to set up another run. This he did, then a third, turning left each time.

“Okay, how's this look back there?” the pilot asked.

“Solid contact, nuclear-powered sub, positive Russian. I say let's do it this time.”

“Fair enough,” the pilot observed.

“Jesus!” the co-pilot muttered.

“Open the doors.”

“Coming open now. Safeties off, release is armed, weapon is hot.”

“Okay, I have it set,” the Tacco said. “Clear to drop.”

It was too easy. The pilot lined up on the smoke floats, which were almost perfectly in a row. He passed over the first, then the second, then the third . . .

“Dropping now-now-now! Torp away!” The pilot added power and climbed a few hundred feet.

The Mark 50 ASW torpedo dropped clear, retarded by a small parachute that automatically released when the fish hit the water. The new and very sophisticated weapon was powered by an almost noiseless propulsor instead of a propeller, and had been programmed to stay covert until it reached the target depth of five hundred feet.

It was just about time to slow down, Dubinin thought, another few thousand meters. His gamble, he felt, had been a good one. It seemed a wholly reasonable supposition that the American missile submarine would stay near the surface. If he'd guessed right, then by racing in just below the layer—he was running on one hundred ten meters—then surface noise would keep the Americans from hearing him, and he could conduct the remainder of the search more covertly. He was about to congratulate himself for a good tactical decision.

“Torpedo sonar on the starboard bow!” Lieutenant Rykov screamed from sonar.  

“Rudder left! Ahead flank! Where is the torpedo?”

Rykov: “Depression angle fifteen! Below us!”

“Emergency surface! Full rise on the planes! New course three-zero-zero!” Dubinin dashed into sonar.

“What the hell?”

Rykov was pale. “I can't hear screws . . . just that damned sonar . . . looking away—no, it's in acquisition now!”

Dubinin turned: “Countermeasures—three—now!”

“Cans away!”

Admiral Lunin
's countermeasures operators rapidly fired off
three fifteen
-centimeter cans of gas-generating material. These filled the water with bubbles, making a target for the torpedo, but one that didn't move. The Mark 50 had already sensed the submarine's presence and was turning in.

“Coming through one hundred meters,” the Starpom called. “Speed twenty-eight knots.”

“Level off at fifteen, but don't be afraid of broaching.”

“Understood! Twenty-nine knots.”

“Lost it, the curve in the towed array just ruined our reception.” Rykov's hands went up in frustration.

“Then we must be patient,” Dubinin said. It wasn't much of a joke, but the sonar crew loved him for it.

“The Orion just engaged the inbound, sir, just picked up an ultrasonic sonar, very faint, bearing two-four-zero. It's one of ours, it's a Mark 50, sir.”

“That ought to take care of him,” Ricks observed. “Thank God.”

“Passing through fifty meters, leveling out, ten degrees on the planes. Speed thirty-one.”

“Countermeasures didn't work . . .” Rykov said. The towed array was straightening out, and the torpedo was still back there.

“No propeller noises?”

“None . . . I should be able to hear them even at this speed.”

“Must be one of their new ones . . .”

“The Mark 50? It's supposed to be a very clever little fish.”

“We will see about that. Yevgeniy, remember the surface action?” Dubinin smiled.

The Starpom did a superb job of maintaining control, but the thirty-foot seas guaranteed that the submarine would broach—break the surface—as the waves and troughs swept overhead. The torpedo was a scant three hundred meters behind when the Akula leveled out. The American Mark 50 anti-submarine torpedo was not a smart weapon, but a “brilliant” one. It had identified and ignored the countermeasures Dubinin had ordered only minutes before, and, using a powerful ultrasonic sonar, was now looking for the sub in order to conclude its mission. But here physical laws intervened in favor of the Russians. It is widely believed that sonar reflects off the metal hull of a ship, but this is not true. Rather, sonar reflects off the air inside a submarine, or more precisely off the border of water and air through which the sound energy cannot pass. The Mark 50 was programmed to identify these air-water boundaries as ships. As the torpedo rocketed after its prey, it began to see immense ship-shapes stretching as far as its sonar could reach. Those were waves. Though the weapon had been programmed to ignore a flat surface and thus avoid a problem called “surface capture,” its designers had not addressed the problem of a heavy, rolling sea. The Mark 50 selected the nearest such shape, raced towards it—

—and sprang into clear air like a leaping salmon. It crashed into the back of the next wave, reacquired the same immense target shape—

—and leaped again. This time the torpedo hit at a slight angle. Dynamic forces caused it to turn and race north inside the body of a wave, sensing huge ships both left and right. It turned left, springing into the air yet again, but this time it hit the next wave hard enough to detonate its contact fuse.

“That was close!” Rykov said.

“No, not close, perhaps a thousand meters, but probably more.” The Captain leaned into the control room. “Slow to five knots, down to thirty meters.”

“We hit it?”

“I don't know, sir,” the operator said. “He went shallow in a hurry, and the fish went charging up after him, circled around some—” the sonarman traced his finger on the display. “Then it exploded here, close to where the Akula disappeared into the surface noise. Can't say—no break-up noises, sir, I have to call it a miss.”

“Bearing and distance to the target?” Dubinin asked.

“Roughly nine thousand meters, bearing zero-five-zero,” the Starpom replied. “What is the plan now, Captain?”

“We will locate and destroy the target,” said Captain First Rank Valentin Borissovich Dubinin.

“But—”

“We have been attacked. Those bastards tried to kill us!”

“That was an aerial weapon,” the executive officer pointed out.

“I heard no airplane. We have been attacked. We will defend ourselves.”

“Well?”

Inspector Pat O'Day was making furious notes. American Airlines, like all the major carriers, had its ticket information on computer. With a ticket number and flight numbers, he could track anyone down. “Okay,” he told the woman on the other end. “Wait a minute.” O'Day turned. “Dan, there were only six first-class tickets on that flight from Denver to Dallas-Fort Worth, the flight was nearly empty—but it hasn't taken off yet because of ice and snow in Dallas. We have the names for two other first-class passengers who changed to a
Miami
flight. Now, the
Dallas
connection was for
Mexico City
. The two who changed through
Miami
were also booked on a DC-10 out of
Miami
into
Mexico City
. That plane's off, one hour out of
Mexico
.”

“Turn it around?”

“They say they can't because of fuel.”

“One hour—Christ!”
Murray
swore.

O'Day ran a large hand over his face. As scared as everyone else in America—more so, since everyone in the command center had informed reason to be frightened—Inspector Patrick Sean O'Day was trying mightily to set everything aside and concentrate on whatever he had at hand. It was too slim and too circumstantial to be considered hard evidence as yet. He'd seen too many coincidences in his twenty years with the Bureau. He'd also seen major cases break on thinner stuff than this. You ran with what you had, and they had this.

“Dan, I—”

A messenger came in from the Records Division. She handed over two files to
Murray
. The deputy assistant director opened the Russell file first, rummaging for the
Athens
photo. Next he took out the most recent photo of Ismael Qati. He set both next to the passport photos just faxed in from
Denver
.

“What do you think, Pat?”

“The passport one of this guy still looks thin for Mr. Qati . . . cheekbones and eyes are right, mustache isn't. He's losing hair, too, if this is him . . .”

“Go with the eyes?”

“The eyes are right, Dan, the nose—yeah, it's him. Who's this other mutt?”

“No names, just these frames from
Athens
. Fair skin, dark hair, well-groomed. Haircut's right, hairline is right.” He checked the descriptive data on the license and passport. “Height, little guy, build—it fits, Pat.”

“I agree, I agree about eighty percent worth, man. Who's the Legal Attache in
Mexico City
?”

“Bernie Montgomery—shit! he's in town to meet with Bill.”

“Try
Langley
?”

“Yeah.”
Murray
lifted his CIA line. “Where's Ryan?”

“Right here, Dan. What gives?”

“We have something. First, a guy named Marvin Russell, Sioux Indian, member of the Warrior Society, he dropped out of sight last year, somewhere in
Europe
, we thought. He turned up with his throat cut in
Denver
today. There were two people with him, they flew out. One, we have a picture but no name. The other may be Ismael Qati.”

That bastard!
“Where are they?”

“We think they're aboard an American Airlines flight from
Miami
to
Mexico City
, first-class tickets, about an hour out from the terminal.”

“And you think there's a connection?”

“A vehicle registered to Marvin Russell, a/k/a Robert Friend of
Roggen
,
Colorado
, was on the stadium grounds. We have fake IDs from two people, probably Qati and the unknown subject, recovered from the murder scene. There's plenty enough to arrest on suspicion of murder.”

Yeah, Jack thought. Had the situation not been so horrible, Ryan would have laughed at that. “Murder, eh? You going to try and make the arrest?”

“Unless you have a better idea.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I do. Hold on for a minute.” He lifted another phone and dialed the United States Embassy in
Mexico City
. “This is Ryan calling for the Station Chief. Tony? Jack Ryan here. Is
Clark
still there? Good, put him on.”

“Jesus, Jack, what the hell is—” Ryan cut him off.

“Shut up, John. I have something for you to do. We have two people coming in to the airport there on an American flight from
Miami
, due in about an hour. We'll fax you the photos in a few minutes. We think they might be involved in this.”

“So, it's a terrorist gig?”

“Best thing we have, John. We want those two, and we want them fast.”

“Might be a problem from the local cops, Jack,”
Clark
warned. “I can't exactly have a shoot-out down here.”

“Is the ambassador in?”

“I think so.”

“Transfer me over and stand by.”

“Right.”

“Ambassador's office,” a female voice said.

“This is CIA Headquarters, and I need the Ambassador right now!”

“Surely.” The secretary was a cool one, Ryan thought.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Mr. Ambassador, this is Jack Ryan, Deputy Director of CIA—”

“This is an open phone line.”

“I know that! Shut up and listen. There are two people coming into
Mexico City
airport in an American Airlines flight from
Miami
. We need to pick them up and get them back here just as fast as we can.”

“Our people?”

“No, we think they're terrorists.”

“That means arresting them, clearing it through the local legal system and—”

“We don't have time for that!”

“Ryan, we can't strong-arm these people, they won't stand for it.”

“Mr. Ambassador, I want you to call the President of Mexico right now, and I want you to tell him that we need his cooperation—it's life-and-death, okay? If he doesn't agree immediately, I want you to tell him this, and I need you to write it down. Tell him that we know about his retirement plan. Okay? Use those exact words, We know about his retirement plan.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you say exactly that, do you understand?”

“Look, I don't like playing games and—”

“Mr. Ambassador, if you do not do exactly what I'm telling you, I will have one of my people render you unconscious and then have the DCM make the call.”

“You can't threaten me like that!”

“I just did, pal, and if you think I'm kidding, you just fucking try me!”

“Temper, Jack,” Ben Goodley cautioned.

Ryan looked away from the phone. “Sir, excuse me. It's very tense here, okay, we've had a nuclear device go off in
Denver
, and this may be the best lead we have. Look, there isn't time for niceties. Please. Play along with me. Please.”

“Very well.”

Ryan let out a breath. “Okay. Tell him also that one of our people, a Mr. Clark, will be at the airport security office in a few minutes. Mr. Ambassador, I cannot emphasize enough how important this is. Please do it now.”

“I'll do it. You'd better calm down up there,” the career foreign-service officer advised.

“We're trying very hard, sir. Please have your secretary transfer me back to the Station Chief. Thank you.” Ryan looked over to Goodley. “Just hit me over the fucking head if you feel the need, Ben.”

“
Clark
.”

“We're faxing some photos down, along with their names and seat assignments. Okay, you are to check in with the airport security boss before you grab 'em. You still have the airplane down there?”

“Right.”

“When you have 'em, get 'em aboard, and get 'em the hell up here.”

“Okay, Jack. We're on it.”

Ryan killed the line and picked up on
Murray
. “Fax the data you have to our Station Chief Mexico. I have two field officers on the scene, good ones, Clark and Chavez.”

“
Clark
?”
Murray
asked, as he handed the fax information to Pat O'Day. “The same one who—”

“That's the man.”

“I wish him luck.”