Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (35 page)

Martin blinked, not knowing why that had come up, but he told the story anyway. “They even made a bad movie about it. Some civil-rights workers got popped by the local Klukkers. Two of them were local cops, too, and the case wasn't going anywhere, so the Bureau got involved under interstate commerce and civil rights statutes. Dan Murray and I were rookies back then. I was in
Buffalo
at the time. He was in Philly. They brought us down to work with Big Joe Fitzgerald. He was one of
Hoover
's roving inspectors. I was there when they found the bodies. Nasty,” Martin said, remembering the sight and the horrid smell. “All they wanted to do was to get citizens registered to vote, and they got killed for it, and the local cops weren't doing anything about it. It's funny, but when you see that sort of thing, it isn't abstract anymore. It isn't a document or a case study or a form to fill out. It just gets real as hell when you look at bodies that've been in the ground for two weeks. Those Klukker bastards broke the law and killed fellow citizens who were doing something the Constitution says isn't just okay—it's a right. So, we got 'em, and put 'em all away.”

“Why, Mr. Martin?” Jack asked. The response was exactly what he expected.

“Because I swore an oath, Mr. President. That's why.” “So did I, Mr. Martin.” And it wasn't to any goddamned game.

T
HE CUEING WAS
somewhat equivocal. The Iraqi military used hundreds of radio frequencies, mainly FM VHP bands, and the traffic, while unusual for the overall situation, was routine in its content. There were thousands of messages, as many as fifty going at any given moment, and S
TORM
T
RACK
didn't begin to have enough linguists to keep track of them all, though it had to do just that. The command circuits for senior officers were well known, but these were encrypted, meaning that computers in KKMC had to play with the signals in order to make sense of what sounded like static. Fortunately a number of defectors had come across with examples of the encryption hardware, and others trickled over various borders with daily keying sequences, all to be handsomely rewarded by the Saudis.

The use of radios was more now rather than less. The senior Iraqi officers were probably less concerned with electronic intercepts than with who might be listening in on a telephone line. That simple fact told the senior watch officers a lot, and a document was even now being prepared to go up the ladder to the DCI for delivery to the President.

S
TORM
T
RACK
looked like most such stations. One huge antenna array, called an Elephant Cage for its circular configuration, both detected and localized signals, while other towering whip antennas handled other tasks. The listening station had been hastily built during the buildup for D
ESERT
S
TORM
as a means of gathering tactical intelligence for allied military units, then to be expanded for continuing interest in the region. The Kuwaitis had funded the sister station, P
ALM
B
OWL
, for which they were rewarded with a good deal of the “take.”

“That's three,” a technician said at the latter station, reading off his screen. “Three senior officers heading to the racetrack. A little early in the day to play the ponies, isn't it?”

“A meet?” his lieutenant asked. This was a military station, and the technician, a fifteen-year sergeant, knew quite a bit more about the job than his new boss. At least the elltee was smart enough to ask questions.

“Sure looks like it, ma'am.”

“Why there?”

“Middle of town, not in an official building. If you're out to meet your honey, you don't do it at home, do you?” The screen changed. “Okay, we cracked another one. The Air Force chief is there, too—was, probably. Traffic analysis seems to show that the meet broke up an hour or so ago. I wish we could crack their crypto gear faster . . .”

“Content?”

“Just where to go and when, ma'am, nothing substantive, nothing about what they're meeting for.”

“When's the funeral, Sergeant?”

“Sunset.”

“Y
ES
?” R
YAN LIFTED
the phone. You could pretty much tell how important the call was from the line that was lit. This one was Signals.

“Major Canon, sir. We're getting feed from Saudi. The intel community is trying to make sense of it now. They told me to cue you on that.”

“Thank you.” Ryan replaced the phone. “You know, it would be nice to have 'em come in one at a time. Something happening in
Iraq
, but they're not sure what yet,” he told his guests. “I guess I have to start paying attention. Anything else I have to do now?”

“Put Secret Service protection on Vice President Kealty,” Martin suggested. “He's entitled to it anyway under the law as a former VP—for six months?” the attorney asked Price.

“That's correct.”

Martin thought about that. “Did you have any discussions on that issue?”

“No, sir.”

“Pity,” Martin thought.

BLOOD  IN THE WATER

E
D
F
OLEY
'
S
aircraft was big and ugly, a Lockheed C-141B cargo carrier, known to the fighter community as a “trash hauler,” in whose cargo area was a large trailer. The trailer's history was interesting. It had originally been built by the Airstream company as a receiving facility for the Apollo astronauts, though this one was a backup and had never actually been used for that purpose. It allowed senior officials to travel with homelike amenities and was used almost exclusively by senior intelligence officers. This way they could travel in both anonymity and comfort. There were lots of Air Force Starlifters, and from the outside Foley's looked like any other—big, green, and ugly.

It touched down at Andrews just before
noon
, after an exhausting flight of almost seven thousand miles, seventeen hours, and two aerial refuelings. Foley had traveled with a staff of three, two of them security and protection officers, called SPOs. The ability to shower had improved the attitude of each, and their night's sleep hadn't been interrupted by the signals that had started to arrive a few hours earlier. By the time the cargo lifter stopped rolling and the doors opened, he was refreshed and informed. That didn't happen often enough for the ADDO to regard it as anything short of a miracle. So much the better that his wife was there to greet him with a kiss. It was enough that the Air Force ground crew wondered what the hell this was all about. The flight crew was too tired to care.

“Hi, honey.”

“We really need to fly together this way once,” her husband observed with a twinkle in his eye. Then he shifted gears in a heartbeat. “What's the word on
Iraq
?”

“Something's happening. At least nine, probably twenty or so senior officers got together for a quiet little meeting. We don't know what about, but it wasn't to pick the menu for the wake.” They got in the back of the car, and she handed over a folder. “You're getting promoted, by the way.”

“What?” Ed's head came up from the document package.

“DCI. We're moving with Plan Blue, and Ryan wants you to front it for the Hill. I stay DDO, and I get to run my shop the way I want to, don't I, honey?” She smiled sweetly. Then she explained the other problem of the day.

C
LARK
HAD HIS
own office at
Langley
, and his seniority guaranteed him a view of the parking lot and the trees beyond, which beat a windowless cubby. He even shared a pool secretary with four other senior field officers. In many ways
Langley
was alien country for him. His official job title was that of a training officer down at the Farm. He came to headquarters to deliver reports and get briefed in on new jobs, but he didn't like it here. There was a smell to any headquarters facility. The desk weenies wanted things their way. They didn't want irregularities. They didn't care to work overtime, and miss favorite TV shows as a result. They didn't much like surprises and data that made them rethink stuff. They were the bureaucratic tail in an intelligence agency, but at CIA the tail had become so massive that it wagged the dog without ever moving itself. The phenomenon wasn't exactly unusual, but when things went bad, his was the life at risk in the field, and if he were ever killed out there, he'd turn into one residual memo, to be quickly filed and forgotten by people who did National Intelligence Estimates based often as not on newspaper stories.

“Catch the news this morning, Mr. C.?” Chavez asked lightly on entering the room.

“I got in at five.” He held up a folder with P
LAN
B
LUE
printed on it. Because he so hated paperwork, when he did it he worked with supreme intensity, the more quickly to be rid of it.

“Then turn your set to CNN.” John did, expecting a news story that would surprise his Agency. And that's what he got, but not quite what he'd expected.

“L
ADIES AND GENTLEMEN
, the President.”

He had to get out in public fast. Everyone agreed on that. Ryan walked into the press room, stood behind the podium, and looked down at his notes. It was easier than looking out at the room, smaller and shabbier than most parts of the building, built atop the former swimming pool. There were eight rows of six seats each. Every one, he'd seen on the way in, was full.

“Thank you for coming in so early,” Jack said in as relaxed a voice as he could manage.

"Recent events in
Iraq
affect the security of a region which is of vital interest to
America
and her allies. We note without grief the death of the Iraqi President. As you know, this individual was responsible for the instigation of two wars of aggression, the brutal suppression of that country's Kurdish minority, and the denial of the most fundamental human rights to his own citizens.

“
Iraq
is a nation which should be prosperous. It has a sizable fraction of the world's petroleum reserves, a respectable industrial base, and a substantial population. All that is lacking in that country is a government which looks after the needs of its citizens. We would hope that the passing of the former leader offers an opportunity for just this.” Jack looked up from his notes.

"
America
therefore extends the hand of friendship to
Iraq
. We hope that there will be an opportunity to normalize relations, and to put an end once and for all to the hostility between
Iraq
and its Gulf neighbors. I have directed acting Secretary of State Scott Adler to make contact with the Iraqi government, and to offer the chance of a meeting to discuss matters of mutual interest. In the event that the new regime is willing to address the question of human rights, and to commit to free and fair elections,
America
is willing to address the question of the removal of economic sanctions, and the rapid restoration of normal diplomatic relations.

“There has been enough enmity. It is unseemly for a region of such natural wealth to be the site of discord, and
America
is willing to do her part as an honest broker to assist in bringing peace and stability, along with our friends among the
Gulf states
. We await a favorable reply from
Baghdad
so that initial contacts might be established.” President Ryan folded the paper away.

“That's the end of my official statement. Any questions?” That took about a microsecond.

“Sir, this morning, as you know,” the New York Times shouted first, “Vice President Edward Kealty claimed that he is the President and you are not. What do you have to say about that?”

“The allegation by Mr. Kealty is groundless and totally without value,” Jack replied coldly. “Next question.”

Having forsworn the game, Ryan was now condemned to playing it. Nobody in the room was the least bit fooled by his appearance. The announcement he'd just made could as easily have been delivered by his press secretary or the official State Department spokesman. Instead, he was here in front of the lights, looking at the assembled faces, and feeling rather like a lone Christian in a Colosseum full of lions. Well, that's what the Secret Service was for.

“A follow-up—what if he actually didn't resign?” the Times insisted over the shouts of others.

“He did actually resign. Otherwise, I could not have been appointed. Therefore your question has no meaning.”

“But, sir, what if he is telling the truth?”

“He isn't.” Ryan took a breath, as Arnie had told him to do, and then went on, saying what Arnie had told him to say. “Mr. Kealty resigned his position at the request of President Durling. You all know the reason. He was under investigation by the FBI for sexual misconduct while he was a senator. The investigation was in the matter of a sexual assault—not to say”—which Ryan then said—“rape of one of his Senate aides. His resignation was part of a . . . deal, a plea bargain, I guess, to avoid criminal prosecution.” Ryan paused just then, somewhat surprised to see the assembled faces go a little pale. He'd just hurled down a gauntlet, and it made a loud noise on the floor. The next one was even louder. “You know who the President is. Now, shall we get on with the business of the country?”

“What are you doing about this?” ABC asked.

“You mean Kealty or
Iraq
?” Ryan asked. His tone indicated what the subject ought to be.

“The Kealty question, sir.”

“I've asked the FBI to check into it. I expect them to report back to me later today. Aside from that, we have enough things to be done.”

“Follow-up—what about what you said to the governors in your speech last night, and what Vice President Kealty said this morning? Do you really want inexperienced people to—”

“Yes, I do. First of all, what people do we have who are experienced in the workings of Congress? The answer is, not very many. We have the few survivors, people fortunate enough to have been elsewhere that night. Aside from that—what? People defeated in the last election? Do you want them back? I want, and I think the country needs, people who know how to do things. The plain truth is that government is by nature inefficient. We can't make it more efficient by selecting people who've always worked in government. The idea the Founding Fathers had was for citizen legislators, not for a permanent ruling class. In that I think I am in agreement with the intentions of the framers of our Constitution. Next?”

“But who will decide the question?” the Los Angeles Times asked. It wasn't necessary to say which question.

“The question is decided,” Ryan told him. “Thanks for coming. If you will excuse me, I have a lot of work to do today.” He picked up his opening statement and walked off to his right.

“Mr. Ryan!” The shout came from a good dozen voices. Ryan walked through the door and around the corner. Arnie was waiting.

“Not bad under the circumstances.”

“Except for one thing. Not one of them said 'Mr. President.' ”

M
OUDI TOOK THE
call, which required only a few seconds. With that he walked over to the isolation ward. Outside, he donned protective gear, carefully checking the plastic fabric for leaks. The suit was made by a European company, modeled on the American Racal. The thick plastic was an incongruous powder blue, reinforced with Kevlar fiber. At the back on the web belt hung the ventilation unit. This pumped filtered air into the suit, and did so with a slight overpressure so that a tear would not suck environmental air inside. It wasn't known if Ebola was airborne or not, and nobody wanted to be the first to prove that it was. He opened the door to go inside. Sister Maria Magdalena was there, attending her friend, dressed the same way. Both knew all too well what it meant for a patient to see her attendants dressed in a way that so clearly denoted their fear of what she carried within her.

“Good afternoon, Sister,” he said, his gloved hands lifting the chart off the foot of the bed. Temperature 41.4, despite the ice. Pulse rapid at 115. Respiration 24 and shallow. Blood pressure was starting to fall from the internal bleeding. The patient had received a further four units of whole blood—and probably lost at least that much, most of it internally. Her blood chemistry was starting to go berserk. The morphine was as high as he could prescribe without risking respiratory failure. Sister Jean Baptiste was semiconscious—she should have been virtually comatose from the drugs, but the pain was too severe for that.

Maria Magdalena just looked over at him through the plastic of her mask, her eyes beyond sadness into a despair that her religion forbade. Moudi and she had seen all manner of deaths, from malaria, from cancer, from AIDS. But there was nothing so brutally cruel as this. It hit so fast that the patient didn't have the time to prepare, to steel the mind, to fortify the soul with prayer and faith. It was like some sort of traffic accident, shocking but just long enough in duration for the suffering to—if there were a devil in creation, then this was his gift to the world. Physician or not, Moudi put that thought aside. Even the devil had a use.

“The airplane is on the way,” he told her.

“What will happen?”

“Professor Rousseau has suggested a dramatic treatment method. We will do a complete blood-replacement procedure. First the blood supply will be removed completely, and the vascular system flushed out with oxygenated saline. Then he proposes to replace the blood supply completely with whole blood in which he has Ebola antibodies. Theoretically, in this way the antibodies will attack the virus systemically and simultaneously.”

The nun thought about that. It wasn't quite as radical as many would imagine. The total replacement of a body's blood supply was a procedure dating back to the late 1960s, having been used in the treatment of advanced meningitis. It wasn't a treatment that could be used routinely. It required a heart-lung-bypass machine. But this was her friend, and she was well past thinking of other patients and practicality.

Just then, Jean Baptiste's eyes opened wide. They looked at nothing, unfocused, and the very slackness of the face proclaimed her agony. She might not even have been conscious. It was just that the eyes could not remain closed in severe pain. Moudi looked over at the morphine drip. If pain had been the only consideration, he might well have increased it and taken the risk of killing the patient in the name of mercy. But he couldn't chance it. He had to deliver her alive, and though her fate might be a cruel one, he hadn't chosen it for her.

“I must travel with her,” Maria Magdalena said quietly.

Moudi shook his head. “I cannot allow that.”

“It is a rule of our order. I cannot allow her to travel unaccompanied by one of us.”

“There is a danger, Sister. Moving her is a risk. In the aircraft we will be breathing recirculated air. There is no need to expose you to the risk as well. Her virtue is not in question here.” And one death was quite enough for his purposes.

“I have no choice.”

Moudi nodded. He hadn't chosen her destiny either, had he? “As you wish.”

T
HE AIRCRAFT LANDED
at
Jomo
Kenyatta
International
Airport
ten miles outside
Nairobi
and taxied to the cargo terminal. It was an old 707, once part of the Shah's personal fleet, the internal furnishings long since ripped out to reveal a metal deck. The trucks were waiting. The first of them backed up to the rear door, located on the right side, which opened a minute after the chocks secured the wheels in place on the ramp.