Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (45 page)

The local “Star Wars Room” was a virtual twin to the original one at
Fort
Irwin
. A somewhat smaller main display screen, and nicer seats, and you could smoke in this one. He entered the building, snaking the dust off his chocolate-chip cammies and striding like Patton into
Bastogne
. The Israelis were waiting.

Intellectually, they had to know how useful the exercise had been to them. Emotionally, it was something else. The Israeli 7th Armored was as proud an outfit as any in the world. Practically alone, it had stopped an entire Syrian tank corps on the
Golan Heights
back in 1973, and their current CO had been a lieutenant then who'd taken command of a headless company and fought brilliantly.

Not accustomed to failure, he'd just seen the brigade in which he'd practically grown up annihilated, in thirty brutal minutes.

“General,” Masterman said, extending his hand to the chastened brigadier. The Israeli hesitated before taking it.

“Not personal, sir, just business,” said Lieutenant Colonel Nick Sarto, who commanded the 2nd “Bighorn” Squadron, and who had just played hammer to Master-man's anvil. With the Israeli 7th in the middle.

“Gentlemen, shall we begin?” called the senior observer-controller. As a sop to the Israeli Army, the OC team here was a fifty-fifty mix of experienced American and Israeli officers, and it was hard to determine which group was the more embarrassed.

There was, first, a quick-time replay of the theoretical engagement. The Israeli vehicles in blue marched into the shallow valley to meet G
UIDON
's reconnaissance screen, which leapfrogged back rapidly, but not toward the prepared defense positions of the rest of the squadron, instead leading them away at an angle. Thinking it a trap, the Israeli 7th had maneuvered west, so as to loop around and envelop their enemies, only to walk into a solid wall of dug-in tanks, and then to have Bighorn come in from the east much faster than expected—so fast that Doug Mills's 3rd “Dakota” Squadron, the regimental reserve, never had a chance to come into play for the pursuit phase. It was the same old lesson. The Israeli commander had guessed at his enemy's positions instead of sending his reconnaissance screen to find out.

The Israeli brigadier watched the replay, and it seemed that he deflated like a balloon. The Americans didn't laugh. They'd all been there before, though it was far nicer to be on the winning side.

“Your reconnaissance screen wasn't far forward enough, Benny,” the senior Israeli OC said diplomatically.

“Arabs don't fight that way!” Benjamin Eitan replied.

“They're supposed to, sir,” Masterman pointed out. “This is standard Soviet doctrine, and that's who trained 'em all, remember. Pull 'em into the fire sack and slam the back door. Hell, General, that's exactly what you did with your Centurions back in '73. I read your book on the engagement,” the American added. It defused the mood at once. One of the other things the American officers had to exercise here was diplomacy. General Eitan looked sideways and managed something approaching a smile.

“I did, didn't I?”

“Sure as hell. You clobbered that Syrian regiment in forty minutes, as I recall.”

“And you, at 73 Easting?” Eitan responded, grateful for the compliment, even though he knew it was a deliberate effort to calm his temper.

It was no accident that Magruder, Masterman, Sarto, and Mills were here. All four had participated in a vicious combat action in the Persian Gulf War, where three troops of the 2nd “Dragoon” Cav had stumbled into an elite Iraqi brigade force under very adverse weather conditions—too bad for the regimental aircraft to participate, even to warn of the enemy's presence—and wiped it out over a period of a few hours. The Israelis knew it, and therefore couldn't complain that the Americans were book soldiers playing theoretical games.

Nor was the result of this “battle” unusual. Eitan was new, only a month in command, and he would learn, as other Israeli officers had learned, that the American training model was more unforgiving than real combat. It was a hard lesson for the Israelis, so hard that nobody really learned it until he'd visited the Negev Training Area, the NTA, and had his head handed to him. If the Israelis had a weakness, it was pride, Colonel Magruder knew. The OpFor's job here, as in
California
, was to strip that away. A commander's pride got his soldiers dead.

“Okay,” the senior American OC said. “What can we learn from this?”

Don't fuck with the Buffalo Soldiers
, all three squadron commanders thought, but didn't say. Marion Diggs had reestablished the regiment's gritty reputation in his command tour before moving on to command
Fort
Irwin
. Though the word was still percolating down through the Israeli Defense Forces, the troopers of the 10th had adopted a confident strut when they went out shopping, and for all the grief they caused the Israeli military on the playing fields of the NTA, they were immensely popular. The 10th ACR, along with two squadrons of F-16 fighters, was
America
's commitment to Israeli security, all the more so that they trained the Jewish state's ground forces to a level of readiness they hadn't known since the Israeli army had nearly lost its soul in the hills and towns of
Lebanon
. Eitan would learn, and learn fast. By the end of the training rotation he'd give them trouble. Maybe, the three squadron commanders thought. They weren't in the business of giving freebies.

“I
REMEMBER WHEN
you told me how delightful democracy was, Mr. President,” Golovko said chirpily, as he walked through the door.

“You must have caught me on TV this morning,” Ryan managed to reply.

“I remember when such comments would have gotten such people shot.” Behind the Russian, Andrea Price heard the comment and wondered how this guy had the chutzpah to twist the President's tail.

“Well, we don't do that here,” Jack responded, taking his seat. “That will be all for now, Andrea. Sergey and I are old friends.” This was to be a private conversation, not even a secretary present to take notes, though hidden microphones would copy down every word for later transcription. The Russian knew that. The American knew that he knew that, but the symbolism of no other people in the room was a compliment to the visitor, another fact which the American knew the Russian to know as well. Jack wondered how many sets of interlocking wheels he was supposed to keep track of, just for an informal meeting with a foreign representative.

When the door closed behind the agent, Golovko spoke on. “Thank you.”

“Hell, we are old friends, aren't we?”

Golovko smiled. “What a superb enemy you were.”

“And now . . . ?”

“How is your family adjusting?”

About as well as I am,“ Jack admitted, then shifted gears. ”You had three hours at the embassy to get caught up."

Golovko nodded; as usual, Ryan was well briefed for this meeting, covert though it was. The Russian embassy was only a few blocks-up
Sixteenth Street
, and he'd walked down to the White House, a simple way to avoid notice in a town where official people traveled in official cars. “I didn't expect things in
Iraq
to fall so quickly.”

“Neither did we. But that's not why you came over, Sergey Nikolay'ch.
China
?”

“I presume your satellite photos are as clear as ours on the issue. Their military is at an unusually high state of readiness.”

“Our people are divided on that,” Ryan said. “They might be building up to put some more pressure on
Taiwan
. They've been building their navy up.”

“Their navy isn't ready for combat operations yet. Their army still is, and their rocket forces. Neither is going to cross the
Formosa Strait
, Mr. President.”

That made the reason for his trip clear enough. Jack paused to look out the window at the
Washington
Monument
, surrounded as it was by a circle of flagpoles, rather like a garland. What was it George had said about avoiding entangling foreign alliances? But it had been a far simpler world back then, two months to cross the Atlantic, not six or seven hours. . . .

“If you are asking what I think you are, yes—or should I say, no.”

“Could you clarify?”

“
America
would not look kindly upon an attack by
China
against
Russia
. Such a conflict would have very adverse effects upon world stability, and would also impede your progress to full democratic status.
America
wants to see
Russia
become a prosperous democracy. We were enemies long enough. We should be friends, and
America
wants her friends safe and peaceful.”

“They hate us, they covet what we have,” Golovko went on, not satisfied with
America
's statement.

“Sergey, the time for nations to steal what they cannot earn is past. It's history, and not to be repeated.”

“And if they move on us anyway?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, Sergey,” the President answered. “The idea is to prevent such actions. If it appears that they are really thinking about a move, we'll counsel them to reconsider. We are keeping an eye on things.”

“I don't think you understand them.” Another push, Ryan saw. They really were worked up about this.

“Do you think anyone does? Do you think they themselves know what they want?” The two intelligence officers—that was how both men would always think of themselves—shared a look of professional amusement.

“That is the problem,” Golovko admitted. “I try to explain to my President that it is difficult to predict the behavior of undecided people. They have capabilities, but so do we, and the calculus of the matter appears different from both sides—and then the personalities come into play. Ivan Emmetovich, those are old men with old ideas. Their personalities are the major consideration here.”

“And history, and culture, and economics, and trade— and I haven't had the chance to look them in the eye yet. I'm weak on that part of the world,” Jack reminded his guest. “I spent most of my life trying to figure you people out.”

“So you will stand with us?”

Ryan shook his head. “It's too early and too speculative to go that far. We will do everything in our power, however, to prevent a possible conflict between the PRC and
Russia
. If it happens, you'll go nuclear. I know it. You know it. I think they know it.”

“They don't believe it.”

“Sergey, nobody's that stupid.” Ryan made a mental note to discuss this with Scott Adler, who knew the region far better than he did. It was time to close the book on that issue for the moment, and open another. “
Iraq
. What are your people saying?”

Golovko grimaced. “We had a network go down three months ago. Twenty people, all shot or hanged—after interrogation, that is. What we have left doesn't tell us much, but it appears that senior generals are preparing to do something.”

“Two of them just showed up in the
Sudan
this morning,” Ryan told him. It wasn't often he caught Golovko by surprise.

“So fast?”

Ryan nodded, handing over the photographs from the
Khartoum
airport. “Yep.”

Golovko scanned them, not knowing the faces, but not really needing to. Information passed along at this level was never, ever faked. Even with enemies and former enemies, a nation had to keep its word on some things. He handed the photos back. “
Iran
, then. We have some people there, but we've heard nothing in the last few days. It's a dangerous environment in which to operate, as you know. We expect that Daryaei had something to do with the assassination, but we have no evidence to support it.” He paused. “The implications of this are serious.”

“You're telling me that you can't do anything about it, either, then?”

“No, Ivan Emmetovich, we cannot. We have no influence there, and neither do you.”

LAST PLANE OUT

T
HE NEXT SHUTTLE FLIGHT GOT
off early. The shell corporation's third and last business jet was recalled from
Europe
, and with a change of flight crews, was ready three hours early. That meant that the first of the G-IVs could fly to
Baghdad
, pick up two more generals, and return. Badrayn felt rather like a travel agent or dispatcher in addition to his unusual role as diplomat. He just hoped it wouldn't take too long. It might be dangerous to be a passenger on the last plane, because the last one—well, there was no telling which would be the last, was there? The generals didn't grasp that yet. The last one might well be pursued by tracer fire, leaving people on the ground to face the music, and Badrayn knew he would be with them . . . in a region where selectivity wasn't an integral part of the justice system. Well, he shrugged, life had risks, and he was being well paid. They'd told him, at least, that there would be another pickup flight in less than three hours, and a fourth five hours beyond that one. But the sum total would be ten or eleven, and that would go for another three days on the current schedule, and three days could be a lifetime.

Beyond the confines of this airport, the Iraqi army was still in the streets, but there would be a change now. Those conscript soldiers, and even the elite guardsmen, would have been out there for several days, settled into a dull and purposeless routine, and that was something destructive to soldiers. They'd be shuffling around on their feet, smoking cigarettes, starting to ask questions amongst themselves: What exactly is going on? Initially there would be no answers. Their sergeants would tell them to mind their duties, so advised by their company officers, so advised in turn from battalion staffs, and so on all the way up the line . . . until somewhere that same question would be repeated, and there would be no one farther up the chain of command to tell the questioner to sit down and shut up. At that point the question would rebound back down the line. It was something an army could sense, as a thorn in the foot instantly told the brain that something was amiss. And if the thorn was dirty, then an infection would follow that could spread and kill the entire body. The generals were supposed to know such things—but, no, they didn't anymore. Something very foolish happened to generals, especially in this part of the world. They forgot. It was that simple. They just forgot that the villas and the servants and the cars were not a divine bequest, but a temporal convenience that could disappear as quickly as morning fog. They were still more afraid of Daryaei than of their own people, and that was foolish. It would have merely been annoying to Badrayn, except that his life now depended on theirs.

T
HE SEAT ON
the right side of the cabin was still damp. This time it was occupied by the youngest daughter of the general who had, until minutes before, commanded the 4th Guards Division (Motorized), and who was now conferring with an air force colleague. The child felt the lingering damp on her hand and, puzzled, licked at it, until her mother saw it and sent her off to wash her hands. Then the mother complained to the Iranian steward who rode in the back with this group. He had the child moved, and made a note to have the seat cleaned or replaced at Mehrabad. There was less tension now. The first pair of officers had reported in from
Khartoum
that all was well. A Sudanese army platoon guarded the large house which they shared, and all appeared to be secure. The generals had already determined that they would make a sizable “contribution” to that country's treasury, to ensure their own safety for the time—hopefully brief—they'd spend in that country before moving on. Their intelligence chief, still back in
Baghdad
, was on the phone now, calling around to various contacts in various countries to find secure permanent housing for them.
Switzerland
? They wondered. A cold country in terms of both climate and culture, but a safe one, and for those with money to invest, an anonymous one.

“W
HO OWNS THREE
G-IVs over there?”

“The registration of the aircraft is Swiss, Lieutenant,” Major Sabah reported, having just learned the fact. From the photos shot at
Khartoum
he'd gotten the tail number, and that was easily checked on a computer database. He flipped the page to determine the ownership. “A corporately owned jet. They have three of them, and a few smaller turboprops for flying around
Europe
. We'll have to check further to learn more about the corporation.” But somebody would be working on that, and they'd find the obvious. Probably some import-export concern, more a letter-drop than anything else, perhaps with a small storefront that conducted real, if negligible, business for appearance's sake. The corporation would have a medium-sized account in a commercial bank; it would have a law firm to make sure that it scrupulously obeyed every local rule; its employees would be fully briefed on how to behave—Switzerland was a law-abiding country—and how to keep everything in order; the corporation would vanish into the woodwork, because the Swiss didn't trouble people who deposited money in their banks and kept within their laws. Those who broke the rules severely could find the country as inhospitable as the one the generals were leaving. That was well understood, too.

The pity of it,
Sabah
thought, was that he knew the first two faces, and probably also knew the faces now in transit. It would have been pleasing to get them before the bar of justice, especially a Kuwaiti bar. They'd been more junior, most of them, when
Iraq
had invaded his country. They would have participated in the pillaging. Major Sabah remembered prowling the streets, trying to look as inconspicuous and harmless as possible while other Kuwaiti subjects had resisted more actively, which had been brave, but dangerous. Most of them had been caught and killed, along with family members, and though the survivors were now famous and well rewarded, those few had operated on information he'd gathered. The major didn't mind. His family was wealthy enough, and he liked being a spook. Even more, he was damned sure his country would never be surprised like that again. He would see to that personally.

In any case, the generals who were leaving were less a concern than the ones who would replace them. That had the major worried.

“W
ELL
, I'
M AFRAID
it was a pretty weak performance in all respects for Mr. Ryan,” Ed Kealty said on the
noon
news-interview show. “Dr. Bretano is, first of all, an industry official who has long since opted out of public service. I was there when his name came up before, and I was there when he refused to consider a high government position—so that he could stay where he was to make money, I suppose. He's a talented man, evidently a good engineer,” Kealty allowed with a tolerant smile, “but a Secretary of Defense, no.” A shake of the head emphasized it.

“What did you think of President Ryan's position on abortion, sir?” Barry asked on CNN.

“Barry, that's the problem. He's not really the President,” Kealty replied in a mild, businesslike tone. “And we need to correct that. His lack of understanding for the public showed clearly in that contradictory and ill-considered statement in the Press Room. Roe v. Wade is the law of the land. That's all he had to say. It's not necessary that the President should like the laws, but he has to enforce them. Of course, for any public official not to understand how the American people think on this issue doesn't so much show insensitivity to the rights of women to choose, as simple incompetence. All Ryan had to do was listen to his briefers on what to say, but he didn't even do that. He's a loose cannon,” Kealty concluded. “We don't need one of those in the White House.”

“But your claim—” A raised hand stopped the correspondent cold.

“It's not a claim, Barry. It's a fact. I never resigned. I never actually left the vice-presidency. Because of that, when Roger Durling died, I became President. What we have to do right now, and Mr. Ryan will do this if he cares about his country, is to form a judicial panel to examine the constitutional issues and decide who the President really is. If Ryan does not do that—well, he's putting himself before the good of the country. Now, I must add that I fully believe that Jack Ryan is acting in good conscience. He's an honorable man, and in the past he's shown himself to be a courageous man. Unfortunately, right now, he's confused, as we saw at the press conference this morning.”

“A pat of butter would not melt in his mouth, Jack,” van Damm observed, turning the sound down. “You see how good he is at this?”

Ryan nearly came out of his chair. “God damn it, Arnie, that's what I said! I must have said it three or four times—that's the law, and I can't break the law. That's what I said!”

“Remember what I told you about keeping your temper under control?” The chief of staff waited for Ryan's color to go back down. He turned the sound back up.

“What's most disturbing, however,” Kealty was saying now, “is what Ryan said about his appointments to the Supreme Court. It's pretty clear he wants to turn the clock back on a lot of things. Litmus tests on issues like abortion, appointing only strict-constructionists. It makes you wonder if he wants to overturn affirmative action, and heaven knows what else. Unfortunately, we find ourselves in a situation where the sitting President will exercise immense power, particularly in the courts. And Ryan just doesn't know how, Barry. He doesn't, and what we learned today about what he wants to do—well, it's just plain frightening, isn't it?”

“Am I on a different planet, Arnie?” Jack demanded. “I didn't say 'litmus test.' A reporter did. I didn't say 'strict-constructionist.' A reporter did.”

“Jack, it isn't what you say. It's what people hear.”

“Just how much damage do you think President Ryan could do, then?” Barry asked on the TV. Arnie shook his head in admiration. Kealty had seduced him right out of his shorts, right on live television, and Barry had responded perfectly, framing the question to show that he still called Ryan the President, but then asking the question in a form that would shake people's faith in him. It was no wonder that Ed was so good with the ladies, was it? And the average viewer would never grasp the subtlety with which he'd pulled Barry's drawers off. What a pro.

“In a situation like this, with the government decapitated? It could take years to fix what he might break,” Kealty said with the grave concern of a trusted family physician. “Not because he's an evil person. He certainly is not. But because he simply doesn't know how to execute the office of President of the
United States
. He just doesn't, Barry.”

“We'll be back after these messages from our cable operators,” Barry told the camera. Arnie had heard enough, and didn't need to see the commercials. He lifted the controller and clicked the TV off.

“Mr. President, I wasn't worried before, but I'm worried now.” He paused for a moment. “Tomorrow you will see some editorials in a few of the major papers agreeing that a judicial commission is necessary, and you'll have no choice but to let it go forward.”

“Wait a minute. The law doesn't say that—”

“The law doesn't say anything, remember? And even if it did, there's no Supreme Court to decide. We're in a democracy, Jack. The will of the people will decide who's the President. The will of the people will be swayed by what the media says, and you'll never be as good at working the media as Ed is.”

“Look, Arnie, he resigned, I got confirmed by the Congress as VP, Roger got killed, and I became President, and that's the fucking law! And I have to abide by the law. I swore an oath to do that, and I will. I never wanted this fucking job, but I've never run away from anything in my life, either, and I'll be damned if I'll run away from this!” There was one other thing. Ryan despised Edward Kealty. Didn't like his political views, didn't like his Harvard hauteur, didn't like his private life, damned sure didn't like his treatment of women. “You know what he is, Arnie?” Ryan snarled.

“Yes, I do. He's a pimp, a hustler, a con man. He has no convictions at all. He's never even practiced law, but he's helped write thousands of them. He's not a doctor, but he's established national health policy. He's been a professional politician his whole life, always on the public payroll. He's never generated a product or a service in the private sector of the economy, but he's spent his life deciding how high the taxes should be, and how that money should be spent. The only black people he ever met as a kid were the maids who picked up his bedroom, but he's a champion of minority rights. He's a hypocrite. He's a charlatan. And he's going to win unless you get your shit together, Mr. President,” Arnie said, pouring dry ice over Ryan's fiery temper. “Because he knows how to play the game, and you don't.”

T
HE PATIENT, THE
records said, had taken a trip to the
Far East
back in October, and in
Bangkok
had indulged himself in the sexual services for which that country was well known. Pierre Alexandre, then a captain assigned to a military hospital in the tropical country, had once indulged in them himself. His conscience didn't trouble him about it. He'd been young and foolish, as people of that age were supposed to be. But that had been before AIDS. He'd been the guy to tell the patient, male, Caucasian, thirty-six, that he had HIV antibodies in his blood, that he could not have unprotected sex with his wife, and that his wife should have her blood tested at once. Oh, she was pregnant? Immediately, right away. Tomorrow if possible.

Alexandre felt rather like a judge. It wasn't the first time he'd delivered news like this, and damned sure it wouldn't be the last, but at least when a judge pronounced a sentence of death it was for a serious crime, and there was an appeals process. This poor bastard was guilty of nothing more than being a man twelve time-zones from home, probably drunk and lonely. Maybe he'd had an argument over the phone with his wife. Maybe she'd been pregnant then, and he wasn't getting any. Maybe it had just been the exotic locations, and Alex remembered well how seductive those childlike Thai girls could be, and what the hell, who'd ever know? Now a lot of people would, and there was no appeals process. That could change, Dr. Alexandre thought. He had just told the patient that. You couldn't take their hope away. That's what oncologists had told their patients for two generations. That hope was real, was true, wasn't it? There were some smart people working on this one—Alexandre was one of them—and the breakthrough could happen tomorrow, for all he knew. Or it could take a hundred years. The patient, on the form card, had ten.