Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (597 page)

“He stayed, sir. He had the pilot drop him on the cruiser in the Navy Yard.”

“He did what?”

“You heard me, sir.”

“Get him on the radio—
right now!”
Jackson ordered.

R
yan was actually feeling somewhat relaxed. No more rushing about, here he was, surrounded by people calmly and quietly going about their jobs—outwardly so, anyway. The captain looked a little tense, but captains were supposed to, Ryan figured, being responsible in this case for a billion dollars’ worth of warship and computers.

“Okay, how are we doing?”

“Sir, the inbound, if it’s aimed at us, is not on the scope yet.”

“Can you shoot it down?”

“That’s the idea, Mr. President,” Blandy replied. “Is Dr. Gregory around?”

“Here, Captain,” a voice answered. A shape came closer. “Jesus!”

“That’s not my name—I know you!” Ryan said in considerable surprise “Major—Major ...”

“Gregory, sir. I ended up a half a colonel before I pulled the plug. SDIO. Secretary Bretano had me look into upgrading the missiles for the Aegis system,” the physicist explained. “I guess we’re going to see if it works or not.”

“What do you think?” Ryan asked.

“It worked fine on the simulations” was the best answer available.

“Radar contact. We got us a bogie,” a petty officer said. “Bearing three-four-niner, range nine hundred miles, speed—that’s the one, sir. Speed is one thousand four hundred knots—I mean fourteen
thousand
knots, sir.”
Damn,
he didn’t have to add.

“Four and a half minutes out,” Gregory said.

“Do the math in your head?” Ryan asked.

“Sir, I’ve been in the business since I got out of West Point.”

Ryan finished his cigarette and looked around for—

“Here, sir.” It was the friendly chief with an ashtray that had magically appeared in CIC. “Want another one?”

“Why not?” the President reasoned. He took a second one, and the senior chief lit it up for him. “Thanks.”

“Gee, Captain Blandy, maybe you’re declaring a blanket amnesty?”

“If he isn’t, I am,” Ryan said.

“Smoking lamp is lit, people,” Senior Chief Leek announced, an odd satisfaction in his voice.

The captain looked around in annoyance, but dismissed it.

“Four minutes, it might not matter a whole lot,” Ryan observed as coolly as the cigarette allowed. Health hazard or not, they had their uses.

“Captain, I have a radio call for the President, sir.”

“Where do I take it?” Jack asked.

“Right here, sir,” yet another chief said, lifting a phone-type receiver and pushing a button.

“Ryan.”

“Jack, it’s Robby.”

“My family get off okay?”

“Yeah, Jack, they’re fine. Hey, what the hell are you doing down there?”

“Riding it out. Robby, I can’t run away, pal. I just can’t.”

“Jack if this thing goes off—”

“Then you get promoted,” Ryan cut him off.

“You know what I’ll have to do?” the Vice President demanded.

“Yeah, Robby, you’ll have to play catch-up. God help you if you do.”
But it won’t be my problem,
Ryan thought. There was some consolation in that. Killing some guy with a gun was one thing. Killing a million with a nuke... no, he just couldn’t do that without eating a gun afterward.
You’re just too Catholic, Jack, my boy.

“Jesus, Jack,” his old friend said over the digital, encrypted radio link. Clearly thinking about what horrors he’d have to commit, son of a preacher-man or not...

“Robby, you’re the best friend any man could hope to have. If this doesn’t work out, look after Cathy and the kids for me, will ya?”

“You know it.”

“We’ll know in about three minutes, Rob. Get back to me then, okay?”

“Roger,” the former Tomcat driver replied. “Out.”

“Dr. Gregory, what can you tell me?”

“Sir, the inbound is probably their equivalent of one of our old W-51s. Five megatons, thereabouts. It’ll do Washington, and everything within ten miles—hell, it’ll break windows in Baltimore.”

“What about us, here?”

“No chance. Figure it’ll be targeted inside a triangle defined by the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Pentagon. The ship’s keel might survive, only because it’s under water. No people. Oh, maybe some really lucky folks in the D.C. subway. That’s pretty far underground. But the fires will suck all the air out of the tunnels, probably.” He shrugged. “This sort of thing’s never happened before. You can’t say for sure until it does.”

“What chances that it’ll be a dud?”

“The Pakistanis have had some failed detonations. We had fizzles once, mainly from helium contamination in the secondary. That’s why the terrorist bomb at Denver fizzled—”

“I remember.”

“Okay,” Gregory said. “It’s over Buffalo now. Now it’s reentering the atmosphere. That’ll slow it down a little.”

“Sir, the track is definitely on us, the NMCC says,” a voice said.

“Agreed,” Captain Blandy said.

“Is there a civilian alert?” Ryan asked.

“It’s on the radio, sir,” a sailor said. “It’s on CNN, too.”

“People will be panicking out there,” Ryan murmured, taking another drag.

Probably not. Most people don’t really know what the sirens mean, and the rest won’t believe the radio,
Gregory thought. “Captain, we’re getting close.” The track crossed over the Pennsylvania/New York border—

“System up?” Blandy asked.

“We are fully on line, sir,” the Weapons Officer answered. “We are ready to fire from the forward magazine. Firing order is selected, all Block IVs.”

“Very well.” The captain leaned forward and turned his key in the lock. “System is fully enabled. Special-Auto.” He turned. “Sir, that means the computer will handle it from here.”

“Target range is now three hundred miles,” a kid’s voice announced.

They’re so cool about this,
Ryan thought.
Maybe they just don’t believe it’s real... hell, it’s hard enough for me
... He took another drag on the cigarette, watching the blip come down, following its computer-produced velocity vector right for Washington, D.C.

“Any time now,” the Weapons Officer said.

He wasn’t far off.
Gettysburg
shuddered with the launch of the first missile.

“One away!” a sailor said off to the right. “One is away clean.”

“Okay.”

The SM2-ER missile had two stages. The short booster kicked the assembly out of its silo-type hole in the forward magazine, trailing an opaque column of gray smoke.

“The idea is to intercept at a range of two hundred miles,” Gregory explained. “The interceptor and the inbound will rendezvous at the same spot, and—zap!”

“Mainly farmland there, place you go to shoot pheasants,” Ryan said, remembering hunting trips there in his youth.

“Hey, I got a visual on the fucker,” another voice called. There was a TV camera with a ten-power lens slaved into the fire-control radar, and it showed the inbound warhead, just a featureless white blob now, like a meteor, Ryan thought.

“Intercept in four—three—two—one—”

The missile came close, but exploded behind the target.

“Firing Two!”
Gettysburg
shook again.

“Two away clean!” the same voice as before announced.

It was over Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, now, its speed “down” to thirteen thousand miles per hour...

Then a third missile launched, followed a second later by a fourth. In the “Special-Auto” setting, the computer was expending missiles until it saw a dead target. That was just fine with everyone aboard.

“Only two Block IVs left,” Weps said.

“They’re cheap,” Captain Blandy observed. “Come on, baby!”

Number Two also exploded behind the target, the TV picture showed.

“Three—two—one—now!”

So did Number Three.

“Oh, shit, oh, my God!” Gregory exclaimed. That caused heads to snap around.

“What?” Blandy demanded.

The IR seekers, they’re going for the centroid of the infrared source, and that’s
behind
the inbound.”

“What?” Ryan asked, his stomach in an instant knot.

“The brightest part of the target is
behind
the target. The missiles are going for
that!
Oh, fuck!” Dr. Gregory explained.

“Five away... Six away... both got off clean,” the voice to the right announced again.

The inbound was over Frederick, Maryland, now, doing twelve thousand knots...

“That’s it, we’re out of Block IVs.”

“Light up the Block IIIs,” Blandy ordered at once.

The next two interceptors did the same as the first two, coming within mere feet of the target, but exploding just behind it, and the inbound was traveling faster than the burn rate of explosive in the Standard-2-ER missile warheads. The lethal fragments couldn’t catch up—

“Firing Seven! Clean.”
Gettysburg
shook yet again.

“That one’s a radar homer,” Blandy said, clenching his fist before his chest.

Five and Six performed exactly as the four preceding them, missing by mere yards, but a miss in this case was as good as a mile.

Another shudder.

“Eight! Clean!”

“We have to get it before it gets to five or six thousand feet. That’s optimal burst height,” Gregory said.

“At that range, I can engage it with my five-inch forward,” Blandy said, some fear in his voice now.

For his part, Ryan wondered why he wasn’t shaking. Death had reached its cold hand out for him more than once... the Mall in London ... his own home ...
Red October
... some nameless hill in Colombia. Someday it would touch him. Was this the day? He took a last drag on the smoke and stabbed it out in the aluminum ashtray.

“Okay, here comes seven—five—four—three—two—one—now!”

“Miss!
Fuck!”

“Nine away—Ten away, both clean! We’re out of missiles,” the distant chief called out. “This is it, guys.”

The inbound crossed over the D.C. Beltway, Interstate Highway 695, now at an altitude of less than twenty thousand feet, streaking across the night sky like a meteor, and so some people thought it was, pointing and calling out to those nearby. If they continued to look at it until detonation, their eyes would explode, and they would then die blind...

“Eight missed! Missed by a cunt hair!” a voice announced angrily. Clear on the TV, the puff of the explosion appeared mere inches from the target.

“Two more to go,” the Weapons Officer told them.

Aloft, the forward port-side SPG-62 radar was pouring out X-band radiation at the target. The rising SM-2 missile, its rocket motor still burning, homed in on the reflected signal, focusing, closing, seeing the source of the reflected energy that drew it as a moth to a flame, a kamikaze robot the size of a small car, going at nearly two thousand miles per hour, seeking an object going six times faster... two miles ... one mile... a thousand yards... five hundred, one hun—

—On the TV screen the RV meteor changed to a shower of sparks and fire—

“Yeah!”
twenty voices called as one.

The TV camera followed the descending sparks. The adjacent radar display showed them falling within the city of Washington.

“You’re going to want to get people to collect those fragments. Some of them are going to be plutonium. Not real healthy to handle,” Gregory said, leaning against a stanchion. “Looked like a skin-skin kill. Oh, God, how did 1 fuck up my programming like that?” he wondered aloud.

“I wouldn’t sweat it too bad, Dr. Gregory,” Senior Chief Leek observed. “Your code also helped the last one home in more efficient-like. I think I might want to buy you a beer, fella.”

CHAPTER 61

Revolution

A
s usual, the news didn’t get back quickly to the place where it had actually started. Having given the launch order, Defense Minister Luo had little clue what to do next. Clearly, he couldn’t go back to sleep. America might well answer his action with a nuclear strike of its own, and therefore his first rational thought was that it might be a good idea for him to get the hell out of Beijing. He rose, made normal use of his bathroom, and splashed water on his face, but then again his mind hit a brick wall. What to do? The one name he knew to call was Zhang Han Sen. Once connected, he spoke very quickly indeed.

“You did—
what
happened, Luo?” the senior Minister Without Portfolio asked with genuine alarm.

“Someone—Russians or Americans, I’m not sure which—struck at our missile base at Xuanhua, attempting to destroy our nuclear deterrent. I ordered the base commander to fire them off, of course,” Luo told his associate minister, in a voice that was both defiant and defensive. “We agreed on this in our last meeting, did we not?”

“Luo, yes, we discussed the possibility. But
you fired them without consulting with us?”
Zhang demanded. Such decisions were always collegial, never unilateral.

“What choice did I have, Zhang?” Marshal Luo asked in reply. “Had I hesitated a moment, there would have been none left to fire.”

“I see,” the voice on the phone said. “What is happening now?”

“The missiles are flying. The first should hit their first targets, Moscow and Leningrad, in about ten minutes. I had no choice, Zhang. I could not allow them to disarm us completely.”

Zhang could have sworn and screamed at the man, but there was no point in that. What had happened had happened, and there was no sense expending intellectual or emotional energy on something he could not alter. “Very well. We need to meet. I will assemble the Politburo. Come to the Council of Ministers Building at once. Will the Americans or Russians retaliate?”

“They cannot strike back in kind. They have no nuclear missiles. An attack by bombers would take some hours,” Luo advised, trying to make it sound like good news.

A
t his end of the connection, Zhang felt a chill in his stomach that rivaled liquid helium. As with many things in life, this one—contemplated theoretically in a comfortable conference room—was something very different now that it had turned into a most uncomfortable reality. And yet—was it? It was a thing too difficult to believe. It was too unreal. There were no outward signs—you’d at least expect thunder and lightning outside the windows to accompany news like this, even a major earthquake, but it was merely early morning, not yet seven o’clock. Could this be real?