Jack Ryan 7 - The Sum of All Fears (2 page)

The nearby fire distracted the ordnancemen under the Skyhawks. One bomb, the one on aircraft number three, dropped a moment too soon, crushing the team supervisor's legs on the hoist. In the shrieking confusion of the moment, the team lost track of what was being done. The injured man was rushed to the base hospital while the three dismounted nuclear weapons were carted back to the storage bunker—in the chaos of an airbase on the first full day of a shooting war, the empty cradle of one of the carts somehow went unnoticed. The aircraft line chiefs arrived a moment later to begin abbreviated pre-flight checks as the jeep arrived from the ready shack. Four pilots jumped off it, each with a helmet in one hand and a tactical map in the other, each furiously eager to lash out at his country's enemies.

“What the hell's that?” snapped eighteen-year-old Lieutenant Mordecai Zadin. Called Motti by his friends, he had the gangling awkwardness of his age.

“Fuel tank, looks like,” replied the line chief. He was a reservist who owned a garage in
Haifa
, a kindly, competent man of fifty years.

“Shit,” the pilot replied, almost quivering with excitement. “I don't need extra fuel to go to the Golan and back!”

“I can take it off, but I'll need a few minutes.” Motti considered that for a moment. A sabra from a northern kibbutz, a pilot for barely five months, he saw the rest of his comrades strapping into their aircraft. Syrians were attacking towards the home of his parents, and he had a sudden horror of being left behind on his first combat mission.

“Fuck it! You can strip it off when I get back.” Zadin went up the ladder like a shot. The chief followed, strapping the pilot in place, and checking the instruments over the pilot's shoulder.

“She's ready, Motti! Be careful.”

“Have some tea for me when I get back.” The youngster grinned with all the ferocity such a child could manage. The line chief slapped him on the helmet.

“You just bring my airplane back to me, menchkin. Mazeltov.”

The chief dropped down to the concrete, and removed the ladder. He next gave the aircraft a last visual scan for anything amiss, as Motti got his engine turning. Zadin worked the flight controls and eased the throttle to full idle, checking fuel and engine-temperature gauges. Everything was where it should be. He looked over to the flight leader and waved his readiness. Motti pulled down the manual canopy, took a last look at the line chief, and fired off his farewell salute.

At eighteen, Zadin was not a particularly young pilot by IAF standards. Selected for his quick boy's reactions and aggressiveness, he'd been identified as a likely prospect four years earlier, and had fought hard for his place in the world's finest air force. Motti loved to fly, had wanted to fly ever since, as a toddler, he'd seen a Bf-109 training aircraft that an ironic fate had given
Israel
to start its air force. And he loved his Skyhawk. It was a pilot's aircraft. Not an electronicized monster like the Phantom, the A-4 was a small, responsive bird of prey that leaped at the twitch of his hand on the stick. Now he would fly combat. He was totally unafraid. It never occurred to him to fear for his life—like any teenager he was certain of his own immortality, and combat flyers are selected for their lack of human frailty. Yet he marked the day. Never had he seen so fine a dawn. He felt supernaturally alert, aware of everything: the rich wake-up coffee; the dusty smell of the morning air at
Beersheba
; now the manly scents of oil and leather in the cockpit; the idle static on his radio circuits; and the tingle of his hands on the control stick. He had never known such a day and it never occurred to Motti Zadin that fate would not give him another.

The four-plane formation taxied in perfect order to the end of runway zero-one. It seemed a good omen, taking off due north, towards an enemy only fifteen minutes away. On command of his flight leader—himself a mere twenty-one—all four pilots pushed their throttles to the stops, tripped their brakes, and dashed forward into the cool, calm, morning air. In seconds, all were airborne and climbing to five thousand feet, careful to avoid the civilian air traffic of
Ben
Gurion
International
Airport
, which in the mad scheme of life in the
Middle East
was still fully active.

The captain gave his usual series of terse commands, just like a training flight: tuck it in, check engine, ordnance, electrical systems. Heads up for MiGs and friendlies. Make sure your IFF is squawking green. The fifteen minutes it took to fly from
Beersheba
to the Golan passed rapidly. Zadin's eyes strained to see the volcanic escarpment for which his older brother had died while taking it from the Syrians only six years before. The Syrians would not get it back, Motti told himself.

“Flight: turn right to heading zero-four-three. Targets are tank columns four kilometers east of the line. Heads up. Watch for SAMs and ground fire.”

“Lead, four: I have tanks on the ground at one,” Zadin reported coolly. “Look like our Centurions.”

“Good eye, Four,” the captain replied. “They're friendly.”

“I got a beeper, I got launch warning!” someone called. Eyes scanned the air for danger.

“Shit!” called an excited voice. “SAMs low at twelve coming up!”

“I see them. Flight, left and right, break NOW!” the captain commanded.

The four Skyhawks scattered by elements. There were a dozen SA-2 missiles several kilometers off, like flying telephone poles, coming towards them at Mach-3. The SAMs split left and right too, but clumsily, and two exploded in a mid-air collision. Motti rolled right and hauled his stick into his belly, diving for the ground and cursing the extra wing weight. Good, the missiles were not able to track them down. He pulled level a bare hundred feet above the rocks, still heading towards the Syrians at four hundred knots, shaking the sky as he roared over the cheering, beleaguered troopers of the Barak.

The mission was a washout as a coherent strike, Motti already knew. It didn't matter. He'd get some Syrian tanks. He didn't have to know exactly whose, so long as they were Syrian. He saw another A-4 and formed up just as it began its firing run. He looked forward and saw them, the dome shapes of Syrian T-62S. Zadin toggled his arming switches without looking. The reflector gunsight appeared in front of his eyes.

“Uh-oh, more SAMs, coming in on the deck.” It was the captain's voice, still cool.

Motti"s heart skipped a beat: a swarm of missiles, smaller ones—are these the SA-6s they told us about? he wondered quickly—was tracing over the rocks towards him. He checked his ESM gear; it had not sensed the attacking missiles. There was no warning beyond what his eyes told him. Instinctively, Motti clawed for altitude in which to maneuver. Four missiles followed him up. Three kilometers away. He snap-rolled right, then spiraled down and left again. That fooled three of them, but the fourth followed him down. An instant later it exploded, a bare thirty meters from his aircraft.

The Skyhawk felt as though it had been kicked aside ten meters or more. Motti struggled with the controls, getting back level just over the rocks. A quick look chilled him. Whole sections of his port wing were shredded. Warning beepers in his headset and flight instruments reported multiple disaster: hydraulics zeroing out, radio out, generator out. But he still had manual flight controls, and his weapons could fire from back-up battery power. At that instant he saw his tormentors: a battery of SA-6 missiles, four launcher vehicles, a Straight Flush radar van, and a heavy truck full of reloads, all four kilometers away. His hawk's eyes could even see the Syrians struggling with the missiles, loading one onto a launcher rail.

They saw him, too, and then began a duel no less epic for its brevity.

Motti eased as far down as he dared with his buffeting controls and carefully centered the target in his reflector sight. He had forty-eight Zuni rockets. They fired in salvos of four. At two kilometers he opened fire into the target area. The Syrian missileers somehow managed to launch another SAM. There should have been no escape, but the SA-6 had a radar-proximity fuse, and the passing Zunis triggered it, exploding the SAM harmlessly half a kilometer away. Motti grinned savagely beneath his mask, as he fired rockets and now twenty-millimeter cannon fire into the mass of men and vehicles.

The third salvo hit, then four more, as Zadin kicked rudder to drop his rockets all over the target area. The missile battery was transformed into an inferno of diesel fuel, missile propellant, and exploding warheads. A huge fireball loomed in his path, and Motti tore through it with a feral shout of glee, his enemies obliterated, his comrades avenged.

Zadin had but a moment of triumph. Great sheets of the aluminum which made up his aircraft's left wing were being ripped away by the four-hundred-knot slipstream. The A-4 began shuddering wildly. When Motti turned left for home, the wing collapsed entirely. The Skyhawk disintegrated in mid-air. It took only a few seconds before the teenaged warrior was smashed on the basaltic rocks of the
Golan Heights
, neither the first nor the last to die there. No other of his flight of four survived.

Of the SAM battery, almost nothing was left. All six vehicles had been blasted to fragments. Of the ninety men who had manned them, the largest piece recovered was the headless torso of the battery commander. Both he and Zadin had served their countries well, but as is too often the case, conduct which in another time or place might have inspired the heroic verse of a Virgil or a Tennyson went unseen and unknown. Three days later, Zadin's mother received the news by telegram, learning again that all
Israel
shared her grief, as if such a thing were possible for a woman who had lost two sons.

But the lingering footnote to this bit of unreported history was that the unarmed bomb broke loose from the disintegrating fighter and proceeded yet further eastward, falling far from the fighter-bomber's wreckage to bury itself meters from the home of a Druse farmer. It was not until three days later that the Israelis discovered that their bomb was missing, and not until the day after the October War ended that they were able to reconstruct the details of its loss. This left the Israelis with a problem insoluble even to their imaginations. The bomb was somewhere behind Syrian lines—but where? Which of the four aircraft had carried it? Where had it gone down? They could hardly ask the Syrians to search for it. And could they tell the Americans, from whom the “special nuclear material” had been adroitly and deniably obtained?

And so the bomb lay unknown, except to the Druse farmer who simply covered it over with two meters of dirt and continued to farm his rocky patch.

THE LONGEST

JOURNEY . . .

Arnold van Damm sprawled back in his executive swivel chair with all the elegance of a rag doll tossed into a corner. Jack had never seen him wear a coat except in the presence of the President, and not always then. At formal affairs that required black tie, Ryan wondered if Arnie needed a Secret Service agent standing by with a gun. The tie was loose in the unbuttoned collar, and he wondered if it had ever been tightly knotted. The sleeves on Arnie's L. L. Bean blue-striped shirt were rolled up, and grimy at the elbows because he usually read documents with his forearms planted on the chronically cluttered desk. But not when speaking to someone. For important conversations, the man leaned back, resting his feet on a desk drawer. Barely fifty, van Damm had thinning gray hair and a face as lined and careworn as an old map, but his pale blue eyes were always alert, and his mind keenly aware of everything that went on within or beyond his sight. It was a quality that went along with being the President's Chief of Staff.

He poured his Diet Coke into an oversized coffee mug that featured an emblem of the White House on one side and “Arnie” engraved on the other, and regarded the Deputy Director of Central Intelligence with a mixture of wariness and affection. “Thirsty?”

“I can handle a real Coke if you have one down there,” Jack observed with a grin. Van Damm's left hand dropped below sight, and a red aluminum can appeared on a ballistic path that would have terminated in Ryan's lap had he not caught it. Opening the can under the circumstances was a tricky exercise, but Jack ostentatiously aimed the can at van Damm when he popped the top. Like the man or not, Ryan told himself, he had style. He was unaffected by his job, except when he had to be. This was not such a time. Arnold van Damm only acted important for outsiders. Insiders didn't need an act.

“The Boss wants to know what the hell is going on over there,” the Chief of Staff opened.

“So do I.” Charles Alden, the President's National Security Advisor, entered the room. “Sorry I'm late, Arnie.”

“So do we, gentlemen,” Jack replied. “That hasn't changed in a couple of years. You want the best stuff we've got?”

“Sure,” Alden said.

“Next time you fly to
Moscow
, look out for a large white rabbit with waistcoat and pocket watch. If he offers you a trip down a rabbit hole, take it and let me know what you find down there,” Ryan said with mock gravity. “Look, I'm not one of those right-wing idiots who moans for a return to the Cold War, but then, at least, the Russians were predictable. The poor bastards are starting to act like we do now. They're unpredictable as hell. The funny part is, now I can understand what a pain in the ass we always were to the KGB. The political dynamic over there is changing on a daily basis. Narmonov is the sharpest political in-fighter in the world, but every time he goes to work, it's another crisis.”

“What sort of cat is he?” van Damm asked. “You've met the man.” Alden had met Narmonov, but van Damm had not.

“Only once,” Ryan cautioned.

Alden settled down in an armchair. “Look, Jack, we've seen your file. So has the Boss. Hell, I've almost got him to respect you. Two Intelligence Stars, the submarine business, and, Jesus, the thing with Gerasimov. I've heard of still waters running deep, fella, but never this deep. No wonder Al Trent thinks you're so damned smart.” The Intelligence Star was CIA's highest decoration for performance in the field. Jack actually had three. But the citation for the third was locked away in a very safe place, and was something so secret that even the new President didn't and would never know. “So prove it. Talk to us.”

“He's one of those rare ones. He thrives on chaos. I've met docs like that. There are some, a rare few, who keep working in emergency rooms, doing trauma and stuff like that, after everybody else burns out. Some people just groove to pressure and stress, Arnie. He's one of them. I don't think he really likes it, but he's good at it. He must have the physical constitution of a horse—”

“Most politicians do,” van Damm observed.

“Lucky them. Anyway, does Narmonov really know where he's going? I think the answer is both yes and no. He has some sort of idea where he's moving his country to, but how he gets there, and exactly where he's going to be when he arrives, that he doesn't know. That's the kind of balls the man has.”

“So, you like the guy.” It was not a question.

“He could have snuffed my life out as easy as popping open this can of Coke, and he didn't. Yeah,” Ryan admitted with a smile, “that does compel me to like him a little. You'd have to be a fool not to admire the man. Even if we were still enemies, he'd still command respect.”

“So we're not enemies?” Alden asked with a wry grin.

“How can we be?” Jack asked in feigned surprise. “The President says that's a thing of the past.”

The Chief of Staff grunted. “Politicians talk a lot. That's what they're paid for. Will Narmonov make it?”

Ryan looked out the window in disgust, mainly at his own ability to answer the question. “Look at it this way: Andrey Il'ych has got to be the most adroit political operator they've ever had. But he's doing a high-wire act. Sure, he's the best around, but remember when Karl Wallenda was the best high-wire guy around? He ended up as a red smear on the sidewalk because he had one bad day in a business where you only get one goof. Andrey Il'ych is in the same kind of racket. Will he make it? People have been asking that for eight years! We think so—I think so—but . . . but, hell this is virgin ground, Arnie. We've never been here before. Neither has he. Even a god-damned weather forecaster has a data base to help him out. The two best Russian historians we have are Jake Kantrowitz at
Princeton
and Derek Andrews at
Berkley
, and they're a hundred-eighty degrees apart at the moment. We just had them both into
Langley
two weeks ago. Personally I lean towards Jake's assessment, but our senior Russian analyst thinks Andrews is right. You guys pays your money and you takes your choice. That's the best we got. You want pontification, check the newspapers.”

Van Damm grunted and went on. “Next hot spot?”

“The nationalities question is the big killer,” Jack said. “You don't need me to tell you that. How will the
Soviet Union
break up—what republics will leave—when and how, peacefully or violently? Narmonov is dealing with that on a daily basis. That problem is here to stay.”

“That's what I've been saying for about a year. How long to let things shake out?” Alden wanted to know.

“Hey, I'm the guy who said
East Germany
would take at least a year to change over— I was the most optimistic guy in town at the time, and I was wrong by eleven months. Anything I or anyone else tells you is a wild-ass guess.”

“Other trouble spots?” van Damm asked next.

“There's always the
Middle East
—” Ryan saw the man's eyes light up.

“We want to move on that soon.”

“Then I wish you luck. We've been working on that since Nixon and Kissinger back during the '73 semifinals. It's chilled out quite a bit, but the fundamental problems are still there, and sooner or later it's going to be thawed. I suppose the good news is that Narmonov doesn't want any part of it. He may have to support his old friends, and selling them weapons is a big money-maker for him, but if things blow up, he won't push like they did in the old days. We learned that with
Iraq
. He might continue to pump weapons in—I think he won't, but it's a close call—but he will do nothing more than that to support an Arab attack on
Israel
. He won't move his ships, and he won't alert troops. I doubt he's willing even to back them if they rattle their sabers a little. Andrey Il'ych says those weapons are for defense, and I think he means it, despite the word we're getting from the Israelis.”

“That's solid?” Alden asked. “State says different.”

“State's wrong,” Ryan replied flatly.

“So does your boss,” van Damm pointed out.

“In that case, sir, I must respectfully disagree with the DCI's assessment.”

Alden nodded. “Now I know why
Trent
likes you. You don't talk like a bureaucrat. How have you lasted so long, saying what you really think?”

“Maybe I'm the token.” Ryan laughed, then turned serious. “Think about it. With all the ethnic crap he's dealing with, taking an active role bears as many dangers as advantages. No, he sells weapons for hard currency and only when the coast is clear. That's business, and that's as far as it goes.”

“So, if we can find a way to settle things down . . . ?” Alden mused.

“He might even help. At worst, he'll stand by the sidelines and bitch that he's not in the game. But tell me, how do you plan to settle things down?”

“Put a little pressure on
Israel
,” van Damm replied simply.

“That's dumb for two reasons. It's wrong to pressure Israel until their security concerns are alleviated, and their security concerns will not be alleviated until some of the fundamental issues are settled first.”

“Like . . . ?”

“Like what is this conflict all about.” The one thing that everyone overlooks.

“It's religious, but the damned fools believe in the same things!” van Damm growled. “Hell, I read the Koran last month, and it's the same as what I learned in Sunday school.”

That's true,“ Ryan agreed, ”but so what? Catholics and Protestants both believe that Christ is the son of God, but that hasn't stopped
Northern Ireland
from blowing up. Safest place in the world to be Jewish. The friggin' Christians are so busy killing one another off that they don't have time to be anti-Semitic. Look, Arnie, however slight the religious differences in either place may appear to us, to them they appear big enough to kill over. That's as big as they need to be, pal."

“True, I guess,” the Chief of Staff agreed reluctantly. He thought for a moment. “
Jerusalem
, you mean?”

“Bingo.” Ryan finished off his Coke and crushed the can before flipping it into van Damm's trash can for two. “The city is sacred to three religions—think of them as three tribes—but it physically belongs to only one of them. That one is at war with one of the others. The volatile nature of the region militates towards putting some armed troops in the place, but whose? Remember, some Islamic crazies shot up
Mecca
not that long ago. Now, if you put an Arab security force in
Jerusalem
, you create a security threat to
Israel
. If things stay as they are, with only an Israeli force, you offend the Arabs. Oh, and forget the UN.
Israel
won't like it because the Jews haven't made out all that well in the place. The Arabs won't like it because there's too many Christians. And we won't like it because the UN doesn't like us all that much. The only available international body is distrusted by everyone. Impasse.”

“The President really wants to move on this,” the Chief of Staff pointed out. We have to do something to make it look like we're DOING SOMETHING.

“Well, next time he sees the Pope, maybe he can ask for high-level intercession.” Jack's irreverent grin froze momentarily. Van Damm thought he was cautioning himself against speaking badly of the President, whom he disliked. But then Ryan's face went blank. Arnie didn't know Jack well enough to recognize the look. “Wait a minute . . .”

The Chief of Staff chuckled. It wouldn't hurt for the President to see the Pope. It always looked good with the voters, and after that the President would have a well-covered dinner with B'nai B'rith to show that he liked all religions. In fact, as van Damm knew, the President went to church only for show now that his children were grown. That was one amusing aspect of life. The
Soviet Union
was turning back to religion in its search for societal values, but the American political left had turned away long ago and had no inclination to turn back, lest it should find the same values that the Russians were searching for. Van Damm had started off as a left-wing believer, but twenty-five years of hands-on experience in government had cured him of that. Now he distrusted ideologues of both wings with equal fervor. He was the sort to look for solutions whose only attraction was that they might actually work. His reverie on politics took him away from the discussion of the moment.

“You thinking about something, Jack?” Alden asked.

“You know, we're all 'people of the book,' aren't we?” Ryan asked, seeing the outline of a new thought in the fog.

“So?”

“And the
Vatican
is a real country, with real diplomatic status, but no armed forces . . . they're Swiss . . . and
Switzerland
is neutral, not even a member of the UN. The Arabs do their banking and carousing there . . . gee, I wonder if he'd go for it . . . ?” Ryan's face went blank again, and van Damm saw Jack's eye center as the light bulb flashed on. It was always exciting to watch an idea being born, but less so when you didn't know what it was.

“Go for what? Who go for what?” the Chief of Staff asked with some annoyance. Alden just waited.

Ryan told them.

“I mean, a large part of this whole mess is over the Holy Places, isn't it? I could talk to some of my people at
Langley
. We have a really good—”

Van Damm leaned back in his chair. “What sort of contacts do you have? You mean talking to the Nuncio?”

Ryan shook his head. “The Nuncio is a good old guy, Cardinal Giancatti, but he's just here for show. You've been here long enough to know that, Arnie. You want to talk to folks who know stuff, you go to Father Riley at
Georgetown
. He taught me when I got my doctorate at G-Town. We're pretty tight. He's got a pipeline into the General.”

“Who's that?”

“The Father General of the Society of Jesus. The head Jesuit, Spanish guy, his name is Francisco Alcalde. He and Father Tim taught together at St. Robert Bellarmine University in
Rome
. They're both historians, and Father Tim's his unofficial rep over here. You've never met Father Tim?”

“No. Is he worth it?”

“Oh, yeah. One of the best teachers I ever had. Knows D.C. inside and out. Good contacts back at the home office.” Ryan grinned, but the joke was lost on van Damm.