Oath of Office

51

“Is this conversation being taped?”

Senator Chadwick sat on the couch with her back to the Resolute desk, staring at the President through narrow eyes, like he might jump up at any moment and attack her.

“No,” Jack Ryan said. “It’s just you and me.” He nodded toward the exit to the secretaries’ suite. “There is a peephole in that door so people can look in to see if I’m busy. But no tapes.”

“We’ll see,” Chadwick said.

“So,” Ryan said, “I thought maybe you and I must have gotten off to a bad start somewhere.”

“Nope,” Chadwick said. “I just don’t like you. You smell bad to me. Your arrogance rubs me the wrong way. I’m smart enough to know it doesn’t play well with the media if I refuse a sit-down with the President, but that doesn’t mean we have to be friends. So let’s get whatever this is over with. I’ve got a lunch meeting with the chairman of Ways and Means.”

“I see,” Ryan said. He chose his next words carefully. “You and I both know that thick skins are a requirement in this business. I’m used to people not liking me. But I have to tell you, this incendiary dialogue about the flu vaccine is doing some real damage—”

“Good,” Chadwick said. “I hope it cuts your political legs out from under you. If it leaves you unable to handpick your heir apparent when the time comes, then I’ve done my job. The last thing the country needs is another Jack Ryan at the helm when you finally lay down your scepter.”

Ryan took a deep breath. “I was going to say this talk about hoarding vaccine is damaging the American people. False narratives and doctored videos very nearly caused a war in Cameroon.”

“Well,” Chadwick said, “you’re the expert when it comes to causing wars.”

Ryan waited a beat. He was human and didn’t want to say something he would later regret. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“I already told you,” she said. “I want the American people to see you for what you are.”

Ryan nodded at that. “I’m pretty sure they do,” he said. “Warts and all.”

“Oh, they will, eventually, if I have anything to say about it.”

Ryan couldn’t help but laugh at this woman’s audacity. “I suppose we’ll just have to plead our cases to the law of the land.”

“That’s perfectly fine with me,” Chadwick said. “I feel sure the courts will—”

Betty Martin’s voice came across the intercom, a blessed interruption.

“Mr. President. DNI Foley is here.”

Betty didn’t say it was urgent, but Ryan knew it was, or she wouldn’t have interrupted him mid-meeting unless he’d told her to — which he stupidly had not.

Chadwick took her cue and stood. “Well, this has been real. But it sounds like you have another war to start.”

Mary Pat stepped back and gave Senator Chadwick a wide berth as the two women passed each other at the doorway. A member of Ryan’s “war council,” as Chadwick called it, the director of national security was every bit as culpable as he was.

“I sure as hell hope you bring good news,” Ryan said. “I could use some about now.”

Foley, who was rarely at a loss for words, took a deep breath. “It’s a lot better news than I had ten minutes ago, Jack. But it’s still pretty shitty.”

The side door opened and Arnie came in, uncharacteristically taciturn. He glanced at Foley and gave her a distinct Have you told him yet? look.

“Okay,” Ryan said five minutes later when Mary Pat had given him a thumbnail sketch. “Let’s get the NSC spooled up again, but I’d like State and Defense in here ASAP.”

“They’re on their way, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I took the liberty of asking them to come to the White House right away. Burgess has someone putting together an executive summary, but I wanted to let you know what I know as soon as practical.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, obviously having more to say.

“Go ahead, then,” he said. “Tell me.” Ryan’s stomach churned with worry — which was nothing new. No matter how much he trusted Jack and Clark and the others, the world in which they operated was a cold and deadly place. Ryan had made enough calls to surviving parents and spouses to see it firsthand. Bullets didn’t care who your father was. People died because they stepped left instead of right.

“He’s okay,” Mary Pat said, as if reading Ryan’s mind. “But we do need to talk.”

Burgess all but exploded into the Oval. “Mr. President,” he said, breathless, as if he’d sprinted into the West Wing. “Major Poteet is across the hall in the Roosevelt Room at this moment, putting the finishing touches on some slides for you. He’ll be in momentarily.”

“Major Poteet?” Ryan said.

“He’s our foremost expert on the state of Iran’s defense capability at present. I find listening to him is like reading a year’s worth of Jane’s Defence Weekly, but I’ve warned him to turn down the firehose for this presentation.”

Ryan stood up and walked across the office to his desk phone, asking Betty to order a coffee service. He had a feeling this was going to be a late night. “We might need a firehose,” he said. “This whole thing is a convoluted mess. The Russians love their maskirovka, but this…”

Scott Adler came in next, followed by a middle-aged man in a white button-down and a pair of starched Wrangler jeans with razor-sharp creases up the front. He carried a closed notebook computer in callused hands.

“Please forgive Major Poteet,” Burgess said. “He’s on leave, but I happened to catch him stopping by his office after I got the call from the DNI. He worked on his presentation on the ride over.”

“Major,” Ryan said, shaking the man’s hand.

“A real pleasure, Mr. President,” Poteet said, his Texas accent as smooth as his hands were rough. “I apologize for being out of uniform.”

“Not a problem,” Ryan said. “I’m assuming you’re up to speed.”

Burgess spoke next. “He knows what I know, sir.”

“All right.” Ryan motioned for everyone to sit while he picked up the phone and spoke for a moment to his secretary. He replaced the handset and took his seat by the fireplace. “I’ve convened the full National Security Council in half an hour. I’d like to have a framework of ideas started before they arrive, so let’s have it.”

Poteet spent the next ten minutes going over Iran’s known stockpile of rockets and missiles, as well as their abilities to counter any attacks from other countries. Ryan knew much of the information, but the briefing helped to solidify it for the here and now of this situation.

“So,” Ryan said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms in thought, “the Sejjil-2 is capable of reaching targets well over two thousand kilometers away?”

“That’s correct, sir,” the major said.

“GPS guidance?”

“Yes, sir. We believe it to be Iran’s most technologically advanced missile at this point.”

“The Russian Gorgons have a range of what, a thousand kilometers?”

“That’s about right,” Burgess said. “Sources within the Kremlin say more recent variants might give half again that range.”

“I see,” Ryan said. “That’s still nowhere near the range of the missiles Iran already has in her arsenal. Could they be planning to move the nuclear warheads from the Gorgons to the Sejjil?”

“That’s certainly possible,” Poteet said. “But it wouldn’t be very smart. The nuclear warhead on the 51T6, or Gorgon, is certainly a plum for the Iranian missile forces, but I believe what they’re after is the more sophisticated Russian guidance system. Iran has a way of grossly exaggerating the accuracy of their own armament.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Mary Pat said. “We have satellite footage of them using an explosive charge to make it look like one of their bad boys hit a target during testing three years ago.”

“True enough, ma’am,” Major Poteet said. “And that’s not an isolated incident. We estimate the Circular Error Probable, or CEP, to be somewhere greater than five hundred meters on the Sejjil, even with the internal GPS.”

“Half a kilometer isn’t what I’d call precise munition,” Ryan said.

“Iran has the largest complement of missiles of any country in the Middle East,” Poteet said. “If you’ll excuse the euphemism, they’re fairly bristling with them. But none of them are precision instruments — yet. Sanctions certainly make it difficult for Iran to obtain certain electronics and the finely powdered metals they need for a consistent burn of their solid fuel. Up until now, even the Russians have balked at providing them with the most up-to-date systems. That said, I don’t want to understate the threat, either. Lob enough explosive at a target and some of it is bound to fall where you want it to.”

The steward from the Navy mess knocked, and then brought in the coffee Ryan had ordered. The conversation fell off until he left and shut the door behind him. As was his custom, Ryan served the coffee himself. It gave his hands something to do while his brain worked on a problem, a trick he’d learned from his father, who would often putter around in his woodshop while he stewed over a difficult murder investigation. He held a cup toward the major, a cube of sugar poised over it between the silver tongs.

“Black is fine, Mr. President,” Poteet said, looking more than a little embarrassed at being served by the Commander in Chief. A relatively junior rank at the Pentagon, majors were often the aides who got coffee for generals.

Ryan passed him the cup. “Let’s have some best guesses on where they want to hit with this Russian missile.”

“The Gorgon is mobile,” Poteet said. “So even with relatively limited range, they could reach any number of U.S. bases in central Asia, depending on where they launched from. Iraq is a viable target, as is Saudi Arabia or any number of Sunni countries.”

“There’s always Israel,” SecState Adler said. “It’s within range if they launch from western Iran. They’ve been rattling sabers at Jerusalem for decades. A nuclear warhead will be just the ticket for some of their hard-liners.”

“Maybe,” Mary Pat said. “But that’s less likely since they only have two.”

“That we know of,” Burgess said. “For all we know, they’ve been slipping missiles across the border for some time now.”

“Maybe,” Foley conceded. “But odds are someone in Russia would notice too many going missing. Even they have a finite number. Regarding Israel, there is a better-than-average chance that their Iron Dome defense system would stop one or two missiles during their terminal phase. We’re not talking MIRVs here.”

A MIRV was a multiple independently targetable reentry vehicle — several warheads on a single missile, maximizing the damage from each. A Trident II submarine — launched missile could carry as many as fourteen.

“Besides,” Foley continued, “Israel has enough nukes of their own to turn Tehran and every other city in Iran into a lake of fire if provoked. Frankly, I think that’s exactly what they would do if they were aware of this present state of affairs.”

“You’re right about that,” Ryan said. “We know the Russians used this Portuguese arms dealer as a cutout for deniability, but what you said about Israel brings up a good point. The Gorgon has a ten-kiloton yield. That’s roughly two-thirds of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. A tremendous loss of life, but even two direct hits wouldn’t be enough to cripple any of Iran’s enemies.”

SecDef Burgess gave a somber nod. “And a nuclear attack would cry out for an immediate response in kind.”

Ryan took a sip of coffee. “So what’s their game?”

Mary Pat gave a shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “What target would be of the most value to both Russia and Iran?”

Ryan gave a somber nod.

Burgess said, “We would. Mr. President, I know you want to discuss this with the full NSC, but I’d urge you to contact Yermilov and read him the proverbial riot act.”

“I tend to agree,” the secretary of state said. “There’s value in letting Russia know we’re aware of their duplicity. You might be able to shame them into remotely destroying the missiles — or, at the very least, rendering them incapable of launch.”

“I get your point,” Ryan said.

Arnie van Damm stuck his head into the Oval. “The chairman of the joint chiefs is here, Mr. President. The others are waiting in the Situation Room.”

“We’re on our way,” Ryan said. He got to his feet, prompting everyone else to stand as well. “Major Poteet, excellent brief. Mind doing it again for the National Security Council? They can be a tough crowd.”

“Not at all, Mr. President.” The major closed his laptop. “I’d like to point out one more thing, sir. Apart from supplying Scuds and proxy combatants to places like Lebanon and Syria, Iran customarily uses its rocket and missile forces to intimidate. They want the rest of the world to know how many weapons they have and where they are pointed. The fact that they’re keeping these nuclear devices a secret leads me to believe they intend to use them.”