The Sum of All Fears

43 THE REVENGE OF MOEDRED

Dubinin had little choice in the matter. As soon as he was certain that the American torpedo was dead, he ran up his satellite antenna and broadcast his report. The American Orion dropped active sonobuoys all around him but did not attack, confirming his impression that he had committed a crime little different from murder. As soon as the signal was receipted, he turned about and headed for the direction of the explosion. A seaman could do nothing else.

“Well?”

“Mr. President, I think we acknowledge, thank the man, and let this one slide, sir,” Jack replied.

“I agree. Thank you.” The line went dead again.

“That was my boat!” Rosselli snarled.

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Sorry to hear it. I've spent time aboard subs, with Bart Mancuso, as a matter of fact. Know him?”

“He's the squadron commander out at Bangor.”

Ryan turned. “Oh? I didn't know. I'm sorry, Captain, but what else can we do?”

“I know,” Rosselli said quietly. “With luck, maybe they can get the crew off…”

Jackson was nearly out of fuel and ready to turn back. Theodore Roosevelt had an Alpha Strike spotted and ready to take off when the new orders came in. The battle group immediately increased speed to open the distance between the American and Russian formations. It didn't seem to Jackson like running away. The Hawkeye called a warning that the Russian ships had turned west — perhaps into the wind to launch aircraft. But though four fighters were aloft, they orbited the battle group, which continued west. Their search radars were up, but their missile radars went down. That, he knew, was a hopeful sign.

And so, Robby told himself, so ends my second war, if that's what it was… He brought his Tomcat around, with Sanchez on his wing. Four more F-14s would orbit here, just to keep an eye on things for the next few hours.

Jackson trapped just in time to see a rescue helicopter landing forward. By the time he dismounted the aircraft, three people were in the ship's hospital. He headed down to see who they were and what had been going on. A few minutes later, he knew that he wouldn't be painting any more victory flags on his aircraft. Not for something like this.

Berlin settled down much more quickly than anyone imagined. The relief column of the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment had only gone thirty kilometers when the halt order arrived, and it pulled off the autobahn to wait. Inside Berlin itself, the American brigade got the word first, and pulled back into the western portion of the kazerne. Russians probed forward with dismounted infantry to see what was happening, but without orders to renew the attack, they remained tensely in place. Soon the area was flooded with police cars, much to the bemusement of the soldiers. Twenty minutes after the Americans began moving, communications were reestablished with Moscow, and the Russians pulled farther back into their defensive positions. A number of unexplained bodies were found, including the regimental commander and his executive officer, plus three tank crews, all of whom had been killed with small-arms fire. But the most important discovery was made by a Berlin policeman, who was the first to examine the truck and staff car ripped apart by 25 mm cannon slugs from a Bradley. The “Russians” were all dead, but none had identity disks. The policeman immediately called for assistance, which was dispatched at once. Two of the faces looked familiar to the cop, though he couldn't remember why.

“Jack.”

“Hi, Arnie, grab a seat.”

“What happened, Jack?”

Ryan shook his head. His mental state was one of giddiness. His reason told him that sixty thousand people had died, but despite that, the relief at having stopped something a hundred times worse had left him in a slightly drunken condition. “Not really sure yet, Arnie. You know the important part.”

“The President sounds like hell.”

A grunt. “You ought to have heard him a couple hours ago. He lost it, Arnie.”

“That bad?”

Jack nodded. “That bad.” A pause. “Maybe anybody would have, maybe you just can't expect a guy to deal with this, but — but that's his job, man.”

“You know, he once told me that he was most grateful for Reagan and the others because of the changes, the fact that something like this wasn't really possible anymore.”

“Listen, man, as long as those goddamned things exist, it's possible.”

“You advocating disarmament?” van Damm asked.

Ryan looked up again. The giddiness was gone now. “I got the stars out of my eyes a long time ago. What I'm saying is, if it's possible, you damned well think about it. He didn't. He didn't even look at the wargames we ran. He was just so sure it would never happen. Well, it did, didn't it?”

“How did Liz do?”

“Don't ask. The Boss needed good advice, and he didn't get any from her.”

“And you?”

“He didn't listen to me, and that's partly my fault, I guess.”

“Hey, it's over.”

Jack nodded again. “Yeah.”

“Ryan, call for you.”

Jack took the phone. “Ryan here. Yeah, okay. Go slower.” He listened for several minutes, making notes. “Thanks, John.”

“What was that?”

“A confession. Is the helicopter ready?”

“At the pad. On the other side,” one of the Secret Service men said.

The helicopter was a VH-6o. Ryan climbed aboard and strapped in, along with van Damm and three agents. The chopper lifted off at once. The sky was clearing. The wind was still lively, but there were stars to be seen in the west.

“Where's the Vice President?” van Damm asked.

“Kneecap,” an agent replied. “He stays up six more hours till we're sure this is over.”

Jack didn't even hear. He had his ear-protectors in, and took the chance to lean back and stare into space. The helicopter even had a bar, he saw. What a nice way to travel.

“They wanted to start a nuclear war?” Chavez asked.

“That's what they said.” Clark washed his hands. It wasn't that bad. He'd only broken four of Qati's fingers. It was the way you worked the broken bones that really mattered. Ghosn — they now knew his name — had taken a little more, but both stories were almost identical.

“I heard it, too, man, but—”

“Yeah. Ambitious fuckers, weren't they?” Clark put some ice cubes into a bag and walked back to rest it on Qati's hand. He had his information now, and he was not a sadist. The sensible thing, he thought, was to toss their asses out of the airplane here and now, but that wasn't his job either. Both terrorists were manacled to their seats. Clark took a chair in the back so that he could keep an eye on both. Their luggage was there also. He decided to rummage through it now that he had the time.

“Hello, Ryan,” the President said from his chair. “Hi, Arnie.”

“Bad day, Bob,” van Damm offered.

“Very.” The man had aged. It seemed a cliché, but it was true. His skin was sallow, the eyes sitting at the bottom of dark-rimmed wells. Though he was normally a carefully groomed man, Fowler's hair was askew. “Ryan, you have them?”

“Yes, sir, two of our field officers grabbed them in Mexico City. Their names are Ismael Qati and Ibrahim Ghosn. You know who Qati is. We've been after that guy for a long time. He had a piece of the Beirut bombing, two aircraft incidents, lots of other things, mainly to do with Israel. Ghosn is one of his people, evidently an engineer by profession. They were somehow able to fabricate the weapon.”

“Whose sponsorship?” the President asked.

“We — our man, that is — had to sweat that out of them. Sir, that's a technical violation—”

Fowler's eyes flared into life. “I forgive them! Get on with it.”

“Sir, they say the, uh, operation was bankrolled and supported by the Ayatolla Mahmoud Haji Daryaei.”

“ Iran.” Not a question, a statement. Fowler's eyes became more animated.

"Correct. As you know, Iran isn't exactly pleased with how our actions in the Gulf worked out, and — sir, according to our people, this is what they said:

“It was a two-part plan. Part one was the bomb in Denver. Part two was an incident in Berlin. They had another guy working with them, Günther Bock, former Red Army Faction guy, his wife was arrested by the Germans last year and she later hanged herself. The objective, Mr. President, was to drive us and the Russians into a nuclear exchange — or at the least to so screw up our relations that the situation in the Gulf would revert to chaos. That would serve Iranian interests — or so Daryaei supposedly thinks.”

“How did they get the weapon?”

“They say it's Israeli — was Israeli,” Ryan corrected himself. “Evidently it got lost in 1973. We have to check that with the Israelis, but it makes sense. The plutonium came from Savannah River, and it's probably part of the big MUF they had some years back. We've long suspected that the first generation of Israeli nukes was fabricated from material obtained over here.”

Fowler stood. “You're telling me that this fucking mullah did this — and killing a hundred thousand Americans wasn't enough! He wanted to start a nuclear war, too!”

“That is the information, sir.”

“Where is he?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. President, we know quite a lot about him. He has supported several terrorist groups as you know. He was the loudest Islamic voice against the Vatican Treaty, but he lost a lot of prestige when it started working, and that did not improve his disposition very much. Daryaei lives in Qum in Iran. His political faction is losing some of its power, and there's already been an attempt on his life.”

“Is their story plausible?”

“Yes, Mr. President, it is.”

“You think Daryaei capable of such a thing?”

“On the record, sir, I would have to say that he is. Yes.”

“He lives in Qum?”

“Correct. It's a city with a religious history, very important to the Shi'a branch of Islam. I don't know the exact population, certainly more than a hundred thousand.”

“Where in Qum does he live?”

“That's the problem. He moves around a lot. He was nearly killed last year, and he learned from that. Never sleeps in the same place twice, so we hear. He stays in the same part of the city, but I can't give you a location better than plus or minus a mile or so.”

“He did this?”

“So it would seem, Mr. President. That's our best data.”

“But you can't localize him better than a mile.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fowler contemplated that for a few seconds before speaking, but when he did, Ryan's blood turned to ice.

“That's close enough.”

“Is this possible?”

“Yes, I would say so,” Golovko replied. “Daryaei is a fanatic. He loathes the Americans.”

“Those barbarians tried to bait us into—”

“Let them handle it,” Golovko advised. “It is they who suffered the worst losses.”

“You know what he will wish to do?”

“Yes, Comrade President, as do you.”

“Christ, Andruska,” Ryan murmured. That's a clear statement! The President read the message off the screen without a word.

Ryan had been under the impression that Narmonov had kept control of his emotions, but now the reverse seemed to be true. Fowler sat rock-steady in his chair, surveying the room with calm eyes.

“The world will learn a lesson from this,” Fowler said. “I'll make sure that nobody ever does this again.”

Another phone line went off. “Mr. President, FBI, sir.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. President, this is Murray, we've just had a flash from the Bundeskriminalamt — that's the German Federal Criminal Police — that they've found the body of one Günther Bock in eastern Berlin, dressed in the uniform of a Russian army colonel. There were nine others similarly dressed, one of whom is believed to be a former colonel in the Stasi. The data we got from Qati and the other one is confirmed on that side, sir.”

“ Murray, I want an opinion. Are you confident in the confessions?”

“Sir, generally speaking, when we bag these guys they sing like canaries. It's not the Mafia, there's no law of omertà.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murray.” Fowler looked up at Ryan. “Well?”

“Sounds like we got good stuff from them.”

“So, we agree for once.” Fowler punched his SAC button. “General Fremont?”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“How quickly can you re-target a missile? I want to attack a city in Iran.”

“What?”

“I'll let Deputy Director Ryan explain.”

“Those sons-of-bitches.” Fremont spoke for everyone in the room.

“Yes, General, and I intend to get the man who did this, and get him in a way that will send a message that nobody will ever forget. The leader of Iran has committed an act of war against the United States of America. I intend to reply exactly in proportion to his act, I want a missile targeted on Qum. How long will that take?”

“Ten minutes at least, sir, let me, uh, check with my operations people.” CINC-SAC flipped off his microphone switch. “Christ.”

“Pete,” the Deputy Chief of Staff (Operations) said, “the man is right. That fucker almost killed us all — us and the Russians! For profit, for political profit!”

“I don't like it.”

“You have to re-target the bird. I suggest a Minuteman-III out of Minot. The three RVs'll flatten the place. I'll need ten minutes.”

Fremont nodded.

“Mr. President, you can wait.”

“No, I'm not going to wait. Ryan, you know what they did, you know why they did it. It was an act of war—”

“An act of terrorism, sir.”

“State-sponsored terrorism is war — your own position paper from six years ago said that!”

Jack had not known that Fowler'd read it, and being hoist on his own petard came as a surprise. “Well, yes, sir, I did say that, but—”

“That holy man tried to kill — did kill thousands of Americans, and tried to trick us and the Russians into killing two hundred million more! He almost succeeded.”

“Yes, sir, that is also true, but—” Fowler cut him off with a raised hand and continued to speak in the placid voice of a man whose decision had been made.

“It was an act of war. I will reply in kind. That's decided. I'm the President. I'm the Commander-in-Chief. I am the one who evaluates and acts upon the safety and security of the United States. I decide what the military of this country does. This man slaughtered thousands of our citizens, and used a nuclear weapon to do it. I have decided that I will reply in kind. Under the Constitution, that is my right, and my duty.”

“Mr. President,” van Damm spoke. “The American people—”

Fowler's anger appeared, but only briefly. “The American people will demand that I act! But that's not the only reason. I must act. I must reply to this — just to make sure it never happens again!”

“Please think it through, sir.”

“ Arnold, I have.”

Ryan looked over at Pete Connors and Helen D'Agustino. Both concealed their feelings with marvelous skill. The rest of the room approved of Fowler's purpose, and Jack already knew that he was not the one to reason with the man. He looked at the clock and wondered what would come next.

“Mr. President, this is General Fremont.”

“I'm here, General.”

“Sir, we have re-targeted a Minuteman-III missile in North Dakota for the target specified. I — sir, have you thought this through?”

“General, I am your commander-in-chief. Is the missile readied for launch?”

“Sir, the launch sequence will take about a minute from the time you give the order.”

“The order is given.”

“Sir, it's not that simple. I need an ID check. You've been briefed on the procedure, sir.”

Fowler reached for his wallet and removed a plastic card, much like a credit card. On it were ten different eight-number groups. Only Fowler knew which one he was supposed to read.

“Three-Three-Six-Zero-Four-Two-Zero-Nine.”

“Sir, I confirm your identification code. Next, Mr. President, the order must be confirmed.”

“What?”

“Sir, the two-man rule applies. In the event of an overt attack, I can be the second man, but since that is not the case, someone on my list must confirm the order.”

“I have my Chief of Staff right here.”

“Sir, negative on that, the rule is that to be on the list you must be an elected official or one approved by Congress — the Senate, that is — like a cabinet secretary.”

“I'm on the list,” Jack said.

“Is that Dr. Ryan, DDCI?”

“Correct, General.”

“Deputy Director Ryan, this is CINC-SAC,” Fremont said in a voice that oddly mimicked the robotic one used to issue SAC orders. “Sir, I have received a nuclear-launch order. I need you to confirm that order, but first I also need to verify your identity, sir. Could you please read your identification code?”

Jack reached for his own ID card and read off his code group. Ryan could hear Fremont or one of his people flipping through the pages of a book.

“Sir, I confirm your identification as Dr. John Patrick Ryan, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence.”

Jack looked at Fowler. If he didn't do it, the President would just get someone else. It really was that simple, wasn't it? And was Fowler wrong — was he really wrong?

“It's my responsibility, Jack,” Fowler said, standing at Ryan's side, resting his hand on Jack's shoulder. “You're just confirming it.”

“Dr. Ryan, CINC-SAC here, I repeat, sir, I have a nuclear-launch order from the President, and I require confirmation, sir.”

Ryan looked at his President, then leaned down to the microphone. He struggled for the breath to speak. “CINC-SAC, this is John Patrick Ryan. I am DDCI.” Jack paused, then went on quickly:

“Sir, I do not confirm this order. I repeat, General, this is not a valid launch order. Acknowledge at once!”

“Sir, I copy negative approval of the order.”

That is correct,“ Jack said, his voice growing stronger. ”General, it is my duty to inform you that in my opinion the President is not, I repeat not in command of his faculties. I urge you to consider that if another launch order is attempted." Jack rested his hands on the desk, took a deep breath, and snapped back erect.

Fowler was slow to react, but when he did, he pressed his face against Jack's. “Ryan, I order you—”

Jack's emotions exploded one last time: “To do what? To kill a hundred thousand people — and why?”

“What they tried to do—”

“What you damned near let them do!” Ryan jabbed a finger into the President's chest. “You're the one who fucked up! You're the one who took us to the edge — and now the real reason you're willing to slaughter a whole city is because you're mad, because your pride is hurt, and you want to get even. You want to show them that nobody can push you around! That's the reason, isn't it? ISN'T IT?” Fowler went white. Ryan lowered his voice. “You need a better reason than that to kill people. I know. I've had to do that. I have killed people. You want this man killed, we can do it, but I'm not going to help you kill a hundred thousand others just to take out the one man you want.”

Ryan stepped back. He dropped his ID card on the desk and walked from the room.

“Jesus!” Chuck Timmons observed. They'd heard the entire exchange over the hot mike. Everyone in SAC headquarters had.

“Yeah,” Fremont said. Thank Him. But first deactivate that missile!" The Commander-in-Chief Strategic Air Command had to think for a moment. He couldn't remember if Congress was in session or not, but that was beside the point. He ordered his communications officer to place a call to the chairmen and ranking minority members of the Senate and House armed-services committees. When all four were on line, they'd stage a conference call with the Vice President, who was still aboard Kneecap.

“Jack?” Ryan turned.

“Yeah, Arnie?”

“Why?”

“That's why they have a two-man rule. There are a hundred thousand people in that city — probably more. I can't recall how big it is.” Jack looked into the cold clear sky. “Not on my conscience. If we needed Daryaei dead, there are other ways.” Ryan blew smoke into the wind. “And that fucker'll be just as dead.”

“I think you were right. I want you to know that.”

Jack turned. “Thank you, sir.” A long pause. “Where's Liz, by the way?”

“Back in the cabin, under sedation. She didn't cut the mustard, did she?”

“Arnie, today nobody did. Mainly we were lucky. You can tell the President that I'm resigning effective — oh, Friday, I guess. Good a day as any. Someone else'll have to decide on the replacement.”

The President's Chief of Staff was quiet for a moment, then brought things back to the main issue. “You know what you've just started here, don't you?”

“Constitutional crisis, Arnie?” Jack flipped the butt into the snow. “Not my first, Arnie, not my first. I need to ride that chopper back to Andrews.”

“I'll take care of it.”

They'd just crossed into U.S. territory when a thought struck John Clark. Qati's bags had those medications. One was Prednizone, and another was Comazine. Prednizone was a steroid… often used to mitigate the adverse effects of — he got up from his seat and looked at Qati. Though still blindfolded, the man was different from the most recent photos he'd seen of the man, thinner, his hair was — the man had cancer, Clark thought. What did that mean? He got on the radio and called that information ahead.

The Gulf stream was a few minutes later getting in. Ryan was awakened on the couch in the VIP lounge on the south side of the Andrews complex. Murray was next to him, still awake. Three FBI vehicles were there. Clark, Chavez, Qati and Ghosn were loaded into them, and the convoy of four-wheel-drives headed into D.C.

“What are we going to do with them?” Murray asked.

“I have an idea, but we need to do something first.”

“What, exactly?”

“You have an interrogation room at the Hoover Building?”

“No, Buzzard's Point, the Washington Field Office,” Murray said. “Did your guy Mirandize them?”

“Yeah, I told him he had to do that, right before he started cutting their balls off.” Ryan turned as he heard a loud noise. Kneecap was landing on the same Runway Zero-One it had left ten or so hours before. They must have shut down the strategic systems quicker than expected, Jack thought.

The Admiral Lunin surfaced amid the flares and smoke floats dropped by the P-3. It was much too far for a rescue aircraft to come out, at least in this weather. The seas hadn't moderated, and the light was bad, but Dubinin's was the only ship in the area, and he did the best he could to start rescue operations.

The interrogation room was ten by ten, with a cheap table and five equally cheap chairs. There was no two-way mirror. That trick had been around far too long. Instead, two fiber-optic cables ran out of the room and into cameras, one from a light switch, and the other from what looked like a nail hole in the door frame.

Both terrorists were set in place, looking somewhat the worse for wear. The broken fingers both sported offended the professional ethic of the FBI, but Murray decided to pass on that. Clark and Chavez went off for coffee.

“As you see,” Ryan told them, “you failed. Washington is still here.”

“And Denver?” Ghosn asked. “I know about Denver.”

“Yes, you did manage to do something there, but the guilty parties have already paid.”

“What do you mean?” Qati asked.

“I mean that Qum isn't there anymore. Your friend Daryaei is now explaining his misdeeds to Allah.”

They were just too tired, Ryan thought. Fatigue was the worst enemy of men, even worse than the dull pain in his hand. Qati didn't show horror at all. His next error was worse.

“You have made an enemy of all Islam. All that you have done to make peace in the region will be as nothing! because of this.”

“Was that your objective?” Ryan asked in considerable surprise, drawing on the two hours of sleep he'd had. “Was that what you wanted to do? Oh, my God!”

“Your god?” Qati spat.

“What of Marvin Russell?” Murray asked.

“We killed him. He was merely an infidel,” Qati said.

Murray looked at Ghosn. “This is true? Wasn't he a guest in your camp?”

“He was with us for some months, yes. The fool's help was indispensable.”

“And you murdered him.”

“Yes, along with two hundred thousand others.”

“Tell me,” Jack said. “Isn't there a line in the Koran that goes something like, 'If a man shall enter your tent and eat your salt, even though he be an infidel, you will protect him'?”

“You quote poorly — and what do you care of the Koran?”

“You might be surprised.”