Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (83 page)

No, but it is nice to hear it from somebody else, Betsy thought. “Anything else?”

“The Air Force kept telling me how delicate the damned things are. They don't like being bumped. At normal operating speeds you're talking three lateral gees and about a gee and a half of vertical acceleration. That's not good for the missile. Next problem is dimensional. That car is about ninety feet long, and the standard flatcar for their railroads is sixty or less. Their railroads are mainly narrow-gauge. Know why?”

“I just assumed that they picked—”

“It's all engineering, okay?” the AMTRAK executive said. “Narrow-gauge track gives you the ability to shoehorn into tighter spots, to take sharper turns, generally to do things smaller. But they went to standard gauge for the Shin-Kansen because for greater speed and stability you just need it wider. The length of the cargo and the corresponding length of the car to carry it means that if you turn too tightly, the car overlaps the next track and you run the risk of collision unless you shut down traffic coming the other way every time you move these things. That's why the missile is somewhere off the Shin-Kansen line. It has to be. Then next, there's the problem of the cargo. It really messes things up for everybody.”

“Keep going,” Betsy Fleming said.

“Because the missiles are so delicate, we would have been limited to low speed—it would have wrecked our scheduling and dispatching. We never wanted the job. The money to us would have been okay, but it would probably have hurt us in the long run. The same thing would be true of them, wouldn't it? Even worse. The Shin-Kansen line is a high-speed passenger routing. They meet timetables like you wouldn't believe, and they wouldn't much like things that mess them up.” He paused. “Best guess? They used those cars to move the things from the factory to someplace else and that's all. I'd bet a lot of money that they did everything at night, too. If I were you I'd hunt around for these cars, and expect to find them in a yard somewhere doing nothing. Then I'd start looking for trackage off the mainline that doesn't go anywhere.”

Scott changed slides again. “How well do you know their railroads?”

“I've been over there often enough. That's why they let you draft me.”

“Well, tell me what you think of this one.” Scott pointed at the screen.

“That's some bitchin' radar,” a technician observed. The trailer had been flown up to Elmendorf to support the B-1 mission. The bomber crews were sleeping now, and radar experts, officer- and enlisted-rank, were going over the taped records of the snooper flight.

“Airborne phased array?” a major asked.

“Sure looks that way. Sure as hell isn't the APY-1 we sold them ten years back. We're talking over two million watts, and the way the signal strength jumps. Know what they've got here? It's a rotating dome, probably a single planar array,” the master sergeant said. “So it's rotating, okay. But they can steer it electronically, too.”

“Track and scan?”

“Why not? It's frequency-agile. Damn, I wish we had one of these, sir.” The sergeant picked up a photo of the aircraft. “This thing is going to be a problem for us. All that power—makes you wonder if they might get a hit. Makes me wonder if they were tracking the 1s, sir.”

“From that far out?” The B-1B was not strictly speaking a stealthy aircraft. From nose—on it did have a reduced radar signature. From abeam the radar cross section was considerably larger, though still smaller than any conventional airplane of similar physical dimensions.

“Yes, sir. I need to play with the tapes some.”

“What will you look for?”

     “The rotodome probably turns at about six rpm. The pulses we're recording ought to be at about that interval. Anything else, and they were steering the beam at us.”

“Good one, Sarge. Run it down.”

34

All Aboard

Yamata was annoyed to be back in
Tokyo
. His pattern of operation in thirty years of business had been to provide command guidance, then let a team of subordinates work out the details while he moved on to other strategic issues, and he'd fully expected it to go easier in this case rather than harder.After all, the twenty most senior zaibatsu were his staff now. Not that they thought of themselves that way. Yamata-san smiled to himself. It was a heady thought. Getting the government to dance to his tune had been child's play. Getting these men onboard had taken years of cajolery. But they were dancing to his tune, and they just needed the bandmaster around from time to time. And so he'd flown back on a nearly empty airliner to steady down their nerves.

“It's not possible,” he told them.

“But he said—”

“Kozo, President Durling can say anything he wishes. I'm telling you that it is not possible for them to rebuild their records in anything less than several weeks. If they attempt to reopen their markets today all that will result is chaos. And chaos,” he reminded them, “works in our favor.”

“And the Europeans?” Tanzan Itagake asked.

“They will wake up at the end of next week and discover that we have bought their continent,” Yamata told them all. “In five years
America
will be our grocer and
Europe
will be our boutique. By that time the yen will be the world's most powerful currency. By that time we will have a fully integrated national economy and a powerful continental ally. Both of us will be self-sufficient in all our resource needs. We will no longer have a population that needs to abort its babies to keep from overpopulating our
Home
Islands
. And,” he added, “we will have political leadership worthy of our national status. That is our next step, my friends.”

Indeed, Binichi Murakami thought behind an impassive face. He remembered that he'd signed on partly as a result of being accosted on the streets of
Washington
by a drunken beggar. How was it possible that someone as clever as himself could be influenced by petty anger? But it had happened, and now he was stuck with the rest. The industrialist sipped his saké and kept his peace while Yamata-san waxed rhapsodic about their country's future. He was really talking about his own future, of course, and Murakami wondered how many of the men around the table saw that. Fools. But that was hardly fair, was it? After all, he was one of them.

Major Boris Scherenko had no less than eleven highly placed agents within the Japanese government, one of whom was the deputy head of the PSID, a man he'd compromised some years before while on a sex and gambling trip to
Taiwan
. He was the best possible person to have under control—it was likely that he would one day graduate to chief of the agency and enable the
Tokyo
rezidentura both to monitor and influence counterintelligence activity throughout the country. What confused the Russian intelligence officer was that none of his agents had been of much help so far.

Then there was the issue of working with the Americans. Given his professional training and experience, it was as if he were heading the welcoming committee for diplomats arriving from Mars. The dispatch from
Moscow
made it easier to accept. Or somewhat easier. It appeared that the Japanese were planning to rob his country of her most precious potential asset, in conjunction with
China
, and to use that power base to establish themselves as the world's most powerful nation. And the strangest thing of all was that Scherenko did not think the plan crazy on its face. Then came his tasking orders.

Twenty missiles, he thought. It was one area he'd never targeted for investigation. After all,
Moscow
had sold the things to them. They must have considered the possibility that the missiles could be used for—but, no, of course they hadn't. Scherenko promised himself that he'd sit down with this
Clark
fellow, an experienced man, and after breaking the ice with a few drinks, inquire delicately if the American's political direction was as obtuse as that which he received, regardless of the government in question. Perhaps the American would have something useful to say. After all, their governments changed every four or eight years. Perhaps they were used to it.

Twenty missiles, he thought. Six warheads each. Once it had been normal to think of missiles as things that flew in thousands, and both sides had actually been mad enough to accept it as a strategic fact of life. But now, the possibility of a mere ten or twenty—at whom would they really be aimed? Would the Americans really stand up for their new…what? Friends? Allies? Associates? Or were they merely former enemies whose new status had not yet been decided in
Washington
? Would they help his country against the new/old danger? What kept coming back to him was, twenty missiles times six warheads. They would be evenly targeted, and surely enough to wreck his country. And if that were true, they would surely be enough to deter
America
from helping.

Well, then Moscow is right, Scherenko judged. Full cooperation now was the best way to avoid that situation.
America
wanted a location on the missiles, probably with the intention of destroying them. And if they don't, we will.

The Major personally handled three of the agents. His subordinates handled the others, and under his direction messages were prepared for distribution to dead-drops around the city. What do you know about… How many would answer his call for information? The danger was not so much that the people under his control would not have the information he needed, but that one or more of them would take this opportunity to report in to the government. In asking for something of this magnitude, he ran the risk of giving one of his agents the chance to redeem himself by turning patriot, to reveal the new orders and absolve himself of any guilt. But some risks you had to run. After
midnight
he took a walk, picking high-traffic areas to place his drops and making the appropriate wake-up signals to alert his people. He hoped that the half of PSID he controlled was the one covering this area. He thought so, but you could never be sure, could you?

Kimura knew he was running risks, but he'd gone beyond that kind of worry now. All he could really hope for was that he was acting as a patriot, and that somehow people would understand and honor that fact after his execution for treason. The other consolation was that he would not die alone. “I can arrange a meeting with former Prime Minister Koga,” he said simply.

Oh, shit,
Clark
thought at once. I'm a goddamned spy, he wanted to reply. I'm not with the goddamned State Department. The only good news at the moment was that Chavez didn't react at all. His heart had probably stopped, John told himself. Like yours just did.

“To what end?” he asked.

"The situation is grave, is it not? Koga-san has no part in this. He is still a

man of political influence. His views should be of interest to your government."

Yeah, you might say that
. But Koga was also a politician on the outside, and perhaps willing to trade the lives of some foreigners for an open door back into the government; or just a man who placed country ahead of personal gain—which possibility might cut in just about any direction
Clark
could imagine.“Before I can commit to that, I need instructions from my government,” John said. It was rarely that he temporized on anything, but this one was well beyond his experience.

“Then I would suggest that you get it. And soon,” Kimura added as he stood and left.

“I always wondered if my master's in international relations would come in handy,” Chavez observed, staring into his half-consumed drink. “Of course I have to live long enough to get the parchment.” Might be nice to get married, settle down, have kids, maybe even have a real life someday,  he didn't add.

“Good to see you still have a sense of humor, Yevgeniy Pavlovich.”

“They're going to tell us to do it. You know that.”

“Da.”
Clark
nodded, keeping his cover and now trying to think as a Russian would. Did the KGB manual have a chapter for this? he wondered. The CIA's sure as hell didn't.

As usual the tapes were clearer than the instant analysis of the operators. There had been three, perhaps four-more likely four, given American operational patterns, the intelligence officers opined-aircraft probing Japanese air defenses. Definitely not EC-135s, however. Those aircraft were based on a design almost fifty years old and studded with enough antennas to watch every TV signal in the hemisphere, and would have generated far larger radar returns. Besides, the Americans probably didn't have four such aircraft left. Therefore something else, probably their B-1B bomber, the intelligence people estimated. And the B-1B was a bomber, whose purpose was far more sinister than the collection of electronic signals. So the Americans were thinking of
Japan
as an enemy whose defenses would have to be penetrated for the purpose of delivering death, an idea new to neither side in this war, if war it was, the cooler heads added. But what else could it be? the majority of the analysts asked, setting the tone of the night's missions.

     Three E-767s were again up and operating, again with two of them active and one waiting in the ambush role. This time the radars were turned up in power, and the parameters for the signal-processing software were electronically altered to allow for easier tracking of stealthy targets at long range. It was physics they depended on. The size of the antenna combined with the power of the signal and the frequency of the electronic waves made it possible to get hits on almost anything. That was both the good news and the bad news, the operators thought, as they received all manner of signals now. There was one change, however. When they thought they had a weak return from a moving object at long range, they started directing their fighters in that direction. The Eagles never got within a hundred miles. The return signals always seemed to lade out when the E-767 switched frequency from longwave acquisition to shortwave tracking, and that didn't bode well for the Ku-band needed for actual targeting. It did show them that the Americans were still probing, and that perhaps they knew they were being tracked. And, everyone thought, if nothing else it was good training for the fighters. If this were truly a war, all the participants told themselves, then it was becoming more and more real.