Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (92 page)

“
Tennessee
,” Chambers said. “That's Dutch Claggett. He's due in here zero-two-hundred Friday.”

Jones was impressed with himself. “Damn, a hit on an
Ohio
. How many others?”

“Four more, the last one leaves the pier in about an hour.” Mancuso pointed at his wall chart. “I told each one to run over that SOSUS array for a noise check. I knew you'd be around to sniff after them. Don't get too cocky about it. They're doing a speed run into
Pearl
.”

Jones nodded and turned. “Good one, Skipper.”

“We haven't completely lost it yet, Dr. Jones.”

“Goddamn it, Chief!” Commander Claggett swore.

“My fault, sir. Sure as hell.” He took it like a man. It was a toolbox. It had been found stuck between a seawater pipe and the hull, where minor vibrations off the spring-suspended deck had made the wrenches inside rattle, enough that the submarine-towed sonar had detected the noise. “It isn't one of ours, probably a yard worker left it aboard.”

Three other chief petty officers were there to share the experience. It could have happened to anyone. They knew what was coming next, too. Their captain took a deep breath before going on. A good show of anger was required, even for his chiefs.

“Every inch of the hull from the collision bulkhead to the tailshaft. Every loose nut, every bolt, every screwdriver. If it's layin' on the deck, pick it up. If it's loose, tighten it. No stoppin' till it's done. I want this ship so quiet I can hear the dirty jokes you're thinking about me.”

“It'll get done, sir,” the Chief of the Boat promised. Might as well get used to no sleep, he didn't say, and sure enough—

“You got it, COB, no sleep until this boat makes a tomb look noisy.” On reflection, Claggett thought he could have picked a better metaphor.

The CO made his way back forward, reminding himself to thank his sonar chief for isolating the source of the noise. It was better to have found it the first day out, and he had to raise hell about it. Those were the rules. He had to command himself not to smile. The Captain, after all, was supposed to be a stern son of a bitch—when he found something wrong, that is, and in a few minutes the chiefs would relay all his wrath on to others and feel the same way about it.

Things had already changed, he saw, as he passed through the reactor spaces. Like doctors in an operating room, the reactor watch sat or stood as their assignments dictated, mainly watching, making a few notes at the proper times. At sea for less than a day, and already Xerox copies of Think Quiet were taped to both sides of every watertight door. Those few crewmen he encountered in the passageways made way for him, often with a curt, proud nod. Yeah, we're pros, too, sir. Two men were jogging in the missile room, a long and now useless compartment, and Claggett, as service etiquette dictated, made way for them, almost smiling again as he did so.

“Toolbox, right?” the executive officer asked when the CO reentered the Attack

Center. “I had that happen to me on
Hampton
after our first refit.”

“Yep.” Claggett nodded. “Turn of the next watch, we do a fore-and-aft walkdown.”

“Could be worse, sir. Once coming out of a yard overhaul, a guy I know had to reenter the dry dock. They found a friggin' extension ladder in the forward ballast tank.” Stories like that made submariners shiver.

“Toolbox, sir?” the sonar chief asked.

Now he could smile. Claggett leaned against the doorframe and nodded as he pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Good call, Chief.”

“Wasn't all that much.” But the chief petty officer pocketed the five anyway. On
Tennessee
, as on a lot of submarines, every wrench aboard had its handle dipped in liquid vinyl, which both gave a slightly better grip, especially to a sweaty hand, and also cut way back on the chance of rattling.

“Some yard puke, I bet,” he added with a wink.

“I only pay once,” Claggett observed. “Any new contacts?”

“Single-screw low-speed diesel surface ship bearing three-four-one, way out. It's a CZ contact, designated Sierra-Thirty. They're working a plot now, sir.” He paused for a moment, and his mood changed. “Cap'n?”

“What is it, Chief?”

“
Asheville
and
Charlotte
, is it true?”

Commander Clagget nodded again. “That's what they told me.”

“We'll even the score, sir.”

Roger Durling lifted the sheet of paper. It was handwritten, which was something the President rarely saw. “This is rather thin, Admiral.”

“Mr. President, you're not going to authorize a systematic attack on their country, are you?”
Jackson
asked.

Durling shook his head. “No, that's more than I want. The mission is to get the
Marianas
back and to prevent them from carrying through on the second part of their plan.”

Robby took a deep breath. This was what he'd been preparing for.

“There's a third part, too,”
Jackson
announced.

The two men with him froze.

“What's that, Rob?” Ryan asked after a moment.

“We just figured it out, Jack. The Indian task-force commander, Chandraskatta? He went to
Newport
a while back. Guess who was in the same class.” He paused. “A certain Japanese admiral named Sato.”

Ryan closed his eyes. Why hadn't somebody turned this up before? “So, three countries with imperial ambitions…”

“It looks that way to me, Jack. Remember the Greater
East Asia
Co-Prosperity Sphere? Good ideas keep coming back. We need to stop it all,”
Jackson
said forcefully. “I spent twenty-some years training for a war that nobody wanted to fight—with the Russians. I'd rather train to keep the peace. That means stopping these guys right now.”

“Will this work?” the President asked.

“No guarantees, sir. Jack tells me there's a diplomatic and political clock on the operation. This isn't
Iraq
. Whatever international consensus we have is just with the Europeans, and that'll evaporate sooner or later.”

“Jack?” Durling asked.

“If we're going to do it, this is probably the way.”

“Risky.”

“Mr. President, yes, sir, it's risky,” Robby Jackson agreed. “If you think diplomacy will work to get the
Marianas
back, fine. I don't especially want to kill anybody. But if I were in their shoes, I would not give those islands back. They need them for Phase Two, and if that happens, even if the Russians don't go nuke…”

A giant step backwards, Ryan thought. A new alliance of sorts, one that could stretch from the
Arctic Circle
to
Australia
. Three countries with nuclear capacity, a huge resource base, massive economies, and the political will to use violence to achieve their ends. The Nineteenth Century all over, played on a far larger field. Economic competition backed by force, the classic formula for unending war.

“Jack?” the President asked again.

Ryan nodded slowly. “I think we have to. You can pick any reason you want. They all come out the same way.”

“Approved.”

37

Going Deep

“Normalcy” was the word the various commentators consistently used, usually with adjectives like “eerie” and/or “reassuring” to describe the week's routine. People on the political left were gratified that the government was using diplomatic means to address the crisis, while those on the political right were enraged that the White House was low-keying everything. Indeed, it was the absence of leadership, and the absence of real policy statements that showed everyone that Roger Durling was a domestic-policy president who didn't have much of a clue on how to handle international crises. Further criticism found its way to the National Security Advisor, John P. Ryan, who, though he had supposedly good credentials in intelligence, had never really established himself as a player in national-security matters per se, and certainly was not taking a very forceful position now. Others found his circumspection admirable. The downsizing of the American military, pundits observed, made effective counteraction extremely difficult at best, and though lights remained on at the Pentagon throughout the nights, there obviously was no way to deal with the situation in the
Marianas
. As a result, other observers said in front of any TV camera with a red light, the Administration would do its best to appear to remain calm and steady while doing the best it could. Hence the illusion of normalcy to conceal the inherent weakness of the American position.

“You ask us to do nothing?” Golovko asked in exasperation.

“It's our battle to fight. If you move too soon, it alerts
China
, and it alerts
Japan
.” Besides, Ryan could not add, what can you do? The Russian military was in far worse shape than
America
's. They could move additional aircraft to
Eastern Siberia
. Moving ground troops to firm up the light-strength formations of border guards could well trigger a Chinese response. "Your satellites are telling you the same thing ours are, Sergey.
China
isn't

mobilizing."

“Yet.” The single word had a sting to it.

“Correct. Not yet. And if we play our cards right, that won't happen.” Ryan paused. “Any further information on the missiles?”

“We have several sites under surveillance,” Golovko reported. “We have confirmed that the rockets at Yoshinobu are being used for civilian purposes. That is probably a cover for military testing, but nothing more than that. My technical people are quite confident.”

“Don't you just love how confident they can be,” Ryan observed.

“What are you going to do, Jack?” the Chairman of the RVS asked directly.

“Even as we speak, Sergey Nikolay'ch, we are telling them that their occupation of the islands is not acceptable.” Jack paused for a breath and reminded himself that like it or not, he had to trust the man. “And if they don't leave on their own, we'll find a way to force them off.”

“But how?” the man demanded, looking down at the estimates prepared by military experts in the nearby Defense Ministry.

“Ten, fifteen years ago, did you tell your political masters that we were worthy of your fear?”

“As you did of us,” Golovko confirmed.

“We are more fortunate now. They don't fear us. They think they've already won. I cannot say more at the moment. Perhaps by tomorrow,” Jack thought. “For now, instructions are on the way for you to relay to our people.”

“It will be done,” Sergey promised.

“My government will honor the wishes of the people on all of the islands,” the Ambassador repeated, then added a new provision. “We also may be willing to discuss the difference in status between
Guam
and the rest of the Mariana Archipelago. American interest in that island does go back nearly a hundred years,” he allowed for the first time.

Adler accepted the statement impassively, as the rules of the proceedings required. “Mr. Ambassador, the people of all those islands are American citizens. They are so by their own choice.”

“And they will again have the opportunity to express that choice. Is it the position of your government that self-determination is only allowed one time?” he asked in reply. “That seems quite odd for a country with a tradition of easy immigration and emigration. As I have stated earlier, we will gladly permit dual citizenship for those natives who prefer to keep their American passports. We will compensate them for their property should they decide to leave, and…” The rest of his statement was the same.

As often as he had observed or engaged in it, diplomatic exchange, Adler thought, combined the worst aspects of explaining things to a toddler and talking with a mother-in-law. It was dull. It was tedious. It was exasperating. And it was necessary. A moment earlier,
Japan
had conceded something. It hadn't been unexpected. Cook had wheedled the information out of Nagumo the previous week, but now it was on the table. That was the good news. The had news was that he was now expected to offer something in return. The rules of diplomatic exchange were based on compromise. You never got all of what you wanted, and you never gave the other guy all of what he wanted. The problem was that diplomacy assumed that neither side would ever be forced to give away anything of vital interest—and that both sides recognized what those vital interests were. But so often they didn't, and then diplomacy was fated to fail, much to the chagrin of those who falsely believed that wars were always the product of inept diplomats. Much more often they were the result of national interests so incompatible that compromise simply was not possible. And so now the Ambassador expected Adler to give just a little ground.

“Speaking for myself, I am gratified that you acknowledge the unconditional rights of the Guamian people to remain American citizens. I am further pleased to note that your country allow the people of the
Northern Marianas
to determine their own destiny. Do you assure me that your country will abide by the results of the election?”

“I believe we have made that clear,” the Ambassador replied, wondering if he'd just won something or not.

“And the elections will be open to—”

“All residents of the islands, of course. My country believes in universal suffrage, as does yours. In fact,” he added, “we will make an additional concession. In
Japan
the vote comes at age twenty, but for the purposes of this election, we will lower the voting age to eighteen. We want no one to protest that the plebiscite is unfair in any way.”

You clever bastard, Adler thought. It made such good sense, too. All the soldiers there could now vote, and the move would look just ducky to international observers. The Deputy Secretary of State nodded as though surprised, then made a note on his pad. Across the table, the Ambassador made a mental note that he'd just scored a point of his own. It had taken long enough.

“It's real simple,” the National Security Advisor said. “Will you help us?”

The rules of the meeting were not calculated to make anyone happy It had begun with an explanation from a Justice Department lawyer of how the Espionage Act, Title 18
United States
Code, Section 79E, applied to all American citizens, and how the freedoms of speech and the press did not extend to violation of that statute.