Commander-In-Chief (51 page)

J
ack Ryan, Jr., stood at gate C3 at Dulles International Airport, waiting to take a five-fifty p.m. Lufthansa flight to Brussels. He was dressed in a suit and tie and he carried a roll-aboard, more to follow his cover-for-action appearance as a businessman on a business trip than for any operational reasons. He probably wouldn’t wear the suit on the ground in Brussels; he fully expected that once he got to his hotel he would change into neutral-tone adventure clothing so he could follow his target through the city in a low-profile fashion that was also comfortable and warm. This was going to be a one-man show, after all, so he needed to be ready for anything.

The televisions at the gate were all displaying CNN, and all the reports were talking about nothing other than the Russian action in Lithuania. One journalist had just relayed unconfirmed reports that American Army forces were on the ground to the east and west of the capital, which, if true, surprised Jack, since the news had spent most of the past two days talking about how his father’s attempt to get NATO troops into Lithuania had failed so miserably.

Jack wondered if his father was unilaterally helping to defend
Lithuania. It sounded like something he might do.
Jesus, Dad. Good luck with that.

The gate agent asked any families traveling with children to board the plane. Jack was in first class; he would be called soon, so he stood up and pulled out his phone to open the boarding-pass app, but when he looked down at it he saw that Gerry was calling.

He closed his eyes.

At first he considered not answering it, but he couldn’t just ghost his way out of his job. He knew he’d be fired, but he also knew Gerry would not physically prevent him from going to Europe. It wasn’t like he could scare up cops to pull him off the flight and take him to the White House to confront his father.

Could he?

Jack answered, tried to pass off a casualness in his voice that he did not feel, because he knew this was the moment when everything he had built for himself in his five years with The Campus was about to come crashing down.

“Hi, Gerry.”

“It’s your lucky day, Jack.”

Jack didn’t feel so lucky. “How’s that?”

“Ding and Dom are leaving Vilnius as we speak. I just got off the phone with them, informed them of your situation. They will meet you in Brussels as soon as you get there. You have a green light to conduct a surveillance package on Salvatore.”

Jack’s knees weakened to the point that he reached out and put a hand on the wall. His brain felt the rush of new information, and he tried to process it as quickly and cogently as he could. He’d be relieved in a moment, but for now it was all about acting relaxed on the phone to Gerry. Finally, he coughed out a measured response. “Okay. Glad to hear the boys are away from that war zone. That’s the most important thing.”

“Right,” Gerry said.

There was a silence over the line. Jack looked up and saw that the monitor at the gate read: “First class, welcome to board.” He said, “Was there something else, Gerry?”

After a pause, the director of The Campus said, “I know where you are, Jack. I know what you are about to do.”

Jack closed his eyes again.
Damn it.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t want to be here, but I am
sure
I am doing the right thing.”

“For the operation, perhaps. But not for the long-term good. You are running the risk of exposing yourself.”

Jack said, “The only thing that matters is the op. The minute this organization’s mandate involves watching out for me because of who I am, that’s the minute I need to leave The Campus. There is too much at stake in this mission to turn The Campus into a babysitting service for the President’s son.”

Gerry’s southern drawl remained soft and calm, but there was an edge to it. “Go to Brussels. Do what you have to do, keeping in mind that Ding Chavez is the operational commander on this op. When you get back . . . we’ll sit down and talk.”

“Yes, sir. Good-bye.” Jack hung up and got in line, boarded the 777, and took his seat in first class. As soon as he was situated, he pulled out a notebook and began making notes about the op to come. Chavez could walk in and run the op, but he’d need Jack to get him up to speed.

Jack Ryan, Jr., realized this might well be his last operation with The Campus, so he wanted to make it count.

•   •   •

P
resident Jack Ryan had never spoken with Belarusan president Semyonov; he’d seen little reason to. Belarus had chosen its role in world affairs—they were puppets of the Russians. Ryan didn’t
necessarily blame them, they were culturally and anthropologically related, they were a bordering nation with no ability to protect themselves from their bigger neighbor, and Belarus’s western neighbors’ long-seated problems with the governments of Minsk and Moscow had fomented enough mistrust that it made sense Semyonov would look to the east, not to the West, for protection.

There was a U.S. embassy in Minsk, the two governments did have diplomatic relations, but Ryan had not wanted to give the Belarusan vassal state the political clout of direct talks with the highest level of the American government.

But none of that made a damn bit of difference to Ryan for the purposes of this phone call. He was willing to talk to the Belarusan president, and he was about to play hardball.

This wasn’t diplomacy; this was war.

As soon as the translator confirmed Semyonov was on the line, President Ryan gave a quick and polite-enough greeting, which was returned by the Belarusan president through his translator, along with a short statement about how concerned Belarus was about the reports of the arrival of American marine and air forces near his sovereign territory.

Ryan wasn’t having any of it. “President Semyonov, I did not call you to listen to your criticism. I called you to talk. You have allowed twenty-five thousand Russian combat troops into your nation for the sole purpose of attacking a peaceful neighbor. Perhaps two peaceful neighbors. You have every right to let anyone in your country you choose, but I feel it is my responsibility to inform you of the potential consequences of your actions. I have already given my military forces an order about their rules of engagement in this crisis. I have told them that the moment any missile, rocket, aircraft, or bullet is fired or launched from inside the Belarusan border, American forces are cleared to fire on any military target within
Belarus. That does not mean they will destroy a single missile launcher and then stop. No, Mr. President. It means the moment a single missile launcher fires on my forces from your nation, all my forces are cleared to engage any and all military targets within Belarus. We will make no distinction between Russian and Belarusan forces, Russian and Belarusan equipment, Russian and Belarusan command and control. We will target your bridges, highways, and airfields if we deem them military targets.

“You have chosen an allegiance in this, Mr. President, and you must accept responsibility for what will happen to your nation if your partner threatens the forces of the United States, or our allies the Lithuanians.”

The Belarusan president clearly thought the American President had been calling to ask for his help to blunt Russia’s passage through his nation, to offer him something to get him to deny the Russian military its freedom of movement.

But now he realized nothing of the sort would be forthcoming. This was just belligerence from Jack Ryan. Threats and aggression.

Semyonov said, “Mr. President, you know full well my small nation has no capacity to deny the Russian Western Military District
anything
.”

Ryan replied, “I see this as a political decision, President Semyonov. You have invited them in with open arms, and therefore you have facilitated President Volodin’s crimes. I’ve seen nothing from you that distinguishes you from him.”

Ryan’s tone darkened, and he hoped the translator conveyed this. “Mr. President, it would be very dangerous, and very costly, for my forces to enter Kaliningrad because that is Russian territory. But we can, and we will, enter into Belarus if we see the need to do so.”

“
What?
Invade my nation?”

“If we deem it necessary to reduce the threat to Lithuania.”

There was silence on the line for a moment as the Belarusan president tried to think of something to say.

Ryan filled the dead air. “One last thing, Mr. President. My diplomatic leaders remind me that your private offices are in the Republic Palace. And my generals have notified me this is also the location of a portion of your military apparatus.” Ryan let this hang in the air until well after the interpreter finished with his translation. Then he said, “For the duration of your war with your neighbor, I suggest you relocate for your own personal safety.” Another pause, and then, “I’d hate to have to reenact this phone call with your successor in case of some sort of mishap.”

The Belarusan president shouted into the phone. “Your comments are outrageous!”

Ryan now dangled the carrot. “If you publicly distance yourself from Valeri Volodin, not the Russian Federation, but only the current Russian president, and if you conduct tangible actions to limit Russian access to your western region, if only logistical, procedural, or political actions, I would see your nation’s role in this conflict in an entirely different light, and the actions of United States forces would be adjusted accordingly.”

After a pause he said, “But to date, you have shown yourself to be the leader of a vassal state, so I have little hope of your independent thinking. I only pray you prove me wrong, because the lives of millions of people in your region of the world hang in the balance.”

The call ended there.

Ryan put the handset back in the cradle and turned to Scott Adler, who had been seated next to the President’s desk in the Oval Office. Adler hadn’t heard the translations, although he would be handed a transcript within moments. But he had heard Ryan’s end of it, and from that Adler gave a thin smile. “And
that
, Mr. President, was a back-alley beating.”

“There was a time for me to be chief executive. When that failed, I became the nation’s chief diplomat. Diplomacy has gone by the wayside as well. Now it’s time to concentrate on my role as commander in chief. I’m all for letting the State Department work night and day to try to stop this war, but my only concern is in winning this war. Semyonov is a two-bit thug, and he only respects bigger thugs. That’s why he’s Volodin’s underling. I had to show him I wasn’t the laid-back smiling guy on television, that I can crack a skull if I need to.”

Adler nodded. “Not how I learned to do things at the Foreign Service Institute, but admittedly, not much of what I learned there has helped me with Belarus.”

Ryan smiled, then stood. “All I’ve accomplished so far is pissing off yet another corrupt Slavic leader. We’ll have to see what happens.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry, Scott. I have a meeting with the Joint Chiefs now, then I’m heading over to the UN to announce the fact I’ve committed troops independently of NATO. I have a feeling that call with Semyonov will turn out to be the most upbeat and friendly conversation I have today.”

Adler said, “Mr. President, in order for this conflict to remain isolated, short, and sweet, we have to get Polish forces over the border to help out Lithuania, we have to convince NATO to join us now that there has been an Article Five violation. It would also be damn helpful for Sweden to give us some air support. I see all three of these issues as things I need to be concentrating on.”

“I agree. Let’s talk tonight, see where we stand on all these issues.”

R
ussia’s next move on Lithuania took place not on land, but over water. With the sinking of the Maltese-flagged oil-products tanker
Granite
the previous day, Lithuania’s tiny navy had come out of its harbors and littorals and up to the edge of its maritime borders, a show of force against any potential Russian incursion into its territory.

This meant the Lithuanians did exactly what the Russians wanted them to do. Vilnius did not understand that the sinking of the
Granite
was conducted simply to draw out as many Lithuanian naval vessels as possible into international waters so they could be destroyed without Russian submarines risking detection inside Lithuanian waters.

The first boat to fall prey to a Russian Varshavyanka—their name for the advanced version of the NATO designated Kilo-class sub—was the
Kuršis
, a Hunt-class mine-countermeasures boat the Lithuanians had purchased from the United Kingdom five years earlier. At 196 feet in length, it was an impressive-looking vessel, and it did have an older-generation but functioning sonar for
detecting submarines, but other than mini-guns and machine guns on its deck, it had no real firepower, and nothing at all on board to combat an undersea threat.

But the
Kuršis
was sent out to show the Russians that Lithuania meant business, and in so doing it was promptly torpedoed just three hours after beginning its patrol southwest of Lithuania.

At nearly the same time the
Kuršis
was sunk, the Lithuanian ship
Žemaitis
was targeted by the other Russian Kilo. Unlike the
Kuršis
, the Flying Fish–class fast patrol boat the Lithuanians had purchased from Denmark did have significant antisubmarine capabilities, including modern sonar and advanced MU90 torpedoes. But the crew of the
Žemaitis
, distracted by the attack on the
Kuršis
, positioned itself to attack the sub that killed their countrymen, and this proved to be a fatal error.

The
Žemaitis
detected the Varshavyanka that destroyed the Lithuanian minesweeper, and it focused its attention on the identified contact, preparing to launch a torpedo over the side down the heading of the launch. But before the captain could give the order to fire, his sonar technician screamed a warning that two new torpedo contacts had been detected going active, and they were heading on a bearing that indicated they had been fired from out in international waters.

In the direction of the
Žemaitis
itself.

The
Žemaitis
had some torpedo countermeasures on board, and the captain had been trained to create large and confusing wake patterns to bewilder the Russian Type 53s’ wake-homing sensors, but the torpedoes’ electronic brains sorted out the attempt at misdirection. The first of the two torpedoes raced under the hull of the 175-foot-long fast patrol boat, and the ensuing explosion ripped the
Žemaitis
in two, and the second torpedo detonated under the fresh wreckage, ensuring that not a soul survived.

By five a.m., four Lithuanian naval vessels—two old minesweepers, the Flying Fish–class fast patrol boat, and a Storm-class fast patrol boat—were all resting on the sandy bottom of the Baltic Sea. The two advanced Varshavyankas had fired eight torpedoes between them, killed eighty-four men, and left another fifty-seven to be rescued, many with grave injuries.

And while all this took place in the Baltic just to the northwest of Kaliningrad, due west of the oblast, far out in international waters, Russia’s secret weapon waited two hundred twenty feet below the surface. The Severodvinsk-class submarine
Kazan
, having just arrived on station from the Northern Fleet, had been ordered to sit to the side of the action on the first day of combat so that it could save itself for the bigger fish.

The sonar technicians on board the
Kazan
tracked and classed dozens of active contacts, but they were concerned with only a few of them. To the south of their position, the Navy of Poland lingered not far from its territorial waters. Two larger Oliver Hazard Perry–class frigates and a Kaszub-class corvette were all significant threats to Russia’s Baltic Fleet, but so far they had not made any aggressive movements toward Kaliningrad, so the
Kazan
waited silently and patiently.

Poland also had a submarine that could potentially pose a danger, but the GRU, Russian military intelligence, had recent pictures of it entering dry dock for a month of repairs.

The captain of the
Kazan
had come all this way for a fight, and he was looking forward to the challenges ahead, but he did not find himself disappointed at all that he had been held in reserve while the older Varshavyankas of the Baltic Fleet earned the glory today in the largest naval battle in decades.

No, not at all. Because he knew the real challenge would come in the form of the American surface Navy, as well as American
antisubmarine aircraft in the sky above. He was saving himself for the Poles and the Americans, and if he did his job correctly, no one would know he was here until it was too late for either nation to do anything to stop him.

The Varshavyankas of the Baltic Fleet would die in this war, he had no doubt in his mind. But he had every intention of surviving this and bringing his
Kazan
to port in Kaliningrad with a heroes’ welcome as soon as the West sued for peace.

•   •   •

J
ack Ryan, Jr., passed through Belgian immigration after getting his passport stamped, then walked by the luggage carousels without stopping. He’d only brought a roll-aboard and a backpack along for the trip, so he shaved twenty minutes off his arrival.

He was relieved to make it through customs without getting his bag searched, although it was loaded with only a few surveillance devices, like FLIR cameras, NVGs, and high-end binoculars. He figured any real check of his belongings would have pegged him as some sort of a nut, but nothing he had with him was in any way illegal, so he’d not been terribly worried. Still, he wanted to get started with his surveillance here, so he was glad to make it through without delay.

Outside the arrivals hall, Jack smiled the biggest smile he’d displayed in two weeks. Dom and Ding were waiting for him, both standing next to a new black Audi Q3 SUV. Jack hadn’t seen either man in six weeks, so there was an energetic round of embraces and back slaps, then all the men loaded up into the Audi with Chavez behind the wheel, and they left the airport.

“When did you guys arrive?” Jack asked.

Caruso said, “Just long enough ago to pick up the wheels and
unload at the safe house. We had some excitement getting out of Lithuania.”

“How bad was it?” Jack asked.

Ding replied, “Let’s put it this way. The G550 is grounded here till six bullet holes in the horizontal stabilizer get patched.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Russian Spetsnaz attacked the airport in Vilnius just as we were getting out of there.”

Again, Jack felt the pain of not being with his mates when they needed him. It was similar to how he was feeling about Ysabel now. She was less than 120 miles away from him in a hospital, but he had no plans to go see her until this entire affair was over.

She wasn’t safe around him, after all.

Jack recovered and said, “Well, this op will probably be a little boring to you guys, considering what you just went through. We’re going to follow a smack addict around in the hopes he meets with some assholes I ran into last week in Luxembourg.”

Chavez said, “We don’t mind a little quiet surveillance. Sherman rented us a place just a few blocks south of where Salvatore is staying at the Stanhope Hotel. We just have eyes on the front of the building from our poz, but of course Gavin still has us tied in to the hotel’s security camera. We’ve been monitoring him on a laptop while waiting for you to land, and we’re recording everything for playback, just in case something is missed.”

“What’s he up to today?”

“He hasn’t left his room.”

Jack said, “Yeah, he was out late last night. I watched him on the plane for a while. Drinks in the lobby bar, then he went out the front door around ten. Don’t know what time he got back to the room.”

“Three a.m.,” Chavez said. “But he wasn’t operational last night.”

“How do you know that?”

“The bastard staggered in drunk. He was just boozing it up in a bar somewhere. Whatever he’s doing over here, apparently it involves him waiting around a lot. If he’s here to take pictures of some celeb, my guess is that celeb isn’t here yet. And if there is some bigger reason for his visit, he’s just in a holding pattern. Waiting on instructions, maybe.”

•   •   •

O
nce they were all in the third-floor walk-up apartment they were using for a safe house, the three men sat around a table. Chavez said, “We want to know what you’ve been up to, and we have some stories to tell you about what happened in the Baltic, but my read of this op gives me the impression we don’t really know what our timeline is here. For that reason we need to save the chitchat and get down to work.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Salvatore has reserved his room at the hotel for three more days, but whatever he’s up to could happen anytime. We need to act before he goes operational. I have no idea when that will be, but I want to be able to track him. I have a GPS tracker and a RAT to put on his phone so we can listen in to his calls and read his texts.”

Chavez asked, “You know how you want to get that on him?”

“I thought about a direct approach. Confronting him about Rome, slipping the RAT and the GPS beacon on him while I did it. The only problem is—”

Chavez finished the sentence. “That your presence here might scare him enough to get him to blow off his mission. In which case we’d lose the chance to find out what he’s up to.”

“Exactly,” Jack said. “I might be able to strong-arm him into giving me the intelligence I need, but there’s a chance he won’t talk, or he’ll just lie.”

Caruso said, “I have an idea, but we’ll have to wait for his next drink binge.”

Chavez replied, “We’ll use today to get set up. Tell us your plan.”

•   •   •

S
alvatore drained the last of his Stella Artois into his mouth and wiped foam from his lips; then he picked up his backpack off the floor and slung it onto his shoulder. He slid off the barstool and headed out the door of the little bistro.

He leaned against a signpost on the curb, looking at the large selections of brasseries, wine bars, beer pubs, Italian eateries, and even hamburger joints in view, trying to decide where to go next. It was just eleven p.m., so the Italian thought he’d hit one more bar, or perhaps two, here in the European Quarter of Brussels before returning to his room.

He realized he needed to relieve himself, so he turned into the next bar he saw, a rustic place on a pedestrian-only strip. He stepped inside, saw a few old men at the bar and a bunch of empty tables, and he passed them all, following a sign directing him downstairs to the men’s room.

He took a narrow masonry staircase down to the basement, followed a turn around stacked kegs of beer, and pushed open the accordion door to the tiny men’s room. He stepped up to the one dirty toilet, unzipped his fly, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t hear any noise until the accordion door opened behind him. The restroom was large enough for only one person, so he started to tell the other man to fuck off, but before he could
even see who was behind him the light flipped off and he was shoved past the toilet and up against the wall.

He felt the knife against his lower back.

The man whispered angrily into his ear, but it was something in a foreign tongue he did not understand. Salvatore said, “English? English?” and the man quickly barked at him again.

“Your money! Give me your money!” the man said.

Salvatore couldn’t believe he was being mugged at knifepoint. He felt his wallet pulled from his pants, his pack ripped from his back, and he heard the sound of someone rifling through his belongings. He kept his eyes slammed shut, he didn’t say a word, and he fought the urge to piss down the wall he was pinned against.

And then, as quickly as the man had appeared, he was gone. First Salvatore felt the pressure of the man holding him against the wall removed, and then his wallet was tossed in the basin of the sink on his right. Last, the knife was pulled away from his back. Before Salvatore could even think about turning around to look, he heard the noise of his backpack being dropped to the ground in the basement outside the bathroom.

A minute later he left the bar with his backpack over his shoulder. He’d not complained to the manager and he surely hadn’t reported the robbery. He was here in town for reasons that precluded his filing police reports.

Twenty minutes later, when he was sitting back in his hotel room, he checked his wallet and saw all his money was indeed gone. But his credit cards were there, as well as his Italian driver’s license. He opened his backpack and saw that he’d been relieved of a few euros he’d kept in an outer pocket, but his cameras were still there, as was his mobile. This would have comforted most people, but the Italian didn’t care as much about either of these things as he did the
other item in his bag. Frantically his hand fought his way to the bottom of his pack, and he pulled out his bag of smack. He breathed his first sigh of relief since the mugging when he saw his heroin had not been touched.