Jack Ryan 11 - Bear And The Dragon (124 page)

“What about crew rest?” Jackson asked.

“What?” Ryan looked up.

“It's a Navy thing, Jack. The Air Force has union rules on how much they can fly. Never had those rules out on the boats,” Robby explained. “The C-5 has a bunk area for people to sleep. I was just being facetious.” He didn't apologize. It was late -- actually “early” was the correct adjective -- and nobody in the White House was getting much sleep.

For his part, Ryan wanted a cigarette to help him deal with the stress, but Ellen Sumter was home and in bed, and no one on night duty in the White House smoked, to the best of his knowledge. But that was the wimp part of his character speaking, and he knew it. The president rubbed his face with his hands and looked over at the clock. He had to get some sleep.

“It's late, Honey Bunny,” Mary Pat said to her husband.

“I never would have guessed. Is that why my eyes keep wanting to close?”

There was, really, no reason for them to be here. CIA had little in the way of assets in the PRC. SORGE was the only one of value. The rest of the intelligence community, DIA and NSA, each of them larger than the Central Intelligence Agency in terms of manpower, didn't have any directly valuable human sources either, though NSA was doing its utmost to tap in on Chinese communications. They were even listening in on cell phones through their constellation of geosynchronous ferret satellites, downloading all of the “take” through the Echelon system and then forwarding the “hits” to human linguists for full translation and evaluation. They were getting some material, but not all that much. SORGE was the gemstone of the collection, and both Edward and Mary Patricia Foley were really staying up late to await the newest installment in Minister Fang's personal diary. The Chinese Politburo was meeting every day, and Fang was a dedicated diarist, not to mention a man who enjoyed the physical attractions of his female staff. They were even reading significance into the less regular writings of WARBLER, who mainly committed to her computer his sexual skills, occasionally enough to make Mary Pat blush. Being an intelligence officer was often little different from being a paid voyeur, and the staff psychiatrist translated all of the prurient stuff into what was probably a very accurate personality profile, but to them it just meant that Fang was a dirty old man who happened to exercise a lot of political power.

“It's going to be another three hours at best,” the DCI said.

“Yeah,” his wife agreed.

“Tell you what...” Ed Foley rose off the couch, tossed away the cushions, and reached in to pull out the foldaway bed. It was marginally big enough for two.

“When the staff sees this, they'll wonder if we got laid tonight.”

“Baby, I have a headache,” the DCI reported.

Much of life in the military is mere adherence to Parkinson's Law, the supposition that work invariably expands to fill the time allocated for it. In this case, Colonel Dick Boyle arrived on the very first C-5B Galaxy, which, immediately upon rolling to a stop, lifted its nose “visor” door to disgorge the first of three UH-60A Blackhawk helicopters, whose crewmen just as immediately rolled it to a vacant piece of ramp to unfold the rotor blades, assure they were locked in place, and ready the aircraft for flight after the usual safety checks. By that time, the C-5B had refueled and rolled off into the sky to make room for the next Galaxy, this one delivering AH-64 Apache attack helicopters -- in this case complete with weapons and other accoutrements for flying real missions against a real armed enemy.

Colonel Boyle busied himself with watching everything, even though he knew that his troops were doing their jobs as well as they could be done, and would do those jobs whether he watched and fussed over them or not. Perversely, what Boyle wanted to do was to fly to where Diggs and his staff were located, but he resisted the temptation because he felt he should be supervising people whom he'd trained to do their jobs entirely without supervision. That lasted three hours until he finally saw the logic of the situation and decided to be a commander rather than a shop supervisor, and lifted off for Chabarsovil. The flying was easy enough, and he preferred the medium-low clouds, because there had to be fighters about, and not all of them would be friendly. The GPS navigation system guided him to the right location, and the right location, it turned out, was a concrete helipad with soldiers standing around it. They were wearing the “wrong” uniform, a state of mind that Boyle knew he'd have to work on. One of them escorted Boyle into a building that looked like the Russian idea of a headquarters, and sure enough, it was.

“Dick, come on over,” General Diggs called. The helicopter commander saluted as he approached.

“Welcome to Siberia, Dick,” Marion Diggs said in greeting.

“Thank you, sir. What's the situation?”

“Interesting,” the general replied. “This is General Bondarenko. He's the theater commander.” Boyle saluted again. “Gennady, this is Colonel Boyle, who commands my aviation brigade. He's pretty good.”

“What's the air situation, sir?” Boyle asked Diggs.

“The Air Force is doing a good job on their fighters so far.”

“What about Chinese helicopters?”

“They do not have many,” another Russian officer said. “I am Colonel Aliyev, Andrey Petrovich, theater operations. The Chinese do not have many helicopters. We've only seen a few, mainly scouts.”

“No troop carriers? No staff transport?”

“No,” Aliyev answered. “Their senior officers prefer to move around in tracked vehicles. They are not married to helicopters as you Americans are.”

“What do you want me to do, sir?” Boyle asked Diggs.

“Take Tony Turner to Chita. That's the railhead we're going to be using. We need to get set up there.”

“Drive the tracks in from there, eh?” Boyle looked at the map.

“That's the plan. There are closer points, but Chita has the best facilities to off-load our vehicles, so our friends tell us.”

“What about gas?”

“The place you landed is supposed to have sizable underground fuel tanks.”

“More than you will need,” Aliyev confirmed. Boyle thought that was quite a promise.

“And ordnance?” Boyle asked. “We've got maybe two days' worth on the C-5s so far. Six complete loads for my Apaches, figuring three missions per day.”

“Which version of the Apache?” Aliyev asked.

“Delta, Colonel. We've got the Longbow radar.”

“Everything works?” the Russian asked.

“Colonel, not much sense bringing them if they don't,” Boyle replied, with a raised eyebrow. “What about secure quarters for my people?”

“At the base where you landed, there will be secure sleeping quarters for your aviators -- bombproof shelters. Your maintenance people will be housed in barracks.”

Boyle nodded. It was the same everywhere. The weenies who built things acted as if pilots were more valuable than the people who maintained the aircraft. And so they were, until the aircraft needed repairs, at which point the pilot was as useful as a cavalryman without a horse.

“Okay, General. I'll take Tony to this Chita place and then I'm going back to see to my people's needs. I could sure use one of Chuck Garvey's radios.”

“He's outside. Grab one on your way.”

“Okay, sir. Tony, let's get moving,” he said to the chief of staff.

“Sir, as soon as we get some infantry in, I want to put security on those fueling points,” Masterman said. “Those places need protecting.”

“I can give you what you need,” Aliyev offered.

“Fine by me,” Masterman responded. “How many of those secure radios did Garvey bring?”

“Eight, I think. Two are gone already,” General Diggs warned. “Well, there'll be more on the train. Go tell Boyle to send two choppers here for our needs.”

“Right.” Masterman ran for the door.

The ministers all had offices and, as in every other such office in the world, the cleanup crews came in, in this case about ten every night. They picked up all sorts of trash, from candy wrappers to empty cigarette packs to papers, and the latter went into special burn-bags. The janitorial staff was not particularly smart, but they had had to pass background checks and go through security briefings that were heavy on intimidation. They were not allowed to discuss their jobs with anyone, not even a spouse, and not ever to reveal what they saw in the waste-baskets. In fact, they never thought much about it -- they were less interested in the thoughts or ideas of the Politburo members than they were in the weather forecasts. They'd rarely even seen the ministers whose offices they cleaned, and none of the crew had ever so much as spoken a single word to any of them; they just tried to be invisible on those rare occasions when they saw one of the godlike men who ruled their nation. Maybe a submissive bow, which was not even acknowledged by so much as a look, because they were mere furniture, menials who did peasants' work because, as peasants, that was all they were suited for. The peasants knew what computers were, but such machines were not for the use of such men as they were, and the janitorial staff knew it.

And so when one of the computers made a noise while a cleaner was in the office, he took no note of it. Well, it seemed odd that it should whir when the screen was dark, but why it did what it did was a mystery to him, and he'd never even been so bold as to touch the thing. He didn't even dust the keyboard as he cleaned the desktop -- no, he always avoided the keys.

And so, he heard the whir begin, continue for a few seconds, then stop, and he paid no mind to it.

Mary Pat Foley opened her eyes when the sun started casting shadows on her husband's office wall, and rubbed her eyes reluctantly. She checked her watch. Seven-twenty. She was usually up long before this -- but she usually didn't go to bed after four in the morning. Three hours of sleep would probably have to do. She stood and headed into Ed's private washroom. It had a shower, like hers. She'd make use of her own shortly, and for the moment settled for some water splashed on her face and a reluctant look in the mirror that resulted in a grimace at what the look revealed.

The Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency shook her head, and then her entire body to get the blood moving, and then put her blouse on. Finally, she shook her husband's shoulder.

“Out of the hutch, Honey Bunny, before the foxes get you.”

“We still at war?” the DCI asked from behind closed eyes.

“Probably. I haven't checked yet.” She paused for a stretch and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I'm going to check my e-mail.”

“Okay, I'll call downstairs for breakfast,” Ed told her.

“Oatmeal. No eggs. Your cholesterol is too high,” Mary Pat observed.

“Yeah, baby,” he grumbled in submissive reply.

“That's a good Honey Bunny.” She kissed him and headed out.

Ed Foley made his bathroom call, then sat at his desk and lifted the phone to call the executive cooking staff. “Coffee. Toast. Three-egg omelet, ham, and hash browns.” Cholesterol or not, he had to get his body working.

“You've got mail,” the mechanical voice said.

“Great.” The DDO breathed. She downloaded it, going through the usual procedures to save and print, but rather more slowly this morning because she was groggy and therefore mistake-prone. That sort of thing made her slow down and be extra careful, something she'd learned to do as the mother of a newborn. And so in four minutes instead of the usual two, she had a printed hard copy of the latest SORGE feed from Agent SONGBIRD. Six pages of relatively small ideographs. Then she lifted the phone and punched the speed-dial button for Dr. Sears.

“Yes?”

“This is Mrs. Foley. We got one.”

“On the way, Director.” She had some coffee before he arrived, and the taste, if not the effect of the caffeine, helped her face the day.

“In early?” she asked.

“Actually I slept in last night. We need to improve the selection on the cable TV,” he told her, hoping to lighten the day a little. One look at her eyes told him how likely that was.

“Here.” She handed the sheets across. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.” His eyes didn't leave the page as his hand reached out for the Styrofoam cup. “This is good stuff today.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it's Fang's account of a Politburo discussion of how the war's going...they're trying to analyze our actions...yeah, that's about what I'd expect...”

“Talk to me, Dr. Sears,” Mary Pat ordered.

“You're going to want to get George Weaver in on this, too, but what he's going to say is that they're projecting their own political outlook onto us generally, and onto President Ryan in particular...yeah, they're saying that we are not hitting them hard for political reasons, that they think we don't want to piss them off too much...” Sears took a long sip of coffee. “This is really good stuff. It tells us what their political leadership is thinking, and what they're thinking isn't very accurate.” Sears looked up. “They misunderstand us worse than we misunderstand them, Director, even at this level. They see President Ryan's motivation as a strictly political calculation. Zhang says that he's laying back so that we can do business with them, after they consolidate their control over the Russian oil and gold fields.”

“What about their advance?”

“They say -- that is, Marshal Luo says -- that things are going according to plan, that they're surprised at the lack of Russian opposition, and also surprised that we haven't struck any targets within their borders.”

“That's because we don't have any bombs over there yet. Just found that out myself. We're having to fly the bombs in so that we can drop them.”

“Really? Well, they don't know that yet. They think it's deliberate inaction on our part.”

“Okay, get me a translation. When will Weaver get in?”

“Usually about eight-thirty.”

“Go over this with him as soon as he arrives.”

“You bet.” Sears took his leave.

“Bedding down for the night?” Aleksandrov asked.