“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.”
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
WE HAVE APPREHENDED THE TERRORISTS AND DETERMINED THE EXTENT OF THE OPERATION....
“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.”
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
PENDING EXAMINATION OF THE EVIDENCE I WILL ACCEPT YOUR LAST COMMUNICATION AS FACT. WE WASH OUR HANDS OF THIS. WHATEVER ACTION YOU FEEL IS NECESSARY, WE WILL NOT OBJECT NOW OR IN THE FUTURE. THESE MADMEN WERE WILLING TO DESTROY US BOTH. To HELL WITH THEM.
“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 ne
ver 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 need 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 Prednisone, and another was Compazine. Prednisone 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 Gulfstream was a few minutes late 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 doorframe.
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.”