Reid normally kept a “sterile” cockpit on takeoff: no conversation, no talking at all other than what was necessary for the operation of the aircraft. But this was no ordinary takeoff. She said, “If we get hit, we need to know where we are going to put down to the south.”
Country said, “Ninety knots . . . ugh, if it’s bad enough we’ll just have to find a highway. If we can limp over to Poland, let’s do that. One hundred knots.”
Reid needed 120 knots to rotate, but in front of her a shower of sparks began to explode across the runway. “They’re shooting at us.” She pushed down on her right pedal, taking her off the center line but racing her toward the right edge of the runway as the plane shot forward.
“One ten,” Country said, and then he added, “You’re running out of real estate.”
The sparks picked up all around. Reid had no idea why the Russian Army was shooting at her, but she assumed the assaulters had been ordered to prevent all aircraft from leaving the country.
When she could no longer see any of the right edge of the runway in front of the nose of her aircraft, she waited an instant more, then began to put back pressure on her yoke.
On her right, Country said his next sentence as if it were just one word: “onetwentyrotate.”
Reid pulled back harder, lifted the nose off the runway just feet before it rolled off the right edge and into the grass. The back tires left the hard surface even closer to the grass, but the plane was airborne now, just three hundred yards from the northern end of the runway.
As soon as they had any altitude at all, certainly they were no more than forty feet off the ground, Reid put her Gulfstream into a twenty-degree bank to the right.
Country said, “Gear up,” and he retracted the landing gear himself.
The twenty-degree turn became thirty, the thirty turned to forty, and soon they were heading off to the southeast.
Lines of glowing tracers raced by Reid’s left window.
• • •
One minute later Dom Caruso appeared between the two pilots. “I’m going to buy you both a beer, but not till we get where we’re going.”
Hicks just laughed, doing his best to play cool. Helen Reid, on the other hand, was not cursed with the same sense of bravado as the former Marine and the intelligence operator. She said, “Gentlemen, how about we stow the macho swagger until we get out of Lithuanian airspace? For all we know, a couple of MiGs are hunting us down as we speak.”
Caruso said, “You’re right, but we’ll be in Poland airspace in a couple of minutes.”
She countered, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but a half-hour ago you had no idea Russia had attacked Lithuania. Do you know they haven’t attacked Poland?”
Chastened, Caruso turned to leave the cockpit.
Reid called after him. “We’ll be landing in Brussels in three hours. You guys should get some rest.”
Caruso looked back at her. “Brussels? Why are we going to Brussels?”
Country snapped his fingers. “In all the excitement I forgot to tell you. Give Gerry a call, he needs you boys in Belgium.”
68
Jack 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.
• • •
President 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 government
s 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.”
69
Russia’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.