The Sum of all Fears Part 53

"I can do it," Clark announced, striding through the door like John Wayne into the Alamo.

"Tell me about it," Jack said, waving to a chair.

"I just got back from Dulles, talked to a few people. The JAL 747s set up for Trans-Pac flights are arranged very conveniently for us. The upstairs lounge is set up with beds, like an old Pullman car. It helps us. The room is very lively acoustically, and that makes for easy pickup." He laid out a diagram. "There's a table here and here. We use two wireless bugs and four broadcast channels."

"Explain," Jack said.

"The wireless bugs are omnidirectional. Okay, they transmit to the SHF transmitter, and that one gets it out of the airplane."

"Why four channels?"

"The big problem is canceling out the airplane noise, the engine whine, the air, all that stuff. Two channels are interior sound. The other two are for background noise only. We use that to cancel out the c.r.a.p. We have people down in S&T who have been working on that for quite a while. You use the recorded background noise to establish what the interference is, then just change its phase to cancel it out. Pretty simple stuff if you have the right computer backup equipment. We do. Okay? The transmitter goes in a bottle. We aim it out a window. Easy to do, I checked. Now, we will need a chase plane."

"Like what?"

"With the right equipment, a business jet like a Gulfstream, better yet an EC-135. I'd recommend more than one, have them form up and break off."

"How far away?"

"As long as it's line of sight ... up to thirty miles, and doesn't have to be the same alt.i.tude. Not like we have to fly formation on the guy."

"How hard to build it?"

"Simple. The hardest part is the battery, and that'll fit in a liquor bottle, like I said. We'll make it a brand that you usually find in a duty-free store-I have a guy checking that-one with a ceramic bottle 'stead of a gla.s.s one. Like an expensive bottle of Chivas, maybe. The j.a.panese like their scotch."

"Detection?" Ryan asked.

Clark grinned like a teenager who'd just snookered a teacher. "We build the system exclusively from j.a.panese components, and and we place a receiver tuned to the right freqs in the aircraft. He'll be traveling with the usual mob of newsies. I'll set a receiver in the wastebin of one of the downstairs heads. If the op gets burned, they'll think it was one of their own. It'll even look like a journalist did it." we place a receiver tuned to the right freqs in the aircraft. He'll be traveling with the usual mob of newsies. I'll set a receiver in the wastebin of one of the downstairs heads. If the op gets burned, they'll think it was one of their own. It'll even look like a journalist did it."

Ryan nodded. "Nice touch, John."

"I thought you'd like that. When the bird lands, we have a guy recover the bottle. We'll fix it-I mean, we'll see to it that you can't get the cork out. Superglue, maybe."

"Getting aboard in Mexico City?"

"I have Ding looking at that. Time he got a taste for planning operations, and this is the soft side. My Spanish is good enough to fool a Mexican national."

"Back to the bugging equipment. We won't be reading this in real-time?"

"No way." Clark shook his head. "What'll come across will be garbled, but we'll use high-speed tape machines to record, then we can wash it through the 'puters downstairs to get clean copy. It's an additional operational safeguard. The guys in the chase birds won't know what they're listening to, and only the drivers need to know who they're shadowing ... maybe not even that, as a matter of fact. I have to check on that."

"How long to produce clean copy?"

"Have to do it at this end ... say a couple of hours. That's what the S&T guys say, anyway. You know the real beauty of this?"

"Tell me."

"Airplanes are about the last place you can't bug. Our S&T guys have been playing with it for a long time. What made the breakthrough came from the Navy-very black project. n.o.body knows we can do this. The computer codes are very complex. Lots of people are playing with it, but the actual breakthrough is on the theoretical side of the math. Came from a guy at NSA. I repeat, Sir John, n.o.body knows this is possible. Their security guys will be asleep. If they find the bug, they'll think it's an amateur attempt to do something. The receiver I put aboard won't actually recover anything usable to anyone but us-"

"And we'll have a guy recover that also, to back up the aerial transmissions."

"That's right. So we have double-redundancy-or triple, I never have figured what the right terminology is. Three separate channels for the information, one in the plane and two being beamed out from it."

Ryan raised his coffee mug in salute. "Okay, now that the technical side looks possible, I want an operational feasibility evaluation."

"You got it, Jack. G.o.dd.a.m.n! It's good to be a real spy again. With all due respect, watching out for your a.s.s does not test my abilities all that much."

"I love you, too, John." Ryan laughed. It was his first in too long a time. If they could pull this one off, maybe that Elliot b.i.t.c.h would get off his back for once. Maybe the President would understand that field operations with real live field officers were still useful. It would be a small victory.

25.

RESOLUTION.

"So what's the story on the things?" the Second Officer asked, looking down at the cargo deck.

"Supposed to be the roof beams for a temple. Small one, I guess," the First Officer noted. "How much more will these seas build ... ?"

"I wish we could slow down, Pete."

"I've talked to him twice about it. Captain says he has a schedule to meet."

"Tell that to the f.u.c.kin' ocean."

"Haven't tried that. Who do you call?"

The Second Officer, who had the watch, snorted. The First Officer-the s.h.i.+p's second in command-was on the bridge to keep an eye on things. That was actually the Captain's job, but the s.h.i.+p's Master was asleep in his bed.

MV George McReady George McReady was pounding through thirty-foot waves, trying to maintain twenty knots, but failing despite full cruising power on her engines. The sky was overcast, with occasional breaks in the clouds for the full moon to peek through. The storm was actually breaking up, but the wind was holding steady at sixty knots and the seas were still increasing somewhat. It was a typical North Pacific storm, both officers had already decided. Nothing about it made any sense. The air temperature was a balmy 10 degrees Fahrenheit, and the flying spray was freezing to ice that impacted the bridge windows like birdshot in duck season. The only good news was that the seas were right on the bow. was pounding through thirty-foot waves, trying to maintain twenty knots, but failing despite full cruising power on her engines. The sky was overcast, with occasional breaks in the clouds for the full moon to peek through. The storm was actually breaking up, but the wind was holding steady at sixty knots and the seas were still increasing somewhat. It was a typical North Pacific storm, both officers had already decided. Nothing about it made any sense. The air temperature was a balmy 10 degrees Fahrenheit, and the flying spray was freezing to ice that impacted the bridge windows like birdshot in duck season. The only good news was that the seas were right on the bow. George M George M was a freighter, not a cruise liner, and lacked antiroll stabilizers. In fact, the ride wasn't bad at all. The superstructure was set on the after portion of the s.h.i.+p, and that damped out most of the pitching motion a.s.sociated with heavy seas. It also had the effect of reducing the officers' awareness of events at the forward end of the s.h.i.+p, a fact further accentuated by the reduced visibility from flying spray. was a freighter, not a cruise liner, and lacked antiroll stabilizers. In fact, the ride wasn't bad at all. The superstructure was set on the after portion of the s.h.i.+p, and that damped out most of the pitching motion a.s.sociated with heavy seas. It also had the effect of reducing the officers' awareness of events at the forward end of the s.h.i.+p, a fact further accentuated by the reduced visibility from flying spray.

The ride also had a few interesting characteristics. When the bow plowed into an especially high wave, the s.h.i.+p slowed down. But the size of the s.h.i.+p meant that the bow slowed quicker than the stern, and as the deceleration forces fought to reduce s.h.i.+p's speed, the hull rebelled by shuddering. In fact, the hull actually bent a few inches, something difficult to believe until it was seen.

"I served on a carrier once. They flex more than a foot in the middle. Once we were-"

"Look dead ahead, sir!" the helmsman called.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t!" the Second Officer shouted. "Rogue wave!"

Suddenly there it was, a fifty-footer just a hundred yards from the George M's George M's blunt bow. The event was not unexpected. Two waves would meet and add their heights for a few moments, then diverge.... The bow rose on one medium-sized crest, then dropped before the onrus.h.i.+ng green wall. blunt bow. The event was not unexpected. Two waves would meet and add their heights for a few moments, then diverge.... The bow rose on one medium-sized crest, then dropped before the onrus.h.i.+ng green wall.

"Here we go!"

There wasn't time for the bow to climb over this one. The green water simply stepped over the bow as though it had never been there and kept rolling aft the five hundred feet to the superstructure. Both officers watched in detached fascination. There was no real danger to the s.h.i.+p-at least, they both told themselves, no immediate danger. The solid green ma.s.s came past the heavy cargo-handling masts and equipment, advancing at a speed of thirty miles per hour. The s.h.i.+p was already shuddering again, the bow having hit the lower portion of the wave, slowing the s.h.i.+p. In fact, the bow was still underwater, since this wave was far broader than it was high, but the top portion was about to hit a white-painted steel cliff that was perpendicular to its axis of advance.

"Brace!" the Second Officer told the helmsman.

The crest of the wave didn't quite make the level of the bridge, but it did hit the windows for the senior officers' cabins. Instantly there was a white vertical curtain of spray that blotted out the entire world. The single second it lasted seemed to stretch into a minute, then it cleared, and the s.h.i.+p's deck was exactly where it was supposed to be, though covered with seawater that was struggling to drain out the scuppers. George M George M took a 15-degree roll, then settled back down. took a 15-degree roll, then settled back down.

"Drop speed to sixteen knots, my authority," the First Officer said.

"Aye," the helmsman acknowledged.

"We're not going to break this s.h.i.+p while I'm on the bridge," the senior officer announced.

"Makes sense to me, Pete." The Second Officer was on his way to the trouble board, looking for an indicator light for flooding or other problems. The board was clear. The s.h.i.+p was designed to handle seas far worse than this, but safety at sea demanded vigilance. "Okay here, Pete."

The growler phone rang. "Bridge, First Officer here."

"What the h.e.l.l was that?" the Chief Engineer demanded.

"Well, it was sorta a big wave, ChEng," Pete answered laconically. "Any problems?"

"No kidding. It really clobbered the forward bulkhead. I thought I was gonna eat my window-looks like a porthole is cracked. I really think we might want to slow down some. I hate getting wet in bed, y'know?"

"I already ordered that."

"Good." The line clicked off.

"What gives?" It was the Captain, in pajamas and bathrobe. He managed to see the last of the seawater draining off the main deck.

"Fifty-sixty-footer. I've dropped speed to sixteen. Twenty's too much for the conditions."

"Guess you're right," the Captain grumbled. Every extra hour alongside the dock meant fifteen thousand dollars, and the owners did not like extra expenses. "Build it back up soon as you can." The Captain withdrew before his bare feet got too cold.

"Will do," Pete told the empty doorway.

"Speed fifteen point eight," the helmsman reported.

"Very well." Both officers settled back down and sipped at their coffee. It wasn't really frightening, just somewhat exciting, and the moonlit spray flying off the bow was actually rather beautiful to see. The First Officer looked down at the deck. It took a moment for him to realize.

"Hit the lights."

"What's the problem?" The Second Officer moved two steps to the panel and flipped on the deck floods.

"Well, we still have one of them."

"One of-" The junior officer looked down. "Oh. The other three ..."

The First Officer shook his head. How could you describe the power of mere water? "That's strong chain, too, the wave snapped it like yarn. Impressive."

The Second Officer picked up the phone and punched a b.u.t.ton. "Bosun, our deck cargo just got swept over the side. I need a damage check on the front of the superstructure." He didn't have to say that the check should be done from inside the structure.

An hour later it was clear that they'd been lucky. The single strike from the deck cargo had landed right on a portion of the superstructure backed by st.u.r.dy steel beams. Damage was minor, some welding and painting to be done. That didn't change the fact that someone would have to cut down a new tree. Three of the four logs were gone, and that j.a.panese temple would have to wait.

The three logs, still chained together, were already well aft of the George M. George M. They were still green, and started soaking up seawater, making them heavier still. They were still green, and started soaking up seawater, making them heavier still.

Cathy Ryan watched her husband's car pull out of the driveway. She was now past the stage of feeling bad for him. Now she was hurt. He wouldn't talk about it-that is, he didn't try to explain himself, didn't apologize, tried to pretend that ... what? And then part of the time he said he didn't feel well, was too tired. Cathy wanted to talk it over, but didn't know how to begin. The male ego was a fragile thing, Dr. Caroline Ryan knew, and this had to be its most fragile spot. It had to be a combination of stress and fatigue and booze. Jack wasn't a machine. He was wearing down. She'd seen the symptoms months earlier. As much the commute as anything else. Two and a half, sometimes three hours every day in the car. The fact that he had a driver was something, but not much. Three more hours a day that he was away, thinking, working, not home where he belonged.

Am I helping or hurting? she asked herself. she asked herself. Is part of it my fault? Is part of it my fault?

Cathy walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Okay, she wasn't a pink-cheeked kid anymore. There were worry lines around her mouth and squint lines around her eyes. She should have her spectacle prescription looked at. She was starting to get headaches during procedures, and she knew it could be a problem with her eyes-she was, after all, an ophthalmic surgeon-but like everyone else she was short of time and was putting off having her eyes looked at by another member of The Wilmer Eye Inst.i.tute staff. Which was pretty dumb, she admitted to herself. She still had rather pretty eyes. At least the color didn't change, even though their refractive error might suffer from all the close work that her job mandated.

She was still quite slim. Wouldn't hurt to sweat off three or four pounds-better yet, to transfer that weight into her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was a small-breasted woman from a small-breasted family in a world that rewarded women for having udders to rival Elsie the Borden cow. Her usual joke that bust size was inversely proportional to brain size was a defense mechanism. She craved larger ones as a man always wanted a larger p.e.n.i.s, but G.o.d or the gene pool had not chosen to give her those, and she would not not submit to the vain ignominy of surgery-besides which she didn't like the numbers on that kind of surgery. Too many silicone-implant cases developed complications. submit to the vain ignominy of surgery-besides which she didn't like the numbers on that kind of surgery. Too many silicone-implant cases developed complications.

The rest of her ... her hair, of course, was always a mess, but surgical discipline absolutely prevented her from paying great attention to that. It was still blond and short and very fine, and when Jack took the time to notice, he liked her hair. Her face was still pretty, despite the squint lines and worry lines. Her legs had always been pretty nice, and with all the walking she did at Hopkins/Wilmer, they had actually firmed up slightly. Cathy concluded that her looks were not the sort to make dogs bark when she pa.s.sed. She was, in fact, still rather attractive. At least the other docs at the hospital thought so. Some of her senior medical students positively swooned over her, she liked to think. Certainly no one fought to escape her rounds.

She was also a good mother. Though Sally and Little Jack were still asleep, she never failed to look after them. Especially with Jack gone so much, Cathy filled in, even to the point of playing catch with her son during T-ball season (that was something that made her husband uncomfortably guilty whenever he learned of it). She cooked good meals when she had the time. Whatever the house needed, she either did herself or "contracted out"-Jack's phrase-to others.

She still loved her husband, and she let him know it. She had a good sense of humor, Cathy thought. She didn't let most things bother her. She never failed to touch Jack whenever the opportunity presented itself; she was a doctor, with a delicate touch. She talked to him, asked what he thought of something or other, let him know that she cared about him, cared about his opinions on things. There could be no doubt in his mind that he was still her man in every way. In fact, she loved him in every way a wife could. Cathy concluded that she wasn't doing anything wrong.

So why didn't he-couldn't he ... ?

The face in the mirror was more puzzled than hurt, she thought. What else can I do? What else can I do? she asked it. she asked it.

Nothing.

Cathy tried to set that aside. A new day was beginning. She had to get the kids ready for school. That meant setting breakfast up before they awoke. This part of life wasn't fair, of course. She was a surgeon, a professor of surgery, as a matter of fact, but the simple facts of life also said she was a mother, with mother's duties that her husband did not share, at least not on the early morning of a workday. So much for women's lib. She got into her robe and walked down to the kitchen. It could have been worse. Both kids liked oatmeal, and actually preferred the flavored instant kind. She boiled the water for it, then turned the range to low heat while she walked back to wake the little ones up. Ten minutes later Sally and Little Jack were washed and dressed on their way to the kitchen. Sally arrived first, setting the TV to the Disney Channel in time for Mousercise. Cathy took her ten minutes of peace to look at the morning paper and drink her coffee.

On the bottom right-hand side of the front page was an article about Russia. Well, maybe that's one of the things that's bothering Jack. Well, maybe that's one of the things that's bothering Jack. She decided to read it. Maybe she could talk to him, find out why he was so ... distracted? Was it just that, maybe? She decided to read it. Maybe she could talk to him, find out why he was so ... distracted? Was it just that, maybe?

"... disappointed with the ability of CIA to deliver data on the problem. There are further rumors of an underway investigation. An administration official confirms the rumors that a senior CIA official is suspected of financial misconduct and also of s.e.xual improprieties. The name of this official has not been revealed, but he is reportedly very senior and responsible for coordinating information for the administration...."

s.e.xual improprieties? What did that mean? Who was it? What did that mean? Who was it?

He.

Very senior and responsible for ... ...

That was Jack. That was her husband. That was the phrase they used for someone at his level. In a quiet moment of total clarity, she knew that it had to be.

Jack ... playing around? My Jack?

It wasn't possible.

Was it?