Commander-In-Chief (29 page)

A
ir Force One left Andrews Field on Joint Base Andrews at ten p.m., lifting off into a clear October sky and turning north over the Atlantic Ocean to skirt the eastern seaboard on its way toward Europe. On climb-out President Ryan looked out the portal next to his desk, down at the black water below, and he wondered if somewhere down there, lurking below the waves, was a 113-meter-long metal tube filled with Russians, nuclear weapons, and bad intentions.

He’d been getting daily updates about the hunt for the
Knyaz Oleg
. Five of the Navy’s newest antisubmarine warfare aircraft, the P-8A Poseidon, flown out of Naval Air Station Jacksonville, had been patrolling the length of the coast in rotation twenty-four hours a day since the evening before the best estimates put the
Knyaz Oleg
in the area. U.S. Navy destroyers, cruisers, and littoral combat ships were off the coast now, too, using their sonars as well as their helicopter-based sonar systems, trying to find a needle in a haystack.

The U.S. Coast Guard was also out in force, although they had lost their principal antisubmarine warfare role in 1992 with the fall of the Soviet Union. Much of their mission now involved searching for periscopes and conning towers, sending cutters out from the Mid-Atlantic state ports and investigating potential sightings from civilian surface ships, of which there had been hundreds.

There was an immense area for the Navy and Coast Guard to search, obviously. The Office of Naval Intelligence had determined that the Russian vessel was heading toward the United States from the North Atlantic, which meant the entire East Coast of the United States was its possible destination. There were assumptions made after that, of course; ONI assumed the Russians would want to stay in international waters, which meant it would remain at least twelve nautical miles from any U.S. land. By looking at the oceanic geography of the East Coast—areas of shallows, areas of high current or other poor conditions—and taking into consideration busy shipping lanes that would hamper the submarine’s task of remaining invisible while having a perfect understanding of all threats in the water around them, the Navy and Coast Guard could eliminate more area from the search.

Of further consideration to the analysts was the United States’ missile defense system. The Navy knew that the Russians knew that if they could enter to within seventy nautical miles of the U.S. coastline, it would dramatically increase their chances of evading America’s ability to knock their weapons out of the sky.

So the ONI had worked for days, and they had “pinpointed” the possible location of the
Knyaz
Oleg
to something like a million square miles. Twelve miles from shore to seventy miles out, in international waters, for most of the way up and down the East Coast.

Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Roland Hazelton had been
frank with his President—he’d said it was his feeling from discussions with Navy and Coast Guard brass that they would only pinpoint the Russian Borei when it launched a Bulava ballistic missile out of the water and the bloom showed up on MASINT—Measurement and Signature Intelligence data.

Hazelton had been so frank in his portrayal of the
Knyaz Oleg
’s advantages in the present scenario that he’d immediately offered to turn in his resignation. An offer Ryan declined angrily, telling Hazelton he wasn’t getting out of the present crisis so easily. He’d sent the CNO out his door with orders to work harder, twist more arms, motivate his people and lead them.

To find a way out of this mess.

After the waters off the U.S. coastline disappeared before Ryan, he began focusing on the other, not unrelated situation, the reason for his trip. He spent the first couple of hours of the flight in his office, then he had a working dinner with Bob Burgess and Scott Adler in the dining room just aft of the senior staff meeting room.

He’d received some rare and welcome good news during dinner. Burgess had just come from a conference call, and he informed Ryan that French Special Forces had finally retaken the Nigerian oil rig from Boko Haram fighters with no losses to themselves or the hostages.

After dinner Ryan made a quick call to the French president to congratulate him on his good work and to tell him he looked forward to seeing him in Copenhagen. It was true that Ryan was impressed and happy about the French president’s decision to hit the rig, but it was not true, not true at all, that Ryan was looking forward to seeing the president at the emergency meeting the next afternoon. France would be one of the least inclined to send NATO
troops to Lithuania, and the French president was a hell of a good debater.

Now Ryan was in the nose of the plane, lying on his bed in the executive suite, just below the cockpit of the massive 747. He told himself he’d shoot for five hours of sleep, which would get him up just prior to landing in Copenhagen.

But he’d settle for four. Hell, he’d be thrilled with four.

He’d be lucky if he got three.

And when he closed his eyes his fears were realized. Sleep would
not
come. Instead, his brain refused to shut off; it wanted to keep working, to compute, to analyze, to mind-map the Russian problem and plot a solution to it.

As a historian, and then as an analyst with the CIA, Jack Ryan always had a feeling the answers were out there. Information was attainable; he didn’t discount the difficulties encountered by those in the operations end of things who had to go out and attain it, but once they did, people on the analytic side of things had all the more responsibility to divine the correct answers from the data. And the answers were there, passing by in the wind, and he just had to snatch them out as they passed by.

Those days were a long time ago, but he still felt the same way. As President of the United States, he had access to all the information, and that to him meant he had access to all the answers.

The answer to the question of what Volodin was doing now was attainable. He just had to take all the information, data about economics and military firepower and logistics and geography, and his adversary’s impressions of the world around him and even the psychology of the man. This and dozens of other factors needed to be calculated and evaluated, and from this he should be able to conclude what Volodin’s game was.

The answer was attainable, Ryan still believed this, but as he lay there on his bed, he realized the answer remained out of his grasp.

Something Burgess had said tonight was bothering him, though. During dinner the talk had turned to Russia’s actions down in Ukraine over the past month. After nearly a year of stalemate the Russian Army had ticked up the fighting, surprising the Ukrainians and knocking them off-balance, although the Russians had failed to capitalize on this tactical advantage.

Burgess had said, “They are increasing attacks, artillery and rocket fire. Some fronts are seeing forty percent more volume in the past month. But it’s harassing actions only. That’s expensive, Russia is blowing through a lot of ordnance, but for what gain? They aren’t taking territory. They aren’t even amassing troops for any sort of a push.”

Ryan had asked, “You’re sure?”

Burgess replied, “We saw some reserve battalions move into border positions, almost like they were thinking about doing something, but it looks like it was just show for our satellites.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Fuel reserves for the battalions are minimal, they aren’t stockpiling equipment. They just took a few thousand men out of Volgograd, Russia, and moved them west to Duby, Russia. It’s just over the border from Luhansk.”

Ryan had been confused. “But Russia already has Luhansk.”

“Exactly. Why stage combat troops in Russia when you can just move them into Ukraine, closer to the front lines?”

Ryan thought over the conversation with his SecDef now, trying to figure out what that information meant.

His eyes opened quickly. Alone in the dark, he said, “Son of a bitch.”

•   •   •

P
resident Ryan sat in his darkened office in Air Force One with his desk phone to his ear. He looked down at his watch and realized the person he was calling was likely in bed, because it was one a.m. in Washington, D.C.

“Hello?”

“Hold the line for the President of the United States. Mr. President, I have Director Foley.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Getting the communications desk upstairs in the 747 to make his calls for him made him feel a little useless, but the truth was, he couldn’t remember Mary Pat and Ed’s home phone number to save his life. On top of that, Ryan admitted to himself, he didn’t even have a clue how to dial an outside line on Air Force One.

He guessed it was probably 9.

“I’m sorry, Mary Pat. You know I don’t do this often.”

“Is something wrong, Mr. President?”

“No. Well . . . I don’t know.” He took a second to compose his thoughts. “You know my hunch, right? That Volodin has been behind the spate of attacks on the worldwide energy sector.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And my working theory is that he is doing this to affect energy prices, specifically natural gas and oil, to bolster his economy?”

“Right.”

“Well . . . if he was planning on invading Lithuania, wouldn’t that have the same effect?”

She thought it over. “That’s a question for Les Birnbaum, I guess, but as DNI I feel pretty confident in fielding it. Yes, tanks crossing into a NATO member state will have more effect on energy prices than everything Volodin’s done to date. That is, assuming he has
done the things you suspect. In fact, I can’t imagine anything that would have a greater effect than a Russian war with a NATO power.”

“Exactly. And wouldn’t Volodin know none of this other stuff was important if ultimately he planned to invade?”

Mary Pat said, “Yes, of course he would. So, you don’t think he actually plans on invading?”

“Maybe not. The Borei coming to the East Coast, the troops on the border, the chaos in the energy sector. The uptick of attacks in Ukraine. What if he’s not trying to foment war? What if he’s trying to foment fear? Instability.”

“Interesting theory,” Mary Pat said, but Ryan could tell from her voice she wasn’t on board. “You think he’s bluffing on his attack?”

Ryan had been thinking about this. He said, “He might be. He can’t win a protracted war and he knows it. The only game he can win is a game of chicken. He keeps upping the stakes incrementally, and at some point we’ll either confront him or stand down. He’s putting all his money on us backing down.”

She said, “Escalation dominance.”

Ryan nodded. “Escalation dominance. Yes. He looks like he is the one in control of events, simply by virtue of the fact he is the one making moves. Right or wrong, whether they work out for him or not. It’s been his modus operandi for years.”

Mary Pat said, “I see it in the media when they talk about Volodin as the chess master. Sometimes, unfortunately, I see it in my own staff. They make a list of everything Volodin has done, and they point to it and say it’s proof of his plan, regardless of the fact that nothing he has done has ultimately worked for him.”

Ryan nodded in the dark office. “Five snap decisions in a row looks like a plan if you write them down.” He rubbed his eyes.
“Maybe if we can push enough NATO into Lithuania he’ll come up with some other measure to declare victory. I don’t know what, but I do know one thing.”

“What’s that, Mr. President?”

“I know if we don’t get troops into Lithuania, his tanks will roll right over that border in the next week. If that happens, Volodin will be unstoppable. Lithuania will be just the first domino to fall.”

T
atiana Molchanova checked her appearance in a handheld makeup mirror and realized the interior lights of the SUV didn’t give her enough illumination to see if she needed to pluck her eyebrows. She sat in the back of the Suburban while the rest of her team climbed out and pulled bags from the back, and she took her time touching up her makeup. Tatiana never went out in public without looking perfect, because she was a celebrity, and airports were nothing if not crowded public spaces.

This was not to say Tatiana was a complete diva, really; she knew she’d be lugging something on this trip sooner or later, even if it was just her roll-aboard and her purse.

Finally she slipped out of the vehicle and stood with the others in her crew outside Terminal 1 at Moscow’s Vnukovo International Airport. It was four p.m. and there was a lot of activity around her, but even passengers rushing to catch flights turned to look her way. Many pulled out cameras and took pictures of one of the most famous women in the country.

Tatiana smiled at the attention without slowing to make eye
contact with anyone. Instead, she put her mirror back in her purse and waited for the audio technician to finish stacking up the gear so they could go.

Her mobile rang and she answered it without looking.
“Allo?”

“Tatiana? It is Lidiya Maksimova, from the office of the president.”

Tatiana’s eyebrows furrowed with concentration. “Yes, Lidiya. How are you?” Molchanova knew Lidiya well; she was one of Volodin’s top appointment secretaries.

“I am fine. I am in the vehicle directly behind you. We are to bring you directly to the president for a meeting. Here at the airport. Shan’t take any time at all.”

Tatiana looked to the street, to the four-door Jaguar directly behind where the Channel Seven car was parked. “The black Jaguar? Well . . . okay, but I do have a plane to catch.”

“Your plane will go nowhere without you, Tatiana. I can assure you of that.”

•   •   •

V
aleri Volodin’s aircraft always flew out of Terminal 2 at Vnukovo. Tatiana knew he had been up in Saint Petersburg today and would just be returning about now, but she’d had no plans to meet with him.

As surprised as she was by this, she told the others in her party she’d meet them on board the plane, and she climbed into the Jaguar with only her purse.

Fifteen minutes later she was brought on board the president’s plane and escorted into Volodin’s office. He had just landed, and much of the staff was already out on the tarmac or in the hangar, but Volodin seemed to be in no rush to leave.

He stood and crossed the small office, his hands outstretched.
He appeared calmer and more at ease now than he was during his interview a few nights earlier.

“Miss Molchanova, thank you for coming today.”

“Yes, of course.” Together they sat close on a love seat across from his desk. She could smell his cologne. “I want to thank you for allowing me this opportunity to visit you on your aircraft. This is very thrilling.”

He smiled like a Cheshire cat, still holding on to her hand. “My duties are so numerous and stressful, I have forgotten the thrill of entering my own aircraft.” He softened his grip, but only a little. “I miss the days when I was just a simple, obedient, hardworking agent of the KGB.”

Tatiana beamed at him.

“Any idea why I asked you here?”

“I am at a complete loss, Mr. President.”

“You are flying out tonight to Copenhagen. Tomorrow you will interview the President of the United States.”

“Yes. My producers communicated this with the Kremlin as soon as our request was approved by the embassy. We solicited a list of questions to your office, and I have been given my notes from Lidiya. I believe everything is in order.”

Volodin smiled a little. Molchanova thought he seemed pleased by her discomfort. “You are not on the firing line, my dear. No reason to be so defensive. On the contrary, I have a favor to ask.”

She let her relief show. “Of course.”

“I want you to do something for me. A bit of statecraft.”

“Statecraft?”

“Yes. Would it excite you to know that you will be engaging in high-level communications between the Russian Federation and the United States of America?”

Tatiana Molchanova brought her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “That would excite me greatly, Mr. President. But . . . why me?”

“Because you have the intelligence and qualities to see this through.” He held up a finger. “And you have proven yourself a reliable conveyer of Russia’s interests.”

No journalist likes to be called a shill for her government, not even a journalist who is a shill for her government. But she only nodded a little, and made no remark.

He said, “I am certain you will do a good job, but one thing is important to remember above all. No one can know about this but Jack Ryan. No one.”

“I understand.”

Volodin’s smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed. “I really hope you do. I would hate for anything to threaten our good relationship.”

“I will reveal nothing of my mission,” she said meekly.

Volodin nodded, smiled again. “You will ask for a private audience with Ryan as soon as your interview is over tomorrow night. I am going to tell you what to say to him. You will repeat my words verbatim to Ryan, that is crucial.”

“Of course.”

“He will, no doubt, have a message for me. Perhaps not immediately. He will want to confer with his brain trust. He doesn’t think on his feet like I do.”

“No. Not at all.”

“You will stay in Copenhagen until you have his message for me, and then you will return immediately. Once you get back to Vnukovo I will send a helicopter for you, and it will deliver you to me. Either at my home or at the Kremlin, depending on where I am at the time of your return. You will give me his message, exactly in content and tone, as he gave it to you.”

“I understand everything and will do as you ask. I am proud to serve you . . . serve Russia.”

Volodin spent the next several minutes telling Molchanova what to say to the American President. When he finished she repeated it back to him several times, as he commanded. He was not happy with her delivery at first, so they went over it for a while. A taciturn schoolmaster and an approval-seeking student. It was not a difficult task, but Tatiana Molchanova had difficulty because it was so incredibly hard for her to fathom that this was, by far, the coolest thing that had ever happened to her, and yet she could never tell anyone about this at all.

•   •   •

J
ohn Clark climbed the stairs up into the G550 Gulfstream executive jet. As he reached the top he was greeted by Adara Sherman.

“Good morning, Mr. Clark,” she said, taking his small pack from his hand and ushering him through the door.

“Ms. Sherman.”

Adara served, officially at least, as the Hendley Associates logistics coordinator and flight attendant. In reality, almost all her work revolved around The Campus, where she was not only a coordinator of logistics and a flight attendant, but also a security officer for the aircraft, and something of a fixer for the team to help them get out of the jams they often found themselves in overseas.

She helped stow Clark’s duffel while he poked his head through the cockpit door to greet the pilot and copilot, and then he took one of the big leather cabin chairs for himself. Adara set him up with a bottle of water, and she quickly discussed the flight plan for the day, along with the menu for lunch.

When she was finished with this, Adara said, “We’ll be taking off immediately. Can I get you anything else, Mr. Clark?”

“Yes, actually. I need a sailboat.”

She nodded, headed up to the galley, and grabbed a book full of cocktail recipes. “I don’t know that one, offhand. It’s probably here in
Mr. Boston’s
.”

Clark laughed. “No, Ms. Sherman. I need a
real
sailboat. And I need it ready for me by the time we get down to Tortola.”

“Oh.” She moved across the cabin to her laptop and sat down behind it. “I can do that, too.”

“Nothing too fancy or complicated. I will be staying within the BVIs, but I’ll need to slip quietly right up to an island resort with restricted access.”

“And make your own access,” Adara said with a little grin.

“You got it. I’ll need a short list of equipment as well.”

“I’ll arrange as much as I can while we’re in flight, and if I need to I’ll go out and scrounge up the rest when we land.”

“Excellent,” Clark said. Sherman had impressed him every time he had worked with her, and he knew she had also proven herself in the field once, when she and Dominic Caruso had found themselves in an in extremis situation in Panama.

He regarded her for a moment more and thought about how lucky the men were to have her on the team, especially now since Sam was gone. They were a thin operational outfit, so having a force multiplier like Adara Sherman was all the more important.

Clark went to work going over maps of the area of operations he was going to be working in when he got to the British Virgin Islands. He saw his ingress to the target to be the easy part of this operation. The difficult part would be convincing this virtual currency trader to work with him. He imagined the man wouldn’t be
doing what he did, and working in a place like the place he was working in, because he had a great love of authority. Clark assumed Walker was a typical money-laundering crook, so as soon as Jack Junior landed in D.C. and got into the office, the two men would work on Clark’s game plan to encourage, cajole, or even threaten Walker to work against some very powerful and probably very dangerous Russians, and instead work for some very motivated, but not terribly forthcoming, American.