"If you handle that as well as you've handled this briefing, we ought to get along just fine. Shame about Greer. Hope things work out." There was about as much emotion in his voice as one needed to ask directions.
You're a warm person, aren't you? Ryan thought to himself as he closed his briefcase. I bet the crew of the Belknap just loved you. But Cutter wasn't paid to be warm. He was paid to advise the President. And Ryan was paid to brief him, not to love him.
Cutter wasn't a fool. Ryan had to admit that also. He was not an expert in the area of Ryan's own expertise, nor did he have Pelt's cardsharp's instinct for political wheeling and dealing behind the scene – and, unlike Pelt, Cutter liked to operate without consulting the State Department. He sure as hell didn't understand how the Soviet Union worked. The reason he was sitting in that high-back chair, behind that dark-oak desk, was that he was a reputed expert in other areas, and evidently those were the areas in which the President had most of his current interest. Here Ryan's intellect failed him. He came back to his brief on what KGB was up to in Central Europe instead of following that idea to its logical conclusion. Jack's other mistake was more basic. Cutter knew that he wasn't the man Jeff Pelt had been, and Cutter wanted to change all that.
"Nice to see you again, Dr. Ryan. Good brief. I'll bring that matter to the President's attention. Now if you'll excuse us, the DDO and I have something to discuss."
"See you back at Langley, Jack," Ritter said. Ryan nodded and left. The other two waited for the door to close behind him. Then the DDO presented his own brief on Operation SHOWBOAT. It lasted twenty minutes.
"So how do we coordinate this?" the Admiral asked Ritter.
"The usual. About the only good thing that came out of the Desert One fiasco was that it proved how secure satellite communications were. Ever see the portable kind?" the DDO asked. "It's standard equipment for the light forces."
"No, just the ones aboard ship. They're not real portable."
"Well, it has a couple of pieces, an X-shaped antenna and a little wire stand that looks like it's made out of a couple of used coat hangers. There's a new backpack only weighs fifteen pounds, including the handset, and it even has a Morse key in case the sender doesn't want to talk too loud. Single sideband, super-encrypted UHF. That's as secure as communications get."
"But what about keeping them covert?" Cutter was worried about that.
"If the region was heavily populated," Ritter explained tiredly, "the opposition wouldn't be using it. Moreover, they operate mainly at night for the obvious reason. So our people will belly-up during the day and only move around at night. They are trained and equipped for that. Look, we've been thinking about this for some time. These people are very well trained already, and we're–"
"Resupply?"
"Helicopter," Ritter said. "Special-ops people down in Florida."
"I still think we should use Marines."
"The Marines have a different mission. We've been over this, Admiral. These kids are better trained, they're better equipped, most of them have been into areas like this one, and it's a hell of a lot easier to get them into the program without anybody noticing," Ritter explained for what must have been the twentieth time. Cutter wasn't one to listen to the words of others. His own opinions were evidently too loud. The DDO wondered how the President fared, but that question needed no answer. A presidential whisper carried more weight than a scream from anyone else. The problem was, the President so often depended on idiots to make his wishes a reality. Ritter would not have been surprised to learn that his opinion of the National Security Adviser matched that of Jack Ryan; it was just that Ryan could not know why.
"Well, it's your operation," Cutter said after a moment. "When does it start?"
"Three weeks. Just had a report last night. Things are going along just fine. They already had all the basic skills we needed. It's only a matter of honing a few special ones and adding a few refinements. We've been lucky so far. Haven't even had anybody hurt up there."
"How long have you had that place, anyway?"
"Thirty years. It was supposed to have been an air-defense radar installation, but the funding got cut off for some reason or other. The Air Force turned it over to us, and we've been using it to train agents ever since. It doesn't show up on any of the OMB site lists. It belongs to an offshore corporation that we use for various things. During the fall we occasionally lease it out as a hunting camp, would you believe? It even shows a profit for us, which is another reason why it doesn't show on the OMB list. Is that covert enough? Came in real useful during Afghanistan, though, doing the same thing we're doing now, and nobody ever found out about it…"
"Three weeks."
Ritter nodded. "Maybe a touch longer. We're still working on coordinating the satellite intelligence, and our assets on the ground."
"Will it all work?" Cutter asked rhetorically.
"Look, Admiral, I've told you about that. If you want some magical solution to give to the President, we don't have it. What we can do is sting them some. The results will look good in the papers, and, hell, maybe we'll end up saving a life or two. Personally, I think it's worth doing even if we don't get much of a return."
The nice thing about Ritter, Cutter thought, was that he didn't state the obvious. There would be a return. Everyone knew what that was all about. The mission was not an exercise in cynicism, though some might see it as such.
"What about the radar coverage?"
"There are only two aircraft coming on line. They're testing a new system called LPI – Low Probability of Intercept – radar. I don't know all the details, but because of a combination of frequency agility, reduced side-lobes, and relatively low power output, it's damned hard to detect the emissions from the set. That will invalidate the ESM equipment that the opposition has started using. So we can use our assets on the ground to stake out between four and six of the covert airfields, and let us know when a shipment is en route. The modified E-2s will establish contact with them south of Cuba and pace them all the way in till they're intercepted by the F-15 driver I told you about. He's a black kid – hell of a fighter jock, they say. Comes from New York. His mother got mugged by a druggie up there. It was a bad one. She got all torn up, and eventually died. She was one of those ghetto success stories that you never hear about. Three kids, all of them turned out pretty well. The fighter pilot is a very angry kid at the moment. He'll work for us, and he won't talk."
"Right," Cutter said skeptically. "What about if he develops a conscience later on and–"
"The boy told me that he'd shoot all the bastards down if we wanted him to. A druggie killed his mother. He wants to get even, and he sees this as a good way. There are a lot of sensitive projects underway at Eglin. His fighter is cut loose from the rest as part of the LPI Radar project. It's two Navy airplanes carrying the radar, and we've picked the flight crews – pretty much the same story on them. And remember – after we have lock-on from the F-15, the radar aircraft shuts down and leaves. So if Bronco – that's the kid's name – does have to splash the inbound druggie, nobody'll know about it. Once we get them on the ground, the flight crews will have the living shit scared out of them. I worked out the details on that part myself. If some people have to disappear – I don't expect it – that can be arranged, too. The Marines there are all special-ops types. One of my people will pretend he's a fed, and the judge we take them to is the one the President–"
"I know that part." It was odd, Cutter thought, how ideas grow. First the President had made an intemperate remark after learning that the cousin of a close friend had died of a drug overdose. He'd talked about it with Ritter, gotten an idea, and mentioned it to the President. A month after that, a plan had started to grow. Two months more and it was finalized. A secret Presidential Finding was written and in the files – there were only four copies of it, each of which was locked up tight. Now things were starting to move. It was past the time for second thoughts, Cutter told himself weakly. He'd been involved in all the planning discussions, and still the operation had somehow leaped unexpectedly to full flower…