“Yes, General?”
“Sir, I recommend we try to cool things down some more, sir.”
“And just how do we do that?” Fowler wanted to know. “What if that was related to their alert activity?”
The ride down the George Washington Parkway was uneventful. Though covered with snow, Goodley had maintained a steady forty miles per hour in four-wheel-drive, and not lost control once, getting around abandoned cars like a race-car driver at Daytona. He pulled into the River/Mall entrance to the Pentagon. The civilian guard there was backed up by a soldier now, whose M-16 rifle was undoubtedly loaded.
“CIA!” Goodley said.
“Wait.” Ryan handed over his badge. “In the slot. I think it'll work here.”
Goodley did as he was told. Ryan's high-level badge had the right electronic code for this security device. The gate went up, and the road barrier went down, clearing the way. The soldier nodded. If the pass worked, every thing had to be okay, right?
“Right up to the first set of doors.”
“Park it?”
“Leave it! You come in with me.”
Security inside the River Entrance was also beefed up. Jack tried to pass through the metal detector, but was stopped by pocket change that he then threw on the floor in a rage. “NMCC?”
“Come with me, sir.”
The entrance to the National Military Command Center was barred by a wall of bullet-resistant glass, behind which was a black female sergeant armed with a revolver.
“CIA, I have to get in.” Ryan held his badge against the black pad, and again it worked.
“Who are you, sir?” a Navy petty officer asked.
“DDCI. You take me to whoever's running this.”
“Follow me, sir. The man you want to see is Captain Rosselli.”
“Captain? No flag officer?”
“General Wilkes got lost, sir, we don't know where the hell he is.” The enlisted man turned through a door.
Ryan saw a Navy captain and an Air Force lieutenant-colonel, a status board, and a gang of multiple-line phones. “You Rosselli?”
“That's right, and you?”
“Jack Ryan, DDCI.”
“You picked a bad place to come to, pal,” Colonel Barnes observed.
“Anything changed?”
“Well, we just had what looked like a missile launch in Russia —”
“Jesus!”
“No bird came up, maybe an explosion in the hole. You have anything we need to know?”
“I need a line into the FBI command center, and I need to talk to both of you.”
“That's crazy,” Rosselli said, two minutes later.
“Maybe so.” Ryan lifted the line. “Dan, Jack here.”
“Where the hell are you, Jack? I just called Langley.”
“Pentagon. What do you have on the bomb?”
“Stand by, I have a patch through to Dr. Larry Parsons. He's the NEST boss. He's on now.”
“Okay, this is Ryan, Deputy Director of CIA. Talk to me.”
“The bomb was made of American plutonium. That's definite. They've rechecked the sample four times. Savannah River Plant, February 1968, K Reactor.”
“You're sure?” Jack asked, wishing very hard that the answer would be affirmative.
“Positive, crazy as it sounds, it was our stuff.”
“What else?”
“ Murray tells me you have had problems with the yield estimate. Okay, I've been there, okay? This was a small device, less than fifteen — that's one-five — kiloton yield. There are survivors from the scene — not many, but I've seen them myself, okay? I'm not sure what screwed up the initial estimate, but I have been there and I'm telling you it was a little one. It also seems to have been a fizzle. We're trying to ascertain more about that now — but this is the important part, okay? The bomb material was definitely American in origin. One hundred percent sure.”
Rosselli leaned over to make sure that this phone line was a secure one into FBI headquarters. “Wait a minute. Sir, this is Captain Jim Rosselli, U.S. Navy. I have a masters in nuclear physics. Just to make sure this is what I'm hearing, I want you to give me the 239/240 proportions, okay?”
“Wait a minute and I will… Okay, 239 was nine eight point nine three, 240 is zero point four five. You want the trace elements also?”
“No, that'll do it. Thank you, sir.” Rosselli looked up and spoke quietly. “Either he's telling the truth or he's one smart fuckin' liar.”
“Captain, I'm glad you agree. I need you to do something.”
“What's that?”
“I need to get on the Hot Line.”
“I can't allow that.”
“Captain, have you been keeping track of the messages?”
“No, Rocky and I haven't had time. We've got three separate battles going on and—”
“Let's go look.”
Ryan hadn't been in there before, which struck him as odd. The printed copies of the messages were being kept on a clipboard. There were six people in the room, and they all looked ashen.
“Christ, Ernie—” Rosselli observed.
“Anything lately?” Jack asked.
“Nothing since the President sent one out twenty minutes ago.”
“It was going fine when I was here right after — oh, my God…” Rosselli observed as he got to the bottom.
“The President has lost it,” Jack said. “He refuses to take information from me, and he refuses to listen to Vice President Durling. Now, this is real simple, okay? I know President Narmonov. He knows me. With what the FBI just gave us, what you just heard, Captain, I think I might be able to accomplish something. If not—”
“Sir, that is not possible,” Rosselli replied.
“Why?” Jack asked. Though his heart was racing, he forced himself to control his breathing. He had to be cool be cool be cool now.
“Sir, the whole point of this link is that the only two people on it are—”
“One of them, maybe both now, is not playing with a full deck. Captain, you can see where we are. I can't force you to do this. I'm asking you to think. You just used your head a moment ago. Use it again,” Ryan said calmly.
“Sir, they'll lock us up for doing this,” the Link supervisor said.
“You have to be alive to be locked up,” Jack said. “We are at SNAPCOUNT right now. You people know how serious this is. Captain Rosselli, you are the senior officer present, and you make the call.”
“I see everything you put on that machine before it's transmitted.”
“Fair enough. Can I type it myself?”
“Yes. You type, and it's crossloaded and encrypted before it goes out.”
A Marine sergeant made room for him. Jack sat down and lit a cigarette, ignoring the signs prohibiting the vice.
ANDREY IL'YCH, Ryan tapped in slowly, THIS IS JACK RYAN. DO YOU STILL MAKE YOUR OWN FIRES IN THE DACHA?
“Okay?”
Rosselli nodded to the NCO sitting next to Ryan. “Transmit.”
“What is this?” the Defense Minister asked. Four men hovered over the terminal. A Soviet Army major translated.
“Something's wrong here,” the communications officer said. This is—"
“Send back, 'Do you remember who it was who bandaged your knee?'”
“What?”
“Send it!” Narmonov said.
They waited for two minutes.
YOUR BODYGUARD ANATOLIY ASSISTED ME, BUT MY TROUSERS WERE RUINED.
“It's Ryan.”
“Make sure,” Golovko said.
The translator looked at his screen. “It says, 'And our friend is doing well?'”
Ryan typed: HE RECEIVED AN HONORABLE BURIAL AT CAMP DAVID.
“What the hell?” Rosselli asked.
“There aren't twenty people in the world who know this. He's making sure it's really me,” Jack said. His fingers were poised over the keys.