Security Advisor or some other senior staff member takes his place, and the President is supposed to be briefed on how it goes. Except that President Fowler thinks that he doesn't have to bother, and now his people are starting to act the same dumb way.“ Jack was sufficiently annoyed that he used the words ”President Fowler“ and ”dumb' in the same sentence.
“Well, I mean, is it really necessary?” Goodley asked. “Sounds like an anachronism to me.”
“You have car insurance, Ben?” Jack asked.
“Yes, sure.”
“Ever have an auto accident?”
“Not one that was my fault,” Goodley replied.
“Then why bother with insurance?” Jack answered the question: “Because it's insurance, right? You don't expect to need it, you never want to need it, but because you might need it, you spend the money — or time, in this case — to have it.”
The Presidential Scholar made a dismissive gesture. “Come on, it's a different thing altogether.”
“That's right. In a car, it's just your ass.” Ryan stopped the sermon. “Okay, Director, I'm off for the rest of the day.”
“Your objections and recommendations are noted, Jack. I will bring them up at my first opportunity — oh, before you leave, about NIITAKA…”
Ryan stopped in his tracks and stared down at Cabot. “Sir, Mr. Goodley is not cleared for that word, much less that file.”
“We are not discussing the substance of the case. When will the people downstairs”—Ryan was grateful he didn't say M ERCURY —“be ready for the, uh, modified operations? I want to improve data-transfer.”
“Six weeks. Until then we have to use the other methods we discussed.”
The Director of Central Intelligence nodded. “Very well. The White House is very interested in that, Jack. Good job to all concerned.”
“Glad to hear that, sir. See you tomorrow.” Jack walked out.
“NIITAKA?” Goodley asked after the door closed. “Sounds Japanese.”
“Sorry, Goodley. You can forget that word at your earliest opportunity.” Cabot had only spoken it to remind Ryan of his place, and the honorable part of the man already regretted having done so.
“Yes, sir. May I ask an unrelated question?”
“Sure.”
“Is Ryan as good as people say?”
Cabot stubbed out the remains of his cigar, to the relief of his visitor. “He's got quite a record.”
“Really? I've heard that. You know, that's the whole reason I'm here, to examine the personality types that really make a difference. I mean, how does someone grow into the job? Ryan's skyrocketed up the ladder here. I'd be very interested in seeing how he managed to do that.”
“He's done it by being right a lot more often than he's wrong, by making some tough calls, and with some field jobs that even I can hardly believe,” Cabot said, after a moment's consideration. “And you can never, ever reveal that to anyone, Dr. Goodley.”
“I understand, sir. Could I see his record, his personnel file?”
The DCI’s eyebrows arched. “Everything you see in there is classified. Anything you try to write about it —”
“Excuse me, but I know that, sir. Everything I write is subject to security review. I signed off on that. It's important that I learn how a person really fits in here, and Ryan would seem to be an ideal case study for examining how that process happens. I mean, that's why the White House sent me over here,” Goodley pointed out. I'm supposed to report to them on what I find.”
Cabot was silent for a moment. “I suppose that's okay, then.”
Ryan's car arrived at the Pentagon's River entrance. He was met by an Air Force one-star and conducted inside, bypassing the metal detector. Two minutes later, he was in one of many subterranean rooms that lie under and around this ugliest of official buildings.
“Hello, Jack,” Dennis Bunker called from the far end of the room.
“Mr. Secretary.” Jack nodded as he took his National Security Advisor's chair. The game started immediately. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Aside from the fact that Liz Elliot has decided not to grace us with her presence?” The Secretary of Defense chuckled, then went serious. “There has been an attack on one of our cruisers in the Eastern Med. The information is still sketchy, but the ship has been severely damaged and may be sinking. We presume heavy casualties.”
“What do we know?” Jack asked, settling into the game. He put on a color-coded name tag that identified which part he was playing. A card hanging from the ceiling over his chair had the same purpose.
“Not much.” Bunker looked up as a Navy lieutenant entered the room.
“Sir, USS Kidd reports that Valley Forge exploded and sank five minutes ago as a result of the initial damage. There are no more than twenty survivors, and rescue operations are underway.”
“What is the cause of the loss?” Ryan asked.
“Unknown, sir. Kidd was thirty miles from Valley Forge at the time of the incident. Her helo is on the scene now. Commander Sixth Fleet has brought all his ships to full-alert status. USS Theodore Roosevelt is launching aircraft to sweep the area.”
“I know the CAG on TR, Robby Jackson,” Ryan said to nobody in particular. Not that it mattered. Theodore Roosevelt was actually in Norfolk, and Robby was still preparing for his next cruise. The names in the wargame were generic, and personal knowledge of the players didn't matter, since they were not supposed to be real people. But if it were real, Robby was Commander Air Group on USS Theodore Roosevelt, and his would be the first plane off the cats. It was well to remember that, though this might be a game, its purpose was deadly serious. “Background information?” Jack asked. He didn't remember all of the pre-brief on the scenario being played out.
“CIA reports a possible mutiny in the Soviet Union by Red Army units in Kazakhstan, and disturbances in two Navy bases there also,” the game narrator, a Navy commander, reported.
“Soviet units in the vicinity of Valley Forge?” Bunker asked.
“Possibly a submarine,” the naval officer answered.
“Flash Message,” the wall speaker announced. “USS Kidd reports that it has destroyed an inbound surface- to-surface missile with its Close-in Weapons System. Superficial damage to the ship, no casualties.”
Jack walked to the corner to pour himself a cup of coffee. He smiled as he did so. These games were fun, he admitted to himself. He really did enjoy them. They were also realistic. He'd been swept away from a normal day's routine, dumped in a stuffy room, given confused and fragmented information, and had no idea at all what the hell was supposed to be going on. That was reality. The old joke: How do crisis-managers resemble mushrooms? They're kept in the dark and fed horseshit.
“Sir, we have an incoming H OTLINE message…”
Okay, Ryan thought, it's that kind of game today. The Pentagon must have come up with the scenario. Let's see if it's still possible to blow the world up…
“More concrete?” Qati asked.
“Much more concrete,” Fromm answered. ”The machines each weigh several tons, and they must be totally stable. The room must be totally stable, and totally sealed. It must be clean like a hospital — no, much better than any hospital you have ever seen.“ Fromm looked down at his list. Not cleaner than a German hospital, of course. ”Next, electrical power. We'll need three large backup generators, and at least two UPSs—'
“What?” Qati asked.
“Un-interruptible power supplies,” Ghosn translated. “We'll keep one of the backup generators turning at all times, of course?”
“Correct,” Fromm answered. 'Since this is a primitive operation, we'll try not to use more than one machine at a time. The real problem with electricity is ensuring a secure circuit. So, we take the line current through the UPSs to protect against spikes. The computer systems on the milling machines are highly sensitive.
“Next!” Fromm said. “Skilled operators.”
“That will be highly difficult,” Ghosn observed.
The German smiled, amazing everyone present. “Not so. It will be easier than you think.”
