The President of the United States went white. He said nothing, so Mary Pat continued: “They both went on their own initiative. It was Junior who called me, who convinced me. He assures me they are both safe and absolutely not in harm’s way.”
“You are telling me that right now my son is in fucking
“Yes.”
“Mary Pat,” he said, but no more words would come.
“I talked to Junior. He confirmed that K. K. Tong and his entire operation are working out of a China Telecom building in Guangzhou. He has sent photos and geo coordinates. Communication with him is spotty, as you can imagine, but we have everything we need to target the location.”
Ryan just looked to a point against the wall. He blinked a few times, and then nodded. “I think I can trust the source.” He smiled; there was no happiness, just resolve. He pointed to the entrance to the conference room. “Get everything you have to those men and women. We can limit the attack, focus it on this nerve center.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The two hugged. She said into his ear, “We’re going to get them back. We’re going to get Junior home.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
John Clark flew on a private jet hired from the same fixed operating base where Hendley Associates kept its Gulfstream at BWI. Adara Sherman, Hendley’s transportation manager, flight attendant, and aircraft security officer, arranged the entire early-morning flight to Russia while at thirty-five thousand feet over the Pacific, as the Gulfstream was still on its way back from Hong Kong after dropping off Jack Ryan, Jr.
While Clark flew in the chartered Lear, he spoke via sat phone with Stanislav Biryukov, head of the FSB, Russian state security. Clark had done one hell of a big favor for Biryukov and Russian intelligence the year before, more or less single-handedly saving Moscow from nuclear annihilation. Director Biryukov had told Clark his door was always open to him, and a good Russian always remembers his friends.
John Clark put this to the test when he said, “I need to get into China from Russia with two others, and I need to do it within twenty-four hours. Oh, and by the way, the two others are Chinese nationals who will be bound and gagged.”
There was a long moment of silence, and then a low, almost evil chuckle on the other end. “Such interesting vacations you American pensioners take. In my country we prefer to go to the dacha to sunbathe after retirement.”
Clark just asked, “Will you be able to help me?”
Instead of a direct reply, Biryukov said, “And when you are there, John Timofeevich? Will you need assistance in the form of equipment?”
Now John smiled. “Well, as long as you are offering.”
Biryukov did owe John a favor, but Clark knew any help he would get from the head of the FSB would be implied help for Clark’s friend, the President of the United States. Biryukov knew that Clark would be working on behalf of America in its conflict with China, and he also knew Clark would not be working for the CIA, which was a good thing, as the FSB knew CIA was compromised in China.
John told Biryukov what items he would like to take with him into China, and the FSB director wrote them down. He told Clark to fly on to Moscow and he would have the gear and the military transport waiting for him, and that he would take care of all other details while John enjoyed his flight over.
“Thank you, Stanislav.”
“I suppose you will also need a way home afterward?”
John said, “I sure hope so.”
Biryukov chuckled once again, understanding what Clark meant. If he did not need a way home, that would mean he was dead.
Biryukov hung up, called his top operations people, and told them their careers would be over if they could not make all this happen.
Clark and his two bound and hooded prisoners arrived in Moscow and then flew on a Tupolev transport to Astana, Kazakhstan. Here they were put on an aircraft loaded with munitions that were being delivered to China. The transporter, Russia’s state-owned defense exporter Rosoboronexport, often flew covert missions into China, and they knew to do what FSB ordered and ask no questions.
Clark was shown to a pallet near the cargo door of the plane. On it were several green crates, and John waited until he was alone after takeoff to inspect them. Along with the crates was a bottle of Iordanov vodka and a handwritten note.
Enjoy the vodka as a gift from a friend. The rest… a repayment of a debt. Stay safe, John.
It was signed “Stan.”
John picked up the subtext of the note and the gift. The FSB regarded this assistance as repayment in full for the help that Clark and America had provided Russia on the steppes of Kazakhstan.
The IL-76 transport flight landed in Beijing exactly thirty hours after Clark left Baltimore, and FSB agents at the airport collected the three men and the crates and drove them to a safe house north of town. Within an hour, Sam Driscoll and four men from Pathway of Liberty, the fledgling rebel force, arrived and drove them back to their barn hideout.
Domingo Chavez met John Clark at the door. Even in the low light Ding saw the circles under Clark’s eyes, the discomfort on his face after the long journey and the fight in Maryland. He was a sixty-five-year-old man who had been traveling for more than thirty hours, crossing twelve time zones, and he looked every bit of it.
The men embraced, John took some green tea offered to him by Yin Yin, and a plate of noodles in a salty ground soybean sauce, and then he was shown to a cot in an upstairs loft. The two prisoners were placed in a locked stall in a basement, and two armed guards were set outside.
Chavez looked over the equipment Clark had brought in from Russia. In the first crate he found a Dragunov sniper rifle with an eight-power scope and a silencer. Ding knew this weapon well, and it immediately gave him ideas about the operation to come.
Next he opened two identical crates, each containing a single RPG-26 shoulder-fired anti-tank disposable grenade launcher.
These weapons would be perfect for knocking through an armored car.
There was also a large container with two RPG-9 rocket-propelled grenade launchers and eight finned grenades.
Other crates contained radios with high-tech digital encryption modules, ammunition, and smoke and fragmentation grenades.
Ding knew better than to hand over a grenade launcher or an anti-tank weapon to the Pathway of Liberty. He had quizzed them on their knowledge of their weapons and the tactics they would need to employ in order to use them effectively in an attack, and he decided that the twenty or so young Chinese would best be used either providing security for the escape route after the attack or else making a lot of noise with their guns during the attack.
Chavez discussed the feasibility of the operation to come with Dom and Sam. At first the three Americans discussed whether or not the mission had any chance at all for success.
Ding was not exactly a cheerleader for the exercise. “No one has to go. It’s going to be tough. Hell, we don’t even know how many security will be in the motorcade.”
Driscoll asked, “We’re using them, aren’t we? The Pathway of Liberty kids.”
Chavez did not disagree. “We’re using them to stop a war. I can sleep easy knowing that. I’m going to do what I can to keep them as safe as possible, but make no mistake, if they can get us close to Chairman Su, we take the shot, and then deal with the consequences. None of us will be safe after that.”
They brought the Chinese into the conversation, and when Chavez told Yin Yin that they wanted to try to attack Chairman Su’s motorcade as it came into the city from Baoding, she said she could help with advance information about the route.
