Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [185]
The Halmatic’s diesel engine chugged softly while in the wheelhouse Salychev whistled to himself. Adnan walked forward and stepped inside.
“How far are we from the settlement—”
“Belushya Guba,” Salychev finished for him. “Not far. Just up the coast—a hundred, hundred-fifty kilometers. Don’t worry yourself. The patrols don’t come into the coves; they stick to the shoreline. Might hear them if the wind is right, but this close to land, their navigation radars get jumbled. Couldn’t see us unless they bumped into us.”
“Were there detonations in this area?”
“Some, but that was back in ’60 or ’61. Small ones, too. No more than fifteen kilotons. Just babies, nothing to worry about. Now, up the coast, maybe three hundred kilometers north of Belushya Guba, is Mityushev. That’s where they did a lot of them. Dozens upon dozens, all in the hundreds of kilotons, a couple of megatons, too. If you want to see what the moon looks like, that’s the place to go.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Offshore I have. Not enough money in the world could get me into those bays and channels. No, this place we’re headed is paradise compared to Mityushev.”
“It’s a wonder anything lives here.”
“Everything is relative. You’ve heard of the Pak Mozg, yes?”
“No.”
“The English translation is ‘brain crab.’ It’s supposed to be about half a meter tall, with a shell that’s split along the bottom and its nervous system exposed, sort of hanging out the gap in the shell.”
“You’re joking with me.”
Salychev shrugged. “No. I’ve never seen one, but I’ve got a friend who swears he did.”
Adnan waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense. How long until we reach the shipyard?”
“Two hours, give or take. Going to be dark not long after that, so you’ll have to wait until morning. Don’t want to be stomping around in the dark.”
“No.”
“You never did say exactly what you’re after. Samples, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Soil and rock samples. That’s what most of you types come here for: dirt. Testing it for whatever.”
“That’s right,” Adnan replied. “Dirt.”
54
THE ONE DRAWBACK might be that people would notice the cars coming in and out.
Arnie came in first. Former President Ryan met him and walked him into the living room.
“Ready?” the former Chief of Staff asked.
“Not sure,” Jack admitted.
“Well, Jack, if you have any doubts, you’d better exorcise them today. Do you want four more years of Ed Kealty in the White House?”
“Hell, no,” Jack replied almost automatically. Then he thought it over again. Was he so arrogant that he thought he was the projected savior of the United States of America? Such moments of introspection came quickly to him. He wasn’t one to measure his ego on the Richter scale or power-of-ten notation. The campaign to come would not be fun in any respect. “Here’s the problem: My strength is national security matters,” Ryan said. “I’m not an expert on domestic affairs.”
“Kealty is—or at least that’s the image he projects. He’s got chinks in his armor, Jack, and we’ll find them. And all you have to do is to persuade two hundred million American voters that you’re a better man than he is.”
“You’re not asking much,” Ryan groused. “A lot of things to fix.” A hell of a lot of things to fix, he added to himself. “Okay, who’s first?”
“George Winston and some of his Wall Street friends. George’ll be your finance chairman.”
“What will this cost?”
“North of a hundred million dollars. More than you can afford, Jack.”
“Do these people know what they’re buying?” Ryan asked.
“I’m sure George explained it to them. You’ll have to back that up, of course. Hey, look on the bright side. Your administration didn’t have much in the way of