Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [201]
“None. Everything went as planned.”
“Can we help you any further?”
Adnan shook his head. “No, thank you. It’s almost done. It’s deep here, almost three hundred meters. The sea will do the rest.”
60
THIS, Admiral Stephen Netters knew, was going to be an unpleasant meeting, and it had as much to do with who wasn’t attending as it did with who was. By all rights, the man sitting on the other side of the desk from him should have been Robby Jackson, but it wasn’t. Some redneck with a heart full of hate had seen to that. Instead, they had Edward Kealty. The wrong man for any season. Netters and Jackson had come up together, starting at the Naval Academy, their careers intersecting now and again as they climbed the ladder until finally, in the waning days of the Ryan administration, Netters had been appointed chairman of the JCS. He’d taken the job for a variety of reasons, ambition being the lowest among them, respect for Ryan being paramount.
It’d been hard not to quit after that, and especially after it became clear that Kealty was going to win the Oval Office not on merit but by dumb fate and tragedy. But even as the votes were being counted and the electoral map inexorably tipped in favor of Kealty, Netters knew he’d stay on, lest the new President appoint one of the Pentagon’s “perfumed princes.” One only had to look at the depth (or lack thereof) of Kealty’s cabinet to know what the man expected from his people. And therein was the rub. Contradict the king too often or with too much zeal and a more amenable prince would be found. Fail to contradict the king and the kingdom goes to the barbarians.
“Tell me what I’m looking at, Admiral,” President Kealty said with a grunt, and shoved the satellite photo back across the desk at Netters.
“Mr. President, what we’re seeing is a large-scale movement of tanks and mechanized infantry moving west toward the border.”
“I can see that, Admiral. What kind of numbers are we talking about, and what the hell are they up to?”
“As for the first question, we’ve identified an armored division consisting of three tank brigades with a mix of older Soviet T-54s, T-62s, and Zulfiqar main battle tanks; four artillery battalions; and two mechanized infantry divisions. As for what they’re up to, Mr. President, we can’t think in those terms yet. We need to concentrate on what they’re capable of, then work forward to intention.”
“Explain that,” National Security Adviser Ann Reynolds said.
Translation: I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Like Scott Kilborn, the Democratic congresswoman from Michigan was unqualified in the extreme, but both her demographically friendly gender and her seat on the House Intelligence Committee had made her a shoo-in for Kealty’s cabinet. As the CEO of a Detroit-based social-networking website company, Reynolds had been savvy and capable, skills she assumed were easily transferable to the role of politician and legislator. Netters suspected it hadn’t quite sunk in that she was in over her head, a fact that scared the living hell out of him. The National Security Adviser was white-knuckling it, hoping her Donna Karan power suits, severe glasses, and rapid-fire speaking style would keep the wolves at bay.
“Say I intend to beat the Olympic record for the marathon. That’s my intention. Problem is, both my legs are broken and I’ve got a heart condition. That’s my capacity. The latter dictates the former.”
Reynolds nodded sagely.
Scott Kilborn, the DCI, said, “Mr. President, Tehran is going to call it an ‘exercise,’ but we can’t ignore the obvious: First of all, the force is moving toward the Ilam salient—as the crow flies, it’s as close to Baghdad as any point in Iran. Eighty or so miles. Second, we just put into motion our drawdown plan in Iraq. Best case, they’re sending a warning to the Sunnis to mind their manners. Worst case, this is the real deal and they’re planning an incursion.”
“To what end?”
Kealty had asked the question, which was good, Netters thought, but there was no curiosity behind it. When it