Debt of Honor - Tom Clancy [195]
The next notation, immediately after AMN 6000 48 1/4, was AAA 4000 67 3/8, and the one under that AAA 9000 51 1/4. In fact, by scrolling down, all entries made after 12:00:01 showed the same three-letter, meaningless identifier.
"Switch over to Beta," Bernard said. The storage tape on the first backup computer system was opened. "Scroll down."
"Shit!"
In five minutes all six systems had been checked. In every case, every single trade had been recorded as gibberish. There was no readily accessible record for any of the trades made after twelve noon. No trading house, institution, or private investor could know what it had bought or sold, to or from whom, or for how much, and none could therefore know how much money was available for other trades, or for that matter, to purchase groceries over the weekend.
20—Strike Three
The party broke up after midnight. The official entertainment was a sort of ballet-in-the-round. The Bolshoy hadn't lost its magic, and the configuration of the room allowed the guests to see the dancers at much closer hand than had ever been possible, but finally the last hand had been clapped red and hurt from the encores, and it was time for security personnel to help their charges to the door. Nearly everyone had a roll to his or her walk, and sure enough, Ryan saw, he was the most sober person in the room, including his wife.
"What do you think, Daga?" Ryan asked Special Agent Helen D'Agustino. His own bodyguard was getting coats.
"I think, just once, I'd like to be able to party with the principals." Then she shook her head like a parent disappointed with her children.
"Oh, Jack, tomorrow I'm going to feel awful," Cathy reported. The vodka here was just too smooth.
"I told you, honey. Besides," her husband added nastily, "it's already tomorrow."
"Excuse me, I have to help with JUMPER." Which was the Secret Service code name for the President, a tribute to his paratrooper days.
Ryan was surprised to see an American in ordinary business attire—the formal dinner had been black-tie, another recent change in the Russian social scene—waiting outside the doors. He led his wife over that way.
"What is it?"
"Dr. Ryan, I need to see the President right away."
"Cathy, could you stay here for a second." To the embassy official: "Follow me."
"Oh, Jack…" his wife griped.
"You have it on paper?" Ryan asked, holding his hand out.
"Here, sir." Ryan took the fax sheets and read them while walking across the room.
"Holy shit. Come on." President Durling was still chatting with President Grushavoy when Ryan appeared with the junior man in his wake.
"Some party, Jack," Roger Durling observed pleasantly. Then his face changed. "Trouble?"
Ryan nodded, adopting his Advisor's face. "We need Brett and Buzz, Mr. President, right now."
"There they are." The SPY-1D radar on Mutsu painted the forward edge of the American formation on the raster screen. Rear Admiral—Shoho—Sato looked at his operations officer with an impassive expression that meant nothing to the rest of the bridge crew but quite a bit to the Captain—Issa—who knew what Exercise DATELINE PARTNERS was really all about. Now it was time to discuss the matter with the destroyer's commanding officer. The two formations were 140 nautical miles apart and would rendezvous in the late afternoon, the two officers thought, wondering how Mutsu's CO would react to the news. Not that he had much choice in the matter.
Ten minutes later, a Socho, or chief petty officer, went out on deck to check out the Mark 68 torpedo launcher on the port side. First opening the inspection hatch on the base of the mount, he ran an electronic diagnostic test on all three "fish" in the three-tube launcher. Satisfied, he secured the hatch, and one by one opened the aft hatches on each individual tube, removing the propeller locks from each Mark 50 torpedo. The Socho was a twenty-year veteran of the sea, and completed the task in under ten