Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

surprise.

“You know, we had a drawing to see who’d gel to do tins. I won,” the

officer said, getting to his feet.

“I was just ordered to come. I am glad I did. Is it sale now’.'”

“I think so. Come on, Valentin. We have one more job to do, don’t wo’.'”

Both men got into an HMMWV, the current incarnation of the Army jeep,

and the Major started it up, heading for the silo from upwind. Now it was just

a hole in the ground, generating steam. A CNN crew followed, still giving a

live feed as the vehicle bumped across the uneven prairie. Their vehicle

stopped two hundred yards away, somewhat to their annoyance, while the

two officers dismounted their vehicle, carrying gas masks against the possi-

bility that there was still enough smoke to be a health concern. There wasn’t.

Just the nasty smell. The American officer waved the TV crew in and waited

for them to get ready. That took two minutes.

“Ready!” the unit director said.

“Are we in agreement that the silo and missile are destroyed?”

”Yes, we are,” the Russian replied with a salute. Then he reached behind

his back and pulled two crystal glasses from his pockets. “Would you hold

these please, Comrade Major?”

Next came a bottle of Georgian champagne. The Russian popped the cork

with a wide grin and filled both glasses.

“I teach you Russian tradition now. First you drink,” he said. The TV

crew loved it.

“I think I know that part.” The American downed the champagne. “And

now?”

‘ ‘The glasses may never be used for a lesser purpose. Now you must do as

I do.” With that the Russian turned and poised himself to hurl his glass into

the empty hole. The American laughed and did the same.

“Now!” With that, both glasses disappeared into the last American Min-

uteman silo. They disappeared in the steam, but both could hear them shatter

against the scorched concrete walls.

“Fortunately, I have two more glasses,” Valentin said, producing them.

” Son of a bitch,” Ryan breathed. It turned out that the American at the Rus-

sian silo had had a similar idea, and was now explaining what “Miller

time!” meant. Unfortunately, aluminum cans didn’t break when thrown.

“Overly theatrical,” his wife thought.

“It isn’t exactly Shakespeare, but if t’were done when t’were done, then

at least it’s done, honey.” Then they heard the corks popping off amid the

sounds of applause.

“Is the five-billion-dollars part true?”

“Yep.”

“So, Ivan Emmetovich, we can be truly friends now?” Golovko asked,

bringing glasses. “We finally meet, Caroline,” he said graciously to Cathy.

“Sergey and I go way back,” Jack explained, taking the glass and toast-

ing his host.

“To the time I had a gun to your head,” the Russian observed. Ryan won-

dered if it were an historical reference … or a toast to the event?

“What?” Cathy asked, almost choking on her drink.

“You never told her?”

“Jesus, Sergey!”

“What are you two talking about?”

“Dr. Ryan, once upon a time your husband and I had a … professional

disagreement that ended up with myself holding a pistol in his face. I never

told you, Jack, that the gun wasn’t loaded.”

“Well, I wasn’t going anywhere anyway, was I?”

“What are you two talking about? Is this some inside joke?” Cathy de-

manded.

“Yeah, honey, that’s about right. How is Andrey Il’ich doing?”

“He is well. In fact, if you would like to see him, it can be arranged.”

Jack nodded. “I’d like that.”

“Excuse me, but who exactly are you?”

“Honey,” Jack said. “This is Sergey Nikolayevich Golovko, Chairman

of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service.”

“KGB? You know each other?”

“Not KGB, madam. We are much smaller now. Your husband and I have

been . . . competitors for years now.”

“Okay, and who won?” she asked.

Both men had the same thought, but Golovko said it first: ‘ ‘Both of us, of

course. Now, if you will permit, let me introduce you to my wife, Yelena.

She is a pediatrician.” That was something CIA had never bothered to find

out, Jack realized.

He turned to look at the two presidents, enjoying the moment despite

being surrounded by newsies. It was the first time he’d actually been to an

event like this, but he was sure they weren’t always this chummy. Perhaps it

was the final release of all that tension, the realization that, yes, Virginia, it

really was over. He saw people bringing in yet more champagne. It was

pretty good stuff, and he fully intended to have his share of it. CNN would

soon tire of the party, but these people would not. All the uniforms, and

politicians, and spies, and diplomats. Hell, maybe they would all really be

friends.

19

Strike Two, 1-

Though the overall timing was fortuitous, the plan for exploiting the chance

was exquisite, the product of years of study and modeling and simulation. In

fact the operation had already begun when six major commercial banks in

Hong Kong started going short on U.S. Treasury bonds. These had been

bought a few weeks earlier, part of a complex exchange for yen holdings

done as a classic hedge against monetary fluctuations. The banks themselves

were about to undergo a trauma-a change in ownership of the very ground

upon which they stood-and the two factors made their massive purchases

seem an entirely ordinary move to maximize their liquidity and flexibility at

the same time. In liquidating the bonds, they were just cashing in, albeit in a

large way, on the relative change in values of dollar and yen. They would

realize a 17 percent profit from the move, in fact, then buy yen, which, cur-

rency experts all over the world were now saying, had reached a hard floor

and would soon rebound. Still, two hundred ninety billion dollars of U.S.

bonds were on the market briefly, and undervalued at that. They were soon

snapped up by European banks. The Hong Kong bankers made the proper

electronic entries, and the transaction was concluded. Next they wired the

fact to Beijing, uneasily happy to show that they had followed orders and

demonstrated obeisance to their soon-to-be political masters. So much the

better, all thought, that they had taken a profit on the deal.

In Japan the transaction was noted. Fourteen hours off the local time of

New York City, still the world’s foremost trading center, it was not terribly

unusual for Tokyo traders to work hours usually associated with night

watchmen, and in any case the wire services that communicated financial

information never ceased transmitting data. It would have surprised some

people to learn that the people in the trading offices were very senior indeed,

and that a special room had been established on the top floor of a major

office building during the last week. Called the War Room by its current

occupants, it had telephone lines leading to every city in the world with

major trading activities and computer displays to show what was happening

in all of them.

Other Asian banks went next, repeating the same procedure as in Hong

Kong, and the people in the War Room watched their machines. Just after

noon, New York time, Friday, which was 2:03 A.M. on Saturday in Tokyo,

they saw another three hundred million dollars of U.S. bonds dumped into

the market, these at a price even more attractive than that just offered in

Hong Kong, and these, also, were rapidly bought by other European bankers

for whom the working day and week were just coming to an end. As yet

nothing grossly unusual had happened. Only then did the Japanese banks

make their move, well covered by the activity of others. The Tokyo banks as

well started selling off their U.S. Treasuries, clearly taking action to firm up

the yen, it appeared. In the process, however, the entire world’s ready sur-

plus-dollar capacity had been used up in a period of minutes. It could be

written off as a mere coincidence, but the currency traders-at least those

not at lunch in New York-were now alerted to the fact that any further

trading on those notes would be unsettling, however unlikely that might be,

what with the known strength of the dollar.

The state dinner was reflective of traditional Russian hospitality, made all

the more intense by the fact that it celebrated the end of two generations of

nuclear terror. The Metropolitan of the Russian Orthodox Church intoned a

long and dignified invocation. Himself twice the victim of political impris-

onment, his invitation to rejoice was heartfelt, moving a few to tears, which

were soon banished by the start of the feast. There was soup, and caviar, and

fowl, and fine beef; and huge quantities of alcohol which, for just this once,

everyone felt free to imbibe. The real work of the trip was done. There really

were no secrets left to hide. Tomorrow was Saturday, and everyone would