The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

. . but why, then . . . ? Suddenly he knew that he was missing something . . .
something big. But what? The markings on the cylinder were in Hebrew, and he
didn't know that other Semitic language well, and he didn't understand the
significance of these markings. The frame which held it, he saw, was partially
designed as a shock-absorber . . . and it had worked admirably. The framing was
grossly distorted, but the cylinder it held seemed largely intact. Damaged to be
sure, but it had not split . . . Whatever was inside the cylinder was supposed
to be protected against shock. That made it delicate, and THAT meant it was some
sort of delicate electronic device. So he came back to the idea that it was a
jamming pod. Ghosn was too focused to realize that his mind had closed out other
options; that his engineer's brain was so fixed on the task at hand that he was
ignoring possibilities and the signals that presented them. Whatever it was,
however, he had to get it out first. He next selected a wrench and went to work
on the bolts securing the cylinder in place.
***
Fowler sat in a 16th-century chair, watching the protocol officers flutter
around like pheasants unable to decide whether to walk or fly. People commonly
thought that affairs like this one were run smoothly by professional
stage-managers who planned everything in advance. Fowler knew better. Sure,
things were smooth enough when there had been time enough – a few months – to
work out all the details. But this affair had been set up with days, not months,
of preparation, and the dozen or so protocol officers had scarcely decided who
was the boss among themselves. Curiously, it was the Russian and the Swiss
officers who were the calmest, and before the American president's eyes, it was
they who huddled and worked out a quick alliance, then presented their plan –
whatever it was – to the others, which they then put into play. Just like a good
football squad, the President smiled to himself. The Vatican representative was
too old for a job like this. The guy – a bishop, Fowler thought, maybe a
monsignor – was over sixty and suffering from an anxiety attack that might just
kill him. Finally the Russian took him aside for two quick minutes, nods were
exchanged and a handshake, then people started moving as though they had a
common purpose. Fowler decided that he'd have to find out the Russian's name. He
looked like a real pro. More importantly, it was hugely entertaining to watch,
and it relaxed the President at a moment when he needed the relaxation.
Finally – only five minutes late, and that was a miracle, Fowler thought with a
suppressed grin – the various heads of state rose from their chairs, summoned
like the members of a wedding party by the nervous mother-in-law-to-be, and told
where to stand in line. More perfunctory handshakes were exchanged, along with a
few jokes that suffered from the absence of translators. The Saudi king looked
cross at the delays. As well he might, Fowler thought. The King probably had
other things on his mind. Already there were 'death threats directed at him. But
there was no fear on the man's face, Bob Fowler saw. He might be a humorless
man, but he had the bearing and courage – and the class, the President admitted
to himself – that went with his title. It had been he who'd first committed to
the talks after two hours with Ryan. That was too bad, wasn't it? Ryan had
filled in for Charlie Alden, taking his assignment to himself at that. He'd
allowed himself to forget just how frantic the initial maneuvers had been. Scott