The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

DDCI's office adjoins the long, narrow suite accorded the DCI, who was not at
work yet. A small, surprisingly modest place for the number-two man in the
country's premier intelligence service, it overlooked the visitor-parking lot,
beyond which was the thick stand of pines that separated the Agency compound
from the George Washington Parkway and the Potomac River valley beyond. Ryan had
kept Nancy Cummings from his previous and brief stint as Deputy Director
(Intelligence). Clark took his seat in that office, going over dispatches that
pertained to his duties, in preparation for the morning SPO conference – they
concerned themselves with which terrorist group was making noise at the moment.
No serious attempt had ever been made on a senior Agency executive, but history
was not their institutional concern. The future was, and even CIA didn't have a
particularly bright record for predicting that.
Ryan found his desk neatly piled with material too sensitive for the car's
dispatch case, and prepped himself for the morning department-head meeting,
which he cochaired with the DCI. There was a drip-coffee machine in his office.
Next to it was a clean but never-used mug that had once belonged to the man
who'd brought him into the Agency, Vice Admiral James Greer. Nancy took care of
that, and Ryan never began a day at Langley without thinking of his dead boss.
So. He rubbed his hands across his face and eyes, and went to work. What new and
interesting things did the world hold in store this day?
***
The logger, like most of his trade, was a big, powerful man. Six-four, and two
hundred twenty pounds of former all-state defensive end, he'd joined the Marines
instead of going to college – could have, he thought, could have taken the
scholarship to Oklahoma or Pitt, but held decided against it. And he knew that
he would never have wanted to leave Oregon for good. A college degree would have
meant that. Maybe play pro ball, and then – turn into a 'suit'? No. Since
childhood he'd loved the outdoor life. He made a good living, raised his family
in a friendly small town, lived a rough, healthy life, and was the best damned
man in the company for dropping a tree straight and soft. He drew the special
ones.
He yanked the string on the big, two-man chainsaw. On a silent command, his
helper took his end off the ground as the logger did the same. The tree had
already been notched with a double-headed axe. They worked the saw in slowly and
carefully. The logger kept one eye on the chainsaw while the other watched the
tree. There was an art to doing this just right. It was a point of honor with
him that he didn't waste an inch of wood he didn't have to. Not like the guys
down at the mill, though they'd told him that the mill wouldn't touch this baby.
They pulled the saw after completing the first cut, and started the second
without pausing for breath. This time it took four minutes. The logger was
tensely alert now. He felt a puff of wind on his face and paused to make sure it
was blowing the way he wanted. A tree, no matter how large, was a plaything for
a stiff wind – especially when nearly cut in half . . .
It was swaying at the top now . . . almost time. He backed the saw off and waved
to his helper. Watch my eyes, watch my hands! The kid nodded seriously. About
another foot would do it, the logger knew. They completed it very slowly. It
abused the chain, but this was the dangerous part. Safety guys were monitoring