The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

Russian was trying to show him that he was good, but not crazy. That was fair
enough. Robby came back up level and waved to thank the Russian for holding a
steady line. Again the gesture was returned.
What's Your name, boy? Robby thought. He also wondered what the Russian thought
about the victory flag painted under the cockpit, under which was printed in
small letters, MiG-29, 17-1-91. Let's not get too cocky over there.
***
The 747 landed after its long trans-Pacific flight, much to the relief of the
flight crew, Clark was sure. Twelve-hour flights must have been a bitch, the CIA
officer was sure, especially flying into a smog-filled bowl at the end of it.
The aircraft taxied out, then turned and finally stopped at a space marked by a
military band, several rows of soldiers and civilians, and the customary red
carpet.
'You know, after that much time in an airplane I'm too dogshit to do anything
intelligent,' Chavez observed quietly.
'So remember never to run for President,' Clark replied.
'Right, Mr C.'
The stairs were rolled up, and presently the door opened. The band struck up
something or other – the two CIA officers were too far away to hear it clearly.
The normal TV crews flitted about. The arriving Japanese Prime Minister was met
by the Mexican foreign minister, listened to a brief speech, made a brief one of
his own, walked past the troops who'd been standing in place for ninety minutes,
then did the first sensible thing of the day. He got into a limo and drove off
to his embassy for a shower – or more likely, Clark thought, a hot bath. The way
the Japs did it was probably the perfect cure for air travel, a long soak in
hundred-plus-degree water. It was sure to take the wrinkles out of the skin and
the stiffness out of the muscles, John thought. Pity that Americans hadn't
learned that one. Ten minutes after the last dignitary left, and the troops
marched off, and the carpet was rolled back up, the maintenance people were
summoned to the aircraft.
The pilot spoke briefly with the head mechanic. One of the big Pratt and Whitney
engines was running just a hair warm. Other than that he had no beefs at all.
Then the flight crew departed for a rest. Three security people took station
around the outside of the aircraft. Two more paced the interior. Clark and
Chavez entered, showing their passes to Mexican and Japanese officials, and went
to work. Ding started in the washrooms, taking his time because he'd been told
the Japanese were particular about having spotless latrines. It required only
one sniff of the air inside the airplane to note that Japanese citizens were
allowed to smoke. Each ashtray had to be checked, and more than half of those
required emptying and cleaning. Newspapers and magazines were collected. Other
cleaning staff handled the vacuuming.
Forward, Clark checked the booze locker. Half the people aboard must have
arrived with hangovers, he decided. There were some serious drinkers aboard. He
was also gratified to see that the technical people at Langley had guessed right
on the brand of scotch that JAL liked to serve. Finally he went up to the lounge
area behind the cockpit. It exactly matched the computer mock-up he'd examined
for hours prior to coming down. By the time he'd finished his cleaning duties,