The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

Jack didn't know what emotion he was supposed to feel. He'd seen enough death.
He knew that much. But these deaths did not touch his heart at all, and now he
wondered and worried a little about that.
'You asked me how history is made, Jack,' Ali said. 'You have just seen it.'
'What do you mean?'
'You do not need us to tell you,' Golovko said.
The men who started a war, or tried to, executed like criminals in the market
square, Jack thought. Not a bad precedent.
'Maybe you're right, maybe it will make people think twice before the next
time.' That's an idea whose time has come.
'In all our countries,' Ali said, 'the sword is the symbol of justice . . . an
anachronism, perhaps, from a time when men acted as men. But a sword still has a
use.'
'Certainly it is precise,' Golovko observed.
'So, Jack, you have fully left government service?' Ali asked, after a moment.
Ryan turned away from the scene, just as everyone else had done.
'Yes, Your Highness.'
'And those foolish "ethics" laws no longer apply. Good.' Ali turned. The Special
Forces officer appeared as though by magic. The salute he gave Prince Ali was
the sort to impress Kipling. The sword came next. The scabbard was wrought gold
encrusted with jewels. The hilt was gold and ivory, and you could see where
parts of it had been worn down by generations of strong hands. Manifestly the
weapon of a king.
'This is three hundred years old,' Ali said, turning to Ryan. 'It has been
carried in peace and war by my ancestors. It even has a name – Breeze of Evening
is the best I can do in English. It means more than that, of course. We wish you
to have it, Dr Ryan, as a reminder of those who died – and those who did not,
because of you. It has killed many times. His Majesty believes that the sword
has killed enough.'
Ryan took the scimitar from the Prince's hand. The gold scabbard was nicked and
abraded by generations of sandstorms and battles, but Ryan saw that his
reflection was not so terribly distorted as he might have feared. The blade, he
saw, on drawing it partway, was mirror-bright, still rippled from the Damascus
smith who'd shaped the steel into its fearful and effective purpose. Such a
dichotomy, Ryan thought, smiling without knowing it, that something so beautiful
could have so terrible a purpose. Such irony. And yet –
He'd keep the sword, hang it in a place of honor, look at it from time to time
to remind himself of what it and he had done. And just maybe –
'Killed enough?' Ryan slid the sword back into its sheath and let it fall to his
side. 'Yes, Your Highness. I think we all have.'
AFTERWORD
Now that the tale is told, a few things need to be made clear. All of the
material in this novel relating to weapons technology and fabrication is readily
available in any one of dozens of books. For reasons which I hope will be
obvious to the reader, certain technical details have been altered, sacrificing