Choke Point

by Tom Clancy

  ‘They’re killing two birds,’ said Pepper. ‘Figured they’d move their hostage along with their drugs, but they were waiting on these guys.’

  ‘And waiting for the second storm to move in,’ said Ross. ‘Bad move all around.’

  Pepper snorted. ‘Yeah, it’s almost Biblical. Greed gets you every time.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Ross. He took in a deep breath to clear his thoughts. ‘Okay, we gotta move now. If he’s in the warehouse, they’ll bring him out as soon as they finish.’

  ‘No doubt,’ said Pepper.

  Ross called the team and the AFEUR troops: ‘This is it, guys. Point team is moving out. Get into your secondaries.’

  The river’s surface was alive with a billion dimples from the falling rain as he and Pepper drifted out from the gnarled roots and submerged. With their heads just a few inches beneath the surface, Ross suspected they were already well hidden. Being in the water felt perfect, natural, and holding his breath was a skill he’d honed for more than twenty years, beginning with the old drownproofing test during his BUD/S training. Hands bound behind your back, they tossed you into a pool, and the fun began. No reason to panic, right? He’d done well. Some of his colleagues couldn’t make it that far, had freaked out, and had rung the bell to drop.

  For his part now, Ross took the lead, and the muddy river bottom quickly fell away. He kicked hard, and they headed toward the opposite shoreline, some forty meters away and about fifteen meters east of the dock and warehouses. Their target was an especially thick section of roots that offered ample cover and allowed a breather.

  If all was going well, then Jiménez had divided his group into four teams, with two spreading out to the narrower flanks to ford the river and move in from the north, with another pair, the captain included, remaining on the south side, closer to the narcosub. From these secondary positions the men would launch their ambush.

  Ross tried to relax as he swam, fighting against the obvious and gut-wrenching fear that any one of those men could make a simple but grave error. Any one of them, like that sniper had during their last raid, could allow himself to be caught and/or killed.

  No, he told himself. Not this time. They would attack swiftly, with audacity and purpose, standing on the shoulders of all the SF operators who’d come before them. No fears now. Only the mission. Moving … communicating …

  On target.

  The rain was cooling the river’s surface, but farther below, the water still felt warm, and his boots began dragging through the silt and finally pushing deeper into the mud. He reached out and felt a thick root, and then he slowed, sensing Pepper’s hand on his boot, and together they rose up within some lily pads, clearing their eyes and noses, but keeping their chins beneath the surface.

  Ross glanced up at movement in the canopy. No, he wouldn’t tell Pepper about the coral snake up there, highly venomous to be sure. It slithered beneath two branches and was surrounded by a cloud of mosquitoes, trying to hide from the storm.

  In the next second, shouts from the dry docks and flashing lights near them cut through the downpour and seemed to be right there, right there … a breath away.

  He gave Pepper the signal and they scaled the roots, shifting behind the trees and settling down along the brush opposite the larger building, where two guards were posted on this, the west side.

  ‘I’m the bait,’ he whispered to Pepper.

  ‘Roger that.’

  Ross activated his camouflage and ran out of the tree line, directly toward the two guards. He dropped down to his haunches and waited as they noticed something weird in front of them, a strange fluctuating silhouette, as though an extraterrestrial had dropped from the roof and was about to confront them. They both frowned, aimed their guns at Ross, who just stood there, the rain playing havoc with the camouflage’s system, flickering and shimmering.

  And then, another apparition appeared behind one guard, and an arm that looked as though it were made of water came around the man’s torso and plunged a knife into his heart.

  As the second guard turned, bringing his rifle to bear on Pepper, Ross put his Cold Steel SRK knife to work, driving the black, Tuff-Ex–coated blade into the hollow between the man’s collarbone and the top of his sternum. Using the collarbone as a lever, Ross worked the blade in a circular motion, shredding everything inside.

  Neither of these men would die instantaneously, as it took several knife wounds to produce results you only saw in movies; instead, Ross and Pepper dragged their victims back behind some trees, where both were zipper cuffed, their socks removed and forced into their mouths, their lips taped shut. The operation took less than sixty seconds.

  ‘And this is why I still bring a knife to a gunfight,’ said Pepper with a wink.

  Ross dragged the flat sides of his SRK along his hip, cleaning the blade. He resheathed the knife, than gave Pepper a nod. ‘Clear to move in.’

  TWELVE

  With trees now thrashing against one another, and the rain falling so fiercely that it felt more like pellets of titanium striking his back and shoulders, Kozak was at once surprised and shocked to find himself wearing one of the biggest shit-eating grins of his life.

  No, he wasn’t a glutton for punishment.

  He was a glutton for intel –

  And boom! He’d hit the jackpot!

  In fact, he was almost too excited to speak, but he made the report nonetheless. ‘Ghost Lead, the drone’s in place. And I think I’ve spotted the package!’

  ‘Good job, we’re moving in. Keep that drone quiet.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Kozak and 30K had found a cover position at the base of two long rows of bamboo that towered into the canopy like the bars of some colossal prison, the shoots groaning and creaking as they bowed in the gale. The mud smelled more pungent than ever because Kozak had spread some on his face and cheeks the way 30K had, a couple of ancient barbarians ready to pounce. They’d applied the bug spray liberally but didn’t trust the stuff in all this rain, which had probably washed it off. Easier to just grab mud and drag it across your face and neck, than blind yourself with the spray. So there they were, old-school low and good to go.

  ‘Hey, thanks again for spotting that wire,’ Kozak said.

  ‘Just another one you owe me, little brother.’

  Kozak rolled his eyes and zoomed in once more with the drone’s camera, past an opening in the rear of the larger dry dock building through which they’d probably rolled out the completed submarine. There was no door here, with heavy chains hanging from the ceiling that had either suspended the entire craft or had been used to lower its diesel engine into place during construction. Worktables ran along both sides of the dry dock. Battery-operated power tools were stored in crates or lying near cutting stations. Cans of marine paint, sections of fiberglass and paintbrushes were piled high near one corner station, where a row of gas-powered generators sat beneath coils of extension cords. PVC pipe of various lengths and thicknesses hung from racks above the workbenches, and above them, cobwebs draped in dust spanned the rafters.

  Kozak adjusted the drone’s camera angle so he had a clean view deep into the structure, where he once more spied the man who matched Delgado’s description: just over five feet, with dark, curly hair and a full beard. He didn’t look like a CIA paramilitary operations officer. Then again, what did those guys look like? A combination of James Bond and G. I. Joe? Or were they the wiry little guys with snake’s eyes, sunken cheeks and raspy voices you found behind the counter of a ghetto liquor store?

  In point of fact, Delgado better resembled a rather nondescript drug mule from Colombia charged with swallowing seventy-five or so latex-and-wax-wrapped capsules of cocaine and praying he wasn’t X-rayed at the airport. The man’s wrists were bound behind his back with nylon cord, and a pair of FARC troops stood beside him. More troops, both FARC and Los Rastrojos men clutching their Galils, stood near the entrance closest to the dock, shielding themselves from the rain.

  Koza
k sent the images out to the Cross-Coms, and 30K offered his color commentary: ‘Well, there’s our little geek. Glad to know he’s here. He’s saying, “Oh, Mommy, please come get me from these bad guys. I wanna go home …” ’

  ‘Damn, here we go,’ said Kozak, panning with the drone’s camera to the dock and submarine.

  ‘What is it?’ asked 30K.

  ‘Looks like they’re done loading the drugs.’

  ‘Pepper and Captain Ahab better be ready.’

  ‘They’re not. Ghost Lead, this is Kozak. Are you getting this? That’s our package. They’re moving him now.’

  It had all unfolded perfectly in Ross’s mind’s eye:

  The AFEUR troops flanking and encompassing the perimeter …

  He and Pepper slipping into the dry dock and, utilizing their optical camouflage, taking out as many thugs as possible before slipping away with the package – after not a single shot was fired …

  And then, once they were clear of the dry docks. …

  Ambush.

  They’d trap the enemy soldiers in a gauntlet of fire so horrific, so impregnable, that all they could do was cower until a round finally silenced their hearts. And even if a few men posted on the perimeter pulled off the small miracle of escape, they would succumb to malaria or dehydration or the wildlife within a few days as they tried to reach the nearest town.

  The AFEUR troops would move in and claim victory, the government would issue them medals, and the newspapers would report of their triumph. The Ghosts would take no credit. They, of course, were never there.

  It was all so beautiful.

  And it would’ve been –

  If they weren’t late.

  As in eleven seconds late.

  Delgado was being dragged toward the submarine, and Ross had to make one of those imperfect choices in a universe that now laughed at him.

  ‘Hold fire! Hold fire!’ he whispered loudly into his Cross-Com.

  He and Pepper were inside the largest dry dock and hidden beneath one of the workbenches, their camouflage active. ‘Let them load the package into the submarine.’

  ‘Ghost Lead, 30K. Say again?’

  ‘I said, let him get on the submarine.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Ross ground his teeth. ‘Stand by.’

  He could almost feel the heat of Pepper’s gaze on his back, even though the man lay hidden beneath his camouflage.

  Decision time. The entire team – along with Jiménez and his men – were now waiting for Ross to issue orders, to deliver a revised plan that would make them grunt, ‘Nice,’ and drive them on with a ferocity that would overwhelm these enemy troops.

  But for a split second –

  Despite all his years of experience.

  Despite all the training.

  All the medals and commendations.

  All the situations just like this one …

  Ross had nothing but a hollow feeling in his gut.

  He took a deep breath, did a mental inventory of everything in his pack.

  And then it came to him.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Back in Vietnam, you know what they called this?’ 30K asked Kozak, and without waiting for the man’s reply, he added, ‘Screwing the pooch.’

  ‘Just focus, man.’

  ‘Popeye the Sailor has just run aground.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He’ll need the Colombian Marines to interdict the sub. We’re out of this fight.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘We’ll see …’ 30K shook his head and watched as Delgado was shoved down the pier.

  The two guards helped him up, into the hatch, and he almost slipped and fell overboard while trying to get down the ladder, a man from inside trying to help.

  If 30K could’ve had his way, he would’ve leveled his Stoner on these rebels and ‘Los Chuckleheads’ and muttered, ‘For those about to rock, I salute you.’ Then he would’ve hammered them until the barrel of his machine gun melted off. The proper application of overwhelming firepower was the first step toward spiritual enlightenment. This was a law of physics that Newton had invented back in the day, when he was playing with guns in the schoolyard with Leonardo da Vinci. This was the eleventh commandment, written right there in the Constitution near the signatures of John Wayne and Charlton Heston.

  Everyone knew that.

  For now, though, their fearless captain wanted them to lie on their bellies with their bras undone so they could work on their tans during a tropical storm.

  Was 30K frustrated? Nah. His damned suntan was coming along nicely …

  He balled one hand into a fist. Shit. He had to do something.

  And then he saw it, an opportunity sitting there like a Ferrari with the keys in it.

  A sudden gale-force wind ripped into the jungle and had the men lifting their arms to shield their eyes. At that second, 30K fished out a sensor grenade from his web gear and hurled it across the river, the device thumping into the mud on the opposite shoreline.

  Bingo. His Cross-Com’s HUD turned into the bridge of a starship, targets identified, marked, tracked, ready to die. ‘Please come shoot me,’ they begged.

  He lifted his Stoner. ‘Sensor out, marking,’ he reported.

  And then he saw them, Ross and Pepper, rushing from the dry dock, then stopping to allow their camouflage to catch up with their movements – but the rain was giving up their position, and 30K cried, ‘Ghost Lead, 30K, they can see you, man! They can see you!’

  ‘Easy, buddy,’ said Ross. ‘They don’t see us yet.’

  The captain was right. Some of the men were running back toward the SUVs, while the cocaine loaders jogged in a group toward the dry docks.

  ‘Roger that.’

  ‘Everybody, keep holding.’

  30K cursed under his breath and glanced over at Kozak. ‘So how much longer do we sit on our asses?’

  ‘Not long,’ answered Kozak. ‘I know what he’s doing.’

  ‘Well, that’s amazing, General Schwarzkopf, you mind filling me in, because as far as I’m concerned, not only are we letting the package escape, but these FARC losers and Rastamen dudes will be out of here in a second. Lose-lose for everybody.’

  ‘Rastamen? You mean Rastrojos.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Okay, okay, here we go,’ Kozak said, pointing toward the river. ‘Watch. And learn.’

  Ross left Pepper hidden beneath the dock while he swam up behind the submarine, just as the twin screws were beginning to turn. He maneuvered himself along the hull, to where the shaft passed through the thrust-bearing seal. He attached one charge there, the magnet holding fast, then he did likewise on the second shaft, both charges in place.

  During his long tenure in the Navy, Ross had been taught how to expertly disable vessels, including submarines. He’d learned that the thrust-bearing flange and seal were pressurized from inside on subs because there was no way to make a watertight seal and allow enough room for the shaft to rotate. All submarines controlled the pressure on the thrust-bearing seal, ensuring the pressure inside the sub was greater than that of the sea pressure pushing in from the outside to, of course, prevent flooding.

  In theory, Ross’s C-4 charges would damage the watertight integrity of the thrust-bearing seals and distort the shafts. The sub couldn’t submerge because the thrust bearings could no longer be pressurized, and the sub couldn’t move because the shafts would not turn, or if they did turn, within a few spins they’d tear the ass end out of the sub.

  Ross swam hard and away, back toward the riverbank, the timers set for twenty seconds. He paddled around, reached into his holster, and produced a 9mm Glock with star-patterned maritime spring cups on the firing pin. The cups allowed water inside to equalize the pressure, which in turn made the weapon more reliable in wet conditions. He could even fire it while submerged.

  He’d been counting the seconds till detonation. And three, two, one …

  The muffled explosions were foll
owed by a pair of fountains behind the sub, and as the craft began to slow and the blast wave struck Ross, he gave the long-awaited order: ‘The sub’s disabled. Pepper and I are on the package. 30K? You and Kozak suppress any fire coming at us near the sub. The rest of you – do it! Open fire!’

  Even before 30K could respond, the AFEUR troops took out the warehouse guards and began moving up. 30K’s own Stoner beat a vicious rhythm, the entire riverbank now flickering with gunfire, the fronds spitting as they split apart, the Rastrojos troops near the SUVs dropping behind the cars to return fire.

  At the same time, Kozak put the drone back up, wheeling in a steady pattern above the submarine, the drone’s rotors coughing up rain.

  ‘Got you covered, Ghost Lead,’ he said.

  Ross grinned to himself as Pepper swam out from beneath the dock and joined him at the sub, just as the hatch flipped open and a man emerged, bringing his rifle to bear.

  Pepper had his own modified Glock in his fist, and the submariner, probably the captain, barely caught a glimpse of Pepper before two rounds drilled into his chest. He slumped in the sail as Ross climbed up and – before dragging the man’s body out of the way – he popped a smoke grenade and dropped it down the hatch. As the canister rattled somewhere inside the sub, Ross tugged the dead guy out of the sail, let him collapse into the water, then slipped back along the deck, covering with his own pistol.

  ‘Here they come,’ cried Pepper.

  One by one they emerged, three more crew members gasping and coughing, their eyes burning, hands raised in the air. They appeared unarmed, just straining to see Ross.

  ‘Get in the water, right now!’ Ross shouted in Spanish. ‘Right now!’

  However, as they obeyed, Ross caught movement from the corner of his eye. He craned his head and suddenly lost his breath.