The Teeth of the Tiger

by Tom Clancy

  Their driver, as before, looked Mexican, and said nothing. Probably another mercenary. Nobody said anything, the driver because he didn’t care, his passengers because their English was accented, and the driver might take note of it. This way he’d only remember that he’d picked up some people on a dirt road in southern New Mexico and driven them someplace else.

  It was probably harder for the others in his party, Mustafa thought. They had to trust him to know what he was doing. He was the mission commander, the leader of a warrior band about to divide into four parts that would never reunite. The mission had been painstakingly planned. The only future communications would be via computer, and few enough of those. They’d function independently, but to a simple timetable and toward a single strategic objective. This plan would shake America as no other plan had ever done, Mustafa told himself, looking into a station wagon as it passed them. Two parents, and what appeared to be two little ones, a boy about four, and a smaller one perhaps a year and a half. Infidels, all of them. Targets.

  His operational plan was all written down, of course, in fourteen-point Geneva type on sheets of plain white paper. Four copies. One for each team leader. The other data was in files on the personal computers that all of the men had in their small carry-bags, along with spare shirts and clean underwear and little else. They would not need much, and the plan was to leave very little behind in order to further befuddle the Americans.

  It was enough to generate a thin smile at the passing countryside. Mustafa lit up a cigarette—he only had three left—and took a deep breath of tobacco smoke, and the air-conditioning blew cold air on him. Behind them, the sun was declining in the sky. They’d make their next—and last—stop in the darkness, which, he considered, was good tactical planning. He knew it was only an accident, but, if so, it meant that Allah Himself was smiling on their plan. As He ought to do, of course. They were all doing His work.

  ANOTHER DULL day’s work done, Jack told himself on the way to his car. One bad thing about The Campus was that he couldn’t discuss it with anybody. Nobody was cleared for this stuff, though it was not yet evident why. He could, surely, kick this around with his dad—the President was by definition cleared for anything, and ex-Presidents had the same access to information, if not by law, then by the rules of practicality. But, no, he couldn’t do that. Dad would not be pleased by his new job. Dad could make a phone call and screw all of that up, and Jack had had enough of a taste to keep himself hungry for a few months at least. Even so, the ability to kick a few things around with somebody who knew what was going on would have been a blessing of sorts. Just someone to say, yes, it really is important, and, yes, you really are contributing to Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

  Could he really make a difference? The world worked the way it worked, and he couldn’t change it much. Even his father, for all the power that had come to him, had been unable to do that. How much less could he, a junior prince of sorts, be able to accomplish? But if the broken parts of the world were ever to be fixed, it would have to be at the hands of someone who didn’t care if it were impossible or not. Probably someone too young and dumb to know that impossible things were...impossible. But neither his mother nor his father believed in that word, and that’s the way they had raised him. Sally was graduating medical school soon, and she was going into oncology—the one thing their mother had regretted not doing with her own medical career—and she told everyone who asked that she was going to be there when the cancer dragon was finally slain once and for all. So, believing in impossibility was not part of the Ryan creed. He just didn’t know how yet, but the world was full of things to learn, wasn’t it? And he was smart and well educated, and having a sizable trust fund meant that he could go forward without fear of starving if he offended the wrong person. That was the most important freedom his father had bequeathed him, and John Patrick Ryan, Jr., was smart enough to know just how important it was—if not to grasp the responsibility that such freedom carried with it.

  INSTEAD OF cooking their own dinner, they decided to go to a local steak house that night. It was full of college kids from the University of Virginia. You could tell—they all looked bright, but not as bright as they thought they were, and they were all a little too loud, a little too confident in themselves. That was one of the advantages of being children—much as they would have detested that appellation—kids whose needs were still looked after by loving parents, albeit at a comfortable distance. To the two Caruso boys, it was a humorous look at what they’d themselves been only a few short years ago, before harsh training and experience in the real world had turned them into something else. Exactly what, they were not yet sure. What had seemed so simple in school had become infinitely complex after leaving the academic womb. The world was not digital, after all—it was an analog reality, always untidy, always with loose ends that could never be tied up neatly like shoelaces, and so it was possible to trip and fall with every incautious step. And caution only came with experience—with a few trip-and-falls that brought pain, only the worst of which taught remembered lessons. Those lessons had come early to the brothers. Not as early as they’d come to other generations, but still soon enough for them to realize the consequences of errors in a world that had never learned to forgive.

  “Not a bad place,” Brian judged, halfway through his filet mignon.

  “Hard to mess up a decent piece of beef, no matter how dumb the cook is.” This place obviously had a cook, not a chef, but the steak fries were pretty good for nearly raw carbohydrates, and the broccoli was fresh out of the freezer bag, Dominic thought.

  “I really ought to eat better than this,” the Marine major observed.

  “Enjoy it while you can. We’re not thirty yet, are we?”

  That was good for a laugh. “Used to seem like an awfully big number, didn’t it?”

  “Where old age starts? Oh yeah. Well, you’re pretty young for a major, right?”

  Aldo shrugged. “I suppose. My boss liked me, and I had some good people working for me. I never did take a liking to MREs, though. They keep you going, but that’s about all I can say for them. My gunny loved the things, said they were better than what he’d grown up in the Corps with.”

  “In the Bureau, you tend to live on Dunkin’ Donuts and—well, they make about the best industrial coffee in America. It’s hard to keep your belt loose on that kind of diet.”

  “You’re in decent shape for a deskbound warrior, Enzo,” Brian observed rather generously. At the end of the morning run, his brother occasionally looked as though he was about to drop. But a three-mile run was just like morning coffee for a Marine, something to open the eyes. “I still wish I knew exactly what we’re training for,” Aldo said after another bite.

  “Bro, we’re training to kill people, that’s all we need to know. Sneak up without being seen, and then get the hell away without being noticed.”

  “With pistols?” Brian responded dubiously. “Kinda noisy, and not as sure as a rifle. I had a sniper with my team in Afghanistan. He did some bad guys at damned near a mile. Used a Barrett .50 rifle, big mother, like an old BAR on steroids. Shoots the .50 round from the Ma Deuce machine gun. Accurate as hell, and it makes for a definitive hit, y’know? Kinda hard to walk away with a half-inch hole in you.” Especially since his sniper, Corporal Alan Roberts, a black kid from Detroit, had preferred head shots, and the .50 really did the job on heads.

  “Well, maybe suppressed ones. You can silence a handgun fairly well.”

  “I’ve seen those. We trained with them at Recon School, but they’re awful bulky for carrying under a business suit, and you still have to take them out and stand still and aim them at the target’s head. Unless they send us to James Bond School to get courses in magic, we’re not going to be killing many people with handguns, Enzo.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll be using something else.”

  “So you don’t know, either?”

  “Hey, man, my checks still come from the Bureau. All I kno
w is that Gus Werner sent me here, and that makes it most-of-the-way kosher ... I think,” he concluded.

  “You mentioned him before. Who is he, exactly?”

  “Assistant Director, head of the new Counter-Terrorism Division. You don’t fuck with Gus. He was head of the Hostage Rescue Team, got all his other tickets punched, too. Smart guy, and tough as hell. I don’t think he faints at the sight of blood. But he’s also got a real head on his shoulders. Terrorism is the new thing at the Bureau, and Dan Murray didn’t pick him for the job just because he can shoot a gun. He and Murray are tight, they go back twenty-plus years. Murray ain’t no dummy, either. Anyway, if he sent me here, it’s gotta be okay with somebody. So, I’ll play along until they tell me to break the law.”

  “Me, too, but I’m still a little nervous.”

  LAS CRUCES had a regional airport for short hauls and puddle jumpers. Along with that came rent-a-car outlets. They pulled in, and it was time for Mustafa to get nervous. He and one of his colleagues would hire cars here. Two more would make use of a similar business in the town itself.

  “It is all prepared for you,” the driver told them. He handed over two sheets of paper. “Here are the reservation numbers. You’ll be driving Ford Crown Victoria four-door sedans. We could not get you station wagons as requested without going to El Paso, and that was not desirable. Use your Visa card in there. Your name is Tomas Salazar. Your friend is Hector Santos. Show them the reservation numbers and just do what they tell you to do. It is very easy.” Neither man struck the driver as overly Latin in appearance, but the people at this rental office were both ignorant paddies who spoke little Spanish beyond “taco” and “cerveza.”

  Mustafa got out of the car and walked in, waving for his friend to follow.

  Immediately, he knew it would be easy. Whoever owned this business, he hadn’t troubled himself with recruiting intelligent people. The boy running the desk was hunched over it, reading a comic book with attention that looked a little too rapt.

  “Hello,” Mustafa said, with false confidence. “I have reservation.” He wrote the number down on a pad and handed it to him.

  “Okay.” The attendant didn’t show his annoyance at being diverted from the newest Batman adventure. He knew how to work the office computer. Sure enough, the computer spat out a rental form already filled out in most details.

  Mustafa handed over his international driver’s license, which the employee Xeroxed, and then he stapled the photocopy to his copy of the rental form. He was delighted that Mr. Salazar took all of the insurance options—he got extra money for encouraging people to do that.

  “Okay, your car is the white Ford in slot number four. Just go out that door and turn right. The keys are in the ignition, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Mustafa said in accented English. Was it really this easy?

  Evidently, it was. He’d just got the seat in his Ford adjusted when Saeed showed up at slot number five for a light green twin to his sedan. Both had maps of the state of New Mexico, but they didn’t need them, really. Both men started their cars and eased out of their parking slots and headed off to the street, where the SUVs were waiting. It was simple enough to follow them. The town of Las Cruces had traffic, but not all that much at the dinner hour.

  There was another rental car agency just eight blocks north on what appeared to be the main street of Las Cruces. This one was called Hertz, which struck Mustafa as vaguely Jewish in character. His two comrades walked in, and, ten minutes later, walked back out and got in their leased cars. Again, they were Fords of the same make as his and Saeed’s. With that done, perhaps the most hazardous mission they had to accomplish, it was time to follow the SUVs north for a few kilometers—about twenty, as it turned out—then off this road onto another dirt one. There seemed to be a lot of those here . . . just like home, in fact. Another kilometer or so, and there was a house standing alone, with only a truck parked nearby to suggest residency. There, all the vehicles parked and the occupants got out for what would be, Mustafa realized, their last proper meeting.

  “We have your weapons here,” Juan told them. He pointed to Mustafa. “Come with me, please.”

  The inside of this ordinary-looking wood-frame structure appeared to be a virtual arsenal. A total of sixteen cardboard boxes held sixteen MAC-10 sub-machine guns. Not an elegant firearm, the MAC is made of machine-steel stampings, with a generally poor finish on the metal. With each weapon were twelve magazines, apparently all loaded, and taped together end-to-end with black electrician’s tape.

  “The weapons are virgins. They have not been fired,” Juan told them. “We also have suppressors for each of them. They are not efficient silencers, but they improve balance and accuracy. This gun is not as easily handled as the Uzi—but those are also more difficult to obtain here. For this weapon, its effective range is about ten meters. It is easily loaded and unloaded. It fires from an open bolt, of course, and the rate of fire is quite high.” It would, in fact, empty a thirty-round magazine in less than three seconds, which was a little too fast for sensible use, but these people didn’t seem overly particular to Juan.

  They weren’t. Each of the sixteen Arabs lifted a weapon and hefted it, as though to say hello to a new friend. Then one lifted a magazine pair—

  “Stop! Halto!” Juan snapped at once. “You will not load these weapons inside. If you wish to test-fire them, we have targets outside.”

  “Will this not be too noisy?” Mustafa asked.

  “The nearest house is four kilometers away,” Juan answered dismissively. The bullets could not travel that far, and he assumed the noise could not either. In this, he was mistaken.

  But his guests assumed he knew everything about the area, and they were always willing to shoot guns off, especially the rock-and-roll kind. Twenty meters from the house was a sand berm with some crates and cardboard boxes scattered about. One by one, they inserted the magazines into their SMGs and pulled back the bolts. There was no official command to fire. Instead, they took their lead from Mustafa, who grasped the strap dangling from the muzzle and pulled his trigger back.

  The immediate results were agreeable. The MAC-10 made the appropriate noise, jumping up and right as all such weapons did, but since this was his first time and this was just range shooting, he managed to walk his rounds into a cardboard box about six meters to his left front. In seemingly no time at all, the bolt slammed shut on an empty chamber, having fired and ejected thirty Remington 9mm pistol cartridges. He thought of extracting the magazine and reversing it to enjoy another two or three seconds of blazing bliss, but he managed to control himself. There would be another time for that, in the not-too-distant future.

  “The silencers?” he asked Juan.

  “Inside. They screw on the muzzle, and it’s better to screw them on—easier to control how they spray their bullets, you see.” Juan spoke with some authority. He’d used the MAC-10 to eliminate business competitors and other unpleasant people in Dallas and Santa Fe over the years. Despite that, he looked on his guests with a certain unease. They grinned too much. They were not as he was, Juan Sandoval told himself, and the sooner they went on their way, the better. It would not be so for the people at their destinations, but that was not his concern. His orders came from on high. Very on high, his immediate superior had made clear to him the week before. And the money had been commensurate. Juan had no particular complaint, but, as a good reader of people, he had a red light flashing behind his eyes.

  Mustafa followed him back in and picked up the suppressor. It was perhaps ten centimeters in diameter, and half a meter or so long. As promised, it screwed onto the thread on the gun’s muzzle, and on the whole, it did improve the weapon’s balance. He hefted it briefly and decided that he’d prefer to use it this way. Better to reduce muzzle climb, and make for more accurate shooting. The reduction in noise had little bearing on his mission, but accuracy did. But the suppressor made an easily concealed weapon unacceptably bulky. So, he unscrewed it for now, and replace
d the silencer in its carry-bag. Then he went outside to gather his people. Juan followed him back out.

  “Some things you need to know,” he told the team leaders. Juan went on in a slow, measured voice: “The American police are efficient, but they are not all-powerful. If, during your driving, one pulls you over, all you need to do is to speak politely. If he asks you to get out of the car, then get out as he says. He is allowed by American laws to see if you have a weapon on your person—to search you with his hands—but if he asks you to search your car, simply say no, I do not wish you to do that—and by their laws he may not search your car. I will say this again: If an American policeman asks to search your car, you need only say no, and then he may not do it. Then drive away. When you drive, do not go faster than the number on the highway signs. If you do that, you will probably not be disturbed in any way. If you go faster than the speed limit, all you do is to give the police a reason to pull you over. So, do not do that. Exercise patience at all times. Do you have any questions?”

  “What if a policeman is too aggressive, can we—”

  Juan knew that question was coming. “Kill one? Yes, it is possible to do so, but then you will have many more police chasing you. When a police officer pulls you over, the very first thing he will do is radio his location, and the license number of your car, and a description, to his headquarters. So, even if you kill him, his comrades will look for you in a matter of minutes—and in large numbers. It is not worth the satisfaction of killing the policeman. You will only invite more trouble on yourselves. American police forces have many cars, and even aircraft. Once they start looking for you, they will find you. So, your only defense against that is to escape notice. Do not speed. Do not break their traffic laws. Do that and you will be safe. Violate those laws, and you will be caught, guns or not. Do you understand this?”

  “We understand,” Mustafa assured him. “Thank you for your assistance.”