Threat Vector jrj-4

by Tom Clancy

  The rest of his ambush force was rushing to get into place before the target passed, and he was standing in a hallway, politely waiting for a door to be answered.

  Finally Chavez gently moved the Chinese man out of the way and kicked in the door.

  The apartment was furnished and lived in, but no one was home.

  The Chinese man’s job now was to protect Chavez from anyone coming into the apartment. He stayed in the living room and watched the door with his rifle at the ready while Chavez found a suitable sniper’s nest.

  He ran to a window in a corner bedroom and opened it, moved back deep into the dimly lit room, slid a heavy wood table against a back wall, and then lay down on the table, resting the sniper rifle on his backpack.

  Through his eight-power scope he scanned the road, some two hundred fifty meters away, a very makeable distance.

  “Ding is in position.”

  He scanned across the road to the low grassy hillside and saw the minibus there. The doors were open, and it was empty.

  * * *

  Dom Caruso crawled in the tall brown grass, wet from the morning storm, and hoped like hell everyone was still with him. He raised his head and picked his spot, fifty meters or so from the southbound lanes, and about sixty-five yards from the northbound lanes where the motorcade would pass in just moments. He positioned Yin Yin on his right and had her tell the other fifteen rebels with them to space themselves about two meters apart.

  From here they could shoot down across southbound traffic and into the motorcade when it appeared.

  “Dom, in position.”

  Chavez spoke into his radio from his sniper perch southeast of the road. “Dom, the rest of that gang over there with you is going to be spraying and praying. I want you firing that RPG carefully. You’re going to make yourself a target each time you launch, so find some cover and move to a different part of the hill before firing again.”

  “Roger that.”

  * * *

  Sam Driscoll was two kilometers south of the ambush point, parked alongside the road in a concrete block — laden four-door pickup truck. Crane and Snipe were hooded and bound next to him. The motorcade passed him in the morning traffic; it was seven black four-door sedans and SUVs, and two large green military trucks. Sam knew there could be fifteen to twenty troops in each of the trucks, and another twenty-five or so security in the other vehicles. He reported this over the radio, then drew a Makarov out of his waistband, got out of the truck, and then, by the side of the road, calmly shot both Crane and Snipe in the chest and head.

  He pulled off their hoods and ripped off the tape binding them, and then tossed a pair of old Type 81 rifles onto the floorboards in front of them.

  Seconds later he pulled his truck into traffic and raced to catch up to the convoy. Behind him a sedan with four more Pathway men followed.

  * * *

  John Clark wore a paper mask over his face and sunglasses that did not make much sense in this thunderstorm. He and his Chinese rebel minder walked with two large wooden crates between them, one stacked on the other. They entered the covered pedestrian overpass that crossed the eight-lane road two hundred fifty yards northeast of the ambush site. A single motorcycle policeman had dismounted and was walking well ahead of them. Dozens of men and women heading to work or public transportation pickup points on both sides of the road also were entering and exiting the walkway.

  Clark’s Pathway of Liberty man was tasked with holding a gun to the policeman and disarming him before Clark attacked the convoy. John hoped the frightened-looking young rebel would have the guts and the skill to pull this off, or the stomach to shoot the cop dead if he did not comply. But John had enough problems of his own to take care of, so when they arrived at their point directly above the northbound lanes, he put the cop out of his mind and prepared himself for what was about to happen. He lowered the cases to the ground by the overpass railing, motioned for the young rebel to go handle the cop, and then John knelt down, opened both cases with his left hand, and reached into the top case to flip the safety off the first weapon.

  He spoke into his radio at the same time.

  “Clark in position.”

  All around him, men and women walked by unaware.

  “’Bout thirty seconds out,” Driscoll said.

  * * *

  The chairman of the Central Military Commission of the People’s Republic of China, Su Ke Qiang, was in the fourth vehicle of his nine-vehicle motorcade, surrounded by fifty-four men armed with rifles, machine guns, and grenade launchers. As always, he paid no attention to his protectors. His complete focus was on his work, and this morning that work consisted chiefly of the papers in his lap, the latest reports from the Taiwan Strait and the Guangzhou Military District.

  He’d read them all before, and he would read them all again.

  His blood boiled.

  Tong was dead. That was not in the papers; Su had learned this at five o’clock this morning when his body was identified, pulled from the rubble in two large pieces. Ninety-two Ghost Ship hackers, managers, and engineers died as well, and dozens more were injured. The servers were blown to bits, and with that Su had learned almost immediately that America’s secure Department of Defense network bandwidth increased, satellite communications came back online, and several of Center’s initiatives in the United States, corruption of banking and telecom and critical infrastructure, had simply ceased or at least lost much of their designed impact.

  Center’s botnet operations, on the other hand, still executed denial-of-service attacks on America’s Internet architecture, but the deep-persistent-access hacks and RATs in the DoD and intelligence community networks, while still in place, had no one monitoring the feeds or disseminating the information to the PLA or the MSS.

  This was a disaster. The single most powerful counterpunch America could have delivered China. Su knew this, and he knew he had to admit this today when he went before the Standing Committee.

  He did not want to acknowledge he should have had better security for the Tong network. He could roll out the excuse, the valid excuse, that the China Telecom building was a temporary headquarters for the operation because there was nowhere else to put them on the fly after their compromise in Hong Kong. But he would not make excuses for the mistake. Yes, once this conflict was over and the South China Sea and Taiwan and Hong Kong were back securely in China’s grip, he would sack those in charge of Tong’s relocation to Guangzhou, but for now he needed to give his honest assessment of the damage Jack Ryan’s strike the night before had caused.

  He had to do this for one reason, and one reason only.

  Today, at the Standing Committee meeting, he was going to announce his intention to attack the USS Ronald Reagan, the USS Nimitz, and the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower with Dong Feng 21 ballistic missiles.

  There would be some reluctance from the Standing Committee, but he did not expect anyone to really stand in his way. Su would explain carefully and forcefully that by dealing this devastating blow to America’s blue-water Navy, Jack Ryan would be forced to disengage. Su would further explain that once American warships left the theater, China could press ahead for full regional hegemony, and with this dominance would come power, just as America had become powerful only by controlling its hemisphere.

  If, for some reason, the attacks on the carriers were not successful, the next step would be a full ballistic- and cruise-missile attack on Taiwan, the launching of twelve hundred missiles targeting all the island’s military sites.

  Su knew Wei would yammer on about the damage this would do to the economy, but the chairman knew China’s projection of power would help it at home now with the domestic situation, and eventually it would help them abroad, once their unrestrained hegemony was established and the world saw China as a force that must be dealt with as the leading world power.

  Su was no economist, he admitted this to himself, but he knew quite securely that China would be just fine once it became the center of the w
orld.

  He put the papers aside and looked out the window, thinking about his speech today. Yes. Yes, he could do it. Chairman Su could take this awful event last night, this body blow to his attack against the United States, and he could parlay it into a way to get exactly what he wanted from the Politburo.

  With the deaths of twenty thousand American sailors and the resulting degradation of the American blue-water Navy, there was no doubt in Su’s mind America would leave the area, giving China complete control of the region.

  Tong would be even more helpful in death than he had been in life.

  * * *

  Other than Driscoll, who was now trailing about one hundred yards behind the last troop transport truck, no one saw the motorcade in the rain until it neared the ambush point. Everyone was ordered to hold their fire until Clark launched an anti-tank rocket from the north. By the time Clark was sure he was looking at the motorcade, the first few cars had already passed by the position of Dom and his group of shooters.

  Quickly Clark looked behind him to make sure the back blast area was clear. It was, so he adjusted his aim, lining the iron sight of the weapon on a white civilian car just in front of the motorcade. He knew, or at least he hoped, that by the time the rocket hit, the white car would have cleared that piece of road and the first SUV of the motorcade would occupy it.

  He launched, felt the whoosh of the rocket motor as the weapon left the tube, then immediately dropped the spent tube to the asphalt on the overpass, and grabbed the second anti-tank rocket launcher from its case.

  Only then did he hear the explosion two hundred fifty yards to his southwest.

  He hefted the second weapon and saw that his first shot was a perfect bull’s-eye. The SUV, the lead vehicle in the motorcade, was a burning, rolling, disintegrating fireball that bounced sideways up the highway. The vehicles behind were swerving left and right, trying like hell to get around it and out of the ambush zone.

  John aimed at a clear spot just to the left of the wrecked SUV and about twenty yards closer to his position. He launched a second rocket, tossed the tube down, pulled a pistol out of his pants, and started running off the overpass back the way he came. Only then did he look down at the road and see his second shot hit just in front of a big sedan, cratering the concrete and setting the front of the vehicle on fire.

  Behind it, the rest of the motorcade all slammed on their brakes and began reversing, trying to back away from the pedestrian overpass ahead and the missiles that came from it.

  Sam Driscoll opened the door of his moving truck, threw a large canvas bag onto the road, and then leapt out next to it. He was one hundred yards behind the rear vehicle of the convoy, but his truck rolled on, big and heavy and slow, because he had looped a rope from the dash through the steering wheel, and the automatic transmission was still in drive.

  Sam hit and then rolled along the wet street, ran back to unzip his bag, and from it he removed an RPG-9 and an AK-47. By the time he leveled the launcher at the motorcade, he saw that several of the black cars were backing up or executing a three-point turn to reverse direction. The two big troop transports, however, were still in the process of slowing down. This compressed the motorcade, which was bad news for everyone in it.

  Sam targeted the rear troop transport and fired. The finned grenade covered the distance in just over a second, and it impacted on the canvas walls over the bed. The vehicle erupted into a fireball, killing many in the back and sending others leaping and falling from the wreckage.

  Quickly Sam checked his six-o’clock position. With the heavy rain, many motorists on the street could not see the melee until they were just a few hundred yards from Driscoll, which meant now a massive sliding car wreck was starting behind him. He put the slight danger of getting run over during this operation out of his mind, reloaded the launcher, and fired another grenade. This explosive shot right by the open driver’s-side door of the rolling work truck and struck the second troop transport, which had just slammed its rear into the center dividing wall between the northbound and southbound lanes while trying to back up to reverse direction. The broadside hit of this grenade meant fewer soldiers were killed outright, but the truck was ablaze and blocking the road so the surviving vehicles in the motorcade now had no way to escape.

  Sam ran off the southeastern side of the road, slid into a ditch containing two feet of cold, swiftly moving water, and began firing his AK at the soldiers who were still pouring out of the two burning trucks.

  * * *

  All along the wet, grassy hillside on Caruso’s right, barking undisciplined rifle fire pierced the air. Dominic fired his rocket launcher three times. Two rockets hit high on the far side of the road, and the third made a glancing blow on an SUV, causing it to wreck into another vehicle but by no means destroy it. Dom grabbed a rifle off a dead rebel and, in contrast to his frantic comrades on the hill, carefully put his front blade sight on a running man seventy yards distant. He tracked him a few yards from right to left, then carefully pressed his rifle’s trigger. It popped in his hand, and the man seventy-five yards away fell down dead.

  He repeated the process with a soldier running north from one of the burning trucks.

  And next to him fifteen other shooters, little Yin Yin included, poured inaccurate but energetic fire up and down the motorcade.

  * * *

  Domingo Chavez scanned the sedans in the middle of the motorcade, looking for officers. Giving up for the moment, he settled on a plain-clothed security guard who fled a wrecked SUV and then ran to the dividing barrier for cover. Ding shot the man in the lower torso while he ran, and then he took his eye off the scope while he changed out the spent magazine in his hot and smoking Dragunov. He took a half-second for a wide view of the battle space. To his left, the troop transport trucks were engulfed in rolling flames, and pouring black smoke rose into the sleet-gray sky. Bodies — from this distance they were just tiny forms on the ground — lay strewn near the truck.

  The black SUVs and sedans were in front of the troop trucks and behind the two burning vehicles at the front. They had stopped in the road in an accordion fashion, and a half-dozen or more men in black suits and green uniforms lay prone behind the tires or crouched on the near side of the engine block. Many others from these three vehicles Ding had already shot dead.

  Everyone had bailed out of the vehicles by now because the rocket-propelled grenades and the anti-tank weapons flying through the air showed them that a stationary vehicle was the last place to be at the moment.

  Ding tucked his eye back behind his scope and scanned quickly, right to left, searching for Su. He estimated there were still at least thirty soldiers and security men on the road or on the shoulder. Those firing their weapons all seemed to be shooting off to the east, away from Chavez.

  He swept his scope over the firing position of Dom and the rebels, about three hundred fifty yards from his position. He saw several bodies lying in the grass, and an impressive amount of mud, grass, brush, and other foliage was getting kicked up into the rain by the incoming fire from the Chinese in the road.

  Domingo knew the tiny position of poorly trained fighters would be wiped out in another minute if he did not pick up the pace, so he lowered his scoped rifle back to the road and centered his crosshairs on the mid-back of a security man in a black raincoat.

  The Dragunov spit fire, and the man pitched forward, tumbling across the hood of an SUV.

  * * *

  Caruso shouted over the sound of gunfire, “Yin Yin is dead! I can’t communicate with these people.”

  “Keep pouring fire!” shouted Chavez.

  Driscoll called over now, “We’ve got police cars coming up the shoulder from the southwest!”

  Ding said, “Deal with them, Sam!”

  “Roger that, but I’m going to run low on ammo in about a minute.”

  Ding shouted back, his words punctuated by his sniper rifle, “If we aren’t moving in a minute”—boom! — “then we aren’t moving!” B
oom!

  “Roger that,” shouted Driscoll.

  * * *

  General Su Ke Qiang crawled away from the cover of his sedan, and behind the row of men firing on the hillside to the west. To his left and right vehicles burned and bodies lay in the heavy rain, with blood running in long rivulets of rainwater off the road.

  He could not believe this was happening. A few feet ahead of him he saw the slumped form of General Xia, his second-in-command. Su could not see his face; he did not know if he was dead or alive, but he clearly was not moving.

  Su screamed as broken safety glass on the street ground into his hands and wrists as he crawled forward.

  Chattering automatic fire came from the south, from the hills along the opposing lanes of traffic.

  * * *

  Two hundred fifty yards away, Domingo Chavez caught a quick flash of movement by the side of the road near the fourth vehicle. He centered his rifle’s scope on a uniformed man crawling there, and without hesitation he pressed the taut trigger of the weapon.

  The bullet left the barrel of the rifle, raced over the chaos of the motorcade attack, and slammed into the left scapula of Chairman Su Ke Qiang. The copper-jacketed round tore through his back, spun through his left lung, and exited into the asphalt below where he lay. With a plaintive cry of shock and pain, the most dangerous man in the world died on the roadside, facedown, next to young soldiers who poured hundreds of rounds in all directions in a desparate attempt to push back the attack.

  Chavez did not know that the last man he targeted in the motorcade was Su; he only knew they had done their best and now it was time to get the fuck out of the area. He shouted into his radio, “Exfiltrate! Everybody move! Go! Go! Go!” His command would be translated by those who understood for the benefit of those who did not, but anyone with radio contact could easily put together the message he was trying to convey.

  Clark and his minder picked Chavez and his minders up four minutes later. Driscoll and three surviving men with him crossed all eight lanes of traffic and ran up the hill on the west side, met up with two of the Pathway of Liberty rebels who had run south instead of west, and they found Dom and two more surviving Chinese desperately trying to pull all the bodies off the hillside while staying in a gully that kept them clear of the sporadic fire from the road. Together they collected all the dead, and one man retrieved the minibus.