The Hunted

by Tom Clancy

  Tampa, Florida

  Brent sat in the reception area outside General Scott Mitchell’s office. Mitchell was the man, head of the entire JSF. You couldn’t go any further up the ladder.

  And you didn’t get a meeting with a guy like that by just whining that you disagreed with a superior’s decision.

  You got a meeting by showing ... audacity. A word much in the news during the past year or so.

  So Brent had made the call and had informed the general’s staff that he wanted to strike a bargain.

  The general had initially declined, but his curiosity won out when he learned that Grey had denied Brent permission to go over her head, and Brent retorted that he wasn’t seeking permission; this was just a courtesy call advising her of his intentions.

  Dozens of framed wartime photographs of Mitchell in action covered the walls, and as Brent studied them, he began to understand the enormity of what he was doing, the enormity of this man’s position.

  Who in the hell was Brent to try cutting a deal for another chance? The mere act was going to incite every officer above him: most notably Grey and Dennison.

  Moreover, Mitchell had been a Ghost Recon legend, arguably the unit’s greatest living officer. Many of the techniques, tactics, and procedures that Brent had learned had been developed by Mitchell himself during his own time at the JFK School. Brent wasn’t even sure if he could speak intelligently let alone make a persuasive argument once he faced the man in the flesh.

  And worse, he’d have to do that on two hours of sleep. He’d spent most of the night arranging to get his butt back to Tampa, and as he checked his watch, he expected his cell phone to ring at any—

  There it was, ringing. After a long sigh, he answered.

  “Captain Brent, this is Colonel Grey’s office. It’s oh eight ten, and we’re wondering where you are.”

  Brent tossed his head back, closed his eyes, and saw himself standing before a general court-martial. No, his punishment wouldn’t be that severe, of course, but his imagination always took him straight to hell first.

  “Captain Brent? Are you there?”

  “Ah, yes, I’m here, here as in I’m at MacDill AFB for a meeting with General Mitchell.”

  “Uh, all right, I’ll inform the colonel.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Brent hung up, he pictured Grey’s face when she got the news. Heat waves would billow from her brow.

  “Captain?”

  Brent rose and was escorted into the general’s office by Mitchell’s assistant.

  The general had divided the room into two areas: a rather regal-looking work zone with rich dark furniture, bookcases, and unit flags hung from the walls, the other area a high-tech observation post with a cocoon of monitors displaying battlefield operations. The station was, in effect, a miniature version of the JSF’s more elaborate command center. Mitchell was seated at that station, wearing virtual-reality gloves and manipulating holographic data bars that only he could see via his VR glasses. His fingers flicked right and left, and he made the O shape with index and thumb several times to close open windows. He suddenly wrenched off the glasses and gloves and bolted from the seat as though it were on fire.

  “All right, all right ...” he muttered, clearing his thoughts aloud.

  The general sported a snowy white crew cut that complemented his angular jaw. Brent guessed he spent as much time in the gym as he did in the VR chair, and an unmistakable twinkle in his eye seemed infectious.

  “Captain Brent, you’re a persistent man,” said the general, taking Brent’s hand in his own. “That much I admire. The rest of your record looks inconsistent. You, son, have been on a roller coaster ride instead of a career ladder.”

  “I just take it as it comes, sir.”

  Mitchell hardened his gaze. “So what the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Sir?”

  “Forgive my candor. Dennison tells me she pulled the plug on your mission. And Grey doesn’t want you on it. You’ve come here to ask for a second chance in the guise of some deal regarding a low-life warlord in Afghanistan that you want to hand over to me.”

  “Sir, I’ve had sources there for years, and I’m finally calling in all my favors.”

  “At a rather convenient time.”

  “Sayyaf has links to China and the Russian Federation. There’s a rumor that he’s in bed with the Green Brigade, too. He’s a piece we need to take off the board.”

  “And you’re handing him to me in exchange for another chance to go after the Snow Maiden.”

  “What would you do?”

  “I wouldn’t come in here and insult my boss’s intelligence.”

  Brent glanced away and smiled. “Sir, in the grand scheme of things, I’m just a little guy. I know that. And at my level, this is the best I got. The deal might be insulting, but you’ll have Sayyaf.”

  “So Brent comes first, country second.”

  “I never wanted it to be this way. I hate the politics. I really do. But I’m asking for a lot, so I give something in return.”

  “So this has been your ace in the hole in case we screw you over, huh? Keep a little piece of the pie to yourself, and give it back when the time is right.”

  “No, sir. I wish I were that smart. When they pulled me off the mission, I started thinking about my options. Then I made a few calls.”

  Mitchell sighed very deeply for effect. “You want me to take this deal and overstep my officers.”

  Brent opened his mouth—but the general spoke before he could: “And you want me to take your intelligence on good faith and place more Americans in harm’s way.”

  Brent glanced toward the window. The general’s tone had come as a challenge, and Brent knew if he backed down now, there was no second chance. The general was probing, looking to see if he had any fight left in him. Well, he sure as hell did.

  “Sir, can I ask you a question? Why’d you join the Army?”

  Mitchell grinned, as though over some private joke. “You know the answer to that as well as I—because they forced you to read my bio.”

  “I don’t mean the facts, sir. I mean the feeling.”

  “To be in control, right? To feel some power. To put forth that power in a way that yields a tangible and desirable result. Hell, that sounds so academic. Maybe we all got into this because it just makes us feel good. We want to do the right thing for our families and our country.”

  “That’s not my story, sir. I got into this to try to be somebody I’m not. I did it out of guilt. I thought I could make things right. I learned a lot. And maybe I’m not the most qualified Ghost for this job, but you can bet I’m the most persistent. I’m disciplined, and I never forget what I want.”

  Mitchell crossed around his ornate desk and plopped down hard into the leather chair. He leaned back, pillowing his head in his hands.

  “The idea that you’ve been withholding intelligence from us doesn’t just strike a nerve, Captain. It makes me want to squeeze your neck until your face turns blue.”

  “With all due respect, sir, there’s a difference between delaying my report and withholding it.”

  “Semantics. Your intentions are clear.”

  Brent knew he’d regret it, but he raised his voice. “Sir, I just want to fight another day. That’s it. You’ve been the fall guy yourself, so you know what I’m talking about. Once a Ghost, always a Ghost. We know how this pans out.”

  The intercom beeped, followed by a voice. “Sir, I have Colonel Grey on vid channel three.”

  “Sir, don’t take that call,” said Brent.

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’ll tell you I’m incapable and insubordinate.”

  “And you’re late for a meeting with her,” added the general. “So you’re right, she doesn’t have to tell me how insubordinate you are. I’m witnessing it firsthand.”

  “I just want to fight.”

  Mitchell told his assistant that he’d return the call. Then he faced Brent and sig
hed. “Why do I bet on you?”

  “Sir, we lost a good man out there, and I’d like to take his brother, my team, and one other sergeant. You give me those people, and I’ll get this Snow Maiden for you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why do I bet on you—when you’ve already failed? And don’t tell me it’s because I’ll get the warlord. I don’t give a crap about him right now.”

  “We weren’t allowed to finish what we started.”

  “So pulling the plug on you was premature?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Even after repeated failures? Maybe we cut our losses with you. Why don’t you just back off ? Start training the new guys, be the voice of experience. Get back to Robin Sage. I did it for years and found it very rewarding.”

  “Because it can’t end like this. I got into the Army for the wrong reasons. I need to finish for the right ones.”

  “So if I cut you loose, it’s with the understanding that if we don’t get results, you’ll be moving on to something else.”

  “I accept that, sir.”

  “So you’re highly motivated.”

  “I always have been, sir. I just need good intel. It’s hard to catch up with someone when your intel keeps you two steps behind.”

  Mitchell took in another long breath, then scratched his abdomen, reminding Brent of the unique scar he had there, a scar shaped like a Chinese character. Brent had read all about the general’s exploits in the Philippines before he’d been recruited into Ghost Recon. Mitchell had been stabbed with an exotic sword and had, it seemed, developed an unconscious habit of scratching the old wound. Brent had a few scars himself, and yes, they sometimes itched and drove him mad. “You’re putting me in a difficult position,” he finally said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general thought a moment and grimaced. “They’ve already given the mission to Boleman. He’s one of the best operators we’ve got.”

  “I’m sure he’ll get over it, sir.”

  “He’s highly motivated, too.”

  “Yes, sir. Ask him if he knows where Sayyaf is . . .” Mitchell smirked, then got into Brent’s face. “You’re a real con artist, huh?”

  “No, sir.”

  Mitchell widened his eyes. “Tell you what. I’ll put you back out there. I’ll expect to have Sayyaf in custody within twenty-four hours.”

  “My intel is good.”

  The general actually swore under his breath. “They’re going to question this decision, but here I am, God help me, giving you one more shot. Last one. All or nothing. Hail Mary pass. Do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you’re right. Boleman won’t take the risks you will. He’s too worried about his next promotion. You strike me as the kind of guy who doesn’t give a crap about that.”

  “Born in the mud, die in the mud, sir.”

  “You won’t be getting credit for Sayyaf’s capture. Nothing.”

  “I don’t care, sir.”

  Mitchell smiled, then rose. “Make no mistake, if she gets away, your field days will be over. I will say that teaching at the JFK was some of the most rewarding work I’ve done.”

  “I’ll probably wind up there either way, sir. Hopefully later and not sooner.”

  Mitchell came across his desk. Brent wondered if he would extend his hand in a shake. He didn’t. “You’re dismissed.”

  Brent snapped to and saluted. “Thank you, sir. And sir, one last favor?”

  Mitchell returned the salute. “Are you kidding me, Captain?”

  “Major Dennison and Colonel Grey—”

  “I’ll talk to them. But you sure as hell better prove me right.”

  “Or I’ll die trying.”

  The general gave a curt nod. “Very well.”

  Brent practically ran outside to the parking lot and got immediately on the phone with Schoolie. “Saddle up, fat boy, but don’t tell Boleman yet.”

  “Holy ... you did it?”

  “I just need to call one more player.”

  The Mucky Duck was a neighborhood pub and restaurant located in the heart of Captiva Island. Its owners had adopted a bright green duck as a mascot/logo, and the place had become a tradition for vacationers since 1976.

  Brent found Thomas Voeckler seated at one of the sun-worn picnic tables located right on the beach. Voeckler enjoyed the shade of a large umbrella with a Corona beer logo and was nursing one of the same while staring across the Gulf of Mexico. In the far distance, the dorsal fins of passing dolphins rose above the waves, and a salty tang clung heavily to the air. It was easy to see why the man found this retreat to his liking.

  With his own beer in hand, Brent arrived at the table and sat opposite the Splinter Cell, part of him wishing he could spend a few weeks on the island.

  Thomas noticed him and frowned deeply. “Aw, dude, you drove all the way here? You’re wasting your time. I told you on the phone I’m done.”

  “You have to look me in the eye and say that.”

  Voeckler turned, looked him in the eye. “I’m done.”

  “Okay,” said Brent, pretending to rise.

  “And you’re leaving now?”

  “I got my answer.” Brent started away.

  “So what makes you think you can catch her this time?”

  “I feel pretty good about it.”

  He gave a little snort. “You sound like my brother.”

  Brent returned to the table and took a seat. “You think he’d want to see you lying on your ass, getting drunk, not finishing the job?”

  “He doesn’t care anymore. Because he’s dead.”

  “What’re you, an atheist?”

  “I am now.”

  “Well, I like to think that he’s watching us and trying to give me some words that’ll bring you around.”

  Thomas’s grin turned sarcastic. “Good luck with that.” “I talked to Grim. She gave me her blessing. She’d like to see you get back in the saddle, too.”

  “I’ll bet she would. I’m money, and I’m being wasted right now. That’s how they think.”

  “Hey, they spent a lot of money on you. Time to give them a return on their investment.”

  “They’ve already been paid—with my brother’s life.”

  “All right, I won’t argue with you. I know what you feel like. You don’t have to heal, but you have to go on.”

  “Why?”

  Brent pursed his lips. “To better remember him. To respect him and what he believed in.”

  “All that honor and duty crap. It’s all lost on me. And why do you even care? You feeling guilty?”

  “Oh, I’m an expert at that. I’m just looking at you and thinking this guy’s in the same boat I was. And it’s a little boat, taking on water, and there’s a big shark, and we’re both thinking we need a bigger boat.”

  Thomas almost smiled.

  “Come on, it’ll keep your mind off it.”

  Thomas thought a moment, and then his expression brightened. “I guess if I go with you, I might get killed. Then I wouldn’t be lying around here, feeling sorry for myself.”

  Brent chuckled under his breath. “Exactly.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” Thomas rose. “You’re buying us beers for the road.”

  “You got it.”

  “So where does the wild-goose chase take us next?”

  “Dubai,” said Brent.

  “That place is nuked out.”

  “It’s not as bad as you think.”

  “Why there?”

  “She’s got the heir to the country and the chief money man. This ain’t rocket science. Dennison tells me there are bank vaults intact.”

  “So she went after the kid and the banker so she could go rob a bank?”

  “You know, sometimes we make life more complicated than it really is. Maybe it’s always been a bank heist. And she just needed help.”

  “We get her and some of the people she’s working for, a
nd maybe we open up something a lot bigger.”

  “Exactly.”

  As Brent ordered more beers to go, Thomas asked, “So how did you get us back on the job?”

  “I handed them Sayyaf.”

  “Are you kidding me? Third Echelon’s been trying to nail him for years.”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “Long story. I’ll tell you on the plane.”

  Thomas was still aghast. “That’s a story I want to hear.”

  “Not my proudest moment.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Brent paid the cashier and headed out, leaving Thomas’s question hang.

  EIGHTEEN

  Geneva

  Three Hours Later

  Just when Chopra thought the Snow Maiden was showing some kindness and humility, she’d remind him of what she really was.

  After brutally gunning down a woman who was purportedly her friend, and after dumping her body in an alley and seizing another car by gunpoint, they drove about ten kilometers up to the small town of Versoix, where they were met by two men who took the car and ushered them into yet another, and a driver took them to a small hotel, where they had already been checked in. The Snow Maiden said her friends had arranged it all.

  Now Chopra sat in the hotel room, palming sweat from his forehead and rubbing his tired eyes. He still had Heidi’s blood on his left shirtsleeve. He was listening to the Snow Maiden speak on the phone while Hussein sat in a chair, watching a movie on the television. Chopra had been reading the tourist literature, something about a festival going on all week, sponsored by Favarger, a famous manufacturer of Swiss chocolate.

  Abruptly, the Snow Maiden marched into the room and said, “I need to ask some questions about the gold and the vault.”

  “How much longer do you think we’ll cooperate?” Chopra asked.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “I’ll shoot you in the leg or the arm, and you’ll come around.”

  “I won’t. I’m ready. Shoot me.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes.

  Chopra tried to imagine himself a martyr for his cause, but all he saw was a frightened boy who’d allowed his bicycle to be stolen.

  “What do you need to know?” asked Hussein, muting the television.