Tom Clancy Enemy Contact - Mike Maden

by Tom Clancy

  He stepped even closer. Almost nose-to-nose.

  “You think you can kill me?”

  Jack threw a punch, but he was totally spent. The adrenaline rush of the last fifteen minutes had completely exhausted itself, robbing him of any strength.

  Cluzet easily sidestepped the weak jab and returned the favor with a hard fist into Jack’s gut, doubling him over.

  Jack’s knees splashed in the mud.

  The crown of Cluzet’s pistol pressed against the top of Jack’s head.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack whispered.

  Sorry for the girl down the hill, and Liliana, and all the others he had failed over the years.

  Especially his father.

  Cluzet laughed and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  —

  The pistol report near Jack’s face stabbed his eardrum like a hot nail. His throbbing headache only worsened, and a high-pitched whine screamed inside his brain like a bad radio wave.

  The nine-millimeter bullet splashed harmlessly next to Jack. To his credit, he didn’t even flinch, but mostly because he was too damned tired.

  “Tie him up,” Cluzet said to the two men who approached. Jack glanced up and saw that he had miscounted. There were five men left, not three.

  “What about them?” Jack asked, nodding at the miners still kneeling in the mud.

  “They have work to do tonight.”

  Cluzet leaned close to Jack’s other ear. “But in the morning, they shall all be killed. We’re starting a new mine tomorrow because this one is all played out, just like they are.”

  He grinned in Jack’s face, daring him to do something. But Jack’s eyes focused on Cory’s hollow wooden amulet hanging around the man’s neck.

  80

  Jack lay soaking wet with his back against the cave wall, hands tied behind him, ankles bound with rope and legs stretched out in front. A Coleman lantern lit the space. Rain still fell in sheets outside. One of Cluzet’s four remaining guards stood at the entrance, facing out.

  Cluzet had told Jack that in the morning the Russian heavy hauler would arrive to take him out to the ship in international waters that was carrying the precious cargo mined in these mountains.

  “And after that?”

  “You will either travel a very far distance or, because of the trouble you caused tonight, a very short one,” Cluzet said, grinning, as he headed back out into the rain, leaving the American to ponder his fate.

  Hog-tied and humiliated, Jack was out of cards, his hand played out.

  He called to the guard, a narrow-shouldered, five-foot-eight Che Guevara wannabe with a scraggly beard and a short-man’s complex.

  “Hey, I gotta piss.”

  “Then piss,” the guard called back over his shoulder.

  “C’mon, man. You got the gun. I ain’t going anywhere.”

  The man turned around. Hatred dripped from the guard’s exhausted eyes. Jack had killed several of his friends tonight.

  “Piss yourself, singao.”

  “Look, help me up. I can’t run away tied up like this.”

  “Even if you are standing up, how are you gonna piss with your hands tied?”

  Jack shrugged. “Well, if you’re nice, you can hold it for me. But you’re gonna need both hands, if you know what I mean.”

  The man charged over and swung a heavy boot at Jack’s face to kick it like a soccer ball. Jack barely managed to duck out of the way. The guard’s boot crashed into the rock wall, knocking him off balance. Jack saw his chance. He rolled like a log, his two-hundred-pound bulk smashing against the man’s leg still planted on the ground. It was just enough to knock the little man off balance, but not down. He stumbled backward.

  Jack’s plan to head-butt the guy and maybe find a way to cut his ropes was dead in the water.

  So was he.

  The guard roared, ready to launch another kick at Jack’s exposed face. But a strong hand wrapped around his forehead, pulling it back. The man’s shocked look gave way to agony as a knife blade punched through his throat, the drop-point tip a steel tongue beneath his larynx. He gurgled and gasped, clutching at the wound as he dropped to the ground, drowning in his own blood.

  Sands knelt down, pinned the guard’s head to the ground, and jammed the bloody blade back into his neck, severing the spinal column to finish the job.

  Sands said, “Sorry, slick. It’s been a while.”

  The former Ranger was dripping wet, dressed in a well-worn hiking coat and a faded Browning ball cap.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell—”

  Sands wiped his bloody Ka-Bar on the dead man’s coat, then stepped over and cut Jack’s ropes from his ankles and hands, and then killed the Coleman lantern.

  “What are you doing here, Sands?”

  “I like the night air. Went for a walk.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “No time for touchy-feely shit right now, kid. We gotta get you the fuck out of here.” Sands pulled his pistol, a heavy, all-steel Beretta 92FS.

  “Not yet.”

  Jack knelt down and picked up the dead man’s weapon, an AK-103 with a folding stock. “They’re going to kill the miners in the morning.”

  “Let’s get you back down the hill first.”

  Jack stood, checked the weapon, racked a round. “I won’t keep you.”

  “I ain’t leaving without you.”

  “Then follow me.”

  * * *

  —

  Jack and Sands reconnoitered the mining camp. Someone had restored the diesel generator. The lights were back on. That wasn’t good.

  The miners had been put to work gathering and disassembling equipment, putting out the remaining fires, and anything else they were directed to do by the barrels of the rifles pointed at them.

  Jack and Sands took their time, working their way around the periphery, as far away from the light as possible. The sound of the ceaseless rain and the rumbling diesel covered their tracks, but the cold air turned their breath into steaming vapor.

  They caught the first guard by himself taking a leak. Sands seized him by the skull and twisted. The man’s neck broke with a muffled crack.

  His partner was next, taken down by the butt of Jack’s rifle to the back of his head and then Sands’s knife across his throat.

  The two of them dashed across the compound, where Cluzet and the last guard hovered over a group of miners filling sacks with processed material.

  Sands fired his Beretta, putting two nine-millimeter rounds in the guard’s forehead.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Jack said as the Frenchman reached for his pistol.

  Cluzet’s tattooed hand froze in place. He smiled as Jack and Sands stepped into the light, Jack’s rifle and Sands’s pistol both pointed at him.

  “You wanna fill in the details?” Jack asked, grabbing Cluzet’s pistol from its holster.

  “I’m a working man, hired to do a job, that’s all.”

  “And killing innocent people is part of the job description?”

  “Who is innocent in this godforsaken world? Nobody gets out of here alive, anyway.”

  “Great. A fucking philosopher,” Sands said.

  Cluzet turned to Sands. “I didn’t think you had any game left in you. Tonight truly is full of surprises.” He grinned widely.

  Sands’s pistol cracked. The Frenchman’s head snapped backward, the smile still plastered to his face. He toppled over, splashing into the mud on the flat of his back, his arms flung wide.

  “We could have questioned him.”

  “Yeah. We could have,” Sands agreed, holstering his weapon. “Now can we go?”

  “What about them?” Jack nodded around the camp. The miners had dropped to the ground or crouched behind equipment, terrified, when
they heard the gunshots.

  Sands sighed. “Let’s get these people organized. See if you can find a sat phone or a radio in one of those trailers while I go talk to them.” Sands stomped off toward a knot of miners, speaking Spanish in a friendly, comforting manner.

  Jack had other business first.

  He stepped over to Cluzet and snatched Cory’s amulet off the lifeless neck.

  He still had a promise to keep.

  81

  Jack drank enough water from the storage tank to fill an aquarium, or so it seemed, before heading over to the undamaged office trailer, where he found a fully charged sat phone. A call to Gerry set everything in motion, including notifying the President.

  Jack and Sands spent the next hour caring for the miners, first by getting them out of the rain and cramming them into the remaining bunkhouse trailers where the guards had been. Sands managed to fire up the heaters while Jack distributed warm blankets and spare dry clothing.

  Sands learned in Spanish that all of these people were taken from clinics in Lima, La Paz, and a few other cities. These drug addicts, alcoholics, and prostitutes were all given promises of a brighter future and worthwhile employment until they arrived at La Hermana. Starved, beaten, and, in the case of the women, raped repeatedly, they had no recourse but to work or die digging. As society’s castoffs, no officials bothered searching for them.

  The rain stopped just before dawn as the first of two MH-60R Seahawk (“Romeo”) helicopters roared into view, flown in from the flight deck of the Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser, Belleau Wood (CG-74), docked at Lima’s naval port as part of a Latin American show-the-flag mission for the Fourth Fleet.

  The helicopters were normally fitted out with antisubmarine gear and weapons. Because the choppers had to fly beyond their rated altitudes, only volunteers were allowed on the op. The captain ordered the ordnance stripped and the two ASW aircrewmen debarked. A half-dozen Spanish-speaking Marines and Navy corpsmen crammed into each aircraft with medical supplies, blankets, and MREs.

  “I’ve got orders from the CMC directly to load you onto my chopper, sir,” the Marine lieutenant shouted over the idling turbines on the windswept plateau.

  Jack shrugged. “Sorry, Lieutenant. My dad was in the Corps, not me. You can tell the commandant I’m not moving off this mountain until those people get their ride first.”

  “He said you’d say something like that.” The lieutenant smiled. His lance corporal tapped the Stinger missile on his shoulder. “We’ll sit tight until the Peruvian Air Force arrives, but if the Halo or Cayuse you reported show up, Corporal Hernandez will send them a high-explosive greeting card.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Jack said. “Until then, I’m gonna find me a cup of coffee.”

  * * *

  —

  An hour later, the first silver rays of the sun pierced the low-lying clouds.

  Best sunrise I’ve ever seen, Jack thought. Mostly because he didn’t think he’d live to see it.

  Jack stood at the place Cory’s father had been so many years before. He opened the small wooden amulet and said a silent prayer as the light breeze scattered the half-ounce of Cory’s ashes over the granite rocks below, then knelt down and buried the crumpled photo in the wet dirt.

  Behind him, twin GE turboshafts roared as the Peruvian Air Force SH-3 Sea King helicopter lifted off, carrying the last of the miners off the mountain.

  Sands and the Marine lieutenant approached.

  “Does that satisfy you, Mr. Ryan?” the lieutenant asked hopefully. “My ass is already in a sling.”

  “I’m ready to roll if you are. Hey, question. You bring a cell phone with you?”

  “Yes, sir. Why?” He handed it to Jack.

  “I’ve got some pics I need to snap. I’ll bring it right back. Five minutes, tops.”

  The lieutenant nodded as he stepped away, calling up one of the Seahawks circling overhead to prepare to pick up HAMMER, Jack’s code name.

  “You did good,” Sands said.

  “Not good enough, but it’ll have to do.”

  They stood on the edge of the plateau. Cielo Santo was a dirty smudge far down below.

  “We’ll head back down there and grab your stuff, then we’ll catch my plane in Lima back to the States.”

  “No, but thanks.” Sands pointed back down the mountain toward Cielo Santo. “I’m gonna make my stand down there. Maybe help turn things around for those poor folks.”

  Jack understood. Sands had filled him in on a few details in the last hour.

  The former Ranger’s personal descent into hell began years ago when an Iraqi translator and his family he had recruited were brutally tortured and killed before Sands could get them out of the country. He had blamed himself for breaking faith with the family he’d promised to protect. Their murders broke him. No longer caring about anything, especially himself, he drifted around until he washed up at Cielo Santo.

  Sands told Jack he knew bad actors were up on La Hermana Alta, but he swore he didn’t know about the specifics. “Mostly because I didn’t give a shit,” he’d admitted, shame cracking his voice.

  Seeing Jack reminded him of his younger self, and Jack’s determination to keep faith on a promise to a dead friend rekindled something deep inside he’d thought he’d lost.

  “I owe you one,” Sands said.

  “Other way around, I think.” Jack nodded toward Cielo Santo. “Won’t be easy.”

  “Nothing good ever is. But you can do me one favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Tell Midas that Brick still has a few rounds left in the chamber, will ya?”

  82

  ON BOARD THE HENDLEY ASSOCIATES G550

  Beyond logistics and scheduling, Lisanne Robertson was responsible for Campus crew and aircraft security, a skill set she acquired on tours of duty with both the Marine Corps and the City of Alexandria Police Department.

  But as good as she was to have in a fight, she also knew her way around a galley. While Jack showered in the Gulfstream’s small but adequate bathroom and changed into fresh clothes, Lisanne began preparing the waffles, bacon, and eggs he’d requested.

  Remembering Clark’s visit to his apartment a few days ago—which his aching body told him was more like a few years ago—the first call Jack made was to his dad on his private number, assuring the old man that he was tired but fine and would be back in the States that very evening.

  The second call he made was to Gavin Biery, The Campus’s IT genius. “You get those photos I sent you?” Jack asked. He’d used the Marine lieutenant’s phone to grab pics of the dead French merc, along with the Foreign Legion paratrooper tattoo on his hand, and forwarded them to Biery.

  “Sure did. Helped me narrow down my search results from three hundred and twenty-seven to just two, both ending in the name Cluzet. And your hunch was right, they’re brothers, separated by eleven months.”

  “I know one of them is in a metal drawer in a Lima morgue right now. Where’s the other enculé?”

  “Still working on it. I’ve got a few databases I’m about to raid. I should have an answer by the time you get back to the office.”

  Jack thanked Gavin for working his digital magic once again and rang off.

  Lisanne arrived at his seat with plates of steaming-hot food and cold, fresh-squeezed orange juice, but Jack had already passed out and was snoring like a bandsaw. She set the tray down, covered him with a blanket, and sat in the seat across from him, keeping a careful watch over her exhausted passenger.

  SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  The CloudServe Bombardier Global 8000 lifted off at five p.m. PST. Capable of carrying up to seventeen passengers, today’s flight included just Elias Dahm and Amanda Watson, along with the flight crew. From San Francisco they could reach Sydney or Moscow without refueling, but a flight plan was filed for Londo
n Heathrow, arriving by noon local tomorrow, just in time for the TechWorld conference kickoff.

  Watson was grateful for the Bombardier’s separate en suite arrangements. Elias had already retreated to his cabin, presumably to write his speech. He had arrived at the charter terminal in a strange and irritable mood, barely greeting her or the crew, as was his habit. She assumed he was still brooding over the French Guiana disaster, but his moods were as hard to read as Kierkegaard.

  It could have been far worse for him. Watson barely convinced Foley to keep the Fung matter between themselves, arguing that the fewer people who knew about it, the better. She promised Foley she’d inform him immediately after the conference, a delay of just a few days.

  “And frankly, Mary Pat, I need Elias focused on London. It’s our most important annual event. This news will send him over the edge.”

  Foley understood her concerns and reluctantly agreed, but only because Watson had been responsible for first finding Fung. “I want you both in my office the day you get back from London.”

  “We’ll be there. You have my word.”

  Watson was relieved Dahm had sequestered himself away for the long plane ride. After dinner, she would finish up her final notes for Foley and turn in. Given the events of the past few days, she could use a good night’s sleep, and she needed to be fully rested for the world’s most important industry conference.

  She had a feeling London was going to be eventful for them both.

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Jack sure as hell didn’t feel like one, but Clark and the rest of the Campus operators—Ding, Dom, Midas, Adara, and Gavin—greeted him at the Hendley Associates charter hangar like a returning hometown hero with smiles and hugs and claps on the back all around.

  The Campus had been briefed about the events of the previous twenty-four hours, including the successful evacuation and hospitalization of all forty-two miners from La Hermana Alta.