Against All Enemies

by Tom Clancy

  When they reached the sign for the Howler Monkey Resort, Moore donned the night-vision goggles and switched off the headlights to cover the last eight miles to the house. After they passed the main lodge and cabins, the road grew a little more rutted and uneven, and Moore veered twice around dead turtles taken out by other motorists, although they had yet to see another car.

  While it felt like he and Towers were alone, thousands of miles from home and driving deeper into the Belizean jungle, Slater, along with analysts in the counterterrorism and counterintelligence centers, was at this very moment monitoring them, reporting their every move, and he and the analysts were holding their collective breaths.

  He and Towers drove on in silence, each man mentally preparing for the raid to come. Moore wondered if Towers was a religious man, or maybe he chalked it all up to fate or a merciless universe. For his part, Moore thought in more simple terms: It was time to say thank you to all the people who’d made the ultimate sacrifice. It was time to capture this bastard Samad and do it for them, in their name.

  And yes, the trail had finally grown warm. Very warm.

  Within one mile of the safe house, Moore pulled off the road, threw the Jeep into park, and turned off the engine. He and Towers looked at each other, banged fists, then climbed out.

  It took a few seconds before Moore realized that his boss was humming a familiar rock-and-roll anthem: Guns N’ Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” Moore smiled weakly as he wrenched open the Jeep’s tailgate, and they got to work.

  THE WATER WAS THEIR HOME

  New River Lagoon

  Central Belize

  AFTER MOORE AND TOWERS had gone through the duffel bag, had changed into their black cargo pants and shirts, and had donned their Kevlar vests, web gear, and balaclavas, Towers scrutinized the weapons they’d been provided. The inventory included two bolt-action sniper rifles—the L115A3 (.338) with Schmidt and Bender scopes and five-round magazines—a couple of Browning 9x19-millimeter Parabellum semiautomatic pistols, a very sweet pair of Steiner 395 binoculars, and two Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knives with double edges and ring grips.

  Towers held up his blade. “These Royal Marines have some nice toys.”

  Moore agreed, and it was fortunate that 45 Commando, a battalion-sized unit of the Royal Marines, frequently had platoons training in the area. Slater had arranged to use them as a backup force. All the Brits knew was that Towers and Moore were CIA agents hunting down some drug smugglers and that they might need a little muscle. The Brits would be happy to oblige.

  Moore held up the satellite phone. “Those guys are just a phone call away.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t need them,” said Towers.

  They slid into their backpacks, then started off, both wearing NVGs against the utter darkness. The grunts, chirps, and rustling noises coming from the jungle beside them were not the most reassuring sounds, and if they were accosted by, say, a baboon, howler monkey, or something, ahem, worse, it was not the animal that Moore feared so much as the racket created by such an encounter.

  Consequently, they kept to the edge of the jungle, off the road but not too far, thankful the Brits had included bug spray against the mosquitoes, doctor flies, and chiggers. New operators would call their seasoned colleagues wimps for worrying about bugs, but Moore had been taught in both the SEALs and the CIA that an annoying itch could cause a distraction—and cost you your life.

  His brow was already damp with sweat, and he tasted the salt on his lips by the time they reached the water’s edge, where the ground turned muddy and unstable, and roots breached the surface like varicose veins. He led Towers to a stand of trumpet trees, where they dropped to their haunches. He warned Towers to avoid touching the trees, because they were home to wasplike ants called pseudomyrmex. The ants felt vibration and would swarm to attack invaders with painful stings.

  About thirty meters north stood the house, no more than a thousand square feet constructed on two-meter-high stilts, with a small porch beneath a gabled tin roof and windows covered by heavy wooden shutters for full privacy. There were no vehicles in sight. The wooden dock was barely ten meters long, with a pair of Zodiacs tied to the north side. Each boat with inflatable tubes around the sides was equipped with an outboard motor and could carry three to five passengers. A trail that the late Michael Ansara would have described as an “excellent single track” for mountain biking wove away from the road behind them and up toward the house. Another path wide enough for a four-wheel-drive cut through the jungle to the north and linked back to the main road. Were they back in the States, a house like this would be mistaken for a fishing camp, not a drug-smuggling way station.

  Moore’s watch read 10:44 p.m.

  He wrenched off the NVGs and the balaclava in order to wipe more sweat from his face. Towers cursed and did likewise, then he took up the binoculars and scanned the dock. He regarded Moore with an urgent expression and handed over the binoculars.

  A man had come out onto the dock with a small kerosene lantern. He was carrying a plastic five-gallon jug of gasoline. He might be one of the sicarios that Borja had assigned to Samad. Hell, it could be Samad himself. Moore couldn’t be sure, even after zooming in.

  The man, bare-chested and wearing a pair of tan shorts, climbed carefully into one of the Zodiacs and proceeded to fill the outboard’s external fuel tank seated just beneath the motor.

  O’Hara had been adamant: Take Samad alive.

  So they’d put gas grenades on their wish list, and the Royal Marines had come through with a dozen, along with two gas masks that they’d stowed in the packs. Kick in the door, throw in the grenades, gas them out, stand back, and capture them.

  But Moore now saw an opportunity too good to ignore.

  “I’ll take this guy, then I’ll meet you around back. We move a lot faster now.”

  “You sure?”

  Moore nodded.

  With Towers’s help, he stripped quickly out of his gear and vest, and was down to his skivvies and belt holster within thirty seconds. Instead of taking one of the pistols the Brits had given them, he chose his Glock 17, which he’d packed upon hearing they were jungle-bound. The pistol was equipped with maritime spring cups for use in water environments. The cups were placed within the firing-pin assembly to ensure that water passed by the firing pin within the firing-pin channel. This prevented the creation of a hydraulic force that could slow the firing pin and cause light primer strikes. The NATO spec ammo Moore used had waterproof sealed primers and case mouths, which of course further increased the weapon’s reliability.

  With the Glock holstered at his side, he grabbed the combat knife and slid like one more predator beneath the ink-black water.

  The river felt warm and thick in his palms; the vegetation growing from the bottom (which might have been hydrilla; he wasn’t sure) scraped across his bare feet. He estimated the river’s depth at just eight or nine feet in this section. He swam silently, guided by the kerosene lantern light shining down on the waves ahead. Yes, this was home. This was where Carmichael lived forever …

  It was only as he neared the dock that he remembered the crocodiles.

  He shuddered and came up beneath the second Zodiac, his exit from the water silent, his breath slowly released. Their man was in the first boat, docked farthest out. Moore peered furtively around the boat’s hull. The guy was one of Borja’s sicarios, mid-twenties, lanky, with a few tribal tattoos slashing across his shoulder blades. Samad and his men would not have tattoos; they were forbidden in Islam.

  After his container made a louder chugging noise, the sicario stopped filling the tank, checked the fuel level, then lifted the plastic container once more.

  Moore looked back at the house: all quiet, save for the almost electric hum of thousands of insects.

  He submerged and swam back around the Zodiac, getting himself in position.

  So the plan, formulated anew, was to take out this guy and fall back to the house. He and Towers would have one fe
wer guy to deal with and could still smoke ’em out. However, as he’d warned Towers, they had to be fast so gas boy wouldn’t be missed.

  Moore held the combat knife in a reverse grip, the blade jutting from the bottom of his fist. Three, two, one, he kicked hard and came out of the water, slid one arm around the man’s waist while plunging the blade into his chest and dragging him over the side—and it all needed to happen before the guy yelled, because Moore couldn’t reach his mouth.

  Every consideration had been taken. The blade’s tip was sharp, and it had good cutting edges. Moore had discovered the hard way that if you cut an artery with a dull blade, it tended to contract and stop bleeding. A cleanly severed main artery resulted in loss of consciousness and death. Furthermore, holding the man underwater would cause his heart to race, and death would come even sooner.

  The snatch itself had gone off perfectly, textbook. Moore could go up to Rhode Island and give lectures about it at the Naval War College. The guy had gone over the side with only a gasp and a barely perceptible groan. Even the splash wasn’t very loud, as Moore had eased him down into the water rather than jerking him.

  But in that second, as the water rushed over Moore’s face and he gritted his teeth and sucked in air—that second when every muscle in his body had tensed—he spied from the corner of his eye the back door of the house opening and a figure appearing in silhouette.

  That individual had seen a man rise from the water and drag his colleague over the side. And it was all Moore could do to hold the struggling man beneath the water while shaking against the fear that the alarm had just gone off.

  His heart red-zoned immediately.

  He wanted to scream. They were fucked!

  One task at a time. First, he willed himself into a moment of calm as he continued choking the man, who abruptly stopped thrashing.

  As he released the guy, the first salvo of gunfire tore into the river, the shots punching just behind him as he now swam down toward the dock’s pilings and kept tight to them, on the inside beneath the dock.

  Then came another salvo, and another, full automatic-weapons fire hosing down a 180-degree line around the dock, the muffled thumping painfully familiar. Still tight to the piling, Moore ascended until his mouth broke water, and he took in a long breath. Bring down the heart rate. And think …

  Towers’s sniper rifle thundered from the tree line, and a man up on the dock hit the planks with a double thud, wailing in Spanish. A wounding round, to be sure. Towers knew what he was doing, but he’d also given up his location and would be slower to return fire with that bolt-action rifle.

  More footfalls now. Louder. The dock vibrated. AK-47 fire popped again, two weapons. Towers’s gun replied with a formidable crack, then fell silent against an onslaught of withering fire.

  A third AK added its voice to the first two.

  Then, a break …

  “Talwar? Niazi? In the boat, now!”

  Moore could barely contain himself. That was him, Samad, speaking in Arabic and standing on the dock above Moore’s head. And there was Moore, in the water, armed with a knife and a pistol. Three versus one. Were the object to kill Samad, he would push out from beneath the dock and surprise attack. Again, he willed himself back into a state of calm. His impatience had already cost them too much. Hold position. Wait.

  The Zodiac bobbed up and down as the men climbed aboard, and one of them turned the key on the outboard. The engine started immediately.

  Moore couldn’t disable the engine without being spotted and drawing their point-blank fire, but maybe he could sink the boat before they knew what was happening …

  While the Zodiac had a rigid fiberglass hull, it still had synthetic rubber tubes constructed in separate sections, six or more chambers, he estimated. The rubber was actually a plastomer bound to a dense polyester cloth and tougher to damage than plain old rubber, but that didn’t mean Moore wouldn’t try.

  He pushed off the piling, submerged again, and swam up beside the Zodiac while the motor was still idling. He took the knife and plunged it into the first compartment. The air hissed loudly and sent a steady rush of bubbles into the river. He swam under the boat as the men reacted and thrust his knife up once more, stabbing another section.

  The fifty-horsepower engine throttled up, and Moore dove quickly to avoid being hit by the skeg or shredded by the propeller. As the boat passed overhead, he turned, swam hard for the surface, came up, and drew his pistol, lifting it over the waves and targeting the back tubes of the boat, firing once, twice, before the man at the outboard lifted a pistol and squeezed off two rounds. Moore threw himself back under the water, kicking hard for the dock.

  By the time he began pulling himself up onto the dock, Towers was sprinting toward him, carrying all their gear. “What the fuck?” was all he shouted.

  “Second Zodiac!” Moore answered.

  Towers threw the backpacks and rifles into the boat and climbed aboard. “Keys! No keys!”

  The guy Towers had hit still lay on the dock in a pool of blood and clutching his hip. Moore dropped to his knees beside the man. “Keys for the boat?”

  The man just looked at him, all teeth and agony.

  Moore went through his pockets. Nothing. Back in the house? Should he go check? No time.

  Wait. The guy in the water. He looked up. The body was floating facedown. Moore ran to the edge of the dock and dove in, swimming out to the corpse. This guy had probably put the keys in the first outboard. There was nothing to say that he didn’t have the keys to the second one still in his pocket.

  Moore reached him, felt the man’s pockets, found the keys, and dug them out. He swam back to the Zodiac and tossed the keys to his partner, who fumbled to get them in the outboard.

  “Good to go!” Towers announced.

  Moore reached up, and Towers hauled him into the Zodiac. While Towers started the engine, Moore threw off the line. The engine thrummed, and they sped away from the dock as Towers used one hand to tug on his night-vision goggles.

  “They’ve got a good lead on us,” Towers said, pointing ahead as they dropped into the first Zodiac’s dissolving wake. “And I got a good look …and that is them! Samad is wearing a gray or tan T-shirt. The other guys are wearing black.”

  “I heard him call to his men.” Moore was fighting for breath, trembling badly, the adrenaline overwhelming him as he riffled through his pack and produced the satellite phone. He thumbed it on and scrolled to the call log. There was only one contact saved there: BOOTNECK FIVE.

  He hit the button, waited.

  “This is Bootneck Five,” came a distinctly British voice.

  “Hey, this is River Team,” Moore said. “Our package is on the move. They’re heading north in a Zodiac toward the rendezvous point. We’re in pursuit. We need your intercept at the rendezvous.”

  “No problem, River Team. We were hoping for your call. I’ll contact you once we’re in position.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  “You’ll thank us all later with a pint, mate.”

  “My pleasure.” Moore returned the phone to his backpack, then sat up and readjusted his grip on the Glock, testing out his firing position from his seat. The wind was whipping over them now, and from the shoreline came pinpricks of light that became darker forms as they approached.

  “Hey, did you check fuel?” Towers called.

  “Shit, no.” Moore leaned down and rapped a knuckle on the plastic gas tank. Hollow. He dove for a small pocket on his backpack and produced a penlight, which he directed on the plastic so he could see the shadow line of fuel. Oh, shit …not good news. And that’s why the first guy had come out to fill the tank.

  “You think we’ll make it?” asked Towers.

  “Full-throttle. Just keep going.” Moore estimated their speed at nearly thirty knots, all they could bleed out of the little outboard. He reached down and pulled on his own NVGs, the world transformed from layers of gray, dark blue, and black to glowing green and white. He focused
his attention ahead, and there, in the distance, he spotted the Zodiac with three ribbons of whitewater fluttering behind.

  A gunshot ricocheted off the side of their outboard.

  “Get down!” Moore ordered, throwing himself on top of his backpack.

  Towers ducked but had to keep his hand on the tiller. Moore tugged off his NVGs and grabbed one of the sniper rifles. Three more pops sounded above the din of outboards, and a hissing came from the front portside of their boat. Moore crawled up toward the bow, propped his elbows on the tubes, and settled down with the rifle. He sighted the back of the Zodiac, but between all the bouncing of their craft and the target, an accurate shot was impossible. If he gambled and the shot went wide and struck Samad in the head …He cursed and turned back to Towers. “I can’t get a bead. Can we get any closer?”

  “I’m trying!”

  Moore leaned over, set down the rifle, and tugged out his Glock. Samad had probably called ahead to their pilot for an early pickup. The pilot’s cell phone was already being monitored by the NSA, so the second he got that call, Moore’s people would know. A quick check of his smartphone confirmed that. Text message from Slater: Chopper called. He’s en route to the ruins and rendezvous.

  But so was a Sea King Mk4 helicopter carrying up to twenty-seven Royal Marines who would fast-rope into the rendezvous point and secure it. However, if Samad spotted that helo, he and his boys could ditch early and make a run for it into the jungle. The fool could get himself killed if he did that.

  Moore checked their GPS position on his smartphone, the signal from his shoulder chip being received and routed to the Agency’s satellites and that information being shot back down to him for a position accurate to within three meters. They were about five miles up the river now, with about four miles to go, which translated into less than ten minutes boat time.