Without Remorse (1993)

by Tom - Jack Ryan 08 Clancy

  "What if they have mines?" Albie worried.

  "On their own turf?" Kelly asked. "No sign of it from the photographs. The ground isn't disturbed. No warning signs to keep their people away."

  "Their people would know, wouldn't they?"

  "On one of the photos there's some goats grazing just outside the wire, remember?"

  Albie nodded with some embarrassment. "Yeah, you're right. I remember that."

  "Let's not borrow trouble," Kelly told him. He fell silent for a moment, realizing that he had been a mere E-7 chief petty officer, and now he was talking as an equal--more accurately as a superior--to an O-3 captain of Recon Marines. That ought to have been--what? Wrong? If so, then why was he doing so well at it, and why was the captain accepting his words? Why was he Mr. Clark to this experienced combat officer? "We're going to do it."

  "I think you're right, Mr. Clark. And how do you get out?"

  "As soon as the choppers come in, I break the Olympic record coming down that hill to the LZ. I call it a two-minute run."

  "In the dark?" Albie asked.

  Kelly laughed. "I run especially fast in the dark, Captain."

  "Do you know how many Ka-Bar knives there are?"

  From the tone of Douglas's question, Lieutenant Ryan knew the news had to be bad. "No, but I suppose I'm about to find out."

  "Sunny's Surplus just took delivery of a thousand of the goddamn things a month ago. The Marines must have enough and so now the Boy Scouts can buy them for four ninety-five. Other places, too. I didn't know how many of the things were out there."

  "Me, neither," Ryan admitted. The Ka-Bar was a very large and bulky weapon. Hoods carried smaller knives, especially switchblades, though guns were becoming increasingly common on the streets.

  What neither man wanted to admit openly was that they were stymied again, despite what had appeared to be a wealth of physical evidence in the brownstone. Ryan looked down at the open file and about twenty forensic photographs. There had almost certainly been a woman there. The murder victim--probably a hood himself, but still officially a victim--had been identified immediately from the cards in his wallet, but the address on his driver's license had turned out to be a vacant building. His collection of traffic violations had been paid on time, with cash. Richard Farmer had brushed with the police, but nothing serious enough to have merited a detailed inquiry. Tracking his family down had turned up precisely nothing. His mother--the father was long dead--had thought him a salesman of some sort. But somebody had nearly carved his heart out with a fighting knife, so quickly and decisively that the gun on the body hadn't been touched. A full set of fingerprints from Farmer merely generated a new card. The central FBI register did not have a match. Neither did the local police, and though Farmer's prints would be compared with a wide selection of unknowns, Ryan and Douglas didn't expect much. The bedroom had provided three complete sets of Farmer's, all on window glass, and semen stains had matched his blood type--O. Another set of stains had been typed as AB, which could mean the killer or the supposed (not quite certain) missing owner of the Roadrunner. For all they knew the killer might have taken the time to have a quickie with the suspected female--unless homosexuality was involved, in which case the suspected female might not exist at all.

  There were also a selection of partial prints, one of a girl (supposition, from their size), and one of a man (also supposition), but they were so partial that he didn't expect much in the way of results. Worst of all, by the time the latent-prints team had gotten to check out the car parked outside, the blazing August sun had heated the car up so much that what might have been something to match prints with the registered owner of the car, one William Peter Grayson, had merely been a collection of heat-distorted blobs. It wasn't widely appreciated that matching partial prints with less than ten points of identification was difficult at best.

  A check of the FBI's new National Crime Information Computer had turned up nothing on Grayson or Farmer. Finally, Mark Charon's narcotics team had nothing on the names Farmer or Grayson. It wasn't so much a matter of being back to square one. It was just that square seventeen didn't lead them anywhere. But that was often the way of things in homicide investigation. Detective work was a combination of the ordinary and the remarkable, but more of the former than the latter. Forensic sciences could tell you much. They did have the imprint of a common-brand sneaker from tracks in the brownstone--brand new, a help. They did know the approximate stride of the killer, from which they had generated a height range of from five-ten to six-three, which, unfortunately, was taller than Virginia Charles had estimated--something they, however, discounted. They knew he was Caucasian. They knew he had to be strong. They knew that he was either very, very lucky or highly skilled with all manner of weapons. They knew that he probably had at least rudimentary skills in hand-to-hand combat--or, Ryan sighed to himself, had been lucky; after all, there had been only one such encounter, and that with an addict with heroin in his bloodstream. They knew he was disguising himself as a bum.

  All of which amounted to not very much. More than half of male humanity fell into the estimated height range. Considerably more than half of the men in the Baltimore metropolitan area were white. There were millions of combat veterans in America, many from elite military units--and the fact of the matter was that infantry skills were infantry skills, and you didn't have to be a combat vet to know them, and his country had had a draft for over thirty years, Ryan told himself. There were perhaps as many as thirty thousand men within a twenty-mile radius who fit the description and skill-inventory of his unknown suspect. Was he in the drug business himself? Was he a robber? Was he, as Farber had suggested, a man on some sort of mission? Ryan leaned heavily to the latter model, but he could not afford to discount the other two. Psychiatrists, and detectives, had been wrong before. The most elegant theories could be shattered by a single inconvenient fact. Damn. No, he told himself, this one was exactly what Farber said he was. This wasn't a criminal. This was a killer, something else entirely.

  "We just need the one thing," Douglas said quietly, knowing the look on his lieutenant's face.

  "The one thing," Ryan repeated. It was a private bit of shorthand. The one thing to break a case could be a name, an address, the description or tag number of a car, a person who knew something. Always the same, though frequently different, it was for the detective the crucial piece in the jigsaw puzzle that made the picture clear, and for the suspect the brick which, taken from the wall, caused everything to fall apart. And it was out there. Ryan was sure of it. It had to be there, because this killer was a clever one, much too clever for his own good. A suspect like this who eliminated a single target could well go forever undetected, but this one was not satisfied with killing one person, was he? Motivated neither by passion nor by financial gain, he was committed to a process, every step of which involved complex dangers. That was what would do him in. The detective was sure of it. Clever as he was, those complexities would continue to mount one upon the other until something important fell loose from the pile. It might even have happened already, Ryan thought, correctly.

  "Two weeks," Maxwell said.

  "That fast?" James Greer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Dutch, that's really fast."

  "You think we should fiddle around?" Podulski asked.

  "Damn it, Cas, I said it was fast. I didn't say it was wrong. Two weeks' more training, one week of travel and setup?" Greer asked, getting a nod. "What about weather?"

  "The one thing we can't control," Maxwell admitted. "But weather works both ways. It makes flying difficult. It also messes up radar and gunnery."

  "How in hell did you get all the pieces moving this early?" Greer asked with a mixture of disbelief and admiration.

  "There are ways, James. Hell, we're admirals, aren't we? We give orders, and guess what? Ships actually move."

  "So the window opens in twenty-one days?"

  "Correct. Cas flies out tomorrow to Constellation. We start bri
efing the air-support guys. Newport News is already clued in--well, partway. They think they're going to sweep the coast for triple-A batteries. Our command ship is plodding across the big pond right now. They don't know anything either except to rendezvous with TF-77."

  "I have a lot of briefing to do," Cas confirmed with a grin.

  "Helicopter crews?"

  "They've been training at Coronado. They come into Quantico tonight. Pretty standard stuff, really. The tactics are straightforward. What does your man 'Clark' say?"

  "He's my man now?" Greer asked. "He tells me he's comfortable with how things are going. Did you enjoy being killed?"

  "He told you?" Maxwell chuckled. "James, I knew the boy was good from what he did with Sonny, but it's different when you're there to see it--hell, to not see or hear it. He shut Marty Young up, and that's no small feat. Embarrassed a lot of Marines, too."

  "Give me a timeline on getting mission approval," Greer said. It was serious now. He'd always thought the operation had merit, and watching it develop had been a lesson in many things that he'd need to know at CIA. Now he believed it possible. BOXWOOD GREEN might well succeed if allowed to go.

  "You're sure Mr. Ritter won't waffle on us?"

  "I don't think he will. He's one of us, really."

  "Not until all the pieces are in place," Podulski said.

  "He'll want to see a rehearsal," Greer warned. "Before you ask a guy to stick it on the line, he has to have confidence in the job."

  "That's fair. We have a full-up live-fire rehearsal tomorrow night."

  "We'll be there, Dutch," Greer promised.

  The team was in an old barracks designed for at least sixty men, and there was plenty of room for everyone, enough that no one had a top bunk. Kelly had a private room set aside, one of those designed into the standard barracks for squad sergeants to sleep in. He'd decided not to live on his boat. One could not be part of the team and yet be totally separate from it.

  They were enjoying their first night off since arriving at Quantico, and some kind soul had arranged for three cases of beer. That made for exactly three bottles each, since one of their number only drank Dr Pepper, and Master Gunnery Sergeant Irvin made sure that none of their number exceeded the limit.

  "Mr. Clark," one of the grenadiers asked, "what's this all about?"

  It wasn't fair, Kelly thought, to make them train without letting them know. They prepared for danger without knowing why, without knowing what purpose occasioned the risk of their lives and their future. It wasn't fair at all, but it wasn't unusual either. He looked straight in the man's eyes.

  "I can't tell you, Corp. All I can say is, it's something you'll be mighty proud of. You have my word on that, Marine."

  The corporal, at twenty-one the youngest and most junior man of the group, hadn't expected an answer, but he'd had to ask. He accepted the reply with a raise-can salute.

  "I know that tattoo," a more senior man said.

  Kelly smiled, finishing his second. "Oh, I got drunk one night, and I guess I got mistook for somebody else."

  "All SEALs are good for is balancing a ball on their nose," a buck sergeant said, following it with a belch.

  "Want me to demonstrate with one of yours?" Kelly asked quickly.

  "Good one!" The sergeant tossed Kelly another beer.

  "Mr. Clark?" Irvin gestured to the door. It was just as sticky-hot out there as inside, with a gentle breeze coming through the long-needled pines and the flapping of bats, invisibly chasing insects.

  "What is it?" Kelly asked, taking a long pull.

  "That's my question, Mr. Clark, sir," Irvin said lightly. Then his voice changed. "I know you."

  "Oh?"

  "Third Special Operations Group. My team backed you guys up on ERMINE COAT. You've come far for an E-6," Irvin observed.

  "Don't spread it around, but I made chief before I left. Does anybody else know?"

  Irvin chuckled. "No, I expect Captain Albie would sure as hell get his nose outa joint if he found out, and General Young might have a conniption. We'll just keep it 'tween us, Mr. Clark," Irvin said, establishing his position in oblique but uncertain terms.

  "This wasn't my idea--being here, I mean. Admirals are easy to impress, I suppose."

  "I'm not, Mr. Clark. You almost gave me a fucking heart attack with that rubber knife of yours. I don't remember your name, your real one, I mean, but you're the guy they called Snake, aren't you? You're the guy did PLASTIC FLOWER."

  "That wasn't the smartest thing I ever did," Kelly pointed out.

  "We were your backup on that, too. The goddamned chopper died--engine quit ten feet off the ground--thump. That's why we didn't make it. Nearest alternate was from First Cav. That's why it took so long."

  Kelly turned. Irvin's face was as black as the night. "I didn't know."

  The master gunnery sergeant shrugged in the darkness. "I seen the pictures of what happened. The skipper told us that you were a fool to break the rules like that. But that was our fault. We should have been there twenty minutes after your call. If'n we got there on time, maybe one or two of those little girls might have made it. Anyway, reason we didn't was a bad seal on the engine, just a little goddamn piece of rubber that cracked."

  Kelly grunted. On such events the fates of nations turned. "Could have been worse--it could have let go at altitude and you woulda really been in the shitter."

  "True. Miserable fuckin' reason for a child to die, isn't it?" Irvin paused, gazing into the darkness of the piney woods as men of his profession did, always looking and listening. "I understand why you did it. I wanted you to know. Probably woulda done the same myself. Maybe not as good as you, but sure as hell, I would have tried, and I wouldn't have let that motherfucker live, orders or no orders."

  "Thanks, Guns," Kelly said quietly, dropping back into Navyspeak.

  "It's Song Tay, isn't it?" Irvin observed next, knowing that he'd get his answer now.

  "Something close to that, yes. They should be telling you soon."

  "You have to tell me more, Mr. Clark. I have Marines to worry about."

  "The site is set up just right, perfect match. Hey, I'm going in, too, remember?"

  "Keep talking," Irvin ordered gently.

  "I helped plan the insertion. With the right people, we can do it. Those are good boys you have in there. I won't say it's easy or any dumb shit like that, but it's not all that hard. I've done harder. So have you. The training is going right. It looks pretty good to me, really."

  "You sure it's worth it?"

  That was a question with meaning so deep that few would have understood it. Irvin had done two combat tours, and though Kelly hadn't seen his official "salad bar" of decorations, he was clearly a man who had circled the block many times. Now Irvin was watching what might well be the destruction of his Marine Corps. Men were dying for hills that were given back as soon as they were taken and the casualties cleared, then to return in six months to repeat the exercise. There was just something in the professional soldier that hated repetition. Although training was just that--they had "assaulted" the site numerous times--the reality of war was supposed to be one battle for one place. In that way a man could tell what progress was. Before looking forward to a new objective, you could look back to see how far you had come and measure your chance for success by what you had learned before. But the third time you watched men die for the same piece of ground, then you knew. You just knew how things were going to end. Their country was still sending men to that place, asking them to risk their lives for dirt already watered in American blood. The truth was that Irvin would not have voluntarily gone back for a third combat tour. It wasn't a question of courage or dedication or love of country. It was that he knew his life was too valuable to be risked for nothing. Sworn to defend his country, he had a right to ask for something in return--a real mission to fight for, not an abstraction, something real. And yet Irvin felt guilt, felt that he had broken faith, had betrayed the motto of The Corps, Semper Fidelis: A
lways Faithful. The guilt had compelled him to volunteer for one last mission despite his doubts and questions. Like a man whose beloved wife has slept with another man, Irvin could not stop loving, could not stop caring, and he would accept to himself the guilt unacknowledged by those who had earned it.

  "Guns, I can't tell you this, but I will anyway. The place we're hitting, it's a prison camp, like you think, okay?"

  Irvin nodded. "More to it. There has to be."

  "It's not a regular camp. The men there, they're all dead, Guns." Kelly crushed the beer can. "I've seen the photos. One guy we identified for sure, Air Force colonel, the NVA said he was killed, and so we think these guys, they'll never come home unless we go get 'em. I don't want to go back either, man. I'm scared, okay? Oh, yeah, I'm good, I'm real good at this stuff. Good training, maybe I have a knack for it." Kelly shrugged, not wanting to say the next part.

  "Yeah. But you can only do it so long." Irvin handed over another beer.

  "I thought three was the limit."

  "I'm a Methodist, not supposed to drink at all." Irvin chuckled. "People like us, Mr. Clark."

  "Dumb sunzabitches, aren't we? There's Russians in the camp, probably interrogating our people. They're all high-rank, and we think they're all officially dead. They're probably being grilled real hard for what they know, because of who they are. We know they're there, and if we don't do anything... what's that make us?" Kelly stopped himself, suddenly needing to go further, to tell what else he was doing, because he had found someone who might truly understand, and for all his obsession with avenging Pam his soul was becoming heavy with its burden.

  "Thank you, Mr. Clark. That's a fuckin' mission," Master Gunnery Sergeant Paul Irvin told the pine trees and the bats. "So you're first in and last out?"