Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “But no pistol.” Popov observed with a chuckle.

  Killgore did the same. “Well, no Indians or rustlers here to kill, pal. Come on.” Killgore’s legs thumped in on his mount, making him move a little faster, and Buttermilk did the same. Popov got his body into a rhythm similar to that of Buttermilk’s and kept pace with him.

  It was magnificent, Dmitriy Arkadeyevich thought, and now he understood the ethos of all those bad movies he’d seen. There was something fundamental and manly about this, though he lacked a proper hat as well as a six-gun. He reached into his pocket and took out his sunglasses, looked around at the rolling land and somehow felt himself to be a part of it all.

  “John, I must thank you. I have never done this before. It is wonderful,” he said sincerely.

  “It’s Nature, man. It’s the way things were always supposed to be. Come on, Mystic,” he said to his mount, speeding up a little more, looking back to see that Popov could handle the increased pace.

  It wasn’t easy to synchronize his body movements in pace with the horse, but gradually Popov managed it, and soon pulled up alongside.

  “So, this is how Americans settled the West?”

  Killgore nodded. “Yep. Once this was covered with buffalo, three or four great herds, as far as the eye could see . . .

  “Hunters did it, did it all in a period of about ten years, using single-shot Sharps buffalo guns mainly. They killed them for the hides to make blankets and stuff, for the meat—sometimes they killed ’em just for the tongues. Slaughtered ’em like Hitler did with the Jews.” Killgore shook his head. “One of the greatest crimes America ever committed, Dmitriy, just killed ’em just ’cause they were in the way. But they’ll be coming back,” he added, wondering how long it would take. Fifty years—he’d have a fair chance of seeing it then. Maybe a hundred years? They’d be letting the wolves and barren-grounds grizzly come back, too, but predators would come back slower. They didn’t breed as rapidly as their prey animals. He wanted to see the prairie again as it had once been. So did many other Project members, and some of them wanted to live in tepees, like the Indians had done. But that, he thought, was a little bit extreme—political ideas taking the place of common sense.

  “Hey, John!” a voice called from a few hundred yards behind. Both men turned to see a figure galloping up to them. In a minute or so, he was recognizable.

  “Kirk! When did you get out here?”

  “Flew in last night,” Maclean answered. He stopped his horse and shook hands with Killgore. “What about you?”

  “Last week, with the Binghamton crew. We closed that operation down and figured it was time to pull up stakes.”

  “All of them?” Maclean asked in a way that got Popov’s attention. All of who?

  “Yep.” Killgore nodded soberly.

  “Schedule work out?” Maclean asked next, dismissing whatever it was that had upset him before.

  “Almost perfectly on the projections. We, uh, helped the last ones along.”

  “Oh.” Maclean looked down for a second, feeling bad, briefly, for the women he’d recruited. But only briefly. “So it’s moving forward?”

  “Yes, it is, Kirk. The Olympics start day after tomorrow, and then . . .”

  “Yeah. Then it starts for real.”

  “Hello,” Popov said, after a second. It was as though Killgore had forgotten he was there.

  “Oh, sorry, Dmitriy. Kirk Maclean, this is Dmitriy Popov. John sent him out to us a couple days ago.”

  “Howdy, Dmitriy.” Handshakes were exchanged. “Russian?” Maclean asked.

  “Yes.” A nod. “I work directly for Dr. Brightling. And you?”

  “I’m a small part of the Project,” Maclean admitted.

  “Kirk’s a biochemist and environmental engineer,” Killgore explained. “Also so good-looking that we had him do another little thing for us,” he teased. “But that’s over now. So, what broke you loose so early, Kirk?”

  “Remember Mary Bannister?”

  “Yeah, what about her?”

  “The FBI asked me if I knew her. I kicked it around with Henriksen, and he decided to send me out a little early. I take it she’s . . .”

  Killgore nodded matter-of-factly. “Yeah, last week.”

  “So ‘A’ works?”

  “Yes, it does. And so does ‘B.’ ”

  “That’s good. I got my ‘B’ shot already.”

  Popov thought back to his injection at Killgore’s hands. There had been a capital B on the vial label, hadn’t there? And what was this about the FBI? These two were talking freely, but it was like a foreign language—no, it was the speech of insiders, using internal words and phrases as engineers and physicians did, well, as intelligence officers did as well. It was part of Popov’s fieldcraft to remember whatever was said in front of him, however distant from his understanding, and he took it all in, despite his befuddled expression.

  Killgore led his horse off again. “First time out, Kirk?”

  “First time on a horse in months. I had a deal with a guy in New York City, but I never really had time to do it enough. My legs and ass are gonna be sore tomorrow, John.” The bio-engineer laughed.

  “Yeah, but it’s a good kind of sore.” Killgore laughed as well. He’d had a horse back in Binghamton, and he hoped that the family that kept it for him would let him out when the time came, so that Stormy would be able to feed himself . . . but then Stormy was a gelding, and therefore biologically irrelevant to the entire world except as a consumer of grass. Too bad, the physician thought. He’d been a fine riding horse.

  Maclean stood in his stirrups, looking around. He could turn and look back at the Project buildings, but before him, and to left and right, little more than rolling prairie. Someday they’d have to burn down all the houses and farm buildings. They just cluttered the view.

  “Look out, John,” he said, seeing some danger forward and pointing at the holes.

  “What is this?” Popov asked.

  “Prairie dogs,” Killgore said, letting his horse slow to a slow walk. “Wild rodents, they dig holes and make underground cities, called prairie-dog towns. If a horse steps into one, well, it’s bad for the horse. But if they walk slow, they can avoid the holes.”

  “Rodents? Why don’t you deal with them? Shoot them, poison them? If they can hurt a horse, then—”

  “Dmitriy, they’re part of Nature, okay? They belong here, even more than we do,” Maclean explained.

  “But a horse is—” Expensive, he thought, as the doctor cut him off.

  “Not part of Nature, not really,” Killgore went on. “I love ’em, too, but strictly speaking, they don’t belong out here either.”

  “The hawks and other raptors will come back and control the prairie dogs,” Maclean said. “No chicken farmers will be hurting them anymore. Man, I love watching them work.”

  “You bet. They’re nature’s own smart bomb,” Killgore agreed. “That was the real sport of kings, training a hawk to hunt off your fist for you. I might do some of that myself in a few years. I always liked the gyrfalcon.”

  “The all-white one. Yeah, noble bird, that one,” Maclean observed.

  They think this area will be greatly changed in a few years, Popov thought. But what could make that happen?

  “So, tell me,” the Russian asked. “How will this all look in five years?”

  “Much better,” Killgore said. “Some buffalo will be back. We might even have to keep them away from our wheat.”

  “Herd ’em with the Hummers?” Maclean wondered.

  “Or helicopters, maybe,” the physician speculated. “We’ll have a few of those to measure the populations. Mark Holtz is talking about going to Yellowstone and capturing a few, then trucking them down here to help jump-start the herd. You know Mark?”

  Maclean shook his head. “No, never met him.”

  “He’s a big-picture thinker on the ecological side, but he’s not into interfering with Nature. Just helping Her along some.�
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  “What are we going to do about the dogs?” Kirk asked, meaning domestic pets suddenly released into nature, where they’d become feral, killers of game.

  “We’ll just have to see,” Killgore said. “Most won’t be big enough to hurt mature animals, and a lot will be neutered, so they won’t breed. Maybe we’ll have to shoot some. Ought not to be too hard.”

  “Some won’t like that. You know the score—we’re not supposed to do anything but watch. I don’t buy that. If we’ve screwed up the ecosystem, we ought to be able to fix the parts we broke, some of them anyway.”

  “I agree. We’ll have to vote on that, though. Hell, I want to hunt, and they’re going to have to vote on that, too,” Killgore announced with a distasteful grimace.

  “No shit? What about Jim Bridger? Except for trapping beaver, what did he do that was so damned wrong?”

  “Vegans, they’re extremists, Kirk. Their way or the highway, y’know?”

  “Oh, fuck ’em. Tell ’em we’re not designed to be herbivores, for Christ’s sake. That’s just pure science.” The prairie-dog town was a small one, they saw, as they passed the last of the dirt bull’s-eye’d holes.

  “And what will your neighbors think of all this?” Popov asked, with a lighthearted smile. What the hell were these people talking about?

  “What neighbors?” Killgore asked.

  What neighbors? And it wasn’t that which bothered Popov. It was that the reply was rhetorical in nature. But then the doctor changed the subject. “Sure is a nice morning for a ride.”

  What neighbors? Popov thought again. They could see the roofs of farmhouses and buildings not ten kilometers away, well lit by the morning sun. What did they mean, what neighbors? They spoke of a radiant future with wild animals everywhere, but not of people. Did they plan to purchase all the nearby farms? Even Horizon Corporation didn’t have that much money, did it? This was a settled, civilized area. The farms nearby were large prosperous ones owned by people of comfortable private means. Where would they go? Why would they leave? And yet again, the question leaped into Popov’s mind.

  What is this all about?

  CHAPTER 33

  THE GAMES BEGIN

  Chavez did his best not to stumble off the aircraft, somewhat amazed that the cabin crew looked so chipper. Well, they had practice, and maybe they’d adapted to jet lag better than he ever had. Like every other civilian he saw, he smacked his lips to deal with the sour taste and squinted his eyes and headed for the door with the eagerness of a man being released from a maximum-security prison. Maybe traveling great distances by ship wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Major Chavez?” a voice asked in an Australian accent.

  “Yeah?” Chavez managed to say, looking at the guy in civilian clothes.

  “G’day, I’m Leftenant Colonel Frank Wilkerson, Australian Special Air Service.” He held out his hand.

  “Howdy.” Chavez managed to grab the hand and shake it. “These are my men, Sergeants Johnston, Pierce, Tomlinson, and Special Agent Tim Noonan of the FBI—he’s our technical support.” More handshakes were exchanged all around.

  “Welcome to Australia, gentlemen. Follow me, if you please.” The colonel waved for them to follow.

  It took fifteen minutes to collect all the gear. That included a half dozen large mil-spec plastic containers that were loaded into a minibus. Ten minutes later, they were off the airport grounds and heading for Motorway 64 for the trip into Sydney.

  “So, how was the flight?” Colonel Wilkerson asked, turning in his front seat to look at them.

  “Long,” Chavez said, looking around. The sun was rising—it was just short of 6:00 A.M.—while the arriving Rainbow troopers were all wondering if it was actually supposed to be setting according to their body clocks. They all hoped a shower and some coffee would help.

  “Pig of a flight, all the way out from London,” the colonel sympathized.

  “That it is,” Chavez agreed for his men.

  “When do the games start?” Mike Pierce asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Wilkerson replied. “We’ve got most of the athletes settled into their quarters, and our security teams are fully manned and trained up. We expect no difficulties at all. The intelligence threat board is quite blank. The people we have watching the airport report nothing, and we have photos and descriptions of all known international terrorists. Not as many as there used to be, largely thanks to your group,” the SAS colonel added, with a friendly, professional smile.

  “Yeah, well, we try to do our part, Colonel,” George Tomlinson observed, while rubbing his face.

  “The chaps who attacked you directly, they were IRA, as the media said?”

  “Yeah,” Chavez answered. “Splinter group. But they were well briefed. Somebody gave them primo intelligence information. They had their civilian targets identified by name and occupation—that included my wife and mother-in-law, and—”

  “I hadn’t heard that,” the Aussie said, with wide-open eyes.

  “Well, it wasn’t fun. And we lost two people killed, and four wounded, including Peter Covington. He’s my counterpart, commanding Team-1,” Ding explained. “Like I said, wasn’t fun. Tim here turned out to have saved the day,” he went on, pointing at Noonan.

  “How so?” Wilkerson asked the FBI agent, who looked slightly embarrassed.

  “I have a system for shutting down cellular phone communications. Turns out the bad guys were using them to coordinate their movements,” the FBI agent explained. “We denied them that ability, and it interfered with their plans. Then Ding and the rest of the guys came in and messed them up some more. We were very, very lucky, Colonel.”

  “So, you’re FBI. You know Gus Werner, I expect?”

  “Oh, yeah. Gus and I go back a ways. He’s the new AD for terrorism—new division the Bureau’s set up. You’ve been to Quantico, I suppose.”

  “Just a few months ago, in fact, exercising with your Hostage Rescue Team and Colonel Byron’s Delta group. Good lads, all of them.” The driver turned off the interstate-type highway, taking an exit that seemed to head into downtown Sydney. Traffic was light. It was still too early for people to be very active, aside from milkmen and paperboys. The minibus pulled up to an upscale hotel, whose bell staff was awake, even at this ungodly hour.

  “We have an arrangement with this one,” Wilkerson explained. “The Global Security people are here, too.”

  “Who?” Ding asked.

  “Global Security, they have the consulting contract. Mr. Noonan, you probably know their chief, Bill Henriksen.”

  “Bill the tree-hugger?” Noonan managed a strangled laugh. “Oh, yeah, I know him.”

  “Tree-hugger?”

  “Colonel, Bill was a senior guy in Hostage Rescue a few years ago. Competent guy, but he’s one of those nutty environmentalist types. Hugs trees and bunny rabbits. Worries about the ozone layer, all that crap,” Noonan explained.

  “I didn’t know that about him. We do worry about the ozone down here, you know. One must use sunblock on the beaches and such. Might be serious in a few years, so they say.”

  “Maybe so,” Tim allowed with a yawn. “I’m not a surfer.”

  The door was pulled open by a hotel employee and the men stumbled out. Colonel Wilkerson must have called ahead, Ding thought a minute later, as they were fast-tracked to their rooms—nice ones—for wake-up showers, followed by big breakfasts with lots of coffee. As dreadful as the jet lag was, the best way for them to handle it was to gut their way through the first day, try to get a decent night’s sleep, and so synchronize themselves in a single day. At least that was the theory, Ding thought, toweling off in front of the bathroom mirror and seeing that he looked almost as messed up as he felt. Soon after that, wearing casual clothes, he showed up in the hotel coffee shop.

  “You know, Colonel, if somebody made a narcotic that worked on jet lag, he’d die richer ’n hell.”

  “Quite. I’ve been through it as well, Major.”

 
“Call me Ding. My given name’s Domingo, but I go by Ding.”

  “What’s your background?” Wilkerson asked.

  “Started off as an infantryman, but then into CIA, and now this. I don’t know about this simulated-major stuff. I’m Team-2 commander for Rainbow, and I guess that’ll have to do.”

  “You Rainbow chaps have been busy.”

  “That’s a fact, Colonel,” Ding agreed, shaking his head as the waiter came with a pot of coffee. Ding wondered if anyone had the Army type of coffee, the sort with triple the usual amount of caffeine. It would have come in handy right now. That and a nice morning workout might have helped a lot. In addition to the fatigue, his body was rebelling against the full day of confinement on the 747. The damned airplane was big enough for a few laps, but somehow the designers had left out the running track. Then came the slightly guilty feeling for the poor bastards who’d made the hop in tourist. They must really be suffering, Ding was sure. Well, at least it had been quick. A ship would have taken a whole month—of palatial comfort, lots of exercise opportunities, and good food. Life was full of trade-offs, wasn’t it?

  “You were in on the Worldpark job?”

  “Yeah.” Ding nodded. “My team did the assault on the castle. I was a hot hundred feet away when that bastard killed the little girl. That really wasn’t fun, Colonel.”

  “Frank.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, Frank, that was pretty damned bad. But we got that bastard—which is to say, Homer Johnston did. He’s one of my long rifles.”

  “From the TV coverage we saw, that wasn’t a particularly good shot.”

  “Homer wanted to make a little statement,” Chavez explained, with a raised eyebrow. “He won’t be doing it again.”

  Wilkerson figured that one out instantly. “Oh, yes, quite. Any children, Ding?”

  “Just became a father a few days ago. A son.”

  “Congratulations. We’ll have to have a beer for that, later today perhaps.”

  “Frank, one beer and you might just have to carry my ass back here.” Ding yawned, and felt embarrassment at the state of his body right then and there. “Anyway, why did you want us down here? Everybody says you guys are pretty good.”