The Hunted e-2

by Tom Clancy

  “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, and 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.

  “We’re assuming the main vault is located in the old Multi Commodities Centre.”

  “Yeah, it’s there,” said Hussein. “Almas Tower. There are a lot of other ones, too. It’s easy to get confused.”

  “Exactly how much gold?”

  “That I don’t know. Chopra?”

  Chopra spoke through his teeth. “Hussein, our country needs us. We cannot go along with this anymore.”

  “I’m ordering you. You work for me. You do what I say. I’m the sheikh. Tell her.”

  Chopra took a deep breath.

  The Snow Maiden drew her silenced pistol and jammed it into his bicep. “This will hurt.”

  “Chopra, you stupid old man, tell her!” cried Hussein.

  After a few more breaths, Chopra lowered his head in defeat. He was too weak, too fearful of the pain. He was a coward, and he cursed himself for that.

  Her voice came through a hiss. “Tell me about the gold.”

  “Tell her!” Hussein cried again.

  Chopra answered, but he would not face her. “There are between five hundred and seven hundred gold bars.”

  “How much do they weigh?”

  “A lot. Four hundred troy ounces each.”

  “In kilos?”

  “About twelve each or twenty-seven pounds each. Heavy. There’s silver there as well. Each bar is worth nearly half a million U.S. dollars.”

  “So we’ll obviously need trucks. Heavy moving equipment.”

  He glowered at her. “Obviously. And you’ll need friends to move all that gold, friends you’re willing to keep alive and not throw away like garbage.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Why did you kill her? She seemed like a sweet woman. An innocent. And you just shot her.”

  “You want to know why I killed her? Because I was starting to like her. Now tell me about the security system.”

  “Go on the Web. I’m sure you can learn all you need to know…”

  She jabbed the pistol deeper into his arm.

  “It’s the usual. Very complex biometrics: iris patterns, fingerprints, facial readers, blood vessel authentication, and blood flow sensors, all combined with traditional password protection and token codes. The live fingerprint authentication alone includes four biological markers of pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and the capillary patterns in the skin to verify fingerprints by analyzing ridges of the print as well as the depth of the valleys between the ridges.”

  “I’ve bypassed those systems.”

  “Not these. You can’t make a photocopy of someone’s thumb and use it. Or even a gel copy. These are quite literally the best in the world.”

  “Which is where you come in.”

  “Well, you should know the Al Maktoum family wouldn’t simply rely on those measures alone. The sheikh was an eccentric.” Chopra smiled darkly.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you should expect the unexpected.”

  “No, I’ll expect you to get us inside.”

  Even as he’d spoken, Chopra was already formulating a ruse, but he could not put forth the plan without the young sheikh’s help — and therein was his greatest challenge.

  “He’ll get us in,” said Hussein. “And I’ll get you the data on the oil reserves, but only if you get me something to eat.”

  “So you’ll give away your nation’s assets — all for one meal.”

  The boy shrugged. “Half the gold and one meal. I’m starving.”

  “I’ve already ordered,” said the Snow Maiden. “And new clothes will be here shortly. You’ll both shower and change.”

  “What you’re attempting is quite huge,” said Chopra. “And have you considered the radiation? Exposure has been limited to less than eight hours without full NBC suits.”

  “Who do you think you’re dealing with here?”

  “I don’t know. I ask. You never answer. Why don’t you tell me? Are you terrorists?”

  She chuckled. “Hardly.”

  “Then what is your purpose?”

  “Well, that’s philosophical, isn’t it?”

  Chopra stiffened. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

  “Then you can just listen,” she said, taking a seat across from him. “When I was a little girl, my father told my brothers and me a story about an old woman who lived in our town, and she was tired and old and couldn’t afford to eat, so she would go into the market and steal some bread or soup, or people would give her a handout. She got caught stealing some potatoes one day, and they hauled her off to jail. And my father never saw her again.”

  The Snow Maiden just sat there, staring through him, reliving the moment.

  “Was she put to death?” asked Chopra.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think my father knew, but he never trusted the government after that. And he taught us to be afraid of the police.”

  “Why does this bother you?”

  “Because one day, I’ll be that woman, and they’ll lock me away because I stole some potatoes, and that will be my life.”

  “I’m here to change that young man, to make him recognize that he was not born to live an ordinary life. He will change. It’s never too late.”

  The Snow Maiden just looked at him, as though yearning for change herself.

  * * *

  Thirty-six hours later, Brent, his team, Thomas Voeckler, and Schoolie rendezvoused with the USS Florida in the Gulf of Oman, fifty miles south of the strait. The small-boat personnel transfer between their cruiser, USS Gettysburg CG-64, and the Virginia-class nuclear submarine took place at 0300. All boarded the nuclear submarine and were issued thermoluminescent dosimeters worn on their belts. The units, about the size of a deck of cards, measured their total radiation dosage while onboard and were worn at all times. This wasn’t the first time Brent had taken a ride aboard one of the JSF Navy’s finest, but Thomas was new to it all, so the others took turns ribbing him over his naïveté and hundred questions.

  They were all given a refresher course in life aboard a submarine, and Brent had been escorted to the captain’s stateroom by the ship’s XO.

  Commander Jonathan Andreas was seated at a fold-out desk, working the touchpad of a small computer. Andreas, who couldn’t be much older than Brent and had salt-and-pepper hair, gestured to a chair. “Have a seat, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Our lockout trunk is good for nine, so you’ll have to lock out in two evolutions. My SEAL chiefs will provide the training to your newbies. They’ll also deliver all of your heavier gear, including your combat suits, with our wet vehicle. You’ve seen one of the SDVs in action, I assume?”

  Brent nodded. The older-model SEAL Delivery Vehicle was a torpedo-s
haped craft that cut through the ocean at six knots and expedited the transfer of a team’s worth of gear. Brent was thankful for the help. Anything they could do to decrease their infiltration time was welcome. Two full evolutions of the lockout trunk was going to slow them down already, and it was his intention to establish an effective web of observation posts in and around Dubai before the Snow Maiden arrived. It all sounded excellent in theory. It always did.

  The lockout drills were performed quickly, with each group standing inside the trunk in rising water, exiting the submarine, and reentering. There was some concern over Thomas’s ability to remain calm, but the Splinter Cell went through the motions quite admirably. Afterward, Brent congratulated the man and said his brother would have been proud. Thomas agreed.

  Lakota brushed past Brent in the confined passageway outside his stateroom and asked if he’d ever had sex onboard a submarine.

  He stood there, dumbfounded, speechless, shocked even…

  And then just as quickly, she sang, “Kidding…” and started away.

  “That’s sexual harassment,” he said.

  She glanced back salaciously. “So?”

  “I could write you up for that.”

  “Before or after?”

  She rounded the corner, gone.

  “Damn,” he muttered. If insubordination didn’t get him busted out of the Army, temptation like that would.

  “Captain?” called the ship’s XO. “We have Major Dennison for you. She’s got updated intelligence on your target. If you’ll follow me…”

  “Does it sound good?” Brent asked.

  “There’s a lot of activity at your infiltration point. And there’s been some Russian sub movement. We might even have a shadow. You boys come with a lot of baggage.”

  “Yeah. It is what it is.”

  * * *

  The meeting with Patti was canceled, and that same morning a private jet belonging to the Ganjin flew the Snow Maiden, Hussein, and Chopra from Geneva to Fujairah, one of the seven oil-rich emirates that made up the old United Arab Emirates. Fujairah was located on the Gulf of Oman, about an hour’s car ride directly east of Dubai. They were put up in the Hilton Fujairah Resort, where they were to remain until Patti called and was ready with the trucks and team that would head west.