Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  They’re coming back, aren’t they? he asked the night. Jack rose off the leather couch and walked to the windows. It was a clear night. Out on the Chesapeake Bay, he could see the running lights of ships plying their way to or from the Port of Baltimore, and the more ornate displays of tug-barge combinations that plodded along more slowly.

  He didn’t know how he could have been so slow on the uptake. Perhaps because the activity at Camp -18 almost tracked with the pattern that he’d tried repeatedly to discern. It was about the right time for them to show up for refresher training. But it was equally likely that they were planning something big. Like maybe right here....

  “Jesus. You were too close to the problem, Jack,” he whispered. It was public knowledge—had been for a couple of weeks—that they were coming over, and the ULA had already demonstrated its ability to operate in America, he remembered. And we’re bringing known targets into our home! Real smart, Jack. In retrospect it was amazing enough. They’d accepted the backward invitation without the first thought ... and even when the security people had been here the previous day, he’d made jokes. You asshole!

  He thought over the security provisions, taking himself back again to his time in the Corps. As an abstract battle problem, his house was a tough objective. You couldn’t do anything from the east—the cliff was a more dangerous obstacle than a minefield. North and south, the woods were so thick and tangled that even the most skilled commando types would be hard-pressed to come through without making a horrendous racket—and they sure as hell couldn’t practice that kind of skill in a barren, treeless desert! So they had to come from the west. How many people did Avery say—well, he didn’t say, but I got the impression of about twenty.

  Twenty security people, armed and trained. He remembered the days from the Basic Officer’s Course at Quantico, and the nights. Twenty-two years old, invincible and immortal, drinking beer at local bars. There’d been one night at a place called the Command Post, the one with a picture of Patton on the wall, when he’d started talking to a couple of instructors from the FBI Academy, just south of the Marine base. They were every bit as proud as his brother Marines. They never bothered to say “we are the best.” They simply assumed that everyone knew it. Just like us. The next day he’d accepted the invitation to shoot on their range and settle a gentlemanly wager. It had cost him ten dollars to learn that one of them was the chief firearms instructor. God, I wonder if Breckenridge could beat him! The Secret Service wouldn’t be very different, given their mission. Would you want to tangle with them? Hell, no!

  If I assume that the ULA is as smart as it seems to be ... and it is an unannounced trip, a private sort of thing.... They won’t know to come here, and even if they did, if they’re too smart to take this one on ... it should be safe, shouldn’t it?

  But that was a word whose meaning was forever changed. Safe. It was something no longer real.

  Jack walked around the fireplace into the house’s bedroom wing. Sally was sleeping, with Ernie curled up on the foot of the bed. His head came up when Jack entered the room, as if to say, “Yes?”

  His little girl was lying there, at peace, dreaming a child’s dreams while her father contemplated the nightmare that still hovered over his family, the one he’d allowed himself to forget for a few hours. He straightened the covers and patted the dog on the head before leaving the room.

  Jack wondered how public figures did it. They lived with the nightmare all the time. He remembered congratulating the Prince for not letting such a threat dominate his life: Well done, old boy, that’ll show them! Be a fearless target! It was a very different thing when you were yourself the target, Ryan admitted to the night, when your family was the target. You put on the brave face, and followed your instructions, and wondered if every car on the street could hold a man with a machine gun who was bent on making your death into a very special political statement. You could keep your mind off it during the day when you had work to do, but at night, when the mind wanders and dreams begin ...

  The dualism was incredible. You couldn’t dwell on it, but neither could you allow yourself to forget it. You couldn’t let your life be dominated by fear, but you couldn’t ever lapse into a feeling of security. A sense of fatalism would have helped, but Ryan was a man who had always deemed himself the master of his fate. He would not admit that anything else could be true. He wanted to lash out, if not at them, then at destiny, but both were as far beyond his reach as the ships whose lights passed miles from his windows. The safety of his family had almost been assured—

  We came so close! he cried silently to the night.

  They’d almost done it. They’d almost won that one battle, and they had helped others win another. He could fight back, and he knew that he could do it best by working at that desk in Langley, by joining the team full-time. He would not be the master of his fate, but at least he could play a part. He had played a part. It had been important enough—if only an accident—to Françoise Theroux, that pretty, malignant thing now dead. And so the decision was made. The people with guns would play their part, and the man behind the desk would play his. Jack would miss the Academy, miss the eager young kids, but that was the price he’d have to pay for getting back into the game. Jack got a drink of water before going back to bed.

  Plebe Summer started on schedule. Jack watched with impassive sympathy as the recently graduated high school seniors were introduced to the rigors of military life. The process was consciously aimed at weeding out the weak as early as possible, and so it was largely in the hands of upperclassmen who had only recently been through the same thing. The new youngsters were at the debatable mercy of the older ones, running around with their closely cropped hair to the double-time cadence of students only two years their senior.

  “Morning, Jack!” Robby came over to watch with him from the parking lot.

  “You know, Rob, Boston College was never like this.”

  “If you think this is a Plebe Summer,” Jackson snorted, “you should have seen what it was like when I was here!”

  “I bet they’ve been saying that for a hundred years,” Jack suggested.

  “Probably so.” The white-clad plebes passed like a herd of buffalo, all gasping for air on the hot, humid morning. “We kept better formations, though.”

  “The first day?”

  “The first few days were a blur,” Jackson admitted.

  “Packing up?”

  Jackson nodded. “Most of the gear’s already in boxes. I have to get my relief settled in.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You’re leaving?” Robby was surprised.

  “I told Admiral Greer that I wanted in.”

  “Admiral—oh, the guy at CIA. You’re going to do it, eh? How did the department take it?”

  “I think you can say that they managed to restrain their tears. The boss isn’t real happy about all the time I missed this year. So it looks like we’re both having a going-away dinner.”

  “Jeez, it’s this Friday, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Can you show up about eight-fifteen?”

  “You got it. You said not dressy, right?”

  “That’s right.” Jack smiled. Gotcha.

  The RAF VC-10 aircraft touched down at Andrews Air Force Base at eight in the evening and taxied to the same terminal used by Air Force One. The reporters noted that security was very tight, with what looked to be a full company of Air Police in view, plus the plainclothes Secret Service agents. They told themselves that security at this particular part of the base was always strict. The plane came to a halt at exactly the right place, and the stairs were rolled to the forward door, which opened after a moment.

  At the foot of the stairs waited the Ambassador and officials from the State Department. Inside the aircraft, security men made a final check out the windows. Finally His Highness appeared in the doorway, joined by his young wife, waving to the distant spectators, and descending the stairs gingerly despite legs that were stiff from the flight.
At the bottom a number of military officers from two nations saluted, and the State Department protocol officer curtsied. This would earn her a reprimand from the Washington Post’s arbiter of manners in the morning edition. The six-year-old granddaughter of the base commander presented Her Highness with a dozen yellow roses. Strobes flashed, and both royal personages smiled dutifully at the cameras while they took the time to say something pleasant to everyone in the receiving line. The Prince shared a joke with a naval officer who had once commanded him, and the Princess said something about the oppressive, muggy weather that had persisted into the evening. The Ambassador’s wife pointed out that the climate here was such that Washington D.C. had once been considered a hazardous-duty station. The malarial mosquitoes were long gone, but the climate hadn’t changed very much. Fortunately, everyone had air conditioning. Reporters noted the color, style, and cut of the Princess’s outfit, especially her “daring” new hat. She stood with the poise of a professional model while her husband looked as casual as a Texas cowboy, as incongruous as that might have seemed, one hand in his pocket and a relaxed grin on his face. The Americans who’d never met the couple before found him wonderfully easy-going, and of course every man there had long since fallen in love with the Princess, along with most of the Western world.

  The security people saw none of this. They all had their backs to the scene, their eyes scanning the crowd, their faces stamped into the same serious expression while each with various degrees of emphasis thought: Please, God, not while I’m on duty. Every one had a radio earpiece constantly providing information that their brains monitored while their eyes were otherwise occupied.

  Finally they moved to the embassy’s Rolls-Royce, and the motorcade formed up. Andrews had a number of gates, and the one they took had been decided upon only an hour before. The route into town was its own traffic jam of marked and unmarked cars. Two additional Rolls-Royce automobiles, of exactly the same model and color, were dispersed through the procession, each with a lead- and chase-car, and a helicopter was overhead. If anyone had taken the time to count the firearms present, the total would have been nearly a hundred. The arrival had been timed to allow swift passage through Washington, and twenty-five minutes later the motorcade got to the British Embassy. A few minutes after that, Their Highnesses were safely in the building, and for the moment the responsibility of someone else. Most of the local security people dispersed, heading back to their homes or stations, but ten men and women stayed around the building, most invisibly hidden in cars and vans, while a few extra uniformed police walked the perimeter.

  “America,” O’Donnell said. “The land of opportunity.” The television news coverage came on at eleven, and had tape of the arrival.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing now?” Miller asked.

  “Working on their jet lag, I imagine,” his chief observed. “Getting a good night’s sleep. So, all ready here?”

  “Yes, the safehouse is all prepared for tomorrow. Alex and his people are ready, and I’ve gone over the changes in the plan.”

  “They’re from Alex, too?”

  “Yes, and if I hear one more bit of advice from that arrogant bastard—”

  “He is one of our revolutionary brethren,” O’Donnell noted with a smile. “But I know what you mean.”

  “Where’s Mike?”

  “Belfast. He’ll run Phase Two.”

  “The timing is all set?”

  “Yes. Both brigade commanders, and the whole Army Council. We should be able to get them all....” O‘Donnell finally revealed his plan in toto. McKenney’s penetration agents either worked closely with all of the senior PIRA people or knew those who did. On command from O’Donnell, they would assassinate them all, completely removing the Provisionals’ military leadership. There would be no one left to run the Organization ... except one man whose masterstroke mission would catapult him back to respectability with rank-and-file Provos. With his hostages, he’d get the release of all the men “behind the wire” even if it meant mailing the Prince of Wales to Buckingham Palace one cubic centimeter at a time. O‘Donnell was certain of this. For all the brave, pious talk in Whitehall, it was centuries since an English king had faced death, and the idea of martyrdom sat better with revolutionaries than with those in power. Public pressure would see to that. They would have to negotiate to save the life of the heir to the throne. The scope of this operation would enliven the Movement, and Kevin Joseph O’Donnell would lead a revolution reborn in boldness and blood....

  “Changing of the guard, Jack?” Marty observed. He, too, had packed up his things. A security officer would check the box before he left.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, but you can get tired of watching daytime TV.”

  “Taking all your pills?” Ryan asked.

  “I’ll never forget again, Mom,” was the answer.

  “I see there’s nothing new on our friends.”

  “Yeah. They dropped back into that black hole they live in. The FBI is worried that they’re over here, of course, but there hasn’t even been a hint of it. Of course, whenever anybody’s felt secure dealing with these bastards, they’ve gotten bit on the ass. Still, about the only outfit that isn’t on alert is the Delta Force. All kinds of assets are standing by. If they’re over here and they show anybody a whisker, the whole world is going to come crashing in on them. ‘Call in the whole world.’ We used to say that in Vietnam.” Cantor grunted. “I’ll be in Monday and Tuesday. You don’t have to say goodbye yet. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too.” Ryan walked out, with a new security pass hanging around his neck and his jacket draped over his shoulder. It was hot outside, and his Rabbit didn’t have air conditioning. The drive home along Route 50 was complicated by all the people heading to Ocean City for the weekend, anything to get away from the heat that had covered the area like an evil spell for two weeks. They were in for a surprise, Jack thought. A cold front was supposed to come through.

  “Howard County Police,” the Desk Sergeant said. “Can I help you?”

  “This is 911, right?” It was a male voice.

  “Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

  “Hey, uh, my wife said I shouldn’t get involved, you know, but—”

  “Can you give me your name and phone number, please?”

  “No way—look, this house, uh, down the street. There’s people there with guns, you know? Machine guns.”

  “Say that again.” The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed.

  “Machine guns—no shit, I saw an M-60 machine gun, like in the Army—y’know, thirty caliber, feeds off a belt, heavy bitch to pack along, a real friggin’ machine gun. I saw some other stuff, too.”

  “Where?”

  The voice became rapid. “Eleven-sixteen Green Cottage Lane. There’s maybe—I mean I saw four of ‘em, one black and three white. They were unloading the guns from a van. It was three in the morning. I had to get up an’ take a leak, and I looked out the bathroom window, y’know? The garage door was open, and the light was on, and when they passed the gun across, it was in the light, like, and I could tell it was a sixty. Hey, I used to carry one in the Army, y’know? Anyway, that’s it, man, you wanna do something about it, that’s your lookout.” The line clicked off. The Sergeant called his captain at once.

  “What is it?” The Sergeant handed over his notes. “Machine gun? M-60?”

  “He said it was—he said it was a thirty-caliber that feeds off a belt. That’s the M-60. That alert we got from the FBI, Captain...”

  “Yeah.” The Station Commander had visions of promotion dangling before his eyes—but also visions of his men in a pitched battle where the perpetrators had better weapons. “Get a car out there. Tell them to keep out of sight and take no action. I’m going to request a SWAT callup and get hold of the feds.”

  Less than a minute later a police car was heading to the area. The responding officer was a six-year veteran of the county police who very much wanted
to be a seven-year veteran. It took him almost ten minutes to reach the scene. He parked his car a block away, behind a large shrub, and was able to watch the house without exposing himself as a police officer. The shotgun that usually hung under the dashboard was in his sweating hands now, with a double-ought buck round chambered. Another car was four minutes behind his, and two more officers joined him. Then the whole world really did seem to arrive. First a patrol sergeant, then a lieutenant, then two captains, and finally, two agents from the FBI’s Baltimore office. The officer who had first responded was now one of the Indians in a tribe top-heavy with chiefs.

  The FBI Special Agent in Charge for the Baltimore office set up a radio link with the Washington headquarters, but left the operation in the hands of the local police. The county police had its own SWAT team, like most local forces did, and they quickly went to work. The first order of business was to evacuate the people from the area’s homes. To everyone’s relief, they were able to do that from the rear in every case. The people removed from their homes were immediately interviewed. Yes, they had seen people in that house. Yes, they were mostly white, but there had been at least one black person. No, they hadn’t seen any guns—in fact, they hardly saw the people at all. One lady thought they had a van, but if so, it was usually kept in the garage. The interviews went on while the SWAT team moved in. The neighborhood houses were all of the same style and design, and the men made a quick check through one to establish its layout. Another set up a scope-sighted rifle in the house directly across the street and used his sight to examine the target home’s windows.

  The SWAT team might have waited, but the longer they did that, the greater was the risk of alerting their quarry. They moved in slowly and carefully, skillfully using cover and concealment until they were within fifty feet of the target house. Anxious, sharp eyes scanned the windows for movement and saw none. Could they all be asleep? The team leader went in first, sprinting across the yard and stopping under a window. He held up a stick-on microphone and attached it to the corner of the window, listening to an earpiece for a sign of occupancy. The second-in-command watched the man’s head cock almost comically to one side, then he spoke into a radio that all his team members could hear: “The TV’s on. No conversation, I—something else, can’t make it out.” He motioned for his team to approach, one at a time, while he crouched under the window, gun at the ready. Three minutes later the team was ready.