by Tom Clancy
“I know about that. I took care of that. Sergeant Chavez is doing something that you do not need to know about. Period. End. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
The line clicked off.
“Shit,” Lieutenant Jackson observed.
Sergeant Mitchell hadn’t caught any words from the conversation, but the buzz from the phone line had made it to the doorway he was standing in.
“Chavez?”
“Yeah. Some colonel at Special Ops—Fort MacDill, I guess—says that they have him and he’s off doing something. And I don’t need to know about that. Says he took care of Fort Benning for us.”
“Oh, horseshit,” Mitchell observed, taking his place in the seat opposite the lieutenant’s desk, after which he asked: “Mind if I sit down, sir?”
“What do you suppose is going on?”
“Beats the hell outa me, sir. But I know a guy at MacDill. Think I’ll make a phone call tomorrow. I don’t like one of my guys getting lost like that. It’s not supposed to work like that. He didn’t have no place chewing your ass either, sir. You’re just doin’ your job, looking after your people that way, and you don’t come down on people for doing their job. In case nobody ever told you, sir,” Mitchell explained, “you don’t chew some poor lieutenant’s ass over something like this. You make a quiet call to the battalion commander, or maybe the S-1, and have him settle things nice ’n quiet. Lieutenants get picked on enough by their own colonels without needin’ to get chewed on by strange ones. That’s why things go through channels, so you know who’s chewing’ ya’.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Jackson said with a smile. “I needed that.”
“I told Ozkanian that he ought to concentrate a little more on leadin’ his squad instead of trying to be Sergeant Rock. I think this time he’ll listen. He’s a pretty good kid, really. Just needs a little seasoning.” Mitchell stood. “See you at PT tomorrow, sir. Good night.”
“Right. ‘Night, Sergeant.” Tim Jackson decided that sleep made more sense than paperwork and headed off to his car. On the drive to the BOQ, he was still pondering the call he’d gotten from Colonel O’Mara, whoever the hell he was. Lieutenants didn’t interact with bird-colonels very much—he’d made his (required) New Year’s Day appearance at the brigade commander’s home, but that was it. New lieutenants were supposed to maintain a low profile. On the other hand, one of the many lessons remembered from West Point was that he was responsible for his men. The fact that Chavez hadn’t arrived at Fort Benning, that his departure from Ord had been so ... irregular, and that his natural and responsible inquiry into his man’s situation had earned him nothing more than a chewing only made the young officer all the more curious. He’d let Mitchell make his calls, but he’d stay out of it for the moment, not wanting to draw additional attention to himself until he knew what the hell he was doing. In this Tim Jackson was fortunate. He had a big brother on Pentagon duty who knew how things were supposed to work and was pushing hard for O-6—captain’s or colonel’s—rank, even if he was a squid. Robby could give him some good advice, and advice was what he needed.
It was a nice, smooth flight in the COD. Even so, Robby Jackson didn’t like it much. He didn’t like sitting in an aft-facing seat, but mainly he didn’t like being in an airplane unless he had the stick. A fighter pilot, test pilot, and most recently commander of one of the Navy’s elite Tomcat squadrons, he knew that he was about the best flyer in the world, and didn’t like trusting his life to the lesser skills of another aviator. Besides, on Navy aircraft the stewardesses weren’t worth a damn. In this case it was a pimply-faced kid from New York, judging by his accent, who’d managed to spill coffee on the guy next to him.
“I hate these things,” the man said.
“Yeah, well, it ain’t Delta, is it?” Jackson noted as he tucked the folder back in his bag. He had the new tactical scheme committed to memory. As well he might. It was mainly his idea.
The man wore khaki uniform clothing, with a “U.S.” insignia on his collar. That made him a tech-rep, a civilian who was doing something or other for the Navy. There were always some aboard a carrier—electronics specialists or various sorts of engineers who either provided special service to a new piece of gear or helped train the Navy personnel who did. They were given the simulated rank of warrant officer, but treated more or less as commissioned officers, eating in the officers’ mess and quartered in relative luxury—a very relative term on a U.S. Navy ship unless you were a captain or an admiral, and tech-reps did not rate that sort of treatment.
“What are you going out for?” Robby asked.
“Checking out performance on a new piece of ordnance. I’m afraid I can’t say any more than that.”
“One of them, eh?” “’Fraid so,” the man said, examining the coffee stain on his knee.
“Do this a lot?”
“First time,” the man said. “You?”
“I fly off boats for a living, but I’m serving time in the Pentagon now. OP-05’s office, fighter-tactics desk.”
“Never made a carrier landing,” the man added nervously.
“Not so bad,” Robby assured him. “Except at night.”
“Oh?” The man wasn’t too scared to know that it was dark outside.
“Yeah, well, carrier landings aren’t all that bad in daylight. Flying into a regular airfield, you look ahead and pick the spot you’re gonna touch on. Same thing on a carrier, just the runway’s smaller. But at night you can’t really see where you’re gonna touch. So that makes it a little twitchy. Don’t sweat it. The gal we got driving—”
“A girl?”
“Yeah, a lot of the COD drivers are girls. The one up front is pretty good, instructor pilot, they tell me.” It always made people safer to think that the pilot was an instructor, except: “She’s breaking in a new ensign tonight,” Jackson added maliciously. He loved to needle people who didn’t like flying. It was always something he bothered his friend Jack Ryan about.
“New ensign?”
“You know, a kid out of P-cola. Guess he wasn’t good enough for fighters or attack bombers, so he flies the delivery truck. They gotta learn, right? Everybody makes a first night carrier landing. I did. No big deal,” Jackson said comfortably. Then he checked to make sure his safety belts were nice and tight. Over the years he’d found that one sure way of alleviating fear was to hand it over to someone else.
“Thanks.”
“You part of the Shoot-Ex?”
“Huh?”
“The exercise we’re running. We get to shoot some real missiles at target drones. ‘Shoot-Ex.’ Missile-Firing Exercise.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh, I was hoping you were a guy from Hughes. We want to see if the fix on the Phoenix guidance package really works or not.”
“Oh, sorry—no. I work with something else.”
“Okay.” Robby pulled a paperback from his pocket and started reading. Now that he was sure there was somebody on the COD more uncomfortable than he was, he could concentrate on the book. He wasn’t really frightened, of course. He just hoped that the new nugget sitting in the copilot’s right seat wouldn’t splatter the COD and its passengers all over the ramp. But there wasn’t much that he could do about that.
The squad was tired when they got back to the RON site. They took their positions while the captain made his radio call. One of each pair immediately stripped his weapon down for cleaning, even those few who hadn’t gotten a shot off.
“Well, Oso and his SAW got on the scoreboard tonight,” Vega observed as he pulled a patch through the twenty-one-inch barrel. “Nice work, Ding,” he added.
“They weren’t very good.”
“Hey, ’mano, we do our thing right, they don’t have the chance to be very good.”
“It’s been awful easy so far, man. Might change.”
Vega looked up for a moment. “Yeah. That’s right.”
At geosynchronous height over Brazil, a weather satellite of the National Oce
anic and Atmospheric Administration had its low-resolution camera pointed forever downward at the planet it had left eleven months before and to which it would never return. It seemed to hover almost in a fixed position, twenty-two thousand six hundred miles over the emerald-green jungles of the Amazon valley, but in fact it was moving at a speed of about seven thousand miles per hour, its easterly orbital path exactly matching the rotation speed of the earth below. The satellite had other instruments, of course, but this particular color-TV camera had the simplest of jobs. It watched clouds that floated in the air like distant balls of cotton. That so prosaic a function could be important was so obvious as to be hard to recognize. This satellite and its antecedents had saved thousands of lives and were arguably the most useful and efficient segment of America’s space program. The lives saved were those of sailors for the most part, sailors whose ships might otherwise stray into the path of an undetected storm. From its perch, the satellite could see from the great Southern Ocean girdling Antarctica to beyond the North Cape of Norway, and no storm escaped its notice.
Almost directly below the satellite, conditions still not fully understood gave birth to cyclonic storms in the broad, warm Atlantic waters off the West Coast of Africa, from which they were carried westward toward the New World, where they were known by the West Indian name, hurricane. Data from the satellite was downlinked to NOAA’s National Hurricane Center at Coral Gables, Florida, where meteorologists and computer scientists were working as part of a multiyear project to determine how the storms began and why they moved as they did. The busy season for these scientists was just beginning. Fully a hundred people, some with their doctor’s degrees years behind them, others summer interns from a score of universities, examined the photographs for the first storm of the season. Some hoped for many, that they might study and learn from them. The more experienced scientists knew that feeling, but also knew that those massive oceanic storms were the most destructive and deadly force of nature, and regularly killed thousands who lived too close to the sea. They also knew that the storms would come in their own good time, for no one had a provable model for explaining exactly why they formed. All man could do was see them, track them, measure their intensity, and warn those in their path. The scientists also named them. The names were chosen years in advance, always starting at the top of the alphabet and proceeding downward. The first name on the list for the current year was Adele.
As the camera watched, clouds grew skyward five hundred miles from the Cape Verde islands, cradle of hurricanes. Whether it would become an organized tropical cyclone or simply be just another large rainstorm, no one could say. It was still early in the season. But it had all the makings of a big season. The West African desert was unusually hot for the spring, and heat there had a demonstrable connection with birth of hurricanes.
The truck driver appeared at the proper time to collect the men and the paste processed from the coca leaves, but they weren’t there as expected. He waited an hour, and still they weren’t there. There were two men with him, of course, and these he sent up to the processing site. The driver was the “senior” man of the group and didn’t want to be bothered climbing those cursed mountains anymore. So while he smoked his cigarettes, they climbed. He waited another hour. There was quite a bit of traffic on the highway, especially big diesel trucks whose mufflers and pollution controls were less well attended to than was the case in other, more prosperous regions—besides, their removal made for improved fuel economy in addition to the greater noise and smoke. Many of the big tractor-trailer combinations roared past, vibrating the roadbed and rocking his own truck in the rush of air. That was why he missed the sound. After waiting a total of ninety minutes, it was clear that he’d have to go up himself. He locked the truck, lit yet another cigarette, and began his way up the path.
The driver found it hard going. Though he’d grown up in these hills, and could remember a boyhood in which a thousand-foot climb was just another footrace with his playmates, he’d been driving the truck for some time, and his leg muscles were more accustomed to pushing down pedals than this sort of thing. What would once have taken forty minutes now took over an hour, and with the place almost in sight he was venomously angry, too angry and too tired to pay attention to things that ought to have been obvious by now. He could still hear the traffic sounds on the road below, could hear the birds twittering in the trees around him, but nothing else when he should have been hearing something. He paused, bending over to catch his breath when he got his first warning. It was a dark spot on the trail. Something had turned the brown earth to black, but that could have been anything, and he was in a hurry to see what the problem was up the hill and didn’t ponder it. After all, there hadn’t been any problem lately with the army or the police, and he wondered why the refining work was done so far up the mountainside in any case. It was no longer necessary.
Five minutes more and he could see the little clearing, and only now he noticed that there were no sounds coming from it, though there was an odd, acrid smell. Doubtless the acid used in the prerefining process, he was sure. Then he made the last turn and saw.
The truck driver was not a man unaccustomed to violence. He’d been involved in the pre-Cartel fighting and had also killed a few M-19 sympathizers in the wars because of which the Cartel had actually been formed. He’d seen blood, therefore, and had spilled some himself.
But not like this. All fourteen of the men he’d driven in the previous night were lined up shoulder to shoulder in a neat little row on the ground. The bodies were already bloated, and animals had been picking at several of the open wounds. The two men he’d dispatched up the mountainside were more freshly dead. Though the driver didn’t fathom it, they’d been killed by a claymore mine triggered when they’d examined the bodies, and their bodies were newly shredded, with major sections missing where the ball-bearing-sized fragments had struck, and with the blood still trickling out. One’s face showed the surprise and shock. The other man was facedown, with a section about the size of a shoe box messily removed from his back.
The driver stood still for a minute or so, afraid to move in any direction, his quivering hands reaching for another cigarette, then dropping two which he was too terrified to reach for. Before he could get a third, he turned and moved carefully down the path. A hundred meters after that, he was running for his life as every bird call and every breeze through the trees sounded to him like an approaching soldier. They had to be soldiers. He was sure of that. Only soldiers killed with that sort of precision. “That was a splendid paper you delivered this afternoon. We hadn’t considered the Soviet ‘nationalities’ question as thoroughly as you have. Your analytical skills are as sharp as ever.” Sir Basil Charleston raised his glass in salute. “Your promotion was well earned. Congratulations, Sir John.”
“Thanks, Bas’. I just wish it could have happened another way,” Ryan said.
“That bad?”
Jack nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“And Emil Jacobs, too. Bloody bad time for your chaps.”
Ryan smiled rather grimly. “You might say that.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much I can say about that,” Jack replied carefully. I don’t know, but I can’t exactly say that, can I?
“Quite so.” The head of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service nodded sagely. “Whatever your response is, I’m sure it will be appropriate.”
At that moment he knew that Greer had been right. He had to know such things or risk being taken for a fool by his counterparts here and everywhere else in the world. He’d get home in a few more days and talk things over with Judge Moore. Ryan was supposed to have some bureaucratic muscle now. Might as well flex it a little to see if it worked.
Commander Jackson woke after six hours’ sleep. He, too, enjoyed that greatest of luxuries aboard a warship, privacy. His rank and former station as a squadron commander put him high on the list of VIPs, and there
happened to be a spare one-man stateroom in this floating city. His was just under the flight deck forward. Close to the bow catapults by the sound of things, which explained why one of Ranger’s own squadron commanders didn’t want it. On arrival, he’d made the necessary courtesy calls, and he didn’t have any official duties to attend to for another... three hours. After washing and shaving and morning coffee, he decided to do a few things on his own. Robby headed below for the carrier’s magazine.
This was a large compartment with a relatively low ceiling where the bombs and missiles were kept. Several rooms, really, with nearby shops so that the “smart” weapons could be tested and repaired by ordnance technicians. Jackson’s personal concern was with the AIM-54C Phoenix air-to-air missiles. There had been problems with the guidance systems, and one purpose of the battle-group exercise was to see if the contractor’s fix really worked or not.
Entry into the space was restricted, for obvious reasons. Robby identified himself to a senior chief petty officer, and it turned out that they’d both served on the Kennedy a few years before. Together they entered a work space where some “ordies” were playing with the missiles, with an odd-looking box hanging on the pointed nose of one.
“What d’ya think?” one asked.
“Reads out okay to me, Duke,” the one on the oscilloscope replied. “Let me try some simulated jamming.”
“That’s the bunch we’re prepping for the Shoot-Ex, sir,” the senior chief explained. “So far they seem to be working all right, but...”
“But wasn’t it you who found the problem in the first place?” Robby asked.
“Me and my old boss, Lieutenant Frederickson.” The chief nodded. The discovery had resulted in several million dollars in penalties to the contractor. And all the AIM-54C missiles in the fleet had been decertified for several months, taking away what should have been the most capable air-to-air missile in the Navy. He led Jackson to the rack of test equipment. “How many we supposed to shoot?”