Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “I was there at the end. He went out easy,” one of the CIA people told him. Jack didn’t recognize him, though he gave the impression that he’d been waiting for Jack to appear. “You’re Dr. Ryan, right?”

  “Yes,” Jack said quietly.

  “About an hour before he faded out, he said something about—to remember what you two talked about. I don’t know what he meant, sir.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “John Clark.” The man came over to shake Ryan’s hand. “I’m Operations, but Admiral Greer recruited me, too, long time ago.” Clark let out a breath. “Like losing a father. Twice.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan said huskily. He was too tired, too wrung out to hide his emotions.

  “Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and tell you a few stories about the old guy.” Clark was sad, but he was a man accustomed to death. Clearly Ryan was not, which was his good luck.

  The cafeteria was closed, and they got coffee from a waiting-room pot. It was reheated and full of acid, but Ryan didn’t want to go home just yet, and was late remembering that he’d driven his own car in. He’d have to drive himself home tonight. He was too tired for that. He decided to call home and tell Cathy that he’d be staying over in town. CIA had an arrangement with one of the local Marriotts. Clark offered to drive him down, and Jack dismissed his driver. By this time both men decided that a drink wasn’t a bad idea.

  Larson was gone from the room. He’d left a note saying that Maria would be coming in later that night, and he was going to pick her up. Clark had a small bottle of bourbon, and this Marriott had real glasses. He mixed two and handed one over to Jack Ryan.

  “James Greer, the last of the good guys,” Clark said as he raised his glass.

  Jack took a sip. Clark had mixed it a little strong, and he nearly coughed.

  “If he recruited you, how come—”

  “Operations?” Clark smiled. “Well, sir, I never went to college, but Greer spotted me through some of his Navy contacts. It’s a long story, and parts of it I’m not supposed to tell, but our paths have crossed three times.”

  “Oh?”

  “When the French went in to bag those Action Directe folks you found on the satellite photos, I was the liaison officer in Chad. The second time they went in, after the ULA people who took that dislike to you, I was on the chopper. And I’m the fool who went on the beach to bring Mrs. Gerasimov and her daughter out. And that, sir, was all your fault. I do the crazy stuff,” Clark explained. “All the field work that the espionage boys wet their pants over. Of course, maybe they’re just smarter than I am.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You weren’t supposed to know. Sorry we missed on bagging those ULA pukes. I’ve always wanted to apologize to you for that. The French were really good about it. They were so happy with us for fingering Action Directe that they wanted to give us the ULA heads on plaques. But there was this damned Libyan unit out on maneuvers, and the chopper just stumbled on them—that’s a problem when you go zooming in low—and it turned out that the camp was probably empty anyway. Everybody was real sorry it didn’t work out as planned. Might have saved you a little grief. We tried, Dr. Ryan. We surely tried.”

  “Jack.” Ryan held out his glass for a refill.

  “Fine. Call me John.” Clark topped both drinks off. “The Admiral said I could tell you all that. He also said that you tumbled to what was happening down south. I was down there,” Clark said. “What do you want to know?”

  “You sure you can tell me that?”

  “The Admiral said so. He‘s—excuse me, he was a deputy director, and I figure that means I can do what he told me to do. This bureaucratic stuff is a little confusing to a humble line-animal, but I figure you can never go far wrong by telling the truth. Besides, Ritter told me that everything we did was legal, that he had all the permission he needed for this hunting expedition. That permission had to come from one place. Somebody decided that this drug stuff was a ‘clear and present danger’— that’s a quote—to the security of the United States. Only one man has the power to say that for-real, and if he does, he has the authority to do something about it. Maybe I never went to college, but I do read a lot. Where do you want me to start?”

  “At the beginning,” Jack replied. He listened for over an hour.

  “You’re going back?” Ryan asked when he was finished.

  “I think a chance at bagging Cortez is worth it, and I might be able to help with the extraction of those kids up in the mountains. I don’t really like the idea, but it is what I do for a living. I don’t suppose your wife likes all the things she has to do as a doc.”

  “One thing I gotta ask. How did you feel about guiding those bombs in?”

  “How did you feel about shooting people, back when you did it?”

  Jack nodded. “Sorry—I had that coming.”

  “I joined up as a Navy SEAL. Lot of time in Southeast Asia. I got orders to go and kill people, and I went and killed ‘em. That wasn’t a declared war either, was it? You don’t go around braggin’ about it, but it’s the job. Since I joined the Agency I haven’t done very much of that—there have been times when I wished I could have done more of it, ’cause it might have saved a few lives in the long run. I had the head of Abu Nidal in my gunsights, but I never got permission to take the fucker out. Same story with two other people just as bad. It would have been deniable, clean, everything you want, but the lace-panty section at Langley couldn’t make up their minds. They told me to see if it was possible, and it’s just as dangerous to do that as it is to pull the trigger, but I never got the green light to complete the mission. From where I sit, it’s a good mission. Those bastards are the enemies of our country, they kill our citizens—taken out a couple Agency people, too, and not real pretty how they did it—but we don’t do anything about it. Tell me that makes sense. But I follow orders like I’m supposed to. Never violated one since I joined up.”

  “How do you feel about talking to the FBI?”

  “You gotta be kidding. Even if I felt like it, which I don’t, my main concern is those kids up in the hills. You hold me up on that, Jack, and some of them might get killed. Ritter called me earlier this evening and asked if I was willing to go back. I leave eight-forty tomorrow morning for Panama, and I stage from there back into Colombia.”

  “You know how to get in touch with me?”

  “That might be a good idea,” Clark agreed.

  The rest had done everyone good. Aches had eased, and all hoped that the remaining stiffness would be worked out by the first few hours of movement. Captain Ramirez assembled his men and explained the new situation to them. He’d called in via his satellite link and requested extraction. The announcement was met with general approval. Unfortunately, he went on, the request had to be booted upstairs—with a favorable endorsement, VARIABLE had told him—and in any case the helicopter was down for an engine change. They’d be in-country at least one more night, possibly two. Until then, their mission was to evade contact and head for a suitable extraction point. These were already identified, and Ramirez had indicated the one he was heading for. It was fifteen kilometers away to the south. So the job for tonight was to skirt past the group that had been hunting for them. That would be tricky, but once past them it should be clear sailing through an area already swept. They’d try to cover eight or nine klicks tonight and the rest the following night. In any case the mission was over and they were pulling out. The recent arrivals from Team BANNER would form a third fire-team, augmenting KNIFE’S already formidable firepower. Everyone still had at least two-thirds of his original ammo load-out. Food was running short, but they had enough for two days if nobody minded a few stomach rumbles. Ramirez ended his briefing on a confident note. It hadn’t been cheap, and it hadn’t been easy, but they had accomplished their mission and put a real hurtin’ on the druggies. Now everybody had to keep it together for the trip out. The squad members exchanged nods and prepared to leave.

  Ch
avez led off twenty minutes later. The idea was to keep as high on the mountain as they could. The opposition had shown a tendency to camp out lower down, and this way they stood the best chance of keeping clear. As always he was to avoid anything that looked like habitation. That meant giving a wide berth to the coffee plantations and associated villages, but that was what they had been doing anyway. They also had to move as fast as caution allowed, which meant that caution was downgraded. It was something often done in exercises, always with confidence. Ding’s confidence in that sort of thing had also been downgraded by his experience in the field. The good news, as far as he was concerned, was that Ramirez was acting like an officer again. Probably he’d just been tired, too.

  One nice thing about being close to the coffee plantations was that the cover wasn’t so thick. People went into the woods to get fuel for their fires, and that thinned things out quite a bit. What effects it had on erosion wasn’t Chavez’s concern. That helped him to go faster, and he was covering nearly two kilometers per hour, which was far faster than he’d expected. By midnight his legs were telling him about every meter. Fatigue, he was learning again, was a cumulative factor. It took more than one day’s rest to slough off all of its effects, no matter what sort of shape you were in. He wondered if the altitude wasn’t also to blame. In any case he was still fighting to keep up the pace, to keep alert, to remember the path he was supposed to follow. Infantry operations are far more demanding intellectually than most people realize, and intellect is ever the first victim of fatigue.

  He remembered a small village on the map, about half a klick from where he was at the moment, downhill. He’d taken the right turn at a landmark a klick back—he’d rechecked it at the rally point where they’d rested forty minutes earlier. He could hear noise from that direction. It seemed odd. The local peasants worked hard on the coffee plantations, he’d been told. They should have been asleep by now. Ding missed the obvious signal. He didn’t miss the scream—more of a pant, really, the sort of sound made when—

  He switched on his night scope and saw a figure running toward him. He couldn’t tell—then he could. It was a girl, moving with considerable skill through the cover. Behind her was the noise of someone running after her with less skill. Chavez tapped the danger signal on his radio. Behind him everyone stopped and waited for his all-clear.

  There wouldn’t be one. The girl tripped and changed directions. A few seconds later she tripped again and landed right at Chavez’s feet.

  The sergeant clamped his left hand across her mouth. His other hand put a finger to his lips in the universal sign to be quiet. Her eyes went wide and white as she saw him—or more properly, didn’t see him, just a melange of camouflage paint that looked like something from a horror movie.

  “Señorita, you have nothing to fear from me. I am a soldier. I do not molest women. Who is chasing you?” He removed his hand and hoped that she wouldn’t scream.

  But she couldn’t even if she had wanted to, instead gasping out her reply. She’d run too far too fast. “One of their ‘soldiers,’ the men with guns. I—”

  His hand went back on her mouth as the crashing sound came closer.

  “Where are you?” the voice crooned.

  Shit!

  “Run that way,” Chavez told her, pointing. “Do not stop and do not look back. Go!”

  The girl took off and the man made for the noise. He ran right past Ding Chavez and precisely one foot farther. The sergeant clasped his hand across the man’s face and took him down, pulling the head back as he did so. Just as both men hit the ground, Ding’s combat knife made a single lateral cut. He was surprised by the noise. Escaping air from the windpipe combined with the spurting blood to make a gurgling sound that made him cringe. The man struggled for a few futile seconds, then went limp. The victim had a knife of his own, and Chavez set it in the wound. He hoped the girl wouldn’t be blamed for it, but he’d done all that he could as far as she was concerned. Captain Ramirez showed up a minute later and was not very pleased.

  “Didn’t have much choice, sir,” Chavez said in his own defense. Actually he felt rather proud of himself. After all, protecting the weak was the job of the soldier, wasn’t it?

  “Move your ass outa here!”

  The squad moved especially fast to clear the area, but if anyone came looking for the amorous sleepwalker, no one heard anything to suggest it. It was the last incident of the night. They arrived at the preplanned stopover point just before dawn. Ramirez set up his radio and called in.

  “Roger, KNIFE, we copy your position and your objective. We do not as yet have confirmation for the extraction. Please call back around eighteen hundred Lima. We ought to have things set up by then. Over.”

  “Roger, will call back at eighteen hundred. KNIFE out.”

  “Shame about BANNER,” one communicator said to the other.

  “These things do happen.”

  “Your name Johns?”

  “That’s right,” the colonel said without turning at once. He’d just come back from a test flight. The new—actually rebuilt five-year-old—engine worked just fine. The Pave Low III was back in business. Colonel Johns turned to see to whom he was talking.

  “Do you recognize me?” Admiral Cutter asked curtly. He was wearing his full uniform for a change. He hadn’t done that in months, but the three stars on each braided shoulder board gleamed in the morning sun, along with his ribbons and surface-warfare officer’s badge. In fact, the general effect of the undress-white uniform was quite overpowering, right down to the white buck shoes. Just as he had planned.

  “Yes, sir, I do. Please excuse me, sir.”

  “Your orders have been changed, Colonel. You are to return to your stateside base as soon as possible. That means today,” Cutter emphasized.

  “But what about—”

  “That will be taken care of through other means. Do I have to tell you whose authority I speak with?”

  “No, sir, you do not.”

  “You will not discuss this matter with anyone. That means nobody, anywhere, ever. Do you require any further instructions, Colonel?”

  “No, sir, your orders are quite clear.”

  “Very well.” Cutter turned and walked back to the staff car, which drove off at once. His next stop was a hilltop near the Gaillard Cut. There was a communications van there. Cutter walked right past the armed guard—he wore a Marine uniform but was a civilian—and into the van, where he made a similar speech. Cutter was surprised to learn that moving the van would be difficult and would require a helicopter, since the van was too large to be pulled down the little service road. He was, however, able to order them to shut down, and he’d see about getting a helicopter to lift the van out. Until then they would stay put and not do anything. Their security was blown, he explained, and further transmissions would only further endanger the people with whom they communicated. He got agreement on that, too, and left. He boarded his aircraft at eleven in the morning. He’d be home in Washington for supper.

  Mark Bright was there just after lunch. He handed his film cassettes over to a lab expert and proceeded to Dan Murray’s busy office, where he reported what he had seen.

  “I don’t know who he met with, but maybe you’ll recognize the face. How about the Amex number?”

  “It’s a CIA account that he’s had access to for the past two years. This is the first time he’s used it, though. The local guy faxed us a copy so we could run the signature. Forensics has already given us a handwriting match,” Murray said. “You look a little tuckered.”

  “I don’t know why—hell, I must have slept three hours in the past day and a half. I’ve done my D.C. time. Mobile was supposed to be a nice vacation.”

  Murray grinned. “Welcome back to the unreal world of Washington.”

  “I had to get some help to pull this off,” Bright said next.

  “Like what?” Murray wasn’t smiling anymore.

  “Air Force personnel, intel and CID types. I told ‘em
this was code-word material, and, hell, even if I had told them everything I know, which I didn’t, I don’t know what the story is myself. I take responsibility, of course, but if I hadn’t done it, I probably wouldn’t have gotten the shots.”

  “Sounds to me like you did the right thing,” Murray said. “I don’t suppose you had much choice in the matter. It happens like that sometimes.”

  Bright acknowledged the official forgiveness. “Thanks.”

  They had to wait five more minutes for the photographs. Decks had been cleared for this case, but even priority cases took time, much to the annoyance of everyone. The technician—actually a section chief—arrived with the moist prints.

  “I figured you’d want these babies in a hurry.”

  “You figured right, Marv—Holy Christ!” Murray exclaimed. “Marv, this is code-word.”

  “You already told me, Dan. Lips are zipped. We can enhance them some, but that’ll take another hour. Want me to get that started?”

  “Fast as you can.” Murray nodded, and the technician left. “Christ,” Murray said again when he reexamined the photos. “Mark, you take a mean picture.”

  “So who the hell is it?”

  “Félix Cortez.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Used to be a DGI colonel. We missed him by a whisker when we bagged Filiberto Ojeda.”

  “The Macheteros case?” That didn’t make any sense.

  “No, not exactly.” Murray shook his head. He spoke almost reverently, thought for a minute, and called for Bill Shaw to come down. The acting Director was there within a minute. Agent Bright was still in the dark when Murray pointed his boss to the photographs. “Bill, you ain’t going to believe this one.”

  “So who the hell is Félix Cortez?” Bright asked.