Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Wait a minute, sir. I am not qualified—”

  “As a matter of fact I think you are, but from the outside it will look like you’re not. No, you’re just a very junior consultant gathering information for a low-level report that nobody important will ever read. Half the money we spend in this damned agency goes out the door that way, in case nobody ever told you,” Greer said, his irritation with the Agency giving flight to mild exaggeration. “That’s how routine and pointless we want it to look.”

  “Are you really serious about this?”

  “Chief, Dutch Maxwell is willing to sacrifice his career for those men. So am I. If there’s a way to get them out—”

  “What about the peace talks?”

  How do I explain that to this kid? Greer asked himself. “Colonel Zacharias is officially dead. The other side said so, even published a photo of a body. Somebody went to visit his wife, along with the base chaplain and another Air Force wife to make things easier. Then they gave her a week to vacate the official quarters, just to make things official,” Greer added. “He’s officially dead. I’ve had some very careful talks with some people, and we”—this part came very hard—“our country will not screw up the peace talks over something like this. The photo we have, enhancement and all, isn’t good enough for a court of law, and that’s the standard that is being used. That’s a standard of proof that we can’t possibly meet, and the people who made the decision know it. They don’t want the peace talks sidetracked, and if the lives of twenty more men are necessary to end the goddamned war, then that’s what it takes. Those men are being written off.”

  It was almost too much for Kelly to believe. How many people did America write off every year? And not all were in uniform, were they? Some were right at home, in American cities.

  “It’s really that bad?”

  The fatigue on Greer’s face was unmistakable. “You know why I took this job? I was ready to retire. I’ve served my time, commanded my ships, done my work. I’m ready for a nice house and playing golf twice a week and doing a little consulting on the side, okay? Chief, too many people come to places like this, and reality to them is a memo. They focus in on ‘process’ and forget that there’s a human being at the far end of the paper chain. That’s why I stayed in. Somebody has to try and put a little reality back into the process. We’re handling this as a ’black’ project. Do you know what that means?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.”

  “It’s a new term that’s cropped up. That means it doesn’t exist. It’s crazy. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. Are you on the team or not?”

  New Orleans. . . Kelly’s eyes narrowed for a moment that lingered into fifteen seconds and a slow nod. “If you think I can help, sir, then I will. How much time do I have?”

  Greer managed a smile and tossed a ticket folder into Kelly’s lap. “Your ID is in the name of John Clark; should be easy to remember. You fly down tomorrow afternoon. The return ticket is open, but I want to see you next Friday. I expect good work out of you. My card and private line are in there. Get packed, son.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Greer rose and walked Kelly to the door. “And get receipts for everything. When you work for Uncle Sam you have to make sure everyone gets paid off properly.”

  “I will do that, sir.” Kelly smiled.

  “You can catch the blue bus back to the Pentagon outside.” Greer went back to work as Kelly left the office.

  The blue shuttle bus arrived moments after he walked up to the covered pickup point. It was a curious ride. About half the people who boarded were uniformed, and the other half civilians. Nobody talked to anyone, as though merely exchanging a pleasantry or a comment on the Washington Senators’ continuing residency at the bottom of the American League would violate security. He smiled and shook his head until he reflected on his own secrets and intentions. And yet—Greer had given him an opportunity that he’d not considered. Kelly leaned back in his seat and looked out the window while the other passengers on the bus stared fixedly forward.

  “They’re real happy,” Piaggi said.

  “I told you all along, man. It helps to have the best product on the street.”

  “Not everybody’s happy. Some people are sitting on a couple hundred keys of French stuff, and we’ve knocked the price down with our special introductory offer.”

  Tucker allowed himself a good laugh. The “old guard” had been overcharging for years. That was monopoly pricing for you. Anyone would have taken the two of them for businessmen, or perhaps lawyers, since there were lots of both in this restaurant two blocks from the new Garmatz courthouse. Piaggi was somewhat better dressed, in Italian silk, and he made a mental note to introduce Henry to his tailor. At least the guy had learned how to groom himself. Next he had to learn not to dress too flashy. Respectable was the word. Just enough that people treated you with deference. The flashy ones, like the pimps, were playing a dangerous game that they were too dumb to understand.

  “Next shipment, twice as much. Can your friends handle it?”

  “Easy. The people in Philly are especially happy. Their main supplier had a little accident.”

  “Yeah, I saw the paper yesterday. Sloppy. Too many people in the crew, right?”

  “Henry, you just keep getting smarter and smarter. Don’t get too smart, okay? Good advice,” Piaggi said with quiet emphasis.

  “That’s cool, Tony. What I’m saying is, let’s not make that kind of mistake ourselves, okay?”

  Piaggi relaxed, sipping his beer. “That’s right, Henry. And I don’t mind saying that it’s nice to do business with somebody who knows how to organize. There’s a lot of curiosity about where your stuff comes from. I’m covering that for you. Later on, though, if you need more financing . . . ”

  Tucker’s eyes blazed briefly across the table. “No, Tony. No now, no forever.”

  “Okay for now. Something to think about for later.”

  Tucker nodded, apparently letting it go at that, but wondering what sort of move his “partner” might be planning. Trust, in this sort of enterprise, was a variable quantity. He trusted Tony to pay on time. He’d offered Piaggi favorable terms, which had been honored, and the eggs this goose laid were his real life insurance. He was already at the point that a missed payment wouldn’t harm his operation, and as long as he had a steady supply of good heroin, they’d do business like a business, which was why he’d approached them in the first place. But there was no real loyalty here. Trust stopped at his usefulness. Henry had never expected any more than that, but if his associate ever started pressing on his pipeline . . .

  Piaggi wondered if he’d pressed too far, wondering if Tucker knew the potential of what they were doing. To control distribution on the entire East Coast, and do so from within a careful and secure organization, that was like a dream come true. Surely he would soon need more capital, and his contacts were already asking how they might help. But he could see that Tucker did not recognize the innocence of the inquiry, and if he discussed it further, protesting his goodwill, that would only make things worse. And so Piaggi went back to his lunch and decided to leave things be for a while. It was too bad. Tucker was a very smart small-timer, but still a small-timer at heart. Perhaps he’d learn to grow. Henry could never be “made,” but he could still become an important part of the organization.

  “Next Friday okay?” Tucker asked.

  “Fine. Keep it secure. Keep it smart.”

  “You got it, man.”

  It was an uneventful flight, a Piedmont 737 out of Friendship International Airport. Kelly rode coach, and the stewardess brought him a light lunch. Flying over America was so different from his other adventures aloft. It surprised him how many swimming pools there were. Everywhere you flew, lifting off from the airport, over the rolling hills of Tennessee, the overhead sun would sparkle off little square patches of chlorine-blue water surrounded by green grass. His country appeared to be so benign a place, so comfortable, until you got
closer. But at least you didn’t have to watch for tracer fire.

  The Avis counter had a car waiting, along with a map. It turned out that he could have flown into Panama City, Florida, but New Orleans, he decided, would suit him just fine. Kelly tossed both his suitcases into the trunk and headed east. It was rather like driving his boat, though somewhat more hectic, dead time in which he could let his mind work, examining possibilities and procedures, his eyes sweeping the traffic while his mind saw something else entirely. That was when he started to smile, a thin, composed expression that he never thought about while his imagination took a careful and measured look at the next few weeks.

  Four hours after landing, having passed through the lower ends of Mississippi and Alabama, he stopped his car at the main gate of Eglin AFB. A fitting place for the KINGPIN troopers to have trained, the heat and humidity were an exact match with the country they’d ultimately invaded, hot and moist. Kelly waited outside the guard post for a blue Air Force sedan to meet him. When it did, an officer got out.

  “Mr. Clark?”

  “Yes.” He handed over his ID folder. The officer actually saluted him, which was a novel experience. Clearly someone was overly impressed with CIA. This young officer had probably never interacted with anybody from there. Of course, Kelly had actually bothered to wear a tie in the hope of looking as respectable as possible.

  “If you’ll follow me, please, sir.” The officer. Captain Griffin, led him to a first-floor room at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, which was somewhat like a medium-quality motel and agreeably close to the beach. After helping Kelly get unpacked, Griffin walked him to the Officers’ Club, where, he said, Kelly had visitor’s privileges. All he had to do was show his room key.

  “I can’t knock the hospitality, Captain.” Kelly felt obligated to buy the first beer. “You know why I’m here?”

  “I work intelligence,” Griffin replied.

  “KINGPIN?” As though in a movie, the officer looked around before replying.

  “Yes, sir. We have all the documents you need ready for you. I hear you worked special ops over there, too.”

  “Correct.”

  “I have one question, sir,” the Captain said.

  “Shoot,” Kelly invited between sips. He’d dried out on the drive from New Orleans.

  “Do they know who burned the mission?”

  “No,” Kelly replied, and on a whim added, “Maybe I can pick up something on that.”

  “My big brother was in that camp, we think. He’d be home now except for whatever . . . ”

  “Motherfucker,” Kelly said helpfully. The Captain actually blushed.

  “If you identify him, then what?”

  “Not my department,” Kelly replied, regretting his earlier comment. “When do I start?”

  “Supposed to be tomorrow morning, Mr. Clark, but the documents are all in my office.”

  “I need a quiet room, a pot of coffee, maybe some sandwiches.”

  “I think we can handle that, sir.”

  “Then let me get started.”

  Ten minutes later, Kelly got his wish. Captain Griffin had supplied him with a yellow legal pad and a battery of pencils. Kelly started off with the first set of reconnaissance photographs, these taken by an RF-101 Voodoo, and as with SENDER GREEN, the discovery of Song Tay had been a complete accident, the random discovery of an unexpected thing in a place expected to have been a minor military training installation. But in the yard of the camp had been letters stomped in the dirt, or arranged with stones or hanging laundry: “K” for “come and get us out of here,” and other such marks that had been made under the eyes of the guards. The list of people who had become involved was a genuine who’s who of the special operations community, names that he knew only by reputation.

  The configuration of the camp was not terribly different from the one in which he was interested now, he saw, making appropriate notes. One document surprised him greatly. It was a memo from a three-star to a two-star, indicating that the Song Tay mission, though important in and of itself, was also a means to an end. The three-star had wanted to validate his ability to get special-ops teams into North Vietnam. That, he said, would open all sorts of possibilities, one of which was a certain dam with a generator room. . . oh, yeah, Kelly realized. The three-star wanted a hunting license, to insert several teams in-country and play the same games OSS had behind German lines in the Second World War. The memo concluded with a note that political factors made the latter aspect of POLAR CIRCLE—one of the first cover names for what became Operation KINGPIN—extremely sensitive. Some would see it as a widening of the war. Kelly looked up, finishing his second cup of coffee. What was it about politicians? he wondered. The enemy could do anything he wanted, but our side was always trembling at the possibility of being seen to widen the war. He’d even seen some of that at his level. The PHOENIX project, the deliberate targeting of the enemy’s political infrastructure, was a matter of the greatest sensitivity. Hell, they wore uniforms, didn’t they? A man in a combat zone wearing a uniform was fair game in anyone’s book of rules, wasn’t he? The other side took out local mayors and schoolteachers with savage abandon. There was a blatant double standard to the way the war had been conducted. It was a troubling thought, but Kelly set it aside as he turned back to the second pile of documents.

  Assembling the team and planning the operation had taken half of forever. Good men all, however. Colonel Bull Simons, another man he knew only by his reputation as one of the toughest sharp-end combat commanders any Army had ever produced. Dick Meadows, a younger man in the same mold. Their only waking thought was to bring harm and distraction to the enemy, and they were skilled in doing so with small forces and minimum exposure. How they must have lusted for this mission, Kelly thought. But the oversight they’d had to deal with. . . Kelly counted ten separate documents to higher authority, promising success—as though a memo could make such a claim in the harsh world of combat operations—before he stopped bothering to count them. So many of them used the same language until he suspected that a form letter had been ginned up by some unit clerk. Probably someone who’d run out of fresh words for his colonel, and then expressed a sergeant’s contempt for the interlocutors by giving them the same words every time, in the expectation that the repeats would never be noticed—and they hadn’t been. Kelly spent three hours going through reams of paper between Eglin and CIA, concerns of deskbound bean-counters distracting the men in green suits, “helpful” suggestions from people who probably wore ties to bed, all of which had required answers from the operators who carried guns . . . and so KINGPIN had grown from a relatively minor and dramatic insertion mission to a Cecil B. De Mille epic which had more than once gone to the White House, there becoming known to the President’s National Security Council staff—

  And that’s where Kelly stopped, at two-thirty in the morning, defeated by the next pile of paper. He locked everything up in the receptacles provided and jogged back to his room at the Q, leaving notice for a seven-o‘clock wake-up call.

  It was surprising how little sleep you needed when there was important work to be done. When the phone rang at seven, Kelly bounced from the bed, and fifteen minutes later was running along the beach barefoot, in a pair of shorts. He was not alone. He didn’t know how many people were based at Eglin, but they were not terribly different from himself. Some had to be special operations types, doing things that he could only guess at. You could tell them from the somewhat wider shoulders. Running was only part of their fitness game. Eyes met and evaluated others, and expressions were exchanged as each man knew what the other was thinking—How tough is he, really?—as an automatic mental exercise, and Kelly smiled to himself that he was enough a part of the community that he merited that kind of competitive respect. A large breakfast and shower left him fully refreshed, enough to get him back to his clerk’s work, and on the walk back to the office building, he asked himself, surprisingly, why he’d ever left this community of men. It was, after
all, the only real home he’d known after leaving Indianapolis.

  And so the days continued. He allowed himself two days of six-hours’ sleep, but never more than twenty minutes for a meal, and not a single drink after that first beer, though his exercise periods grew to several hours per day, mainly, he told himself, to firm up. The real reason was one that he never quite admitted. He wanted to be the toughest man on that early-morning beach, not just an associate part of the small, elite community. Kelly was a SEAL again, more than that, a bullfrog, and more still, he was again becoming Snake. By the third or fourth morning, he could see the change. His face and form were now an expected part of the morning routine for the others. The anonymity only made it better, that and the scars of battle, and some would wonder what he’d done wrong, what mistakes he’d made. Then they would remind themselves that he was still in the business, scars and all, not knowing that he’d left it—quit, Kelly’s mind corrected, with not a little guilt.

  The paperwork was surprisingly stimulating. He’d never before tried to figure things out in quite this way, and he was surprised to find he had a talent for it. The operational planning, he saw, had been a thing of beauty flawed by time and repetition, like a beautiful girl kept too long in her house by a jealous father. Every day the mockup of the Song Tay camp had been erected by the players, and each day, sometimes more than once, taken down lest Soviet reconnaissance satellites take note of what was there. How debilitating that must have been to the soldiers. And it had all taken so long, the soldiers practicing while the higher-ups had dithered, pondering the intelligence information so long that. . . the prisoners had been moved.

  “Damn,” Kelly whispered to himself. It wasn’t so much that the operation might have been betrayed. It had just taken too long. . . and that meant that if it had been betrayed, the leaker had probably been one of the last people to discover what was afoot. He set that thought aside with a penciled question.