Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  Ritter nodded. He’d read through the plan, and had only wished to hear it from Maxwell—more to the point, to hear how he expressed himself. The Admiral was calm and confident, more so than Ritter had expected.

  “It’s still very risky,” he said after a moment.

  “It is that,” Marty Young agreed.

  “What’s the risk to our country if the people in that camp tell everything they know?” Maxwell asked.

  Kelly wanted to step back from this part of the discussion. Danger to country was something beyond his purview. His reality was at the small-unit level—or, more recently, even lower than that—and though his country’s health and welfare started at that lowest common denominator, the big stuff required a perspective he didn’t have. But there was no gracious way for him to withdraw, and so he stayed and listened and learned.

  “You want an honest answer?” Ritter asked. “I’ll give you one—none.”

  Maxwell took it with surprising calm that concealed outrage. “Son, you want to explain that?”

  “Admiral, it’s a matter of perspective. The Russians want to know a lot about us, and we want to know a lot about them. Okay, so this Zachary guy can tell them about SAC War Plans, and the other notional people there can tell them other things. So—we change our plans. It’s the strategic stuff you’re worried about, right? First, those plans change on a monthly basis. Second, do you ever think we’ll implement them?”

  “We might have to someday.”

  Ritter fished out a cigarette. “Admiral, do you want us to implement those plans?”

  Maxwell stood a little straighter. “Mr. Ritter, I flew my F6F over Nagasaki just after the war ended. I’ve seen what those things do, and that was just a little one.” Which was all the answer anyone needed.

  “And they feel the same way. How does that grab you, Admiral?” Ritter just shook his head. “They’re not crazy either. They’re even more afraid of us than we are of them. What they learn from those prisoners might scare them enough to sober them up, even. It works that way, believe it or not.”

  “Then why are you supporting—are you supporting us?”

  “Of course I am.” What a stupid question, his tone said, enraging Marty Young.

  “But why then?” Maxwell asked.

  “Those are our people. We sent them. We have to get them back. Isn’t that reason enough? But don’t tell me about vital national-security interests. You can sell that to the White House staff, even on The Hill, but not to me. Either you keep faith with your people or you don’t,” said the field spook who had risked his career to rescue a foreigner whom he hadn’t even liked very much. “If you don’t, if you fall into that habit, then you’re not worth saving or protecting, and then people stop helping you, and then you’re in real trouble.”

  “I’m not sure I approve of you, Mr. Ritter,” General Young said.

  “An operation like this one will have the effect of saving our people. The Russians will respect that. It shows them we’re serious about things. That will make my job easier, running agents behind the curtain. That means we’ll be able to recruit more agents and get more information. That way I gather information that you want, okay? The game goes on until someday we find a new game.” That was all the agenda he needed. Ritter turned to Greer. “When do you want me to brief the White House?”

  “I’ll let you know. Bob, this is important—you are backing us?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the Texan. For reasons that the others didn’t understand, didn’t trust, but had to accept.

  “So? What’s the beef?”

  “Look, Eddie,” Tony said patiently. “Our friend’s got a problem. Somebody took down two of his people.”

  “Who?” Morello asked. He was not in a particularly good mood. He’d just learned, again, that he was not a candidate to be accepted as a full member of the outfit. After all he’d done. Morello felt betrayed. Incredibly, Tony was siding with a black man instead of blood—they were distant cousins after all—and now the bastard was coming to him for help, of course.

  “We don’t know. His contacts, my contacts, we got nothin’.”

  “Well, ain’t that just too fuckin’ bad?” Eddie segued into his own agenda. “Tony, he came to me, remember? Through Angelo, and maybe Angelo tried to set us up, and we took care of that, remember? You wouldn’t have this setup except for me, so now what’s happening? I get shut out and he gets closer in—so what gives, Tony, you gonna get him made?”

  “Back off, Eddie.”

  “How come you didn’t stand up for me?” Morello demanded.

  “I can’t make it happen, Eddie. I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Piaggi hadn’t expected this conversation to go well, but neither had he expected it to go this badly, this quickly. Sure, Eddie was disappointed. Sure, he had expected to be taken in. But the dumb fuck was getting a good living out of it, and what was it about? Being inside or making a living? Henry could see that. Why couldn’t Eddie? Then Eddie took it one step further.

  “I set this deal up for you. Now, you got a little-bitty problem, and who you come to—me! You owe me, Tony.” The implications of the words were clear for Piaggi. It was quite simple from Eddie’s point of view. Tony’s position in the outfit was growing in importance. With Henry as a potential—a very real—major supplier, Tony would have more than a position. He would have influence. He’d still have to show respect and obeisance to those over him, but the command structure of the outfit was admirably flexible, and Henry’s double-blind methods meant that whoever was his pipeline into the outfit had real security. Security of place in his organization was a rare and treasured thing. Piaggi’s mistake was in not taking the thought one step further. He looked inward instead of outward. All he saw was that Eddie could replace him, become the intermediary, and then become a made man, adding status to his comfortable living. All Piaggi had to do was die, obligingly, at the right time. Henry was a businessman. He’d make the accommodation. Piaggi knew that. So did Eddie.

  “Don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s using you, man.” The odd part was that while Morello was beginning to understand that Tucker was manipulating both of them, Piaggi, the target of that manipulation, did not. As a result, Eddie’s correct observation was singularly ill-timed.

  “I’ve thought about that,” Piaggi lied. “What’s in it for him? A linkup with Philadelphia, New York?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he thinks he can do it. Those people are getting awful big for their pants, man.”

  “We’ll sweat that one out later, and I don’t see him doing that. What we want to know is, who’s taking his people down? You catch anything about somebody from out of town?” Put him on the spot, Piaggi thought. Make him commit. Tony’s eyes bored in across the table at a man too angry to notice or care what the other man was thinking.

  “I haven’t heard shit about that.”

  “Put feelers out,” Tony ordered, and it was an order. Morello had to follow it, had to check around.

  “What if he was taking out some people from inside, reliability problems, like? You think he’s loyal to anybody?”

  “No. But I don’t think he’s offing his own people, either.” Tony rose with a final order. “Check around.”

  “Sure,” Eddie snorted, left alone at his table.

  24

  Hellos

  “People, that went very well,” Captain Albie announced, finishing his critique of the exercise. There had been various minor deficiencies on the approach march, but nothing serious, and even his sharp eye had failed to notice anything of consequence on the simulated assault phase. Marksmanship especially had been almost inhumanly accurate, and his men had sufficient confidence in one another that they were now running within mere feet of fire streams in order to get to their assigned places. The Cobra crews were in the back of the room, going over their own performance. The pilots and gunners were treated with great respect by the men they supported, as were the Navy flight crews of the rescue birds. The normal us-them ant
ipathy found among disparate units was down to the level of friendly joshing, so closely had the men trained and dedicated themselves. That antipathy was about to disappear entirely.

  “Gentlemen,” Albie concluded, “you’re about to learn what this little picnic outing is all about.”

  “Ten-hut!” Irvin called.

  Vice Admiral Winslow Holland Maxwell walked up the center of the room, accompanied by Major General Martin Young. Both flag officers were in their best undress uniforms. Maxwell’s whites positively glistened in the incandescent lights of the building, and Young’s Marine khakis were starched so stiff that they might well have been made of plywood. A Marine lieutenant carried a briefing board that nearly dragged on the floor. This he set on an easel as Maxwell took his place behind the lectern. From his place on the corner of the stage, Master Gunnery Sergeant Irvin watched the young faces in the audience, reminding himself that he had to pretend surprise at the announcement.

  “Take your seats, Marines,” Maxwell began pleasantly, waiting for them to do so. “First of all, I want to tell you for myself how proud I am to be associated with you. We’ve watched your training closely. You came here without knowing why, and you’ve worked as hard as any people I have ever seen. Here’s what it’s all about.” The Lieutenant flipped the cover off the briefing board, exposing an aerial photograph.

  “Gentlemen, this mission is called BOXWOOD GREEN. Your objective is to rescue twenty men, fellow Americans who are now in the hands of the enemy.”

  John Kelly was standing next to Irvin, and he, too, was watching faces instead of the Admiral. Most were younger than his, but not by much. Their eyes were locked on the reconnaissance photographs—an exotic dancer would not have drawn the sort of focus that was aimed at the blowups from the Buffalo Hunter drone. The faces were initially devoid of emotion. They were like young, fit, handsome statues, scarcely breathing, sitting at attention while the Admiral spoke to them.

  “This man here is Colonel Robin Zacharias, U.S. Air Force,” Maxwell went on, using a yard-long wooden pointer. “You can see what the Vietnamese did to him just for looking at the asset that snapped the picture.” The pointer traced over to the camp guard about to strike the American from behind. “Just for looking up.”

  Eyes narrowed at that, all of them, Kelly saw. It was a quiet, determined kind of anger, highly disciplined, but that was the deadliest kind of all, Kelly thought, suppressing a smile that only he would have understood. And so it was for the young Marines in the audience. It wasn’t a time for smiles. Each of the people in the room knew about the dangers. Each had survived a minimum of thirteen months of combat operations. Each had seen friends die in the most terrible and noisy way that the blackest of nightmares could create. But there was more to life than fear. Perhaps it was a quest. A sense of duty that few could articulate but which all of them felt. A vision of the world that men shared without actually seeing. Every man in the room had seen death in all its dreadful majesty, knowing that all life came to an end. But all knew there was more to life than the avoidance of death. Life had to have a purpose, and one such purpose was the service of others. While no man in the room would willingly give his life away, every one of them would run the risk, trusting to God or luck or fate in the knowledge that each of the others would do the same. The men in these pictures were unknown to the Marines, but they were comrades—more than friends—to whom loyalty was owed. And so they would risk their lives for them.

  “I don’t have to tell you how dangerous the mission is,” the Admiral concluded. “The fact of the matter is, you know those dangers better than I do, but these people are Americans, and they have the right to expect us to come for them.”

  “Fuckin’ A, sir!” a voice called from the floor, surprising the rest of the Marines.

  Maxwell almost lost it then. It’s all true, he told himself. It really does matter. Mistakes and all, we’re still what we are.

  “Thank you, Dutch,” Marty Young said, walking to center stage. “Okay, Marines, now you know. You volunteered to be here. You have to volunteer again to deploy. Some of you have families, sweethearts. We won’t make you go. Some of you might have second thoughts,” he went on, examining the faces, and seeing the insult he had caused them, not by accident. “You have today to think it over. Dismissed.”

  The Marines got to their feet, to the accompaniment of the grating sound of chairs scraping on the tile floor, and when all were at attention, their voices boomed as one:

  “RECON!”

  It was clear to those who saw the faces. They could no more shrink from this mission than they could deny their manhood. There were smiles now. Most of the Marines traded remarks with their friends, and it wasn’t glory they saw before their eyes. It was purpose, and perhaps the look to be seen in the eyes of the men whose lives they would redeem. We’re Americans and we’re here to take you home.

  “Well, Mr. Clark, your admiral makes a pretty good speech. I wish we recorded it.”

  “You’re old enough to know better, Guns. It’s going to be a dicey one.”

  Irvin smiled in a surprisingly playful way. “Yeah, I know. But if you think it’s a crock, why the hell are you going in alone?”

  “Somebody asked me to.” Kelly shook his head and went off to join the Admiral with a request of his own.

  She made it all the way down the steps, holding on to the banister, her head still hurting, but not so badly this morning, following the smell of the coffee to the sound of conversation.

  Sandy’s face broke into a smile. “Well, good morning!”

  “Hi,” Doris said, still pale and weak, but she smiled back as she walked through the doorway, still holding on. “I’m real hungry.”

  “I hope you like eggs.” Sandy helped her to a chair and got her a glass of orange juice.

  “I’ll eat the shells,” Doris replied, showing her first sign of humor.

  “You can start with these, and don’t worry about the shells,” Sarah Rosen told her, shoveling the beginnings of a normal breakfast from the frying pan onto a plate.

  She had turned the corner. Doris’s movements were painfully slow, and her coordination was that of a small child, but the improvement from only twenty-four hours before was miraculous. Blood drawn the day before showed still more favorable signs. The massive doses of antibiotics had obliterated her infections, and the lingering signs of barbiturates were almost completely gone—the remnants were from the palliative doses Sarah had prescribed and injected, which would not be repeated. But the most encouraging sign of all was how she ate. Awkwardness and all, she unfolded her napkin and sat it in the lap of the terrycloth robe. She didn’t shovel the food in. Instead she consumed her first real breakfast in months in as dignified a manner as her condition and hunger allowed. Doris was turning back into a person.

  But they still didn’t know anything about her except her name—Doris Brown. Sandy got a cup of coffee for herself and sat down at the table.

  “Where are you from?” she asked in as innocent a voice as she could manage.

  “Pittsburgh.” A place as distant to her house guest as the back end of the moon.

  “Family?”

  “Just my father. Mom died in ‘65, breast cancer,” Doris said slowly, then unconsciously felt inside her robe. For the first time she could remember, her breasts didn’t hurt from Billy’s attention. Sandy saw the movement and guessed what it meant.

  “Nobody else?” the nurse asked evenly.

  “My brother . . . Vietnam.”

  “I’m sorry, Doris.”

  “It’s okay—”

  “Sandy’s my name, remember?”

  “I’m Sarah,” Dr. Rosen added, replacing the empty plate with a full one.

  “Thank you, Sarah.” This smile was somewhat wan, but Doris Brown was reacting to the world around her now, an event far more important than the casual observer might have guessed. Small steps, Sarah told herself. They don’t have to be big steps. They just have to head in the right
direction. Doctor and nurse shared a look.

  There was nothing like it. It was too hard to explain to someone who hadn’t been there and done it. She and Sandy had reached into the grave and pulled this girl back from grasping earth. Three more months, Sarah had estimated, maybe not that long, and her body would have been so weakened that the most trivial outside influence would have ended her life in a matter of hours. But not now. Now this girl would live, and the two medics shared without words the feeling that God must have known when He had breathed life into Adam. They had defeated Death, redeeming the gift that only God could give. For this reason both had entered their shared profession, and moments like this one pushed back the rage and sorrow and grief for those patients whom they couldn’t save.

  “Don’t eat too fast, Doris. When you don’t eat for a while, your stomach actually shrinks down some,” Sarah told her, returning to form as a medical doctor. There was no sense in warning her about problems and pain sure to develop in her gastrointestinal tract. Nothing would stop it, and getting nourishment into her superseded other considerations at the moment.

  “Okay. I’m getting a little full.”

  “Then relax a little. Tell us about your father.”

  “I ran away,” Doris replied at once. “Right after David . . . after the telegram, and Daddy . . . he had some trouble, and he blamed me.”

  Raymond Brown was a foreman in the Number Three Basic Oxygen Furnace Shed of the Jones and Laughlin Steel Company, and that was all he was, now. His house was on Dunleavy Street, halfway up one of the steep hills of his city, one of many detached frame dwellings built around the turn of the century, with wood clapboard siding that he had to paint every two or three years, depending on the severity of the winter winds that swept down the Monongahela Valley. He worked the night shift because his house was especially empty at night. Nevermore to hear the sounds of his wife, nevermore to take his son to Little League or play catch in the sloped sanctity of his tiny backyard, nevermore to worry about his daughter’s dates on weekends.