Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “All four boilers are now on line, sir. Full-speed bell is thirty, flank is thirty-three.”

  “Nice to know the ChEng is all awake. Very well. Sound General Quarters.” He hung up the phone as the ship’s gong started sounding. “Gentlemen, we have some Marines to protect,” he said confidently. His cruiser’s gunnery department was as fine as Mississippi’s had ever been. Two minutes later he was back on the bridge.

  “Mr. Shoeman, I have the conn.”

  “Captain has the conn,” the OOD agreed.

  “Right-standard rudder, come to new course two-six-five.”

  “Right-standard rudder, aye, come to new course two-six-five, aye.” Petty Officer Sam Baker rotated the wheel. “Sir, my rudder is right-standard.”

  “Very well,” the Captain acknowledged, adding. “Surf City, here we come!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” the helmsman hooted back. The skipper was really with it for an old fart.

  It was the time for nerves now. What could go wrong? Kelly asked himself atop his hill. Lots of things. The helicopters might collide in midair. They might come right over an unknown flak site and be blotted from the sky. Some little widget or seal could let go, crashing them to the ground. What if the local National Guard was having a training exercise tonight? Something was always left to chance. He’d seen missions go wrong for any number of dumb and unpredictable reasons. But not tonight, he promised himself. Not with all this preparation. The helo crews had trained intensively for three weeks, as had the Marines. The birds had been lovingly maintained. The sailors on Ogden had invented helpful things to do. You could never eliminate risk, but preparation and training could attenuate it. Kelly made sure his weapon was in proper shape and stayed in a tight sitting position. This wasn’t sitting in a corner house in west Baltimore. This was real. This would enable him to put it all behind. His attempt to save Pam had ended in failure due to his error, but perhaps it had had a purpose after all. He’d made no mistakes for this mission. Nobody had. He wasn’t rescuing one person. He was rescuing twenty. He checked the illuminated dial of his watch. The sweep hand was moving so slowly now. Kelly closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them it would move more quickly. It didn’t. He knew better. The former Chief of SEALs commanded himself to take a deep breath and continue the mission. For him that meant laying the carbine across his lap and concentrating on his binoculars. His reconnaissance had to continue right to the moment the first M-79 grenades were fired at the guard towers. The Marines were counting on him.

  Well, maybe this would show the guys from Philly how important he was. Henry’s operation breaks down and I handle things. Eddie Morello is important, he thought, stoking the fires of his own ego as he drove up Route 40 towards Aberdeen.

  Idiot can’t run his own operation, can’t get dependable people. I told Tony he was too smart for his own good, too clever, not really a serious businessman-Oh, no, he’s serious. He’s more serious than you are, Eddie. Henry is going be the first nigger to get “made.” You watch. Tony is going to do it. Can’t do it for you. Your own cousin can’t do it for you, after you connected him with Henry. Goddamned deal wouldn’t be made except for me. I made the deal but I can’t get made.

  “Fuck!” he snarled at a red light. Somebody starts taking Henry’s operation apart and they ask me to check it out. Like Henry can’t figure things out himself. Probably can’t, not as smart as he thinks he is. So then what—he gets between me and Tony.

  That was it, wasn’t it? Eddie thought. Henry wanted to separate me from Piaggi—just like he got them to take Angelo out. Angelo was his first connection. Angelo introduced him to me . . . I introduced him to Tony . . . Tony and I handle the connection with Philly and New York. . . Angelo and me were a pair of connections . . . Angelo was the weak one. . . and Angelo gets whacked . . .

  Tony and I are another pair of connections . . .

  He only needs one, doesn’t he? Just one connection to the rest of the outfit.

  Separating me from Tony. . .

  Fuck.

  Morello fished in his pocket for a cigarette and punched the lighter on his Cadillac convertible. The top was down. Eddie liked the sun and the wind. It was almost like being out on his fishing boat. It also gave him fine visibility. That it made him somewhat easier to spot and trail hadn’t occurred to him. Next to him, on the floor, was a leather attaché case. Inside that were six kilos of pure stuff. Philadelphia, they’d told him, was real short, and would handle the cutting themselves. Big cash deal. The identical case that was now southbound would be filled with nothing smaller than twenties. Two guys. Nothing to worry about. They were pros, and this was a long-term business relationship. He didn’t have to worry about a rip, but he had his snubby anyway, concealed under his loose shirt, just at his belt buckle, the most useful, most uncomfortable place.

  He had to think this one through. Morello told himself urgently. He might just have it all figured out. Henry was manipulating them. Henry was manipulating the outfit. A jig was trying to outthink them.

  And succeeding. Probably he whacked his own people. The fuck liked to shit all over women—especially white ones. That figured, Morello thought. They were all like that. Thought he was pretty smart, probably. Well, he was pretty smart. But not smart enough. Not anymore. It wouldn’t be hard to explain all of this to Tony. Eddie was sure of that. Make the transfer and drive back. Dinner with Tony. Be calm and reasonable. Tony likes that. Like he went to Harvard or something. Like a damned lawyer. Then we work on Henry, and we take over his operation. It was business. His people would play. They weren’t in it because they loved him. They were in it for the money. Everybody was. And then he and Tony could take the operation over, and then Eddie Morello would be a made man.

  Yeah. He had it all figured out now. Morello checked the time. He was right on as he pulled into the half-empty parking lot of a diner. The old-fashioned kind, made from a railroad car—the Pennsylvania Railroad was close by. He remembered his first meal out of the house with his father, in a place just like this, watching the trains go past. The memory made him smile as he finished the cigarette and flipped it onto the blacktop.

  The other car pulled in. It was a blue Oldsmobile, as he’d been led to expect. The two guys got out. One carried an attaché case and walked towards him. Eddie didn’t know him, but he was well-dressed, respectable, like a businessman should be, in a nice tan suit. Like a lawyer. Morello smiled to himself, not looking too obviously in his direction while the backup man stayed at the car, watching, just to be on the safe side. Yeah, serious people. And soon they’d know that Eddie Morello was a serious man, too, he thought, with his hand in his lap, six inches from his hidden revolver.

  “Got the stuff?”

  “Got the money?” Morello asked in return.

  “You made a mistake, Eddie,” the man said without warning as he opened the briefcase.

  “What do you mean?” Morello asked, suddenly alert, about ten seconds and a lifetime too late.

  “I mean, it’s goodbye, Eddie,” he added quietly.

  The look in the eyes said it all. Morello immediately went for his weapon, but it only helped the other man.

  “Police, freeze!” the man shouted just before the first round burst through the opened top of the case.

  Eddie got his gun out, just, and managed to fire one round into the floor of his car, but the cop was only three feet away and couldn’t possibly miss. The backup officer was already running in, surprised that Lieutenant Charon hadn’t been able to get the drop on the guy. As he watched, the attaché case fell aside and the detective extended his arm, nearly placing his service revolver on the man’s chest and firing straight into his heart.

  It was all so clear to Morello now, but only for a second or two. Henry had done it all. He’d made himself, that was it. And Morello knew that his only purpose in life had been to get Henry and Tony together. It didn’t seem like much, not now.

  “Backup!” Charon screamed over the dying man. He reac
hed down to seize Eddie’s revolver. Within a minute two State Police cars screeched into the parking lot.

  “Damned fool,” Charon told his partner five minutes later, shaking as he did so, as men do after killing. “He just went for the gun—like I didn’t have the drop on him.”

  “I saw it all,” the junior detective said, thinking that he had.

  “Well, it’s just what you said, sir,” the State Police sergeant said. He opened the case from the floor of the Olds. It was filled with bags of heroin. “Some bust.”

  “Yeah,” Charon growled. “Except dead the dumb fuck can’t tell anybody anything.” Which was exactly true. Remarkable, he thought, succeeding in his struggle not to smile at the mad humor of the moment. He’d just committed the perfect murder, under the eyes of other police officers. Now Henry’s organization was safe.

  Almost time now. The guard had changed. Last time for that. The rain continued to fall steadily. Good. The soldiers in the towers were huddling to stay dry. The dreary day had bored them even more than normal, and bored men were less alert. All the lights were out now. Not even candles in the barracks. Kelly made a slow, careful sweep with his binoculars. There was a human shape in the window of the officers’ quarters, a man looking out at the weather—the Russian, wasn’t it? Oh, so that’s your bedroom? Great: The first shot from grenadier number three—Corporal Mendez, wasn’t it?—is programmed for that opening. Fried Russian.

  Let’s get this one on. I need a shower. God, you suppose they have any more of that Jack Daniel’s left? Regs were regs, but some things were special.

  The tension was building. It wasn’t the danger factor. Kelly deemed himself to be in no danger at all. The scary part had been the insertion. Now it was up to the airedales, then the Marines. His part was almost done, Kelly thought.

  “Commence firing,” the Captain ordered.

  Newport News had switched her radars on only a few moments earlier. The navigator was in central fire-control, helping the gunnery department to plot the cruiser’s exact position by radar fixes on known landmarks. That was being overly careful, but tonight’s mission called for it. Now navigation and fire-control radars were helping everyone compute their position to a whisker.

  The first rounds off were from the portside five-inch mount. The sharp bark of noise from the twin 5"/38s was very hard on the ears, but along with it came something oddly beautiful. With each shot the guns generated a ring of yellow fire. It was some empirical peculiarity of the weapon that did it. Like a yellow snake chasing its tail, undulating for its few milliseconds of life. Then it vanished. Six thousand yards downrange, the first pair of star shells ignited, and it was the same metallic yellow that had a few seconds earlier decorated the gun mount. The wet, green landscape of North Vietnam turned orange under the light.

  “Looks like a fifty-seven-mike-mike mount. I can see the crew, even.” The rangefinder in Spot-1 was already trained into the proper bearing. The light just made it easier. Master Chief Skelley dialed in the range with remarkable delicacy. It was transmitted at once to “central.” Ten seconds after that, eight guns thundered. Another fifteen, and the triple-A site vanished in a cloud of dust and fire.

  “On target with the first salvo. Target Alfa is destroyed.” The master chief took his command from below to shift bearings to the next. Like the Captain he would soon retire. Maybe they could open a gun store.

  It was like distant thunder, but not right somehow. The surprising part was the absence of reaction below. Through the binoculars he could see heads turn. Maybe some remarks were exchanged. Nothing more than that. It was a country at war, after all. and unpleasant noises were normal here, especially the kind that sounded like distant thunder. Clearly too far away to be a matter of concern. You couldn’t even see any flashes through the weather. Kelly had expected an officer or two to come out and look around. He would have done that in their place—probably. But they didn’t.

  Ninety minutes and counting.

  The Marines were lightly loaded as they filed aft. Quite a few sailors were there to watch them. Albie and Irvin counted them off as they headed out onto the flight deck, directing them to their choppers.

  The last sailors in line were Maxwell and Podulski. Both were wearing their oldest and most disreputable khakis, shirts and pants they’d worn in command at sea, things associated with good memories and good luck. Even admirals were superstitious. For the first time the Marines saw that the pale Admiral—that’s how they thought of him—had the Medal of Honor. The ribbon caught many glances, and quite a few nods of respect that his tense face acknowledged.

  “All ready, Captain?” Maxwell asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Albie replied calmly over his nervousness. Showtime. “See you in about three hours.”

  “Good hunting.” Maxwell stood ramrod-straight and saluted the younger man.

  “They look pretty impressive,” Ritter said. He, too, was wearing khakis, just to fit in with the ship’s wardroom. “Oh, Jesus, I hope this works.”

  “Yeah,” James Greer breathed as the ship turned to align herself with the wind. Deck crewmen with lighted wands went to both troop carriers to guide their takeoffs, and then, one by one, the big Sikorskys lifted off, steadying themselves in the burble and turning west towards land and the mission. “It’s in their hands now.”

  “Good kids, James,” Podulski said.

  “That Clark guy is pretty impressive, too. Smart,” Ritter observed. “What’s he do in real life?”

  “I gather he’s sort of at odds at the moment. Why?”

  “We always have room for a guy who can think on his feet. The boy’s smart,” Ritter repeated as all headed back to CIC. On the flight deck, the Cobra crews were doing their final preflight checks. They’d get off in forty-five minutes.

  “SNAKE, this is CRICKET. Time check is nominal. Acknowledge.”

  “Yes!” Kelly said aloud—but not too loud. He tapped three long dashes on his radio, getting two back. Ogden had just announced that the mission was now running and copied his acknowledgment. “Two hours to freedom, guys,” he told the prisoners in the camp below. That the event would be less liberating for the other people in the camp was not a matter of grave concern.

  Kelly ate his last ration bar, sliding all the wrappers and trash into the thigh pockets of his fatigues. He moved from his hiding place. It was dark now, and he could afford to. Reaching back in, he tried to erase the marks of his presence. A mission like this might be tried again, after all, and why let the other side know anything about how it had happened? The tension finally reached the point that he had to urinate. It was almost funny, and made him feel like a little kid, though he’d drunk half a gallon of water that day.

  Thirty minutes’ flying time to the first LZ, thirty more for the approach. When they crest the far hill, I go into live contact with them to control the final approach.

  Let’s get it on.

  “Shifting fire right. Target Hotel in sight,” Skelley reported. “Range . . . nine-two-five-zero.” The guns thundered once more. One of the hundred-millimeter gun mounts was actually firing at them, now. The crew had watched Newport News immolate the rest of their antiaircraft battalion and, unable to desert their guns, they were trying, at least, to fire back and wound the monster that was hovering off their coastline.

  “There’s the helos,” the XO said at his post in CIC. The blips on the main radar display crossed the coast right over where Targets Alfa and Bravo had been. He lifted the phone.

  “Captain here.”

  “XO here. sir. The helos are feet-dry, going right up the corridor we made them.”

  “Very well. Prepare to stand-down the fire mission. We’ll be HIFR-ing those helos in thirty minutes. Keep a very sharp eye on that radar, X.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Jesus,” a radar operator observed. “What’s going on here?”

  “First we shoot their ass,” his neighbor opined, “then we invade their ass.”

  Only minut
es now until the Marines were on the ground. The rain remained steady though the wind had died down.

  Kelly was in the open now. It was safe. He wasn’t skylined. There was ample flora behind him. All of his clothing and exposed skin was colored to blend in. His eyes were sweeping everywhere, searching for danger, for something unusual, finding nothing. It was muddy as hell. The wet and the red clay of these miserable hills was part of him now, through the fabric of his uniform, into every pore.

  Ten minutes out from the LZ. The distant thunder from the coast continued sporadically, and its very continuance made it less of a danger. It sounded even more like thunder now, and only Kelly knew that it was the eight-inch guns of a ship of war. He sat back, resting his elbows on his knees, sweeping the glasses over the camp. Still no lights. Still no movement. Death was racing towards them and they didn’t know. He was concentrating so much with his eyes that he almost neglected his ears.

  It was hard to pick it out through the rain: a distant rumble, low and tenuous, but it didn’t fade. It grew in intensity. Kelly lifted his head from the eyepieces, turning, his mouth open, trying to figure it out.

  Motors.

  Truck motors. Well, okay, there was a road not too far away—no, the main road is too far. . . other direction.

  A supply truck maybe. Delivering food and mail.

  More than one.

  Kelly moved to the top of the hill, leaning against a tree, looking down to where this spur of a dirt road reached out to the one that traced the north bank of the river. Movement. He put the glasses on it.

  Truck . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . oh, my God . . .

  They had lights on—just slits, the headlights taped over. That meant military trucks. The lights of the second gave some illumination to the first. People in the back, lined on both sides.