Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “It could have been a hell of a lot worse, you know.” Kelly turned. It was Irvin. It had to be.

  “Could have been a hell of a lot better, too, Guns.”

  “Wasn’t no accident, them showing up like that, was it?”

  “I don’t think I’m supposed to say. Is that a good enough answer?”

  “Yes, sir. And Lord Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ ”

  “And what if they do know?”

  Irvin grunted. “I think you know what my vote is. Whoever it was, they could have killed all of us.”

  “You know, Guns, just once, just one time, I’d like to finish something the right way,” Kelly said.

  “Yeah.” Irvin took a second before going on, and going back. “Why the hell would anybody do something like that?”

  A shape loomed close. It was Newport News, a lovely silhouette only two thousand yards off, and visible in a spectral way despite the absence of lights. She, too. was heading back, the last of the Navy’s big-gun cruisers, creature of a bygone age, returning home after the same failure that Kelly and Irvin knew.

  “Seven-one-three-one,” the female voice said.

  “Hello, I’m trying to get Admiral James Greer,” Sandy told the secretary.

  “He’s not in.”

  “Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

  “Sorry, no, I don’t know.”

  “But it’s important.”

  “Could you tell me who’s calling, please?”

  “What is this place?”

  “This is Admiral Greer’s office.”

  “No, I mean, is it the Pentagon?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Sandy didn’t know. and that question led her off in a direction she didn’t understand. “Please, I need your help.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “Please, I need to know where you are!”

  “I can’t tell you that,” the secretary responded, feeling herself to be one of the fortress walls that protected U.S. National Security.

  “Is this the Pentagon?”

  Well, she could tell her that. “No, it isn’t.”

  What then? Sandy wondered. She took a deep breath. “A friend of mine gave me this number to call. He’s with Admiral Greer. He said I could call here to find out if he’s okay.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Look, I know he went to Vietnam!”

  “Miss, I cannot discuss where Admiral Greer is.” Who violated security! She’d have to make a report on this.

  “It’s not about him, it’s about John!” Calm down. You’re not helping anyone this way.

  “John who?” the secretary asked.

  Deep breath. Swallow. “Please get a message to Admiral Greer. This is Sandy. It’s about John. He will understand. Okay? He will understand. This is most important.” She gave her home and work numbers.

  “Thank you. I will do what I can.” The line went dead.

  Sandy wanted to scream, and nearly did so. So the Admiral had gone. too. Okay, he’d be close to where John is. The secretary would get the message through. She would have to. People like that. if you said most important, didn’t have the imagination not to do it. Settle down. Anyway, where he was, the police couldn’t get him either. But for the rest of the day. and into the next, the second hand on her watch seemed to stand still.

  USS Ogden pulled into Subic Bay Naval Station in the early afternoon. Coming alongside seemed to take forever in the moist tropical heat. Finally lines were tossed and a brow advanced to the ship’s side. A civilian sprinted up first even before it was properly secured. Soon thereafter the Marines filed off to a bus which would take them to Cubi Point. The deck division watched them walk off. A few hands were shaken as everyone tried to leave at least one good memory from the experience, but “good try” just didn’t make it, and “good luck” seemed blasphemous. Their C-141 was waiting there for the flight stateside. Mr. Clark, they saw, wasn’t with them.

  “John, it seems you have a lady friend who’s worried about you,” Greer said, handing the message over. It was the friendliest of the dispatches that the junior CIA officer had brought up from Manila. Kelly scanned it while three admirals reviewed the others.

  “Do I have time to call her, sir? She’s worried about me.”

  “You left her my office number?” Greer was slightly vexed.

  “Her husband was killed with the First Cav, sir. She worries,” Kelly explained.

  “Okay.” Greer put his own troubles aside for the moment. “I’ll have Barbara tell her you’re safe.”

  The rest of the messages were less welcome. Admirals Maxwell and Podulski were being summoned back to Washington soonest to report on the failure of BOXWOOD GREEN. Ritter and Greer had similar orders, though they also had an ace in the hole. Their KC-135 was waiting at Clark Air Force Base. A puddle jumper would hop over the mountains. The best news at the moment was their disrupted sleep cycle. The flight back to the American East Coast would bring them back in just the right way.

  Colonel Grishanov came into the sunlight along with the admirals. He was wearing clothing borrowed from Captain Franks—they were of approximately the same size—and escorted by Maxwell and Podulski. Kolya was under no illusions of his chance to escape anywhere, not on an American naval base located on the soil of an American ally. Ritter was talking to him quietly, in Russian, as all six men walked down to the waiting cars. Ten minutes later, they climbed into an Air Force C-12 twin-prop Beechcraft. Half an hour later that aircraft taxied right alongside the larger Boeing jet, which got off less than an hour after they’d left Ogden. Kelly found himself a nice wide seat and strapped himself in, asleep before the windowless transport started rolling. The next stop, they’d told him, was Hickam in Hawaii, and he didn’t plan to be awake for any of that.

  31

  Home Is the Hunter

  The flight wasn’t as restful for the others. Greer had managed to get a couple of messages taken care of before the takeoff, but he and Ritter were the busiest. Their aircraft—the Air Force had lent it to them for the mission, no questions asked—was a semi- VIP bird belonging to Andrews Air Force Base, and was often used for Congressional junkets. That meant an ample supply of liquor, and while they drank straight coffee, their Russian guest’s cups were laced with brandy, a little at first, then in increasing doses that his decaffeinated brew didn’t begin to attenuate.

  Ritter handled most of the interrogation. His first task was to explain to Grishanov that they had no plans to kill him. Yes, they were CIA. Yes, Ritter was a field officer—a spy, if you like—with ample experience behind the Iron Curtain—excuse me, working as a slinking spy in the peace-loving Socialist East Bloc—but that was his job, as Kolya—do you mind if I call you Kolya?—had his job. Now, please, Colonel, can you give us the names of our men? (That was already listed in Grishanov’s voluminous notes.) Your friends, you say? Yes, we are very grateful indeed for your efforts to keep them alive. They all have families, you know, just like you do. More coffee, Colonel? Yes, it is good coffee, isn’t it? Of course you’ll go home to your family. What do you think we are, barbarians? Grishanov had the good manners not to answer that one

  Damn, Greer thought, but Bob is good at this sort of thing. It wasn’t about courage or patriotism. It was about humanity. Grishanov was a tough hombre, probably a hell of a good airplane-driver—what a shame they couldn’t let Maxwell or especially Podulski in on this!—but he was at bottom a man, and the quality of his character worked against him. He didn’t want the American prisoners to die. That plus the stress of capture, plus the whiplash surprise of the cordial treatment, plus a lot of good brandy, all conspired to loosen his tongue. It helped a lot more that Ritter didn’t even approach matters of grave concern to the Soviet state. Hell, Colonel, I know you’re not going to give up amy secrets-so why ask?

  “Your man killed Vinh, did he?” the Russian asked halfway across the Pacific.

&
nbsp; “Yes. he did. It was an accident and—” The Russian cut Ritter off with a wave.

  “Good. He was nekidturny, a vicious little fascist bastard. He wants to kill those men, murder them,” Kolya added with the aid of six brandies.

  “Well, Colonel, we’re hoping to find a way to prevent that.”

  “Neurosurgery West,” the nurse said.

  “Trying to get Sandra O’Toole.”

  “Hold on, please. Sandy?” The nurse on desk duty held the phone up. The nursing-team leader took it.

  “This is O’Toole.”

  “Miss O’Toole, this is Barbara—we spoke earlier. Admiral Greer’s office’?”

  “Yes!”

  “Admiral Greer told me to let you know—John is okay and he’s now on his way home.”

  Sandy’s head spun around, to look in a direction where there were no eyes to see the sudden tears of relief. A mixed blessing perhaps, but a blessing still. “Can you tell me when?”

  “Sometime tomorrow, that’s all I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Surely.” The line went immediately dead.

  Well, that’s something—maybe a lot. She wondered what would happen when he got here, but at least he was coming back alive. More than Tim had managed to do.

  The hard landing at Hickam—the pilot was tired—startled Kelly into wakefulness. An Air Force sergeant gave him a friendly shake to make sure as the aircraft taxied to a remote part of the base for refueling and servicing. Kelly took the time to get out and walk around. The climate was warm here, but not the oppressive heat of Vietnam. It was American soil, and things were different here. . . .

  Sure they are.

  Just once, just one time . . . he remembered saying. Yes, I’m going to get those other girls out just like I got Doris out. It shouldn’t be all that hard. I’ll get Burt next and we‘ll talk. I’ll even let the bastard go when I’m done, probably. I can’t save the whole world, but . . . by Jesus, I’ll save some of it!

  He found a phone in the Distinguished Visitors lounge and placed a call.

  “Hello?” the groggy voice said, five thousand miles away.

  “Hi, Sandy. It’s John!” he said with a smile. Even if those aviators weren’t coming home just yet—well, he was, and he was grateful for that.

  “John! Where are you?”

  “Would you believe Hawaii?”

  “You’re okay?”

  “A little tired, but, yes. No holes or anything,” he reported with a smile. Just the sound of her voice had brightened his day. But not for long.

  “John, there’s a problem.”

  The sergeant at the reception desk saw the DV’s face change. Then he turned back into the phone booth and became less interesting.

  “Okay. It must be Doris,” Kelly said. “I mean, only you and the docs know about me, and—”

  “It wasn’t us,” Sandy assured him.

  “Okay. Please call Doris and . . . be careful, but—”

  “Warn her off?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yes!”

  Kelly tried to relax a little, almost succeeding. “I’ll be back in about . . . oh, nine or ten hours. Will you be at work?”

  “I have the day off.”

  “Okay, Sandy. See you soon. ‘Bye.”

  “John!” she called urgently.

  “What?”

  “I want . . . I mean . . . ” her voice stopped.

  Kelly smiled again. “We can talk about that when I get there, honey.” Maybe he wasn’t just going home. Maybe he was going home to something. Kelly made a quick inventory of everything he’d done. He still had his converted pistol and other weapons on the boat, but everything he’d worn on every job: shoes, socks, outer clothing, even underwear, were now in whatever trash dump. He’d left behind no evidence that he knew of. The police might be interested in talking to him, fine. He did not have to talk to them. That was one of the nice things about the Constitution, Kelly thought as he walked back to the aircraft and trotted up the stairs.

  One flight crew found the beds just aft of the flight deck while the relief crew started engines. Kelly sat with the CIA officers. The Russian, he saw, was snoring loudly and blissfully.

  Ritter chuckled. “He’s going to have one hell of a hangover.”

  “What’d you get into him?”

  “Started off with good brandy. Ended up with California stuff. Brandy really messes me up the next day.” Ritter said tiredly as the KC-135 started rolling. He was drinking a martini now that his prisoner was no longer able to answer questions.

  “So what’s the story?” Kelly asked.

  Ritter explained what he knew. The camp had indeed been established as a bargaining chip for use with the Russians, but it seemed that the Vietnamese had used that particular chip in a rather inefficient way and were now thinking about eliminating it along with the prisoners.

  “You mean because of the raid?” Oh, God!

  “Correct. But settle down. Clark. We got us a Russian, and that’s a bargaining chip too. Mr. Clark,” Ritter said with a tight smile, “I like your style.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bringing that Russian in, you showed commendable initiative. And the way you blew the mission off, that showed good judgment.”

  “Look, I didn’t-I mean, I couldn’t—”

  “You didn’t screw up. Somebody else might have. You made a quick decision, and it was the right decision. Interested in serving your country?” Ritter asked with an alcohol-aided smile of his own.

  Sandy awoke at six-thirty, which was late for her. She got her morning paper, started the coffee, and decided to stick to toast for breakfast, watching the kitchen-wall clock and wondering how early she might call Pittsburgh.

  The lead story on the front page was the drug shooting. A police officer had gotten himself in a gunfight with a drug dealer. Well, good, she thought. Six kilograms of “pure” heroin, the news piece said—that was a lot. She wondered if this was the same bunch that . . . no, the leader of that group was black, at least Doris had said so. Anyway, another druggie had left the face of the planet. Another look at the clock. Still too early for a civilized call. She went into the living room to switch on the TV. It was already a hot, lazy day. She’d been up late the night before and had difficulty getting back to sleep after John’s call. She tried to watch the “Today Show” and didn’t quite notice that her eyes were growing heavy. . . .

  It was after ten when her eyes opened back up. Angry with herself, she shook her head clear and went back to the kitchen. Doris’s number was pinned next to the phone. She called, and heard the phone ring . . . four—six—ten times, without an answer. Damn. Out shopping? Off to see Dr. Bryant? She’d try again in an hour. In the meantime she’d try to figure out exactly what she would say. Might this be a crime? Was she obstructing justice? How deeply was she involved in this business? The thought came as an unpleasant surprise. But she was involved. She’d helped rescue this girl from a dangerous life, and she couldn’t stop now. She’d just tell Doris not to hurt the people who had helped her, to be very, very careful. Please.

  Reverend Meyer came late. He’d been held up by a phone call at the parsonage and was in a profession where one couldn’t say that he had to leave for an appointment. As he parked, he noticed a flower-delivery truck heading up the hill. It turned right, disappearing from view as he took the parking place it had occupied a few doors up from the Brown house. He was a little worried as he locked his car. He had to persuade Doris to speak with his son. Peter had assured him that they’d be extremely careful. Yes, Pop, we can protect her. Now all he had to do was to get that message across to a frightened young woman and a father whose love had survived the most rigorous of tests. Well, he’d handled more delicate problems than this, the minister told himself. Like shortstopping a few divorces. Negotiating treaties between nations could not be harder than saving a rocky marriage.

  Even so, the way up to the front porch seemed awful
ly steep, Meyer thought, holding the rail as he climbed up the chipped and worn concrete steps. There were a few buckets of paint on the porch. Perhaps Raymond was going to do his house now that it contained a family again. A good sign, Pastor Meyer thought as he pushed the button. He could hear the doorbell’s two-tone chime. Raymond’s white Ford was parked right here. He knew they were home . . . but no one came to the door. Well, maybe someone was dressing or in the bathroom, as often happened to everyone’s embarrassment. He waited another minute or so, frowning as he pushed the button again. He was slow to note that the door wasn’t quite closed all the way. You are a minister, he told himself, not a burglar. With a small degree of uneasiness, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside.

  “Hello? Raymond? . . . Doris?” he called, loudly enough to be heard anywhere in the house. The TV was on, some mindless game show playing on the living-room set. “Hellooooo!”

  This was odd. He stepped inside, somewhat embarrassed with himself for doing so, wondering what the problem was. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray here, almost down to the filter, and the vertical trail of smoke was a clear warning that something was amiss. An ordinary citizen possessed of his intelligence would have withdrawn then, but Reverend Meyer was not ordinary. He saw a box of flowers on the rug, opened, long-stem roses inside. Roses were not made to lie on the floor. He remembered his military service just then, how unpleasant it had been, but how uplifting to attend the needs of men in the face of death—he wondered why that thought had sprung so clearly into his mind; its sudden relevance started his heart racing. Meyer walked through the living room, quiet now, listening. He found the kitchen empty too, a pot of water coming to boil on the stove, cups and tea bags on the kitchen table. The basement door was open as well, the light on. He couldn’t stop now. He opened the door all the way and started down. He was halfway to the bottom when he saw their legs.