Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (49 page)

Four soldiers checked out the dead.  The rest of the assault element would now have formed a perimeter around the objective.  Chavez, Vega, and Ingeles safed their weapons, collected their things, and moved in.

What Chavez saw was thoroughly horrible.  Two of the enemy were still alive, but wouldn't be for long.  One had fallen victim to Vega's machine gun, and his abdomen was torn open.  Both of the other's legs had been nearly shot off and were bleeding rapidly onto the beaten dirt.  The squad medic looked on without pity.  Both died within a minute.  The squad's orders were a little vague on the issue of prisoners.  No one could lawfully order American soldiers not to take prisoners, and the circumlocutions had been a problem for Captain Ramirez, but the message had gotten through.  It was too fucking bad.  But these people were involved in killing American kids with drugs, and that wasn't exactly under the Rules of Land Warfare either, was it?  It was too fucking bad.  Besides, there were other things to worry about.

Chavez had barely gotten into the site when he heard something.  Everyone did.  Someone was running away, straight downhill.  Ramirez pointed to Ding, who immediately ran after him.

He reached for his goggles and tried to hold them in his hand as he ran, then realized that running was probably a stupid thing to do.  He stopped, held the goggles to his eyes, and spotted both a path and the running man.  There were times for caution, and times for boldness.  Instinct told him that this was one of the latter.  Chavez raced down the path, trusting to his skills to keep his footing and rapidly catching up with the sound that was trying to get away.  Inside three minutes he could hear the man's thrashing and falling through the cover.  Ding stopped and used his goggles again.  Only a hundred meters ahead.  He started running again, the blood hot in his veins.  Fifty meters now.  The man fell again.  Ding slowed his approach.  More attention to noise now, he told himself.  This guy wasn't going to get away.  He left the path, moving at a tangent to his left, his movements looking like an elaborate dance step as he picked his way as quickly as he could.  Every fifty yards he stopped and used his night scope.  Whoever the man was, he'd tired and was moving more slowly.  Chavez got ahead of him, curving back to his right and waiting on the path.

Ding had nearly miscalculated.  He'd just gotten his weapon up when the shape appeared, and the sergeant fired on instinct from a range often feet into his chest.  The man fell against Chavez with a despairing groan.  Ding threw the body off and fired another burst into his chest.  There was no other sound.

“Jesus,” the sergeant said.  He knelt to catch his breath.  Whom had he killed?  He put the scope back on his head and looked down.

The man was barefoot.  He wore the simple cotton shirt and pants of . . . Chavez had just killed a peasant, one of those poor dumb bastards who danced in the coca soup.  Wasn't that something to be proud of?

The exhilaration that often follows a successful combat operation left him like the air released from a toy balloon.  Some poor bastard—didn't even have shoes on.  The druggies hired 'em to hump their shit up the hills, paid 'em half of nothing to do the dirty, nasty work of pre-refining the leaves.

His belt was unbuckled.  He'd been off in the bushes taking a dump when the shooting started, and only wanted to get away, but his half-mast pants had made it a futile effort.  He was about Ding's age, smaller and more lightly built, but puffy around the face from the starchy diet of the local peasant farmers.  An ordinary face, it still bore the signs of the fear and panic and pain with which his death had come.  He hadn't been armed.  He'd been part of the casual labor.  He'd died because he'd been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

It was not something for Chavez to be proud of.  He keyed his radio.

“Six, this is Point.  I got him.  Just one.”

“Need help?”

“Negative.  I can handle it.” Chavez hoisted the body on his shoulder for the climb back to the objective.  It took ten exhausting minutes, but that was part of the job.  Ding felt the man's blood oozing from the six holes in his chest, staining the back of his khaki shirt.  Maybe staining more than that.

By the time he got back, the bodies had all been laid side by side and searched.  There were many sacks of coca leaves, several additional jars of acid, and a total of fourteen dead men when Chavez dumped his at the end of the line.

“You look a little punked out,” Vega observed.

“Ain't as big as you, Oso,” Ding gasped out in reply.

There were two small radios, and various other personal things to catalog, but nothing of real military value.  A few men cast eyes on the pack full of beers, but no one made the expected “Miller Time!” joke.  If there had been radio codes, they were in the head of whoever had been the boss here.  There was no way of telling who he might have been; in death all men look alike.  The bodies were all dressed more or less the same, except for the webbed pistol belts of the armed men.  All in all, it was rather a sad thing to see.  Some people who had been alive half an hour earlier were no longer so.  Beyond that, there wasn't much to be said about the mission.

Most importantly, there were no casualties to the squad, though Sergeant Guerra had gotten a scare from a close burst.  Ramirez completed his inspection of the site, then got his men ready to leave.  Chavez again took the lead.

It was a tough uphill climb, and it gave Captain Ramirez time to think.  It was, he realized, something that he ought to have thought about a hell of a lot sooner:

What is this mission all about?
  To Ramirez, mission now meant the purpose for their being here in the Colombian highlands, not just the job of taking this place out.

He understood that watching the airfields had the direct effect of stopping flights of drugs into the
United States
.  They'd performed covert reconnaissance, and people were making tactical use of the intelligence information which they'd developed.  Not only was it simple—but it also made sense.  But what the hell were they doing now?  His squad had just executed a picture-perfect small-unit raid.  The men could not have done better—aided by the inept performance of the enemy, of course.

That was going to change.  The enemy was going to learn damned fast from this.  Their security would be better.  They would learn that much even before they figured out what was going on.  A blown-away processing site was all the information they needed to learn that they had to improve their physical security arrangements.

What had the attack actually accomplished?  A few hundred pounds of coca leaves would not be processed tonight.  He didn't have instructions to cart the leaves away, and even if he had, there was no ready means of destroying them except by fire, and he wasn't stupid enough to light a fire on a mountainside at night, orders or not.  What they had accomplished tonight was . . . nothing.  Nothing at all, really.  There were tons of coca leaves, and scores—perhaps hundreds—of refining sites.  They hadn't made a dent in the trade tonight, not even a dimple.

So what the hell are we risking our lives for?
he asked himself.  He ought to have asked that question in
Panama
, but like his three fellow officers, he'd been caught up in the institutional rage accompanying the assassination of the FBI Director and the others.  Besides, he was only a captain, and he was more an order-follower than an order-giver.  As a professional officer, he was used to being given orders from battalion or brigade commanders, forty-or-so-year-old professional soldiers who knew what the hell they were doing, most of the time.  But his orders now were coming from someplace elsewhere?  Now he wasn't so sure—and he'd allowed himself to be lulled in the complacency that assumed whoever generated the orders knew what the hell he was doing.

Why didn't you ask more questions!

Ramirez had seen success in his mission tonight.  Prior to it his thought had been directed toward a fixed goal.  But he'd achieved that goal, and seen nothing beyond it.  He ought to have realized that earlier.  Ramirez knew that now.  But it was too late now.

The other part of the trap was even more troubling.  He had to tell his men that everything was all right.  They'd done as well as any commander could have asked.  But -

What the hell are we doing here?
  He didn't know, because no one had ever told him, that he was not the first young captain to ask that question all too late, that it was almost a tradition of American arms for bright young officers to wonder why the hell they were sent out to do things.  But almost always they asked the question too late.

He had no choice, of course.  He had to assume, as his training and experience told him to assume, that the mission really did make sense.  Even though his reason—Ramirez was far from being a stupid man—told him otherwise, he commanded himself to have faith in his command leadership.  His men had faith in him.  He had to have the same faith in those above himself.  An army could work no other way.

Two hundred meters ahead, Chavez felt the stickiness on the back of his shirt and asked himself other questions.  It had never occurred to him that he'd have to carry the dead, bleeding body of an enemy halfway up a mountain.  He'd not anticipated how this physical reminder of what he had done would wear on his conscience.  He'd killed a peasant.  Not an armed man, not a real enemy, but some poor bastard who had just taken a job with the wrong side, probably just to feed his family, if he had one.  But what else could Chavez have done?  Let him get away?

It was simpler for the sergeant.  He had an officer who told him what to do.  Captain Ramirez knew what he was doing.  He was an officer, and that was his job: to know what was going on and give the orders.  That made it a little easier as he climbed back up the mountain to the RON site, but his bloodied shirt continued to cling to his back like the questions of a nagging conscience.

Tim Jackson arrived back at his office at 2230 hours after a short squad-training exercise right on the grounds of
Fort
Ord.
  He'd just sat down in his cheap swivel chair when the phone rang.  The exercise hadn't gone well.  Ozkanian was a little slow catching on in his leadership of second squad.  This was the second time in a row that he'd screwed up and made his lieutenant look bad.  That offended Sergeant Mitchell, who had hopes for the young officer.  Both knew that you didn't make a good squad sergeant in less than four years, and only then if you had a man as sharp as Chavez had been.  But it was Ozkanian's job to lead the squad, and Mitchell was now explaining a few things to him.  He was doing so in the way of platoon sergeants, with vigor, enthusiasm, and a few speculative observations about Ozkanian's ancestry.  If any.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” Tim answered after the second ring.

“Lieutenant, this is Colonel O'Mara at Special Ops Command.”

“Yes, sir!”

“I hear you've been making some noise about a staff sergeant named Chavez.  Is that correct?”
Jackson
looked up to see Mitchell walk in, his cabbage-patch helmet tucked under his sweaty arm and a whimsical smile on his lips.  Ozkanian had gotten the message this time.

“Yes, sir.  He didn't show up where he's supposed to be.  He's one of mine, and—”

“Wrong, Lieutenant!  He's one of mine now.  He's doing something that you do not need to know about, and you will not, repeat not burn up any more phone lines fucking around into something that does not concern you.  IS THAT CLEAR, LIEUTENANT?”

“But, sir, excuse me, but I—”

“You got bad ears or something, son?” The voice was quieter now, and that was really frightening to a lieutenant who'd already had a bad day.

“No, sir.  It's just that I got a call from—”

“I know about that.  I took care of that.  Sergeant Chavez is doing something that you do not need to know about.  Period.  End.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

The line clicked off.

“Shit,” Lieutenant Jackson observed.

Sergeant Mitchell hadn't caught any words from the conversation, but the buzz from the phone line had made it to the doorway he was standing in.

“Chavez?”

“Yeah.  Some colonel at Special Ops—
Fort
MacDill
, I guess—says that they have him and he's off doing something.  And I don't need to know about that.  Says he took care of
Fort
Benning
for us.”

“Oh, horseshit,” Mitchell observed, taking his place in the seat opposite the lieutenant's desk, after which he asked: “Mind if I sit down, sir?”

“What do you suppose is going on?”

“Beats the hell outa me, sir.  But I know a guy at MacDill.  Think I'll make a phone call tomorrow.  I don't like one of my guys getting lost like that.  It's not supposed to work like that.  He didn't have no place chewing your ass either, sir.  You're just doin' your job, looking after your people that way, and you don't come down on people for doing their job.  In case nobody ever told you, sir,” Mitchell explained, “you don't chew some poor lieutenant's ass over something like this.  You make a quiet call to the battalion commander, or maybe the S-1, and have him settle things nice 'n quiet.  Lieutenants get picked on enough by their own colonels without needin' to get chewed on by strange ones.  That's why things go through channels, so you know who's chewing' ya'.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,”
Jackson
said with a smile. “I needed that.”

“I told Ozkanian that he ought to concentrate a little more on leadin' his squad instead of trying to be Sergeant Rock.  I think this time he'll listen.  He's a pretty good kid, really.  Just needs a little seasoning.” Mitchell stood. “See you at PT tomorrow, sir.  Good night.”

“Right. 'Night, Sergeant.” Tim Jackson decided that sleep made more sense than paperwork and headed off to his car.  On the drive to the BOQ, he was still pondering the call he'd gotten from Colonel O'Mara, whoever the hell he was.  Lieutenants didn't interact with bird-colonels very much—he'd made his (required) New Year's Day appearance at the brigade commander's home, but that was it.  New lieutenants were supposed to maintain a low profile.  On the other hand, one of the many lessons remembered from
West Point
was that he was responsible for his men.  The fact that Chavez hadn't arrived at Fort Benning, that his departure from Ord had been so . . . irregular, and that his natural and responsible inquiry into his man's situation had earned him nothing more than a chewing only made the young officer all the more curious.  He'd let Mitchell make his calls, but he'd stay out of it for the moment, not wanting to draw additional attention to himself until he knew what the hell he was doing.  In this Tim Jackson was fortunate.  He had a big brother on Pentagon duty who knew how things were supposed to work and was pushing hard for O-6—captain's or colonel's—rank, even if he was a squid.  Robby could give him some good advice, and advice was what he needed.