Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (51 page)

Entry into the space was restricted, for obvious reasons.  Robby identified himself to a senior chief petty officer, and it turned out that they'd both served on the Kennedy a few years before.  Together they entered a work space where some “ordies” were playing with the missiles, with an odd-looking box hanging on the pointed nose of one.

“What d'ya think?” one asked.

“Reads out okay to me, Duke,” the one on the oscilloscope replied. “Let me try some simulated jamming.”

“That's the bunch we're prepping for the Shoot-Ex, sir,” the senior chief explained. “So far they seem to be working all right, but . . .”

“But wasn't it you who found the problem in the first place?” Robby asked.

“Me and my old boss, Lieutenant Frederickson.” The chief nodded.  The discovery had resulted in several million dollars in penalties to the contractor.  And all the AIM-54C missiles in the fleet had been decertified for several months, taking away what should have been the most capable air-to-air missile in the Navy.  He led
Jackson
to the rack of test equipment. “How many we supposed to shoot?”

“Enough to tell whether the fix works or not,” Robby replied.  The chief grunted.

“That could be quite a Shoot-Ex, sir.”

“Drones are cheap!” Robby pointed out in a most outrageous lie.  But the chief knew what he meant.  It was cheaper than going to the
Indian Ocean
and maybe having a shoot-out with Iranian F-14A Tomcats (they had them, too) and then finding out that the goddamned missiles didn't work properly.  That was a most efficient way of killing off pilots whose training went for a million dollars a pop.  The good news was that the fix was working, at least as far as the test equipment could tell.  To make sure, Robby told the chief, between ten and twenty of the Phoenix-Cs would be shot off, plus a larger number of Sparrows and Sidewinders. 
Jackson
started to leave.  He'd seen what he needed to see, and the ordies all had work to do.

“Looks like we're really going to be emptying this here locker out, sir.  You know about the new bombs we're checking out?”

“No.  I met with a tech-rep on the COD flight in.  He didn't talk a hell of a lot.  So what the hell is new?  Just a bomb, right?”

The senior chief laughed. “Come on, I'll show you the Hush-A-Bomb.”

“What?”

“Didn't you ever watch Rocky and Bullwinkle, sir?”

“Chief, you have really lost me.”

“Well, when I was a kid I used to watch Rocky the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle the Moose, and one of the stories was about how Boris and Natasha—they were the bad guys, Commander—were trying to steal something called Hush-A-Boom.  That was an explosive that blew stuff up without making any noise.  Looks like the guys at
China
Lake
came up with the next-best thing!”

The chief opened a door to the bomb-storage area.  The streamlined shapes—they didn't have any fins or fuses attached until they were taken topside—sat on storage pallets securely chained down to the steel deck.  On a pallet close to the rectangular elevator that delivered them topside was a group of blue-painted bombs.  The blue color made them exercise units, but from the tag on the pallet it was clear that they were also loaded with the customary explosive filler.  Robby
Jackson
was a fighter pilot, and hadn't dropped very many bombs, but that was just another side of his profession.  The weapons he looked at appeared to be standard two-thousand-pound low-drag cases, which translated to nine hundred eighty-five pounds of high explosives, and just over a thousand pounds of steel bombcase.  The only difference between a “dumb” or “iron” bomb and a guided “smart” bomb was the attachment of a couple of hardware items: a seeker head on the nose, and movable fins on the tail.  Both units attached to the normal fusing points, and in fact the fuses were part of the guidance-package attachments.  For obvious reasons these were kept in a different compartment.  On the whole, however, the blue bombcases appeared grossly ordinary.

“So?” he asked.

The chief tapped the nearest bombcase with his knuckle.  There was an odd sound.  Odd enough that Robby did the same.

“That's not steel.”

“Cellulose, sir.  They made the friggin' things outa paper!  How you like that?”

“Oh.” Robby understood. “Stealth.”

“These babies gotta be guided, though.  They ain't gonna make fragments worth a damn.” The purpose of the steel bombcase, of course, is to transform itself into thousands of high-speed razors, ripping into whatever lay within their ballistic range after detonation.  It wasn't the explosion that killed people—which was, after all, the reason to build bombs—but rather the fragments they generated. “That's why we call it the Hush-A-Bomb.  Fucker's gonna be right loud, sir, but after the smoke clears you're gonna wonder what the hell it was.”

“New wonders from
China
Lake
,” Robby observed.  What the hell good was a bomb that—but then, it was probably something for the new Stealth tactical bomber.  He didn't know all that much about Stealth yet.  It wasn't part of his brief in the Pentagon.  Fighter tactics were, and Robby went off to go over his notes with the air-group commander.  The first part of the battle-group exercise would begin in just over twenty-four hours.

The word got to Medellín fairly quickly, of course.  By
noon
it was known that two refining operations had been eliminated and a total of thirty-one people killed.  The loss of manpower was incidental.  In each case more than half had been local peasants who did the coolie work, and the rest had been scarcely more important permanent employees whose guns kept the curious away, generally by example rather than persuasion.  What was troubling was the fact that if word of these events got out, there might be some difficulties in recruiting new people to do the refining.

But most troubling of all was the simple fact that nobody knew what was going on.  Was the Colombian Army going back into the hills?  Was it M-19, breaking its word, or FARC, doing the same thing?  Or something else?  No one knew.  That was most annoying, since they paid a good deal of money to get information.  But the Cartel was a group of people, and action was taken only after consensus was reached.  It was agreed that there must be a meeting.  But then people began to worry if that might be dangerous.  After all, clearly there were armed people about, people with little regard for human life, and that was also troubling for the senior Cartel officials.  Most of all, these people had heavy weapons and the skill to use them.  It was decided, therefore, that the meeting should be held at the most secure location possible.

FLASH

TOP SECRET ***** CAPER

1914Z

S
IG
I
NT
R
EPORT

I
NTERCEPT
1993 I
NIT
1904Z F
RQ
887.020MHZ

I
NIT
:  S
UBJECT
F
OXTROT

R
ECIP
:  S
UBJECT
U
NIFORM

F: 
IT IS AGREED.  WE'LL MEET AT YOUR HOUSE TOMORROW NIGHT AT
[2000L].

U: 
WHO WILL COME
?

F:
[SUBJECT ECHO] CANNOT ATTEND, BUT PRODUCTION IS NOT HIS CONCERN ANYWAY. [SUBJECT ALPHA], [SUBJECT GOLF], AND [SUBJECT WHISKEY] WILL COME WITH ME.  HOW IS YOUR SECURITY
?

U: 
AT MY [EMPHASIS] CASTLE
?
[LAUGHTER.] FRIEND, WE COULD HOLD OFF A REGIMENT THERE, AND MY HELICOPTER IS ALWAYS READY.  HOW ARE YOU COMING
?

F: 
HAVE YOU SEEN MY NEW TRUCK
?

U: 
YOUR GREAT FEET [MEANING UNKNOWN]
? 
NO I HAVE NOT SEEN YOUR MARVELOUS NEW TOY.

F: 
I GOT IT BECAUSE OF YOU, PABLO.  WHY DON'T YOU EVER REPAIR THE ROAD TO YOUR CASTLE
?

U: 
THE RAIN KEEPS DESTROYING IT.  YES, I SHOULD PAVE IT, BUT I USE A HELICOPTER TO GET HERE.

F: 
AND YOU COMPLAIN ABOUT MY TOYS
!
[LAUGHTER.] SEE YOU TOMORROW NIGHT, FRIEND.

U: 
GOODBYE.

END CALL.  DISCONNECT SIGNAL.  END INTERCEPT.

The intercept was delivered to Bob Ritter's office within minutes of its receipt.  So here was the chance, the whole purpose of the exercise.  He got his own signals out at once, without checking with Cutter or the President.  After all, he was the one with the hunting license.

Aboard Ranger, the “tech-rep” got the encrypted message less than an hour later.  He immediately placed a telephone call to the office of Commander Jensen, then headed off to see him personally.  It wasn't all that hard.  He was an experienced field officer and particularly good with maps.  That was very useful on a carrier where even experienced sailors got lost in the graypainted maze all the time.  Commander Jensen was surprised he got there so quickly, but already had his personal bombardier-navigator in his office for the mission briefing.

Clark
got his signal about the same time.  He linked up with Larson and immediately arranged a flight down the valley south of Medellín to make a final reconnaissance of the objective.

Whatever problems his conscience gave Ding Chavez washed out when he did his shirt.  There was a nice little creek a hundred meters from their patrol base, and one by one the squad members washed their things out and cleaned themselves up as best they could without soap.  After all, he reasoned, poor, dumb peasant or not, he was doing something that he shouldn't have been doing.  To Chavez the main concern was that he'd used up a magazine and a half of ammo, and the squad was short one claymore mine which, they'd heard a few hours earlier, went off exactly as planned.  Their intel specialist was a real whiz with booby traps.  Finished with his abbreviated personal hygiene routine, Ding returned to the unit perimeter.  They'd lay up tonight, putting a listening post out a few hundred meters and running a routine patrol to make sure that there was nobody hunting them, but this would be a night of rest.  Captain Ramirez had explained that they didn't want to be too active in this area.  It might spook the game sooner than they wanted.

Force Majeure

T
HE EASIEST THING
for Sergeant Mitchell to do was to call his friend at
Fort
MacDill
.  He'd served with Ernie Davis in the 101st Air Assault Division, lived right next to him in a duplex, and crumpled many an empty beer can after charcoaled franks and burgers in the backyard.  They were both E-7s, well schooled in the ways of the Army, which was really run by the sergeants, after all.  The officers got more money and all of the worries while the long-service NCOs kept things on an even keel.  He had an Army-wide phone directory at his desk and called the proper AUTOVON number.

“Ernie?  Mitch.”

“Yo, how's life out in wine country?”

“Humpin' the hills, boy.  How's the family?”

“Doing fine, Mitch.  And yours?”

“Annie's turning into quite a little lady.  Hey, the reason I called, I wanted to check up to make sure one of our people got out to you.  Staff Sergeant named Domingo Chavez.  You'd like him, Ernie, he's a real good kid.  Anyway, the paperwork got fucked up on this end, and I just wanted to make sure that he showed up in the right place.”

“No problem,” Ernie said. “Chavez, you said?”

“Right.” Mitchell spelled it.

“Don't ring a bell.  Wait a minute.  I gotta switch phones.” A moment later Ernie's voice came back, accompanied by the clicking sound that denoted a computer keyboard.  What was the world coming to?  Mitchell wondered.  Even infantry sergeants had to know how to use the goddamned things. “Run that name past me again?”

“Chavez, first name Domingo, E-6.” Mitchell read off his service number, which was the same as his Social Security number.

“He ain't here, Mitch.”

“Huh?  We got a call from this Colonel O'Mara of yours—”

“Who?”

“Some bird named O'Mara.  My ell-tee took the call and got a little flustered.  New kid, still got a lot to learn,” Mitchell explained.

“I never heard of no Colonel O'Mara.  I think maybe you got the wrong post, Mitch.”

“No shit?” Mitchell was genuinely puzzled. “My ell-tee must have really booted this one.  Okay, Ernie, I'll take it from here.  You give my love to Hazel now.”

“Roge-o, Mitch.  You have a good one, son. 'Bye.”

“Hmph.” Mitchell stared at the phone for a moment.  What the hell was going on?  Ding wasn't at Benning, and wasn't at MacDill.  So where the fuck was he?  The platoon sergeant flipped to the number for the
Military
Personnel
Center
, located in
Alexandria
,
Virginia
.  The sergeants' club is a tight one, and the community of E-7s was especially so.  His next call was to Sergeant First Class Peter Stankowski.  It took two tries to get him.

“Hey, Stan!  Mitch here.”

“You looking for a new job?” Stankowski was a detailer.  His job was to assign his fellow sergeants to new jobs.  As such, he was a man with considerable power.

“Nah, I just love being a light-fighter.  What's this I hear about you turning track-toad on us?” Stankowski's next job, Mitchell had recently learned, was in the 1st Cavalry Division at
Fort
Hood
, where he'd lead his squad from inside an M-2 Bradley Fighting Vehicle.

“Hey, Mitch, my knees are goin'.  Ever think it might be nice to fight sittin' down once in a while?  Besides, that twenty-five-millimeter chain gun makes for a nice equalizer.  What can I do for you?”

“Trying to track somebody down.  One of my E-6s checked out a couple of weeks back, and we have to ship some shit to him, and he ain't where we thought he was.”

“Oooo-kay.  Wait while I punch up my magic machine and we'll find the lad for you.  What's his name?” Stankowski asked.  Mitchell gave him the information.

“Eleven-Bravo, right?” 11-B was Chavez's Military Occupation Specialty, or MOS.  That designated Chavez as a light infantryman.  Mechanized infantry was Eleven-Mike.

“Yep.” Mitchell heard some more tapping.

“C-h-a-v-e-z, you said?”

“Right.”

“Okay, he was supposed to go to Benning and wear the Smokey Bear hat—”

“That's the guy!” Mitchell said, somewhat relieved.

“—but they changed his orders an' sent him down to MacDill.”

But he ain't at MacDill!
  Mitchell managed not to say.

“That's a spooky bunch down there.  You know Ernie Davis, don't you?  He's there.  Why don't you give him a call?”

“Okay,” Mitchell said, really surprised by that one.  I just did! “When you going to Hood?”

“September.”

“Okay, I'll, uh, call Ernie.  You take it easy, Stan.”

“Stay in touch, Mitch.  Say hi to the family. 'Bye.”

“Shit,” Mitchell observed after he hung up.  He'd just proved that Chavez didn't exist anymore.  That was decidedly strange.  The Army wasn't supposed to lose people, at least not like this.  The sergeant didn't know what to do next, except maybe talk to his lieutenant about it.

“We had another hit last night,” Ritter told Admiral Cutter. “Our luck's holding.  One of our people got scratched, but nothing serious, and that's three sites taken out, forty-four enemy KIAs—”

“And?”

“And tonight, four senior Cartel members are going to have a sit-down, right here.” Ritter handed over a satellite photograph, along with the text of the intercept. “All people on the production end:  Fernández, d'Alejandro, Wagner, and Untiveros.  Their ass is ours.”

“Fine.  Do it,” Cutter said.

Clark
was examining the same photo at that moment, along with a few obliques that he'd shot himself and a set of blueprints for the house.

“You figure this room, right here?”

“I've never been in this one, but that sure looks like a conference room to me,” Larson said. “How close you have to be?”

“I'd prefer under four thousand meters, but the GLD is good to six.”

“How about this hilltop right here?  We've got a clear line of sight into the compound.”

“How long to get there?”

“Three hours.  Two to drive, one to walk.  You know, you could almost do this from an airplane . . .”

“Yours?”
Clark
asked with a sly grin.

“Not on a bet!” They'd use a four-wheel-drive Subaru for the drive.  Larson had several different sets of plates, and the car didn't belong to him anyway. “I got the phone number and I got a cellular phone.”

Clark
nodded.  He was really looking forward to this.  He'd done jobs against people like this before, but never with official sanction, and never this high up the line. “Okay, I gotta get final approval.  Pick me up at three.”

Murray
hustled over from his office as soon as he got the news.  Hospitals never made people look glamorous, but Moira appeared to have aged ten years in the past sixty hours.  Hospitals weren't especially big on dignity, either.  Her hands were in restraints.  She was on suicide watch. 
Murray
knew that it was necessary—could scarcely be more so—but her personality had taken enough battering already, and this didn't make things any better.

The room was already bedecked with flowers.  Only a handful of FBI agents knew what had transpired, and the natural assumption at the office was that she'd taken Emil's death too hard.  Which wasn't far off, after all.

“You gave us quite a scare, kiddo,” he observed.

“It's all my fault.” She couldn't bring her eyes to look at him for more than a few seconds at a time.

“You're a victim, Moira.  You got taken in by one of the best in the business.  It happens, even to the smarties.  Trust me, I know.”

“I let him use me.  I acted like a whore—”

“I don't want to hear that.  You made a mistake.  That happens.  You didn't mean to hurt anybody, and you didn't break any laws.  It's not worth dying for.  It's damned sure not worth dying over when you got kids to worry about.”

“What'll they think?  What'll they think when they find out . . .”

“You've already given them all the scare they need.  They love you, Moira.  Can anything erase that?”
Murray
shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“They're ashamed of me.”

“They're scared.  They're ashamed of themselves.  They think it's partly their fault.” That struck a nerve.

“But it's not!  It's all my fault—”

“I just told you it isn't.  Moira, you got in the way of a truck named Félix Cortez.”

“Is that his real name?”

“He used to be a colonel in the DGI.  Trained at the
KGB
Academy
, and he's very, very good at what he does.  He picked you because you're a widow, a young, pretty one.  He scouted you, figured out that you're lonely, like most widows, and he turned on the charm.  He probably has a lot of inborn talent, and he was educated by experts.  You never had a chance.  You got hit by a truck you never saw coming.  We're going to have a shrink come down, Dr. Lodge from
Temple
University
.  And he's going to tell you the same thing I am, but he's going to charge a lot more.  Don't worry, though.  It comes under Workers Comp.”

“I can't stay with the Bureau.”

“That's true.  You're going to have to give up your security clearance,” Dan told her. “That's no great loss, is it?  You're going to get a job at the Department of Agriculture, right down the street, same pay grade and everything,”
Murray
said gently. “Bill set it all up for you.”

“Mr. Shaw?  But—why?”

“ 'Cause you're a good guy, Moira, not a bad guy.  Okay?”

“So what exactly are we going to do?” Larson asked.

“Wait and see,”
Clark
replied, looking at the road map.  There was a place called Don Diego not too far from where they were going.  He wondered if somebody named Zorro lived there. “What's your cover story in case somebody sees us together?”

“You're a geologist, and I've been flying you around looking for new gold deposits.”

“Fine.” It was one of the stock cover-stories
Clark
used.  Geology was one of his hobbies, and he could discuss the subject well enough to fool a professor in the subject.  In fact, that's exactly what he'd done a few times.  That cover would also explain some of the gear in the back of the four-wheel-drive station wagon, at least to the casual or unschooled observer.  The GLD, they'd explain, was a surveying instrument, which was pretty close.

The drive was not terribly unusual.  The local roads lacked the quality of paving common in America, and there weren't all that many guard rails, but the main hazard was the way the locals drove, which was a little on the passionate side, Clark thought.  He liked it.  He liked
South America
.  For all the social problems, the people down here had a zest for life and an openness that he found refreshing.  Perhaps the
United States
had been this way a century before.  The old West probably had.  There was much to admire.  It was a pity that the economy hadn't developed along proper lines, but
Clark
wasn't a social theorist.  He, too, was a child of his country's working class, and in the important things working people are the same everywhere.  Certainly the ordinary folk down here had no more love for the druggies than he did.  Nobody likes criminals, especially the sort that flaunt their power, and they were probably angry that their police and army couldn't do anything about it.  Angry and helpless.  The only “popular” group that had tried to deal with them was M-19, a Marxist guerrilla group—actually more an elitist collection of city-bred and university-educated intellectuals.  After kidnapping the sister of a major cocaine trafficker, the others in the business had banded together to get her back, killing over two hundred M-19 members and actually forming the Medellín Cartel in the process.  That allowed
Clark
to admire the Cartel.  Bad guys or not, they had made a Marxist revolutionary group back off by playing the urban guerrilla game by M-19's own rules.  Their mistake—aside from being in a business which Clark abhorred—had been in assuming that they had the ability to play against another, larger enemy by the same set of rules, and that their new enemy wouldn't respond in kind.  Turnabout was fair play,
Clark
thought.  He settled back in his seat to catch a nap.  Surely they'd understand.

Three hundred miles off the Colombian coast, USS Ranger turned into the wind to commence flight operations.  The battle group was composed of the carrier, the Aegis-class cruiser Thomas S. Gates, another missile cruiser, four missile-armed destroyers and frigates, and two dedicated antisubmarine destroyers.  The underway replenishment group, with a fleet oiler, the ammunition ship Shasta, and three escorts, was fifty miles closer to the South American coast.  Five hundred miles to seaward was another similar group returning from a lengthy deployment at “Camel Station” in the
Indian Ocean
.  The returning fleet simulated an oncoming enemy formation—pretending to be Russians, though nobody said that anymore in the age of glasnost.

The first aircraft off, as Robby Jackson watched from Pri-Fly, the control position high up on the carrier's island structure, were F-14 Tomcat interceptors, loaded out to maximum takeoff weight, squatting at the catapults with cones of fire trailing from each engine.  As always, it was exciting to watch.  Like a ballet of tanks, the massive, heavily loaded aircraft were choreographed about the four acres of flight deck by teenaged kids in filthy, color-coded shirts who gave instructions in pantomime while keeping out of the way of the jet intakes and exhausts.  It was for them a game more dangerous than racing across city streets at rush hour, and more stimulating.  Crewmen in purple shirts fueled the aircraft, and were called “grapes.” Other kids, red-shirted ordnancemen called “ordies,” were loading blue-painted exercise weapons aboard aircraft.  The actually shooting part of the Shoot-Ex didn't start for another day.  Tonight they'd practice interception tactics against fellow Navy aviators.  Tomorrow night, Air Force C-130s would lift out of
Panama
to rendezvous with the returning battle group and launch a series of target drones which, everyone hoped, the Tomcats would blast from the sky with their newly repaired AIM-54C
Phoenix
missiles.  It was not to be a contractor's test.  The drones would be under the control of Air Force NCOs whose job it was to evade fire as though their lives depended on it, for whom every successful evasion involved a stiff penalty to be paid in beer or some other medium of exchange by the flight crew who missed.