Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (52 page)

Robby watched twelve aircraft launch before heading down to the flight deck.  Already dressed in his olive-green flight suit, he carried his personal flight helmet.  He'd ride tonight in one of the E-2C Hawkeye airborne-early-warning aircraft, the Navy's own diminutive version of the larger E-3A AW ACS, from which he'd see if his new tactical arrangement worked any better than current fleet procedures.  It had in all the computer simulations, but computers weren't reality, a fact often lost upon people who worked in the Pentagon.

The E-2C crew met him at the door to the flight deck.  A moment later the Hawkeye's plane captain, a First-Class Petty Officer who wore a brown shirt, arrived to take them to the aircraft.  The flight deck was too dangerous a place for pilots to walk unattended, hence the twenty-five-year-old guide who knew these parts.  On the way aft Robby noticed an A-6E Intruder being loaded with a single blue bombcase to which guidance equipment had been attached, converting it into a GBU-15 laser-guided weapon.  It was, he saw, the squadron-skipper's personal bird.  That, he thought, must be part of the system-validation test, called a Drop-Ex.  It wasn't that often you got to drop a real bomb, and squadron commanders like to have their fair share of fun.  Robby wondered for a moment what the target was—probably a raft, he decided—but he had other things to worry about.  The plane captain had them at their aircraft a minute later.  He said a few things to the pilot, then saluted him smartly and moved off to perform his next set of duties.  Robby strapped into the jump seat in the radar compartment, again disliking the fact that he was in an airplane as a passenger rather than a driver.

After the normal preflight ritual, Commander Jackson felt vibration as the turboprop engines fired up.  Then the Hawkeye started moving slowly and jerkily toward one of the waist catapults.  The engines were run up to full power after the nosewheel attachment was fixed to the catapult shuttle and the pilot spoke over the intercom to warn his crew that it was time.  In three stunning seconds, the Grumman-built aircraft went from a standing start to one hundred forty knots.  The tail sank as it left the ship, then the aircraft leveled out and tipped up again for its climb to twenty thousand feet.  Almost immediately, the radar controllers in back started their systems checks, and in twenty minutes the E-2C was on station, eighty miles from the carrier, its rotodome turning, sending radar beams through the sky to start the exercise. 
Jackson
was seated so as to observe the entire “battle” on the radar screens, his helmet plugged into the command circuit so that he could see how well the Ranger's air wing executed his plan, while the Hawkeye flew a racetrack pattern in the sky.

From their position they could also see the battle group, of course.  Half an hour after taking off, Robby noted a double launch from the carrier.  The radar-computer system tracked both new contacts as a matter of course.  They climbed to thirty thousand feet and rendezvoused.  A tanker exercise, he realized at once.  One of the aircraft immediately returned to the carrier, while the other flew east-southeast.  The intercept exercise began in earnest right about then, but every few seconds Robby noted the course of the new contact, until it disappeared off the screen, still heading toward the South American mainland.

“Yes, yes, I will go,” Cortez said. “I am not ready yet, but I will go.” He hung up his phone with a curse and reached for his car keys.  Félix hadn't even had the chance to visit one of the smashed refining sites yet and they wanted him to address the—“The Production Committee,” el jefe called it.  That was amusing.  The fools were so bent on taking over the national government that they were starting to use quasi-official terminology.  He swore again on the way out the door.  Drive all the way down to that fat, pompous lunatic's castle on the hill.  He checked his watch.  It would take two hours.  And he would get there late.  And he would not be able to tell them anything because he hadn't had time to learn anything.  And they would be angry.  And he would have to be humble again.  Cortez was getting tired of abasing himself to these people.  The money they paid him was incredible, but no amount of money was worth his self-respect.  That was something he should have thought about before he signed up, Cortez reminded himself as he started his car.  Then he swore again.

The newest C
APER
intercept was number 2091 and was an intercept from a mobile phone to the home of Subject E
CHO
.  The text came up on Ritter's personal computer printer.  Then came 2092, not thirty seconds later.  He handed both to his special assistant.

“Cortez . . . going right there?  Christmas in June.”

“How do we get the word to
Clark
?” Ritter wondered.

The man thought for a moment. “We can't.”

“Why not?”

“We don't have a secure voice channel we can use.  Unless—we can get a secure VOX circuit to the carrier, and from there to the A-6, and from the A-6 to
Clark
.”

It was Ritter's turn to swear.  No, they couldn't do that.  The weak link was the carrier.  The case officer they had aboard to oversee that end of the mission would have to approach the carrier's commanding officer—it might not start there, but it would sure as hell end there—and ask for a cleared radio compartment to handle the messages by himself on an ears-only basis.  That would risk too much, even assuming that the CO went along.  Too many questions would be asked, too many new people in the information loop.  He swore again, then recovered his senses.  Maybe Cortez would get there in time.  Lord, wouldn't it be nice to tell the Bureau that they'd nailed the bastard!  Or, more properly, that someone had, plausibly deniably.  Or maybe not.  He didn't know Bill Shaw very well, and didn't know how he might react.

Larson had parked the Subaru a hundred yards off the main road in a preselected spot that made detection unlikely.  The climb to their perch was not a difficult one, and they arrived well before sundown.  The photos had identified a perfect place, right on the crest of a ridge, with a direct line of sight toward a house that took their breath away.  Twenty thousand square feet it was—a hundred-foot square, two stories, no basement—set within a fenced six-acre perimeter four kilometers away, perhaps three hundred feet lower than their position. 
Clark
had a pair of seven-power binoculars and took note of the guard force while light permitted.  He counted twenty men, all armed with automatic weapons.  Two crew-served heavy machine guns were sited in built-for-the-purpose strongpoints on the wall.  Bob Ritter had called it right on St. Kitts, he thought:  Frank Lloyd Wright meets Ludwig the
Mad
.
  It was a beautiful house, if you went for the neoclassical-Spanish-modern style, fortified in hi-tech fashion to keep the unruly peasants away.  There was also the de rigueur helicopter pad with a new Sikorsky S-76 sitting on it.

“Anything else I need to know about the house?”
Clark
asked.

“Pretty massive construction, as you can see.  I'd worry about that.  This is earthquake country, you know.  Personally, I'd prefer something lighter, wood-post and beam, but they like concrete construction to stop bullets and mortar rounds, I suppose.”

“Better and better,”
Clark
observed.  He reached into his backpack.  First he removed the heavy tripod, setting it up quickly and expertly on solid ground.  Then came the GLD, which he attached and sighted in.  Finally, he removed a Varo Noctron-V night-sighting device.  The GLD had the same capability, of course, but once it was set up he didn't want to fool with it.  The Noctron had only five-power magnification—
Clark
preferred the binocular lens arrangement—but was small, light, and handy.  It also amplified ambient light about fifty thousand times.  This technology had come a long way since his time in
Southeast Asia
, but it still struck him as a black art.  He remembered being out in the boonies with nothing better than a Mark-1 eyeball.  Larson would handle the radio traffic, and had his unit all set up.  Then there was nothing left to do but wait.  Larson produced some junk food and both men settled down.

“Well, now you know what 'Great Feet' means,”
Clark
chuckled an hour later.  The cryppies should have known.  He handed the Noctron over.

“Gawd!  Only difference between a man and a boy . . .”

It was a Ford three-quarter-ton pickup with optional four-wheel drive.  Or at least that was how it had left the factory.  Since then it had visited a custom-car shop where four-foot-diameter tires had been attached.  It wasn't quite grotesque enough to be called “Big Foot,” after the monster trucks so popular at auto shows, but it had the same effect.  It was also quite practical, and that was the really strange part.  The road up to the casa did need some serious help, but this truck didn't notice—though the chieftain's security pukes did, struggling to keep up with their boss's new and wonderful toy.

“I bet the mileage sucks,” Larson observed as it came through the gate.  He handed the night-sight back.

“He can afford it.”
Clark
watched it maneuver around the house.  It was too much to hope for, but it happened.  The dick-head parked the truck right next to the house, right next to the windows to the conference room.  Perhaps he didn't want to take his eyes off his new toy.

Two men alighted from the vehicle.  They were greeted at the veranda—
Clark
couldn't remember the Spanish name for that—by their host with handshakes and hugs while armed men stood about as nervously as the President's Secret Service detail.  He could see them relax when their charges went inside, spreading out, mixing with their counterparts—after all, the Cartel was one big, happy family, wasn't it?

For now, anyway
,
Clark
told himself.  He shook his head in amazement at the placement of the truck.

“Here comes the last one.” Larson pointed to headlights struggling up the gravel road.

This car was a Mercedes, a stretch job, doubtless armored like a tank—Just like the ambassador's car,
Clark
thought.  How poetic.  This VIP was also met with pomp and circumstance.  There were now at least fifty guards visible.  The wall perimeter was fully manned, with other teams constantly patrolling the grounds.  The odd thing, he thought, was that there were no guards outside the wall.  There had to be a few, but he couldn't spot them.  It didn't matter.  Lights went on in the room behind the truck.  That did matter.

“Looks like you guessed right, boy.”

“That's what they pay me for,” Larson pointed out. “How close do you think that truck—”

Clark
had already checked, keying the laser in on both the house and the truck. “Three meters from the wall.  Close enough.”

Commander Jensen finished tanking his aircraft, disconnecting from the K.A-6 as soon as his fuel gauges pegged.  He recovered the refueling probe and maneuvered downward to allow the tanker to clear the area.  The mission profile could hardly have been easier.  He eased the stick to the right, taking a heading of one-one-five and leveling off at thirty thousand feet.  His IFF transponder was switched off at the moment, and he was able to relax and enjoy the ride, something he almost always did.  The pilot's seat in the Intruder is set rather high for good visibility during a bomb run—it did make you feel a little exposed when you were being shot at, he remembered.  Jensen had done a few missions before the end of the Vietnam War, and he could vividly recall the 100-mm flak over
Haiphong
, like black cotton balls with evil red hearts.  But not tonight.  The seat placement now was like a throne in the sky.  The stars were bright.  The waning moon would soon rise.  And all was right with the world.  Added to that was his mission.  It didn't get any better than this. 

With only starlight to see by they could pick out the coast from over two hundred miles away.  The Intruder was cruising along at just under five hundred knots.  Jensen brought the stick to the right as soon as he was beyond the radar coverage from the E-2C, taking a more southerly heading toward
Ecuador
.  On crossing the coast he turned left to trace along the spine of the
Andes
.  At this point he flipped on his IFF transponder.  Neither
Ecuador
nor
Colombia
had an air-defense radar network.  It was an extravagance that neither country needed.  As a result, the only radars that were now showing up on the Intruder's ESM monitors were the usual air-traffic-control type.  They were quite modern.  A little-known paradox of radar technology was that these new, modern radars didn't really detect aircraft at all.  Instead they detected radar transponders.  Every commercial aircraft in the world carried a small “black box”—as aircraft electronic equipment is invariably known—that noted receipt of a radar signal and replied with its own signal, giving aircraft identification and other relevant information which was then “painted” on the control scopes at the radar station—most often an airport down here—for the controllers to use.  It was cheaper and more reliable than the older radars that did “skin-paints,” detecting the aircraft merely as nameless blips whose identity, course, and speed then had to be established by the chronically overworked people on the ground.  It was an odd footnote in the history of technology that the new scheme was a step both forward and backward.

The Intruder soon entered the air-control zone belonging to
El Dorado
International
Airport
outside Bogotá .  A radar controller there called the Intruder as soon as its alphanumeric code appeared on his scope.

“Roger,
El Dorado
,” Commander Jensen replied at once. “This is Four-Three Kilo.  We are Inter-America Cargo Flight Six out of
Quito
, bound for LAX.  Altitude three-zero-zero, course three-five-zero, speed four-nine-five.  Over.”

The controller verified, the track with his radar data and replied in English, which is the language of international air travel. “Four-Three Kilo, roger, copy.  Be advised no traffic in your area.  Weather CAVU.  Maintain course and altitude.  Over.”

“Roger, thank you, and good night, sir.” Jensen killed the radio and spoke over his intercom to his bombardier-navigator. “That was easy enough, wasn't it?  Let's get to work.”