by Tom Clancy
“Altitude four hundred miles.”
“We have warhead separation.”
The sergeant standing next to the commanding officer, a major, whispered aloud, “Hope it’s a dummy.”
The major ignored the comment. The sergeant was a real motormouth, especially when he was nervous. Of course it was a dummy warhead. This was a test launch, not a first strike.
She studied the warhead’s seven computer-generated probability tracks, each color-coded. The farthest reach was twelve hundred nautical miles from the Sinpo launch point, approximately six hundred miles due east of the northern Japanese coast.
The major frowned. She knew the performance specs for the Pukkuksong-1. That outer track was far and away beyond what she was expecting today from the compact SLBM.
“Major?” the sergeant said, alarm cracking his voice. But he didn’t need to say anything. Everyone in the room was watching the wall monitor, including her.
“Missile warhead appears to be breaking up.”
The major stepped closer to the monitor, shaking her head. “Holy crap.”
“Sir?”
The major was too busy to reply. The seven color-coded tracks suddenly split into twenty-one. She knew the flight was being monitored by U.S. air and ground stations around the world, but the SOP required her to pick up the phone and dial the wing commander now.
That warhead wasn’t breaking up.
5
AUDACITY MMA DOJO
SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
The mixed-martial-arts dojo was located in a strip mall not far from the community college and less than two miles from The Campus’s safe house. A light, cold rain fell outside, but after the last training exercise in the North Sea, it felt like the Bahamas to Jack.
The dojo was owned by Hector “Bruiser” Martinez, a former Navy SEAL chief petty officer and now a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt who trained a team of heavy-hitting MMA competitors dominating the professional circuit.
Martinez often used other instructors to round out the martial-arts sparring opportunities for his students. He sometimes invited his friend Dom Caruso to train his team in Krav Maga. Dom first learned Krav Maga from his mentor and friend Arik Yacoby, the former Israeli Shayetet 13 naval Special Forces operator, in Paravur, India—slaughtered along with his family by a bomb detonated by an Iranian-led hit team.
Dom wasn’t a certified Krav Maga instructor, but his skills on the mat and his real-life combat experience counted for more than a piece of paper. Dom enjoyed teaching eager young students in the world’s deadliest and most practical form of unarmed self-defense, developed through hard years of street combat by the Israeli Defense Forces. Teaching Krav Maga was also his way to honor his dead friend.
Like everybody else, Jack had been exhausted on the long flight home from Norway to Virginia on the company’s luxurious Gulfstream G550. But he had a hard time sleeping. He kept running what he now called the “blonde scenario” in his head. Yeah, she’d distracted him, but he had to admit there was something about that knife. Two hours before they landed at Reagan International, Jack woke Dom up with a shake of his lapel. “Need a favor.”
“Sure, cuz. Name it.”
Jack had trained in hand-to-hand and close-quarters combat, but he wanted to be better prepared the next time he faced a bladed weapon. He asked Dom for help.
“You mean you want an edge,” Dom joked, still bleary-eyed.
Jack shook his head. “Don’t quit your day job.”
Before they landed, Dom had called Martinez for advice, and within the week today’s private instruction had been arranged.
—
Dom and Jack knelt barefoot on the thick dojo sparring mat, waiting for Martinez and the special instructor to arrive. They waited in silence out of respect for the traditions of the dojo, and also in their practice of mindfulness—a spiritual discipline Adara had introduced to The Campus recently. Mindfulness helped foster focus, creativity, and awareness, making the team more productive in every aspect of their work, including combat.
Jack and Dom wore heavy gym shorts and shirts for the training. Their legs, arms, and hands bore purpling bruises and scrapes from the rescue operation. Jack had a black eye from where his head had slammed into the ladder, too.
Bone-tired and sore, Jack still leaped at the opportunity to fill in a chink in his combat armor. Around his neck he wore a small silver pendant engraved with the Japanese ideographs for kaizen—continuous improvement. It was more than a piece of token jewelry. It symbolized his personal drive to be the very best he could be at everything, no matter the cost.
Jack’s exhausted mind began to wander. He knew part of his incessant drive for personal excellence was because of his dad, Jack Senior. Not that his dad ever forced him to do anything or held him up to some impossibly high standard. Just the opposite. His father had only shown him unconditional love and support as he grew up.
There was the old saying that “familiarity breeds contempt,” but in Jack Junior’s case, just the opposite was true. He saw his dad as a heroic figure even before he was privy to all of the clandestine work Senior had accomplished when Junior was only a kid. So it was hard for Jack Junior not to try to live up to the example his father lived in front of him—not in order to earn his love and respect, but rather out of love and respect for the man he had the privilege of calling Dad.
His mother worried when Junior was younger that he was trying too hard to compare himself to his father. “Well? What did you expect when you named me Junior?” he once joked with her. She shrugged, conceding the point. As the chief of ophthalmology at Johns Hopkins, she was no slouch herself. His parents demonstrated the value of disciplined lives devoted to the service of others. It was the best inheritance any kid ever received from any parent, and he and his siblings started collecting that inheritance the day they were born into the family.
Jack was pulled out of his memories when Martinez entered the dojo, followed by a dark Asian man, short and slim. He appeared to be at least twenty years older than anyone else in the room, and he carried himself with an easy, determined confidence. The man held a small leather bag in his hand, rolled up like a towel. Jack assumed he was the special instructor Dom had arranged. He and Dom stood.
The four men briefly bowed toward the framed photo of Martinez’s Brazilian jiu-jitsu master on the eastern wall, then Dom and Jack bowed to their instructors, who bowed in return out of mutual respect. Such was the etiquette of a properly disciplined dojo. Jack’s father had often said that many of America’s problems could be lessened if not solved if the concept of mutual respect was ever recovered. Junior agreed.
Martinez smiled and held out a scarred hand, the skin puckered and slicked by extreme heat. Dom took it. “Bruiser, this is my friend, Jack. Jack, this is Sensei Martinez.” Jack involuntarily bowed again slightly, but Martinez reached out to shake Jack’s hand. “Any friend of Dom’s is a friend of mine. Call me Bruiser.” They shook.
Martinez then pointed to the man he’d brought in. “This is Master Amador Inosanto, an expert in Kali, Silat, and other fighting arts, but he is known for his work with the blade. He has trained military and police units all over the world. It’s an honor to have him back here in my dojo this morning.”
Amador’s unassuming face broke into a gentle smile. “Such formalities. Please, let’s all just be friends.” Amador shook hands with Jack and Dom and then finally said, “Let’s begin.” He motioned with his hand for Martinez and Dom to sit, but that Jack should remain standing.
While Martinez and Dom took to the floor, Amador unrolled the leather pouch on a plastic folding chair standing near the mirrored wall. He removed three knives and carried them carefully to the men, handing one each to Martinez, Dom, and finally Jack.
“These go by many names but most commonly are called karambits. These particular knives I forged myself,” Amado
r explained.
Jack examined the karambit in his hand. The small knife had a razor-sharp double-edged blade that curved inwardly—almost a semicircle—and ended in a vicious point. The knife fit perfectly in his hand, was well weighted and comfortable in his grip. The form and function reminded Jack of a tiger’s claw.
The karambit also featured a large round steel finger hole on the end of the handle, and the ring hole itself featured a sharp point on the end. Jack followed Martinez’s example and put his index finger through the hole and clutched the curved handle in the palm of his hand.
“This knife is just begging me to use it,” Jack said, twisting his wrist in a circular motion.
Dom agreed. “It’s a nasty piece of business.”
“Ever used one?” Martinez asked.
Dom and Jack shook their heads.
“I’ve seen them before at the knife shop, but they’re so unusual I thought it was a gangster knife or something out of a graphic novel,” Dom said.
Martinez rolled his eyes. “More and more LEOs and service members are picking these up. They come in folders with grippier composite handles and pocket clips for concealed carry.” Martinez held up the blade Amador had given him. He admired the knife in his hand. “Me, I like the traditional ones.”
“Perhaps as you can tell from my accent,” Amador began, “I’m from the Philippines. My culture is a traditional blade culture, and in my country, just about every man on the street carries a knife. Sometimes like the one you hold in your hand.”
Amador paused as the others examined their blades again.
He continued. “Many of our fighting arts, like Kali, are all about the blade, especially the knife.” He turned to Jack. “In close-quarters combat, my favorite weapon is a twelve-gauge shotgun if I can get my hands on one.” He smiled.
“Amen, brother,” Martinez said.
Amador held out his palm and Jack carefully handed him the karambit. Amador held it up high. “But if you don’t have a shotgun, a pistol, or even a knife, how do you fight with a man who knows how to use one of these?”
That’s what Jack wanted to know, too. That momentary freeze on the oil rig after the blond killer stabbed him with the knife almost cost him his life and the lives of his team members. He was still dealing with the idea that she had fooled him, but he also needed to make sure that he was better prepared for fighting with blades.
“There are many techniques for fighting with a knife, and many techniques for defending against one.” Amador touched the side of his head. “But there is one basic idea that you must master before any of those techniques make sense. That is why I have come today.”
Jack exchanged a look with Dom. This is going to be an interesting day.
“Let’s start with the basics, okay? Because if you want to fight with the blade or against it, you must first understand the blade,” Amador said.
“Is that the idea we must master?” Jack said.
Amador shook his head. “No.” He lifted the knife up high so everyone could see it. He touched the various parts of the karambit as he spoke.
“What advantage does a knife give in combat? First is the blade itself. Sharp steel.” He dragged the blade slowly in the air above his flesh, making precise motions across and around his free hand and arm. “It will slice through skin, muscle, tendons, cartilage, and even bone. Your fist can’t do that. Neither can your foot. And the steel? It feels no pain.” He grinned again. “It only causes it.”
“Second, the knife extends your reach.” He thrust the blade out in front of him as fast as a cracked whip. “This one? Not as much as, say, a KA-BAR or bowie knife, but still, a three- or four-inch extension is still an extension, isn’t it? And in the hand of a skilled enemy? That is enough advantage to kill you.”
6
Amador pointed out the other features of the hand-forged karambit, then returned it carefully to his leather bag. He then removed two dulled versions—training knives. He stepped back over to Jack, pocketing one as he approached.
“You have trained in martial arts, yes?” Amador asked.
Jack nodded. “Jiu-jitsu, karate, judo. Even a little Krav Maga, thanks to Dom.”
“Good. Then you are familiar with basic blocking and striking with the hands and forearms.”
“Of course.”
“And the more advanced moves that exploit twisting joints, pressure points, and so on? Like aikido?”
“Yes, but I can always get better. That’s why I’m here.”
“Good! Me too! Maybe you can teach me a thing or two.” Amador laughed. And just as suddenly his smile disappeared and his laughing eyes narrowed.
Jack took the hint. He squared up and bowed to his teacher and Amador returned a slighter bow to his student.
“Let’s start with a very basic move, shall we?” Amador raised the karambit high above his head with his right arm. “A common thrust by a street thug or criminal. It takes no training.” He stepped slowly toward Jack and lowered the blade in slow motion. Jack raised his much larger left forearm perpendicular to the strike. Amador’s arm touched Jack’s and they left both arms frozen in the air, holding the position.
Amador turned to Martinez and Dom. “You see? Jack is well trained. He knew how to block this basic strike.” He turned to Jack, much taller than he. “And what does your training tell you to do next?”
Still blocking Amador’s right arm with his left, Jack swung a slow-motion right fist toward Amador’s midsection until it connected.
“Good! Right out of the textbook.” Amador disengaged and took a step back. “Now let’s see what an enemy with a little more skill might be able to do.”
Amador stepped forward again, raising his right arm high again, and slow-motioned his strike down. Jack repeated his block. But when their arms connected, Amador twisted his wrist and turned his elbow in. The dull practice karambit blade turned sharply into Jack’s arm. Faster than an eye blink, the dull blade bit deeper as Amador turned farther and pulled his arm down. The pressure was intense and the leverage against Jack’s arm nearly threw him over. Amador disengaged before Jack lost his balance.
“Of course, with a properly sharpened blade, your arm would be sliced to the bone. You wouldn’t think about the counterpunch. Your brain would be screaming—‘My arm is cut off!’” Amador laughed again.
Jack was impressed. He rubbed his forearm where the blade had touched him. Dom and Martinez nodded appreciatively.
“You’re not injured, are you?” Amador asked, genuinely concerned.
“No, not at all. Just . . . surprised.”
Amador grinned. “Good. Let’s try one more. Same move by me. But a question first. What is the first thing you’re usually taught when you have no weapon but are being attacked by a man with a knife?”
“Attack the knife. Disarm him,” Jack said.
“Correct. So this time, I will make my clumsy attack and I want you to seize my wrist with one hand and then rip the knife out with the other, just the way you’ve been taught.”
Amador threw another slow-motion overhead strike, driving the blade down toward Jack’s head. Jack countered by seizing Amador’s small wrist in his left hand, then reached for Amador’s gripping hand with his right in an attempt to seize the knife.
“Stop,” Amador said.
Jack froze in place. Amador turned his head to the others seated on the mat.
“You see Jack’s firm grip on my wrist? Very strong! It’s a good move, isn’t it? But watch.” Amador simply twisted his trapped wrist and hand, and the curved blade came into contact with Jack’s wrist. “A real blade instantly cuts through the muscle and tendons of his left hand before his right hand can grab my knife. The pain in his left hand will also cause it to pull away if it can, and his right hand will involuntarily reach for the wounded one. That allows me to continue my attack.”
&
nbsp; “Ouch,” Jack said. He could imagine the blood spurting out of the resulting wound that would have disabled his hand and maybe even severed it from the wrist.
“Let’s do some more work,” Amador said. The Kali master coiled, then sped like a skater toward his larger opponent, his shoeless brown feet barely touching the mat, the calluses scraping like a file on sandpaper. Then the slow-motion death dance began again.
They spent the next twenty minutes demonstrating the power of Kali knife-fighting techniques and the vicious striking power of a karambit blade against a trained fighter like Jack. All of Jack’s blocks were easily countered with the flick of the blade. Kicks were stopped, too, and countered with slashes across feet, ankles, and thighs. Amador used his free hand and feet for strikes as well. Jack and Amador stopped in the middle of each strike-counterstrike sequence and demonstrated the subtle but powerful techniques Amador deployed.
“Now let’s switch up. Jack, you attack me, and I’ll defend,” Amador said.
“Do I get the knife?” Jack asked, hopefully.
“You don’t need a knife. You’re much larger and more powerful than me. I’m just a little old man!” Amador laughed. “Begin!”
Now Jack moved in, throwing slow-motion punches and jabs at Amador, easily six inches shorter than him. As in other martial-arts demos Jack had witnessed, Amador used a variety of techniques to dodge or deflect the heavy blows with his free hand but instantly counterstruck with the wicked claw-shaped blade, inflicting slicing wounds across the back of Jack’s hands, around his wrists, down the biceps, across the forearms. They no longer stopped to demonstrate at each point of contact but flowed continuously with the fluid motion of their attacks and defenses.
Jack picked up the pace of his attacks, adding straight and rounded leg kicks. Amador matched him step for step, blow for blow, dancing inside and out of Jack’s larger frame and delivering crippling knife strikes at the groin, inner thighs, stomach, and face. Other blows were struck with the far end of the knife, the steel retention ring acting like a brass knuckle. It delivered crushing blows to soft tissues, cartilage, and bone in the nose, larynx, and eyes.
