Choke Point

by Tom Clancy

  There, sitting at the edge of the clearing but still veiled from above by a natural awning of branches and broad-leafed fronds, was a diesel engine attached to a flatbed railcar.

  This would have been an unremarkable sight were it not for the Penguin MK3 missile launch system custom fitted to that car, along with its six-missile launch canister aimed skyward.

  Ross didn’t need the analysts back home to help identify the weapon. He’d seen these eight-finned rockets before, their launch assemblies mounted to ships, and he’d watched videos of their test firing.

  The Penguin was, indeed, a Norwegian-built antiship missile, pulse-laser or passive IR guidance, with a range of 55km plus (34 miles), covering the entire distance across the Strait of Malacca. No ship was safe from them. And worse, the launchers were mobile. They could show up anywhere on the tracks. It seemed the Bedayat jadeda had taken a page from the Russians, who’d used their extensive rail system to hide their ICBMs from the West during the Cold War.

  ‘Guardian, this is Delta Dragon. Are you seeing this?’

  ‘Roger that. We traced the tracks, now that we know what to look for. Believe we’ve spotted a second diesel and railcar launcher a few miles south of your location.’

  ‘Roger that, stand by.’ Ross switched to the team net. ‘Okay, guys, the SA-24s we’ve been chasing since Tobruk were just the tip of the iceberg. These crazy mothers are planning to terrorize one of the most important shipping lanes in the entire world, and they’ve got these missiles running right along the choke point.’

  ‘Well, what’re we going to do about that, sir?’ asked 30K.

  ‘You got a plan, 30K?’

  ‘Hell, yeah, I do, sir.’

  Ross beamed back at him. ‘You’ll get your chance.’

  ‘Sir, suggest we continue our sweep north then head east to get a better look at that chopper operation,’ said Kozak. ‘Who knows what else they’re bringing in here.’

  ‘Roger that. Let’s go.’

  Pepper rotated to the front and took them along a natural fence line of nipah running around the outpost’s perimeter. They reached the very edge of the forest, where out on the strait they spotted Duman lumbering dangerously close to the shoreline in an effort to make the chopper’s off-loading operation as expeditious as possible. At the moment, the helicopter was carrying back the sixth and final pallet of missile launchers dangling from its cargo line. The pallet came down and was unloaded, even as the pilot turned and headed back, with hints of red and orange already on the horizon.

  When the chopper was about halfway back to the ship, Kozak’s voice broke over the radio, and he could barely contain himself:

  ‘Sir, we got some people on the deck now, and no shit, sir, I think one of them is Hamid.’

  Ross zoomed in with his helmet camera, then abandoned it for his high-powered binoculars. The images were still a little grainy, but there was one man among the deck crew who fitted that terrorist scumbag’s description.

  It wasn’t until he took the cargo line in his hands, and was strapped into a harness, that Ross began to nod and say, ‘Kozak, I think you’re right. I think that’s our man.’ And once they had lifted him in the air and his face had turned toward Ross, he called Mitchell and said, ‘Sir, I think we know how deep the rabbit hole goes.’

  ‘Roger that. Fall back and continue your reconnaissance. Diaz, Maziq and I are piecing this all together now with some new intel. Stand by.’

  ‘Guys, we need to get in close to that clearing where they dropped the missiles,’ Ross told the team. ‘I want a good look at our buddy.’ With that, he gave the signal, and they vanished back into the jungle, retracing their perimeter advance, this time marking the positions of several guards at the clearing’s edge, outside their bunkers.

  Ross found another unobstructed view of the drop zone within a cluster of palms, and 30K edged up to him and said, ‘You want to get in close? Like real close?’

  ‘Let’s do it. Pepper? Kozak? Hold here.’

  30K activated his camouflage, and Ross fell in behind him, dematerializing himself. 30K took them right up to the lean-tos, not two meters away from a guard standing there, and Ross, concealed under his camouflage, stared up at the man’s profile. This, he believed, was a FARC solider, recruited all the way from Colombia to work here.

  The chopper and accompanying gale force wash showered the area with dirt and rattled the huts as it touched down, and the man they believed was Saif Hamid climbed out, ducking reflexively against the rotor blades. Indeed, it was him. He was tall and lanky, a younger version of bin Laden, with an equally long beard and neck. Radical jihadists weren’t known for their spectacular personal hygiene, fashion sense, or anything else that made them stand out much from their fellow fanatics. Hamid was dressed in the same jungle pattern camouflage fatigues as his men and was quickly addressed by another bearded man, slightly older and grayer, as Ross zoomed in with his Cross-Com and began taking pictures, which were automatically sent to Mitchell.

  Hamid and the second unidentified man headed back toward one of the huts, escorted by guards, while the chopper pilot switched off his engine. Ross wasn’t close enough to hear their conversation, but he imagined a lot of self-congratulatory remarks were being made.

  Hello, you son of a bitch. We’re coming for you. And we’re bringing the blood, sweat and tears of all those innocent people you killed …

  ‘Delta Dragon, this is Guardian,’ called Mitchell. ‘We’ve marked your positions. Fall back. I have another update.’

  FIFTY-NINE

  Once Ross and 30K returned to the others, he ordered the team another hundred meters away from the outpost, then he reestablished the link to Mitchell, who shared both the backstory and complex relationship Hamid had with his associates:

  ‘The man talking with Hamid is a player we’ve been following for a long time now: Amir Bahar. He’s the former spiritual leader of a Southeast Asian terrorist group known as Jemaah Islamiyah, and he used to buy pirated arms until his al Qaeda funding dried up. He’s formed an alliance with a group called the Jemaah Ansharut Tauhid, or JAT, to front his operation. Our sources close to him say his intent is to control the strait because he who controls the strait has the power to topple existing governments and restore Sharia Law.’

  ‘He who controls the strait has the power to affect the world’s oil supply,’ said Ross.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he understands that very well. Now Maziq tells me that shipments of arms and armaments between Norway and the South African Air Force have been pirated during transits around the Horn of Africa, which explains where these guys picked up some of their toys like those Penguins you found.’

  ‘Okay, but what’s in it for Bahar? Just more fighters? And how do the Colombians play into all this?’

  ‘Well, if you think about it, there aren’t many places to hide heavy armament and large weapons caches in that region. Up until Bahar made contact with Hamid and the Bedayat jadeda, he was forced to hide his contraband in the holds of ships sympathetic to JAT – and we know this because we’ve intercepted a few of those ships. Hamid’s base of operations on Rupat has solved his and Bahar’s problems. Bahar has a secure place for his weapons cache safely hidden from satellites and our Navy in Singapore, and Hamid has a strategically operational stronghold overlooking a narrow section of the strait. Plus he’s got a propaganda tool to recruit new warriors. The FARC are employees of Hamid, trading partners, and a source of funding. However, if this plays out the way they want, South American oil would become much more valuable if the Middle East supply were disrupted, particularly Venezuelan oil, and it’s a known fact that the FARC have had a relationship with that government.’

  ‘So what’s their next move? Take out an oil tanker?’

  ‘We assume they’ll begin by striking boats from the Malacca Strait Patrol, a security force staffed by personnel from Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia, and Thailand. With the MSP weakened, they can go to town on the oil tankers.’

&n
bsp; During his tenure as a SEAL, Ross had attended many presentations on how America had become the world’s maritime police force, and he understood well how he and his team now fitted into the larger picture.

  Mitchell continued: ‘Increased risk in the strait will increase the price of oil, raise maritime insurance rates, and force some ships to find alternate – and expensive – routes to the Pacific. Under treaties with both Saudi Arabia and OPEC, securitizing oil is in our national interest.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  US Navy units operating in the Indian Ocean would, according to America’s foreign policy, maintain the sea lines of communication (SLOC) for trade, logistics, and naval forces. Now, this policy also authorized the Group for Specialized Tactics to conduct as necessary reconnaissance and direct action operations that would secure that oil and keep those sea lines open.

  In sum and in layman’s terms, the Ghosts would have permission to blow the shit out of the entire outpost –

  And as Mitchell uttered the words ‘direct action mission,’ Ross sprang to his feet.

  Pepper snorted over the audacity of these sons of bitches. If they couldn’t kill us on American soil like they had back on 9/11, they’d figured out the next best way to hurt us – by hitting us in the wallet. They wanted to convert all these small countries to their way of thinking and decide which oil tankers would be allowed through the choke point and which ones they’d destroy. They’d create some serious chaos before they all got martyred and sent to hell.

  Well, they had another think coming.

  Pepper was on one knee just behind a pair of huts constructed on stilts, his camouflage activated, a sensor grenade in his right hand. The major wanted an exact troop count, and the Ghosts would get that intel for him.

  With just the slightest toss, Pepper deployed the sensor beneath the hut, then he waited as his Cross-Com rippled to life, the sensor picking up the hostile contacts and marking their exact number and locations inside those huts and those within a .25 kilometer hemisphere.

  At the same time, Ross, Kozak and 30K were doing likewise, all their data instantly compiled to give Mitchell a three-dimensional map of the battle space as well as the size and composition of their enemy.

  The images in Pepper’s HUD showed the men inside the huts outlined in red and bowing in prayer. As Muslims, they prayed five times a day, a heck of a lot more than Pepper did, and if they had known how close the Ghosts were, they’d have a lot more to pray about.

  Exploiting the moment, Pepper hauled ass across the clearing and reached the tangled web of palms. His ribs felt a lot better now, his breathing hardly as labored as it had been. He was back in the fight.

  Near the denser jungle along the south side of the camp, Ross discovered a Quonset hut draped in fronds. Stacked outside the rear door were empty boxes whose Spanish language labels indicated they were medical supplies. Ross shifted through the undergrowth, freezing beneath his camouflage as the hut’s front door opened and out stepped a familiar man – a man he’d seen outside the warehouses in Tobruk:

  Alfonso Valencia, the FARC leader with the medical background.

  What’s more, another man accompanied him.

  And when Ross got a better glimpse of his face, he nearly fell back off his haunches.

  It was Delgado, the paramilitary operations officer for the CIA, better known as the little runt bastard who had deceived the team back in Colombia. The prick was either under cover or simply a traitor working for the FARC and their terrorist connections. It almost didn’t matter anymore. Despite being a law-abiding citizen and model soldier, Ross imagined himself strangling the man to death – a moment of weakness that still felt damned good.

  Shuddering off that thought, he captured Valencia and Delgado on video and immediately sent that file back to Mitchell.

  Then he shifted farther into the jungle, kneeling in the long shadows of some fronds dripping with dew. He trembled with excitement as he called the major. ‘Sir, I just sent you a file, but I’ll cut to the chase. Valencia’s here, along with Delgado.’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘That FARC doctor Valencia is here. Looks like he’s setting up a field hospital for them. And our CIA buddy Delgado is with him.’

  No response from Mitchell.

  ‘Sir, are you there?’

  ‘I’m here, Captain. I’ll notify the NCS and get back to you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Ghost Lead, Kozak here. Best I can tell from the sensor reports is we got about seventy-five infantry armed with the basics: AKs, side arms, grenades, RPGs, and of course, the SA-24s. Got at least one fifty cal at every bunker. Looks like a mixed group of Arabs and FARC troops. Got some officer types in charge of the bunkers, another guy heading up security for the APCs, and squads for the vehicles. Biggest contingent is guarding the two trains – ten guys on each engine, with some nerdy types who look like launch operators, over.’

  ‘Excellent work,’ Ross said. ‘Ghosts, fall back to the rally point.’

  Ross was about to take off running when two Bedayat jadeda fighters came elbowing their way into the brush.

  ‘Just out here,’ said one of them in Arabic. ‘I heard something out here.’

  Swearing inwardly, Ross held his position as the men came toward him, rustling branches and leaves until they stopped, waited, rifles held at the ready.

  One of them looked directly at Ross, then he took a deep breath and said to his comrade, ‘Maybe it was over there.’ He pointed to the west. They turned and started away.

  Sweat was dripping from Ross’s chin by the time he stood and got out of there, passing between two bunkers positioned about ten meters apart, where a team of four men was setting up some claymores with trip wires. Great. More obstacles.

  SIXTY

  30K reached the rally point at the CRRC first, switching off his active camouflage and sweeping the area to be sure he hadn’t been followed. Then he dropped his pack and sat on it, keeping his Stoner at the ready.

  He glanced up at the shafts of morning light filtering down through the canopy, gnats swarming in the beams, the humidity beginning to rise. The place was a sauna, all right, and by late afternoon he predicted heavy rains.

  Sometimes, when he had too much time to think, he’d take a hard look at his surroundings and wonder: is this where I’m going to die? Does it meet all my expectations? Or is it just some disgusting hellhole and I’m going to become another statistic whose name can’t even be revealed?

  No, they weren’t here for the glory, but he was, after all, a man, and a little recognition for laying down his life for his country wasn’t such a bad thing, was it? He’d want his family to know that he’d fought and died for their freedom, and that his actions had been worth the sacrifice.

  He decided right then and there that he would not die here on this island. Nope. This place sucked. And there was still too much work to do, too many people to piss off –

  And one of them came hustling over, his green outline flickering like kryptonite in the HUD.

  ‘Hey,’ said Pepper, shifting around a tree and reaching the boat. He placed his palms on his hips, leaned over, and took in long, slow breaths.

  ‘You okay, Grandpa?’

  ‘I’ll kick your ass, punk.’

  ‘Any time, any place.’

  ‘Hey, how much C-4 we got?’

  ‘You know what we got. This was a recon. We came light, a block apiece.’

  ‘That won’t do shit.’

  ‘We hitting them tonight?’

  Pepper shrugged.

  Kozak and Ross arrived, and the captain quickly gathered them around. ‘We’ve got three High-Value Targets here, and one wild card,’ he said. ‘No warning or ops order yet, but I’m betting the major’s already working on it.’ Ross uploaded the intel photographs Mitchell had sent him of Bahar to the team’s HUDs, and he gave them a capsule summary of the man’s involvement.

  ‘And the wild card?’ asked Kozak once Ros
s was finished.

  ‘Guess who?’ Ross said.

  ‘Delgado?’ 30K said, lifting his brows.

  ‘Yeah, he’s here. Might be working for Valencia.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Kozak. ‘His cover was blown, the FARC kidnapped him in Colombia, then he manages to trick us and escape. How can he be working for Valencia if they know who he is?’

  ‘If he’s still working for Valencia, then I’m sure it’s complicated. Bottom line: We might be tasked with bringing him in alive,’ said Ross. ‘And to be honest, I’d like to kill him more than any of you, but we’re professionals, and we’ll do exactly what’s asked of us. Understood?’

  Pepper and Kozak grunted their ascent, but 30K remained silent.

  ‘And you?’ Ross asked him.

  ‘All right,’ 30K said resignedly. ‘I’ll cut his throat. But only a little.’ He held up his thumb and index finger to indicate the exact size of the incision he planned to make.

  ‘You’re a team player, 30K,’ Ross said with a wink.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘All right, we need to set up a little bivy,’ said Ross. ‘We’ll be here for a while.’

  The bivouac they chose was within the tightest cluster of nipah palms they could find, and Pepper helped Kozak quietly cut free more fronds, from which they constructed a crude roof that, even from a few feet away, was indistinguishable from the rest of the rain forest.

  They had taken along some Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) from the ship, and they had a late lunch before Mitchell finally called back with the Operations Order (OPORD).

  Ross went over the plan in exacting detail – covering all five parts of the order much more slowly than Pepper was used to. That was fine. The boss wanted to leave no stone unturned, no question unanswered. They pored over the (1) Situation, (2) Mission, (3) Execution, (4) Service & Support, and (5) Command & Signals aspects of the mission.

  Pepper could already hear 30K translating the OPORD into 30K-speak:

  Situation: Bad guys on island with missiles and shit.