Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Choke Point (Tom Clancys Ghost Recon)

by Peter Telep

  If you were an Islamic terrorist, a Colombian rebel, or perhaps a Mexican cartel leader seeking portable firepower against air threats or a powerful weapon to carry out Allah’s will against infidels, then the Grinch was, in Ross’s humble opinion, the most bad-ass launcher of them all.

  He took a seat at his desk as the team gathered around.

  ‘So as I was saying,’ Kozak began after the weapons briefing. ‘Do you know what this means?’

  ‘It means we ain’t going home,’ Pepper said. ‘Not anytime soon …’

  ‘Right,’ Kozak agreed. ‘But check this out.’ He began reading from his own tablet computer. ‘The Russians have been selling these Grinch launchers to Venezuela, and the State Department has been worried for a long time that those launchers could find their way into the hands of the FARC. They, in turn, might sell them to the Mexicans. You know how that goes: Here’s a few bricks of cocaine, and with every order over five hundred grand, you get a free rocket launcher. Worse thing is, terrorists trying to get into the US through Mexico could get their hands on one of those puppies.’

  ‘So why are these FARC guys shipping the launchers overseas?’ 30K asked. ‘Are they selling them?’

  ‘These launchers don’t come from Venezuela,’ said Kozak.

  ‘Okay, now I’m confused,’ said 30K.

  ‘He’s right,’ Ross interjected. ‘During the civil war here in Libya, the warehouses in Tripoli were raided, and thousands of these Grinch launchers, along with the older SA-7s, went missing. Both sides stole them for their own use. I remember seeing pictures of civilian cars loaded with cases.’

  ‘So are these babies going back to Colombia then?’ asked Pepper. ‘Meaning the FARC have found another source for their weapons?’

  ‘That’s possible,’ said Ross. ‘If they’re not headed back there, then maybe Hamid’s new terrorist group is taking possession. Maybe he made a deal with the Libyans who stole them.’

  ‘Or better yet, maybe they’re splitting them up,’ said 30K. ‘Send some from Libya to Colombia, then send the rest to Mr Hamid’s house. Weapons, money, drugs all flowing in multiple directions.’

  Ross slapped his palms on his knees, about to stand. ‘Well, this, gentlemen, is why they pay us the big bucks.’ He turned to Pepper. ‘Make sure your motorcycle’s got a full tank.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Ross glanced to the others. ‘We’ve got observers on the hotel and the warehouses. We’ll rotate out on watch. Everyone, try to grab a few z’s. We have a big day tomorrow.’

  Ross had his arm draped over his eyes and was lying on his back, the support poles of the bed digging into his spine. He’d been fading in and out of sleep for the past hour, his thoughts rising in explosive clouds then dissipating before he could fully grapple with them:

  His first date with Wendy at the Abbey Road Pub in Virginia Beach, how the ketchup bottle exploded …

  Taking her to the beach that night and proposing, on his knees in the sand, the half-carat diamond small but the best he could afford …

  Her calling him in Afghanistan to say they were going to have a baby, her voice cracking and making him cry …

  The birth announcement card welcoming Jonathan Taylor Ross into the world, 10 pounds, 3 ounces …

  Him telling Wendy at Jonathan’s first birthday party: ‘I can’t wait. I’m going to teach him how to be a man.’

  And then, 14 August, the sunburn on Jonathan’s nose, his swimming trunks hanging loosely from his bony waist …

  ‘Dad? It’s so hot outside. Can you shoot us with the hose?’

  Ross didn’t realize he’d been shaken awake and fallen on to the concrete floor until 30K was grabbing his arm and saying, ‘Captain? Are you okay?’

  He glanced around, disoriented for a few seconds then realizing what had happened. ‘Oh, man, yeah. Thought I was back home in my own bed.’

  ‘You were yelling something.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, you were.’

  Ross sat up and stared hard into 30K’s eyes. ‘No, I wasn’t …’

  30K just looked at him, shook his head and headed back across the basement to his own bed.

  And there, in the dim glow of his tablet computer, was Pepper, just staring at him.

  ‘Sorry, guys, I’m cool. Back to sleep.’

  Kozak was up on the church’s roof, watching as the guards at the Fadakno warehouse were checking the backup power status of the cameras and motion detectors. They had, he assumed, replaced the backup batteries and checked the fuse boxes, only to discover that all of the cameras and sensors were still not functioning. They might attribute the problem to a power surge, and that would put Kozak’s mind at ease.

  About ten minutes later, 30K arrived on the roof to relieve him. ‘Thanks, buddy,’ Kozak said.

  ‘Hey, Sinbad had a nightmare. He fell right off his bed.’

  ‘Are you talking about Captain Ross?’ Kozak asked darkly.

  ‘Yeah.’ 30K began shaking his head.

  ‘Don’t go there,’ warned Kozak. ‘It’s just stress.’

  30K smirked. ‘Whatever you say.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  At exactly 7:41 a.m. local time, a certain pilot of interest named Bakri Takana left the Hotel al-Massira in a rental car and drove directly to the Fadakno warehouses.

  Sixteen minutes later a motorcycle courier arrived, parked his bike outside the main office for about three minutes, then climbed back on board and motored off, turning out on to the highway, assumedly bound for the airport.

  Though only speculation at this point, Ross believed that the courier had delivered Takana’s payment, then as usual had gone to the airport to both deliver mail and act as a forward scout to verify that the route was clear.

  Pepper and 30K would confirm that. ‘Okay, guys, he’s on the way. Stand by.’

  A single, suppressed, and expertly placed shot to the motorcycle courier’s front tyre sent the man skidding off the road and into the dirt, where he spun out and nearly crashed, the smell of burning rubber and freshly dug-up sand filling the air around them.

  30K couldn’t believe that Pepper had made that damned shot as he hauled himself out of the ditch where’d they’d been lying and went charging over to the courier before the guy could reach for his cell phone.

  ‘Hold it,’ 30K hollered in Arabic.

  He was just a kid really, barely twenty, with a narrow face and a very Western hipster knitted cap pulled over his shaggy hair. His face screwed up into a knot as he looked down the barrel of 30K’s rifle.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ 30K added, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his voice muffled behind the desert camouflage team scarf covering his nose and mouth.

  The scarves were a Ghost tradition, beginning with your graduation and acceptance into the GST. 30K’s scarf was modified with a skull’s grin; Kozak’s was painted like a cyborg with battle damage; Pepper’s resembled the face of a Texas bull; and Ross’s looked like a scuba diving regulator in his mouth.

  At the moment, 30K had forgotten about how frightening he looked wearing his grim reaper, and the kid’s sudden tears reminded him of that.

  ‘I’m just a mail courier. I don’t have any money.’

  30K almost laughed. ‘We’re not here to rob you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Youssef.’

  ‘Well, Youssef, today’s your lucky day.’

  Pepper walked over, wearing his bull face scarf and holding a wad of cash. ‘You want to make some money?’ he asked the kid.

  ‘How?’

  30K lifted the boy’s chin with his rifle’s barrel. ‘All you have to do is talk. We have enough money to buy you a new bike and a new life.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I will talk to you.’

  Without thinking, 30K released an onslaught, his mouth operating on full auto. ‘What happened back at the warehouse? Where did you come from? Did you deliver money? Who hired you? Are you going to the airport now?’

  The kid v
isibly trembled.

  ‘One question at a time,’ Pepper told 30K.

  A pickup truck came roaring up the highway, pulled over, and out hopped Maziq and two of the NLA troops.

  ‘Get the motorcycle in the truck right now,’ Maziq ordered his men. Then he faced Pepper. ‘You need to get on your bike and get going.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Maziq came over to 30K. ‘You get what we need?’

  30K glanced to the courier. ‘Okay, Youssef. This is another one of my friends. You can tell him everything.’

  ‘You won’t kill me?’

  ‘Hey, we don’t have time. Start talking. NOW.’

  Ross studied his Cross-Com’s HUD, now displaying the signal from the tracker Kozak had planted on the missile launchers. They’d been loaded on to the truck, and their boy Takana was now behind the wheel and heading out of the warehouse.

  ‘Ghost Team, listen up. The shipment’s en route. Maziq, how’s the second team making out?’

  ‘They’re already in place and set to disrupt airport security if we need ’em. Keeping quiet for now. We intercepted the courier. Just finished interrogating him. Pepper’s on his way to the hangar.’

  ‘Excellent work. 30K, we get anything out of that kid?’

  ‘Not much, boss. He makes the money run. Picks up the package in Tripoli at another Fadakno warehouse.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘No, sorry. He doesn’t know the names of the people who give him the money. He says he has no idea where the shipments go or what’s in them, but he checks the route and gives the airplane mechanics the heads-up when the shipment is coming. That’s all he does.’

  ‘You trust him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s too young and stupid to be given any more responsibility. He’s just a runner like we thought.’

  ‘Okay, but don’t release him till we’re done.’

  ‘You got it – but technically speaking, is that kidnapping, sir?’

  Ross snickered. ‘Hell, no. We’re just giving him time to count his tax-free donation in a safe and comfortable environment.’

  30K laughed. ‘Gotcha.’

  Pepper rolled on to the access road running parallel to the hangars, the motorcycle’s grumble announcing his approach. Oh, yeah, he was bad to the bone.

  He throttled up, dust swirling in his wake as he sped directly past the first few hangars, turning sharply past the open doors of the last one and roaring inside –

  Where the two mechanics swung around, took one look at him, got pissed off, then began yelling at him from their perch atop their maintenance ladder.

  As Pepper turned off the engine, lowered the kickstand, and began to dismount, the taller of the two men came rushing down and confronted him. ‘Where’s Youssef?’

  Pepper had removed his bull scarf but still wore his dark sunglasses. He backhanded sweat from his forehead and just looked at the man.

  ‘I said, Who are you?’

  ‘Youssef called in sick,’ Pepper finally answered. ‘I’m the new guy.’

  ‘They said they’d call me if there was any change. Why didn’t they call? Is the truck on its way?’

  ‘Yes. Those filthy bastards should’ve called you.’

  The mechanic’s gaze narrowed. ‘You’re a foreigner.’

  Pepper smiled. ‘Of course.’

  The man muttered something, then said, ‘The plane will be ready.’ The guy turned back toward the ladder.

  Pepper stood there, still wearing his stupid grin.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Pepper had the X3 Taser pistol in his fist before the mechanic could react. The safety was off, and a pair of laser dots had lined up vertically on the mechanic’s chest, with the top dot flashing to mark the target.

  At the same time, a second pair of laser dots appeared on the shorter mechanic’s chest, these also emitted from Pepper’s weapon. A total of three cartridges could be inserted into the X3’s box-shaped barrel, each containing a pair of probes, and now two of those cartridges were about to be emptied –

  Simultaneously.

  Pepper thumbed a side button to ‘arc’ the charge, the weapon crackling with electricity.

  There was no need to do this, other than to scare the shit out of the guys. Pepper couldn’t help himself.

  The mechanics backed away, and the first looked to the workbench, about to make his move.

  And then, with the crackling growing louder – like something out of Frankenstein’s lab – the shorter mechanic cried, ‘Don’t shoot!’ He was about to swing himself off the ladder like a gymnast when –

  Pepper squeezed the trigger, firing both sets of probes, the attached wires zigzagging away from the barrel like folded fishing line, the mechanics now screaming like medieval torture chamber victims as they fell toward the deck, writhing. A weird metallic smell made Pepper grimace.

  ‘Oh, come on, guys, man up,’ he told them in Arabic. ‘Take the pain. It won’t last long.’

  An airport security truck carrying 30K, along with four NLA troops, rolled up outside, squeaking to a halt. 30K hopped from the passenger’s side and came jogging into the hangar.

  ‘Hey, what do we got?’ he cried, his voice echoing.

  ‘Get him,’ Pepper ordered, pointing to the shorter guy lying across part of the ladder.

  While 30K hustled past him to comply, Pepper removed the Taser probes on the taller one, then dug his arms beneath the mechanic and dragged him up and toward the truck, handing him off to the NLA troops.

  30K delivered his man to the truck, then told the driver to get out of there. The mechanics, along with the courier, would be taken back to the church and detained until Ross gave the order for their release. The truck squealed off with a rush of dust and gravel.

  Pepper waved over 30K toward the wall of pallets to their left. ‘When’s the last time you drove a forklift?’

  30K shrugged. ‘How hard can it be?’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The shipment containing the bricks of cocaine that Ross and Pepper had tagged was still inside the warehouse and would probably be moved out sometime during the day. If the FARC-Bedayat network was smuggling cocaine into Europe, then they might utilize yet another Fadakno warehouse located in Croatia. Ross shared that hunch with Mitchell, who said he’d deploy another Ghost team to follow the shipment.

  Kozak, who was at the wheel of the Tacoma, kept them about a kilometer behind the weapons truck. Even better, they were hidden behind several other vehicles also headed to the airport. They’d sent up the drone to keep a visual on the truck, even as the NSA supplied them with Keyhole satellite imagery of the road and airport. A sensor deployed outside the warehouse just as the truck was leaving revealed that four of the six FARC guards were in the back, rubbing shoulders with the pallets of SA-24s.

  Because Kozak was driving, Ross operated the drone, and the young sergeant repeatedly told him to be careful. ‘Don’t worry, buddy, I won’t let it crash.’

  ‘They’re not cheap,’ Kozak warned. ‘And, sir, I appreciate us going a little more on the offensive here.’

  ‘These guys can expect to lose a few couriers,’ said Ross. ‘Those kids always get cold feet after a while. I lost a few myself back in the ’Stan. You win over a kid’s loyalty, but he’s only good for a few weeks till he realizes just how dangerous it is, then he bails. Anyway, Maziq will help us cover up the rest.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘30K say anything to you about last night?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean. I’m sure he said something.’

  Kozak shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Uh, you fell off your bed.’

  ‘Yeah, one of those rollovers, and oops, I’m not in my own bed things.’

  ‘I’ve done that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Ross, lifting his tone. ‘I feel good today. Mission tempo is high. And in a few minutes, it’ll be showtime!’

  ‘Hell, yeah, sir!’

 
Ross banged fists with Kozak, then glanced through the open window, letting the hot wind whip over his face.

  30K marveled over the expression on the guy’s face:

  Their not-so-friendly neighborhood pilot, Bakri Takana, had an extremely dark complexion and brilliant eyes, which shone all the more as he watched a miracle happen not two feet from his face.

  He’d just parked the truck inside the hangar, had climbed out, and was now staring at 30K and Pepper with pistols pointed at his head.

  From Takana’s point of view, these men had materialized from thin air.

  And 30K found it difficult to repress his shit-eating grin over absolutely shocking the guy with their optical camouflage.

  ‘Hands on your head,’ ordered 30K in Arabic.

  ‘What the hell? How did you … where did you –’

  ‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!’

  Takana winced and obeyed.

  ‘You’re Bakri Takana,’ said Pepper.

  ‘How do you know me?’

  Pepper’s tone softened. ‘We’re not here to hurt you. We just need to talk.’

  30K shifted behind Takana and patted him down, discovering a pistol tucked into the small of his back, another in a calf holster. He then grabbed one of Takana’s wrists, slapped on a pair of zipper cuffs, then lowered the other wrist to finish the job. While clutching the man’s bound wrists with one hand, 30K leaned in close and growled, ‘Okay, Sundown, what’s the combination on that lock?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Let’s just say we’re the good guys,’ said Pepper. ‘Give us that combination.’

  ‘Why should I? You’ll kill me anyway.’

  ‘There’s no need for that. Just cooperate.’

  Takana thought a moment, then seemed to smile, as if over some private joke. He blurted out the numbers.

  With that, 30K went jogging around to the other side of the truck. He understood why Takana had, for just a few seconds, looked so pleased with himself. He figured that Pepper and 30K were unaware of the guards inside the truck. He’d assumed that his ‘friends’ would ambush these ‘good guys’ who’d taken him prisoner.

  What Mr Takana had not realized, though, was that he was dealing with four of the most highly trained and well-equipped Special Forces operators in the world. Flyboy was about to crash and burn.