Threat Vector

by Tom Clancy

  Ryan thought this sounded too good to be true. “If this is, in fact, the case, Mary Pat, we could limit the scope of the planned naval attack considerably. We could save thousands of American lives. Hell, we could save thousands of innocent Chinese lives.”

  “I agree.”

  “This NOC. If he’s inside China, how do we know they don’t have him? How do we know this isn’t some disinformation operation by the Chinese?”

  “He is operational and not compromised.”

  “How do you know this? And why isn’t Director Canfield here giving me this intel? And how did this guy manage to communicate with Langley without getting compromised if Langley has a breach?”

  Foley cleared her throat. “The NOC did not communicate with Langley. He communicated this information to me.”

  “Directly?”

  “Well . . .” She hesitated. “Through an asset.”

  “Okay. So the NOC is not alone in the field?”

  “No, sir.” Another clearing of the throat.

  “Damn it, Mary Pat. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Jack Junior is with him.”

  The President of the United States went white. He said nothing, so Mary Pat continued: “They both went on their own initiative. It was Junior who called me, who convinced me. He assures me they are both safe and absolutely not in harm’s way.”

  “You are telling me that right now my son is in fucking China?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mary Pat,” he said, but no more words would come.

  “I talked to Junior. He confirmed that K. K. Tong and his entire operation are working out of a China Telecom building in Guangzhou. He has sent photos and geo coordinates. Communication with him is spotty, as you can imagine, but we have everything we need to target the location.”

  Ryan just looked to a point against the wall. He blinked a few times, and then nodded. “I think I can trust the source.” He smiled; there was no happiness, just resolve. He pointed to the entrance to the conference room. “Get everything you have to those men and women. We can limit the attack, focus it on this nerve center.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The two hugged. She said into his ear, “We’re going to get them back. We’re going to get Junior home.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  John Clark flew on a private jet hired from the same fixed operating base where Hendley Associates kept its Gulfstream at BWI. Adara Sherman, Hendley’s transportation manager, flight attendant, and aircraft security officer, arranged the entire early-morning flight to Russia while at thirty-five thousand feet over the Pacific, as the Gulfstream was still on its way back from Hong Kong after dropping off Jack Ryan, Jr.

  While Clark flew in the chartered Lear, he spoke via sat phone with Stanislav Biryukov, head of the FSB, Russian state security. Clark had done one hell of a big favor for Biryukov and Russian intelligence the year before, more or less single-handedly saving Moscow from nuclear annihilation. Director Biryukov had told Clark his door was always open to him, and a good Russian always remembers his friends.

  John Clark put this to the test when he said, “I need to get into China from Russia with two others, and I need to do it within twenty-four hours. Oh, and by the way, the two others are Chinese nationals who will be bound and gagged.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and then a low, almost evil chuckle on the other end. “Such interesting vacations you American pensioners take. In my country we prefer to go to the dacha to sunbathe after retirement.”

  Clark just asked, “Will you be able to help me?”

  Instead of a direct reply, Biryukov said, “And when you are there, John Timofeevich? Will you need assistance in the form of equipment?”

  Now John smiled. “Well, as long as you are offering.”

  Biryukov did owe John a favor, but Clark knew any help he would get from the head of the FSB would be implied help for Clark’s friend, the President of the United States. Biryukov knew that Clark would be working on behalf of America in its conflict with China, and he also knew Clark would not be working for the CIA, which was a good thing, as the FSB knew CIA was compromised in China.

  John told Biryukov what items he would like to take with him into China, and the FSB director wrote them down. He told Clark to fly on to Moscow and he would have the gear and the military transport waiting for him, and that he would take care of all other details while John enjoyed his flight over.

  “Thank you, Stanislav.”

  “I suppose you will also need a way home afterward?”

  John said, “I sure hope so.”

  Biryukov chuckled once again, understanding what Clark meant. If he did not need a way home, that would mean he was dead.

  Biryukov hung up, called his top operations people, and told them their careers would be over if they could not make all this happen.

  —

  Clark and his two bound and hooded prisoners arrived in Moscow and then flew on a Tupolev transport to Astana, Kazakhstan. Here they were put on an aircraft loaded with munitions that were being delivered to China. The transporter, Russia’s state-owned defense exporter Rosoboronexport, often flew covert missions into China, and they knew to do what FSB ordered and ask no questions.

  Clark was shown to a pallet near the cargo door of the plane. On it were several green crates, and John waited until he was alone after takeoff to inspect them. Along with the crates was a bottle of Iordanov vodka and a handwritten note.

  Enjoy the vodka as a gift from a friend. The rest . . . a repayment of a debt. Stay safe, John.

  It was signed “Stan.”

  John picked up the subtext of the note and the gift. The FSB regarded this assistance as repayment in full for the help that Clark and America had provided Russia on the steppes of Kazakhstan.

  The IL-76 transport flight landed in Beijing exactly thirty hours after Clark left Baltimore, and FSB agents at the airport collected the three men and the crates and drove them to a safe house north of town. Within an hour, Sam Driscoll and four men from Pathway of Liberty, the fledgling rebel force, arrived and drove them back to their barn hideout.

  Domingo Chavez met John Clark at the door. Even in the low light Ding saw the circles under Clark’s eyes, the discomfort on his face after the long journey and the fight in Maryland. He was a sixty-five-year-old man who had been traveling for more than thirty hours, crossing twelve time zones, and he looked every bit of it.

  The men embraced, John took some green tea offered to him by Yin Yin, and a plate of noodles in a salty ground soybean sauce, and then he was shown to a cot in an upstairs loft. The two prisoners were placed in a locked stall in a basement, and two armed guards were set outside.

  Chavez looked over the equipment Clark had brought in from Russia. In the first crate he found a Dragunov sniper rifle with an eight-power scope and a silencer. Ding knew this weapon well, and it immediately gave him ideas about the operation to come.

  Next he opened two identical crates, each containing a single RPG-26 shoulder-fired anti-tank disposable grenade launcher.

  These weapons would be perfect for knocking through an armored car.

  There was also a large container with two RPG-9 rocket-propelled grenade launchers and eight finned grenades.

  Other crates contained radios with high-tech digital encryption modules, ammunition, and smoke and fragmentation grenades.

  Ding knew better than to hand over a grenade launcher or an anti-tank weapon to the Pathway of Liberty. He had quizzed them on their knowledge of their weapons and the tactics they would need to employ in order to use them effectively in an attack, and he decided that the twenty or so young Chinese would best be used either providing security for the escape route after the attack or else making a lot of noise with their guns during the attack.

&
nbsp; Chavez discussed the feasibility of the operation to come with Dom and Sam. At first the three Americans discussed whether or not the mission had any chance at all for success.

  Ding was not exactly a cheerleader for the exercise. “No one has to go. It’s going to be tough. Hell, we don’t even know how many security will be in the motorcade.”

  Driscoll asked, “We’re using them, aren’t we? The Pathway of Liberty kids.”

  Chavez did not disagree. “We’re using them to stop a war. I can sleep easy knowing that. I’m going to do what I can to keep them as safe as possible, but make no mistake, if they can get us close to Chairman Su, we take the shot, and then deal with the consequences. None of us will be safe after that.”

  They brought the Chinese into the conversation, and when Chavez told Yin Yin that they wanted to try to attack Chairman Su’s motorcade as it came into the city from Baoding, she said she could help with advance information about the route.

  They set up a large city map on a table in the barn, and the three Americans and the young rebel girl looked it over.

  Yin Yin said, “We have a confederate at the Beijing police department. He is reliable—he has given us information before when we want to target a procession.”

  “Information to help you attack?”

  “No. We have never attacked a government motorcade, but we sometimes hold signs off the overpass when they come by.”

  “How does your guy at the police department know?”

  “The Ministry of Public Security is tasked with sending motorcycle police officers to the overpasses, on-ramps, and off-ramps to hold the traffic along the routes. Our man at the police station will be on the detail, along with dozens of other police. They are only told at the very last moment, and there is a rolling system they use where they only are given their next blocking point at the time they are to go there.”

  “There must be dozens of options the motorcade could take to Zhongnanhai.”

  “Yes, this is true, but that is when they are already in the city. The police traffic blocks start when they hit the Sixth Ring Road, and continue on into the city. We cannot attack them before the Sixth Ring Road, because we won’t know when he is coming. We can’t wait too long after Sixth Ring Road, because then there are too many options. Even if we did know which road he was on, we would not have time to prepare an attack.”

  Dom said, “So it sounds like the Sixth Ring Road is where we need to set up the hit.”

  Yin Yin shook her head. “No. They will have much security there.”

  Driscoll groaned. “Sounds like our options are few.”

  The girl nodded. “But that is good. There are only two rational options for the motorcade to take right after passing the Sixth Ring Road. The Jingzhou Road or the G-Four. Once we know which one of these two motorways will be protected by police, we can have time to intercept them before they hit the city road network.”

  “Sounds like a crapshoot.”

  Chavez said, “It’s fifty-fifty. We’ll have to position directly between them and haul ass to the right ambush point.”

  On Wednesday evening the three Americans, Yin Yin, and two young Chinese men went to both locations in a small van with tinted windows. They would have loved to have been able to see the lay of the land in the daylight, but they didn’t find a suitable location on the G-4 until nearly ten p.m., and it was after midnight when they came across a fair ambush point on the Jingzhou Road.

  The G-4 location was the more ideal of the two. There was good cover from a tree line to the north, and a quick egress route via a road that led into open farmland and then hit a major intersection on the other side, meaning very quickly after the ambush Chavez and company and the Pathway of Liberty rebels could disperse into the city.

  On Jingzhou Road, however, it was more open. Yes, there was a grassy hill that ran along the north side of the straight eight-lane thoroughfare, but the southern side was lower, just above the level of the street, and a congested mass of apartment blocks and streets behind it meant it would be difficult to race away during morning traffic.

  Chavez looked over the layout of this potential ambush site and announced, “We can hit from both sides, and put a gun way over on the pedestrian overpass to the north. Someone will need to be on the highway at the rear of the convoy to keep them from backing out through traffic.”

  Driscoll turned all the way around to face Ding in the darkness. “I’ve seen my fair share of L-shaped ambushes. Never have heard of an O-shaped ambush. No offense, Ding, but I think there is a reason nobody’s ever done that. It’s so everybody doesn’t shoot each other.”

  Chavez said, “I know, but hear me out. We’ll be attacking from all sides, but if we watch our fire we should be okay. The guy on the overpass will be shooting down. The guy to the south on the highway will be firing from a vehicle, shooting below the level of the overpass. The Pathway of Liberty will be on the hill, shooting down into the motorcade, and I’ll be on the other side with the scoped and suppressed sniper rifle, picking off people from the window of one of these apartments.”

  “How are you going to get in an apartment?”

  Ding shrugged. “Details, ’mano.”

  —

  They returned to the barn to find John Clark awake and examining the weapons he brought in from Russia.

  Chavez had planned to leave Clark here at the barn during the attack and not have him there at the ambush site. He had a faint worry that Clark would want to go on the operation, but he told himself that John would recognize that a man his age, with one good hand, could do only so much.

  Ding walked up to John while he inspected the row of weapons stacked on their crates. He seemed to take special interest in the two anti-tank weapons.

  “How you holding up, John?”

  “I’m fine,” John replied as he inspected the rifles leaning against the wall, the wooden cases of grenade launchers, the cans of ammo and grenades.

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. C?” Ding asked, suddenly worried Clark thought he could have some role in the action to come. As far as Chavez was concerned, that was out of the question, but he was not looking forward to pulling rank on John Clark.

  “I’m wondering where you want me tomorrow morning.”

  Chavez shook his head. “I’m sorry, John. But I can’t let you go with us.”

  Clark looked at Chavez now, and his eyes narrowed and hardened. “Want to tell me why, son?”

  Shit. “It’s going to be a rough one. I know you can hold your own. Hell, you proved that once again the other night in West Odenton against the Divine Sword. But our only shot of getting away from this is to be a fast hit-and-run. You know you can’t run with the rest of us. Hell, I’m too old for this shit.” Ding said the last part with a smile that he hoped would defuse the angry glare he was getting from his father-in-law.

  But Clark kept the look on his face as he said, “Who’s going to operate the anti-tank weapons?”

  Chavez shook his head. “I haven’t figured that out yet. We’d have to have a shooter a good two hundred fifty yards back at least, and that would take one of our guns out of the fight, so I—”

  Clark went from a hard look to a smile. “Problem solved.”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ll sit back with both twenty-sixes, back up the exfil route, and I will engage on your signal. As soon as I’m done, I’ll head back to the trucks.”

  “Sorry, John. The exfil route won’t give you line of sight on the road.”

  Clark walked to the map. Looked it over for about ten seconds, five seconds at each of the two circled ambush points. “Well, then. This overpass gets me line of sight on everything if they hit here, and if they hit here, then this hilltop will do the trick.”

  Ding saw Clark’s idea instantly, and it was damn good. He was
mad at himself for not seeing it, although he suspected he was just predisposed to keeping John out of the fight.

  In retrospect, he should have known there was no way Clark would just wait at the barn.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  Clark nodded; he was already kneeling down to look over the anti-tank weapons. “These weapons might make the difference between success and failure. You need everyone to bail out of the cars in the motorcade. Boxing them in and picking them off with sustained RPG and rifle fire might just make them hunker down and hope their armor can absorb the damage until they are rescued. But if they see a couple of vehicles blown fifteen feet into the air, you can be damn sure everyone will want to get the hell out of their cars and trucks.”

  “You can fire it left-handed?”

  Clark snorted a short laugh. “I’ve never even fired one right-handed. At least there is nothing to relearn.”

  “What about the two Divine Sword men in the basement?” Sam Driscoll asked now.

  Clark answered back with a question of his own: “What about them? You’re not getting squeamish, are you?”

  “Are you joking? Those two fucks killed Granger and half the security staff. Plus five CIA officers, and they tried to whack Ryan’s girlfriend. I was wondering whether we were going to draw straws or flip for the pleasure.”

  Clark nodded. There would be no pleasure in executing the two Chinese special-forces men, but they were the ones who had killed in cold blood.

  Chavez said, “Sam, you’ll drive the truck at the rear of the hit. You’ll keep the prisoners with you, shoot them, and leave them in the vehicle.”

  Sam just nodded. A couple years earlier he’d gotten in some trouble for shooting men in their sleep, even though it had been necessary. He did what he had to do then, and he’d do what he had to do now.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  Fourteen Marine F/A-18C pilots took to the skies over Taiwan at midnight. They climbed into heavy cloud cover over the island and adopted flight paths to appear on PLA radars as if they were heading for regular CAP stations in the strait, just as they had done dozens of times before.