Net Force nf-1

by Tom Clancy

  "Yes."

  "I bet whoever swiped his enforcer did it to piss Genaloni off. And whoever it was knew to point the finger at us when he did it."

  "Looks like it worked," she said. "If Genaloni thought Net Force was gunning for him, he might have hired somebody to hit back. In his world, any problem can be solved with money or violence."

  He shifted his weight slightly. His leg was beginning to throb pretty good. He considered taking one of the pain pills, then decided against it. He needed his mind to be clear more than he needed to be doped up and pain-free.

  "So, we're back to square one on Day's killing," she added.

  "No. I know who did it."

  She looked at him. "Who?"

  "The Russian. Plekhanov."

  She thought about it for a second. "How did you come to that?"

  He said, "It was part of his plan all along, to give Net Force something else to look at while he pulled off his power grab. The attacks on Day, our listening posts, all the rascals he threw in our paths all over the world. He wanted us busy, so we wouldn't notice what he was doing. It all makes a kind of warped sense."

  "I don't know, Alex. It's possible, but—"

  "It's him. I know it. He was willing to crash systems that caused deaths. It's not that big a leap to hiring a shooter. We were looking in the wrong direction — right where Plekhanov wanted us to look. He's smart."

  Toni looked at him. "Assume you're right. How do we prove it? If his computer skills are as good as Jay says they are, we can't get into his files. Without some record, all we have is some very circumstantial evidence, and not much of that."

  "Plekhanov could open the files for us. He has the key."

  "He has no reason to do that — even if we had him, which we don't."

  "We'll have to figure out the right way to ask. After we collect him."

  She shook her head again. "Uplevels won't go for it, Alex. Walt Carver is too much a political animal to risk it. And even if he wanted to, he couldn't convince the Foreign Covert Operations Committee or the CIA to go along. FCOC has been burned too many times with this kind of thing. They haven't greenlighted anything military in two years that doesn't have the locals willing to go along, or at least look the other way — like the operation in Ukraine."

  "This man had Steve Day murdered. And is responsible for the deaths of others. He's about to rig an election that will make him legally untouchable. And we can't get him because of some bureaucratic crap?"

  "I know how you feel, but we'll be wasting our time to even ask," she said.

  "Fine. So we won't ask," he said.

  She stared at him. "Alex…"

  "There is a difference between the law and justice. The only way this guy skates is over my dead body. We never had this conversation, Toni. You don't know anything about this."

  She shook her head. "Oh, no, you don't. You don't get rid of me that easy. You want to do something stupid, I'm going to make sure you do it right. I'm in."

  "You don't have to do this."

  "Steve Day was my boss, too. I want his killer to pay for it."

  Neither of them spoke for what seemed like a long time. Then Michaels said, "We'd better get John Howard in here."

  "You think he'll go along?"

  "We won't tell him, either. He works for me. If anything happens, it's my head that will roll. What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

  "You think that's fair?"

  "It protects him. He gets what he thinks is a legitimate order, he's covered."

  "Your decision."

  "Yes. About time I made a couple of decisions that do something."

  Saturday, October 9th, 5:00 a.m. In the air over Hudson Bay

  "All right, Sergeant Know-It-All, let's hear it."

  Howard knew the plan — he had devised it — but it never hurt to burn it into long-term memory. Another pass to spot any errors.

  Julio Fernandez grinned and affected his recruit-to-drillmaster voice: "Sir, Colonel Howard, sir!" More quietly, he said, "Chechnya is landlocked, bounded by Ingushetia on the west, Russia on the north, Dagestan on the east and Georgia on the south. The western border of the country is about three hundred kilometers east of the Black Sea, give or take. The capital and largest city is Grozny, of which the colonel will see detailed CIA maps of the surface streets in his flatscreen file, when and if he cares to look.

  "The population is largely Chechen or Russian, that is to say—"

  "Skip the geopolitical history, Sergeant. Let's get to strategy and tactics, please."

  "As the colonel wishes." He grinned, relaxed. "Our two vintage UH-1H Hueys are scheduled to be off-loaded at 1900 hours from jet transport at Vladikavkaz, in North Os-setia, a favor for which the locals hope to obtain certain reciprocal courtesies from the U.S. Since we want friends in that area, such courtesies will no doubt eventually be extended.

  "Once on the ground and operational, we will have to violate about fifteen kilometers of Ingushetian airspace to reach Chechnya. Our command post will be outside Urus-Martan, which is another twenty-five klicks inside Chechnya. All in all, we're talking about flying over forty kilometers of unfriendly territory.

  "Of course, both countries have radar and something of an air force; however, at treetop level in the dark, it is unlikely that anybody but a few goats will even notice our choppers' overflight. It should be a milk run, if a bit crowded.

  "We have a truck waiting in Grozny, which our four-trooper collection-team squad will reach from Urus-Martan upon the two Russian motor scooters we'll bring with us on the black copters. Vespa knockoffs, I believe. They aren't very fast, but it's only a dozen kilometers from Urus-Martan to Grozny, and they'll be coming back in a truck. Pretty good trade, actually, leaving the two scooters for one murdering Russian. The locals come out way ahead."

  Howard made the keep-it-rolling sign.

  "We arrive, all things going well, at about 2200 hours, set up our tactical base in an old dairy farm owned by our friends the spooks. The spooks don't know we'll be using the place, as per our DTNS-policy on this mission."

  Howard frowned. A new acronym. "DTNS?"

  "Don't tell nobody squat," Fernandez said. "Especially the CIA." He grinned widely.

  "You just made that up, didn't you?"

  "I am hurt that the colonel believes I would do such a thing."

  "Sergeant Fernandez, I believe you would give a polar bear a poodle cut and call him Fifi."

  Fernandez laughed. "Sir. This farm — there's no neighbors within shouting range. Everything going as planned, our CT squad putt-putts into town, collects their ride, grabs the Russky, comes back, and a few minutes after midnight, we're all airborne and on the way back to this here comfortable 747, which is by then all gassed up and waiting for us at the Vladikavkaz Airport. As a gesture of goodwill, we leave the transport copters for our new friends the North Ossetians, climb on our ride and fly away home. Everything by the numbers."

  "If everything goes as planned," Howard said.

  "You worry too much, sir. Our squad speaks fluent Russian, and a bit of the local dialect. They got the proper travel and ID papers, they can shoot the balls off a gnat at ten paces. They'll get him. And if there is any problem they can't handle, that's what the two dozen of us sitting at the farm cleaning our weapons are for, ain't it?"

  Howard nodded. He had been surprised the mission had gone forward, given how cloudy the politics were in Washington. He did not want to get into a shooting war with the Chechens. No matter whose fault it might be, he was the man in charge, and the fallout would all settle on him. No, he didn't want a war this time. He wanted a nice clean insertion and retrieval, and as Fernandez had said, to fly away home. This one was too touchy for anything else.

  Saturday, October 9th, 10:00 a.m. Springfield, Virginia

  Ruzhyo and Grigory the Snake were at a petrol service station off 1-95, not far from the Springfield Regional Shopping Center. According to the map Ruzhyo had, the old Fort Belvoir Proving Ground
was a few miles ahead, on the way to Quantico. What, he wondered, did an American proving ground look like? It must depend on what they were trying to prove, which weapon or vehicle they were testing.

  Winters, the Texan, had gone home, to Dallas or Fort Worth or wherever it was he claimed he was from. Should they need him in the next few days, he'd said, he would check for messages at the secure number.

  They had stopped at the station because Grigory had an urgent need to use the toilet. From the muffled groans he had made as he urinated, Ruzhyo guessed that Zmeya's own… personal snake was afflicted with some ailment. Gonorrhea, probably, since that was the venereal disease most likely to manifest itself with pain while peeing. As a soldier, Ruzhyo had heard many men groan while dribbling thus, usually a day or three after returning from the whores they had enjoyed while on leave.

  Here was the Snake's reward for his adventures in Las Vegas.

  Grigory came out of the toilet, his face flushed. "I need some penicillin, Mikhayl."

  "Was she worth this?"

  "Then, yes. Now, no."

  "I do not believe you can buy penicillin without a doctor's order here," Ruzhyo said. He kept his face bland, even though he felt much like smiling. It served the fool right.

  "There is a pet store nearby," Grigory said. "We can get it there."

  "A pet store?"

  "Da. The Americans have rules against selling antibiotics for people, but not for animals. You can buy penicillin, tetracycline, streptomycin, even chloramphenicol for your pet fish. You open the capsules, sprinkle the medicine into the water. The drugs are not so pure as those intended for people, and they are expensive, but they work just as well."

  Ruzhyd shook his head. Amazing. Not just that the Americans would do such a thing — Americans no longer surprised him with how stupid they could be — but that the Snake would know this? That was truly fascinating. How had he come by such knowledge?

  Ruzhyo asked him.

  "I have been unlucky in love a few times," Grigory allowed.

  Ruzhyo stared at the Snake. A man who knew no better was merely ignorant, a thing that could be remedied. Someone who knew better, but proceeded anyway? That was stupid, and not so easily repaired. "Very well. We shall go to your pet store, so that you may buy fish medicine to fix your sick zmeyd. Then we find a way to get within range of Net Force HQ. I am thinking we will become U.S. Marines. What better disguise in a place like Quantico?"

  "Anything you like, Mikhayl, once I get my penicillin."

  Saturday, October 9th, 10:48 p.m. Urus-Martan, Chechnya

  Howard looked at his watch, then through the dilapidated farmhouse's window. The troops had managed to roll both the copters into the massive, if decrepit, barn. There had once been stalls for rows of cows to be milked, but the spooks had gutted enough of the barn to allow for such things as hiding two beat-up Hueys. They didn't look pretty, but they were in fine mechanical condition. They were painted a dark, dead military green and not black, but they were covert birds. They didn't carry any weapons, not even machine guns. They were strictly transport. Not very fast transport — a loaded Huey might hit 120 knots — but the craft were sturdy and dependable. You weren't going to outrun an air-to-air or ground-to-air missile in anything that had a top rotor anyhow. They couldn't fight and they couldn't run too fast, but nobody could shoot you if they didn't see you. Hiding was better than shooting in this scenario.

  Howard turned away. "Status, Sergeant?"

  Julio stood behind three TacComp Specialists, who sat on stools in front of a bank of five field computers set up on their own telescoping legs. They were opened like big suitcases with the monitors in the hinged lids. The systems were also ugly-looking — lean-mean-GI-green — but when it came to this kind of hardware, pretty was as pretty did. These were state-of-the-art 900-MHz machines, with the new FireEye bioneuro chips, massive amounts of fiberlight memory, and fourteen hours of active battery power if the local plugs didn't work.

  "Sir, our squad's GPS sig puts them here." He pointed at a map on-screen. There was a tiny red dot flashing in the approximate middle of it. "Two kilometers from their destination."

  "Report?"

  "Their coded signal-bounce three minutes ago stetted a continued ASG — all systems green."

  "Good."

  One of the TCS operators said, "We got on-line vid from the Big Bird spysat footprinting the locale. Check this out."

  A ghostly phospor-green image of a truck rolling along a dark street from above appeared on one of the screens. As they watched, the truck made a right turn. It passed under a streetlight, and an image appeared on the truck's roof. The TCS op laughed.

  "What's funny?" Howard asked.

  The TCS op touched controls. The image freeze-framed, and increased in size. "A little unsharp mask… thus," the op said. "Look here. A message from the squad."

  A crude hand-drawn image on the truck's roof sharpened enough that Howard could make it out. It was a hand, holding up the two-finger sign for the letter V.

  V for victory. Howard smiled.

  "You owe me five, Sarge," the op said.

  Howard raised an eyebrow.

  Fernandez said, "We had a small wager as to what the unit would draw on the truck roof, sir. I believe TCS Jeter here must have gotten to them with a bribe."

  "What were you betting it would be?" Howard asked.

  "An, uh, illustration somewhat like, uh, this one, sir. Slightly different."

  "One that featured one finger, sir," the TCS op said. He kept his face deadpan.

  Howard grinned again. No matter where they were, no matter what they were up against, soldiers always found some way to relieve the monotony — or the tension.

  "Carry on," Howard said. He walked back to the window.

  Saturday, October 9th, 11:23 p.m. Grozny

  Plekhanov was getting ready for bed, brushing his teeth, when the doorbell to his house rang. His house was small, but nicely appointed, and in a neighborhood of such houses. Soon he would have one twice as big in a much better neighborhood. Everything in its own time.

  The bell rang again. It had an insistent quality.

  It was awfully late for someone to be calling. This could not be good news.

  He rinsed his mouth out, dried his face, then put a robe on over his pajamas. He stopped at the small writing table near the entrance, opened the drawer and removed from it the Luger pistol his grandfather had brought back from the German front in 1943.

  Pistol in hand, he peered through the fish-eye lens into the door.

  A very attractive young woman stood on the stoop. Her hair was in disarray and her lipstick smeared. Her dark blouse was pulled out of her pants, unbuttoned and wide open, revealing her unfettered breasts; her pants, blue jeans, were unzipped, and she held them up with one hand, clutching a wadded bra in the other hand. She appeared to be crying. As he watched, the young woman rang the bell again. He saw her sob.

  Goodness. A rape victim?

  Plekhanov lowered the gun and opened the door. "Yes? May I help you?"

  A man appeared from out of nowhere. He also wore jeans, a dark T-shirt and a blue Windcheater. He pointed a gun at Plekhanov's face. "Yes, sir, you can help us." He spoke Russian, but it wasn't a local accent.

  The gunman reached over and gently relieved him of the Luger. "Nice gun," he said. "Probably worth a lot."

  A moment later, two more men joined the woman and the gunman. They seemed to materialize from the bushes and darkness. The other two looked to be cut from the same pattern — young, fit, casual dress.

  What was going on? Was this a robbery? There had been a lot of criminal activity of late. What did they want?

  The woman zipped up her pants and clicked the snap closed. She slipped her shirt off, put the bra on — some kind of one-piece sport thing — adjusted it, then slipped her blouse back on, buttoned it and tucked it in. One of the other men handed her a dark blue Windcheater.

  "No need to do any of this on our account, Be
cky," the young man with the gun said.

  "In your dreams, Marcus," the woman said.

  "If you would step back inside, Dr. Plekhanov?" the gunman said.

  His speech was correct, but Plekhanov still had not placed the accent. "You aren't Russian, nor Chechen," Plekhanov said.

  "No, sir," he said. This was spoken in English.

  Plekhanov's stomach twisted. They were Americans!

  He gestured with the gun. "Inside, Professor. You'll want to change into something more appropriate for travel. We're going on a long trip."

  Saturday, October 9th, 11:28 p.m. Urus-Martan

  "They got him!" Fernandez said. "They are en route, ETA twenty minutes."

  The men in the room cheered. Howard let them, then said, "All right, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Get the birds on-line. We'll celebrate when we're back on our own soil."

  Ten minutes later, Howard was outside in the dark, watching the pilots preflight the copters, when Fernandez came out of the farmhouse double-time.

  "Sir, we have a slight problem."

  Howard felt his belly lurch and fill with several hundred butterflies who all wanted out, now. "What?"

  "Our squad's ride just broke down. Squad Leader Captain Marcus says he thinks it blew a head gasket."

  Howard stared at him. The truck broke down? That wasn't even in the scenario! Jesus Christ!

  39

  Sunday, October 10th, 12:04 a.m. Urus-Martan

  "Where are they?" Howard asked.

  TCS-op Jeter was all business now, nothing funny in his voice. "Sir, GPS puts them in the city, south of the old Tets Komintern, in the new Visok Stal Oil Storage Area, close to the Sunzha River."

  "How far from here?"

  "A long walk with a reluctant prisoner in tow, sir. I make it eighteen kilometers."

  "Wonderful."

  "Uh-oh. We've got incoming vox transmission. I'm unscrambling." Jeter tapped keys.

  If the squad leader was willing to break radio silence, even with a coded transmission, that meant things either had gone, or were about to go, right to Hell.