Against All Enemies mm-1

by Tom Clancy

  “No glory in this one. We go in and take pictures of an Iraqi oil platform. Whoop-dee-do.”

  Indeed, this was a by-the-numbers picture-taking recon operation that within a few minutes would be over and they’d be cracking open some beers for breakfast. While Moore got the underwater shots, the other three men in his charge were photographing what they could near and on the surface, marking the positions and courses of Iraqi patrol boats and gun emplacements on the platform.

  At the moment, four tanker ships were simultaneously docked at the platform and having oil pumped into their holds. During the briefing Moore had learned that eighty percent of Iraq’s gross domestic product passed through the terminal, about 1.5 million barrels per day, which of course made Al Basrah a vital part of the country’s economy and had warranted an unusual presence there, as noted by Carmichael over the radio: “Team Two, this is Mako Two, listen up. The regular garrison is gone. They’ve got Revolutionary Guard up there manning the lookouts. They’ve brought in the big guns, and they’re armed for bear now.”

  “Roger that,” answered Moore. “Everyone look for signs.”

  “We’re on it, Mako One,” answered Carmichael.

  Moore had just ordered Carmichael’s team and his own to search for signs of underwater demolitions and evidence of charges set up top, along the exterior of the platform. The Iraqis would rather destroy their oil terminal than have it fall into enemy hands, and knowing them, Moore figured they’d use C-4 but probably weren’t clever enough to rig it to blow inward, nor were they even aware of expansion products such as Dexpan that would allow them to crack apart the platform’s pilings in a much safer and more regulated way. If they had C-4 charges set below the surface, there was a good chance they’d hit the panic button and not only take out the structure but kill any SEALs in the water because those explosions would blow outward.

  “Team Two, this is Mako Two, again. Got signs up top! Repeat! Got signs — charges rigged beneath the railing on south and east sides …”

  But now that was not Carmichael’s voice in Moore’s ear; it was JTF leader Towers. “The van is pulling up outside! Moore, did you copy that? The van is there!”

  Storm Drain

  Near Bridge of the Americas

  Juárez, Mexico

  Present Day

  Moore was still lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Towers shouted again, and reality came in a hard shudder through his shoulders. He sat up and rolled to his right, just as a beam of light struck his eyes and a gunshot pinged off the wall behind him, fragments of concrete striking his neck where the balaclava failed to reach. He lifted the monocular, spotted the second guard crouched about three meters away from that circular hole cut into the wall, and without hesitation returned fire, squeezing off four rounds until a faint cry came from ahead and a lit flashlight rolled across the floor. A glance through the monocular showed the second guy lying on his stomach, blood leaking from his mouth.

  Cursing, Moore whirled back and bolted to the entrance. He seized the first guard’s body and dragged it away as fast as he could, panting and finally reaching the second guard’s position. He looked around.

  No, this wasn’t good: The conduit stretched out for about thirty more feet, then terminated in a solid stone wall. Even if he dragged the two guards all the way to the end, the simple flick of a flashlight would expose them.

  Every good ambush always included a plan for hiding the bodies of the guards you killed — thus Moore decided at that moment that this wasn’t a very good plan.

  He jogged back toward the grating as voices sounded from outside. They’d driven the van right into the drainage ditch and parked outside the grating. These guys were even higher-ranking geniuses than the two who’d been following him outside Corrales’s hotel. Or maybe they felt safe enough to make such a bold move — driving right up to the grating? After all, who would stop them? The local police? The Feds? That they operated this audaciously was unsettling, but to make himself feel better, Moore decided they were idiots, and even though his plan wasn’t very good, it’d be enough to bring down these fools.

  He climbed out past the grating and lifted his suppressed Glock at the group. He counted six young females, all Asian, as Towers had indicated, along with four boys no more than sixteen or seventeen, each one wearing a heavy backpack presumably jammed with bricks of marijuana and cocaine.

  Two men in their mid- to late twenties and wearing New York Yankees jackets had AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders and held pistols on the group as they all stood there, balancing themselves on the grassy slope. The men were the sicarios, of course, with thick eyebrows, multiple piercings, and permanent scowls on their pockmarked faces. They’d employed the skinniest kids they could find to slip through the narrow tunnel while pushing their backpacks of drugs ahead of them. They couldn’t wear the backpacks and still fit through; they’d escaped an arduous passage by Moore’s intervention. He had read the files of other tunnel operations that included small carts on tracks (like mining carts) with attached ropes that were used to pull drugs through the tunnels without ever having to send mules through the passages.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked the taller of the two sicarios.

  “I’m a Boston Red Sox fan,” Moore answered, then shot the guy in the face. There had been no guilt, no hesitation, nothing but action and reaction. If Moore felt anything, it was utter repulsion for these scumbags who’d stooped to this level. To aid and abet an organization involved in the enslavement of other human beings was to reserve for yourself a special hotel room located in the deepest pit of hell. The taller punk had already slid his door key past the electronic swipe and now inhaled fire.

  As the women screamed and the boys darted back for the van, Moore turned his Glock on the second guy, who had a room reserved next to his buddy.

  The punk raised his gun.

  Moore pulled his trigger.

  And the sicario fired a half-second afterward.

  But Moore was already jerking back as the second guy spun sideways and collapsed, only to go rolling down the ditch and back toward the van. He’d taken a round in the head.

  Towers, who was presumably watching it all go down from the other side of the ditch, spoke rapidly over the radio: “Get the women to go through the tunnel. We can’t do anything to help them till they get to the other side. I’ll get down there and take care of the bodies.”

  “Okay,” grunted Moore.

  “Get those backpacks loaded into the van,” he ordered the boys. “Right now! Then I want all of you back here! I’m a good guy. I’m sending you through the tunnel! I’m a good guy. Let’s go!”

  As the boys rushed back to the truck, Moore began collecting the weapons from the two sicarios, lest any of his captives decide to do the same. The girls hurried up and past the grating and began to climb down into the storm drain. They all wore the same style of cheap, white tennis shoes you could buy at Walmart, probably given to them by the sicarios.

  With the backpacks returned to the van, Moore shouted for the boys to follow the girls, and he directed them from the rear, heavily weighed down by two AKs, extra pistols, and his own weapons. Once they were all inside, Moore picked up one of the sicarios’ flashlights and shone it in the hole.

  He glanced back at the group and said one word in English: “America.”

  The girls, a few of whom were crying now, shook their heads in fear, but one, the tallest and perhaps the oldest, shoved her way from the back and pushed herself into the tunnel. She screamed back at the other girls, her Chinese coming in the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun. Seeing her courage and hearing her admonishments, the others came forward, one by one, and eased themselves into the narrow hole.

  “When you get to the other side, you will have help. I don’t want you to ever work for the cartels again,” Moore told the boys. “No matter what they say. No matter what they do. Never work for them again. Okay?”

  “Okay, señor,” said one boy. “Okay.�
��

  Within a minute all of them were in the tunnel and Moore was on the phone with Ansara. “They’re heading your way, bro. They’re all yours.”

  “Roger that. We’ll take ’em quietly so they don’t try to back out.”

  The girls would be processed and deported back to China — unless some humanitarian group was able to intervene on their behalf. The boys would no doubt be processed, and if there weren’t any warrants on them, they, too, would be deported back to Mexico, which was why Moore implored them not to return to working for the cartels. The sad thing was, most of them would ignore him, especially once they understood how the process worked. They’d take the risk again.

  Moore then called Luis Torres. “I’ve got an early birthday present for your boss.”

  “How much?”

  “A very nice load.”

  What Torres, Zúñiga, and the rest of the Sinaloa Cartel didn’t know was that Moore and Towers would inject each brick with a GPS beacon so that once those bricks were smuggled across the border, they’d be immediately located and confiscated by authorities. Moore’s bosses would never allow him to knowingly let the drugs pass into the United States without some way of retrieving them, and that was certainly understandable. However, as tiny as the injection holes would be, Moore was certain that Zúñiga and his cronies would carefully scrutinize each brick for any signs of tampering. Moore and Towers would have to carefully choose their injection sites along the seams in the tape used to seal the bricks.

  “Okay, we’re good to go out here,” said Towers.

  Moore’s phone rang again: Ansara. “First few girls have come through. Took them nice and quiet. Excellent work, boss man. Score one for the team.”

  “Dude,” Moore said with a sigh of exhaustion. “We’re just getting started. It’s going to be a very long night.”

  “And when in our business were they ever short?” Ansara pointed out.

  Moore grinned and hustled off for the van.

  Somoza Designs International

  Bogotá, Colombia

  Before leaving Bogotá, Jorge Rojas had scheduled a final visit with his old friend Felipe Somoza, who had called to say that he had a very special gift for Rojas. At ten in the morning, Rojas and his old college buddy Jeff Campbell, who’d struck a lucrative cell phone deal with the Colombian government, arrived outside the block-long, two-story shop and attached warehouse. They were greeted by Lucille, a dark-haired woman in her fifties who had been working as Somoza’s receptionist for the past ten years and was, like all of the man’s employees, fiercely loyal, treating Somoza more like a family member than a boss, to the point of handling his dry cleaning, the oil changes on his vehicles, even handling his personal schedule for attending his three sons’ college soccer games.

  Rojas and Campbell were escorted through the shop floor and tailoring area, where dozens of women from eighteen to nearly eighty wore blue uniforms and sat diligently behind sewing machines, producing cold, warm, wet, formal, and casual wear for both men and women.

  However, they weren’t making “normal” clothing.

  Somoza was known as the “Armored Armani,” and his bulletproof clothing was world-renowned. His business had flourished since 9/11, after which he had focused his attention on private security and bodyguard companies. He expanded to supply clothing to diplomats, ambassadors, princes, and presidents of more than forty nations and was now popular with individuals and with more than two hundred private security firms, as well as local police throughout the Americas. What set him apart from other bulletproof manufacturers was his attention to comfort and fashion design. He wasn’t just making ugly militarylike vests; his clothing ranged from bulletproof suits to dresses to even socks and ties. He even had a boutique in Mexico City on the same street as such names as Hugo Boss, Ferrari, BMW, and Calvin Klein. He was planning to open a new shop on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, California, so he could supply both celebrities and their bodyguards with some of the most stylish yet “safe” clothing in the world.

  The bulletproof panels themselves were carefully concealed within the garments. Each panel was designed from sheets of plastic polymers composed of many layers. Kevlar, Spectra Shield, or sometimes Twaron (nearly identical to Kevlar) and Dyneema (similar to Spectra) became part of the process, depending upon the garment’s target weight and available materials. Kevlar thread was used to sew together layers of woven Kevlar, while the Spectra Shield was coated and bonded with resins such as Kraton before being sealed between sheets of polyethylene film.

  “Now, Jeff,” Rojas whispered as they neared Somoza’s office near the back of the shop, “he’s going to have a little fun with us, and you need to play along.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, don’t insult him. Just do whatever he says. Okay?”

  “You’re the boss, Jorge.”

  Campbell had no idea what was about to happen, and Rojas chuckled inwardly.

  Somoza was already at the door as they reached it. Barely fifty, with a thick shock of black hair dappled with a few patches of gray, he was an imposing figure of six-foot-two with broad shoulders and a belly that betrayed his addiction to sweets. In fact, four glass candy jars the size of one-pound coffee cans were lined up on his broad mahogany desk, standing in sharp juxtaposition with a large placard hanging on the back wall. This was the company’s logo — a pair of crossed swords behind a black shield with a superimposed silver bullet that suggested a combination of medieval armor and modern-day technology.

  Somoza trundled forward in a pair of tight designer jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that offered a light level of protection against long-range fire. He always wore his own products: nothing but …

  “Buenos días, Felipe,” Rojas cried as he embraced the man. “This is my friend, Jeff Campbell.”

  “Hola, Jeff. Very nice to meet you.”

  Jeff shook hands with Somoza. “It’s an honor to meet the famous bulletproof tailor.”

  “Famous? No,” said Somoza. “Busy? Yes, yes! Come inside, gentlemen. Come inside.”

  Rojas and Campbell sank into plush leather chairs opposite Somoza’s desk, while he slipped outside for a second, calling after Lucille to bring him the present. Off to their left hung dozens of pictures of Somoza with movie stars and dignitaries, all wearing his clothing. Rojas pointed to the photos, and Campbell’s mouth began to open. “This is quite an operation he’s got here. Look at all the movie stars.”

  Rojas nodded. “I’ll show you the warehouse before we leave. It’s a very ambitious business. I’m very proud of him. I remember when he was just starting up.”

  “Well, it’s a much more dangerous world.”

  “Yes, the one we leave our children.” Rojas sighed deeply, then turned his head as Somoza entered the room carrying a black leather trench coat.

  “For you, Jorge!”

  Rojas stood and took the coat. “Are you kidding me? This is not bulletproof.” He ran his fingers across the material and the flexible plates behind it. “It’s much too light and thin.”

  “I know, right?” agreed Somoza. “It’s our latest design, and I want you to have it. It’s your size, of course.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “We just finished showing it at our annual fashion show in New York.”

  “Wow, a fashion show in New York for bulletproof clothes?” asked Campbell.

  “It’s very popular,” said Somoza.

  Jorge glanced at Campbell, then faced Somoza and winked. “Are you sure it’ll stop a bullet?”

  Somoza reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a.45-caliber revolver, which he placed on the desk.

  “Wow,” cried Campbell. “What’re we doing now?”

  “We need to test it out,” said Somoza, his eyes growing devilishly wide. “Jeff, I want you to know that I give all of my employees the test. You can’t work here unless you’re willing to put on the product and take a bullet. You need to know what that feels like, and you need to
trust in the product and in your work. This is why my quality control is so good: I shoot all of my employees.”

  Somoza said this so matter-of-factly, so coolly, that Rojas couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Rojas then handed the jacket to Campbell. “Put it on.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It’s no problem,” said Somoza. “Please …”

  Campbell’s eyes glassed up, and he sat there, perched on a cliff between offending Somoza and obeying Rojas’s warning about playing along. Rojas had known the man for a long time, known him to be a risk-taker, so he was surprised when Campbell said, “I’m sorry, I’m just, uh, I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “Lucille?” called Somoza.

  The woman arrived in the doorway just a few seconds later.

  “Did I shoot you?” asked Somoza.

  “Yes, señor. Twice.”

  Somoza faced Campbell. “You see? The lady gets shot? You are too afraid?”

  “All right,” Campbell said, struggling to his feet and wrenching the jacket away from Rojas. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you can shoot me.”

  “Excellent!” cried Somoza, who whirled around in his chair and reached into a cabinet to produce three sets of earphones.

  Once Campbell had wormed his way into the trench coat, Somoza carefully buttoned it up and placed a round sticker on the jacket’s left side, near the abdomen.

  “So that’s your target,” said Campbell.

  “Yes, I need this because I am not a very good shot,” Somoza said in a deadpan.

  Rojas chuckled again.

  “Go ahead and laugh,” said Campbell. “You’re not getting shot!”

  “He takes the bullet all the time,” said Somoza. “Jorge? How many times have I shot you?”

  “Five, I think.”

  “Look at that. Five times,” said Somoza. “Surely you can take one bullet.”

  Campbell nodded. “My hands are shaking. Look.” He held them up, and yes, he was involuntarily trembling.