Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “Wonderful” was the inevitable reply. “He’s so beautiful. He doesn’t cry much. It’s pretty wonderful to have him, y’know?”

  “How are you sleeping, baby?”

  “Well, I get a few hours here and there. No big deal. Internship was a lot worse.”

  “Well, let your mom help you out, okay?”

  “She does,” Patsy assured her husband.

  “Okay, I need to talk to your dad again—business stuff. Love ya, baby.”

  “Love you, too, Ding.”

  “Domingo, I think you’re going to be okay as a son-in-law,” the male voice said three seconds later. “I’ve never seen Patricia smile so much, and I guess that’s your doing.”

  “Gee, thanks, Pop,” Chavez replied, checking his U.K. watch. It was just after seven in the morning there, whereas in Sydney it was four in the hot afternoon.

  “Okay, how are things there?” Clark asked.

  “Good,” Chavez told Rainbow Six. “Our point of contact is a short colonel named Frank Wilkerson. Solid troop. His people are pretty good, well trained, confident, nice and loose. Their relationship with the police is excellent. Their reaction plans look good to me—short version, John, they don’t need us here any more than they need a few more kangaroos in the outback I flew over this morning.”

  “So, what the hell, enjoy the games.” Bitch as he might, Chavez and his people were getting about ten grand worth of free holiday, Clark thought, and that wasn’t exactly a prison sentence.

  “It’s a waste of our time, John,” Chavez told his boss.

  “Yeah, well, you never know, do you, Domingo?”

  “I suppose,” Chavez had to agree. They’d just spent several months proving that you never really knew.

  “Your people okay?”

  “Yeah, they’re treating us pretty nice. Good hotel rooms, close enough to walk to the stadium, but we have official cars for that. So, I guess we’re just paid tourists, eh?”

  “Yep, like I said, Ding, enjoy the games.”

  “How’s Peter doing?”

  “Bouncing back okay, but he’ll be out of business for at least a month, more like six weeks. The docs here are okay. Chin’s legs are going to be a pain in the ass. Figure two and a half months for him to get back in harness.”

  “He must be pissed.”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “What about our prisoners?”

  “Police are interrogating them now,” Clark answered. “We’re hearing more about this Russian guy, but nothing we can really use yet. The Irish cops are trying to ID the cocaine by manufacturer—it’s medical quality, from a real drug company. Ten pounds of pure coke. Street value would buy a friggin’ airliner. The Garda is worried that it might be the start of a trend, the IRA splinter groups getting into drugs big-time, but that’s not our problem.”

  “This Russian guy—Serov, right?—he’s the guy who gave them the intel on us?”

  “That’s affirmative, Domingo, but where he got it we don’t know, and our Irish guests aren’t giving us anything more than what we already have—probably all they know. Grady isn’t talking at all. And his lawyer’s bitching about how we interrogated him in the recovery room.”

  “Well, isn’t that just a case of tough shit?”

  “I hear you, Ding,” Clark chuckled. It wasn’t as though they’d be using the information in a trial. There was even a videotape of Grady’s leaving the scene from the BBC news crew that had turned up at Hereford. Sean Grady would be imprisoned for a term defined by “the Queen’s pleasure,” which meant life plus forever, unless the European Union treaty interfered with it. Timothy O’Neil and the people who’d surrendered with him might get out around the time they turned sixty, Bill Tawney had told him the previous day. “Anything else?”

  “Nope, everything’s looking good here, John. I’ll report in the same time tomorrow.”

  “Roger that, Domingo.”

  “Kiss Patsy for me.”

  “I’ll even manage a hug if you want.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Grandpa,” Ding agreed with a smile.

  “Bye,” he heard, and the line went dead.

  “Not a bad time to be away from home, boss,” Mike Pierce observed from a few feet away. “The first two weeks can be a real pain in the ass. This way, by the time you get back home, the little guy’ll be sleeping four, five hours. Maybe more if you’re really lucky,” predicted the father of three sons.

  “Mike, you see any problems here?”

  “Like you told Six, the Aussies have it under control. They look like good people, man. Us bein’ here’s a waste of time, but what the hell, we get to see the Olympics.”

  “I suppose so. Any questions?”

  “Do we carry?” Pierce asked.

  “Pistols only, and casual clothes. Your security pass will take care of that. We pair off, you with me, and George with Homer. We take our tactical radios, too, but that’s all.”

  “Yes, sir. Works for me. How’s the jet lag?”

  “How’s it with you, Mike?”

  “Like I been put in a bag and beat with a baseball bat.” Pierce grinned. “But it’ll be better tomorrow. Shit, I’d hate to think that gutting it through today won’t help some tomorrow. Hey, tomorrow morning, we can work out with the Aussies, do our running on the Olympic track. Pretty cool, eh?”

  “I like it.”

  “Yeah, it would be nice to meet up with some of those pussy athletes, see how fast they can run with weapons and body armor.” At his best and fully outfitted, Pierce could run a mile in thirty seconds over four minutes, but he’d never broken the four-minute mark, even in running shoes and shorts. Louis Loiselle claimed to have done it once, and Chavez believed him. The diminutive Frenchman was the right size for a distance runner. Pierce was too big in height and across the shoulders. A Great Dane rather than a greyhound.

  “Be cool, Mike. We have to protect them from the bad guys. That tells us who the best men are,” Chavez observed through the jet lag.

  “Roge-o, sir.” Pierce would remember that one.

  Popov awoke for no particular reason he could see, except that—yes, another Gulfstream jet had just landed. He imagined that these were the really important ones for this project thing. The junior ones, or those with families, either drove out or flew commercial. The business jet sat there in the lights, the stairs deployed from their bay in the aircraft, and people walked out to the waiting cars that swiftly drove away from the aircraft and toward the hotel building. Popov wondered who it was, but he was too far away to recognize faces. He’d probably see them in the cafeteria in the morning. Dmitriy Arkadeyevich got a drink of water from the bathroom and returned to his bed. This facility was filling up rapidly, though he still didn’t know why.

  Colonel Wilson Gearing was in his hotel room only a few floors above the Rainbow troops. His large bags were in the closet, and his clothing hung. The maids and other staff who serviced his room hadn’t touched anything, merely checked the closet and proceeded to make up the beds and scrub the bathroom. They hadn’t checked inside the bags—Gearing had telltales on them to make sure of that—inside one of which was a plastic canister with “Chlorine” painted on it. It was outwardly identical with the one on the fogging system at the Olympic stadium—it had, in fact, been purchased from the same company that had installed the fogging system, cleaned out and refilled with the nano-capsules. He also had the tools he needed to swap one out, and had practiced the skill in Kansas, where an identical installation was to be found. He could close his eyes and see himself doing it, time and again, to keep the downtime for the fogging system to a minimum. He thought about the contents of the container. Never had so much potential death been so tightly contained. Far more so than in a nuclear device, because unlike one of those, the danger here could replicate itself many times instead of merely detonating once. The way the fogging system worked, it would take about thirty minutes for the nano-capsules to get into the entire fogging system. Both computer model
s and actual mechanical tests proved that the capsules would get everywhere in the pipes, and spray out the fogging nozzles, invisible in the gentle, cooling mist. People walking through the tunnels leading to the stadium proper and in the concourses would breathe it in, an average of two hundred or so nanocapsules in four minutes of breathing, and that was well above the calculated mean lethal dose. The capsules would enter through the lungs, be transported into the blood, and there the capsules would dissolve, releasing the Shiva. The engineered virus strands would travel in the bloodstreams of the spectators and the athletes, soon find the liver and kidneys, the organs for which they had the greatest affinity, and begin the slow process of multiplication. All this had been established at Binghamton Lab on the “normal” test subjects. Then it was just a matter of weeks until the Shiva had multiplied enough to do its work. Along the way, people would pass on the Shiva through kisses and sexual contact, through coughs and sneezes. This, too, had been proven at the Binghamton Lab. Starting in about four weeks, people would think themselves mildly ill. Some would see their personal physicians, and be diagnosed as flu victims, told to take aspirin, drink fluids, and rest in front of the TV. They would do this, and feel better—because seeing a doctor usually did that for people—for a day or so. But they would not be getting better. Sooner or later, they’d develop the internal bleeds that Shiva ultimately caused, and then, about five weeks after the initial release of the nano-capsules, some doctor would run an antibody test and be aghast to learn that something like the famous and feared Ebola fever was back. A good epidemiology program might identify the Sydney Olympics as the focal center, but tens of thousands of people would have come and gone. This was a perfect venue for distributing Shiva, something the Project’s senior members had determined years before—even before the attempted plague launched by Iran against America, which had predictably failed because the virus hadn’t been the right one, and the method of delivery too haphazard. No, this plan was perfection itself. Every nation on earth sent athletes and judges to the Olympic games, and all of them would walk through the cooling fog in this hot stadium, lingering there to shed excess body heat, breathe deeply, and relax in this cool place. Then they’d all return to their homes, from America to Argentina, from Russia to Rwanda, there to spread the Shiva and start the initial panic.

  Then came Phase Two. Horizon Corporation would manufacture and distribute the “A” vaccine, turn it out in thousand-liter lots, and send it all over the world by express flights to nations whose public-health-service physicians and nurses would be sure to inject every citizen they could find. Phase Two would finish the job begun with the global panic that was sure to result from Phase One. Four to six weeks after being injected, the “A” recipients would start to become ill. So, three weeks from today, Gearing thought, plus six weeks or so, plus two weeks, plus another six, plus a final two. A total of nineteen weeks, not even half a year, not even a full baseball season, and well over ninety-nine percent of the people on the earth would be dead. And the planet would be saved. No more slaughtering of sheep from a chemical-weapons release. No more extinction of species by thoughtless man. The ozone hole would soon heal itself. Nature would flourish once more. And he’d be there to see it, to enjoy and appreciate it all, along with his friends and colleagues in the Project. They’d save the planet and raise their children to respect it, love it, cherish it. The world would again be green and beautiful.

  His feelings were not completely unambiguous. He could look out the windows and see people walking on the streets of Sydney, and it caused him pain to think of what would be happening to all of them. But he’d seen much pain. The sheep at Dugway. The monkeys and pigs and other test animals at Edgewood Arsenal. They, too, felt great pain. They, too, had a right to live, and people had disregarded both self-evident facts. The people down there didn’t use shampoo unless it had been tested on the eyes of laboratory rabbits, held stock-still in cruel little cages, there to suffer without words, without expression at all to most people, who didn’t understand animals, and cared less about them than they cared for how their burgers were cooked at the local McDonald’s. They were helping to destroy the earth because they didn’t care. Because they didn’t care, they didn’t even try to see what was important, and because they didn’t appreciate what was important . . . they would die. They were a species that had endangered itself, and so would reap the whirlwind of its own ignorance. They were not like himself, Gearing thought. They didn’t see. And under the cruel but fair laws of Charles Darwin, that left them at a comparative disadvantage. And so, as one animal replaced another, so he and his kind would replace them and theirs. He was only the instrument of natural selection, after all.

  The jet lag was mainly gone, Chavez thought. The morning workout had been delicious in its sweat and endorphin-reduced pain, especially the run on the Olympic track. He and Mike Pierce had pushed hard on that, not timing it, but going as hard as they could, and on the run both had looked up at the empty stands and imagined the cheers they’d get had they been trained athletes. Then had come the showers and the grins, one soldier to another, at what they’d done, then dressing into their casual clothing, their pistols hidden under their shirts, their tactical radios jammed into pockets, and their security passes looped around their necks.

  Later, the trumpets had blared, and the team of the first nation in the parade, Greece, marched out the tunnel at the far end, to the thundering cheers of the spectators in their seats, and the Sydney Olympiad had begun. Chavez told himself that as a security officer he was supposed to watch the crowd, but he found that he couldn’t, without some specific danger to look at. The proud young athletes marched almost as well as soldiers, as they followed their flags and their judges on the oval track. It must have been a proud moment for them, Ding thought, to represent your homeland before all the other nations of the world. Each of them would have trained for months and years to earn this honor, to accept the cheers and hope himself to be worthy of the moment. Well, it wasn’t the sort of thing you got to do as a field officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, nor a Team-2 commander of Rainbow. This was pure sport, pure competition, and if it didn’t really apply to the real world, then what did that hurt? Every event would be a form of activity taken down to its essence—and most of them were really military in nature. Running—the most important martial skill was the ability to run toward battle or away from it. The javelin—a lance to throw at one’s enemies. The shot put and discus—other missile weapons. The pole vault—to get one over a wall and into the enemy camp. The long jump—to get over a hole that the enemy had dug in the battlefield. These were all soldierly skills from antiquity, and the modern Games had gun sports, pistol and rifle, as well. The modern pentathlon was based on the skills needed by a military courier in the late nineteenth century—riding, running, and shooting his way to his destination, to tell his commander what he needed to know in order to command his troops effectively.

  These men and women were warriors of a sort, here to win glory for themselves and their flags, to vanquish foes without bloodshed, to win a pure victory on the purest field of honor. That, Chavez thought, was a worthy goal for anyone, but he was too old and unfit to compete here. Unfit? he wondered. Well, not for one his age, and he was probably fitter than some of these people walking on the oval track, but not enough to win a single event. He felt his Beretta pistol under his shirt. That, and his ability to use it, made him fit to defend these kids against any who might wish to harm them, and that, Domingo Chavez decided, would have to do.

  “Pretty cool, boss,” Pierce observed, watching the Greeks pass where they were standing.

  “Yeah, Mike, it sure as hell is.”

  CHAPTER 34

  THE GAMES CONTINUE

  As happens in all aspects of life, things settled into a routine. Chavez and his people spent most of their time with Colonel Wilkerson’s people, mainly sitting in the reaction-force center and watching the games on television, but also wandering to the
various venues, supposedly to eyeball security matters up close, but in reality to see the various competitive events even closer. Sometimes they even wandered onto the event field by virtue of their go-anywhere passes. The Aussies, Ding learned, were ferociously dedicated sports fans, and wonderfully hospitable. In his off-duty time, he picked a neighborhood pub to hang out in, where the beer was good and the atmosphere friendly. On learning that he was an American, his “mates” would often as not buy a beer for him and ask questions while watching sports events on the wall-hung televisions. About the only thing he didn’t like was the cigarette smoke, for the Australian culture had not yet totally condemned the vice, but no place was perfect.

  Each morning he and his people worked out with Colonel Wilkerson and his men, and they found that in this Olympic competition there was little difference between Australian and American special-operations troopers. One morning they went off to the Olympic pistol range, borrowing Olympic-style handguns—.22 automatics that seemed like toys compared to the .45s the Rainbow soldiers ordinarily packed—then saw that the target and scoring systems were very difficult indeed, if not especially related to combat shooting in the real world. For all his practice and expertise, Chavez decided that with luck he could have made the team from Mali. Certainly not the American or Russian teams, whose shooters were utterly inhuman in their ability to punch holes in the skinny silhouette targets that flipped full-face and sideways on computer-controlled hangers. But these paper targets didn’t shoot back, he told himself, and that did make something of a difference. Besides, success in his form of shooting was to make a real person dead, not to hit a quarter-sized target on a black paper target card. That made a difference, too, Ding and Mike Pierce thought aloud with their Aussie counterparts. What they did could never be an Olympic sport, unless somebody brought back the gladiatorial games of Rome, and that wouldn’t be happening. Besides, what they did for their living wasn’t a sport at all, was it? Neither was it a form of mass entertainment in the kinder and gentler modern world. Part of Chavez admitted that he wondered what the games in classical Rome’s Flavian Amphitheater had been like to watch, but it wasn’t something he could say aloud, lest people take him for an utter barbarian. Hail, Caesar! We who are about to die salute you! It wasn’t exactly the Super Bowl, was it? And so, “Major” Domingo Chavez, along with sergeants Mike Pierce, Homer Johnston, and George Tomlinson, and Special Agent Tim Noonan, got to watch the games for free, sometimes with “official” jackets to give them the cover of anonymity.