Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  Jack shoved the throttle forward and the boat plowed ahead.

  “Come to starboard a bit,” Dom called. “A little more. Good. Fifty feet . . . forty feet. Now to port . . . a little less. We should see her any—”

  A black shape loomed before the windscreen. Jack thought, Davit, then shouted, “Get down!”

  Spellman and Dom dropped to their bellies, Jack only a split second behind them. The Igarka’s boat davit clotheslined the cabin, shattering the windscreen and peeling the roof back like the top of a tin can.

  Dom pushed open the cabin door and crawled out with Spellman and Jack on his heels. Jack stood up, looked right. The side of the Igarka was there, a few feet above them. Jack placed his foot on the gunwale, hopped up and snagged the Igarka’s gunwale, then boosted himself up. He brought the ARX to his shoulder and aimed it down the deck. Nothing moved.

  Dom and Spellman climbed up and crouched next to him.

  “Dom, go.”

  Dom jogged to a ladder affixed to the aft superstructure and started climbing. The fog enveloped him.

  “Ready?” Jack said.

  “Yep.”

  He and Spellman headed toward the bow, Jack taking the starboard side, Spellman the port.

  As Jack passed the first hatch, it swung open, shoving him sideways into the railing. Jack spun, his ARX coming up. A man was standing in the hatchway. He was unarmed.

  “Back inside!” Jack shouted. He kicked the hatch shut and kept going.

  From somewhere above came the dull pop, pop, of Dom’s ARX, then, “You two, down! Get down! Jack, you’re clear to the bow!”

  Jack sprinted past the front edge of the superstructure and onto the forecastle until he reached the bow railing. Below he saw the broad outline of a flatbed truck cab.

  He shouted over his shoulder, “Dom, you and Matt clear belowdecks.”

  “Got it!”

  Jack lifted his legs over the railing, let himself hang free, then dropped to the sand below. ARX raised, he sprinted toward the truck, which began backing away, its tires spewing sand. On the other side of the windshield, a lone figure was behind the wheel.

  Jack pointed the ARX at him. “Shut off the engine!”

  The driver ignored him and kept backing up, until the truck’s cab disappeared into the fog. Jack sprinted forward until the cab reappeared; then he fired a round into the passenger-side windshield. The truck braked to a stop.

  “Engine off, hands out the window!”

  The man complied.

  Jack ordered him down from the cab, then onto his belly.

  Dom ran up.

  “Clear it for me,” Jack said.

  Dom was back in ten seconds. “Nobody else.”

  • • •

  THEY FOUND SPELLMAN standing on the sand before the Igarka’s bow. “Three crew in total,” he reported. “All scared shitless, but unhurt. I’ve got them locked in the chart room. I don’t think they know anything about the Kvant.”

  Jack prodded the driver of the truck forward. “Add him to the collection. We’ll send some of Medzhid’s ERF for them.”

  As Spellman took the man away, Dom asked, “Now what?”

  Jack scratched his head. “Do you know how to sink a ship?”

  Makhachkala

  JACK’S UNEASE GREW STRONGER each block they drew closer to the Ministry of the Interior building. The streets were eerily empty. Shops and restaurants were closed. Buses and cars sat empty in the middle of intersections. It was, Jack thought, as though the whole of the government district had been transformed into a massive, post-apocalyptic movie set. The rain clouds had begun to break up, letting through intermittent patches of sun that warmed the still-slick streets enough that the pavement was shrouded in a thin layer of almost imperceptible fog. Another special effect, Jack thought.

  The residents that hadn’t fled to the city’s southernmost neighborhoods were now behind locked apartment and house doors with curtains drawn, save a gap through which the owners could watch the streets.

  Volodin’s ordering of the border garrison troops into Makhachkala hadn’t been announced on the radio or the television, for those, like the Internet and the power grid, had been shut down shortly after dawn. The news had instead traveled by word of mouth, as had the protesters’ heartbreaking realization that no one outside Makhachkala was seeing or even knew that Dagestanis were trying to take their first steps toward independence.

  • • •

  JACK PULLED the truck to the curb outside the MOI’s rear entrance and they climbed out. The guard let them through the gate and they took the elevator up to Medzhid’s offices.

  Jack found Seth leaning forward in one of the club chairs, his head in his hands.

  “Why the hell aren’t you answering your phone?” Jack said.

  Seth looked up. “What?”

  “The Kvant is sitting at the bottom of the Akgel Reservoir. Without that, the two Krasukhas should be easy to keep ahead of.”

  “It’s too late, Jack. Medzhid’s not going to send people back into the streets with the border garrisons on their way. It’s over.”

  “It’s not over. Get him in here.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  Jack said, “Hey, where’s Ysabel—”

  He saw her emerge from the nearby adjoining hallway. She stopped and stared at him. She crossed her arms. Her eyes were wet.

  Jack walked over to her. “I’m sorry.” He folded her in his arms. “I just couldn’t let—”

  “I know, it’s okay,” she whispered. “Jack, you need to listen to me, okay?” The tone in her voice was deadly serious. “Just keep hugging me.”

  “Okay . . .” he replied.

  “There was something about Anton’s face when you accused him of betraying Medzhid. He seemed genuinely shocked. Heartbroken. This morning I decided to go through his phone. Aside from Pechkin’s number, there was only one other in his call history. It was labeled “Mamochka”—mother. I called it. The woman who answered said, ‘Vasim, where have you been?’”

  Jack felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. Vasim had covertly swapped phones with Anton.

  “I’m sure about this, Jack. It was Vasim. He was the one working with Pechkin, not Anton.”

  Oh, God, Jack thought. He’d killed the wrong man. He replayed the scene in his head and realized Anton had never actually pointed his gun at Medzhid, but instead had drawn it on instinct when Spellman had charged him.

  Worst of all, Anton may have died thinking Rebaz Medzhid hated him.

  “How did Vasim know we were onto one of them?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. You need to get to Rebaz and—”

  “Jack!” Medzhid called. “Dom . . . Matt!”

  Jack whispered to Ysabel, “Get to Dom or Matt and tell them what’s happening. I’ll try to get Medzhid and Vasim separated. Watch the muzzles and stay out of the line of fire.”

  “Be careful, Jack.”

  He turned to face Medzhid, who was striding across the carpet. Vasim was two paces behind and to his left. Seth stood to Medzhid’s right.

  Jack shook the minister’s extended hand. “Rebaz.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw Ysabel standing beside Dom. He glanced that way. Dom gave him a wink.

  “Glad to have you all back safe,” said Medzhid. “Seth said you want to talk to me. If it’s about asking people to go back into the streets—”

  “No, it’s not that. Let’s go in your office and I’ll explain.”

  “Here is fine, Jack. I have staff in my office. And to be honest, I could use a break from commotion.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s sit down.” Jack gestured to the couch area.

  “Dom, what’re you doing?” Seth blurted.

  Dom, who had been maneu
vering himself behind Jack for a clear shot on Vasim, stopped. “What?”

  “Why do you have a gun?”

  Medzhid turned around. “Dom?”

  Jack kept his eyes fixed on Vasim. Rather than moving to put himself between the principal and the threat, Vasim was staring at Dom. His eyes flicked toward Jack, then to Medzhid.

  Vasim’s hand shot into his coat.

  “Rebaz, down!” Jack shouted, and raised his Ruger.

  Vasim was moving sideways, using Medzhid’s body to block Jack’s firing angle.

  Seth shouted, “Jack, what the hell is—”

  Suddenly he seemed to notice Vasim’s gun was out. “Hey, what are you—”

  “Out of the way, Seth!” yelled Dom.

  Time seemed to both slow down and speed up in Jack’s mind, a stop-motion blur he felt strangely disconnected from.

  He ducked down, leaned sideways, fired a round past Medzhid’s leg. Vasim took the bullet in his thigh. To Jack’s left, Dom was trying to maneuver for his own shot, but Seth was also turning, his eyes wide, as though trying to make sense of what was happening.

  Vasim raised his gun and took aim on Medzhid.

  “No!” Seth shouted.

  He lunged forward. Vasim fired. Seth seemed to freeze in mid-step. His body convulsed and he dropped to his knees, then rolled onto his side. Jack, already charging, shoved Medzhid aside, raised his Ruger, and put a bullet in Vasim’s throat, then another in his chest as he slumped back against the paneled wall.

  Somewhere a woman screamed.

  Jack was frozen in place, the Ruger still extended before him. His eyesight fluttered at the edges. Sounds seemed to fade in and out.

  Seth is dead.

  Seth is dead. He knew it in his gut.

  “Jack.” Spellman’s voice. “Jack, let me have that. Let it go.”

  He pried the Ruger from Jack’s grip.

  Dom strode forward, knelt down to check Vasim’s pulse. He glanced over to Spellman and shook his head, then started toward Seth’s body, which was curled into an almost fetal position.

  “Leave him alone,” Jack murmured.

  Dom stopped, gave a slight nod, moved off to the side.

  Jack stepped around Medzhid, who was trying to sit up. The sleeve of his white shirt was bright with blood.

  “Check him,” Jack ordered, and kept moving until he reached Seth. He knelt down. He placed his palm on Seth’s side. His friend’s body felt somehow flat, deflated, missing whatever it was that made Seth Seth.

  Jack bent forward at the waist, pressed his forehead against Seth’s shoulder, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  AFTER A WHILE he opened his eyes again.

  There was activity all around him, voices, people rushing, phones ringing.

  He lifted Seth’s body off the ground.

  “Jack,” Ysabel whispered at his side, her hand on his biceps. “Let’s put him in our room. Come on, I’ll take you.”

  Ysabel led him down the hallway and opened the door to their bedroom. She shoved one of the pillows out of the way and smoothed the comforter.

  “Here, put him here.”

  Jack laid him down.

  Seth’s eyes were open and staring. The front of his shirt was a mass of blood. There was a perfectly round hole a couple of inches below his chin and an exit hole at the nape of his neck. Vasim’s bullet had punched into the soft tissue of Seth’s throat and blasted through his spine, right below his brain stem. There was probably some life left in Seth, but there was nothing to be done. He was as good as dead.

  He felt Ysabel’s arms around his waist. She pressed her head against his back. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  “Is Rebaz okay?” he asked.

  “The doctor’s with him now, but it could be bad. He was hit somewhere in the chest. Dom thinks the bullet went through Seth.”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t know what to do, Ysabel.”

  “I know.”

  “He asked for my help,” he said.

  “You did help him.”

  “No.”

  • • •

  LATER HE WANDERED OUT to the main room. Dom and Spellman were sitting on the couch, heads together as they talked. Jack took one of the club chairs across from them. Neither of them told him “Sorry”; they didn’t need to.

  “Rebaz?” Jack asked.

  “He took the round in the right lung. Sucking chest wound. We got a piece of cellophane on it quick, but his lung was already collapsed,” Spellman said. “We should know more in the next hour. He wants to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say,” Dom replied.

  “It’s over,” said Jack. “We’re going home. Medzhid can’t be a beacon of hope from a hospital bed, not with troops in his city.”

  “That’s his decision to make,” said Spellman.

  Jack shrugged. “I need to find Raymond Wellesley.”

  “Well, Medzhid must have your mind,” said Dom. “Yana told me that while we were chasing the Igarka, Medzhid sent a couple ERF guys to the schoolhouse on Lena Road. They found computers, monitors, cables . . . the same setup we found at the Chirpoy apartment. There was nothing left but a melted pile of junk. They found traces of white phosphorus.”

  Spellman added, “We figured that once he saw the hubs were getting fried by the Krasukhas, the protesters were dispersing, and Volodin was sending in the border garrisons, he decided his job was done.”

  “He was right.”

  “Jack, I can see it in your eyes,” Dom said. “I know what you’re planning.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “It’s a raw wound right now—and a shitty time to be making big decisions.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s an easy decision.”

  • • •

  MEDZHID’S DOCTOR WALKED IN. “Are you Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “The minister would like to see you. Follow me.”

  He led Jack out into the tiled hallway. They took the elevator down to the basement and then went through a white door with a red medical cross on it. Medzhid was lying on a hospital bed with an IV in his arm. Behind him a monitor chirped softly. His face was very pale and his eyes were sunken. A square transparent bandage was taped to his chest; through it, Jack could see a ragged hole. The bandage bulged slightly each time Medzhid took a labored breath.

  “Jack,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I am sorry about Seth. I feel responsible.”

  “I’m the one who got it wrong. I killed Anton instead of Vasim.”

  “It’s a forgivable mistake. Seth loved you like a brother, you know. Even before we met I felt like I knew you, he talked about you so much. He was a good man.”

  Jack simply nodded. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Lucky. Seth saved me, my doctor tells me. Had he not . . .”

  “Slowed the bullet down?”

  “Yes. I would be dead right now. I need surgery to repair the lung. I told him he can do whatever he likes with me, but not immediately. Jack, I know you want Wellesley. I can help you find him, but I need your help first. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not bargaining with you. I will help you regardless of whether you agree to help me.”

  “Go ahead,” Jack said.

  “Soon I am going to get out of this bed and go meet with the Makhachkala garrison troop commander. He has pledged his support to me but there is one more thing we must do—”

  “It’s over, Rebaz. If you’re lucky, you’ll get out of this alive. If you do, step out of the spotlight, wait a few years, then test the wind again.”

  “In other words, live to fight another day.”

  “Or take Aminat and your wife and move someplace warm.”

  “There won’t be
another day, Jack. Seth and I spent the last three years putting this plan into place. The strategy is sound, as are the tactics. The networks and infrastructure are largely intact. Most importantly, Dagestanis are still out there and they’re hungry for freedom. The only things we’ve lost are the element of surprise and some of our satellite Internet hubs—”

  “And Seth.”

  “Yes, and Seth. Believe me, I’m not trying to diminish him, but Matt knows the plan as well as Seth did. He would want us to go—”

  “Don’t,” Jack said. “Don’t use him.”

  “He wanted this to work and he still does. I truly believe that.”

  Jack sat down on the bedside chair. He palmed his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. He was so tired.

  “Rebaz, I can’t decide if you’re a truly great man or truly full of shit.”

  Medzhid smiled. “Mostly the former, with a dash of the latter. Will you help me?”

  “Why do you need me? You have the entire MOI at your disposal.”

  “Let’s examine the situation: Both my closest bodyguards are dead, one of them a traitor who framed the other one to be killed; the leader of my ERF, also a traitor; and Seth is gone. And then there is you: a man who risked his life to save my daughter, a complete stranger to him. I trust you, and I trust Ysabel, and Dom, and Matt. They look to you as a leader. I need people like the four of you by my side if I am to have any chance of succeeding. Plus, do you really want to miss the endgame, whatever the outcome?”

  Jack thought about it. “You’ll help me find Wellesley? Your word on it?”

  Medzhid nodded. “Yes. Whether you help me or not.”

  “Okay. What’s your plan?”

  “To buy my country some time.”

  Vatan

  IT WOULD BE only later that Jack would fully realize how well crafted Medzhid’s gambit was. As it was, he was having trouble focusing on anything more than putting one foot in front of the other.

  Seth’s gone, Jack thought. In various combinations the phrase kept popping into his head as though on some kind of subconscious timer. Seth’s dead.