Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  “Come!” a voice boomed in reply to his knock.

  The colonel was sitting behind a cheap wooden desk. He was dressed in a black sweater over a lime-green shirt, and had a name tag that said SMITH. Ding came to attention.

  “Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez reporting as ordered, sir.”

  “Okay, relax and sit down, Sergeant. I know you’ve been on the go for a while. There’s coffee in the corner if you want.”

  “No, thank you, sir.” Chavez sat down and almost relaxed a bit until he saw his personnel jacket lying on the desk. Colonel Smith picked it up and flipped it open. Having someone rip through your personnel file was usually worrisome, but the colonel looked up with a relaxed smile. Chavez noticed that Colonel Smith had no unit crest above his name tag, not even the hourglass-bayonet symbol of the 7th LID. Where did he come from? Who was this guy?

  “This looks pretty damned good, Sergeant. I’d say you’re a good bet for E-7 in two or three years. You’ve been down south, too, I see. Three times, is it?”

  “Yes, sir. We been to Honduras twice and Panama once.”

  “Did well all three times. It says here your Spanish is excellent.”

  “It’s what I was raised with, sir.” As his accent told everyone he met. He wanted to know what this was all about, but staff sergeants do not ask such questions of bird-colonels. He got his wish in any case.

  “Sergeant, we’re putting a special group together, and we want you to be part of it.”

  “Sir, I got new orders, and—”

  “I know that. We’re looking for people with a combination of good language skills and—hell, we’re looking for the best light-fighters we can find. Everything I see about you says you’re one of the best in the division.” There were other criteria that “Colonel Smith” did not go into. Chavez was unmarried. His parents were both dead. He had no close family members, or at least was not known to write or call anyone with great frequency. He didn’t fit the profile perfectly—there were some other things that they wished he had—but everything they saw looked good. “It’s a special job. It might be a little dangerous, but probably not. We’re not sure yet. It’ll last a couple of months, six at the most. At the end, you make E-7 and have your choice of assignments.”

  “What’s this special job all about, sir?” Chavez asked brightly. The chance of making E-7 a year or two early got his full and immediate attention.

  “That I can’t say, Sergeant. I don’t like recruiting people blind,” “Colonel Smith” lied, “but I have my orders, too. I can say that you’ll be sent somewhere east of here for intensive training. Maybe it’ll stop there, maybe not. If it does stop there, the deal holds on the promotion and the assignment. If it goes farther, you will probably be sent somewhere to exercise your special kind of skills. Okay, I can say that we’re talking some covert intelligence-gathering. We’re not sending you to Nicaragua or anything like that. You’re not being sent off to fight a secret war.” That statement was technically not a lie. “Smith” didn’t know exactly what the job was all about, and he wasn’t being encouraged to speculate. He’d been given the mission requirements, and his nearly completed job was to find people who could do it—whatever the hell it was.

  “Anyway, that’s all I can say. What we have discussed to this point does not leave the room—meaning that you do not discuss it with anybody without my authorization, understood?” the man said forcefully.

  “Understood, sir!”

  “Sergeant, we’ve invested a lot of time and money in you. It’s payback time. The country needs you. We need what you know. We need what you know how to do.”

  Put that way, Chavez knew he had little choice. “Smith” knew that, too. The young man waited about five seconds before answering, which was less than expected.

  “When do I leave, sir?”

  Smith was all business now. He pulled a large manila envelope from the desk’s center drawer. CHAVEZ was scrawled on it in Magic Marker. “Sergeant, I’ve taken the liberty of doing a few things for you. In here are your medical and finance records. I’ve already arranged to clear you through most of the post agencies. I’ve also scratched in a limited power of attorney form so that you can have somebody ship your personal effects—where ‘to’ shows on the form.”

  Chavez nodded, though his head swam slightly. Whoever this Colonel Smith was, he had some serious horsepower to run paperwork through the Army’s legendary bureaucracy so quickly. Clearing post ordinarily took five days of sitting and waiting. He took the envelope from the colonel’s hand.

  “Pack your gear and be back here at eighteen hundred. Don’t bother getting a haircut or anything. You’re going to let it grow for a while. I’ll handle things with the people downstairs. And remember: you do not discuss this with anybody. If someone asks, you got orders to report to Fort Benning a little early. That’s your story, and I expect you to stick to it.” “Colonel Smith” stood and extended his hand while he told another lie, mixed with some truth. “You did the right thing. I knew we could count on you, Chavez.”

  “We own the night, sir!”

  “Dismissed.”

  “Colonel Smith” replaced the personnel folder in his briefcase. That was that. Most of the men were already on their way to Colorado. Chavez was one of the last. “Smith” wondered how things would work out. His real name was Edgar Jeffries, and he had once been an Army officer, long since seconded to, then hired by, the Central Intelligence Agency. He found himself hoping that things would go as planned, but he’d been with the Agency too long to place much store in that train of thought. This wasn’t his first recruiting job. Not all of them had gone well, and fewer still had gone as planned. On the other hand, Chavez and all the rest had volunteered to join the country’s military service, had voluntarily re-enlisted, and had voluntarily decided to accept his invitation to do something new and different. The world was a dangerous place, and these forty men had made an informed decision to join one of its more dangerous professions. It was some consolation to him, and because Edgar Jeffries still had a conscience, he needed the consolation.

  “Good luck, Sarge,” he said quietly to himself.

  Chavez had a busy day. First changing into civilian clothes, he washed his field uniform and gear, then assembled all of the equipment which he’d be leaving behind. He had to clean the equipment also, because you were supposed to give it back better than you got it, as Sergeant First Class Mitchell expected. By the time the rest of the platoon arrived from Hunter-Liggett at 1300, his tasks were well underway. The activity was noted by the returning NCOs, and soon the platoon sergeant appeared.

  “Why you packed up, Ding?” Mitchell asked.

  “They need me at Benning early—that’s, uh, that’s why they flew me back this morning.”

  “The lieutenant know?”

  “They musta told him—well, they musta told the company clerk, right?” Chavez was a little embarrassed. Lying to his platoon sergeant bothered him. Bob Mitchell had been a friend and a teacher for his nearly four years at Fort Ord. But his orders came from a colonel.

  “Ding, one thing you still have to learn about is paperwork. Come on, son. The ell-tee’s in his office.”

  Lieutenant Timothy Washington Jackson, Infantry, hadn’t cleaned up yet, but was almost ready to leave for his place in the bachelor officers’ quarters, called the BOQ, or merely The Q. He looked up to see two of his senior NCOs.

  “Lieutenant, Chavez here’s got orders to skip off to Fort Benning PDQ. They’re picking him up this evening.”

  “So I hear. I just got a call from the battalion sergeant major. What the hell gives? We don’t do things this way,” Jackson growled. “How long?”

  “Eighteen hundred, sir.”

  “Super. I gotta go and get cleaned up before I see the S-3. Sergeant Mitchell, can you handle the equipment records?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back at seventeen hundred to finish things up. Chavez, don’t leave before I get ba
ck.”

  The rest of the afternoon passed quickly. Mitchell was willing to handle shipping—there wasn’t that much to ship—and squared the younger man away, with a few lessons tossed in on the better ways to expedite paperwork. Lieutenant Jackson was back on time, and brought both men into his office. It was quiet. Most of the platoon was already gone for a well-deserved night on the town.

  “Ding, I ain’t ready to lose you yet. We haven’t decided who takes the squad over. You were talking about Ozkanian, Sergeant Mitchell?”

  “That’s right, sir. What d’you think, Chavez?”

  “He’s about ready,” Ding judged.

  “Okay, we’ll give Corporal Ozkanian a shot at it. You’re lucky, Chavez,” Lieutenant Jackson said next. “I got caught up on all my paperwork right before we went into the field. You want me to go over your evaluation with you?”

  “Just the high spots’ll be fine, sir.” Chavez grinned. The lieutenant liked him, and Chavez knew it.

  “Okay, I say you’re damned good, which you are. Sorry to lose you this quick. You going to need a lift?” Jackson asked.

  “No problem, sir. I was planning to walk over.”

  “Crap. We all did enough walking last night. Load your stuff into my car.” The lieutenant tossed him the keys. “Anything else, Sergeant Mitchell?”

  “Nothin’ that can’t wait until Monday, sir. I figure we earned ourselves a nice restful weekend.”

  “As always, your judgment is impeccable. My brother’s in town, and I’m gone till 0600 Monday morning.”

  “Roger that. Have a good one, sir.”

  Chavez didn’t have much in the way of personal gear, and, unusually, didn’t even have a car. In fact he was saving his money to buy a Chevy Corvette, the car that had fascinated him since boyhood, and was within five thousand dollars of being able to pay cash for one. His baggage was already loaded into the back of Jackson’s Honda CVCC when the lieutenant emerged from the barracks. Chavez tossed him the keys back.

  “Where they picking you up?”

  “Division G-1 is what the man said, sir.”

  “Why there? Why not Martinez Hall?” Jackson asked as he started up. Martinez was the customary processing facility.

  “Lieutenant, I just go where they tell me.”

  Jackson laughed at that. “Don’t we all?”

  It only took a couple of minutes. Jackson dropped Chavez off with a handshake. There were five other soldiers there, the lieutenant noted briefly. All sergeants, which was something of a surprise. All looked Hispanic, too. He knew two of them. León was in Ben Tucker’s platoon, 4th of the 17th, and Muñoz was with divisional recon. Those were two good ones, too. Lieutenant Jackson shrugged it off as he drove away.

  3.

  The Panache

  Procedure

  WEGENER’S INSPECTION CAME before lunch instead of after. There wasn’t much to complain about. Chief Riley had been there first. Except for some paint cans and brushes that were actually in use—painting a ship is something that never begins or ends; it just is—there was no loose gear in view. The ship’s gun was properly trained in and secured, as were the anchor chains. Lifelines were taut, and hatches dogged down tight in anticipation of the evening storm. A few off-duty sailors lounged here and there, reading or sunning themselves. These leapt to their feet at Riley’s rumbling “Attention on deck!” One third-class was reading a Playboy. Wegener informed him good-naturedly that he’d have to watch out for that on the next cruise, as three female crewmen were scheduled to join the ship in less than two weeks’ time, and it wouldn’t do to offend their sensibilities. That Panache had none aboard at the moment was a statistical anomaly, and the change didn’t trouble the captain greatly, though his senior chiefs were skeptical to say the least. There was also the problem of who got to use the plumbing when, since female crewmen had not been anticipated by the cutter’s designers. It was the first time today that Red Wegener had had something to smile about. The problems of taking women to sea ... and the smile died again as the images from the videotape came back to him. Those two women—no, a woman and a little girl—had gone to sea, too, hadn’t they ... ?

  It just wouldn’t go away.

  Wegener looked around and saw the questions forming on the faces of the men around him. The skipper was pissed about something. They didn’t know what it was, but knew that you don’t want to be around the captain when he was mad about something. Then they saw his face change. The captain had just asked himself a question, they thought.

  “Looks all right to me, people. Let’s make sure we keep it that way.” He nodded and walked forward to his stateroom. Once there he summoned Chief Oreza.

  The quartermaster arrived within a minute. Panache wasn’t big enough to allow a longer walk than that. “You called, Captain?”

  “Close the door, Portagee, and grab a seat.”

  The master chief quartermaster was of Portuguese extraction, but his accent was New England. Like Bob Riley he was a consummate seaman, and like his captain he was also a gifted instructor. A whole generation of Coast Guard officers had learned the use of the sextant from this swarthy, overweight professional. It was men like Manuel Oreza who really ran the Coast Guard, and Wegener occasionally regretted leaving their ranks for officer status. But he hadn’t left them entirely, and in private Wegener and Oreza still communicated on a first-name basis.

  “I saw the tape of the boarding, Red,” Oreza said, reading his captain’s mind. “You shoulda let Riley snap the little fucker in half.”

  “That’s not the way we’re supposed to do things,” Wegener said somewhat lamely.

  “Piracy, murder, and rape—toss in the drugs for fun.” The quartermaster shrugged his shoulders. “I know what we oughta do with people like that. Problem is, nobody ever does.”

  Wegener knew what he meant. Although there was a new federal death-penalty law to deal with drug-related murders, it had only rarely been invoked. The problem was simply that every drug dealer arrested knew someone bigger who was even more desirable a target—the really big ones never placed themselves in a position where the supposed long arm of the law could reach. Federal law-enforcement agencies might have been omnipotent within U.S. borders, and the Coast Guard might have plenipotentiary powers at sea—even to the point where they were allowed to board and search numerous foreign-flag ships at will—but there were always limits. There had to be. The enemy knew what those limits were, and it was really a simple thing to adapt to them. This was a game whose fixed rules applied only to one side; the other was free to redefine its own rules at will. It was simple for the big boys in the drug trade to keep clear, and there were always plenty of smaller fry to take their chances on the dangerous parts—especially since their pay exceeded that of any army in history. These foot soldiers were dangerous and clever enough to make the contest difficult—but even when you caught them, they were always able to trade their knowledge for partial immunity.

  The result was that nobody ever seemed to pay in full. Except the victims, of course. Wegener’s train of thought was interrupted by something even worse.

  “You know, Red, these two might get off entirely.”

  “Hold it, Portagee, I can’t—”

  “My oldest girl is in law school, skipper. You want to know the really bad news?” the chief asked darkly.

  “Go on.”

  “We get these characters to port—well, the helo brings them in tomorrow—and they ask for a lawyer, right? Anybody who watches American TV knows that much. Let’s say that they keep their mouths shut till then. Then their lawyer says that his clients saw a drifting yacht yesterday morning and boarded it. The boat they were on headed back to wherever it came from, and they decide to take it to port to claim the salvage rights. They didn’t use the radio because they didn’t know how to work it—you see that on the tape? It was one of those gollywog computer-driven scanners with the hundred-page manual—and our friends don’t reada da Eenglish so good. Somebody on the fishing
boat will corroborate part of the story. It’s all a horrible misunderstanding, see? So the U.S. Attorney in Mobile decides that he might not have a good-enough case, and our friends cop to a lesser charge. That’s how it works.” He paused.

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “We got no bodies. We got no witnesses. We have weapons aboard, but who can say who fired them? It’s all circumstantial evidence.” Oreza smiled for a grim moment. “My daughter gave me a good brief last month on how all this stuff works. They whistle up someone to back up their version of how they got aboard—somebody clean, no criminal record—and all of a sudden the only real witnesses are on the other side, and we got shit, Red. They cop to some little piddly-ass charge, and that’s it.”

  “But if they’re innocent, why don’t they—”

  “Talk very much? Oh, hell, that’s the easy part. A foreign-flag warship pulls up alongside and puts an armed boarding party aboard. The boarding party points a bunch of guns at them, roughs them up a bit, and they’re so scared that they didn’t say anything—that’s what the lawyer’ll say. Bet on it. Oh, they prob’ly won’t walk, but the prosecutor will be so afraid of losing the case that he’ll look for an easy way out. Our friends will get a year or two in the can, then they get a free plane ticket home.”

  “But they’re murderers.”

  “Sure as hell,” Portagee agreed. “To get off, all they have to be is smart murderers. And there might even be some other things they can say. What my girl taught me, Red, is that it’s never as simple as it looks. Like I said, you shoulda let Bob handle it. The kids would have backed you up, Captain. You oughta hear what they’re saying about this thing.”