Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  He was coming back now, moving with slow, almost childish steps, his legs snapping out from the knees—but he moved quietly enough by walking on the worn path, Ding noticed belatedly. Maybe he wasn’t a total fool. His head was looking uphill. But his rifle was slung over his shoulder. Chavez let him approach, taking off his goggles when the man was looking away. The sudden loss of the display made him lose his target for a few seconds, and the edges of panic appeared in his consciousness, but Ding commanded them to be still. The man would reappear presently as he walked back to the south.

  He did, first as a spectral outline, then as a black mass walking down the worn corridor in the jungle. Ding crouched at the base of a tree, his weapon aimed at the man’s head, and let him come closer. Better to wait and get a sure kill. His selector switch was on the single-shot position. The man was ten meters away. Chavez wasn’t even breathing now. He aimed for the center of the man’s head and squeezed off a single round.

  The metallic sound of the H&K’s action cycling back and forth seemed incredibly loud, but the target dropped at once, just a muted clack from his own rifle as it hit the ground alongside the body. Chavez leaped forward, his submachine gun fixed on the target, but the man—it had been a man, after all—didn’t move. With his goggles back on, he could see the single hole right in the center of the nose, and the bullet had angled upward, ripping through the bottom of the brain for an instant, noiseless kill.

  Ninja! his mind exulted.

  He stood beside the body and looked uphill, holding his weapon high. All clear. A moment later the shapes of Vega and Ingeles appeared on the green image display, heading downhill. He turned, found a spot from which to observe the objective, and waited for them.

  There it was, seventy meters away. The glow from the gasoline lanterns blazed on his goggles, and he realized that he could take them off once and for all. There were more voices now. He could even catch the odd word. It was the bored, day-to-day talk of people doing a job. There was a splashing sound, almost like... what? Ding didn’t know, and it didn’t matter for the present. Their fire-support position was in view. There was just one little problem.

  It was oriented the wrong way. The trees that should have provided cover to their right flank instead prevented them from covering the objective. They’d planned the overwatch position in the wrong place, he decided. Chavez grimaced and made other plans, knowing that the captain would do the same. They found a spot almost as good fifteen meters away and oriented in the proper direction. He checked his watch. Nearly time. It was time to make his final, vital inspection of the objective.

  He counted twelve men. The center of the site was ... what looked like a portable bathtub. Two men were walking in it, crushing or stirring up or doing something to the curious-looking soup of coca leaves and... what was it they told us? he asked himself. Water and sulfuric acid? Something like that. Christ, he thought. Walking in fucking acid! The men doing that distasteful task took turns. He watched one change, and those who got out poured fresh water over their feet and calves. It must have hurt or burned or something, Ding realized. But their banter was good-natured enough, thirty meters away. One was talking about his girlfriend in rather crude terms, boasting of what she did for him and what he did to her.

  There were six men with rifles, all AKs. Christ, the whole world carries those goddamned things. They stood at the perimeter of the site, watching inward, however, rather than outward. One was smoking. There was a backpack by the lantern. One of the walkers said something to one of the gunmen and pulled a beer bottle out of it for himself, and another for the one who’d given him permission.

  Idiots! Ding told himself. The radio earpiece made three rasping dashes of static. Ramirez was in place and asking if Ding was ready. He keyed his radio two times in reply, then looked left and right. Vega had his SAW up on the bipod, and the canvas ammo pouch unzipped. Two hundred rounds were all ready, and a second pouch lay next to the first.

  Chavez again nestled himself as close to a thick tree as he could and selected the farthest target. He figured the range to him at about eighty meters, a touch long for his weapon, too long for a head shot, he decided. He thumbed the selector to the burst setting, tucked the weapon in tight, and took careful aim through the diopter sight.

  Three rounds were ejected from the side of his weapon. The man’s face was surprised when two of them struck his chest. His breath came out in a rasping scream that caused heads to turn in his direction. Chavez shifted aim to another rifleman, whose gun was already coming off his shoulder. This one also took two or three hits, but that didn’t stop him from trying to get his weapon around.

  As soon as it appeared that fire might be returned, Vega opened up, transfixing that man with tracers from his machine gun, then shifting fire to two more armed men. One of them got a couple of rounds off, but they went high. The other, unarmed men reacted more slowly than the guards. Two started to run but were cut down by Vega’s stream of fire. The others fell to the ground and crawled. Two more armed men appeared—or their weapons did. The flaming signatures of automatic weapons appeared in the trees on the far side of the site, aimed up at the fire-support team. Exactly as planned.

  The assault element, led by Captain Ramirez, opened up from their right flank. The distinctive chatter of M-16 fire tore through the trees as Chavez, Vega, and Ingeles continued to pour fire into the objective and away from the incoming assault element. One of the people firing from the trees must have been hit. The muzzle flash from his weapon changed direction, blazing straight up. But two others turned and fired into the assault element before they went down. The soldiers were shooting at anything that moved now. One of the men who’d been walking in the tub tried to pick up a discarded rifle and didn’t make it. One stood and might have been trying to surrender, but his hands never got high enough before the squad’s other SAW lanced a line of tracers through his chest.

  Chavez and his team ceased fire to allow the assault element to enter the objective safely. Two of them finished off people who were still moving despite their wounds. Then everything stopped for a moment. The lantern still hissed and illuminated the area, but there was no other sound but the echoes of the shooting and the calls of outraged birds.

  Four soldiers checked out the dead. The rest of the assault element would now have formed a perimeter around the objective. Chavez, Vega, and Ingeles safed their weapons, collected their things, and moved in.

  What Chavez saw was thoroughly horrible. Two of the enemy were still alive, but wouldn’t be for long. One had fallen victim to Vega’s machine gun, and his abdomen was torn open. Both of the other’s legs had been nearly shot off and were bleeding rapidly onto the beaten dirt. The squad medic looked on without pity. Both died within a minute. The squad’s orders were a little vague on the issue of prisoners. No one could lawfully order American soldiers not to take prisoners, and the circumlocutions had been a problem for Captain Ramirez, but the message had gotten through. It was too fucking bad. But these people were involved in killing American kids with drugs, and that wasn’t exactly under the Rules of Land Warfare either, was it? It was too fucking bad. Besides, there were other things to worry about.

  Chavez had barely gotten into the site when he heard something. Everyone did. Someone was running away, straight downhill. Ramirez pointed to Ding, who immediately ran after him.

  He reached for his goggles and tried to hold them in his hand as he ran, then realized that running was probably a stupid thing to do. He stopped, held the goggles to his eyes, and spotted both a path and the running man. There were times for caution, and times for boldness. Instinct told him that this was one of the latter. Chavez raced down the path, trusting to his skills to keep his footing and rapidly catching up with the sound that was trying to get away. Inside three minutes he could hear the man’s thrashing and falling through the cover. Ding stopped and used his goggles again. Only a hundred meters ahead. He started running again, the blood hot in his veins. Fifty meters now. T
he man fell again. Ding slowed his approach. More attention to noise now, he told himself. This guy wasn’t going to get away. He left the path, moving at a tangent to his left, his movements looking like an elaborate dance step as he picked his way as quickly as he could. Every fifty yards he stopped and used his night scope. Whoever the man was, he’d tired and was moving more slowly. Chavez got ahead of him, curving back to his right and waiting on the path.

  Ding had nearly miscalculated. He’d just gotten his weapon up when the shape appeared, and the sergeant fired on instinct from a range of ten feet into his chest. The man fell against Chavez with a despairing groan. Ding threw the body off and fired another burst into his chest. There was no other sound.

  “Jesus,” the sergeant said. He knelt to catch his breath. Whom had he killed? He put the scope back on his head and looked down.

  The man was barefoot. He wore the simple cotton shirt and pants of... Chavez had just killed a peasant, one of those poor dumb bastards who danced in the coca soup. Wasn’t that something to be proud of?

  The exhilaration that often follows a successful combat operation left him like the air released from a toy balloon. Some poor bastard—didn’t even have shoes on. The druggies hired ‘em to hump their shit up the hills, paid ’em half of nothing to do the dirty, nasty work of pre-refining the leaves.

  His belt was unbuckled. He’d been off in the bushes taking a dump when the shooting started, and only wanted to get away, but his half-mast pants had made it a futile effort. He was about Ding’s age, smaller and more lightly built, but puffy around the face from the starchy diet of the local peasant farmers. An ordinary face, it still bore the signs of the fear and panic and pain with which his death had come. He hadn’t been armed. He’d been part of the casual labor. He’d died because he’d been in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

  It was not something for Chavez to be proud of. He keyed his radio.

  “Six, this is Point. I got him. Just one.”

  “Need help?”

  “Negative. I can handle it.” Chavez hoisted the body on his shoulder for the climb back to the objective. It took ten exhausting minutes, but that was part of the job. Ding felt the man’s blood oozing from the six holes in his chest, staining the back of his khaki shirt. Maybe staining more than that.

  By the time he got back, the bodies had all been laid side by side and searched. There were many sacks of coca leaves, several additional jars of acid, and a total of fourteen dead men when Chavez dumped his at the end of the line.

  “You look a little punked out,” Vega observed.

  “Ain’t as big as you, Oso,” Ding gasped out in reply.

  There were two small radios, and various other personal things to catalog, but nothing of real military value. A few men cast eyes on the pack full of beers, but no one made the expected “Miller Time!” joke. If there had been radio codes, they were in the head of whoever had been the boss here. There was no way of telling who he might have been; in death all men look alike. The bodies were all dressed more or less the same, except for the webbed pistol belts of the armed men. All in all, it was rather a sad thing to see. Some people who had been alive half an hour earlier were no longer so. Beyond that, there wasn’t much to be said about the mission.

  Most importantly, there were no casualties to the squad, though Sergeant Guerra had gotten a scare from a close burst. Ramirez completed his inspection of the site, then got his men ready to leave. Chavez again took the lead.

  It was a tough uphill climb, and it gave Captain Ramirez time to think. It was, he realized, something that he ought to have thought about a hell of a lot sooner:

  What is this mission all about? To Ramirez, mission now meant the purpose for their being here in the Colombian highlands, not just the job of taking this place out.

  He understood that watching the airfields had the direct effect of stopping flights of drugs into the United States. They’d performed covert reconnaissance, and people were making tactical use of the intelligence information which they’d developed. Not only was it simple—but it also made sense. But what the hell were they doing now? His squad had just executed a picture-perfect small-unit raid. The men could not have done better—aided by the inept performance of the enemy, of course.

  That was going to change. The enemy was going to learn damned fast from this. Their security would be better. They would learn that much even before they figured out what was going on. A blown-away processing site was all the information they needed to learn that they had to improve their physical security arrangements.

  What had the attack actually accomplished? A few hundred pounds of coca leaves would not be processed tonight. He didn’t have instructions to cart the leaves away, and even if he had, there was no ready means of destroying them except by fire, and he wasn’t stupid enough to light a fire on a mountainside at night, orders or not. What they had accomplished tonight was... nothing. Nothing at all, really. There were tons of coca leaves, and scores—perhaps hundreds—of refining sites. They hadn’t made a dent in the trade tonight, not even a dimple.

  So what the hell are we risking our lives for? he asked himself. He ought to have asked that question in Panama, but like his three fellow officers, he’d been caught up in the institutional rage accompanying the assassination of the FBI Director and the others. Besides, he was only a captain, and he was more an order-follower than an order-giver. As a professional officer, he was used to being given orders from battalion or brigade commanders, forty-or-so-year-old professional soldiers who knew what the hell they were doing, most of the time. But his orders now were coming from someplace else—where? Now he wasn’t so sure—and he’d allowed himself to be lulled in the complacency that assumed whoever generated the orders knew what the hell he was doing.

  Why didn’t you ask more questions!

  Ramirez had seen success in his mission tonight. Prior to it his thought had been directed toward a fixed goal. But he’d achieved that goal, and seen nothing beyond it. He ought to have realized that earlier. Ramirez knew that now. But it was too late now.

  The other part of the trap was even more troubling. He had to tell his men that everything was all right. They’d done as well as any commander could have asked. But—

  What the hell are we doing here? He didn’t know, because no one had ever told him, that he was not the first young captain to ask that question all too late, that it was almost a tradition of American arms for bright young officers to wonder why the hell they were sent out to do things. But almost always they asked the question too late.

  He had no choice, of course. He had to assume, as his training and experience told him to assume, that the mission really did make sense. Even though his reason—Ramirez was far from being a stupid man—told him otherwise, he commanded himself to have faith in his command leadership. His men had faith in him. He had to have the same faith in those above himself. An army could work no other way.

  Two hundred meters ahead, Chavez felt the stickiness on the back of his shirt and asked himself other questions. It had never occurred to him that he’d have to carry the dead, bleeding body of an enemy halfway up a mountain. He’d not anticipated how this physical reminder of what he had done would wear on his conscience. He’d killed a peasant. Not an armed man, not a real enemy, but some poor bastard who had just taken a job with the wrong side, probably just to feed his family, if he had one. But what else could Chavez have done? Let him get away?

  It was simpler for the sergeant. He had an officer who told him what to do. Captain Ramirez knew what he was doing. He was an officer, and that was his job: to know what was going on and give the orders. That made it a little easier as he climbed back up the mountain to the RON site, but his bloodied shirt continued to cling to his back like the questions of a nagging conscience.

  Tim Jackson arrived back at his office at 2230 hours after a short squad-training exercise right on the grounds of Fort Ord. He’d just sat down in his cheap swivel chair when the phone ran
g. The exercise hadn’t gone well. Ozkanian was a little slow catching on in his leadership of second squad. This was the second time in a row that he’d screwed up and made his lieutenant look bad. That offended Sergeant Mitchell, who had hopes for the young officer. Both knew that you didn’t make a good squad sergeant in less than four years, and only then if you had a man as sharp as Chavez had been. But it was Ozkanian’s job to lead the squad, and Mitchell was now explaining a few things to him. He was doing so in the way of platoon sergeants, with vigor, enthusiasm, and a few speculative observations about Ozkanian’s ancestry. If any.

  “Lieutenant Jackson,” Tim answered after the second ring.

  “Lieutenant, this is Colonel O’Mara at Special Ops Command.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I hear you’ve been making some noise about a staff sergeant named Chavez. Is that correct?” Jackson looked up to see Mitchell walk in, his cabbage-patch helmet tucked under his sweaty arm and a whimsical smile on his lips. Ozkanian had gotten the message this time.

  “Yes, sir. He didn’t show up where he’s supposed to be. He’s one of mine, and—”

  “Wrong, Lieutenant! He’s one of mine now. He’s doing something that you do not need to know about, and you will not, repeat not burn up any more phone lines fucking around into something that does not concern you. IS THAT CLEAR, LIEUTENANT?”

  “But, sir, excuse me, but I—”

  “You got bad ears or something, son?” The voice was quieter now, and that was really frightening to a lieutenant who’d already had a bad day.

  “No, sir. It’s just that I got a call from—”