by Tom Clancy
The Ultimate Escape
We’d like to thank the following people, without whom this book would have not been possible: Marc Cerasini, for help in rounding out the manuscript; Martin H. Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Denise Little, and John Heifers at Tekno Books; Mitchell Ruben-stein and Laurie Silvers at BIG Entertainment; Tom Colgan of Penguin Putnam Inc.; Robert Youdelman, Esquire; and Tom Mallon, Esquire; and Robert Gottlieb of the William Morris Agency, agent and friend. We much appreciated the help.
TOM CLANCY’S
NET FORCE
THE ULTIMATE ESCAPE
Prologue
SOUTH AMERICA
JUNE 2025
CORTEGUAY 5 TERMINA INTERNACIONAL
Julio Cortez took a deep breath as the plane he was in approached the runway. The storm they’d been flying through for the last half hour continued to lash the plane with high winds and torrential rainfall. Julio could barely see through the window at his side, much less check to make sure that the landing process was going as planned. The wheels of the airplane struck the rain-slick runway with a violent thump. He could hear the engine’s whine and the whir of the jet’s flaps as they achieved maximum angle, feel the plane shudder as it slowed down. Julio let out the breath he’d held in a long sigh. They’d made it this far alive.
The airport’s tarmac was rutted and in disrepair, making for a rough ride as the aircraft taxied toward the passenger terminal. Under normal circumstances, Julio would be glad to be safely on the ground after a flight like this. But these were hardly normal circumstances.
Julio scanned the faces of the other passengers. As before, they all avoided his gaze, suddenly too busy with their reading material, their carry-on bags, or the person in the seat next to them to make eye contact with him or nod a greeting.
The same was true of the CorteAir flight attendants. Throughout the difficult flight, they’d been courteous, efficient, thorough—but never warm or friendly with Julio or his family. Not like they were with the other passengers.
No one knows if it is safe to acknowledge our existence yet, he thought anxiously, wondering when that would change— or // it would change.
As his father and mother fussed over his little sister, Juanita, Julio peered through the window, trying to catch a first glimpse of his homeland, a place he barely remembered from his earliest childhood. But all he could see in the darkness were sheets of rain running down the Plexiglas, and the glow of the red flashing lights at the end of the runway in the distance.
The aircraft slowed as the engines powered down. With a bump and a shudder, the airplane swung to the left. Finally the terminal loomed ahead of them, still partially shrouded in the misty rain.
The aircraft completed its wide turn and moved toward the dimly lit main terminal.
Corteguay’s Termina Internacional was not large or sophisticated enough to receive conventional aerospace planes, so Julio and his family had flown into the small South American island nation on an old low-atmospheric passenger jet aircraft, a Boeing 777 that had undoubtedly seen two decades of heavy use.
Well, Julio reflected, the trip from Washington’s Dulles Airport to Corteguay’s Termina Internacional was one I really didn’t want to make anyway. The longer it takes, the better I like it.
That realization made him sad.
It isn’t that far in distance, he thought, but it’s a world apart nonetheless. I might as well be on another planet.
A very, very dangerous planet.
At any other time, Julio would have regarded riding in such a primitive, low-tech aircraft as an adventure itself—it was not unlike flying in the aviation simulators he loved so much.
But tonight, Julio felt he had adventure enough just returning to the land of his birth.
He gave up staring out the window and turned toward his family again. As his mother and father attempted to calm the fidgety Juanita, Julio studied them, trying to understand what would compel his parents to return to a nation that feared and hated everything they believed in.
His father, Julio noted proudly, had put his best and most courageous foot forward. He smiled at his family as the pilot spoke over the intercom, welcoming them to the Socialist Democratic Republic of Corteguay.
Well, why shouldn’t he smile? Julio thought. Tonight, he ends his former life as a political exile … and assumes his place as a presidential candidate in Corteguay’s first free elections in almost twenty years.
Tonight, my father has come home… .
And I guess it’s my home too. Julio had to keep reminding himself of that. He would much rather be safe and secure in Washington, D.C., where he’d spent most of my life, and where all his friends lived.
With an act of will, Julio pushed those thoughts aside and concentrated on the here and now, just as his father had always taught him to do. Julio pushed away all thoughts of personal happiness and security as well.
That was something else his father had taught him, not through words, but by example.
As the aircraft slowed, Julio turned to his mother. She had her hands full taking care of Juanita, who was struggling against her seat belt and trying to pull down the tray table at the same time.
Julio almost laughed despite his feeling of apprehension.
It was amazing how much trouble someone so small and so young could cause. I’m sure I was never that ill-mannered when I was a child, Julio decided, his memory selective and blurred by time. Juanita will be a handful when she’s a teenager like me!
Julio watched as his mother gently disciplined the five-year-old. Outwardly, she was calm, and her words to Juanita were soothing. But behind his mother’s eyes, Julio could sense a dark shadow lurking. He recognized it immediately.
Fear.
His mother was afraid. For all of them.
Julio felt it too. And so did his father, though the patriarch of the Cortez family hid his fear better than anyone.
And if he can do it y then I can too, Julio decided.
His father’s brave facade served to remind Julio that the man he knew—the Nobel Prize-winning economist, human rights activist, and university professor—was gone forever. In his place was a politician and aspiring public servant, destined, if the people of Corteguay desired it, to bear the weight of a nation on his shoulders.
To achieve that goal, Ramon Cortez had to hide his true feelings from everyone but those he loved and trusted.
And perhaps even from them.
It occurred to Julio that they had all been magically transformed in a single day. Only a few hours ago, they were a typical American family living typically American lives. Now, in the course of a short airplane trip, they had became political agitators and enemies of the current government of Corteguay. Political activism was a hazardous occupation in a nation famous for its secret police, military dictators, and political repression.
At that moment, Julio’s grim thoughts were interrupted as the aircraft bumped to a halt. A steady electronic tone echoed throughout the compartment, informing the passengers that they were permitted to unfasten their seat belts and move about safely.
But as Julio scanned the aircraft, he saw that no one was moving. The other passengers were all watching them, waiting to see what would happen, and who would be waiting to meet Ramon Cortez and his family when the aircraft’s doors swung open.
After a few tense moments, those doors finally did open.
Fortunately, no soldiers or policemen rushed in with stun guns raised and tasers ready. Instead, Julio saw an unfamiliar but not unfriendly face waiting nervously, presumably to greet them. They had been promised a security escort.
Their escort turned out to be a timid little man in an ill-fitting suit, who clutched his hat in nervously fluttering hands. He smiled
when he saw Julio’s father.
As his father rose to greet the man, Julio exchanged glances with his mother. Her face was pale, but resolved. Clearly, no matter what happened, she was determined to stick it out.
The flight attendants moved aside to allow Julio’s father to pass. Instead of shaking hands, his father and the other man embraced, and then the little man spoke softly into Ramon Cortez’s ear.
Julio saw a look of relief cross his father’s face, and that feeling seemed to be echoed throughout the cabin, as the passengers rose as one and began to file out of the airplane.
Struggling against the flow of passengers, Julio watched his father lead the man back to their seats.
“This is Manuel Arias,” Ramon Cortez said. “He has come to meet us. My brother Mateo is waiting in the terminal.”
Tio Mateo! Julio thought joyfully. This was an unexpected surprise. Mateo had remained behind in Corteguay, and had suffered much under the current regime. It was courageous of him to come to the airport and meet his brother as he returned from exile.
Julio remembered his uncle from his childhood, so long ago. Back then, Mateo had been a colonel in Corteguay’s army, battling against drug-runners, narco-terrorists, communist rebels, and black marketeers.
Suddenly, Julio felt a warm flood of relief wash over him too. At least someone we can trust is here to protect us, he thought. Surely we’re in good hands with Uncle Mateo to watch over us!
Hurriedly, Julio gathered up his belongings, then helped his mother with Juanita while his father spoke in whispers to Manuel Arias. When the plane was nearly empty of passengers, he and his family moved toward the exit.
As they stepped out of the aircraft, a pretty flight attendant with dark eyes smiled at Julio and his little sister, and he saw pity and concern in her eyes.
Julio’s fears returned.
As they walked through the tunnel that led from the plane to the terminal, Julio’s father turned to his wife.
“Mateo is waiting for us in the main terminal,” Ramon Cortez said. “He has brought some friends to escort us and— at my request—several members of the international press….”
His father’s voice trailed off meaningfully, and Julio saw his mother nod and smile brightly.
Julio smiled as well. He understood the importance of the upcoming carefully staged media event. Once the world was aware of his father’s return to Corteguay, there was nothing the socialist regime could do to hurt them—not without the whole world knowing about it anyway.
Now I’m thinking like a politician, Julio realized with horror. When all I ever wanted to be was a fighter pilot!
The walk down the tunnel seemed interminable. But as they approached the gate, Julio’s father took his wife’s and daughter’s hands. Then he turned and smiled at his son.
“We are home, my boy,” he said. “And the press is waiting to speak with us. All of Corteguay will be listening.”
Julio smiled back at his father. “I will not disappoint you, Papa,” he said. “No matter how stupid the questions that they ask sound.”
Ramon Cortez chuckled. “I never thought you would, Julio,” he replied. “You never have before….”
Then his father’s voice trailed off, and the man looked away from his son.
“It is I who want to make you proud,” he whispered so softly that only Julio heard him.
As the Cortez family stepped out into the main terminal, it felt as if a hundred flashbulbs exploded in Julio’s face, and dozens of reporters surged forward in a wave, shouting questions in a half-dozen languages, and frightening little Juanita.
In the crush, Julio saw his father step forward and shake someone’s hand. Then they embraced, and sporadic applause could be heard from the press corps.
Julio pushed past Manuel Arias and looked at the other man.
It was his Uncle Mateo. Julio would recognize him anywhere. His father’s brother looked tall and proud and hardly changed from the way Julio remembered him, except perhaps for some gray hair and a certain guardedness that came, no doubt, from living dangerously in a totalitarian police state.
The cameras whirred continuously as Ramon Cortez embraced his brother tor the first time in over a decade. Then the two men turned and faced the journalists together as Julio, his mother, and little Juanita lined up behind them.
As reporters spat rapid-fire questions at the two men, Julio scanned the assembled journalists. He noticed that, while many of the reporters had cameras, and a few had videoca-meras, none of the journalists was equipped with holo-cams, not even the reporters from the United States, Japan, and Europe.
Julio remembered then what he’d learned about his homeland in a briefing provided for his family by the State Department a few weeks before they left the United States.
According to intelligence sources, Corteguay’s few media outlets were not equipped to handle Holo-Net broadcasts, nor were any Holo-Net cameras or virtual-reality equipment permitted within the island nation’s borders. All such technology was prohibited, even to foreigners. It existed, where it existed at all in Corteguay, out of sight of public officials and cloaked by the strictest secrecy.
Corteguay’s television was strictly twentieth-century flat-screen. In rural areas, people didn’t even have flat-screen television. They relied on government-controlled radio stations to provide news and information.
In fact, Corteguay’s infrastructure did not have high-tech computers, digital processors, or even video-phones. Such technology was deemed subversive. The free flow of information was not permitted in this “socialist democratic” paradise—lest the people learn how backward and poor they really were. The importation of any high-tech device was punishable by immediate confiscation, imprisonment, and even death. Enough people had died trying to bring Corteguay into the twenty-first century that the black market in computers and high-tech equipment was almost non-existent in the country. While no such ban could be completely effective, in Corteguay it was very nearly so.
Julio scanned the airport, but all he saw were flat-screen television monitors. There were no virtual hookups, no holo-arcades, and the pay phones he saw were all voice-only. According to the signs posted on them, they could only be used for making local calls. It was a vivid reminder that there were no Net links here in Corteguay. At least not for private citizens, though it had long been rumored that the government elite had their own access to the Net, and their own doctors to install the necessary neuro-implants for full virtual reality.
But such freedoms remained the purview of the elite, and were deemed too important—and too dangerous—to be wasted on the masses. As long as he was here, Julio could not join his friends in virtual gaming, simulations, or even V-classes. Though Julio had long since resigned himself to missing this year’s “A Century of Military Aviation” seminar and competition, he still suffered pangs of disappointment when he thought about it.
After all, he’d practiced so long and hard in the Smithsonian’s Flight Simulation Museum for the annual event, it was a shame to miss it. And Julio knew that he had a better than average chance to be this year’s Ace of Aces. He’d been trying to win that honor for three years now. Last year’s winner, Pavel Ivanovich, was now in training to join the Russian squadron assigned to guard Moscow. Julio had come in second, behind Pavel. He’d won the jacket he was wearing in that competition.
Many past Ace of Aces winners were fighter pilots now.
A dream come true … Julio sighed longingly. But it was a dream that was out of his reach here in Corteguay.
Suddenly, Julio realized that Uncle Mateo had ended the impromptu press conference. Following Mateo’s lead, Julio’s father guided his family to a remote escalator that took them to an exit on the ground floor. As they moved through this all-but-empty area in the terminal, Julio tried to get close enough to his uncle to speak with him. But Mateo was busy supervising a group of men who appeared out of nowhere with his family’s luggage in tow.
Somehow, Un
cle Mateo had found a way to get them past Corteguay’s rigid customs inspection.
Finally, Julio got close enough to tap his uncle on the shoulder. The tall, gray-haired man turned and faced his nephew.
“Tio Mateo,” Julio said. “It’s so very good to see you again.”
To Julio’s surprise, his uncle seemed reluctant to meet his gaze.
“Good to sec you too, Julio,” he mumbled hastily. Then he immediately turned his attention back to his men.
Undaunted, Julio tried to engage his uncle in conversation once more. But he felt a hand on his arm and turned. The little man called Manuel Arias met Julio’s puzzled gaze.
“Your uncle is very busy arranging security,” Arias said quietly with a kind smile. “Wait until we get out of the airport.”
Julio nodded, and followed his family through the automatic doors. Outside, the humidity made the air heavy, even though a canopy kept them out of the rain. Since this was South America, Corteguay was just starting its winter season, what there was of it. Julio was glad of his jacket as he walked along. Julio saw his father wink at him.
“Not like ho .. . not much like Washington,” his father said in English. Julio knew that his father had stopped himself before he referred to Washington, D.C., as “home.” And at that moment, Julio realized that this return to Corteguay was a sacrifice for his father as much as it was for Julio and his mother.
Suddenly Julio understood that his father did not want to leave the United States either. Ramon Cortez had returned, not because he wanted to be president, but only because he felt he had a duty to return, and guide his homeland through the twenty-first century.
With that realization came a new understanding of his father, and Julio had never been prouder of him than he was at that moment.
“This way,” Uncle Mateo said, pointing to a line of unmarked, windowless vans waiting for them in the sheltered area by the terminal’s entrance. Julio watched his uncle rush ahead and open the rear double doors on the largest vehicle.
“Get inside quickly,” Mateo said. “It is for your own safety.”
