The Ultimate Escape

by Tom Clancy

  To his own surprise, Andy Moore didn’t even hesitate. He broke away from Dieter’s Focke-Wulf and turned into the path of the two Messerschmitts. His angle of attack was poor, Andy realized, and the jets were coming much too fast for him to swing his nose around and train his guns on them.

  Andy Moore gritted his teeth, and twisted the joystick.

  As the black jet fighter loomed in his cockpit windshield, Andy Moore had time to scream a shout of rage and frustration.

  Matt couldn’t believe his good fortune. One minute, he was dead meat, with two jet fighters coming at him in formation. The next second a Mustang appeared out of nowhere and slammed into the black fighter. The explosion was very powerful—it rocked Matt’s Mustang so much he had to fight for control.

  The blast was also powerful enough to engulf the second jet fighter. That plane too exploded, lending its fuel to the spreading fire in the sky.

  Matt knew that he owed that Net Force Explorer his thanks.

  Cautiously, Matt leveled off, then checked his fuel gauge. He would have to punch out soon enough. The Mustang was running on less than half a tank. Carefully, Matt scanned the sky, searching for Julio—hoping that his friend would appear.

  Suddenly, the familiar voice crackled in his headphones.

  “Matt, mi amigo” Julio Cortez said. “I am here again.”

  Matt Hunter dipped his wing, and then he saw Julio. His friend was flying an orange, tiger-stripped, twin-engine P-38 Lightning.

  “Jefe!” Matt said. “We have to talk!”

  “Then how did you manage to escape?” Matt asked.

  “It was very hard at first,” Julio said. “When we were hooked up to the computer, my mind was in chaos. The computer links our captors forced upon us tried to overwhelm my consciousness. I couldn’t form a coherent thought; simple mental tasks were impossible. But then…”

  “What, Julio?” Matt said. “Tell me!”

  “I … I thought about flying, Matt,” Julio said. “It was the thing I loved best in the world. Gradually I came back to myself. And when I did, I remembered these simulators, and it occurred to me that I knew where you would be, and what you would be doing. The government was sending hourly updates to the U.N. with reports on the election. If I could just get access to those signals, I could piggyback and use them to break into the IEI. I knew their systems and simulators, and was sure that if I could just break into a sim, we could talk.

  “You were the only person I could think of who’d listen to me, who would believe without questioning in such a wild story. My jailers had plugged me into a neural net for dreadful reasons of their own. All I had to do then was turn their weapon into mine. The worst problem I faced was that the computers that they hooked us up to in order to brainwash us were dedicated systems, not connected to the Net. Then I realized something. The prison had no phones lines of any sort running into it, and Corteguay’s mountains made direct radio transmission to the capital city impossible. I knew that these men must have a way to speak with their masters in Adello. Finally I found a way to piggyback onto the communications signal that they beam up and bounce off a satellite.

  “Somehow, that discovery seemed to break the spell their brainwashing attempts had held over me. I began to think more clearly. Finally, I got myself into here, with you and the other Net Force Explorers.”

  “And then you came back,” Matt whispered.

  “Each time I did it became easier,” Julio continued. “I had trouble entering certain systems, the ones that I’d never experienced before, but almost always, when I was in a system I knew well, I found you.”

  “Can you help me drag in somebody in the government here to help you?” Matt asked. “We need real proof of what is going on with you—we’ve tried to talk to officials about this already, and failed to get anywhere. They won’t believe us until they have undeniable evidence, and they get to decide what constitutes undeniable.”

  “I don’t know if I can give that kind of proof to you.” Julio paused. “I can tell you more about where my family and I are being held. Will that help you?”

  Julio described the installation, its functions, and its location in detail. Matt strived to memorize it all.

  “Are you certain?” Matt asked as Julio finished.

  “As certain as I can be, Matt,” his friend said. “I took a virtual tour of the prison. I saw the outside of it through the surveillance system, and I explored the virtual bars of my prison as well. I have seen the guards. And once I saw my uncle, Mateo, drive through the prison gates, though I never saw the warden who runs the prison.”

  “Then I can tell Net Force. The State Department,” Matt said. “The military can mount a rescue!”

  “NO!” Julio said.

  “But why not?” Matt asked, confused.

  Julio paused. “It would mean certain death for me and my family,” he said. “The hookup that keeps us prisoner has a fail-safe system. The jailers can run thousands of volts of electricity through our bodies with the touch of a button at any time, or automatically if the prison’s security is breached. No rescuers could ever hope to reach us in time.”

  “Then what can we … what can / do, JefeT’ Matt asked.

  “I think I can turn off the computer program that imprisons us, Matt,” Julio said. “I think I can neutralize the surveillance system and the computer locks too.”

  “That’s great!” Matt said. “I’ll tell your rescuers everything you tell me. We’re gonna get you out of there. Look, Dr. Lanier is probably going to pull the plug on this simulator pretty soon. So we don’t have much time, Julio,” Matt said. “And I have a question—who are those guys in the jet fighters?”

  “Prison guards,” Julio said. “They’re trying to trace me every time I go on line. The last time a security program increased the brainwashing feed and brought me back to the prison. But the jailers never found out how I escaped, so they couldn’t stop me this time either—or, hopefully, the next.”

  “But that was no surveillance program that came after you today!” Matt said. “Those jets had human guidance.”

  “You are correct, my friend,” Julio said. “My jailer has found another way to torment me. Somehow, maybe through Uncle Mateo, he has discovered where I go, and sends these men to overpower us before we can talk.”

  “What can I do, Julio?” Matt asked again. “Tell me.”

  “You have to find out if your people, your military, are coming to rescue us, Matt,” Julio said. “If I know when they are coming, I can return to the prison and deactivate the programs, free my family, and let die rescuers into the prison by shutting down the surveillance system. Then all they will have to deal with is the human guards.”

  “But—”

  “There is no other way!” Julio said. “And this must be done soon, Matt. Time is running out.”

  Matt peered through his cockpit window. His plane had flown on for a long time, but the sim could end at any moment. We’re all running out of time, Matt thought frantically.

  “What’s the hurry on your end?” Matt asked.

  “My sister,” Julio said. “Juanita. .. she is very sick. She has a fever. The care in the prison is not good.”

  Oh, no. Matt thought about the little girl who used to bedevil her big brother, and Matt too, when he visited.

  “You can count on me,” Matt promised. “I’ll get a rescue team mobilized, and I’ll have all the information you could need or want about how and when. But how can I let you know what I’ve discovered?”

  Julio smiled for the first time since he appeared in the veeyar.

  “I’ll find you,” he said confidently. “The Bosnia simulation is next, is it not?”

  Matt smiled too. “Then we’ll meet in the Bosnian scenario, Jefe” Matt said. “We’ll be there. But try to come sooner.”

  “I will see you then, my friend,” Julio said, his voice fading fast.

  Matt Hunter watched as Julio’s airplane began to fade too.

  “W
ait!” he said, reluctant to see his friend go.

  But as Matt watched, the black and orange P-38 vanished.

  Matt Hunter turned his attention back to his own aircraft. As he peered out of his cockpit window, he realized his concentration on Julio had nearly cost him his virtual life. He was in a dive he couldn’t possibly pull out of. The earth rushed up to meet him. Virtual death was staring him in the face, but Matt hardly noticed. His mind was in turmoil.

  How can I do what I promised Julio I would do? he wondered. And what will happen if I fail?

  Just before the P-51 Mustang struck the ground, Matt saw Dieter’s wounded plane, flying still but not maneuvering to destroy him—possibly because Matt was doing such a good job of it on his own. Matt hit the panic button, and was gone.

  Mateo knew something was wrong as soon as he approached the gate to the installation in his battered Hummer. The Cuban guards were incredibly vigilant this time, and instead of opening the gate to wave him through, the Cuban sergeant in charge of security came out through the narrow door in the fence to check Mateo’s vehicle personally.

  When Mateo asked what was wrong, the Cuban just shrugged his shoulders and waved him through the gate.

  The guards inside the compound all had a harried, hunted look about them, and Mateo upgraded from worry to panic.

  When he exited the elevator on the main floor of the underground complex, Mateo felt as if he’d entered a new, ultramodern circle of Dante’s Hell. But not even that celebrated Italian poet could have imagined the nightmarish scene that confronted him.

  The first sound he heard was a terrible, demented moaning—a continuous sound of mortal agony. Mateo turned and saw the Cuban assassin. He was lying on the floor in stained and ragged clothes. Blood had dried on his scalp from a cruel wound. Mateo saw that the man was clutching something to his chest protectively. Cautiously, he approached the man.

  The Cuban was clutching his Drex-Dream reservoir. Or rather, the shattered remains of it. Someone had smashed it, and nearly smashed the Cuban’s skull as well.

  Mateo turned, and almost jumped out of his skin.

  He hadn’t noticed the Yakuza assassin. But the man was there, in the shadows, sitting in a lotus position. His face was impassive, as always, but there were marks of a beating on his face and neck.

  Another moan came from the man on the ground. Mateo did not look. Instead, he crossed the underground chamber to check on the prisoners.

  Mateo almost stumbled over another body on the floor. But this one wasn’t moving, or making a sound. Mateo checked on the crumpled form at his feet.

  It was the slovenly woman who took care of the prisoners’ physical needs. This woman was dead.

  1 ‘We had a small excitement while you were in the capital, my friend,” his master said from behind Mateo.

  Mateo turned to face the older man. The master was staring at him, but he was not smiling.

  “Your nephew attempted to escape again,” the master said. “I sent my assassins to bring him back.”

  The master cast a cold eye on the man moaning on the floor, and the Japanese meditating in the corner.

  “They failed,” he said. “And so they had to be punished.”

  Mateo heard the Cuban whimper, and he tried to shut out the sound of pure human agony that burst from the assassin’s battered lips.

  “At least the Yakuza was contrite,” the master continued. “He offered me his little finger by way of apology—it is giri —his duty.” The master laughed, and the sound chilled Mateo to his very soul.

  “I told him to keep his finger,” the master continued. “I warned the Japanese that if he failed me again, I would take a more important piece of him … perhaps his heart.”

  The master then cast his eye on the whimpering form of the Cuban. He pointed.

  “This pig, however, did not have enough honor to even apologize,” the master said, kicking the man on the floor. The Cuban curled up into a ball and continued to moan.

  “So I destroyed his little toy.”

  Mateo, sick and disgusted by the spectacle, turned away from the two assassins.

  “Is there any word on a possible raid?” Mateo asked.

  The master nodded. “Undoubtedly,” he said, “they will come. But according to my intelligence sources, the Norteamericanos still think that your brother and his family are in the concentration camp. They will not come here.”

  Mateo wanted to point out that, with all the increased activity at this facility, with trucks coming from the capital city of Adello every day, the Americans might well have taken notice of this place. But he said nothing.

  Mateo was well conditioned not to question the judgment of the man who owned him.

  “The raid will come soon, Mateo,” the master said, staring off into space. “And I have laid a trap for them. Corteguay is but a tiny nation. And yet, through my genius, we will humble the Americans, and kill and capture even more of their agents of insurrection and chaos.”

  “But what about the boy?” Mateo asked. “Did he try to contact his friends in the Net Force Explorers?”

  “What could he tell them even if he did?” the master said. “That he is a prisoner? The Norteamericanos know that already, though they have decided, for their own reasons, to go along with our charade. Even if he did contact his friends, who would believe them? What can he tell them? How can Julio know where he is being held?” his master asked. “How can he help himself, or his family?” The master shook his head and smiled. “Do not worry, Mateo,” he concluded. “There is no hope for your brother and his family. None.”

  Suddenly, Mateo heard another sound. The cry of a little child, moaning in pain or discomfort.

  He turned and stared in the direction of the prisoners. They were still arranged on their implant tables, still hooked up to the computers that confined them.

  Mateo approached the tables.

  The American soldiers were still entranced, and were at peace.

  These men are lucky that they don 9 t know how they smell Mateo thought as he covered his mouth with a handkerchief. Or how their bodies are wasting away from inactivity.

  Mateo checked on his brother and his wife. They too seemed peaceful, though their bodies were filthy and they were showing the first signs of wastage.

  Next Mateo checked on his niece and nephew. Julio was locked in some struggle, if his tense facial expression was any indication of what his mind was experiencing. He seemed to be fighting the programming constantly, and the effort made him appear weak and haggard.

  Then Mateo saw the little girl. Juanita was her name. The child’s body was covered with a thin sheen of perspiration, and her usually pale skin was flushed. Mateo touched her neck. Her skin was burning to the touch, and the vibro-mattress was hot underneath her.

  He turned back to his master.

  ‘The little one is sick,” he said. The master turned to Mateo, but seemed annoyed at the interruption.

  “It is of no consequence,” his master said before moving off to another part of the facility, two Cuban guards in tow.

  Alone with his brother’s family, Mateo was also alone with his conscience.

  Funny, he thought as he gazed at the suffering child. / thought I lost my conscience a long time ago.

  Mateo turned and located the metal pan that the dead woman had used to bathe her charges. He turned to the Japanese assassin.

  “You!” Mateo barked. “Get up.”

  The Japanese man turned his head. Then he slowly rose and approached the prisoners. Mateo thrust the pan into the Yakuza’s hand.

  “Find me some cool water and a sponge,” Mateo said.

  When the assassin returned a few minutes later, he handed Mateo Cortez a full pan and a clean sponge. As Mateo began to bathe the feverish little girl, the Japanese returned to his lotus position in the corner of the room and resumed his meditation, heedless of anything, or anyone, around him.

  Colonel Stegar, Lieutenant Knappert, and the rest of th
e SEALs were stowed away below deck. The crew of the “cargo ship” had made them as comfortable as possible, considering the cramped spaces.

  The team was aboard what appeared to be an old container ship that routinely plied the South and Central American coastlines and the islands of the Caribbean.

  The ship made its regular run with a cargo of cheap consumer goods from America, which were then sold to distributors all over Latin America. Along the way it picked up local trade goods, and it was due quite shortly to pass the island of Corteguay, nestled against the South American Pacific coastline.

  The cargo ship, christened Misty Water, was a frequent sight on that coast, and the Corteguan Navy—what there was of it— hardly noted its passing. The ship hadn’t been hailed by patrol boats sent out by the socialist government in many months.

  The captain was sure that the cargo tub had been all but forgotten by the Corteguans because it was such a part of the landscape, moving just off their coast on its regular run.

  Little did the Corteguans know that the Misty Water was more than a mere cargo carrier. In truth, it was a United States Navy intelligence ship, outfitted with top-of-the-line electronic spy and surveillance equipment, and manned by a highly trained and dedicated crew of professional officers.

  Inside its artfully rusted hull, the Misty Water also had underwater hatches that were used in covert operations. The ship could lazily pass an enemy coast while invisibly sending out strike teams that could sabotage coastal defense systems—as it had done on its last pass by the Corteguan coast a few weeks before.

  The Misty Water could also be used to place SEAL teams near their objectives, and drop them off without observers being the wiser, which was its mission this time.

  Colonel Stegar and Lieutenant Knappert were under the deck in the space they used as a mission planning area. It had a map station, satellite linkups, and computers, but not much space.

  In those cramped and musty quarters, the colonel grilled his SEALs and reviewed their mission with them again and again, until he was satisfied that they knew their job and were ready to do it.