Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Maden, Mike

  “I’ve got no reason to think that.”

  Arnie stood. “Then it’s time to celebrate. You probably just want more water,” he said, with a wink.

  “Grab yourself a glass,” Ryan said, as he pulled open a desk drawer.

  “Seriously, you’re still worried?” Arnie said, crossing over to the service tray.

  “We’ve tied a knot in the Glazov’s tail. We’ll still have to deal with Yermilov on this but that’s a problem for another day. For now, it’s a win.”

  Ryan uncorked the bottle of Jameson and poured a couple of fingers for each of them.

  “As bad as this was, at least this thing was contained to the South Pacific. Imagine if it had gone global.”

  “Amen to that.” Arnie lifted his glass. “I propose a toast.”

  Ryan lifted his.

  “Arrr,” Arnie growled.

  “Arrr.”

  They drank.

  It was a good day.

  41

  INDIAN OCEAN

  NNW OF PERTH, AUSTRALIA

  Aadhavan clutched the empty ice chest with one hand like his life depended upon it, because it did, and had, for the last two days. Its buoyancy sustained him as he drifted helplessly along with the current.

  With the other hand he waved at the distant hull of a ship heading his way, or so his fevered mind had told him. Part of him hoped it wasn’t true. If the ship was real and it passed him by, his soul would be poisoned by bitter disappointment on its journey into the next life.

  The thirst tore at the inside of his throat like rats’ claws beneath the unrelenting sun, even as the cool night breezes had chilled him to the bone despite the warmth of the water. At dawn, he had prayed to Lord Murugan to take him away from this living nightmare and give him the strength to simply let go and die. But he couldn’t. He had two small children at home to feed and a wife with a crippled leg who couldn’t work. He had to live, because they needed him. The sight of his children’s small, hopeful faces made him want to weep with joy and grief all over again as he had for the last two days, but he had no tears left for them now. The water was all gone out of him.

  And that was when his blurred eyes saw the smudge of oily diesel exhaust in the distance.

  A ship. Surely it was real.

  He tried to shout for help when he first saw it, but his voice was a ragged whisper, and all he could do was splash the water with one free hand and wave.

  Thank the merciful gods he had persevered. Had not Murugan himself rewarded his faith by sending this ship to rescue him?

  The blood on his scalp had finally dried, which meant he was no longer leaving a trail for the sharks to find him. But if he didn’t get a drink of fresh water in the next twenty-four hours, he would die anyway and the big tiger sharks could have him.

  He wondered if any of the killer fish had feasted on the friends he’d lost in the explosion. Probably not. The ship went up in a single, blinding blast that broke the vessel in half and sent them all to the bottom, where he would be now, too, if he hadn’t been on the deck smoking a cigarette.

  The explosion had tossed him over the railing headfirst, his scalp splitting open when it slammed into the rolled steel top rail before he hit the water. He swam furiously to escape the suck of the sinking boat that threatened to drag him down. But panic fueled his furious swimming and he escaped, barely.

  He had swum back to the frothing swirl where the hull had slipped beneath the surface to search for survivors. There were none. But he found the watertight ice chest and clung to it for dear life as the current carried him away.

  He realized he was hallucinating again. Was he even alive? Or in some perpetual watery hell for his sins?

  He blinked his eyes, itching and dry despite the miles of ocean water surrounding him. He closed them for relief.

  He was so tired. He felt his mind plunging toward a deep well of black, comforting sleep . . .

  Aadhavan startled awake just as he heard a splash nearby.

  Panicked, he turned toward the sound, ready to claw at the black eyes of the shark as it charged him. But he saw instead a young man, white like a fish, a smile on his face at the bow of a black rubber boat. Another man ran the outboard motor.

  “Hey! You! Hold on!” the man in the bow shouted.

  The sailor’s eyes ached as he cried, or tried to, with relief. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.

  He had survived.

  His wife and children would survive.

  The sailor glanced up at his salvation. He shielded his eyes against the blinding morning sun. He could make out the shape of the great steel ship in the near distance. A fishing trawler. Men stood like shadows on the deck, leaning over the railing, staring in his direction.

  The engine reversed hard and the rubber hull stopped on a dime near the sailor. The engine cut out.

  The Tamil sailor reached up with one hand to grab the hull but there was no handhold. His fingers slipped away. He croaked in desperation as he released the ice chest and threw both hands toward the boat to save himself, but he was too weak.

  Splash! The white man jumped in the water and grabbed the sailor from behind.

  “Hold on there, fella! I got ya,” he said as he wrapped a nylon rope around the Tamil sailor’s dark, emaciated torso.

  The other man in the boat pulled the rope toward him, lifting the near drowning man above the surface.

  “You speak English?” the man in the water asked.

  “A . . . little,” the sailor whispered.

  “Any of your friends out here with you?”

  “None . . . sir.”

  “You sure?”

  Aadhavan nodded, his voice spent. His eyes pleaded, Please haul me into the boat.

  “Okay, then. If you’re sure,” the white man said, still supporting his torso in his strong arms. “Time to take care of you.”

  The sailor managed a weak smile, thinking of his children. “Thank you . . . sir.”

  His blinking eyes caught sight of the second man in the boat standing unsteadily by the motor, the sun behind his back. He lifted an anchor and tossed it over the side with a heavy splash. It sped toward the ocean floor.

  Aadhavan was confused. The waters here were over four thousand meters deep. An anchor—

  He felt the white man’s grip release from around his chest just as the nylon rope jerked against his flesh.

  Aadhavan’s sickening cry was swallowed by the sea as his body was yanked beneath the surface.

  The two men watched the last of the Tamil’s air bubbles break the surface a minute later.

  “Helluva thing,” the man in the water said, reaching up a hand. “We need to call it in to el jefe and clear out of here.”

  The man in the boat reached down and helped his shorter friend out of the water and into the Zodiac.

  The taller one lifted a satellite phone to his ear as the short one cranked the big Suzuki engine. It was dirty work, but that was the job, the short one thought, the image of the Tamil’s screaming face dragged down into the deep flashing in his mind. He shrugged it off. They’d be back on the trawler in fifteen minutes, and Cookie would have hot coffee and donuts waiting for them in the galley.

  OCTOBER 28

  42

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE

  He had given up much of his privacy when he took the oath of office, but President Ryan drew the line at his bed.

  The idea of a stranger’s hand shaking him awake as he lay next to Cathy in the middle of the night was abhorrent to him, a breach of matrimonial sanctity that he could hardly fathom. The few times it had happened it shocked him. He wasn’t a young boot at Quantico anymore; he was a grown-ass man, and the commander in chief. Wasn’t he entitled to this last, least bit of privacy?

  Of course, he trusted t
he Secret Service detail with his life, and they had both the right and obligation to enter his bedroom and wake him under extreme circumstances. He’d defined “extreme circumstances” to SAIC Gary Montgomery, the head of the PPD, to mean war, or extreme loss of life, or anything involving his wife and children. Other than that, the door stayed shut until business hours the next morning, starting at six a.m.

  But Ryan wasn’t so vain as to put his own personal comforts ahead of the national interest, and there were plenty of emergencies that needed to be addressed at the worst hours of the night. He gave Arnie van Damm and a few select others—his children, mostly—the right to call him on his private number anytime, day or night.

  When his private cell phone rang with its distinctive Arnie van Damm ringtone at four a.m., Ryan’s eyes bolted open.

  “Arnie?”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, boss.”

  Jack rolled out of bed, careful not to pull the covers off his wife as he did so. He padded barefoot across the plush carpet and out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him, and headed for the kitchen to make coffee.

  “What’s up?”

  “You said to call you the minute we heard anything. I just got word from Admiral Talbot that there’s been another sinking.”

  “Where?”

  “The Indian Ocean.”

  Ryan shoveled scoops of Black Rifle Murdered Out extra-dark coffee into the paper filter.

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Why are we just hearing about this now?”

  “Apparently it was out in the middle of nowhere, and the local port authority didn’t bother notifying anybody that it didn’t arrive until two hours ago.”

  “Wasn’t somebody monitoring the AIS signals when it disappeared?”

  “Somebody was out on a smoke break when it happened or it could have been a software glitch. We don’t know. Talbot’s on the warpath and running this down.”

  Ryan stuck the glass carafe under the running kitchen faucet.

  “This isn’t the way I wanted to start the day.”

  “Not good news, I know. I thought you should hear it from me, and hear it right away.”

  “You did the right thing.” Ryan sighed. He poured the pot of water into the reservoir and hit the start button, willing the machine to begin wheezing out the first drops of liquid black gold.

  “What do you want me to do, boss?”

  “Call the group together. We’ve got a real problem on our hands now. Bad enough this thing was running loose in the South Pacific. Now it looks like we’ll have to police the whole damn planet.”

  43

  BARCELONA, SPAIN

  Brossa pushed through the heavy door of the CNI office suites. She was greeted with a round of applause from Peña and the rest of the administrative staff.

  “There she is. Our hero!” Peña said, still clapping.

  Brossa blushed with embarrassment but shook hands with or hugged the staff that came over to congratulate her. The story had broken on the news the night before, with overhead helicopter images of Brossa and her digitally blurred head charging toward the farmhouse just before it exploded. But everybody in the CNI office knew it was her, and proudly shared in her achievement.

  Drinks and pastries were set out for the celebration.

  “Everybody, please, enjoy!” Peña said, pointing at the small buffet. He turned to Brossa. “Something to eat or drink?”

  “Just water, please.”

  He handed her a bottled water and grabbed one for himself. He noticed the small bandage on her cheek. He frowned. “You were wounded?”

  “A scratch. It’s nothing, really.”

  “I spoke with Captain Asensio. It must have been terrible.”

  “Can I have a word with you privately?” Brossa asked.

  “Por supuesto. Let’s go to my office.” He led the way.

  Brossa endured more hugs and handshakes with a weary smile as she passed through the lobby. She was, indeed, grateful for their reception despite her bone-deep fatigue.

  Peña motioned for Brossa to take a seat. He plopped down in the chair behind his desk.

  “I wish you would have taken the day off, Laia. You must be exhausted from your ordeal. Besides, you’re a hero. You deserve it.”

  “I’m no hero, and there is still so much work to do.”

  Peña chuckled. “Which is why I knew you’d be in here today. Still, work fills the time allotted. Another day wouldn’t matter, now that those cabrónes are dead, thank God. You must be very proud.”

  “I’m glad that none of the Guardia Civil were killed. Those idiots in the farmhouse shouldn’t have attacked us. I was surprised when they did.”

  “Captain Asensio said that you were very brave. Of course, the news footage showed us that.”

  “Asensio and his men led the charge. They were the brave ones. I just followed behind them.”

  “Still, I think you can expect nothing less than a commendation for heroism. Perhaps even a promotion. I’m recommending both to Madrid later today.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but really, I was just doing my job.”

  Peña pointed a fatherly finger at her. “That’s why I like you so much, Laia. So humble! But don’t sell yourself short. A promotion means better pay, and a commendation for heroism moves you up the career ladder even faster.”

  Brossa shrugged and smiled a little, uncertain as to what she should say. She took a sip of water.

  Peña leaned forward on his desk, clasping his hands together. “Asensio gave me a brief report about what happened. What’s your take on it?”

  “Things went very fast after we arrived on scene. For a moment, I thought everything would resolve itself peacefully.”

  “Those animals didn’t want peace. They wanted revolution.”

  Brossa ignored his comment. “They asked for a lawyer and promised to surrender peacefully if the warrant proved valid, which it was.”

  “I assume the captain saw through their deception—”

  “I’m not sure it was a deception.”

  “You think they really would have surrendered peacefully?”

  “We’ll never know, will we?”

  Peña waved a dismissive hand. “Well, if that was the case, it falls on Asensio, doesn’t it? He was the commander in charge. But any review board will defer to his combat experience, though I doubt there will be one. The case is closed now that the threat is removed, and justice is served. Madrid is happy. I am happy. You should be happy, too.”

  “I am. But I can’t help thinking that a lot of young Spaniards died yesterday.”

  “Not Spaniards. Terrorist killers. They just happened to have been born in this country. Don’t forget, they bombed a civilian target, and killed and wounded many civilians. And for what? Politics? It’s beyond stupid. Seriously, Laia, I wouldn’t lose a minute’s sleep over them.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Still, it would have been better to arrest them and extract intel from them.”

  “Yes, I agree. But you know how it is. We train. We take precautions. We make plans. We execute those plans. But in the end, you can’t control outcomes, especially if the other party is intent on suicide. Dios mío.”

  “It’s so strange to me that they would rather commit suicide than fight their battles in court. They would have earned free publicity for their cause for months, maybe years, here, and all around the world.”

  “If you want my opinion? They wanted to be martyrs. And I think those bastards wanted you to charge in before they exploded that bomb to take the entire team out. That’s why they threw the grenade. One of them must have panicked and triggered the bomb inside too early. You are all fortunate to be alive.” Peña quickly crossed himself in the Catholic manner, but sloppily.

 
“Yes, I know. Very lucky. I’m just frustrated that the case died with them. Hopefully we can pull more intelligence out when the rubble is cleared. I stayed until dark, but the stones and timbers were hard to move and there were no lights. And the blood . . .” Brossa’s voice trailed off.

  “I saw such things years ago when the Vasco”—Basque—“were bombing the country. I know how you feel. It is quite distressing. You really should take some time off. Spend time with your father.”

  “I’m fine. There are just some loose ends I still want to tie off. I think there’s a possibility the Brigada Catalan was working with another group. We still haven’t identified one man who was killed at L’avi”—she was referencing Runtso, only Jack still hadn’t told her his name—“and then there’s this guy.”

  Brossa reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She opened up her message app and pulled up Jack’s picture of the guy who broke into his place. The paper mask was on his face and the black Nike ball cap was on his head, but the hazel eyes really stood out. She handed her phone to Peña.

  “Who’s this?”

  “No idea,” Brossa said. “But he was near L’avi when the bomb went off. I have reason to believe he might be involved.”

  “Reason? What reason?” Peña brought the phone closer to his face and expanded the picture.

  “Maybe ‘reason’ is too strong a word. More like a hunch.”

  Brossa shifted in her chair. “I thought perhaps he was with Brigada Catalan. But those eyes are hard to forget, and I have not seen them before. I’ve been back over the files of known Brigada members. He wasn’t among them.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean about the eyes. Perhaps our files are incomplete.”

  “I was hoping you might recognize him.”

  “I don’t, but then again, my memory isn’t what it used to be. But I agree with you, I don’t recall this man in any of our Brigada files.” He studied the picture again. “Where did you say you got this photo?”

  “Jack Ryan sent it to me yesterday.”

  “Ryan?” Peña rolled his eyes. “I thought you told him to go home.”