Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (5 page)

“Weather update.  That squall line'll be here no later'n twenty-one hundred.  The squalls are upgraded some.  We can expect gusts up to forty knots.  Gonna be a fair blow, sir.”

“Any problem for Wilcox and the yacht?” There was still time to recall him.

“Shouldn't be, sir.  It turned south.  A high-pressure system is heading down from
Tennessee
.  Mr. Wilcox oughta have it pretty smooth all the way in, Cap'n, but it might be a little dicey for the helicopter.  They didn't plan to get it to us until eighteen hundred, and that's cutting it a little close.  They'll be bucking the front edge of the line on the way back.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Supposed to clear off about dawn, then the high-pressure system takes over.  We're in for some rollin' tonight, but then we got four days of good weather.” Oreza didn't actually voice his recommendation.  He didn't have to.  The two old pros communicated with glances.

Wegener nodded agreement. “Advise
Mobile
to put the pickup off until
noon
tomorrow.”

“Aye aye, Cap'n.  No sense risking a helicopter to haul garbage.”

“Right on that, Portagee.  Make sure Wilcox gets the word on the weather in case that system changes course.” Wegener checked his watch. “Time for me to get my paperwork done.”

“Pretty full day already, Red.”

“True enough.”

Wegener's stateroom was the largest aboard, of course, and the only private accommodation aboard, since privacy and loneliness were the traditional luxuries accorded a skipper.  But Panache wasn't a cruiser, and Wegener's room was barely over a hundred square feet, albeit with a private head, which on any ship was something worth fighting for.  Throughout his Coast Guard career, paperwork was something Wegener had avoided whenever possible.  He had an executive officer, a bright young lieutenant whom the captain stuck with as much of it as his conscience could justify.  That left him with two or three hours' worth per day.  The captain attacked it with the enthusiasm of a man on his way to a hanging.  Half an hour later he realized that it seemed harder than usual.  The murders were pulling at his consciousness.  Murder at sea, he thought, as he looked at the porthole on the starboard bulkhead.  It wasn't unknown, of course.  He'd heard of a few during his thirty years, though he'd never been directly involved.  There had been a case off the
Oregon
coast when a crewman had gone berserk and nearly killed a mate—turned out that the poor guy had developed a brain tumor and he'd later died from it, Red remembered.  Point Gabriel had gone out and collected the man, already hog-tied and sedated.  That was the extent of Wegener's experience with violence at sea.  At least the man-made kind.  The sea was dangerous enough without the need for that sort of thing.  The thought came back to him like the recurring theme of a song.  He tried to get back to his work, but failed.

Wegener frowned at his own indecision.  Whether he liked paperwork or not, it was part of the job.  He relit the pipe in the hope that it would aid his concentration.  That didn't work either.  The captain muttered a curse at himself, partly in amusement, partly in annoyance, as he walked into his head for a drink of water.  The paperwork still beckoned.  He looked at himself in the mirror and realized that he needed a shave.  And the paperwork wasn't getting done.

“You're getting old, Red,” he told the face in the mirror. “Old and senile.”

He decided that he had to shave.  He did it in the old-fashioned way, with a shaving cup and brush, the disposable razor his only concession to modernity.  He had his face lathered and halfway shaved when someone knocked at the door.

“Come!” It opened to reveal Chief Riley.

“Sorry, Cap'n, didn't know you were—”

“No problem, Bob, what's up?”

“Sir, I got the first-draft of the boarding report.  Figured you'd want to go over it.  We got everyone's statement on tape, audio, and TV.  Myers made a copy of the tape from the boarding.  The original's in with the evidence, in a lockbox inside the classified-materials safe, as per orders.  I got the copy if you wanna see it.”

“Okay, just leave it.  Anything from our guests?”

“No, sir.  Turned into a pretty day outside.”

“And me stuck with all this damned paper.”

“A chief may work from sun to sun, but the skipper's work is never done,” Riley observed.

“You're not supposed to pick on your commanding officer, Master Chief.” Wegener managed to stop himself from laughing only because he still had the razor to his throat.

“I humbly beg the captain's pardon.  And, by your leave, sir, I also have work to do.”

“The kid we had on the fifty-cal this morning was part of the deck division.  He needs a talk about safety.  He was slow taking his gun off the yacht this morning.  Don't tear his head all the way off,” Wegener said as he finished shaving. “I'll talk to Mr. Peterson myself.”

“We sure don't need people fucking around with those things.  I'll talk with the lad, sir, right after I do my walk-around.”

“I'm going to do one after lunch—we have some weather coming in tonight.”

“Portagee told me.  We'll have everything lashed down tight.”

“See you later, Bob.”

“Aye.” Riley withdrew.

Wegener stowed his shaving gear and went back to his desk.  The preliminary draft of the boarding and arrest report was on the top of his pile.  The full version was being typed now, but he always liked to see the first version.  It was generally the most accurate.  Wegener scanned it as he sipped at some cold coffee.  The Polaroid shots were tucked into pockets on a plastic page.  They hadn't gotten any better.  Neither had the paperwork.  He decided to slip the videotape into his personal VCR and view it before lunch.

The quality of the tape was several steps down from anything that could be called professional.  Holding the camera still on a rolling yacht was nearly impossible, and there hadn't been enough light for decent picture quality.  For all that, it was disturbing.  The sound caught snippets of conversations, and the screen occasionally flared when the Polaroid's flash went off.

It was plain that four people had died aboard Empire Builder, and all they had left behind were bloodstains.  It didn't seem very much of a legacy, but imagination supplied the rest.  The bunk in what had probably been the son's cabin was sodden with blood—a lot of it—at the top end of the bed.  Head shot.  Three other sets of bloodstains decorated the main salon.  It was the part of the yacht with the most space, the place where the entertainment had gone on.  Entertainment, Wegener thought.  Three sets of bloodstains.  Two close together, one distant.  The man had an attractive wife, and a daughter of thirteen . . . they'd made him watch, hadn't they?

“Jesus,” Wegener breathed.  That had to be it, didn't it?  They made him watch, and then they killed them all . . . carved up the bodies and tossed them over the side.

“Bastards.”

Creatures

of the Night

T
HE NAME ON
this passport said J.  T.  Williams, but he had quite a few passports.  His current cover was as a representative for an American pharmaceuticals firm, and he could give a lengthy discourse on various synthetic antibiotics.  He could similarly discuss the ins and cuts of the heavy-equipment business as a special field representative for Caterpillar Tractor, and had two other “legends” that he could switch in and out of as easily as he changed his clothes.  His name was not Williams.  He was known in CIA's Operations Directorate as
Clark
, but his name wasn't
Clark
either, even though that was the name under which he lived and raised his family.  Mainly he was an instructor at CIA's school for field officers, known as “The Farm,” but he was an instructor because he was pretty good at what he did, and for the same reason he often returned to the field.

Clark was a solidly built man, over six feet tall, with a full head of black hair and a lantern jaw that hinted at his ancestry, along with the blue eyes that twinkled when he wanted them to, and burned when he did not.  Though well over forty,
Clark
did not have the usual waistline flab that went along with a desk job, and his shoulders spoke volumes about his exercise program.  For all that, in an age of attention to physical fitness he was unremarkable enough, save for one distinguishing mark.  On his forearm was the tattoo of a grinning red seal.  He ought to have had it removed, but sentiment did not allow it.  The seal was part of the heritage he'd once chosen for himself.  When asked about it during a flight, he'd reply, honestly, that he'd once been in the Navy, then go on to lie about how the Navy had financed his college education in pharmaceuticals, mechanical engineering, or some other field. 
Clark
actually had no college or graduate degree, though he'd accumulated enough special knowledge along the way to qualify for a half dozen of them.  The lack of a degree would have—should have—disqualified him for the position which he held in the Agency, but
Clark
had a skill that is curiously rare in most of the Western intelligence agencies.  The need for it was also rare, but the need was occasionally real, and a senior CIA official had once recognized that someone like
Clark
was useful to have on the payroll.  That he'd blossomed into a very effective field officer—mainly for special, short, dangerous jobs—was all the better for the Agency. 
Clark
was something of a legend, though only a handful of people at
Langley
knew why.  There was only one Mr. Clark.

“What brings you to our country, Señor Williams?” the immigration official asked.

“Business.  And I'm hoping to do a little fishing before I go home,”
Clark
replied in Spanish.  He was fluent in six languages, and could pass for a native with three of them.

“Your Spanish is excellent.”

“Thank you.  I grew up in
Costa Rica
,”
Clark
lied.  He was particularly good at that, too. “My father worked there for years.”

“Yes, I can tell.  Welcome to
Colombia
.”

Clark
went off to collect his bags.  The air was thin here, he noted.  His daily jogging helped him with that, but he reminded himself to wait a few days before he tried anything really strenuous.  It was his first time in this country, but something told him that it wouldn't be the last.  All the big ones started with reconnaissance.  That was his current mission.  Exactly what he was supposed to recon told him what the real mission would probably be.  He'd done such things before,
Clark
told himself.  In fact, one such mission was the reason that CIA had picked him up, changed his name, and given him the life that he'd led for nearly twenty years.

One of the singular things about
Colombia
was that the country actually allowed people to bring firearms in with very little in the way of hassle. 
Clark
had not bothered this time.  He wondered if the next time might be a little different.  He knew that he couldn't work through the chief of station for that.  After all, the chief of station didn't even know that he was here. 
Clark
wondered why, but shrugged it off.  That didn't concern him.  The mission did.

The United States Army had reinstituted the idea of the Infantry Division (Light) only a few years before.  The units had not been all that hard to make.  It was simply a matter of selecting an Infantry Division (Mechanized) and removing all of its (Mechanized) equipment.  What then remained behind was an organization of roughly 10,500 people whose TOE (Table of Organization and Equipment) was even lighter than that of an airborne division, traditionally the lightest of them all, and therefore able to be air-transported by a mere five hundred flights of the Air Force's Military Airlift Command.  But the light infantry divisions, or “LIDs” as they came to be known, were not as useless as the casual observer might imagine, however.  Far from it.

In creating the “light-fighters,” the Army had decided to return to the timeless basics of history.  Any thinking warrior will testify that there are two kinds of fighters: the infantry, and those who in one way or another support the infantry.  More than anything else, the LIDs were postgraduate institutions for advanced infantry skills.  Here was where the Army grew its sergeants the old-fashioned way.  In recognizing this, the Army had carefully assigned some of its best officers to command them.  The colonels commanding the brigades, and the generals commanding the divisions, were veterans of
Vietnam
whose memories of that bitter conflict included admiration for their enemies—most especially the way in which the Viet Cong and NVA had converted their lack of equipment and firepower into an asset.  There was no reason, the Army's thinkers decided, that American soldiers should not have the same degree of skill in fieldcraft that Vo Nguyen Giap's soldiers had developed; better still that those skills should be mated to
America
's traditional fascination with equipment and firepower.  What had resulted were four elite divisions, the 7th in the green hills of
Fort Ord
,
California
, the 10th Mountain at
Fort Drum
,
New York
, the 25th at Schofield Barracks,
Hawaii
, and the 6th at
Fort Wainwright
,
Alaska
.  Perversely, each had problems holding on to its sergeants and company-grade officers, but that was part of the overall plan.  Light-fighters live a strenuous life, and on reaching thirty even the best of them would think longingly of being able to ride to battle in a helicopter or an armored personnel carrier, and maybe being able to spend a reasonable amount of time with their young wives and children instead of climbing hills.  Thus the best of them, the ones that stayed and completed the difficult NCO schools that each division ran, having learned that sergeants must occasionally act without their lieutenants' direction, then joined the heavy formations that comprised the rest of the Army, bringing with them skills that they'd never quite forget.  The LIDs were, in short, factory institutions, where the Army built sergeants with exceptional leadership ability and mastery of the unchanging truths of warfare—it always came down to a few people with muddy boots and smelly uniforms who could use the land and the night as allies to visit death on their fellowmen.

Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez was one of these.  Known as “Ding” by his squad, he was twenty-six.  Already a nine-year veteran—he'd begun as a gang kid in Los Angeles whose basic common sense had overcome his ineffectual education—he'd decided that there was no future in the Bandidos when a close friend had died in a drive-by shooting whose purpose he'd never quite figured out.  The following Monday morning he'd taken the bus to the nearest Army Recruiting Office after the Marines had turned him down.  Despite his near illiteracy, the recruiting sergeant had signed him up in a moment—his quota had been short, and the kid had expressed a willingness to go infantry, thus fulfilling two blank spots on the sergeant's monthly reporting sheet.  Most of all, the youngster wanted to go right in.  It could not have been better for the recruiter.

Chavez hadn't had many ideas what military service would be like, and most of those had turned out to be wrong.  After losing his hair and a rat-faced beard, he'd learned that toughness is worthless without discipline, and that the Army doesn't tolerate insolence.  That lesson had come behind a white-painted barracks at the hands of a drill sergeant whose face was as black as a jungle night.  But Chavez's life had never known an easy lesson; as a result he hadn't learned to resent the hard ones.  Having discovered that the Army was also a hierarchy with strict hierarchical rules, he stayed within them and gradually turned into an above-average recruit.  Former gang kid that he was, he'd already known about camaraderie and teamwork, and redirecting these traits into positive directions had come easily enough.  By the time basic training had ended, his small frame was as lean and taut as a steel cable, his physical appearance was something in which he took inordinate pride, and he was already well on his way to mastering every weapon that an infantryman can carry.  Where else, he asked himself once a day, do they give you a machine gun and pay you to shoot it?

But soldiers are grown, not born.  Chavez's first posting was to
Korea
, where he learned about hills, and just how deadly enemy gangs could be, since duty on the DMZ has never been anything that one might call safe.  Discipline, he learned there once and for all, had a real purpose.  It kept you alive.  A small team of North Korean infiltrators had picked a rainy night to go through his unit's piece of the line for purposes known only to their commanders.  On the way they'd stumbled on an unmarked listening post whose two American occupants had decided to sleep through the night, and never awoke.  ROK units had later intercepted and killed the invaders, but Chavez was the one who'd discovered the men from his own platoon, throats cut in the same way he'd seen in his own neighborhood.  Soldiering, he'd decided then and there, was a serious business, and one which he wanted to master.  The platoon sergeant noticed first, then the lieutenant.  Chavez paid attention to lectures, even trying to take notes.  On realizing his inability to read and write beyond things he'd carefully memorized in advance, the platoon leader had gotten the young PFC help.  Working hard on his own time, before the end of the year Chavez had passed a high-school equivalency test—on his first try! he told everyone who would listen that night—and made Specialist Fourth Class, which earned him an extra $58.50 per month.  His lieutenant didn't fully understand, though the platoon sergeant did, that Domingo Chavez had been forever changed by that combination of events.  Though he'd always had the Latino's deep pride, part of the eighteen-year-old soldier now understood that he had truly done something to be proud about.  For this he deemed himself to be in the Army's debt, and with the deep sense of personal honor which was also part of his cultural heritage, it was a debt that he would forever after work to repay.

Some things never left.  He cultivated physical toughness.  Part of that came from his small size—just five-eight—but he also came to understand that the real world was not a football field: the tough ones who made the long haul were most often the compact, lean fighters.  Chavez came to love running, and enjoyed a good sweat.  Because of this, assignment to the 7th Infantry Division (Light) was almost inevitable.  Though based at
Fort
Ord
, near
Monterey
on the
California
coast, the 7th trains farther down the coast at Hunter-Liggett Military Reservation, once the sprawling rancho of the Hearst family.  A place of magnificent green hills in the moist winters, Hunter-Liggett becomes a blistering moonscape in the
California
summer, a place of steep, topless hills, gnarled, shapeless trees, and grass that crumbles to dust under one's boots.  For Chavez it was home.  He arrived as a brand-new buck sergeant E-5, and was immediately sent to the division's two-week Combat Leaders Course, a prep school for squad sergeants that also paved the way for his entry into
Ranger
School
at
Fort Benning
,
Georgia
.  On his return from that most rigorous of Army training courses, Chavez was leaner and more confident than ever.  His return to
Fort
Ord
coincided with the arrival of a new “cohort” of recruits for his battalion.  Ding Chavez was assigned to command a squad of slick-sleeved privates fresh from Advanced Infantry Training.  It was the first payback time for the young sergeant.  The Army had invested considerable time and training in him, and now it was time for him to pass it along to nine raw recruits—and also time for the Army to see if Chavez had the stuff that leaders are made of.  He took command of his squad as a stepfather of a large and unruly family faces his newly acquired children.  He wanted them to turn out properly because they were his, and because they were his, he was damned sure going to see that they did.  At
Fort
Ord
, he'd also learned the real art of soldiering, for infantry tactics are precisely that for the light-fighters—an art form.  Assigned to Bravo Company, 3rd Battalion of the 17th Infantry Regiment, whose somewhat ambitious motto was “Ninja!  We Own the Night!” Chavez went into the field with his face coated in camouflage paint—in the 7th LID even the helicopter pilots wear camouflage paint—and learned his profession in full even while he taught his men.  Most of all, he came to love the night.  Chavez learned to move himself and his squad through cover as quietly as a whispering breeze.  The objective of such missions was generally the same.  Unable to match a heavy formation force-on-force, Chavez trained to do the close, nasty work that has always characterized light infantrymen: raids and ambushes, infiltration and intelligence gathering.  Stealth was their means, and surprise was their tool, to appear where least expected, to strike with close-quarter ferocity, then to escape into the darkness before the other side could react.  Such things had been tried on Americans once, and it was only fair that Americans should learn to return the favor.  All in all, SSG Domingo Chavez was a man whom the Apaches or the Viet Cong would have recognized as one of their own—or one of their most dangerous enemies.