Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (27 page)

Chavez would travel light with but four hand grenades—Dutch NR-20 C1 type—and two smokes, also of Dutch manufacture.  The rest of the squad got the Dutch frags, and some CS tear-gas grenades, also Dutch.  In fact, all of the weapons carried by the squad and all of their ammunition had been purchased at
Colón
,
Panama
, in what was fast becoming the hemisphere's most convenient arms market.  For anyone with cash there were weapons to be had.

Rations were the normal MREs.  Water was the main hygienic concern, but they'd already been fully briefed about using their water-purification tablets.  Whoever forgot had a supply of antidiarrhea pills that would follow a serious chewing from Captain Ramirez.  Every man had gotten a new series of booster shots while still in Colorado against the spectrum of tropical diseases endemic to the area, and all carried an odorless insect repellent made for the military by the same company that produced the commercial product called “Off.” The squad medic carried a full medical kit, and each rifleman had his own morphine Syrette and a plastic bottle of IV fluids for use as a blood-expander.

Chavez had a razor-sharp machete, a four-inch folding knife, and, of course, his three nonregulation throwing stars that Captain Ramirez didn't know about.  With other sundry items, Chavez would be carrying a load of exactly fifty-eight pounds.  That made his load the lightest in the squad.  Vega and the other SAW gunner had the heaviest, with seventy-one pounds.  Ding jostled the load around on his shoulders to get a feel for it, then adjusted the straps on his rucksack to make it as comfortable as possible.  It was a futile exercise.  He was packing a third of his body weight, which is about as much as a man can carry for any length of time without risking a physical breakdown.  His boots were well broken-in, and he had extra pairs of dry socks.

“Ding, could you give me a hand with this?” Vega asked.

“Sure, Julio.” Chavez took some slack in on one of the machine gunner's shoulder straps. “How's that?”

“Just right, 'mano.  Jeez, carrying the biggest gun do have a price.”

“Roger that, Oso.” Julio, who'd demonstrated the ability to pack more than anyone in the squad, had a new nickname, Oso:  Bear.

Captain Ramirez came down the line, walking around each man to check the loads.  He adjusted a few straps, bounced a few rucksacks, and generally made sure that every man was properly loaded, and that all weapons were clean.  When he was finished, Ding checked the captain's load, and Ramirez took his place in front of the squad.

“Okay—anybody got aches, pains, or blisters?”

“No, sir!” the squad replied.

“We ready to go do it?” Ramirez asked with a wide grin that belied the fact that he was as nervous as everyone else in the squad bay.

“Yes, sir!”

One more thing left to do.  Ramirez walked down the line and collected dog tags from each man.  Each set went into a clear plastic bag along with wallets and all other forms of identification.  Finished, he removed his own, counted the bags a last time, and left them on the table in the squad bay.  Outside, each squad boarded a separate five-ton truck.  Few waves were exchanged.  Though friendships had sprouted up in training, they were mainly limited within the structure of the squads.  Each eleven-man unit was a self-contained community.  Every member knew every other, knew all there was to know, from stories of sexual performance to marksmanship skills.  Some solid friendships had blossomed, and some even more valuable rivalries.  They were, in fact, already closer than friends could ever be.  Each man knew that his life would depend on the skill of his fellows, and none of them wished to appear weak before his comrades.  Argue as they might among themselves, they were now a team; though they might trade barbed comments, over the past weeks they had been forged into a single complex organism with Ramirez as their brain, Chavez as their eyes, Julio Vega and the other machine-gunner as their fists, and all the others as equally vital components.  They were as ready for their mission as any soldiers had ever been.

The trucks arrived together behind the helicopter and the troops boarded by squads.  The first thing Chavez noticed was the 7.62mm minigun on the right side of the aircraft.  There was an Air Force sergeant standing next to it, his green coveralls topped by a camouflage-painted flight helmet, and a massive feed line of shells leading to an even larger hopper.  Ding had no particular love for the Air Force—a bunch of pansy truck drivers, he'd thought until now—but the man on that gun looked serious and competent as hell.  Another such gun was unmanned on the opposite side of the aircraft, and there was a spot for another at the rear.  The flight engineer—his name tag said
ZIMMER
—moved them all into their places and made sure that each soldier was properly strapped down to his particular piece of floor.  Chavez didn't trade words with him, but sensed that this man had been around the block a few times.  It was, he belatedly realized, the biggest goddamned helicopter he'd ever seen.

The flight engineer made one final check before going forward and plugging his helmet into the intercom system.  A moment later came the whine from the helicopter's twin turbine engines.

“Looking good,” PJ observed over the headset.  The engines had been pre-warmed and the fuel tanks topped off.  Zimmer had repaired a minor hydraulic problem, and the Pave Low III was as ready as his skilled men could make it.  Colonel Johns keyed his radio.

“Tower, this is Night Hawk Two-Five requesting permission to taxi.  Over.”

“Two-Five, tower, permission granted.  Winds are one-zero-niner at six knots.”

“Roger.  Two-Five is rolling.  Out.”

Johns twisted the throttle grip on his collective control and eased the cyclic stick forward.  Due to the size and engine power of the big Sikorsky, it was customary to taxi the aircraft toward the runway apron before actually lifting off.  Captain Willis swiveled his neck around, checking for other ground traffic, but there was none this late at night.  One ground crewman walked backward in front of them as a further safety measure, waving for them to follow with lighted wands.  Five minutes later they were at the apron.  The wands came together and pointed to the right.  Johns gave the man a last look, returning the ceremonial salute.

“Okay, let's get this show on the road.” PJ brought the throttle to full power, making a last check of his engine instruments as he did so.  Everything looked fine.  The helicopter lifted at the nose a few feet, then dipped forward as it began to move forward.  Next it started to climb, leaving behind a small tornado of dust, visible only in the blue runway perimeter lights.

Captain Willis put the navigations systems on line, adjusting the electronic terrain display.  There was a moving map display not unlike that used by James Bond in Goldfinger.  Pave Low could navigate from a Doppler-radar system that interrogated the ground, from an inertial system using laser-gyroscopes, or from navigational satellites.  The helicopter initially flew straight down the Canal's length, simulating the regular security patrol.  They unknowingly flew within a mile of the S
HOWBOAT
's communications nexus at Corezal.

“
Lot
of pick-and-shovel work down there,” Willis observed.

“Ever been here before?”

“No, sir, first time.  Quite a job for eighty-ninety years ago,” he said as they flew over a large container ship.  They caught a little buffet from the hot stack-gas of the ship.  PJ came to the right to get out of it.  It would be a two-hour flight, and there was no sense in jostling the passengers any more than necessary.  In an hour their MC-130E tanker would lift off to refuel them for the return leg.

“
Lot
of dirt to move,” Colonel Johns agreed after a moment.  He moved a little in his seat.  Twenty minutes later they went “feet wet,” passing over the
Caribbean Sea
for the longest portion of the flight on a course of zero-nine-zero, due east.

“Look at that,” Willis said half an hour later.  On their night-vision sets, they spotted a twin-engine aircraft on a northerly heading, perhaps six miles away.  They spotted it from the infrared glow of the two piston engines.

“No lights,” PJ agreed.

“I wonder what he's carrying?”

“Sure as hell isn't Federal Express.” More to the point, he can't see us unless he's wearing the same goggles we got.

“We could pull up alongside and take the miniguns—”

“Not tonight.” Too bad.  I wouldn't especially mind . . .

“What do you suppose our passengers—”

“If we were supposed to know, Captain, they would have told us,” Johns replied.  He was wondering, too, of course.  Christ, but they're loaded for bear, the colonel thought.  Not wearing standard-issue uniforms . . . obviously a covert insertion—hell, I've known that part of the mission for weeks—but they were clearly planning to stay awhile.  Johns hadn't heard that the government had ever done that.  He wondered if the Colombians were playing ball . . . probably not.  And we're staying down here for at least a month, so they're planning for us to support them, maybe extract them if things get a little hot . . . Christ, it's Laos all over again, he concluded.  Good thing I brought Buck along.  We're the only real vets left.  Colonel Johns shook his head.  Where had his youth gone?

You spent it with a helicopter strapped to your back, doing all sorts of screwy things.

“I got a ship target on the horizon at about
eleven o'clock
,” the captain said, and altered course a few degrees to the right.  The mission brief had been clear on that.  Nobody was supposed to see or hear them.  That meant avoiding ships, fishing boats, and inquisitive dolphins, staying well off the coast, no more than a thousand feet up, and keeping their anticollision lights off.  The mission profile was precisely what they'd fly in wartime, with some flight-safety rules set aside.  Even in the special-operations business, that last fact was somewhat out of the ordinary, Johns reminded himself.  Hot guns and all.

They made the Colombian coast without further incident.  As soon as it was in view, Johns alerted his crew.  Sergeants Zimmer and Bean powered up their electrically driven miniguns and slid open the doors next to them.

“Well, we just invaded a friendly foreign country,” Willis noted as they went “feet dry” north of Tolú.  They used their low-light instruments to search for vehicular traffic, which they were also supposed to avoid.  Their course track was plotted to avoid areas of habitation.  The six-bladed rotor didn't make the fluttering whops associated with smaller helicopters.  Its sound, at a distance, wasn't terribly different from turbopowered aircraft; it was also directionally deceptive—even if you heard the noise, it was hard to figure where it came from.  Once past the
Pan American Highway
, they curved north, passing east of Plato.

“Zimmer, LZ One in five minutes.”

“Right, PJ,” the flight engineer replied.  It had been decided to leave Bean and Childs on the guns, while Zimmer handled the dropoff.

It must be a combat mission.
  Johns smiled to himself.  Buck only calls me that when he expects to get shot at.

Aft, Sergeant Zimmer walked down the center of the aircraft, telling the first two squads to unbuckle their safety belts and holding up his hand to show how many more minutes there were.  Both captains nodded.

“LZ One in sight,” Willis said soon thereafter.

“I'll take her.”

“Pilot's airplane.”

Colonel Johns orbited the area, spiraling into the clearing selected from satellite photos.  Willis scanned the ground for the least sign of life, but there was none.

“Looks clear to me, Colonel.”

“Going in now,” Johns said into the intercom.

“Get ready!” Zimmer shouted as the helicopter's nose came up.

Chavez stood up with the rest of his squad, facing aft to the opening cargo door.  His knees buckled slightly as the Sikorsky touched down.

“Go!” Zimmer waved them out, patting each man on the shoulder to keep a proper count.

Chavez went out behind his captain, turning left to avoid the tail rotor as soon as his feet were on the dirt.  He went ten steps and dropped to his face.  Above his head, the rotor was still turning at full power, holding the lethal blades a safe fifteen feet off the ground.

“Clear, clear, clear!” Zimmer said when he'd seen them all off.

“Roger,” Johns replied, twisting the throttle again to lift off.

Chavez turned his head as the whine of the engines increased.  The blacked-out helicopter was barely visible, but he saw the spectral outline lift off and felt the dirt stinging his face as the hundred-knot downwash from the rotor subsided, and stopped.  It was gone.

He ought to have expected it, but the feeling came to Chavez as a surprise.  He was in enemy territory.  It was real, not an exercise.  The only way he had out—had just flown away, already invisible.  Despite the fact that there were ten men around him, he was momentarily awash in a sense of loneliness.  But he was a trained man, a professional soldier.  Chavez grasped his loaded weapon and took strength from it.  He wasn't quite alone.

“Move out,” Captain Ramirez told him quietly.

Chavez moved toward the treeline in the knowledge that behind him the squad would follow.

In-Country

T
HREE HUNDRED MILES
away from SSG Ding Chavez, Colonel Félix Cortez, formerly of the Cuban DGI, sat dozing in el jefe's office.  El jefe, he'd been told on his arrival several hours before, was occupied at present—probably entertaining a mistress.  Maybe even his wife, Cortez thought; unlikely but possible.  He'd drunk two cups of the fine local coffee—previously
Colombia
's most valuable export crop—but it hadn't helped.  He was tired from the previous night's exertions, from the travel, and now from readjusting yet again to the high altitude of the region.  Cortez was ready for sleep, but had to stay awake to debrief his boss.  Inconsiderate bastard.  At least in the DGI he could have submitted a hastily written report and taken a few hours to freshen up before normal office hours began.  But the DGI was composed of professionals, and he'd chosen to work for an amateur.

Just after
1:30
in the morning he heard feet coming down the corridor.  Cortez stood and shook off the sleep.  The door opened, and there was el jefe, his visage placid and happy.  One of his mistresses.

“What have you learned?” Escobedo asked without preamble.

“Nothing specific as of yet,” Cortez replied with a yawn.  He proceeded to speak for about five minutes, going over what things he had discovered.

“I pay you for results, Colonel,” Escobedo pointed out.

“That is true, but at high levels such results require time.  Under the methods for gathering information which you had in place before I arrived, you would still know nothing other than the fact that some aircraft are missing, and that two of your couriers have been apprehended by the yanquis.”

“Their story about the interrogation aboard the ship?”

“Most unusual, perhaps all a fabrication on their part.” Cortez settled into his chair, wishing for another cup of coffee. “Or perhaps true, though I doubt it.  I do not know either man and cannot evaluate the reliability of their claims.”

“Two men from Medellín.  Ramón's older brother served me well.  He was killed in the battles with M-19.  He died bravely.  Ramón has also served me.  I had to give him a chance,” Escobedo said. “It was a matter of honor.  He is not very intelligent, but he is faithful.”

“And his death is not overly troublesome?”

Escobedo shook his head without a moment's pause. “No.  He knew what the chances were.  He did not know why it was necessary to kill the American.  He can tell them nothing about that.  As for the American—he was a thief, and a foolish thief.  He thought that we would not discover his thievery.  He was mistaken.  So we eliminated him.”

And his family
, Cortez noted.  Killing people was one thing.  Raping children . . . that was something else.  But such things were not his concern.

“You are sure that they cannot tell the Americans—”

“They were told to get aboard the yacht, using the money as their bona fides and concealing their cache of drugs.  Once the killings were accomplished, they were instructed to go to the
Bahamas
, turn the money over to one of my bankers, destroy the yacht discreetly, and then smuggle the drugs in normally, into
Philadelphia
.  They knew that the American had displeased me, but not how he had done so.”

“They must know that he was laundering money, and they must have told the Americans this,” Cortez pointed out patiently.

“Sí.  Fortunately, however, the American was very clever in how he did this.  We were careful, Colonel.  Beforehand we made sure that no one could learn exactly what the thief had done.” Escobedo smiled, still in the afterglow of Pinta's services. “He was so very clever, that American.”

“What if he left behind a record?”

“He did not.  A police officer in that city searched his office and home for us—so carefully that the American federales never noticed that he had been there—before I authorized the killings.”

Cortez took a deep breath before speaking. “Jefe, do you not understand that you must tell me about such things as this beforehand!  Why do you employ me if you have no wish to make use of my knowledge?”

“We have been doing things such as this for years.  We can manage our affairs without—”

“The Russians would send you to
Siberia
for such idiocy!”

“You forget your place, Señor Cortez!” Escobedo snarled back. *

Félix bit off his own reply and managed to speak reasonably. “You think the norteamericanos are fools because they are unable to stop your smuggling.  Their weakness is a political failing, not one of professional expertise.  You do not understand that, and so I will explain it to you.  Their borders are easy to violate because the Americans have a tradition of open borders.  You confuse that with inefficiency.  It is not.  They have highly efficient police with the best scientific methods in the world—do you know that the Russian KGB reads American police textbooks?  And copies their techniques?  The American police are hamstrung because their political leadership does not allow them to act as they wish to act—and as they could act, in a moment, if those restrictions were ever eased.  The American FBI—the federales—have resources beyond your comprehension.  I know—they hunted me in
Puerto Rico
and came within a hair of capturing me along with Ojeda—and I am a trained intelligence officer.”

“Yes, yes,” Escobedo said patiently. “So what are you telling me?”

“Exactly what did this dead American do for you?”

“He laundered vast sums of money for us, and it continues to generate clean income for us.  He set up a laundering scheme that we continue to use and—”

“Get your money out at once.  If this yanqui was as efficient as you say, it is very likely that he left evidence behind.  If he did so, then it is likely that those records were found.”

“If so, then why have the federales not acted?  They've had over a month now.” Escobedo turned around to grab a bottle of brandy.  He rarely indulged, but this was a time for it.  Pinta had been especially fine tonight, and he enjoyed telling Cortez that his expertise, while useful, was not entirely crucial.

“Jefe, perhaps it will not happen this time, but someday you will learn that chances such as you took in this case are foolish.”

Escobedo waved the snifter under his nose. “As you say, Colonel.  Now, what about these new rules you speak of?”

Chavez was already fully briefed, of course.  They'd had a “walk-through/talk-through” on a sand table as part of their mission brief, and every man in the unit had the terrain and their way through it committed to memory.  The objective was an airfield designated
R
ENO
.  He'd seen satellite and low-oblique photos of the site.  He didn't know that it had been fingered by someone named Bert Russo, confirming an earlier intelligence report.  It was a gravel strip about five thousand feet long, easy enough for a twin-engine aircraft, and marginally safe for a larger one, if it were lightly loaded-with grass, for instance, which was bulky but not especially heavy.  The sergeant navigated by the compass strapped to his wrist.  Every fifty yards he'd check the compass, sight on a tree or other object on the proper line of bearing, and head for it, at which time the procedure would begin again.  He moved slowly and quietly, listening for any vaguely human noise and looking around with the night-vision scope that he wore on his head.  His weapon was loaded and locked, but the selector switch was on “safe.” Vega, the second or “slack” man in the line, was the buffer between Chavez's point position and the main body of the unit, fifty meters behind Vega.  His machine gun made for a formidable buffer.  If contact were made, their first thought would be evasion, but if evasion proved impossible, then they were to eliminate whatever stood in their path as quickly and violently as possible.

After two hours and two kilometers, Ding picked a spot to rest, a preselected rally point.  He raised his hand and twirled it around in a lasso-motion to communicate what he was doing.  They could have pushed a little harder, but the flight, as all lengthy helicopter flights, had been tiring, and the captain hadn't wanted to press too hard.  They were not in fact expected to reach the objective until the following night.  Every other word in the mission brief had been “Caution!” He remembered smirking every time he'd heard that.  Now the amusement had left him.  That guy Clark had been right.  It was different in Indian Country.  The price of failure here would not be the embarrassment of having your “MILES” beeper go off.

Chavez shook his head to clear away the thought.  He had a job.  It was a job for which he was fully trained and equipped, and it was a job which he wanted to do.

His rest spot was a small, dry knoll, which he scanned for snakes before sitting down.  He made one last scan of the area before switching off his goggles to save battery time, and pulled out his canteen for a drink.  It was hot, but not terribly so.  High eighties, he thought, and the humidity was well up there also.  If it was this hot at night, he didn't want to think about the daytime heat.  At least they'd be bellied up during daylight.  And Chavez was accustomed to heat.  At Hunter-Liggett he'd marched over hills through temperatures over a hundred-ten degrees.  He didn't much like it, but he could do it easily enough.

“How we doin', Chavez?”

“Muy bien, Capitán,” Chavez replied. “I figure we've made two miles, maybe two and a half-three klicks.  That's Checkpoint W
RENCH
right over there, sir.”

“Seen anything?”

“Negative.  Just birds and bugs.  Not even a wild pig or anything . . . you suppose people hunt here?”

“Good bet,” Ramirez said after a moment's thought. “That's something we'll want to keep in mind, Ding.”

Chavez looked around.  He could see one man, but the rest blended in with the ground.  He'd worried about the khaki clothing—not as effective camouflage as what he was accustomed to—but in the field it seemed to disappear just fine.  Ding took another drink, then shook his canteen to see how noisy it was.  That was a nice thing about the plastic canteens.  Water sloshing around wasn't as noisy as with the old aluminum ones.  It was still something to worry about.  Any kind of noise was, in the bush.  He popped a cough drop to keep his mouth moist and made ready to head out.

“Next stop, Checkpoint C
HAINSAW
.  Captain, who thinks those dumbass names up?”

Ramirez chuckled quietly. “Why, I do, Sergeant.  Don't feel bad.  My ex didn't much like my taste either, so she went and married a real-estate hustler.”

“Ain't broads a bitch?”

“Mine sure was.”

Even the captain
, Chavez thought.  Christ, nobody has a girl or a family behind . . .  The thought was distantly troubling, but the issue at hand was getting past W
RENCH
to C
HAINSAW
in less than two hours.

The next hop involved crossing a road—what they called a road.  It was a straight dirt-gravel track that stretched off to infinity in both directions.  Chavez took his time approaching and crossing it.  The rest of the squad halted fifty meters from the roadway, allowing the point man to move left and right of the crossing point to make sure it was secure.  That done, he made a brief radio transmission to Captain Ramirez, in Spanish:

“The crossing is clear.” His answer was a double click of static as the captain keyed the transmit key on his radio, but without saying anything.  Chavez answered in kind and waited for the squad to cross.

The terrain here was agreeably flat, enough so that he was wondering why their training had been in towering, airless mountains.  Probably because it was well hidden, he decided.  The forest, or jungle, was thick, but not quite as bad as it had been in
Panama
.  There was ample evidence that people occasionally farmed here, probably slash-and-burn operations, judging from the numerous small clearings.  He'd seen half a dozen crumbling shacks where some poor bastard had tried to raise a family, or farm for beans, or something that hadn't worked out.  The poverty that such evidence spoke of was depressing to Chavez.  The people who lived in this region had names not unlike his, spoke a language differing only in accent from that spoken in his childhood home.  Had his great-grandfather not decided to come to
California
and pick lettuce, might he have grown up in such a place?  If so, how might he have turned out?  Might Ding Chavez have ended up running drugs or being a shooter for the Cartel bigshots?  That was a truly disturbing thought.  His personal pride was too great to consider the possibility seriously, but its basic truth hovered at the edges of his conscious thoughts.  There was poverty here, and poor people seized at whatever opportunity presented itself.  How could you face your children and say that you could not feed them without doing something illegal?  You could not, of course.  What would a child understand other than an empty belly?  Poor people had poor options.  Chavez had found the Army almost by accident, and had found in it a true home of security and opportunity and fellowship and respect.  But down here . . . ?

Poor bastards.
  But what about the people from his own barrio?  Their lives poisoned, their neighborhoods corrupted.  Who was to blame for it all?

Less thinkin' and more workin'
, 'mano, he told himself.  Chavez switched on his night scope for the next part of the trek.

He moved standing straight up, not crouched as one would expect.  His feet caressed the ground carefully, making sure that there wasn't a twig to snap, and he avoided bushes that might have leaves or thorns to grasp at his clothing and make their own rustling noise.  Wherever possible he cut across clearings, skirting the treelines to keep from being silhouetted against the cloudy sky.  But the main enemy at night was noise, not sight.  It was amazing how acute your hearing got in the bush.  He thought he could hear every bug, every birdcall, each puff of breeze in the leaves far over his head.  But there were no human sounds.  No coughs or mutters, none of the distinctive metallic noises that only men make.  While he didn't exactly relax, he moved with confidence, just like on field-training exercises, he realized.  Every fifty meters he'd stop and listen for those behind him.  Not a whisper, not even Oso with his machine gun and heavy load.  In their quiet was safety.