Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger (87 page)

“And you're sure that your instructions are being carried out?”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Make sure again.”

It had taken far longer than the bearded consultant expected.  Inspector O'Day held the printout in his hands, and it might as well have been Kurdish.  The sheet was half covered with paragraphs entirely composed of ones and zeroes.

“Machine language,” the consultant explained. “Whoever programmed this baby was a real pro.  I recovered about forty percent of it.  It's a transposition algorithm, just like I thought.”

“You told me that last night.”

“It ain't Russian.  It takes in a message and enciphers it.  No big deal, anybody can do that.  What's really clever is that the system is based on an independent input signal that's unique to the individual transmission-over and above the encipherment algorithm that's already built into the system.”

“You want to explain that?”

“It means a very good computer lash-up—somewhere—governs how this baby operates.  It can't be Russian.  They don't have the hardware yet, unless they stole a really sexy one from us.  Also, the input that adds the variable into the system probably comes from the NAVSTAR satellites.  I'm guessing here, but I think it uses a very precise time mark to set the encryption key, one that's unique to each up-and-down transmission.  Clever shit.  That means NSA.  The NAVSTAR satellites use atomic clocks to measure time with great precision, and the really sexy part of the system is also encrypted.  Anyway, what we have here is a clever way of scrambling a signal in a way that you can't break or duplicate even if you know how it was done.  Whoever set this baby up has access to everything we got.  I used to consult with NSA, and never even heard of this puppy.”

“Okay, and when the disk is destroyed . . . ?”

“The link is gone, man.  I mean, gone.  If this is what it seems to be, you have an uplink facility that controls the algorithm, and ground stations that copy it down.  You wipe this algorithm off, like somebody did, and the guys you used to be talking to can't communicate with you anymore, and nobody else can communicate with them either.  Systems don't get any more secure than that.”

“You can tell all that?  What else?”

“Half of what I just told you is informed speculation.  I can't rebuild the algorithm.  I can just tell you how it probably worked.  The bit on the NAVSTAR is supposition, but good supposition.  The transposition processing is partly recovered, and it has NSA written all over it.  Whoever did it really knows how to write computer code.  It's definitely ours.  It's probably the most sophisticated machine code we have.  Whoever got to use it must have some serious juice.  And whoever it is, he scrubbed it.  It can never be used again.  Whatever operation it was used for must be over.”

“Yeah,” O'Day said, chilled by what he had just learned. “Good work.”

“Now all you have to do is write a note to my prof and tell him why I missed an exam this morning.”

“I'll have somebody do that,” O'Day promised him on the way out the door.  He headed for Dan Murray's office, and was surprised to see that he was out.  The next stop was with Bill Shaw.

Half an hour later it was clear that a crime had probably been committed.  The next question was what to do about it.

The helicopter took off light.  Mission requirements were fairly complex—more so than in the previous insertions—and speed was important this time.  As soon as the Pave Low got to cruising altitude, it tanked from the MC-130E.  There was no banter this time.

Ryan sat in back, strapped into his place while the MH-53J bounced and buffeted in the wash of the tanker.  He wore a green flight suit and a similarly green helmet.  There was also a flak jacket.  Zimmer had explained to him that it would stop a pistol round, probably, secondary fragments almost certainly, but that he shouldn't depend on it to stop a rifle bullet.  One more thing to worry about.  Once clear of the tanker for the first time—they'd have to tank again before making landfall—Jack turned around to look out the door.  The clouds were nearly overhead now, the outlying reaches from Adele.

Juardo's wound complicated matters and changed plans somewhat.  They loaded him into Clark's seat on the Beech, leaving him with a radio and spare batteries.  Then Clark and the rest drove back toward Anserma.  Larson was still checking the weather, which was changing on an hour-to-hour basis.  He was due to take off in ninety minutes for his part of the mission.

“How you fixed for rounds?” Clark asked in the Microvan.

“All we need for the AKs,” Chavez replied. “About sixty each for the subs.  I never knew how useful a silenced gun was.”

“They are nice.  Grenades?”

“All of us?” Vega asked. “Five frags and two CS.”

“What are we going into?” Ding asked next.

“It's a farmhouse outside Anserma.”

“What's the security there like?”

“I don't know squat yet.”

“Hey, wait a minute, what are you getting us into?” Vega demanded.

“Relax, Sarge.  If it's too heavy to handle, we back off and leave.  All I know is we're going in for a close look.  Chavez and I can handle that.  By the way, there's spare batteries in the bag down there.  Need 'em?”

“Fuckin' A!” Chavez pulled out his night scope and replaced the batteries at once. “Who's in the house?”

“Two people we especially want.  Number One is Félix Cortez,” Clark said, giving some background. “He's the guy running the operation against the S
HOWBOAT
teams—that's the code name for this operation, in case nobody bothered to tell you.  He also had a hand in the murder of the ambassador.  I want his ass and I want it alive.  Number Two is one Señor Escobedo.  He's one of the big shots in the Cartel.  A lot of people want his ass.”

“Yeah,” León said. “We ain't got no big shots yet.”

“So far we've gotten five or six of the bastards.  That was my end of the operation.” Clark turned to look at Chavez.  He had to say that to establish his credibility.

“But how, when—”

“We're not supposed to talk all that much, children,” Clark told them. “You don't go around advertising about killing folks no matter who told you it was okay.”

“Are you really that good?”

Clark just shook his head. “Sometimes.  Sometimes not.  If you guys weren't damned good, you wouldn't be here.  And there are times when it's just pure dumb luck.”

“We just walked into one,” León said. “I don't even know what went wrong, but Captain Rojas just—”

“I know.  I saw some pricks load his body into the back of a truck—”

León went rigid. “And what—”

“Did I do?” Clark asked. “There were three of them.  I put them in the truck, too.  Then I torched the truck.  I'm not real proud of that, but I think I took some of the heat off you B
ANNER
guys when I did.  Wasn't much, but it was all I could do at the time.”

“So who pulled the chopper back on us?”

“Same guy who chopped off the radio.  I know who it is.  After this is all over, I want his ass, too.  You don't send people out in the field and then pull this crap on 'em.”

“So what are you going to do?” Vega wanted to know.

“I'll slap him firmly on both wrists.  Now listen, people, you worry about tonight.  One job at a time.  You're soldiers, not a bunch of teenage broads.  Less talkin' and more thinkin'.”

Chavez, Vega, and León took the cue.  They started checking their gear.  There was enough room in the van to strip and clean weapons.  Clark pulled into Anserma at sundown.  He found a quiet spot about a mile from the house and left the van.  Clark took Vega's night goggles, and then he and Chavez went out to take a walk.

There had been farming here recently.  Clark wondered what it had been, but that and the fact that it was close to the village meant that the trees had been thinned out for cooking fires.  They were able to move fast.  Half an hour later they could see the house, separated from the woods by two hundred meters of open ground.

“Not good,” Clark observed from his place on the ground.

“I count six, all with AKs.”

“Company,” the CIA officer said, turning to see where the noise was coming from.  It was a Mercedes, and therefore could have belonged to anyone in the Cartel.  Two more cars came with it, one ahead and one behind.  A total of six guards got out to check the area.

“Escobedo and LaTorre,” Clark said from behind the binoculars. “Two big shots to see Colonel Cortez.  I wonder why . . .”

“Too many, man,” Chavez said.

“You notice there wasn't any password or anything?”

“So?”

“It's possible, if we play it right.”

“But how . . .”

“Think creatively,” Clark told him. “Back to the car.” That took another twenty minutes.  When they got there, Clark adjusted one of his radios.

“C
AESAR
, this is S
NAKE
, over.”

The second refueling was accomplished within sight of the beach.  They'd have to tank at least once more before heading back to Panama.  The other alternative didn't seem especially likely at the moment.  The good news was that Francie Montaigne was driving her Combat Talon with her usual aplomb, its four big propellers turning in a steady rhythm.  Its radio operators were already talking to the surviving ground teams, taking that strain off the helicopter crew.  For the first time in the mission, the air team was allowed to function as it had been trained.  The MC-130E would coordinate the various pieces, coaching the Pave Low into the proper areas and away from possible threats in addition to keeping PJ's chopper filled up with gas.

In back, the ride had settled down.  Ryan was up and walking around.  Fear became boring after a while, and he even managed to use the Port-A-Pot without missing.  The flight crew had accepted him at least as an approved interloper, and for some reason that meant a lot to him.

“Ryan, you hear me?” Johns asked.

Jack reached down to the mike button. “Yeah, Colonel.”

“Your guy on the ground wants us to do something different.”

“Like what?”

PJ told him. “It means another tanking, but otherwise we can hack it.  Your call.”

“You sure?”

“Special ops is what they pay us for.”

“Okay, then.  We want that bastard.”

“Roger.  Sergeant Zimmer, we'll be feet-dry in one minute.  Systems check.”

The flight engineer looked down his panel. “Roger that, PJ.  Everything looks pretty solid to me, sir.  Everything's green.”

“Okay.  First stop is Team O
MEN
.  ETA is two-zero minutes.  Ryan, you'd better grab hold of something.  We're going to start nap-of-the-earth.  I have to talk to our backup.”

Jack didn't know what that meant.  He found out as soon as they crossed the first range of coastal mountains.  The Pave Low leapt up like a mad elevator, then the bottom dropped out as it cleared the summit.  The helicopter was on computer-assisted-flight mode, taking a six-degree slope-it felt much worse than that-up and down the terrain features, and skimmed over the ground with bare feet of clearance.  The aircraft was made to be safe, not comfortable.  Ryan didn't feel much of either.

“First LZ in three minutes,” Colonel Johns announced half an eternity later. “Let's go hot, Buck.”

“Roger.” Zimmer reached down on his console and flipped a toggle switch. “Switches hot.  Guns are hot.”

“Gunners, stand to.  That means you, Ryan,” PJ added.

“Thanks.” Jack gasped without toggling his mike.  He took position on the left side of the aircraft and hit the activation switch for the minigun, which started turning at once.

“ETA one minute,” the copilot said. “I got a good strobe at eleven o'clock.  Okay.  O
MEN
, this is C
AESAR
, do you copy, over?”

Jack heard only one side of the conversation, but mentally thanked the flight crew for letting the guys in back know something.

“Roger, O
MEN
, say again your situation . . .  Roger that, we're coming in.  Good strobe light.  Thirty seconds.  Get ready in back,” Captain Willis told Ryan and the rest. “Safe guns, safe guns.”

Jack held his thumbs clear of the switch and elevated the minigun at the sky.  The helicopter took a big nose-up attitude as it came down.  It stopped and hovered a foot off the ground, not quite touching.

“Buck, tell the captain to come forward immediately.”

“Roger, PJ.” Behind him, Ryan heard Zimmer run aft, then, through the soles of his feet, felt the troops race aboard.  He kept his eyes outboard, looking over the rotating barrels of his gun until the helicopter took off, and even then he trained the mini down at the ground.

“Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?” Colonel Johns observed as he brought the aircraft back to a southerly heading. “Hell, I don't even know why they pay us for this.  Where's that ground-pounder?”

“Hooking him up now, sir,” Zimmer replied. “Got 'em all aboard.  All clean, no casualties.”

“Captain . . . ?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

“We got a job for your team if you think you're up to it.”

“Let's hear it, sir.”

The MC-130E Combat Talon was orbiting over Colombian territory, which made the crew a little nervous, since they didn't have permission.  The main job now was to relay communications, and even with the sophisticated gear aboard the four-engine support aircraft, they couldn't handle it from over the ocean.

What they really needed was a good radar.  The Pave Low/Combat Talon team was supposed to operate under supervision of an AW ACS which, however, they hadn't brought along.  Instead a lieutenant and a few NCOs were writing on maps and talking over secure radio circuits at the same time.

“C
AESAR
, say your fuel state,” Captain Montaigne called.

“Looking good, C
LAW
.  We're staying down in the valleys.  Estimate we'll tank again in eight-zero minutes.”

“Roger eight-zero minutes.  Be advised negative hostile radio traffic at this time.”

“Acknowledged.” That was one possible problem.  What if the Cartel had somebody in the Colombian Air Force?  Sophisticated as both American aircraft were, a P-51 left over from the Second World War could easily kill both of them.