Jack Ryan 9 - Executive Orders (153 page)

“Colonel, what happened last night?”

“Well, Barry, the enemy came in on us twice. The first time,” Eddington explained, holding a cigar in his extended hand, “we sat on that ridge back there. The second time, we were advancing, and so were they, and we met right about here . . .” The camera turned to show two tanks heading up the road, past where the colonel was giving his lecture.

“I bet those fuckers are fun to drive,” Coots said.

“I bet they're fun to shoot.” The scene changed again. The reporter's familiar, handsome face was covered with dust, with the bags of exhaustion under his eyes.

"This is Tom Donner, with the press team assigned to the 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. How can I describe the night we had? I've been riding with this Bradley crew, and our vehicle and the rest of B-Troop have gone through—I don't know how many of the enemy in the past twelve hours. It was War of the Worlds in Saudi Arabia last night, and we were the Martians.

“The UIR forces—the ones we faced were a mix of Iraqis and Iranians—fought back, or tried to, but nothing they did . . .”

“Shit, wish they'd've sent my unit,” a highway patrolman said, taking his usual seat for his beginning-of-watch coffee. He'd gotten to know some of the drivers.

“Smoky, you have those in the Ohio Guard?” Coots asked.

“Yeah, my unit's armored cavalry. Those boys from Carolina had a big night. Jesus.” The cop shook his head, and in the mirror noticed a man walking in from the parking lot.

“Enemy forces are in full flight now. You've just had a report from the National Guard force that defeated two complete armored divisions—”

“That many! Wow,” the cop observed, sipping his coffee.

“—the Blackhorse has annihilated another. It was like watching a movie. It was like watching a football game between the NFL and the Pop Warner League.”

“Welcome to the bigs, you bastards,” Coots told the TV screen.

“Hey, is that your cement truck?” the cop asked, turning.

“Yes, sir,” Holbrook answered, stopping on the way to join his friend for breakfast.

“Make sure it don't blow the hell up on you,” Coots said, not turning his head.

“What the hell is a cement truck from Montana doing here?” the cop asked lightly. “Huh?” he added to Coots.

“He's got some kinda fuel problem. We asked him to move the rig. Thanks, by the way,” he added. “Don't mean to be unneighborly, buddy.”

“It's all right. I'll have it checked for sure.”

“Why all the way from Montana?” the cop inquired again.

“Well, uh, we bought it there, and bringing it east for our business, y'know?”

“Hmmm.” Attention returned to the TV.

“Yes, they were coming south, and we drove right into them!” a Kuwaiti officer was telling another reporter now. He patted the gun tube of his tank with the affection he might have shown a prize stallion, a little man who'd grown about a foot in the last day or so, along with his country.

“Any word on when we can get back to work, Smoky?” Coots asked the cop.

The highway patrolman shook his head. “You know as much as I do. When I leave here, I go up to the line to play roadblock some more.”

“Yeah, all that good ticket money you're losin', Smoky Bear!” a driver commented with a chuckle.

“I didn't notice the tags. Why the hell drive a cement truck in from Montana?” Coots wondered. Those guys just didn't fit in.

“Maybe he got it cheap,” the cop thought, finishing his coffee. “I don't have anything on the sheet about a hot one. Damn, I wonder if anyone ever stole one of those?”

“Not that I heard of—zap!” Coots said. The current shot was of smart bombs. “At least it can't hurt much.”

“Y'all have a good one,” the cop said on the way out. He entered his Chevy patrol car and headed back to the highway, then decided to give the cement truck a look. Might as well run the tag, he thought. Maybe it was hot. Then he smelled it, too, and to the cop it wasn't the diesel . . . ammonia . . . ? It was a smell he'd always associated with ice cream, having once worked a summer in a plant which made it . . . and also with the smell of propellant in his National Guard cavalry unit. His curiosity aroused, he drove back to the cafe. “Excuse me, gentlemen, is that your truck parked over on the edge?”

“Yeah, why?” Brown asked. “We do something wrong?”

It was his hands that betrayed him. The cop saw them twitch. Something was definitely not right. “Would you gentlemen come with me, please?”

“Wait a minute, what's the beef here?”

“No beef. I just want to know what that smell is. Fair enough?”

“We're going to have it looked at.”

“You're going to have it looked at right now, gentlemen.” He gestured. “If you would, please?”

The cop followed them out, got back into his car, and drove behind them as they walked to the truck. They were talking back and forth. Something just wasn't right. His fellow highway cops were not terribly busy at the moment, and on instinct he called another car for backup, and told his headquarters to run the truck tag. That done, he got out and looked up at the truck again.

“You want to turn it over?”

“Okay, sure.” Brown got in and cranked the engine which was noisy enough.

“What is going on here?” the cop asked Holbrook “Could I see some identification, please?”

“Hey, I don't understand what the beef is.”

“No beef, sir, but I do want to see your ID.”

Pete Holbrook pulled out his wallet as another police car arrived. Brown saw it, too, looked down to see Hoi-brook's wallet in his hand, and the cop's hand on the butt of his pistol. It was just the way cops stood, but Brown didn't think of that. Neither Mountain Man had a gun handy. They had them in their room, but hadn't thought to carry them to breakfast. The policeman took Pete's driver's license, then walked back to his car, lifting the microphone—

“The tag is clean, not in the computer as hot,” the lady at the station informed him.

“Thank you.” He tossed the mike back inside and walked back to Peter Holbrook, twirling the license in his hand—

Brown saw a cop with his friend, another cop, they'd just talked on the radio—

The highway patrolman looked up in surprise as the truck jerked forward. He yelled and pointed for the man to stop. The second car moved to block him, and then the cement truck did stop. That did it. Something was just not right.

“Out!” he shouted, his pistol in his hands now. The second officer took control of Holbrook, not having a clue what this was all about. Brown stepped down, and felt his collar grabbed and himself thrust against the body of the truck. “What is the matter with you?” the cop demanded. It would take hours to find out, and then a very interesting time at the truck stop.

T
HERE WAS NOTHING
for him to do but scream, and that, uncharacteristically, he did. The video was undeniable. There was an instant respectability to global TV, and he couldn't stop it from going out. The affluent in his country had their own satellite dishes, and so did many others, including little neighborhood groups. What would he do now? Order them turned off?

“Why aren't they attacking?” Daryaei demanded.

“The Army commander and all corps commanders are off the air. We have some contact with two of our divisions only. One brigade reported it is heading north with enemy forces in pursuit.”

“And?”

“And our forces have been defeated,” Intelligence said.

“But how?”

“Does that matter?”

T
HEY CAME ON
north. Buffalo came on south. UIR III Corps didn't know what lay ahead. The discovery took place in midafternoon. Masterman's 1st Squadron had so far eliminated a hundred or so fuel and other trucks, more than the other two battalions. The only question now was how much resistance the enemy would display. From air coverage, he knew exactly where the advancing force was, in what strength and concentration, and in what direction. It was much easier than the last time he'd seen action.

A-Troop was screening in advance, with B and C three klicks back, and the tank company in reserve. As fearful a pounding as their UIR forces were taking, he decided not to use his own artillery yet. No sense warning them that tanks were close by. With contact less than ten minutes away, he shifted A-Troop to the right. Unlike the first—and only previous—battle in his career, Duke Masterman wouldn't really see this one. Instead, he listened to it on the radio.

A-Troop engaged at extreme range with both gun tubes and TOW missiles, and crumpled the first ragged line of vehicles. The troop commander estimated at least battalion strength as he engaged them from their left-front, approaching obliquely in the planned opening maneuver. This UIR division was Iraqi in origin and recoiled the other way, without realizing that it was being herded right into two more cavalry troops.

“This is G
UIDON
-S
IX
. Punch left, say again punch left,”

Masterman ordered from his command track. B and C turned to the east, sprinted about three kilometers, then wheeled back. At about the same time, Masterman let his artillery fire into the enemy's second echelon. There was no surprise to lose now, and it was time to hurt the enemy in every possible way. In another few minutes, it was clear that he was engaging at least a brigade with the 1st Squadron of the Buffalo, but the numbers didn't matter any more now than they had during the night.

For one last time, there was a mechanistic horror. The gun flashes were less brilliant in the light of day, and tanks drove through the dust of their own shots as they advanced. As planned, the enemy force recoiled again from the devastating effects of B- and C-Troop, turning back, hoping to find a gap between the first attacking force and the second. What they found were fourteen M1A2s of the squadron's tank company, spaced two hundred meters apart like a breakwater. As before, first the tanks were destroyed, then the mechanized infantry carriers, as G
UIDON
rolled into the enemy formation. Then it stopped. Vehicles not yet engaged stopped moving. Crews hopped out and ran away from them. It was the same, Masterman heard, all the way west on the line. Surprised, running, their exit blocked, the soldiers lucky enough to see what was rolling toward them in time decided that resistance was surely fatal, and the Third (and last) Battle of KKMC stopped thirty minutes after it had begun.

It wasn't quite that easy for the invaders. Advancing Saudi forces, finally in heavy contact, fought a deliberate battle, grinding their way through another brigade, this one Iranian and therefore getting more attention than an Arab unit might have, but by sunset, all six of the UIR divisions that had entered their country were destroyed. Sub-units with some lingering fight in them were ordered to surrender by senior officers, before enemies on three sides could enforce a more final decision.

The biggest administrative headache, as before, was the prisoners, all the worse with the additional confusion of nightfall. That problem would last for at least a day, commanders reported. Fortunately, in most cases the UIR soldiers had water and rations of their own. They were moved away from their equipment and placed under guard, but this far from home, there was little danger of their striking across the desert on foot.

C
LARK AND
C
HAVEZ LEFT
the Russian embassy an hour after nightfall. In the back of their car was a large suitcase whose contents would not appear overly dangerous to anyone, and was in fact largely in keeping with their journalistic cover. The mission, they decided, was slightly crazy, but while that troubled the senior member of the team somewhat, it had Ding rather juiced. The premise of it seemed incredible, however, and that had to be verified. The drive to the alley behind the coffee shop was uneventful. The security perimeter around Daryaei's home stopped short of their destination. The coffee shop was closed, what with the blackout conditions imposed on a city half at war and half at peace—streetlights were off, and windows draped, but cars were allowed to drive about with lights, and domestic electricity was evidently on. That worked to their benefit. The door lock was easily defeated in the unlit alley. Chavez eased the door open and looked inside. Clark followed, lugging the case, and both men went inside, closing the door behind them. They were already on the second floor when they heard noises. A family lived here. It turned out to be a husband and wife in their fifties, proprietors of the eating place, watching television. Had the mission been properly planned, he knew, they would have established that sooner. Oh, well.

“Hello,” Clark said quietly. “Please do not make any noise.”

“What—”

“We will not hurt you,” John said as Ding looked around for—yes, electric cords would do just fine. “Please lie down on the floor.”

“Who—”

“We will let you go when we leave,” Clark went on in literate Farsi. “But if you resist, we must hurt you.”

They were too terrified to resist the two men who had appeared like thieves in their home. Clark used the light cords to tie their arms, then their ankles. Chavez laid them on their sides, first getting the woman some water before he gagged her.

“Make sure they can breathe,” Clark said, in English this time. He checked all the knots, pleased that he remembered his basic seamanship skills from thirty years before. Satisfied, they went upstairs.

The truly crazy part was the communications lash-up. Chavez opened the case and started taking things out. The roof of the building was flat, and had a clear line of sight to another such building three blocks away. For that reason, they had to keep low. First of all, Ding set up the mini-dish. The tripod for it was heavy, with spiked feet to secure it to the roof. Next he had to turn it, to get the buzzing chirp of the carrier signal from the proper satellite. That done, he twisted the clamp to lock the dish in place. Then came the camera. This, too, had a tripod. Chavez set that up, screwed the camera in place, and aimed it, switching it on and pointing it at the center of the three buildings that held their interest. Then the cable from the camera went into the transmitter/power-supply box, which they left in the opened suitcase.