E-Book - Tom Clancy - Rainbow Six.pdf - CLANCY - midsommar

RAINBOW SIX

Tom Clancy

P R O L O G U E

SETTING UP

John Clark had more time in airplanes than most licensed pilots, and he knew the statistics as

well as any of them, but he still didn't like the idea of crossing the ocean on a twin-engine airliner.

Four was the right number of engines, he thought, because losing one meant losing only 25 percent

of the aircraft's available power, whereas on this United 777, it meant losing half. Maybe the

presence of his wife, one daughter, and a son-in-law made him a little itchier than usual. No, that

wasn't right. He wasn't itchy at all, not about flying anyway. It was just a lingering . . . what? he

asked himself. Next to him, in the window seat Sandy was immersed in the mystery she'd started

the day before, while he was trying to concentrate on the current issue of The Economist, and

wondering what was putting the cold-air feeling on the back of his neck. He started to look around

the cabin for a sign of danger but abruptly stopped himself. There wasn't anything wrong that he

could see, and he didn't want to seem like a nervous flyer to the cabin crew. He sipped at his glass

of white wine, shook his shoulders, and went back to the article on how peaceful the new world

was.

Right. He grimaced. Well, yes, he had to admit that things were a hell of a lot better than they'd

been for nearly all of his life. No more swimming out of a submarine to do a collection on a

Russian beach, or flying into Tehran to do something the Iranians wouldn't like much, or swimming

up a fetid river in North Vietnam to rescue a downed aviator. Someday maybe Bob Holtzman

would talk him into a book on his career. Problem was, who'd believe it and would CIA ever allow

him to tell his tales except on his own deathbed? He was not in a hurry for that, not with a

grandchild on the way. Damn. He grimaced, unwilling to contemplate that development. Patsy

must have caught a silver bullet on their wedding night, and Ding glowed more about it than she

did. John looked back to business class-the curtain wasn't in place yet-and there they were, holding

hands while the stewardess did the safety lecture. If the airplane hit the water at 400 knots, reach

under our seat for the life preserver and inflate it by pulling. . . he'd heard that one before. The

bright yellow life jackets would make it somewhat easier for search aircraft to find the crash site,

and that was about all they were good for.

Clark looked around the cabin again. He still felt that draft on his neck. Why? The flight

attendant made the rounds, removing his wineglass as the aircraft taxied out to the end of the

runway. Her last stop was by Alistair over on the left side of the first-class cabin. Clark caught his

eye and got a funny look back as the Brit put his seat back in the upright position. Him, too? Wasn't

that something? Neither of the two had ever been accused of nervousness.

Alistair Stanley had been a major in the Special Air Service before being permanently seconded

to the Secret Intelligence Service. His position had been much like John's-the one you called in to

take care of business when the gentler people in the field division got a little too skittish. Al and

John had hit it off right away on a job in Romania eight years before, and the American was

pleased to be working with him again on a more regular basis, even if they were both too old now

for the fun stuff. Administration wasn't exactly John's idea of what his job should be, but he had to

admit he wasn't twenty anymore . . . or thirty . . . or even forty. A little old to run down alleys and

jump over walls .... Ding had said that to him only a week before in John's office at Langley, rather

more respectfully than usual, since he was trying to make a logical point to the grandfather-

presumptive of his first child. What the hell, Clark told himself, it was remarkable enough that he

was still alive to gripe about being old no, not old, older. Not to mention he was respectable now as

Director of the new agency. Director. A polite term for a REMF. But you didn't say no to the

President, especially if he happened to be your friend.

The engine sounds increased. The airliner started moving The usual sensation came, like being

pressed back into the seat of a sports car jumping off a red light, but with more authority. Sandy,

who hardly traveled at all, didn't look up from the book. It must have been pretty good, though John

never bothered reading mysteries. He never could figure them out, and they made him feel stupid,

despite the fact that in his professional life he'd picked his way through real mysteries more than

once. A little voice in his head said rotate, and the floor came up under his feet. The body of the

aircraft followed the nose into the sky, and the flight began properly, the wheels rising up into the

wells. Instantly, those around him lowered their seats to get some sleep on the way to London

Heathrow. John lowered his, too, but not as far. He wanted dinner first.

"On our way, honey," Sandy said, taking a second away from the book.

"I hope you like it over there."

"I have three cookbooks for after I figure this one out."

John smiled. "Who done it?"

"Not sure yet, but probably the wife."

"Yeah, divorce lawyers are so expensive."

Sandy chuckled and went back to the story as the stews got up from their seats to resume drink

service. Clark finished The Economist and started Sports Illustrated. Damn, he'd be missing the end

of the football season. That was one thing he'd always tried to keep track of, even off on a mission.

The Bears were coming back, and he'd grown up with Papa Bear George Halas and the Monsters of

the Midway-had often wondered if he might have made it as a pro himself. He'd been a pretty good

linebacker in high school, and Indiana University had shown some interest in him (also for his

swimming). Then he'd decided to forgo college and join the Navy, as his father had before him,

though Clark had become a SEAL, rather than a skimmer-sailor on a tin can . . .

"Mr. Clark?" The stew delivered the dinner menu. "Mrs. Clark?"

One nice thing about first class. The flight crew pretended you had a name. John had gotten an

automatic upgrade - he had frequent flyer miles up the ying yang, and from now on he'd mainly fly

British Airways, which had a very comfortable understanding with the British government.

The menu, he saw, was pretty good, as it usually was on international flights, and so was the

wine list . . . but he decided to ask for bottled water instead of wine, thank you. Hmph. He

grumbled to himself, settled back, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. These damned flights

always seemed overheated to him.

The captain got on next, interrupting all the personal movies on their mini-screens. They were

taking a southerly routing to take advantage of the jet stream. That, Captain Will Garnet explained,

would cut their time to Heathrow by forty minutes. He didn't say that it would also make for a few

bumps. Airlines tried to conserve fuel, and forty-five minutes' worth would put a gold star in his

copybook . . . well, maybe just a silver one . . .

The usual sensations. The aircraft tilted; more to the right than the left, as it crossed over the

ocean at Sea Isle City in New Jersey for the three-thousand-mile flight to the next landfall,

somewhere on the Irish coast, which they'd reach in about five and a half hours, John thought. He

had to sleep for some of that time. At least the captain didn't bother them with the usual tour-

director crap-we are now at forty thousand feet, that's almost eight miles to fall if the wings come

off and... They started serving dinner. They'd be doing the same aft in tourist class, with the drink

and dinner carts blocking the aisles.

It started on the left side of the aircraft. The man was dressed properly, wearing a jacket-that was

what got John's attention. Most people took them off as soon as they sat down but it was a

Browning automatic, with a flat-black finish that said "military" to Clark, and, less than a second

later, to Alistair Stanley. A moment later, two more men appeared on the right side, walking right

next to Clark's seat.

"Oh, shit," he said so quietly that only Sandy heard him. She turned and looked, -but before she

could do or say anything, he grabbed her hand. That was enough to keep her quiet, but not quite

enough to keep the lady across the aisle from screaming-well, almost screaming. The woman with

her covered her mouth with a hand and stifled most of it. The stewardess looked at the two men in

front of her in total disbelief. This hadn't happened in years. How could it be happening now?

Clark was asking much the same question, followed by another: Why the hell had he packed his

sidearm in his carry-on and stowed it in the overhead? What was the point of having a gun on an

airplane, you idiot, if you couldn't get to it? What a dumb ass rookie mistake! He only had to look

to his left to see the same expression on Alistair's face. Two of the most experienced pros in the

business, their guns less than four feet away, but they might as well be in the luggage stored below

....

"John . . ."

"Just relax, Sandy," her husband replied quietly. More easily said than done, as he well knew.

John sat back, keeping his head still, but turned away from the window and toward the cabin. His

eyes moved free. Three of them. One, probably the leader, was taking a stew forward, where she

unlocked the door to the flight deck. John watched the two of them go through and close the door

behind them. Okay, now Captain William Garnet would find out what was going on. Hopefully he

would be a pro, and he'd be trained to say yes, sir no, sir-three bags full, sir to anybody who came

forward with a gun. At best he'd be Air Force- or Navy-trained, and therefore he'd know better than

to do anything stupid, like trying to be a goddamned hero. His mission would be to get the airplane

on the ground, somewhere, anywhere, because it was a hell of a lot harder to kill three hundred

people in an airplane when it was sitting still on the ramp with the wheels chocked.

Three of them, one forward in the flight deck. He'd stay there to keep an eye on the drivers and to

use the radio to tell whomever he wanted to talk to what his demands were. Two more in first class,

standing there, forward, where they could see down both aisles of the aircraft.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. I've got the seat-belt sign on. There's a little

chop in the air. Please stay in your seats for the time being. I'll be back to you in a few minutes.

Thank you."

Good, John thought, catching Alistair's eye. The captain sounded cool, and the bad guys weren't

acting crazy yet. The people in back probably didn't know anything was wrong yet. Also good.

People might panic . . . well, no, not necessarily, but so much the better for everyone if nobody

knew there was anything to panic about.

Three of them. Only three? Might there be a backup guy, disguised as a passenger? T hat was the

one who controlled the bomb, if there was a bomb, and a bomb was the worst thing there could be.

A pistol bullet might punch a hole in the skin of the aircraft, forcing a rapid descent, and that would

fill some barf bags and cause some soiled underwear, but nobody died from that. A bomb would

kill everyone aboard, probably . . . better than even money, Clark judged, and he hadn't gotten old

by taking that sort of chance when he didn't have to. Maybe just let the airplane go to wherever the

hell these three wanted to go, and let negotiations start, by which time people would know that

there were another three very special people inside. Word would be going out now. The bad guys

would have gotten onto the company radio frequency and passed along the bad news of the day,

and the Director of Security for United-Clark knew him, Pete Fleming, former Deputy Assistant

Director of the FBI-would call his former agency and get that ball rolling, to include notification of

CIA and State, the FBI Hostage Rescue Team in Quantico, and Little Willie Byron's Delta Force

down at Fort Bragg. Pete would also pass along the passenger list, with three of them circled in red,

and that would get Willie a little nervous, plus making the troops at Langley and Foggy Bottom

wonder about a security leak-John dismissed that. This was a random event that would just make

people spin wheels in the Operations Room in Langley's Old Headquarters Building. Probably.

It was time to move a little. Clark turned his head very slowly, toward Domingo Chavez, just

twenty feet away. When eye contact was established, he touched the tip of his nose, as though to

make an itch go away. Chavez did the same . . . and Ding was still wearing his jacket. He was more

used to hot weather, John thought, and probably felt fine on the airplane. Good. He'd still have his

Beretta 45 probably . . . Ding preferred the small of his back, and that was awkward for a guy

strapped into an airliner seat. Even so, Chavez knew what was going down, and had the good sense

to do nothing about it . .. yet. How might Ding react with his pregnant wife sitting next to him?

Domingo was smart and as cool under pressure as Clark could ever ask, but under that he was still

Latino, a man of no small passion-even John Clark, experienced as he was, saw flaws in others that

were perfectly natural to himself. He had his wife sitting next to him, and Sandy was frightened,

and Sandy wasn't supposed to be frightened about her own safety .... It was her husband's self

assigned job to make certain of that ....

One of the bad guys was going over the passenger list. Well, that would tell John if there had

been a security leak of some sort. But if there were, he couldn't do anything about it. Not yet. Not

until he knew what was going on. Sometimes you just had to sit and take it and

The guy at the head of the left-side aisle started moving, and fifteen feet later, he was looking

down at the woman in the window seat next to Alistair.

"Who are you?" he demanded in Spanish.

The lady replied with a name John didn't catch-it was a Spanish name, but from twenty feet away

he couldn't hear it clearly enough to identify it, mainly because her reply had been quiet, polite . . .

cultured, he thought. Diplomat's wife, maybe? Alistair was leaning back in his seat, staring with

wide blue eyes up at the guy with the gun and trying a little too hard not to show fear.

A scream came from the back of the aircraft. "Gun, that's a gun!" a man's voice shouted

Shit, John thought. Now everybody would know. The right aisle guy knocked on the cockpit

door and stuck his head in to announce this good news.

"Ladies and gentlemen . . . this is Captain Garnet . . . I, uh, am instructed to tell you that we are

deviating from our flight plan .... We, uh, have some guests aboard who have told me to fly to Lajes

in the Azores. They say that they have no desire to hurt anyone, but they are armed, and First

Officer Renford and I are going to do exactly what they say. Please remain calm, stay in your seats,

and just try to keep things under control. I will be back to you later." Good news. He had to be

military trained; his voice was as cool as the smoke off dry ice. Good.

Lajes in the Azores, Clark thought. Former U.S. Navy base . . . still active? Maybe just

caretakered for long overwater flights flying there-as a stop and refueling point for somewhere

else? Well, the left-side guy had spoken in Spanish, and been replied to in Spanish. Probably not

Middle Eastern bad guys. Spanish speakers . . . Basques? That was still perking over in Spain. The

woman, who was she? Clark looked over. Everyone was looking around now, and it was safe for

him to do so. Early fifties, well turned out. The Spanish ambassador to Washington was male.

Might this be his wife?

The left-side man shifted his gaze a seat. "Who are you?"

"Alistair Stanley" was the reply. There was no sense in Alistair's lying, Clark knew. They were

traveling openly. Nobody knew about their agency. They hadn't even started it up yet. Shit, Clark

thought. "I'm British," he added in a quaky voice. "My passport's in my bag up in t he" He reached

up and had his hand slapped down by the bad guy's gun.

Nice play, John thought, even if it hadn't worked. He might have gotten the bag down, produced

the passport, and then had his gun in his lap. Bad luck that the gunman didn't believed him. That

was the problem with accents. But Vistair was up to speed. The three wolves didn't know that the

sheep herd had three dogs in it. Big ones.

Willie would be on the phone now. Delta kept an advance team on round-the-clock standby, and

they'd be prepping for a possible deployment now. Colonel Byron would be with them. Little

Willie was that kind of soldier. He had an XO and staff to follow things up while he led from the

front. A lot of wheels were spinning now. All John and his fiends really had to do was sit tight . . .

so long as the bad guys kept their cool.

More Spanish from the left side. "Where is your husband?" he demanded. He was pretty mad.

Made sense, John thought. Ambassadors are good targets. But so were their wives. She was too

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