Tom Clancy Flash Point
Author: Don Bentley
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Military; Fiction; Suspense; War & Military; Thrillers
Description: If there’s one thing Jack Ryan, Jr’s father taught him, it’s that freedom isn’t free, but nothing can prepare Jack for the price he must pay in the latest electrifying entry in the #1 New York Times bestselling series. Jack Ryan Jr. is in a world of trouble. When a benign surveillance operation takes a deadly turn, Jack finds himself locked in a struggle with an unseen enemy bent on destroying the Campus. The chase leads Jack to the South China Sea where a midair collision between aircraft from rival nations threatens to serve as a flash point for the entire region. As Jack frantically tries t
Publisher: Penguin
Rights: Copyright © 2023 by The Estate of Thomas L. Clancy, Jr.; Rubicon, Inc.; Jack Ryan Enterprises, Ltd.; and Jack Ryan Limited Partnership

Also by Tom Clancy

The Hunt for Red October

Red Storm Rising

Patriot Games

The Cardinal of the Kremlin

Clear and Present Danger

The Sum of All Fears

Without Remorse

Debt of Honor

Executive Orders

Rainbow Six

The Bear and the Dragon

Red Rabbit

The Teeth of the Tiger

Dead or Alive (with Grant Blackwood)

Against All Enemies (with Peter Telep)

Locked On (with Mark Greaney)

Threat Vector (with Mark Greaney)

Command Authority (with Mark Greaney)

Tom Clancy Support and Defend (by Mark Greaney)

Tom Clancy Full Force and Effect (by Mark Greaney)

Tom Clancy Under Fire (by Grant Blackwood)

Tom Clancy Commander in Chief (by Mark Greaney)

Tom Clancy Duty and Honor (by Grant Blackwood)

Tom Clancy True Faith and Allegiance (by Mark Greaney)

Tom Clancy Point of Contact (by Mike Maden)

Tom Clancy Power and Empire (by Marc Cameron)

Tom Clancy Line of Sight (by Mike Maden)

Tom Clancy Oath of Office (by Marc Cameron)

Tom Clancy Enemy Contact (by Mike Maden)

Tom Clancy Code of Honor (by Marc Cameron)

Tom Clancy Firing Point (by Mike Maden)

Tom Clancy Shadow of the Dragon (by Marc Cameron)

Tom Clancy Target Acquired (by Don Bentley)

Tom Clancy Chain of Command (by Marc Cameron)

Tom Clancy Zero Hour (by Don Bentley)

Tom Clancy Red Winter (by Marc Cameron)

G. P. Putnam’s Sons

Publishers Since 1838

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com

Copyright © 2023 by The Estate of Thomas L. Clancy, Jr.; Rubicon, Inc.; Jack Ryan Enterprises, Ltd.; and Jack Ryan Limited Partnership

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023933369

Hardcover ISBN: 9780593422786

Ebook ISBN: 9780593422793

Cover design: Eric Fuentecilla

Cover images: (clouds) Evgeniyqw / Shutterstock; (flares) MyImages - Micha / Shutterstock

Title page image by Anton Balazh/Shutterstock.com

Adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Cover

Also by Tom Clancy

Title Page

Copyright

Principal Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Epilogue

About the Authors

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Principal Characters

United States Government

Jack Ryan: President of the United States

Mary Pat Foley: Director of national intelligence

Arnold “Arnie” van Damm: President Ryan’s chief of staff

Scott Adler: Secretary of state

Robert Burgess: Secretary of defense

The Campus

John Clark: Director of operations

Domingo “Ding” Chavez: Assistant director of operations

Dominic “Dom” Caruso: Operations officer

Gavin Biery: Director of information technology

Lisanne Robertson: Former director of transportation

Jack Ryan, Jr.: Operations officer/senior analyst

USS Delaware

Commander Christina Dixon: Skipper

Senior Chief Petty Officer Bill Davis: Sonar technician

Lieutenant Commander Dan Young: Executive officer

P-8 Poseidon

Lieutenant Tom McGrath: Pilot-in-command

Lieutenant Junior Grade Jack Stewart: Copilot

Lieutenant Commander Vinnie Shorts: Naval flight officer

Chinese Characters

Fen Li: Chief executive officer of the HAZ Corporation

Aiguo Wu: Member of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China

President Chen: President of the People’s Republic of China

Other Characters

Dr. Cathy Ryan: First Lady of the United States

Isabel Yang: Potential Campus helper

Master Sergeant Cary Marks: Operational Detachment Alpha 555

Sergeant First Class Jad Mustafa: Operational Detachment Alpha 555

Mario Reyes: CIA asset

Prologue

Vicinity of Paracel Islands

South China Sea

Li Jie watched as a wave broke over the bow of his ship. The green foam scoured away the paint flecking from the Dragon’s discolored deck. To Li Jie’s seasoned eye, the frothing sea was a harbinger of what was to come. An omen of both the approaching storm and the violence brewing on his vessel.

Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Li Jie used his right to touch a button on the digital display mounted in the dashboard in front of him. A swirl of angry reds and oranges filled the LCD screen as the weather radar rendered the looming storm into abstract art. As predicted, the typhoon was shaping up to be a monster. But while the sea was rough going now, Li Jie planned to have his precious cargo tucked safely back in Zhanjiang Port before the worst of the storm hit.

The same could not be said of the Vietnamese fishing trawler wallowing through the choppy seas two points off his bow and three hundred meters distant.

“Are you certain the boat is dead in the water?”

The question came from behind Li Jie, but he didn’t turn to answer. Ostensibly, this was so that he could keep his eyes on the unforgiving waves, but the raging sea was not the only danger Li Jie feared. The slip of a woman with her bone-white hair and voice as quiet as the grave terrified Li Jie in a way that thirty years of plying his trade on stretches of the world’s most dangerous oceans did not. The sea might be a fickle mistress, but even at her worst, she could claim the lives of only those who sailed upon her waters. The same could not be said of the woman. A single whisper from that unassuming voice could render Li Jie, and his entire family, ash.

“Yes,” Li Jie said, toggling the monitor to yet another display. “This feed is from our passive sonar array. The trawler is not emitting engine noise. Her power plant is completely offline.”

Li Jie gestured as he spoke, tracing the nonexistent Doppler returns with his index finger. On the surface, there was no reason why Li Jie’s vessel would possess a passive sonar at all, let alone one sensitive enough to detect and classify targets more than one hundred kilometers distant.

But there was more to the Dragon than met the eye.

Though the Dragon was registered as an ordinary Chinese-flagged cargo ship, she was anything but. Beneath the Dragon’s purposely rusting exterior was a surprisingly robust power plant capable of sending the vessel knifing through the water at greater than twenty knots and up to almost thirty in a pinch. The massive diesel engines also drove a pair of generators responsible for satisfying the Dragon’s prodigious electrical requirements. This appetite for power ran the gamut from banks of software-driven receivers designed to suck RF signals from the air to a suite of cleverly disguised electro-optical sensors that could surreptitiously observe and record activities from kilometers away.

But all of that was just window dressing compared to what the Dragon carried in the specially configured compartment deep within her hull. This fifteen-by-fifteen-meter space housed a deep-sea submersible hardened to withstand the steel-crushing water pressure at depths of greater than eight thousand meters. In his five years of captaining the Dragon, Li Jie had used the two-man minisub to tap undersea fiber-optic lines, install surveillance devices in enemy ports, monitor undersea weapons tests, and, in one case still discussed in the hushed tones the exploit deserved, beacon an American Ohio-class boomer submarine.

Still, as impressive as these exploits might be, they were but footnotes to the mission the minisub had just undertaken. A mission so secretive that for the first time in Li Jie’s tenure aboard the Dragon, the crew had been joined by a platoon of men commanded by a single woman.

Armed men.

If the hard-looking warriors had hailed from the People’s Liberation Army Navy Marine Corps, Li Jie would have still been uneasy, but not terrified. The Marine Corps’ Jiaolong Commando Unit, or Sea Dragons, were easily recognizable in their black uniforms and were often tasked to guard Chinese vessels from pirates. But the twenty men now crowding Li Jie’s berthing with their assortment of weapons and gear did not hail from any branch of the military. Instead, they were a detachment from a private security company known only by the English initials HAZ.

The men were mercenaries.

Killers for hire.

And while Li Jie and his crew had performed what at first blush had been deemed an impossible mission with the ease and professionalism for which they’d become known, the operation was not yet complete. As the woman with the quiet voice had made clear, until the Dragon was safely back in harbor and the contents of the ship’s vault transferred ashore, Li Jie and his crew were on war footing.

“Have they seen us?” the woman said, her quiet voice the whisper of steel on leather.

Li Jie paused, considering his answer.

While his years of clandestine service had taught him the need for secrecy, at his core, Li Jie was still a sailor and the thought of being caught powerless in a typhoon’s path was the stuff of nightmares. And yet, at the end of the day, a nightmare was still just a dream while the woman and her contingent of killers were very much a reality.

“I don’t know,” Li Jie said as another wave crashed over the Dragon’s bow. For a moment, the frothing water blurred the windshield, washing away the image of the stricken ship. Then the laboring windshield wipers did their work and the fishing trawler returned. “We’re jamming across the electromagnetic spectrum as per your instructions, but we’ve detected no RF energy emitting from the trawler. If she has a radar, she isn’t using it, and her radios seem to be down as well. Could be that she’s a ghost ship. Either way, without enough power for steerage, she won’t last long in this storm.”

The last sentence filled Li Jie with a sense of trepidation, but he added it nonetheless. He was a third-generation sailor and would always be the boy who’d learned about the sea while working alongside his fisherman father. Seeing the lifeless trawler wallowing in the waves clawed at his soul in a way that a non-sailor could never understand. In that moment, the ghost vessel wasn’t a Vietnamese-flagged ship. Instead, it represented his uncle and father desperately trying to bring the engines online before the South China Sea claimed another victim.

The slight woman with the bone-white hair and the power of life and death in her soft voice tapped long, elegant fingers on the faux-wood dashboard. Her emotionless eyes tracked the ailing trawler. She’d begun to speak when a signal light flashed from the trawler’s bridge, interrupting her.

engines disabled. taking on water. need assistance. urgent.

As heartbreaking as the plea was, Li Jie didn’t bother translating the flashes for the woman. The fishermen had just sealed their fate. Indeed, the slight woman was already speaking into the small radio she kept fastened to her belt. The radio that linked her to the hulking, scar-faced warrior who commanded the mercenary contingent. After a final flurry of words, the woman released the transmit button and returned the radio to her belt.

A moment later, light again split the darkness.

But this time, the light carried something far more lethal than mere words.

A series of flashes rippled across the trawler’s waterline as armor-piercing warheads detonated. The crippled vessel listed to the right, her watertight compartments flooding. In less time than it took for Li Jie to breathe a prayer to the ancestors on behalf of the fishermen’s souls, the trawler disappeared into the swirling water.

“Survivors?” the slight woman asked.

Li Jie dutifully played the Dragon’s infrared sensor across the maelstrom, searching for the telltale white thermal signature of a warm human body amid the churning black waves. He thought he’d caught a glimpse of gray during the first sweep, but the sensor’s second revealed only the raging sea.

Satisfied, Li Jie toggled the display back to the weather radar.

“None,” Li Jie said. “The storm is almost upon us. I respectfully suggest that we make for port.”

“Agreed,” the woman said. “And I respectfully suggest you get us home in one piece. More than just our lives depend on your nautical skills.”

Li Jie gave a curt nod as he advanced the twin throttles, sending the Dragon lurching forward. But behind his carefully cultivated blank face, Li Jie was shaking. He breathed a second prayer to the ancestors.

This time, the soul he bargained for was his own.

1

University of Regensburg

Regensburg, Germany

“Entschuldigung—wo ist die Fakultät für Mathematik?”

Jack Ryan, Jr., did in fact know the way to the mathematics department, but not because he was an aficionado of the Pythagorean theorem. In fact, Jack’s last math class had been under the tutelage of Father O’Neil, whose love of equations and variables was rivaled only by his adoration for the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas. Jack had escaped the class with a C-plus, much to the chagrin of his surgeon mother, who took a dim view of any mark less than a B.

Jack’s familiarity with the University of Regensburg’s quaint campus was not the result of a newfound thirst for knowledge or a desire to right his past collegiate wrongs characterized by too much time on the football field and not enough in the library. Neither had Jack’s familiarity come from strolling along the campus’s network of pedestrian paths under the azure sky and brilliant German sunshine. No, Jack knew where the math building was for the same reason he was seated at a section of tables in the cobblestone-paved common area that formed the university’s heart.

Jack was running a surveillance operation.

But he couldn’t say this to the cute blonde dressed in a white half-shirt, black Lululemon leggings, and white cross-trainers. While Jack hadn’t thought much of college math, there were certainly some aspects of the higher-education experience he’d found enjoyable.

“Sorry,” Jack said with a smile. “I’m not a student.”

The girl smiled back, and Jack’s grin widened.

At six foot two and two hundred twenty pounds, Jack was a big boy. Now that he was closer to forty than twenty, he had to hit the gym harder to maintain his athletic build. But his blue eyes were still bright, his face unwrinkled, and his brown hair thick and curly.

Judging by the coed’s reaction, Jack must not be aging too terribly.

He still had it.

“Of course not,” the girl said, laughing, as she switched to German-accented English. “You are much too old to be a student. I thought you might be visiting your child for parents’ weekend?”

Or perhaps not.

“Nope, no child,” Jack said, fighting to keep his grin from withering. “Just here for a conference.”

“Oh,” the girl said, her face reddening. “Sorry. Could you tell me where the mathematics building is located?”

“Sure,” Jack said. “Quickest way is through there.” He turned in his chair to point to the doors of the University Student Office behind him. “It’ll be the first building you see on the other side.”

“Danke,” the girl said.

She offered Jack a final smile that reeked of pity before heading into the building.

Jack gritted his teeth as he waited for the other shoe to drop. As jolting as it had been to learn that he could no longer pass as a college student, he knew the worst was still to come. As if on cue, a feminine voice echoed from a Bluetooth-equipped combination transmitter/receiver lodged deep in the canal of his right ear.

“Do we have a med kit?”

“Why?” Jack said, instantly alert.

“Thought you might need something for your bruised ego.”

The raspy tone engendered images of raven hair and vanilla-scented olive-toned skin. Unlike Jack, who was seated at a flimsy metal table with a doner kebab wrapped in aluminum foil for company, his coworker and girlfriend, Lisanne Robertson, was lounging in the grass on the south side of the University Student Office. In fact, if they’d been the only two operatives on the net, Jack might have broken protocol long enough to tell the Lebanese American woman how he’d accidentally mixed salt into his coffee after seeing her in “college attire.”

Jack didn’t.

This was partly because he was still trying to navigate the pitfalls of working clandestinely with someone who was also a love interest and partly because he and Lisanne weren’t alone on the net.

Not by a long shot.

“Don’t sweat it, Jack. We all get old.”

The high-pitched voice belonged to Gavin Biery.

Like Jack and Lisanne, Gavin was an employee of The Campus, an off-the-books intelligence agency. Unlike Jack and Lisanne, who were paramilitary officers, Gavin was The Campus’s director of information technology, and its resident hacker. As such, he was perched in his comfortable chair at The Campus’s Alexandria, Virginia, headquarters rather than in Germany.

Since the operation the three operatives were currently running had been billed as surveillance only, Gavin had asked to accompany his teammates. Jack had turned down the portly keyboard warrior. Gavin brought more to the fight ensconced in his climate-controlled IT labyrinth than he would deployed to the field.

Not to mention that he looked far less appealing in summer wear.

“First of all, I’m not old,” Jack said. “Second, I need everyone focused on the task at hand. Coffee break is coming up.”

“Whatever you say, pops,” Lisanne said, her husky voice raising goose bumps across Jack’s skin.

Before catching his flight to Munich, Jack had been called in for a sit-down with his boss and The Campus’s director of operations, John T. Clark. Clark’s operational history was both long and distinguished, beginning with his time as a SOG veteran and Vietnam-era Navy SEAL. In the ensuing years, Clark had worked as a CIA paramilitary officer and served as the original Rainbow Six. He and Jack’s father had met in the jungles of Colombia during a CIA-helmed counter-drug operation gone wrong.

Now Jack’s father was the President of the United States, and Clark was Jack’s boss. When John Clark talked, Jack listened, even on the rare occasions when he didn’t agree with what his boss had to say.

This had been one of those times.

Jack and Lisanne had been honest with their brothers- and sisters-in-arms when their relationship had firmly left platonic territory. While this wasn’t a surprise to most of their compatriots, Clark had counseled the pair on what this meant from an operational sense. In short, it changed things. Contrary to the movies, operating with someone with whom you were romantically involved was difficult.

Serving objectively as that person’s team leader was nearly impossible.

Jack hadn’t disagreed with Clark’s assessment. Who was he to argue with someone who’d been hunting his nation’s adversaries while Jack had still been in diapers? Still, this was not an operation, per se, as much as a tactical test-drive. A test-drive of Isabel Yang’s utility as well as a demonstration for a rather unique bit of software Gavin had been tinkering with for the last several months. It would also serve as a trial run for Jack’s ability to operate with Lisanne in the field. As Campus work went, you couldn’t get much more vanilla than an academic conference held in the sleepy German town of Regensburg.

Milk run were the exact words Jack had used with Clark.

“I’ve got movement on Socrates’s phone,” Gavin said.

Socrates was Isabel Yang’s call sign.

Yang was a twenty-six-year-old Ph.D. student who was being groomed as a Campus helper. The Campus’s black side numbered less than twelve people, and the flat organizational chart and lack of bureaucracy was one of the organization’s selling points. Unlike traditional members of the intelligence community, Campus operatives were not limited by findings, statutes, or authorities. Jack Ryan, Sr., and his friend and Campus founder, Gerry Hendley, were the North Stars when it came to deciding what was in and out of bounds as it pertained to sanctioned operations. Though not a history professor like his father, Jack Junior was an adept enough student of the antiquities to know that this arrangement was not a recipe for success.

But that was a problem for another day.

Jack’s near-term concern lay with The Campus’s manpower, or lack thereof. Nimble organizations were great at the type of missions that required a scalpel, but more and more often, Campus work tended toward the sledgehammer variety. With multiple teams operating simultaneously around the globe, the lack of depth in nonoperational departments like logistics, recruiting, and human resources was beginning to show. Even among the door-kickers, Campus personnel were stretched painfully thin. To make matters worse, the entity had no formal accessions process. This meant The Campus had no standardized way to vet and onboard potential new talent.

Enter Jack’s thought on helpers.

The Mossad was a shining example of how to do more with less. As a country of only about nine million people, Israel was constantly required to punch above its weight. The tiny nation’s intelligence service was no exception. As a way to even the scales against its much-better-funded and -manned counterparts, the Mossad had developed a network of helpers that spanned the globe. These men and women weren’t operatives as much as they were people in unique positions or with unique skill sets who could fill logistical or intelligence gaps for active Mossad operations.

People like Isabel Yang.

In addition to her qualifications as an academic who spoke three languages and could pass for half a dozen nationalities, Isabel was an Army brat. Her Chinese American father had been a Green Beret assigned to the 10th Special Forces Group when he’d been killed in Afghanistan. Isabel’s patriotism ran deep. Jack had first made her acquaintance during an operation in South Korea, and he’d been impressed with her mettle. Now they were taking the next step in the agent/handler relationship.

Isabel was attending the academic conference hosted by the University of Regensburg at The Campus’s behest. A conference also attended by three influential Chinese scientists whose work spanned both military and civilian applications. The conference was now entering its second day, and while Isabel had confirmed the presence of the Chinese scientists, she had yet to meet them.

Jack was hoping this would change today.

“Roger that, Gavin,” Jack said. “Can you confirm she’s heading toward the break area, over?”

“Stand by,” Gavin said.

Geolocating someone with their phone was old news. What once took the power of the NSA’s supercomputers could now be done with one of the many publicly available apps. But the utility of this capability vanished once someone was inside a structure.

Until now.

Gavin had been toying with the idea of using the accelerometer in a target’s phone to judge the direction and distance of their movement, but he’d struggled with how to baseline the algorithms. Everyone’s stride was different, and this made it difficult to judge how fast and far someone was moving once the accelerometer triggered.

Then Gavin had had one of his famous breakthroughs.

Rather than attempting to baseline a target independently, he would use the phones surrounding the target phone to measure the distance it covered. He’d developed an app that would allow him to use phones connected to a single Wi-Fi router as a miniature GPS constellation. Code-named PARSEC, the invention worked pretty well in the shakeout exercise Jack had run at a mall near Alexandria.

This was its first operational test.

“Confirmed,” Gavin said, sounding like a kid on Christmas morning. “Socrates is moving with the targets toward the break area.”

“Roger that,” Jack said. “Lisanne, you ready?”

“You bet,” Lisanne said. “Video and audio feeds are great.”

The tobacco-cessation efforts that were all the rage in America had yet to take hold in much of the rest of the world. The Chinese scientists were no exception. Thus, the common area outside the mathematics building had proven to be a popular hangout for those who preferred nicotine to caffeine for their afternoon pick-me-up. The courtyard offered a breath of fresh air along with the all-important receptacle for cigarette butts.

After watching the targets eschew the conveniently located coffee shop for the smoking area on day one, Jack had adjusted his plan in two ways. One, he’d repositioned Lisanne and her goodies. Two, he’d suggested to Isabel that she take up smoking.

Unsurprisingly, the first directive had been much better received than the second.

Isabel was a fitness fanatic who viewed smoking as only slightly less risky than taking a dip in the cooling reservoir for Chernobyl’s reactor. Even so, by the second day of the conference, the scientist had come around to Jack’s way of thinking. The trio of Chinese scientists kept to themselves in the auditorium and hadn’t attended any of the socials scheduled by the university’s faculty for the visiting scholars.

It was the smoke pit or nothing.

As a backstopped member of academia, Isabel’s legend was perfect. She was not an intelligence operative, and nothing in her background would suggest otherwise. As such, her assignment was simple—engage her Chinese counterparts in small talk. Jack hadn’t even wanted Isabel to attempt to garner an email address or contact method—that would be too obvious. Instead, he’d told her to be who she was—an accomplished academic at a conference. This strategy was designed to account for Isabel’s inexperience and Jack’s desire to use a nonthreatening environment to get the scientist’s feet wet.

Unless Jack missed his guess, he wasn’t the only shark circling the conference. Other intelligence operatives were probably likewise prowling for interesting contacts, and as a bona fide scientist, Isabel was the perfect dangle to identify other intelligence officers and their interests.

But Jack hadn’t explained this part of the plan to Isabel.

Though the scientist had acquitted herself well during their first interaction in South Korea, she was a novice operative and Jack wanted her to behave as such. Intelligence officers were adept at spotting people who were something other than what they claimed to be. Isabel would be most effective if she didn’t know she was being used.

At least that’s what Jack told himself.

“Okay,” Lisanne said, breaking into Jack’s thoughts. “I’ve got eyes on three Chinese scientists plus two minders and a couple other members of the tobacco club. Waiting for face shots.”

With her outfit, Lisanne should have no trouble enticing the men to look her way. Dressed in what passed for college casual, Lisanne was wearing a cream-colored tank top, cut-off jean shorts, and flip-flops. Though she was almost a decade older than most of the college students, Lisanne wore her age well. She’d pulled her raven hair into a ponytail, added oversized aviator sunglasses to mask her face, and mimicked the short shorts, tight tops, and painted toes that seemed to be the university’s female uniform.

Jack thought Lisanne beautiful in operator garb, but when she was dressed to impress, his girlfriend truly was a heart-stopper. Today her outfit of choice showcased miles of tan skin, and her long, brown legs looked especially appealing against the white blanket she’d spread across the grass. Normally an operative’s job was to vanish in plain sight. To assume the Gray Man persona. For Lisanne, this was impossible. Pretty could be downplayed and attractive figures could be hidden beneath layers of bulky clothes, but Lisanne’s most noticeable feature couldn’t be masked.

Her missing left arm.

In a Campus operation gone wrong, Lisanne had sustained a grievous gunshot wound that had required the amputation of her arm and almost cost her her life. In any intelligence organization but The Campus, this would have spelled the end of Lisanne’s operational career.

But The Campus wasn’t just another intelligence apparatus.

Knowing that she needed them far more than The Campus needed her, John Clark had given Lisanne the time and space to flesh out her new role. While her time as a gunfighter was over, she and Jack both believed that there were ways in which she could still contribute.

Today was a good example.

Lisanne would have turned heads with both arms. With one missing, everyone noticed her. Jack intended to use this to the team’s advantage. With her iced coffee, laptop, collection of books, and notebook, Lisanne looked like any of the other students lounging on the grass. Except that her messenger bag contained a combined camera and parabolic mic wirelessly linked to her laptop. If people were going to look at Lisanne anyway, Jack intended to leverage their curiosity to obtain facial and voice prints of the Chinese team for The Campus’s biometric database.

So far, his idea had paid off nicely.

Male scientists stared at Lisanne for obvious reasons. Their female counterparts gave her missing limb a second, and usually sustained, glance.

All the while Lisanne captured valuable intelligence.

Lisanne Robertson took the notion of a dangle to the next level.

“Say cheese, boys,” Lisanne said.

Jack unwrapped his doner and took a monster bite. He was further removed from the action than he would have liked, but as his earlier encounter with the inquisitive student had proven, Jack did not look as if he belonged. At least not in Lisanne’s easy manner. As such, he was running command and control of the operation, not a job he relished. Then again, he was enjoying the sunshine between bites of the world’s best doner with a half-empty glass of pilsner to keep him company.

There were certainly worse ways to earn a living.

“Okay,” Lisanne said, “I’ve got high-resolution shots of each target scientist and my mic is capturing the audio. I’m sending you the raw feed, Gavin.”

“Confirmed,” Gavin said. “I’ll run the audio through a translation app I borrowed from a friend at the agency. The software’s a beta version, so I’m not sure we’ll get anything useful, but it’s worth a try.”

As with all conversations with Gavin, Jack found this one insightful, as much for what the keyboard warrior did say as for what he didn’t. For instance, Gavin had pointedly left out which agency the software had originated from or how he’d borrowed it. Then again, as Ding had told Jack on multiple occasions, if you know you’re not going to like the answer, don’t ask the question.

“Lisanne,” Gavin said, “I’m showing Socrates heading for the smoke pit. You should see her any minute.”

“Tally,” Lisanne said. “She just popped out of the building. And look at this girl—she’s got a cigarette in her mouth but seems to have forgotten her lighter. Heading over to the Chinese scientists now.”

Jack set the remains of the doner on the metal table and dusted off his hands. He envisioned what was happening as he listened to Lisanne’s play-by-play. In addition to making the acquaintance of the Chinese, Gavin had pushed for a slight escalation to Isabel’s tasking. The hacker extraordinaire had been fiddling with a program he called HOUDINI, which was designed to compromise a user’s phone. Currently the app used a device’s Bluetooth port to gain entry, as this protocol was often less heavily encrypted than Wi-Fi or cell networks.

The tool had worked pretty well in testing, the only limitation being that the target phones had to be within Bluetooth range. With this in mind, Gavin had asked to try his new creation out on the Chinese scientists’ phones with Isabel serving as the delivery vehicle. Jack hadn’t seen the harm, since it wouldn’t require anything more of the scientist than what she’d already committed to doing. She’d engage in small talk with her fellow researchers while Gavin worked his magic.

Simple.

Or so Jack hoped.

“Tracking,” Gavin said. “Lemme see what we’ve got here. Okay, I’m showing three Xiaomi 12S Ultra phones. Doesn’t even look like they have standard government encryption. This is gonna be a cinch.”

Jack smothered a smile at Gavin’s response. The IT guru almost sounded offended by the lack of a challenge.

“Let’s just get it done, pal,” Jack said. “Like Ding says, sometimes you just wake up on the right side of the bed.”

Actually, Jack was pretty sure that fellow Campus operative and Rainbow cofounder Domingo “Ding” Chavez had said nothing of the sort, but his mentor was a font of knowledge. Besides, when Jack attributed something wise to Ding, no one on the team pushed back.

Usually.

“On it, Jack,” Gavin said. “Penetration in process.”

Gavin hummed an accompaniment to his clacking keyboard, seemingly oblivious to the awkward silence his pronouncement had just produced. Jack was in the process of keying the transmit button to say something—anything—to move the word penetration out of everyone’s head when Lisanne beat him to the punch.

“This is interesting,” Lisanne said, her tone all business. “Two minders have just joined the scientists. Counting Isabel, the group now numbers six.”

Jack fumbled with his cell phone, willing it to display the video from Lisanne’s sensor. Her camera/mic package had the ability to stream its pickup to any number of devices, but Jack decided not to use this feature. Live video and audio required a large data pipe, and Jack hadn’t wanted to spike any SIGINT receivers the Chinese might be employing or, worse yet, allow them to potentially compromise the feed. Based on the threat analysis, there was no reason to suspect that the Chinese were employing any such countermeasures, but in the profession of espionage, caution was the word of the day.

“How’s Socrates handling the newcomers?” Jack said.

“Like a champ,” Lisanne said. “After getting a light from Target 1, she hung around to shoot the shit. She didn’t even break stride when the two minders joined the party. This girl’s a natural.”

After spending a hair-raising afternoon with Isabel in Seoul dodging a North Korean kill team, Jack was inclined to agree. Still, it was nice to have his judgment independently verified. The recruitment process really was a courtship of sorts, and becoming blind to your asset’s shortcomings was a pitfall all handlers had to avoid. Though Isabel was something in the gray space between fellow operative and agent, Jack was the one running her. As such, he wanted to make sure he kept both eyes wide open during her evaluation phase. Even so, Jack was confident that if Isabel had the tactical sense to escape a trio of DPRK commandos, she could handle making small talk with Chinese academics.

“Hey, guys, I’m seeing something weird here,” Gavin said. “My spectrum analyzer is picking up fluxes across the entire band. It’s like—”

Gavin’s transmission ceased, mid-sentence.

Jack’s first feeling was one of annoyance. Though the computer ninja was hell on wheels when it came to the digital universe, his situational awareness often suffered when he had to transition from the world of ones and zeros to one populated by flesh and blood. Case in point, it would have been nice if Gavin had led with what exactly he was seeing.

With a start, Jack realized what his subconscious was trying to tell him.

Spectrum fluxes.

Electronic interference.

Loss of comms.

Someone was jamming Gavin’s transmission.

“Lisanne, this is Jack, do you read me?”

Silence.

“Lisanne, are you there?”

Nothing.

So much for a milk run.

2

“I have a question,” Sergeant First Class Jad Mustafa said.

Master Sergeant Cary Marks sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable. Cary had traveled the world with the man sitting across the table from him. And while the locales might change, one thing remained constant—his companion always had a question.

“What?” Cary said.

“Are we in heaven?”

Cary didn’t answer.

At least not right away.

This wasn’t so much because of annoyance, though his comrade certainly could be annoying. No, Cary’s hesitation stemmed from a much deeper root—he wasn’t sure how to reply. While Haidplatz plaza didn’t have streets of gold, Cary thought heaven might look a lot like Regensburg, Germany.

“If this is heaven, one of us is in the wrong place,” Cary said.

“Why? Because I’m a Muslim and you’re a Christian?”

“No,” Cary said with a smile, “because Saint Peter has a strict policy when it comes to admitting Green Berets—only one through the Pearly Gates at a time.”

Jad chuckled. “I should have known better than to talk theology with a Presbyterian.”

“Baptist,” Cary said.

“To-may-toe, to-mah-toe,” Jad said. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that if this isn’t heaven, it’s gotta be pretty close.”

On this, Cary agreed.

The two men were located in the outdoor seating area of a tiny Italian restaurant that specialized in amazing food and even better beer. Remnants of a margherita pizza lay between them, along with two glistening glasses of Radler. The pizza had been devoured with unabashed vigor, while the beers had been carefully nursed. Contrary to Jad’s sentiments, this was not heaven or even a vacation.

This was work.

The type of work that did not mix well with alcohol.

But if eating great pizza and drinking even better beer was what passed for a standard day in their new gig, Cary could get used to it pretty quickly.

“You don’t miss the sand fleas in Syria?” Cary said.

“I miss getting after it with the boys,” Jad said, dusting off his hands, “but take a look around. It feels like we’re guest-hosting on the Travel Channel.”

Cary chuckled, but he didn’t disagree.

Cary and Jad were both members of the 5th Special Forces Group, which was located in Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The two men were Green Berets, members of Operational Detachment Alpha, or ODA 555, also known as Triple Nickel. Triple Nickel was famously the home of the horse soldiers—Green Berets who’d embedded with the Northern Alliance and called down air strikes from horseback during the initial invasion of Afghanistan.

While these legendary exploits had been before Jad and Cary’s time, the two men had certainly done their part to add to Triple Nickel’s illustrious unit history. From multiple deployments across the Fertile Crescent, to a recent op in South Korea that had begun as a training exercise and nearly ended in war, team sergeant and sniper Cary, along with his trusty spotter Jad, had visited many foreign locales.

Physically, the two Green Berets couldn’t have been more different. Cary Marks was a blue-eyed, blond-haired farm boy from New England whose vowels gave away his Yankee roots under stress. Jad Mustafa’s dark complexion and SoCal surfer accent lent themselves to kidding from his teammates, who often accused him of being a closet SEAL.

Jad’s affinity for hair gel and fashionable clothes didn’t help.

Even so, the men’s differences in skin color and ethnicity had ceased to matter long ago. As with most combat veterans, Cary and Jad were brothers in a way that transcended birth parents or family lineage. They’d gone into harm’s way side by side more times and in more places than Cary could count, but this was the first operational assignment that could have been featured on the Travel Channel.

Coincidentally, it was also their first assignment with The Campus.

Or maybe not so coincidentally.

“Do you think all Campus trips revolve around beer and pizza?” Jad said.

Cary chuckled.

Next to his wife and kids, the New Hampshire boy had spent more time with the Libyan American surfer than he had any other human being. Much of that time had been while huddled beneath a sniper’s hide site with an M151 spotting scope and Barrett Advanced Sniper Rifles for company. Two assignments ago, while observing a cult of apocalyptic Shia militants, the snipers had saved Jack Ryan, Jr., from being nailed to a cross. One assignment ago, Cary and Jad had reunited with Ryan to prevent the Korean peninsula from going to war. Once again, the pair of Green Berets had saved Jack’s life, and this time he’d made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.

Literally.

After confessing that he shared both a name and bloodline with the President of the United States, Jack had invited the commandos to meet his mother and father and partake of a meal in the Executive Residence. During after-dinner cigars, Jack’s father had asked the pair if they’d ever considered coming over to the dark side.

Triple Nickel had just rotated back from an operational assignment in South Korea and was due some home station time to train, refit kit, and reacquaint themselves with their families. As the team sergeant, Cary’s plate was full, so his first inclination had been to decline. But one did not tell the President of the United States no, especially a president with Jack Ryan, Sr.’s credentials. That said, Senior didn’t think much of the arm-twisting method of recruiting. Instead, he’d suggested that the two men accompany his son on a shakeout of sorts.

A two-week operation in beautiful Bavaria.

Three days into the two-week mission had Cary reassessing his previous hard no. While he’d loved his time as a Green Beret, Cary had been a team sergeant now for almost ten years. He’d been passed over for promotion to sergeant major twice, meaning that his Army career had plateaued. This, coupled with his aching knees and perpetually sore back, meant that Cary’s days of humping a ruck were coming to a close. Perhaps the cloak-and-dagger world wouldn’t be such a bad way to spend the handful of years remaining until he was eligible to retire to the family maple syrup farm in New Hampshire.

Perhaps.

“Before you get too attached to cappuccinos and crumpets, remember that the first time we linked up with Jack you caught a bullet,” Cary said. “The second time, we almost started a nuclear war.”

“Eeh,” Jad said, shrugging. “Those are what we call operational hazards. Speaking of which, the fräulein a table over has been eyeing yours truly and— Wait a minute, boss.”

At the mention of the word boss, Cary’s thoughts focused like the closing of a steel trap. Cary had become attuned to his fellow Green Beret’s mannerisms at an almost subliminal level. When Jad said boss, the time for bullshitting and ass-grabbing was over. This was usually the moment when Cary moved his rifle’s selector switch from safe to fire. Except that neither Cary nor his spotter were carrying firearms.

Apparently even unicorns-and-rainbows missions had drawbacks.

“What’ve you got?” Cary said.

The two men were at the northern end of a triangular-shaped plaza, facing south. The cobblestone common area was dominated by a large statue with a tiered circular base and bounded by multistory buildings featuring coffee shops, restaurants, and a quaint gasthaus. Though not as well known as her more famous Munich or Nuremberg siblings, Regensburg was everything a tourist would want in an old European city, as the crowd thronging the plaza attested. Travelers of all ages frequented the restaurants and bars, and the statue at the plaza’s center was a popular spot for the all-important selfie.

That said, Cary and Jad weren’t at Haidplatz for beer, pizza, unicorns, or selfies. Instead, the pair were focused on the hotel on the opposite side of the plaza that was situated between another pizzeria and a Thai eatery. The five-story gasthaus embraced its stereotypical heritage with a flat façade broken by narrow windows and a pair of massive wooden doors that could have been at home on a medieval castle. To be precise, the two commandos weren’t focused on the building as much as they were on the occupants in a series of rooms on the gasthaus’s third floor.

Chinese occupants.

As per the mission brief, this was an exercise more than an operation, but Jack’s team at the University of Regensburg weren’t the only potential Campus members on their shakeout cruise. Cary and Jad had been assigned the enviable task of monitoring the hotel in which the Chinese scientists and their minders were staying. On the whole, it was a boring assignment, but in the largely unglamorous life of a sniper, boring was par for the course. Since the hotel had a single entrance and exit, the two commandos had a fairly easy task. But as per Jad’s earlier comment, in this business easy and boring existed just a hairsbreadth away from complex and terrifying.

“Bob and Jim just exited the hotel carrying duffel bags. Something’s going down.”

Cary tended to agree with his spotter’s assessment, but he also wanted to ensure they weren’t jumping to conclusions. The Green Berets were well versed in establishing a target’s pattern of life, but their experience in a metropolitan area like this was admittedly limited. Even so, Chinese men vacating their hotel in the middle of the day was not normal.

“Reposition,” Cary said to Jad as he tossed a pair of twenty-euro notes on the table. “I’ll call it in.”

“Roger that,” Jad said.

The Libyan American left the table, heading for the restaurant’s interior. Cary turned slightly in his chair to better see the plaza and, more important, the two targets code-named Bob and Jim.

Surveillance was the ultimate game of cat and mouse. Oftentimes, a surveillance target employed his or her own set of watchers in the form of a countersurveillance team to identify the opposing force. A triggering event was a tried-and-true way to force the surveillance team to react and thereby inadvertently identify themselves.

Since Cary’s team consisted of just two people, Jad had to reposition to cover the mobile Chinese team. But Jad was walking into the restaurant away from the Chinese targets rather than following them outright, in the hopes of confusing potential countersurveillance assets.

“Scepter, this is Reaper, over,” Cary said at a whisper.

Like the rest of the Campus team, Cary and Jad were equipped with low-profile receiver/transmitters. Since the surveillance operation the Green Berets were running was separate from Jack’s efforts at the college, Cary had stayed off the other Campus team’s net. But if Cary was right and the Chinese men really were abandoning the hotel, the two efforts were about to intersect.

A white Sprinter van weaved through the narrow streets before stopping just to the west of the pizza shop. The sliding cargo door opened, revealing a dark interior.

Jim and Bob angled toward the vehicle.

Showtime.

3

Jack’s first urge was to start walking toward Lisanne.

He didn’t.

At the moment, Jack knew just one thing—his team’s communications had been compromised. If the loss of comms could be attributed to a hostile intelligence service, as opposed to atmospheric interference or just plain bad luck, what he did next would be very important. Gavin’s observation regarding signal interference across the frequency band suddenly took on much greater significance. Jack wasn’t an RF expert, but even he knew the difference between targeted and broad-spectrum jamming. One was possible only if you knew the exact frequency on which your adversary was operating.

The other was employed when you had to blanket an entire frequency band.

The jamming could be happening because someone suspected an ongoing operation but didn’t know for sure. If Jack leapt to his feet and made for Lisanne at the exact moment his team lost connectivity, that suspicion would fast become a certainty.

Caution was the word of the day.

Jack’s phone buzzed with a text from Lisanne.

Trouble!

Or not.

Jack stood, pausing as he thought. The lack of a comforting bulge at his right hip had never felt more apparent. This operation was just one step above a training exercise. Though the team was running surveillance, they had neither the mission brief nor the perceived need to go kinetic. Jad and Cary hadn’t been officially transferred over to The Campus’s operational logs, Isabel was a civilian, and Lisanne had just one hand.

Getting into a gunfight was not an option.

Jack’s gaze drifted to the red lines bisecting his left forearm. The scars were a memorial from the last time he’d encountered a Chinese MSS operative unarmed. The locale was Tel Aviv rather than Western Europe, but the experience had been far from pleasant. Shaking off the morbid thought, Jack thumbed a message to Lisanne with one hand while yanking open the door leading to the Student Office with the other.

Coming.

Jack hit send and then pushed through the lobby, dodging milling groups of college kids. Passing through a common area adorned with the requisite coffee shop as well as tables and nooks set aside for studying, Jack exited the southern side of the building to a raised walkway.

To his right, a pedestrian path meandered westward through a series of grassy areas shaded with beech trees. To the left, the same pathway led east before intersecting a north/south-running fairway that paralleled Jack’s walkway back to the Student Office to the north while bisecting the mathematics building to the west and a parking garage to the east. A grassy common area abutted the parking garage, bounded by a pond separating the Student Office from the university proper. A striking woman was stretched out on a blanket amid a pile of books on the grassy area’s eastern edge.

Lisanne.

If she’d noticed Jack’s arrival, Lisanne gave no sign.

To be fair, her attention was probably focused on the mathematics building to her west, or, more specifically, the smoking area where Isabel Yang was presumably trying to make small talk with a trio of Chinese scientists. Jack couldn’t see the outdoor courtyard from his vantage point, as the building’s eastern corner and a clump of trees blocked his sight line. But Jack did notice a pair of BMW motorcycles racing north along the pedestrian path, heading straight for the building.

Not good.

Both drivers were helmeted and wearing head-to-toe leather in the manner common to German motorcyclists, making it a challenge to determine their identity. Not to mention their intentions. Judging by the way the students scattered at the riders’ approach, motorbikes roaring across the university’s green space was not a regular occurrence.

Abandoning all pretenses of blending in, Jack sprinted along the walkway and darted to the left, vaulting down the steps leading to the eastward-bound path.

“Reaper, this is Scepter,” Jack said as he ran for the building. “We’ve got trouble.”

The answering silence seemed to confirm Jack’s suspicions. The motorbikes’ appearance and the corresponding loss of comms was not a coincidence.

Something was about to go down.

Something bad.

Lisanne stood, but Jack ignored the raven-haired beauty, focusing on the math building instead. Lisanne had one arm, no way to communicate, and no weapon.

She wouldn’t be much help with whatever happened next.

The pair of bikes arrived at the smoking area about fifteen seconds before Jack. As Jack spun around the corner, the bikes came to a halt. A scrum of Asian men from the smoking area walked someone into the grass. Jack caught a glimpse of a youthful Asian man in his early twenties with close-cropped hair and black Buddy Holly–style glasses. The man’s escorts pushed him toward the nearest bike. He was clearly hesitant, but after a less-than-friendly shove, he climbed behind the driver.

Jack tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Was this a kidnapping?

He didn’t think so, at least not in the traditional sense. A person could not be compelled to stay on a motorbike. But just because he voluntarily climbed on the machine didn’t mean the Asian man was doing so of his own free will. Renditions came in all shapes and sizes. If snatching someone off a dark street and throwing a bag over their head was one end of the extreme, coercing a person to leave was on the other. Every fiber of Jack’s being screamed that what he was witnessing was some form of a rendition.

But what could he do about it?

With the passenger now aboard, the bikes accelerated away from the smoking area in a cloud of exhaust, heading north before veering west—toward Jack. In an instant, Jack understood. The pedestrian path the motorcyclists were following passed a parking garage before intersecting Universitätsstrasse, a large north/south street. Once there, the autobahn in the form of west/east-running Highway 3 was only five hundred meters south.

The kidnappers were as good as gone unless Jack did something.

Something stupid.

As the bikes roared toward him, Jack eyed the pavement below, computing angles. The motorcyclists would have to slow as they passed beneath the pedestrian bridge in order to weave through an assortment of tables. Their most likely course would bring them alongside the stairwell to Jack’s left, which presented Jack with an opportunity.

A slight one.

Dashing down the concrete stairs two at a time, Jack reached the edge of the staircase just as the bikes roared past. He let the first one carrying the reluctant passenger speed by.

Then he vaulted into the air.

For a long moment, Jack saw nothing but concrete. He had just enough time to consider how ridiculous he would look belly-flopping onto the pavement when the second bike appeared exactly where he hoped it would.

Well, almost exactly.

Rather than follow the lead cycle’s path, the second bike had offset slightly to the right. This meant that instead of landing on the rider’s back, Jack was hurtling toward the beckoning concrete.

Jack was a big man.

Not linebacker-sized for sure, but large enough to put his mass to use. He’d intended to clothesline the motorcyclist. Unfortunately, his trajectory wasn’t the only thing Jack had misjudged. The rider shot beneath him in a blur of leather and a blast of engine noise. Jack missed the chance to take his opponent out at the throat, so he improvised.

Grabbing a fistful of leather jacket, Jack opted for a collar tackle instead.

It was an effective technique.

Highly effective.

The bike went in one direction and the motorcyclist in the other. The man hit the concrete with an audible thump as the BMW careened into the grass and fell on its side. Jack landed mostly upright, taking the impact with bent knees.

The rider wasn’t as lucky.

The man’s helmeted head bounced off the ground, and he lay still. Jack debated flipping up the motorcyclist’s dark visor for a look at his face, but the sound of the first BMW’s fading motor cemented his course of action. Running to the sputtering bike, Jack lifted the motorcycle, swung his right leg over the frame, and shot after the lead bike.

Even though interdicting the second rider had taken just seconds, the first bike had already gained a sizable lead. After navigating the outdoor seating area, the driver had opened up the throttle. The rider looked to still be accelerating, leaving Jack at yet another crossroads. Jack could attempt to overtake the nimble bike by following the same path or make up time by off-roading to an intercept point farther to the south. But if Jack guessed wrong and the biker went north instead of south, he’d lose the pair completely.

An oblivious student made Jack’s choice for him.

The man stepped from the building’s awning, directly into Jack’s path. With earbuds in place, eyes locked on his phone, and finger busily scrolling, the student was in another world. If Jack continued his current trajectory, the man would remain there.

Permanently.

Cursing through clenched teeth, Jack leaned the bike to the left as he downshifted. The engine’s RPMs skyrocketed and the BMW screamed, finally breaking through the student’s electronics-induced stupor. The kid’s eyes jerked from his cell to Jack, widening as his mouth opened into a silent O. Jack flashed past the still-frozen student, rolling on more throttle as he swung his weight back to the right. The BMW fishtailed, but Jack kept the bike upright and on the path.

Mostly.

Deviating around the student required steering the BMW into the grass, and the motorbike’s tire tore a chunk of sod from the perfectly manicured lawn. The good news was that Jack was still atop the bike and the hapless student was unharmed. The bad news was that he was now committed to the path leading south, while his quarry had chosen the branch heading north. Slaloming through a copse of trees, Jack burst through the foliage onto a north/south-running pedestrian path that formed the westernmost boundary of the campus.

Jack braked hard, then planted a foot on the ground as he added gas, pivoting the bike around his leg. This maneuver worked well with the lighter dirt bikes Jack liked to ride with his younger brother, Kyle, but it was more difficult on the heavier BMW. Jack added even more gas as the turn faltered, and the bike quivered beneath him, the one-hundred-plus-horsepower engine screaming. Jack shot out of the turn like a stone slung from David’s sling. He barreled down the pathway toward his rapidly disappearing quarry. Leaning over the handlebars, Jack squinted his eyes against the blasting wind and stinging grit.

The kidnapper was about one hundred yards away, but the bike’s brake lights flashed red as the driver weaved between a stand of trees in an impressive display of ridership. Jack knew from his pre-mission reconnaissance that the stretch of land to his west consisted of a thick forest and the occasional fallow field. In other words, that direction should be clear of hapless students. With the area in front of him open, and the common area to his right similarly empty of pedestrians, Jack dropped the hammer.

The bike surged as the BMW’s suspension cushioned the off-road ride.

Up ahead, the bike Jack was pursuing fishtailed around the western edge of a multistory structure, vanishing from sight. Jack pushed his motorcycle beyond his comfort zone, cycling through the gears as fast as he could shift. He couldn’t for the life of him figure where the kidnappers were going. Jack would have turned left instead of right, roaring south down Universitätsstrasse and the quick getaway represented by Highway 3. Heading in the opposite direction was counterintuitive.

Then Jack understood.

He was thinking about the escape as if the passenger was a willing accomplice rather than a kidnapping victim. The captive had been coerced aboard the bike, but each moment he spent behind his kidnapper was another moment he could reassess his decision. The kidnappers had used motorcycles in order to quickly evacuate the victim from campus. But the bikes were not a viable long-term transportation solution. The lead motorcyclist was taking the Asian man somewhere specific.

Or to someone specific.

If memory served, the structure the kidnapper had just rounded was the university’s cafeteria. A parking lot ran along the building’s western side. A parking lot sheltered from view from the rest of the university by the building’s bulk with ready access to Universitätsstrasse, as well as a number of west-running smaller roads that dumped into an even larger traffic artery—Highway 93. The kidnappers intended to use the parking lot to transfer the Asian man to another vehicle.

Jack redlined the engine, transforming the trees to his left into one continuous blur. If the kidnappers made the transfer before Jack arrived, they were as good as gone.

Using the track chosen by the other motorcycle as his guide, Jack plowed across the lawn rather than attempt to follow the footpath’s ninety-degree turn to the left. The BMW groaned in response, but Jack downshifted, keeping the bike upright as he added more torque to the rear tire with a liberal application of throttle. The bike tore massive ruts into the manicured grass, but Jack stayed on course, perhaps for too long. He off-roaded across the lawn, zipped between two trees, and picked up the path just as it made another ninety-degree turn, this time to the north.

As he rounded the corner, Jack saw everything.

The BMW he’d been pursuing was idling next to a white Sprinter van. The van’s sliding cargo door was open and two beefy Asian men were muscling the much-less-compliant victim. Jack’s screaming engine drew the group’s attention. Which made him realize that he’d been focused exclusively on staying with the fleeing motorcyclist, to the detriment of planning what he’d do once he caught him.

Jack cut left, paralleling the stone wall bounding the parking lot with the intention of blocking the van’s exit to the north. He wasn’t sure exactly how that was going to play. In a game of chicken, Jack’s motorcyle was no match for the five-thousand-pound Sprinter.

Then again, maybe Jack’s presence would be enough to thwart the men. Up until this point the kidnappers hadn’t broken anything but the speed limit. Jack’s gut said that the Asian man had been abducted, but he didn’t know for sure.

Perhaps this was all just a big misunderstanding.

Or, judging by the kidnappers’ submachine guns, perhaps not.

4

Cary repositioned his phone, activated the record feature, and engaged the digital zoom as he tried Jack again.

“Any station vicinity Scepter, this is Reaper, over.”

Still nothing.

“Reaper 2, this is Reaper 1,” Cary said. “Are you receiving my Scepter transmissions, over?”

“One, this is 2, that’s a roger,” Jad said. “Want me to try?”

Cary considered the request.

If the two men had been using radios rather than cells to communicate, it would have made sense for Jad to give Jack a call. But as the reception bars at the top of Cary’s phone’s display clearly indicated, interference was not the reason for Jack’s silence. At least not on Cary’s end. Besides, the two Chinese men were loading their bags into the van.

Cary wanted Jad focused on the task at hand.

“Negative, 2,” Cary said. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. You in position, over?”

While the plaza offered an exit to the east in the form of a narrow street, the walkway’s tight confines serviced mostly pedestrians. The occasional delivery van braved the winding turns and outdoor seating areas, but vehicular traffic was minimal. With this in mind, Cary had gambled that when the Chinese watchers departed the hotel for good, they would use the western access point. This side street, while also narrow, was at least straight, and it emptied into a large intersection known as Arnulfsplatz, or Stephen’s Place. Five separate roads sprouted from Stephen’s Place heading in every cardinal direction, making it an ideal jumping-off point.

Since the van’s nose was pointed west, Cary thought he’d guessed correctly.

“Come on, boss,” Jad said. “I’m fast, but I’m not the Flash. Besides, Mom always said not to run on a full stomach.”

“If only Mrs. Mustafa could see her boy now,” Cary said, getting to his feet. “Bob and Jim are in the van and the door’s closing. Pick up the pace, soldier.”

As per their plan, Jad had exited the restaurant through a side door and was now hauling ass west. The speed at which he traveled down the street wasn’t so much driven by how fast Jad could run as it was by how quickly he could move without looking out of the ordinary. All of their planning would be for naught if a countersurveillance team identified Jad before he was in position to interdict the van with the Chinese men.

On the other hand, the men had cleaned out their hotel room. They weren’t coming back, and if the van made it to Stephen’s Place and disappeared, the Green Berets would not have a chance to reacquire the Chinese team.

The cargo door slammed shut, and the van edged forward.

“Van’s moving,” Cary said.

“Fifty more meters,” Jad said.

The huffing between his words suggested that the Libyan American was now all-out sprinting. Cary needed to buy Jad time, even if it meant burning himself in the process. Fortunately, he’d planned for just such a contingency. A bike rack sat at the edge of the plaza where the cobblestones met the street. A bike rack directly along the van’s route of travel.

Reaching into his pocket, Cary fingered a key fob and depressed the unlock button.

No set of corresponding car doors unlocked.

Instead, the mountain bike closest to the road jumped as its rear tire detonated with a sharp crack. The popping tire caused a ripple through the crowd as people instinctively turned toward the noise. Cary had also added a little bit of dust to the small explosive for a better visual, and the combination of sound and sight caught everyone’s attention.

Including the van’s driver.

The Sprinter’s brake lights illuminated as the vehicle screeched to a halt. The dust settled a moment later to the accompaniment of nervous laughter from the crowd. Bike tires didn’t spontaneously explode every day, but it was an understandable event. The Sprinter’s driver seemed to come to the same conclusion. After a brief pause, the vehicle smoothly accelerated west.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said. “Bought you all the time I could. Hopefully it was enough.”

“Of course it was,” Jad said, no longer huffing. “I’m a Green Beret, not a SEAL.”

Cary smiled as he headed toward a café on the opposite side of the plaza and the car parked by its entrance. His stride was quick but measured. Jad would pick up the van and have the eye as the surveillance turned mobile until Cary was in position to help. Though he wanted to link up with his fellow commando as soon as possible, Cary was still determined not to give away his presence to a potential countersurveillance team.

So far, everything was going to plan.

Except for the eyes Cary felt on the back of his neck.

—

Life as a Green Beret had taught Cary many things, not the least of which being when to trust his lizard brain. The career Cary had chosen was often more suited to his primal instincts than to the intellect he’d spent his life developing. In Cary’s line of work, the maxim “kill or be killed” was not just idle posturing.

This sentiment was doubly true for a sniper.

Every time he lay in a hide stalking a target, Cary had to remain conscious of the fact that a man or woman with similar abilities could very well be on the opposite side of the battlefield hunting him. With this in mind, Cary worked hard to stay in tune with his subconscious. Though he was as willing as the next operator to make use of all the technology his nation put at his disposal, Cary knew that the primitive portion of his mind should not be discounted.

Especially in moments like this.

Cary slowed as he approached the car, trying to give the impression that he was just another tourist enjoying the amazing Bavarian weather. He wanted to avoid conveying anxiousness with an impatient stride. Even though he knew that the Chinese team and his fellow Green Beret were moving farther away with each passing second, Cary practiced tactical patience. This was yet another lesson he’d learned while slithering on his belly. A sniper’s success or failure almost always came down to the stalk, not the shot.

Cary paused as he transitioned from cobblestone to pavement, shooting a quick look up and down the street before crossing. The German propensity to follow rules was even more pronounced in motorists, but accidents still happened. Case in point, a black Audi revved its engine and accelerated out from a parking spot just to Cary’s left. Cary reflexively took a step back as the station wagon zoomed by, and his surprise provided him with an ample excuse to peer into the vehicle’s cabin.

A pair of fit men occupied the front two seats.

Cary wasn’t the only one interested in the hotel.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said as he opened the door to the Volkswagen hatchback. “Status, over?”

“One, this is 2. I’m mobile. Where do you want me to set up, over.”

Cary considered his response as he dropped into the driver’s seat, fastened his seatbelt, shut the door, and cranked the tiny motor. In no scenario could a two-man surveillance team keep eyes on a mobile target for long. If this were a traditional operation, Cary would have at least four mobile teams at his disposal. The large number of participants allowed the team leader to flex the team to any cardinal direction the target chose, while rotating the participants through the “eye” position at regular intervals. This helped to prevent the target from identifying their pursuers. A moving surveillance with just two members couldn’t do any of this.

Fortunately, Cary had a couple aces up his sleeve. One, he knew the Chinese team’s destination—the University of Regensburg. Two, Cary had guessed the route that they would take and had a plan to interdict them. The university was just three kilometers south of the hotel, but a large railway station formed a natural barrier along the most likely direction of travel.

The railway station featured almost two dozen east/west-running tracks. Only two roads bridged across the station—Kumpfmühler Strasse to the west of the hotel and Galgenbergbrücke to the east. Of the two, Kumpfmühler was the more direct way, so Cary had assumed the Chinese operatives would take it. So far that bet was paying off, which meant that it was time to place another. Jad was on a motorbike, meaning the Green Beret was incredibly mobile, but also very recognizable.

Accordingly, the two men had decided that the spotter would stage ahead on the Chinese team’s route rather than tail them directly. Cary would close ground with the intention of taking over eye duties from Jad once the Chinese team was committed to the university’s winding streets. Now Cary had to decide where to position his spotter, in the hopes of interdicting the moving Chinese operatives without burning the surveillance.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said as he accelerated through a traffic circle bordered by a collection of quaint shops and restaurants before turning south on Neuhausstrasse. “Recommend you stage vicinity Grisham, over.”

“One, this is 2, acknowledge Grisham, over.”

Grisham was the parking lot of a tobacco shop located just on the southern side of the railway station. Since the shop sat at an intersection of three roads that led to the university, it formed a natural choke point. If it were Cary in the driver’s seat of the Sprinter van, he would execute a surveillance-detection route, or SDR, after exiting the bridge to identify any pursuers following him across the channelizing terrain. By arriving at the parking lot ahead of the van, Jad could shadow it through either of the three routes without arousing the team’s suspicion.

At least that was the theory.

After a tight turn by the Theater Regensburg, Cary accelerated south, passing the iconic Bismarckplatz on his left. As per his earlier reconnaissance, the pedestrian area was crammed with people, forcing Cary to balance his desire to close distance with the Chinese team with the requirement to drive slowly enough to dodge any wandering and perhaps inebriated tourists. In another couple hundred meters, Cary would be through the most congested part of the town.

A pair of flashing brake lights announced a traffic snarl in the form of several Germans making use of a crosswalk. Cary took his foot off the accelerator, allowing the vehicle to decelerate. A moment later the brake lights resolved into the Audi station wagon. With a curse, Cary realized he’d forgotten to inform his spotter about the new addition to their surveillance.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said. “Be advised, we’ve got at least one new player in the game. A dark Audi station wagon broke station shortly after the Chinese team left the hotel. The occupants are two military-aged males. Currently at the intersection of Schottenstrasse and Wiesmeierweg proceeding south, over.”

“One, this is 2, roger all. Do you have a plate, over?”

As if tuned to the Green Berets’ frequency, the Audi accelerated away from the crosswalk just as Cary got close enough to read the plate. “Two, this is 1, I’ve got a partial Sierra, Alpha, Delta, over.”

“One, this is 2,” Jad said. “Got it. How do you want to play this?”

Cary turned the problem over in his head.

Jad was asking whether Cary intended to blow by the Audi so that he could continue to close the gap with the Sprinter van. While this was the more conservative play with respect to the Chinese, if the two men inside the Audi were on a surveillance mission as well, doing this meant Cary would risk burning himself. Though the art of surveilling a target was a constantly evolving practice, one tenet remained unchangeable—seeing the same person or vehicle across multiple locations and times equated to a surveillance team. Cary had gotten a good look at the Audi’s occupants, so tradecraft dictated that he assume the men had also gotten a good look at him in return. If the Audi’s passengers saw him again, they would assume that Cary was a fellow espionage practitioner.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said, maintaining his interval with the southbound vehicle. “I’m on the most direct route to cross the railway station. I’m going to stay with the Audi, but not attempt to pass him. No change in your task—lock down that Sprinter van once he hits the south side of the bridge. If the Audi’s still in play, we’ll deal with it then.”

“Roger that, boss,” Jad said. “I’m set up at Grisham and oriented north time now. I’ve got line of sight to the south side of the bridge only. No sign of the van.”

“One copies all,” Cary said. “Bridge is about a klick south of my current location. You should be seeing the van in the next thirty seconds, over.”

“Standing by,” Jad said.

Ideally, Jad would be able to observe the entire length of the bridge, but finding a location that would allow him to do so hadn’t been possible. The street swung to the southwest after exiting the bridge, bisecting two grassy areas heavily populated by thick stands of trees. In the trade-off between observing the bridge and observing the intersection south of the bridge, Cary had chosen the intersection. Setting up on the south side of the choke point would allow Jad to follow the van through several likely avenues of approach without giving away his presence.

This was the better tactical solution.

Even so, Cary would have loved to have eyes on the Chinese team right about now. Unfortunately, the Audi was keeping its distance, which meant Cary had to do the same.

Then Cary understood why.

Like the Green Berets, the Audi’s occupants were professionals. This meant that unlike he and Jad, the two men ahead of him were most likely part of a larger surveillance effort, so they had no need to get closer to the Sprinter van.

This revelation did nothing to ease Cary’s irritation.

But it did present an opportunity.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said. “Change of plan. I’m going to blow past the Audi and proceed to King to see if I can reestablish comms with Scepter. If the Chinese team is heading toward Scepter, I’ll be able to acquire them. If not, I’m going to collapse onto Scepter’s position to see what’s happening there, over.”

“One, this is 2,” Jad said. “Copy all. Be advised, I tried to establish comms with Scepter from my location and was unsuccessful. Something doesn’t feel right, boss.”

“Agreed, 2,” Cary said. “Ending surveillance time now.”

Jad’s transmission solidified Cary’s resolve. While he didn’t like abandoning the surveillance, Cary believed that larger forces were now in play. As a young Green Beret, Cary had been the beneficiary of countless bits of wisdom doled out by his crusty seniors. Some aspects of that sage advice had been more useful than others, but one slogan had proven true time and time again. In an operation, there was no such thing as a coincidence. The Green Berets had lost communication with Jack’s team at the same moment the Chinese men had vacated the hotel.

The game was afoot.

Cary pressed the accelerator to the floor.

German motorists weren’t perfect, but they were much more likely to comply with traffic laws than their American contemporaries. This was especially true of the most sacrosanct traffic law of them all—the left lane was only for passing. Cary put on his left blinker and slid into the adjacent lane as he continued to add speed. The Volkswagen’s underpowered engine voiced its displeasure with a sound that was more a squeal than a growl.

There were many things Cary loved about Europe.

Shopping cart–sized cars wasn’t one of them.

Up ahead, the Audi crested the north side of the bridge.

“One, this is 2. The Sprinter just came off the bridge. Currently stopped at a light. Intersection of Kumpfmühler and Friedenstrasse, over.”

“Roger that, 2,” Cary said, barreling onto the bridge. “I’m gonna turn east at the intersection, then south on University before heading east toward Scepter’s last known location, over.”

“Two copies all. Be advised, Sprinter is moving through the intersection . . . heading east on Friedenstrasse. I say again, east on Friedenstrasse, over.”

The Chinese were taking the shortest route to the university. Cary had guessed correctly. The Audi edged into the fast lane, blowing by the slower-moving traffic.

Cary closed the distance further.

He was now only fifty meters from the station wagon.

The operation might just go according to plan after all.

Then the Audi’s tire ruptured.

5

One moment the station wagon was zipping across the bridge.

The next, its rear driver’s-side tire blew in a cloud of smoke and chunks of rubber. Cary covered the brake with his foot, not yet knowing whether stopping in the current lane or accelerating into a different one would be the correct response. The effects of losing a tire at a high rate of speed could range from inconvenient to deadly, depending on the driver’s reaction.

The Audi fishtailed for a millisecond as the car yawed right.

This was the moment of truth.

Steady hands and slow braking equaled an inconvenience.

The brake lights burned red, and the car jerked left as the driver overcorrected.

Then the station wagon was airborne.

Cary cursed as the car hurtled over the concrete-and-metal barrier separating the road from the elevated pedestrian walkway that ran the length of the bridge. The Audi’s undercarriage snagged on the barrier, and the car rotated, smashing against concrete. For an instant Cary thought the station wagon would continue its roll, tumbling over the railing. But in a miracle of physics, the car balanced on the tubular steel, teetering toward the precipice, but not falling.

Yet.

Braking, Cary nosed his car to the left, blocking the fast lane as he activated his hazard lights. The groan of steel on steel greeted his arrival as the Audi rotated, its hood dropping toward the beckoning tracks. Cary slammed the transmission into park, hurtled the barrier, and ran toward the stricken car.

The metal tubing had embedded in the Audi’s roof, preventing the car from falling, but also acting as a fulcrum. With the heavy engine and the weight of the passengers both located in the section of car closest to the drop, Cary knew it was only a matter of time before the Audi plunged over the side.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said as he sprinted for the Audi. “Forget the van—I need your help. Now.”

“One, this is 2, roger that. What’s up?”

“The Audi went off the road,” Cary said. “They’re balanced on the side of the bridge and— Fuck!”

As Cary drew even with the Audi, he could see beyond the vehicle for the first time. Or, more specifically, he could see what waited on the pedestrian walkway beyond the car. A man dressed in motorcycle gear stood next to an idling bike.

A man cradling a submachine gun.

His helmet’s visor was open, revealing dark eyes that widened at Cary’s sudden appearance. The submachine gun came up to the man’s shoulder in one fluid movement.

Cary dove for the concrete as a burst of automatic fire ripped through the air.

“One, this is 2, say again, over.”

“Gunman on the pedestrian walkway, east side of the bridge,” Cary said, crawling toward the car on all fours. “He’s facing north and doing his best to fill me full of holes, over.”

“Two copies all. Sit tight, over.”

Though Cary had the utmost faith in his spotter, he would be doing nothing of the sort. The gunman didn’t have a direct bead on Cary, but he knew that advantage wouldn’t last long. The shooter was already advancing toward the car. Covering the last few feet to the Audi in a crouch, Cary drew even with the driver’s-side door as the automobile let out another long groan.

Cary paused, his fingers just short of the door handle, as he deliberated what effect he might have on the vehicle’s equilibrium. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally send the Audi slipping onto the tracks twenty feet below. Then an explosion of glass made the decision for him. If Cary did nothing, the shooter would kill the men inside the car and him along with them.

Better to go out swinging.

Wrenching open the door, Cary came face-to-face with the car’s occupants. Both men were unconscious. Judging by the angle of his limp head, the passenger’s neck was broken. While he wanted to help the crash victims, Cary knew his first task lay with neutralizing the shooter. Cary patted the driver’s midsection and waist as another burst of automatic fire raked the car.

The passenger’s body jerked as several rounds found their mark.

Cary resisted the urge to duck out of the Audi. If he didn’t find what he was looking for, Cary would be sharing the passenger’s fate. After a moment of pure terror, Cary’s questing fingers touched the unmistakable hardness of a plastic polymer grip. Stripping the Glock from the man’s holster, Cary sighted around the edge of the car and fired a quick pair at the still-advancing gunman. The gunman jerked but didn’t fall. Instead, he took a knee and fired a more prolonged burst at the precariously perched SUV.

The shooter was wearing body armor.

Perfect.

“Two, this is 1,” Cary said. “Be advised, the gunman’s wearing body armor, over.”

“Two copies all,” Jad said. “Thirty seconds.”

In addition to a penchant for getting on each other’s nerves, the many long hours Cary had spent shoulder to shoulder with his best friend had yielded a much more valuable trait—trust. Cary didn’t ask Jad what the fellow Green Beret was planning because he trusted his spotter. Well, that and the fact that the car let out a prolonged groan as the hood dipped ever lower.

Cary didn’t have thirty seconds.

After taking a steadying breath, Cary leaned around the car’s bumper, using the vehicle frame to steady his arms. He found the crouching figure with the pistol’s stubby front sight post and dropped the hammer. In the space of five seconds, Cary emptied half the magazine, scoring multiple hits to the gunman’s torso with little effect.

At least little deadly effect.

As was often the case in gunfights, Cary’s rapid, controlled, and accurate fire shifted the fight’s psychological balance. With its longer barrel, higher rate of fire, and greater magazine capacity, the gunman’s submachine gun was vastly superior to Cary’s Glock, especially in a short-range engagement such as this one.

But head knowledge was not the same as heart knowledge.

The shooter gave in to his fear, crouching behind a metal barrier as Cary’s 9-millimeter rounds kicked up concrete and pinged off steel. With a final flurry, Cary expended the remainder of the magazine. Tossing the pistol to the ground, he spider-crawled to the still-open driver’s door even as the vehicle teetered toward the tracks. With a gunman intent on his death and the Audi threatening to drag him over the side, no one would have faulted Cary for just standing aside as fate took its course.

But Green Berets weren’t much for standing aside.

Reaching into the wobbling car, Cary triggered the seatbelt release, hooked the driver under the armpits, and yanked. For a moment Cary thought he’d signed his death warrant. Like an overbalanced teeter-totter, the rear of the car rose as the nose tipped, pulling Cary into the air.

But rather than letting go of the driver, Cary doubled down.

Grabbing two fistfuls of the man’s shirt, Cary jerked, throwing his weight into the effort. The driver slid free from the cabin just as the vehicle cartwheeled over the side to the accompaniment of shrieking steel and shattering glass. The man’s slacks snagged on the door as the car fell, and the fabric parted with a rip, leaving Cary lying on the concrete with a pantsless man on his chest.

One of the things Cary loved most about being a Green Beret was the job’s variety. No two days were ever the same. But right about now, Cary was thinking that a dull day or two might not be such a bad thing.

Cary rolled the man to the side, ignoring the concrete exploding just inches away. Cary sheltered the unconscious driver with his own body as he slid a spare magazine from from the holder strapped to the man’s belt, but Cary’s fingers were moving too slow. He’d never get the driver’s Glock back into action before the gunman fired the killing shot. Cary braced himself for the inevitable.

It never came.

Instead, his earbud crackled with a familiar voice speaking with an unfamiliar British accent.

“Tally-ho.”

Cary was certain his spotter followed up the radio transmission with something equally idiotic, but he couldn’t hear over the roaring of a 500cc engine. Jad appeared behind the shooter, streaking down the pedestrian walkway with all the speed the motorcycle could muster.

The gunman turned, raising the submachine gun.

Cary knew how this would end.

His spotter had made a valiant attempt to save Cary’s life, but until he closed the distance to the shooter, Jad’s weapons consisted of just shock and awe.

They weren’t enough.

Scrambling to his feet, Cary charged the gunman, intending to bury his shoulder in the man’s unprotected back. But even as his feet churned, covering the fifty yards separating them in distance-eating strides, Cary understood the futility of his effort. As with the precariously perched car, physics was not on his side.

The distance was just too great.

Even so, Cary continued his headlong rush.

Green Berets weren’t much on quitting, either.

With less than five feet separating Cary from the gunman, something unexpected happened. Jad pulled a wheelie. As wheelies went, the stunt wasn’t going to win any awards. Rather than the ramrod-straight form common on social media videos, Jad’s wheelie was more parody than trick. The front tire hung in the air at an oblique angle as the bike wobbled from side to side.

But it was a wheelie all the same.

The psychological effect on the gunman was both immediate and pronounced.

While standing firm in the face of a racing motorcycle took some courage, Cary had to believe the gunman’s distance from the bike and the submachine gun tucked into his shoulder helped to even the odds. His brain understood the danger posed by the four-hundred-pound machine, but it wasn’t immediate. That assessment changed dramatically when he was confronted by a massive black tire hurtling toward him.

The shooter hesitated.

And then Cary was on him.

Cary piled into the gunman, driving from his legs as he envisioned his left shoulder snapping the man’s spine in two. While he didn’t quite manage that, the Green Beret drove the shooter into the ground, face-first. The submachine gun skittered across the pavement and Cary wound back his right hand with the intent of launching a hook into the man’s kidney that would leave him pissing blood.

He didn’t get the chance.

Instead, Cary found himself on the receiving end of a pointy elbow. Cary saw the blur of motion in time to get his arm up, but he didn’t fully mitigate the blow. The gunman had twisted, throwing the elbow blindly but violently, and as was often the case in hand-to-hand engagements, naked aggression won the day. The elbow strike snapped Cary’s head to the side. He’d diverted the killing strike from his temple, but the bone-on-bone contact still rang his bell. Cary sagged, fighting to maintain consciousness as the world spun. The man squirmed from beneath him, and Cary raised arms that felt like wet noodles in an attempt to shield himself from the kick he knew was coming.

Once again, physics was not on his side.

Then Jad was beside him.

The bike’s roar rattled Cary’s fillings as his spotter dumped the motorcycle to join the fray. The gunman’s dark eyes hardened. Then he vaulted over the railing into space.

With a groan, Cary grabbed hold of the railing and pulled himself to unsteady feet. He peered over the edge in time to see the gunman scrambling down from the crushed car onto the stone-lined rail yard.

“Oh, no you didn’t,” Jad said.

Cary turned to see that his spotter had appropriated the gunman’s submachine gun. Jad was taking the slack out of the trigger when a shouted command rang through the air.

“Halt.”

Turning, Cary saw a flood of blue as an army of polizei advanced on the Green Berets. An army equipped with a variety of sidearms, all of which were pointed at the Americans.

“Let him go,” Cary said, “and put the gun down. Nice and easy.”

Jad gave a pained sigh, but he did as he was told, setting the submachine gun on the ground. “I was really looking forward to putting one into that douchebag’s cranium.”

“Cheer up,” Cary said as he sunk to his knees with his hands over his head, “I’m sure we’ll be back on the street in no time.”

“Think so?”

“Nope,” Cary said. “But after that sad attempt at a wheelie, I figured you could use the encouragement.”

If Jad had an equally witty reply, he didn’t voice it. Perhaps because it was hard to speak with a polizei’s knee in your back. As Cary’s arms were wrenched behind him to a chorus of shouted German, he had a final thought.

With Jack Ryan, Jr., no operation was ever routine.

6

Submachine guns weren’t designed for long-range engagements. Unlike traditional assault rifles, the Chinese CS/LS06 was not equipped with a long rifle barrel because the pistol ammunition it fired didn’t have the requisite gunpowder to engage a target at ranges greater than about one hundred yards.

That was fine.

In fully automatic mode, the CS/LS06 spit out a mind-numbing eight hundred rounds per minute, and its distinctive top-mounted helical magazine carried fifty 9-millimeter rounds. The weapon was perfect for situations when the work was up close and personal.

Situations like this one.

The gunman extended the weapon. Jack threw himself from the bike, aiming for the bushes to his left even as he cradled his head between his forearms. He registered the spitting sound of a suppressed weapon firing on automatic and then was tumbling through the brush. Limbs cracked as Jack’s superior mass and acceleration made short work of the landscaping.

Until he encountered a beech tree.

Jack had the sense of colliding with something large even as his head pinballed in the fortress he’d created with his arms.

Then everything got hazy.

Jack came to in phases.

Sound intruded into the mental morass in the form of unfamiliar voices that dragged him from his half-consciousness. Then his nerve endings prodded him the rest of the way awake as his battered body reminded him why motorcyclists wore protective equipment.

Jack opened his eyes and groaned.

He was flat on his back, staring into a cloudless blue sky. That was the good news. The bad news was that everything hurt.

Everything.

With deliberate slowness, Jack wiggled his fingers and toes. He wasn’t paralyzed and nothing seemed to be broken. On the not-so-positive side of the ledger, Jack was once again looking down the barrel of a gun. Two guns, to be precise. And the guns in question, Heckler & Kochs if Jack were to guess, belonged to a pair of German polizei. Jack breathed a sigh of relief that sounded suspiciously like another groan. German polizei were known for their professionalism.

He was in good hands.

The officer closest to Jack’s head popped off with a stream of largely indecipherable Deutsch. Jack knew a bit of the language, but the man’s Southern Bavarian accent was giving Jack a run for his money. Or perhaps it was his pounding head. Either way, Jack’s brain wasn’t doing such a good job rendering the sound into something understandable.

“Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Jack said as he moved to touch his face, trying to determine if the sticky sensation along his right cheekbone was blood or sap. Unfortunately, the second policeman did not respond favorably to Jack’s unexpected movement. In a blur of motion, the polizei snared Jack’s wrist and pinned his limb into an arm bar.

“On your stomach,” the German said, transferring the arm bar into a respectable shoulder lock.

Jack complied, hissing through gritted teeth.

Besides their professionalism, the German polizei were famous for something else—making short work of those who chose not to follow their instructions. That Jack hadn’t understood didn’t seem to make any difference. The operative portion of Jack’s brain evaluated the joint lock’s effectiveness even as he rolled onto his stomach. His combatives instructors had been some of the best in the business. This guy could give them a run for their money.

Or maybe that was just his bruised ego talking.

Between the tiny spots of light still dancing in his vision and his pounding head and aching body, Jack wasn’t in a position to make trouble for anyone.

“Keep your pants on,” Jack said. “I’m complying.”

The policeman responded with the compassion Jack should have expected from a German law enforcement officer. The man ratcheted Jack’s arm so that it was nearly vertical, handcuffed one wrist, and then quickly secured the second. Only after he’d securely latched the metal bracelets did the polizei inquire about Jack’s health.

“Can you stand?” the officer said in accented but understandable English.

“Not sure,” Jack said, “I—”

Before he was finished speaking, Jack was hauled to his feet.

In addition to being efficient, the men were strong. Very strong. The sudden change in orientation set the world to spinning, and Jack staggered, allowing the officer closest to him to catch his weight. Then the two polizei were propelling Jack toward their patrol car.

As he walked, Jack got his first look at the scene of his short-lived engagement with the kidnappers. The parking lot was empty and there was no trace of either the kidnapper’s motorbike or the Sprinter van. Jack’s bike lay against the stone wall that had saved his life, while a trail of crushed branches marked his inglorious dismount.

“Why am I being arrested?” Jack said.

The German on his left replied with a string of Deutsch. Once he paused, his partner took over.

“Englisch, bitte,” Jack said, but the policemen seemed to have lost their multilingual talents as quickly as they’d earlier found them. With a final blast of incomprehensible instructions, the man on Jack’s left opened the rear passenger door, while the one on the right pushed Jack inside.

Then the door slammed shut and he was alone.

“Good afternoon.”

Or maybe not.

Jack struggled into a sitting position. The front passenger seat was occupied by a man with close-cropped gray hair and glasses. A man who didn’t seem at all surprised that Jack had just been dumped into the rear of his car.

“Who are you?” Jack said.

“That question is not relevant,” the man said in German-accented English, “but I will tell you. You may address me as Hans.”

Jack couldn’t see the man’s face, nor did Hans make any effort to turn around. Instead, the man kept his head down as he fiddled with something in his lap, apparently waiting for Jack to lead the conversation.

“Nice to meet you, Hans,” Jack said. “Why have I been arrested?”

“Who said you have been arrested?” Hans said. “This is just a casual conversation between fellow professionals.”

“Then why the cuffs?” Jack said.

“Because ours is a unique profession.”

“I don’t follow,” Jack said.

“Of course you do,” Hans said, “but to avoid the tedium of the cat-and-mouse game that is sure to follow, let me cut to the chase, as you Americans like to say. I am a member of the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution’s Department 4, which means I focus on counterintelligence. You are an American intelligence officer illegally operating in my country. I am prepared to overlook this illegality so that we can engage in a candid conversation.”

“While I’m in handcuffs?” Jack said.

“I said I would overlook the illegality,” Hans said. “Not forgive it. One of my men is dead. Another is fighting for his life. Count yourself fortunate this conversation is being conducted in such a civil manner.”

“I’m not responsible for what happened to your men,” Jack said, squirming to take the pressure off his hands. The combination of the steel clasps biting into his wrists and his body weight driving the handcuffs into his flesh was cutting off his circulation.

“Not you directly,” Hans said, “but the two team members of yours I have in custody suggest otherwise. At a minimum, you could have brought me into your operation. Perhaps things would have turned out differently.”

Jack kept silent as he thought.

While it was clear that Hans was a member of BfV, the German equivalent of the FBI when it came to counterespionage investigations, everything else felt murky. As Jack’s jammed communications could attest, the Asian man’s rendition was not a random kidnapping. The technology, tactical coordination, and weapons the kidnappers had employed aside, the abduction had a brazen quality that wasn’t usually practiced by traditional intelligence operatives. The event had gone down in broad daylight in the middle of a college campus, not some Karachi back alley. An operation this flashy meant one of two things—either the participants were amateurs or the rendition fell into the category of high risk/high reward.

Jack was betting on the latter.

“What do you want?” Jack said, hunching forward.

“Vengeance,” Hans said, adjusting the rearview mirror so that he could see Jack eye to eye. “When this conversation concludes, I will have the distinct pleasure of informing a young mother of two that she is now a widow. I’ll then make a trip to the Regensburg hospital to watch a man fight for his life. This travesty occurred because my government allowed it.”

“How so?” Jack said.

“In 2016, China became our largest trading partner,” Hans said. “Today, the combined value of imports and exports exchanged between our two nations exceeds two hundred fifty billion U.S. dollars. The politicians who run my nation have decided to avert their eyes from some of the more unsavory aspects of our Chinese relationship in order to keep euros flowing into our coffers. My supervisor will expect me to sweep what happened today under the rug.”

“Will you?” Jack said.

“A man is dead for the crime of doing his job,” Hans said.

“Then go after the kidnappers,” Jack said.

“You do not understand,” Hans said. “We knew the abduction was going to take place.”

“How?”

“The Chinese told us.”

Jack shook his head, certain he’d misheard. “The Chinese told you that they were going to kidnap one of your citizens, and you did nothing?”

“Not our citizen,” Hans said. “The man who was taken was Chinese. His name is Wang Lei. He’d been living in Germany for the last five years as an expat. As you can imagine, this means little to the Chinese Communist Party.”

Jack nodded.

The CCP’s rendition program was infamous. Targets for the Ministry of State Security, or MSS, snatch teams ran the gamut from billionaires wanted for fraud to dissidents. In years past, the Chinese had limited these renditions to countries more willing to turn a blind eye, but as of late, the MSS had extended their operational portfolio to Western nations. Rumor had it that one rendition had even taken place on U.S. soil, though Jack couldn’t imagine his father tolerating such an act.

Even so, it was one thing for an MSS team to clandestinely persuade a Chinese national to leave the country in their company. It was something else entirely to announce that a rendition would be taking place to the host nation. If what Hans was saying was true, the Chinese had significantly upped the stakes, especially since a member of the team had greeted Jack with a burst from his submachine gun.

“You’re just going to let this stand?” Jack said.

“I am talking to you,” Hans said.

“Look,” Jack said, “I’m as sympathetic to the plight of Chinese dissidents as the next guy, but this isn’t my fight.”

“You are wrong,” Hans said. “The kidnapped scientist is a Chinese citizen, but his brother, Zhang Wei, is American. An American scientist.”

Now Hans had Jack’s attention.

“You think the Chinese kidnapped Wang Lei as leverage over his brother?” Jack said.

“Perhaps you should ask him,” Hans said.

“What do you mean?” Jack said.

“Zhang Wei just happens to be in town.”

7

Manila, Philippines

Mario Reyes hated fish.

The taste of their rancid flesh, the feel of their slimy bodies, and most of all their smell. The odor seemed to crawl up his nostrils and take residence in his sinuses, coating the passages with oily sediment. The smell made him want to vomit, and once he’d had the misfortune of inhaling it, fish stench would stay with him for days, soiling every meal and desecrating every experience.

This was a problem.

Mario lived and worked just kilometers from one of the largest fishing ports in the world. His family were fishermen, and his customers almost all made their living on the sea.

Mario was surrounded by the thing he hated most.

No, that wasn’t quite true.

While Mario absolutely detested fish, his greatest hatred was reserved for the place at which they were collected—Navotas Fish Port Complex.

The place where he was now headed.

Mario paid off the cab with a handful of Philippine pesos and waved the man away. As a successful banker who financed a good portion of the fishing fleet that called the port home, Mario did not have to take public transportation. His driver, Alejandro, would have been happy to chauffeur Mario to the port in his stately Range Rover, or if Mario had been craving a little adventure, he could have made the trip in his Bentley Continental GT. Mario did neither, precisely because of the stench now assaulting his nasal passages.

Business might dictate that Mario had to visit the fishery, but he endeavored to bring as little of it home with him as possible. This was why the tires of Mario’s luxury cars would never turn onto Palengke Street. It was also why he was dressed in faded jeans and a T-shirt rather than the suit he normally wore to the office. No amount of washing would rid his garments of the essence of fish that would become embedded in their fibers after even a single visit.

“Ginoo, ginoo.”

Mario ignored the child beggar as he angled past the rusted buildings belonging to various fishing companies, stepping over the ever-present puddles. As a boy, Mario had crewed his father’s boat, as was expected of each of his four male siblings. But while his brothers had accepted the nautical life as their eventuality, Mario had not. If anything, his stomach-churning sessions on the water had instilled in him the drive necessary to escape this life. With every backbreaking day, every evening spent gutting the catch, Mario had vowed that this existence would not be his.

He would escape the ocean.

He’d half succeeded.

Mario was not a fisherman, but the sea still funded his livelihood.

“Magandang araw.”

Mario nodded at the greeting shouted from a storefront.

Even at this hour, the complex teemed with activity. Workers in T-shirts, shorts, and the obligatory rubber boots were sorting fish, arranging overflowing buckets, spraying down the constantly bloody concrete, and scrubbing away offal-filled puddles. Mario was a recognizable figure to many of the laborers.

While he’d detested the way in which his father had made a living, Mario had adopted the man’s work ethic. Unlike many of his contemporaries, who were content to pore over spreadsheets from the comfort of air-conditioned offices in the Makati Central Business District, Mario preferred to see his investments with his own two eyes. With his slim build and ordinary features, there was nothing imposing about Mario, but dockworkers made way when they saw his salt-and-pepper hair all the same. Though if he were to be truthful, Mario would have to admit that some of this deference stemmed more from his business associates than from his banking prowess.

Associates like the man Mario was coming to see.

“Mar, it is good to see you.”

As if summoned from Mario’s thoughts, a figure stepped from the shadow enclave offered by the salt-stained overhang. Rail-thin, with dark eyes and a commanding voice, the man’s given name was Ramon, but his friends called him Mon Mon.

Everyone else used the honorific Mr. Garza.

Like Mario, Ramon had been raised on a fishing boat, but while Mario had pursued a somewhat legitimate path to wealth at the prestigious Asian Institute of Management, Mon Mon had earned his degree in the port’s hard streets and dark back alleys. He was dressed in the collared shirt and slacks of a businessman, but his business made the gutting of fish seem like a pleasant pastime.

Mon Mon was mambubutang. A gangster and the undisputed lord of the port.

He was also Mario’s cousin.

“Good to see you, Mon Mon,” Mario said, accepting an offered handshake.

Though the majority of Mario’s business was legitimate, completely honest businessmen were rare in Navotas. Like ports the world over, the complex was a center of gravity for smuggling and the organized crime that went with it. Corruption was a long and storied tradition in the Philippines, and criminal tendrils reached from the dockworker charged with off-loading contraband all the way up to the office of the president and its occupant. Unlike many, Mario had made the decision to focus on lawful commerce for the most part, but there were still aspects of his trade that required interaction with the darker side of life and the people who inhabited it.

People like Mon Mon.

“You as well, cousin,” Mon Mon said.

Though handshakes in the Philippines were traditionally soft, as with much of the rest of Asia, Mario could feel the bones in his hand shift beneath his cousin’s grip. Mon Mon was fascinated by all things Western in general and American in particular. He was an aficionado of gangster movies and loved surprising the unwary with a handshake that would leave the recipient with a reminder of the encounter for days.

Mario gripped his cousin right back, giving as good as he got.

They might be family, but Mon Mon was a predator, and predators sought out weakness. Mario wanted to ensure that his relative found none here.

“Come in, come in,” Mon Mon said after the squeezing contest was over. “There’s something I need you to see.”

Mario nodded and followed the taller man into the warehouse, even as he steeled himself for what might be waiting. Mon Mon had offered Mario access to his greater criminal organization on multiple occasions, and each time the banker had declined. While he was happy to finance his cousin’s fleet of boats, including some that were clearly built for smuggling rather than fishing, Mario drew the line when it came to outright criminal ventures.

Seeming to recognize that access to a legitimate source of cash was to his advantage, Mon Mon had accepted Mario’s refusal with grace. But each time he turned down an overture, Mario couldn’t help but think that one day he’d be presented with an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Perhaps today was that day.

“It’s over here,” Mon Mon said, shepherding Mario through the dimly lit room. “One of my crews found it tangled in their nets. I didn’t know what to do with it, but I thought you might.”

Part of Mario’s worry about being strong-armed into Mon Mon’s business dissipated, replaced by another concern. As a private banker, Mario did more than just extend much-needed capital to the fisherman who plied the ocean. His successful business had garnered him a reputation.

A standing in society.

Mario was a fixer of sorts.

Not the sort of fixing that came via envelopes stuffed with cash. Instead, Mario traded favors. As someone who ran a mostly clean enterprise, Mario had stature and the political clout that accompanied it. He knew people and was often sought out for his influence as much as for his money.

Mario followed his cousin to a relatively dry corner of the warehouse, where a trio of men were clustered around a workbench. At a word from Mon Mon, the fishermen stepped aside, and Mario caught his first look at what had dragged him down to the fishery at this hour of the night.

He froze.

The object lying on the scarred wooden planks was not a dead body, as Mario had feared. Neither was it crates of contraband or drugs. Instead, the single light above the workbench illuminated a long, cylindrical metal tube. The cylinder looked vaguely like a missile of some sort, with skin painted the gray color of the sea, a nose cone at the front, a pair of finlike wings mid-body, and a tiny propeller protruding from the rear.

Mario’s hesitation reflected his worry that Mon Mon’s fisherman had uncovered some sort of munition, but a second look disabused him of that notion. The cylinder was too narrow to be a bomb. Nor did its propeller seem large enough to drive the device to high speeds like a torpedo. Mario was still no closer to understanding what he was seeing, but he was also confident that it wasn’t going to kill him.

Reasonably confident.

“What is it?” Mario said, turning to Mon Mon.

“Not sure,” Mon Mon said, “but the crew found this.”

Mario followed Mon Mon’s pointing finger and discovered that this seemed to be an access panel. The waterproof metal casing enclosing the panel was open, exposing a series of ports, a small LCD screen, and several rubber buttons. Mario looked closer, examining the stenciled lettering above the ports. He couldn’t make out the words, but he certainly knew the language.

Mandarin.

“What do you think?” Mon Mon said.

Instead of answering, Mario took out his cell phone and began snapping pictures. He captured the entirety of the cylinder, but devoted most of his attention to the access panel and the Mandarin characters. Only after he was satisfied with his work did Mario turn back to his cousin.

“I think you’ve discovered something potentially valuable . . . to the right person,” Mario said.

“Do you know such a person?” Mon Mon said.

“I might,” Mario said, thinking of a certain American. An American who paid Mario for information about the goods and people that moved clandestinely through the Navotas port. “Who else knows about this?”

Mon Mon gestured toward the trio of men. “The fishing crew and these guys. All men I can trust.”

Mario had his doubts about that. If even half of the rumors about his cousin were true, Mario knew that Mon Mon was not the sort of boss who inspired loyalty. Fear was a great motivator, but only until something more terrifying came along. According to Mario’s contact in the Philippine National Police, another gangster might very well be vying for Mon Mon’s turf.

But Mario didn’t say this.

Instead, he nodded.

“I’ll put out some feelers,” Mario said. “Give me a day or so. In the meantime, my advice would be to keep a tight watch on this thing.”

“This is my warehouse,” Mon Mon said. “Nowhere in Manila is safer.”

Mario nodded again, declining to argue the point. Instead, he opened his Signal app and selected a text thread. He typed out a quick message, attached the photographs, and hit send. He thought about admonishing the American to hurry, but didn’t.

This device, like his cousin’s tenuous hold on the market, was not Mario’s problem.

At least that’s what he told himself.

8

Regensburg, Germany

Jack sat beneath a leafy canopy, staring at a field of death as he considered his options.

None of them were good.

Jack had spent the last hour or so putting distance between himself and the kidnapping debacle. Fortunately, the BfV officer, Hans, had seemed to be just as ready to be rid of Jack. After delivering his cryptic remark, Hans had gestured at one of the polizei standing respectfully just out of listening distance. Or maybe not so respectfully, based on the look the German officer shot Jack.

Jack understood.

Truces between rival intelligence services were all well and good, but local law enforcement often had to deal with the repercussions when these cease-fires didn’t turn out as planned.

Repercussions like newly fatherless children.

The officer had opened the passenger door and helped Jack out of the cruiser. Helped might have been too strong a word, as the strapping German kept Jack from falling, but he wasn’t exactly gentle about it. An iron fist clamped down on Jack’s biceps in a none-too-subtle reminder of how the police officer wanted this interaction to conclude.

After a deluge of German from Hans, the officer relaxed his grip.

Slightly.

Once he was certain Jack was standing, the man unfastened the handcuffs.

“You are free to go,” the polizei said, though his flinty blue eyes suggested otherwise.

Jack nodded as he massaged his wrists. He turned to have a final word with Hans, but realized he was wasting his time. The BMW smoothly accelerated away from the curb, leaving Jack to ponder what exactly the BfV operative hadn’t said as much as what he had. Jack needed time to think, but this wasn’t the place. He’d struck out north, walking along the sidewalk that paralleled Universitätsstrasse until he’d come to the Oberer Katholischer Friedhof, or Upper Catholic Cemetery. Only after losing himself among the sea of tombstones had Jack felt secure enough to grab a bench shaded by a cluster of trees and consider his next steps.

During their brief interaction, Hans had insinuated much, but offered little proof. Maybe the intelligence officer had evidence linking Jad and Cary to Jack and maybe he didn’t. Either way, Jack wasn’t going to make the man’s job any easier by touching base with his team within electronic or audible earshot of the polizei. Stirring the pot was a tried-and-true counterespionage technique. Jack was determined to create space between himself and anyone possibly associated with the German government before reestablishing communication with his folks.

Jack did a quick visual sweep of the cemetery as he pulled out his phone.

Though sitting on a bench surrounded by gravestones was a bit morbid, the cemetery was a great location for regrouping after a potentially burned operation. People were expected to linger, the groomed grass and vegetation offered unobstructed sight lines, and the sprawling complex had multiple ingress and egress points from all four cardinal directions.

In the pre-Internet days, tombstones were a valuable source for information that could be turned into aliases. A wayward spy could find a deceased member of the appropriate sex and of a similar age and use their personal data to craft a cover identity. Though computer algorithms now rendered this kind of subterfuge moot, the cemetery’s physical attributes still made the location a desirable stop for fellow espionage professionals. Cathy Ryan loved to say that the more things changed, the more they remained the same.

Once again, the world-class ophthalmic surgeon was prescient.

Thumbing the weather app on his phone’s home screen, Jack waited two seconds before pressing and holding the down volume button as he cycled the phone’s mute button.

A moment later a hidden encrypted chat window appeared.

As per Campus standard operating procedure, or SOP, Jack was diverting to the briefed alternate means of communication. In this case, it was a secure app Gavin had designed with low-profile operations in mind. As with his decision to vacate the university, Jack was switching to backup comms out of an abundance of caution. Other than the brief interruption due to what was probably broad-spectrum jamming, Jack had no indication that his team’s secure radio transmissions had been compromised.

But in the profession of espionage, safe always beat sorry.

The first message in the text stream was from Lisanne.

Continuing the mission with Socrates.

Exactly the correct decision.

The Chinese researcher’s kidnapping had been one hell of a triggering event. Though Jack didn’t believe any of the MSS operatives had remained on station, that didn’t mean his adversaries hadn’t employed another means of low-profile surveillance. If he were in their place, Jack would have positioned a few cameras to capture the crowd’s reaction to the kidnapping with the hopes of identifying members of the opposing team. To Lisanne’s credit, she’d instantly understood this predicament and had elected to stay put after the dust had cleared rather than exit the university, as Jack had done.

Brains and beauty.

Which brought to mind the admonishment his mother had delivered to her wayward son.

Marry that girl before someone else does.

With a smile, Jack found himself considering just that. Which only served to reinforce a different set of instructions conveyed in John Clark’s gravelly tone.

Do not work with someone you love.

As if a Chinese direct-action team and a kidnapped scientist weren’t enough to worry about. Another message popped up on the message stream.

Reaper elements are PZ clean.

So Jad and Cary where also now clear of the polizei.

Though the Green Berets were new to The Campus, they were hardly strangers to low-profile operations. China fell within the mission set of the 5th Special Forces Group and the men had been training for the looming conflict with the Asian powerhouse by practicing their tactics, techniques, and procedures in denied environments like South Korea. Rather than head back to the university, the commandos had taken up residence in a coffee shop in Regensburg proper. Jack’s team had reacted to the unexpected event like pros.

Now they just needed instructions.

Instructions from him.

With a sigh, Jack thumbed in a response.

Scepter acknowledges all. Anticipate change of mission. Stand by for instructions.

Replies from Lisanne and the commandos popped up moments later.

Now that he’d reestablished communication, Jack was truly out of excuses to avoid what needed to be done next. In the past, Jack had often lived by the maxim that it was better to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

Now he was a team leader.

As a singleton operative, Jack might have been able to rationalize rash decisions. This was no longer the case. Responsibility went hand in hand with the autonomy that had been granted to him. His butt was no longer the only one hanging in the breeze. Clark had trusted Jack with overseeing this operation. He would not betray that trust. Jack did the time conversion in his head even as he selected Clark’s number. Noon Germany time equated to six a.m. in Alexandria, Virginia.

Here’s to hoping Mr. C. had already consumed the day’s first cup of coffee.

9

“Clark.”

“Hey, Mr. C.,” Jack said. “It’s me.”

The familiar exchange brought the ghost of a smile to Jack’s lips. How many times had he and John Clark begun a conversation this same way? Then Jack’s gaze settled on the rows of tombstones and his mirth faded. Jack’s adventures might begin innocently, but they seldom ended that way. For a moment, Jack was lying on a dark, rain-soaked North Korean hillside, body to body with Jad and Cary as bullets snapped by his head.

Jack and The Campus had been lucky more often than not.

But even the best luck eventually ran out.

“Junior? Can you hear me?”

With a start Jack realized that Clark had been talking while he’d been woolgathering. Never a good thing to do with the former Rainbow commanding officer, especially at six a.m.

“Yes, sir,” Jack said, “sorry about that. I need to give you a sitrep and get authorization for a follow-on mission.”

“A second training iteration?” Clark said.

“No, Mr. C.,” Jack said. “Real-world. Here’s what went down.”

For the next several minutes Jack brought his boss up to speed. To his credit, Clark allowed Jack to finish without interruption. Jack was asking permission before embarking on one of his infamous crusades, and Clark was calmly listening.

The end times must really be near.

“That’s where we stand,” Jack said, transitioning from the sitrep portion of the conversation. “I recommend we flex to the brother and interview him.”

“You think the Chinese are going to attempt to rendition a U.S. citizen?” Clark said.

Jack sighed. “Based on what I’ve seen in open-source reporting, I wouldn’t think so. Then again, the op I just witnessed wasn’t exactly clandestine. It also fits with Tel Aviv.”

Jack eyed the scars on his forearm as he spoke.

“The FBI’s had Dr. Schweigart on their radar since she returned from Israel,” Clark said. “She was under constant surveillance for the first several months, but the counterintelligence agents assigned to her case saw zero Chinese activity. My understanding is that she gets random check-ins from the local field office, but as far as the Bureau’s concerned, the matter is closed. More important, your father raised the issue directly with the Chinese president. Mary Pat said that your old man spelled out to Chen in no uncertain terms what would happen if the MSS attempted something like this again.”

Dr. Rebecka Schweigart was a scientist with a doctorate in applied physics. A scientist whose expertise in material science had yielded a series of coatings that could be tuned to either scatter or transmit RF energy. In layman’s terms, she’d discovered stealth in a bottle. The MSS had attempted to co-opt Becka in order to gain access to her research. When she’d refused, a Chinese paramilitary operative had tried to kill her. Jack had stopped the assassination attempt, and his father had escalated the issue.

Case closed.

Unless it wasn’t.

While Jack understood his father’s propensity for straight talk, he thought this might be something different. The Chinese were famous for playing the long game. While targeted assassinations were off the table as long as the elder Ryan was President, that didn’t mean the Chinese Communist Party had renounced their intentions to steal American technology.

In fact, Jack expected that the opposite was probably true.

“I’m wondering if this might be a different approach to the problem posed by scientists like Dr. Schweigart,” Jack said. “We know Zhang Wei is a scientist, but not much else until Gavin finishes his research. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if the American is the real target. The BfV officer I talked with intimated as much.”

“The Chinese are using the kidnapped brother as leverage? For what? So the American will defect?” Clark said.

“Maybe,” Jack said, “maybe not. It depends on the nature of Wei’s work. If he is working on something sensitive, maybe the CCP wants him to remain in place.”

“To act as a mole?” Clark said. “I guess that’s a possibility.”

“Fits with the idea of the Chinese playing the long game,” Jack said. “Maybe the MSS figures the American’s access to technical programs is worth more than his knowledge. We won’t know for sure until I talk with him.”

“Someone needs to talk with him,” Clark said, “but I don’t think it’s you.”

“Why not?” Jack said.

“Between the FBI legate, CIA officers, and the DIA, there are no shortage of qualified people already in-country to interview the scientist. Campus assets are finite—it’s my job to make sure they’re used appropriately.”

“You have something else for me?” Jack said.

“For your entire team,” Clark said. “I think you should head for Manila.”

“Why?”

“Not over the phone,” Clark said. “Check your secure Campus email.”

Jack paused as something occurred to him.

Mr. C. had said I think.

“Hey, Mr. C.,” Jack said, the words feeling strange on his tongue, “just so I’m tracking, are you asking or telling me to drop the scientist?”

Contrary to what Jack expected, the ensuing silence was neither ominous nor lengthy. If anything, Clark’s voice conveyed a sense of confusion.

“Son, you’re a team leader now,” Clark said. “I don’t make a practice of telling my team leaders what to do. If you think interviewing the scientist is the best use of your team, do it. You’re the on-the-ground commander. I’m just a has-been in the rear with the gear.”

Jack knew that Clark was no such thing, but he also greatly appreciated the sentiment. As team leader, the tactical decisions were Jack’s, with the expectation that responsibility for the outcomes of those decisions accompanied Jack’s newfound autonomy. After taking a breath, Jack gave his answer.

“Roger that, Mr. C.,” Jack said. “We’re pulling up stakes here. I’ll be en route to Nuremberg Airport with the team in under an hour and connect with Gavin to get high-side access to your email summary. We’re headed for Manila.”

“Good hunting,” Clark said. “Out here.”

Clark disconnected, leaving Jack feeling like his dad had just tossed him the keys to his ’65 Mustang.

Jack just hoped he brought the old girl home in one piece.

10

USS Delaware

Vicinity South China Sea

Commander Christina Dixon faced a tough choice.

This was not a novel situation.

The thirty-seven-year-old petite blonde had been facing tough choices ever since the Naval Academy recruiter had shown up unannounced at the championship lacrosse match during her junior year of high school. The match in which Christina had scored three goals and in the process cemented an offer to play for the mecca of college lacrosse—Johns Hopkins University. A school known for its academics as well as athletic excellence. A school her mother and father had both attended. A school Christina had set her sights on as a six-year-old wearing her father’s Hopkins lacrosse jersey while watching his alma mater advance to the NCAA Final Four.

At the conclusion of the match, the Hopkins coach had approached Christina with the full ride she’d been expecting. It shouldn’t have been a hard decision. And perhaps it wouldn’t have been, had it not been for the naval officer in pressed whites waiting on the sidelines. A naval officer with an offer—play lacrosse for the Naval Academy instead.

A tough choice.

In a decision that surprised Christina and shocked her parents, she’d forsaken Johns Hopkins for Annapolis, and in so doing committed herself to years more of hard choices. A degree in political science rather than premed. Submarines rather than aviation. Fast attack rather than boomers. Now, fifteen years later, Christina’s hard choices had borne fruit. As the captain of a Virginia-class attack submarine, Christina was one of the fewer than one hundred female submarine officers and the only one to command her own boat. She was quite simply at the very top of her game, enjoying the benefits of a succession of hard choices that had begun on a lacrosse field as a seventeen-year-old girl.

Now she faced what was perhaps her hardest choice to date.

“Status,” Christina said, the word both a question and a command.

Captaining a submarine was a daunting task.

Unlike her surface-warfare contemporaries, Christina did not take her orders in the form of coded light signals from an admiral ensconced in the bowels of an aircraft carrier. She wasn’t part of a larger fleet maneuvering across the ocean in a thundering display of American warfighting power. Instead, Christina was a lone wolf. A nuclear-powered predator, prowling the ocean’s depths in search of hostile submarines. As such, Christina was given an astonishing amount of leeway in the manner in which she accomplished her mission.

Except she was now on the precipice of discarding the orders she’d received from COMSUBPAC, or Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific, altogether.

“Contact S-47 remains the same,” the senior chief said as he eyed the sonar display. “Bearing 270, range two thousand yards. Speed holding steady at seven knots. Contact appears to be paralleling our course.”

The ever-changing “waterfall” on the senior chief’s monitor could have been a look into the Matrix, for all the sense it made to the uninformed. The display represented the sounds and bearings to contacts discovered by the sub’s very capable sonar systems, but the readings were not easy to decipher. Fortunately, Senior Chief Petty Officer Bill Davis was in charge of the boat’s contingent of enlisted sonar technicians. As such, he was an expert on the high-powered computers that rendered the array of acoustic inputs garnered by the USS Delaware’s multiple sonar sensors into intelligible data.

Unlike its predecessors, the Delaware featured both low- and high-frequency towed sonar arrays as well as optic arrays mounted to the hull to complement the traditional bow-mounted passive/active spherical sonar. Lots of attention was paid to a Virginia-class submarine’s ability to operate undetected in the ocean’s depths, and for good reason. But fewer people understood the advances in the sub’s ability to detect and classify targets.

Targets like the one currently shadowing them.

“Put-up-or-shut-up time, Senior Chief,” Christina said. “What are we looking at?”

Bill pushed back the glasses precariously perched at the end of his nose before answering. The gesture was one any middle-aged submariner might make. Contact lenses were impractical on a submarine, so many of the older crew members relied on readers.

But Christina knew her sailors well enough to understand that this was not what Bill’s gesture signified. Bill Davis was a rarity. An enlisted technician who’d earned both an undergrad and master’s degree from the Ohio State University before joining the Navy. Bill wasn’t waiting to render judgment because he wanted to look at the screen one more time.

He was cautious because he was a scientist and scientists didn’t like to be wrong.

Unfortunately for Bill, the mystery contact had been proving them wrong all morning.

“I don’t think it’s noise, Captain,” Bill said, his diction slow but firm. “We’ve run three diagnostics on the sensor packages. Each test came back clean. I’ve cross-referenced the anomaly using two of our sonar arrays independently. If I didn’t know what I was looking for, I doubt I’d have noticed it among the background noise.”

“It’s not marine life?” Christina said.

Bill shook his head. “That was my guess at first, too. But let me show you this.”

Bill’s fingers flew across his keyboard.

Unlike the Los Angeles–class submarines in which Christina had cut her teeth, the Virginia system architecture was one hundred percent digital and therefore interconnected. At her captain’s station, Christina could pull up any of the ship’s systems in the form of configurable pages, much like the multipurpose displays that had transformed aircraft cockpits from analog to digital.

Truthfully, Christina had found the new flexibility a bit too captivating. With the entirety of her boat at her fingertips, she had to resist the urge to bypass her people in favor of searching for the answers to her questions herself. The USS Delaware might be one massive computer, but it was also a submarine that displaced almost eight hundred thousand tons of water, not a hobby drone.

“Here’s an example of some faint biologicals the system picked up earlier,” Bill said, breaking into Christina’s thoughts. “The amplitude and frequency match, but the variability doesn’t. Living organisms are unpredictable when studied at this level of detail. Even a person pacing back and forth across the floor would look widely divergent to our algorithms. Not so with the anomaly. It’s too regular. Has to be man-made.”

“What do you think, XO?” Christina said, turning to the lanky man standing beside her.

Unlike Bill, who could have easily been mistaken for a lecturer at a leading university’s computer science department, Lieutenant Commander Dan Young was a sailor’s sailor. Though he’d also earned an undergraduate in engineering, Dan had eschewed the technical path followed by ship engineers for the command track. He was a ship driver through and through, as evidenced by the rendition of the Jolly Rogers on his right biceps. Though he would never swing from a rope with a cutlass clenched between his teeth, Dan epitomized the killer instinct necessary to successfully command a fast attack sub.

His thoughts were always a useful counterpart to Bill’s more deliberate musings.

“If you’d asked me an hour ago, I’d have said the anomaly was whale farts or a glitch in Senior Chief’s Matrix,” Dan said.

Her XO voiced his opinion with the calm, steady tone Christina had come to expect, but he’d also deliberately caged his tone low enough that his comments wouldn’t carry beyond their ad hoc command circle. This wasn’t because Dan was unsure of his opinion as much as that he didn’t want to inadvertently cast suspicion on Bill’s judgment. Though she’d worked hard to keep her command team unified, Christina knew that fissures between crew members were unavoidable.

Faced with a choice between the gregarious pirate and the analytical scientist, the sonar technicians would undoubtedly throw their lot in with Dan. Charisma was a good quality to have in an XO, but not at the expense of doubting another leader’s opinions. Dan recognized the situation for what it was, and he moderated his personality accordingly. Christina had recommended Dan for command during his last fitness report, and she intended to reaffirm her comments at the earliest opportunity.

“But now?” Christina said, asking the inevitable follow-up question.

“Now I’m not sure,” Dan said. “I think the professor’s onto something, but I don’t know that it’s worth jeopardizing our mission to pursue it.”

And there it was.

The crux of the decision Christina now faced.

At almost three and a half billion per copy, Virginia-class submarines were much too valuable to send on pleasure cruises. Case in point, Christina was about to transition her boat into the mission profile that they would adhere to for the next several weeks. At 1.4 million square miles, the South China Sea was the earth’s largest sea and one of the most heavily contested waterways on the planet. It was also arguably the most strategic. One-third of the world’s cargo transits through its waters, while untold amounts of untapped oil and gas reserves were waiting to be discovered in its depths. Guaranteeing freedom of navigation through the sea would have been an essential task for the U.S. Navy for these reasons alone, but there was a much more succinct explanation for the Delaware’s presence.

China.

China claimed the entire South China Sea, the islands that populated it, and its natural resources both known and still to be discovered. And the Chinese weren’t content just to pursue these claims through international courts and governing bodies. Firm believers in the precept that possession was nine-tenths of the law, the Chinese Communist Party had been working overtime to make their territorial aspirations a reality. A series of man-made islands now populated the maritime shipping lines, serving as island redoubts for a plethora of Chinese military hardware. Everything from listening devices to advanced radar to fighter jets and land-to-sea missiles sprouted from the islands’ sandy shores.

The unseen hardware prowling the ocean’s depths was just as deadly.

In 2015, the Chinese Navy eclipsed the size of its American counterpart. By 2021, the Chinese fleet was on track to grow by the size of the entire French Navy every four years. What in 1996 had been a force of less than sixty ships was now a power to be reckoned with, a claim reinforced when China fielded its first domestically built aircraft carrier in 2019.

China commissioned its first domestically produced diesel submarine, the Type 039, in 1998. Less than ten years later, the Chinese made an exponential jump by manufacturing the nuclear-powered Type 094 ballistic missile submarine. In their early attempts to field submarines as quickly as possible, the Chinese had committed the cardinal sin of sacrificing submarine stealth for manufacturing speed. Fielding quiet subs was as much art as science, and the developmental process couldn’t be expedited. In their rush to field operational subs, the Chinese had cut corners, and these shortcomings showed. The PLA’s nuclear submarine force was easily detectable by their American adversaries, negating much of the advantages intrinsic to a submersible boat.

Until now.

If Christina’s hunch was correct, she may have just happened on a new Chinese vessel.

A craft with stealthy characteristics that rivaled her own boat’s.

Or perhaps exceeded them.

“How good a track do you have on the anomaly?” Christina asked.

Bill scrunched up his face, again vying for the most accurate answer possible. While the man was an exceptional engineer, the rapidly changing environment intrinsic to a fast attack submarine didn’t always permit long deliberations and exact solutions.

Christina made a mental note to address this with the senior chief later.

“Using the arrays independently gives me a pretty good tracking solution,” Bill said, running his index finger along the squiggly lines populating his monitor. “If we break contact, I don’t know that I’ll be able to pick her up as easily. I know this sounds counterintuitive, but I have to know where to look. I’ve got my sonar techs writing algorithms that should help refine our search parameters, but until we have a chance to vet them, I’d say our chances of losing the anomaly are fifty-fifty.”

Bill’s explanation did make sense.

A number of years ago, Australian researchers had made waves in the scientific community by claiming to be able to track American B-2 stealth bombers. This was true, after a fashion. Scientists hadn’t been able to identify the bombers in real time, but after juxtaposing their data with flight logs showing the departing aircraft, they’d been able to point to radar returns that showed disturbances in the air caused by the massive flying wings.

The findings hadn’t amounted to much, as the returns denoting the B-2s had been far below the noise threshold filtered out by the radar’s algorithms, but the lesson had been driven home all the same. Even the best stealth could be rendered useless if you knew where to look. Right now, Bill knew where to look, but that would soon change if Christina adopted her assigned mission profile.

If.

Christina had an opportunity to flesh out a possible threat to the entire U.S. submarine force, though pursuing the opportunity meant deviating from her orders to patrol across the warren of interconnected deep-sea trenches that crisscrossed the South China Sea.

She judged the risk worth the reward.

“Officer of the Deck,” Christina said, the plan coming together in her mind as she spoke, “come to new course 090, maintain current speed and depth. Stand by for additional course and speed changes. Over the next sixty minutes, we’re going to see what contact S-47 can do.”

“New course 090, maintain current speed and depth, aye,” the officer of the deck echoed back.

Lieutenant Brian Andrews was still a junior officer, but he had the makings of a good bubblehead. Ship’s scuttlebutt claimed that Brian was working on a novel in his spare time. If young Mr. Andrews was half as good a writer as he was a submariner, Christina thought she might just be reading one of his novels someday.

“I want to gather as much data on S-47 as possible in the next hour,” Christina said. “Senior Chief—come up with a test protocol. Dan—work with him. At the end of sixty minutes, I want to shed this contact and continue with our patrol.”

“Aye, Captain,” Dan said. “We’re on it.”

It turned out that shedding S-47 took a bit of doing. The wily mystery contact stayed with the sub through several course changes across a range of speeds and depths. Though she didn’t express as much to the crew, Christina began to grow concerned. At the forty-five-minute mark, she rigged the sub for ultra-quiet and then executed her most radical course change yet, doubling back on the path she’d followed.

The final turn did the trick.

As the Delaware slipped through the ocean tracking north by northeast, S-47 maintained its current course and speed heading south. Christina watched Bill’s waterfall display until the contact disappeared for good.

“Have we lost it, Senior Chief?” Christina said.

“Aye, skipper,” Bill said. “We might be able to pick out the contact later after reconstructing the data, but this is the best we’re going to get in real time.”

“Officer of the Deck,” Christina said, “you have the conn. I’m going to craft a message to headquarters letting them know what we’ve found. I don’t imagine they’re going to be happy.”

Christina had no idea how prophetic her words would prove to be.

11

Zhanjiang Port, China

Green-tinged water battered the launch, spraying salty foam across Fen Li’s rubber slicker. The small craft rolled and pitched beneath her like a drunken elephant, and she fought to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged.

She did not like boats.

Detested them, actually.

And now the sum of her future was tied to the ocean.

“As you can see, we are ready to embark at a moment’s notice.”

Fen shifted her attention from the roiling water to the man standing in front of her. With her bone-white hair and slight figure all but swallowed by her poncho, Fen knew she must look even smaller than normal.

Diminished.

Her soft voice was no help.

Compared to the fire hydrant–shaped man who stood on the swaying bridge with thick legs as if he were part of the launch, Fen more resembled a willow battered by the wind. Which was why Haoyu was at her side. As if he could hear her thoughts, Fen’s second-in-command edged closer to the launch’s captain, his muscular frame more than a match for the sailor’s swarthy build.

“If I gave you the order now,” Fen said, her voice competing against the crashing waves and the small craft’s growling engine, “the ship would be moving in how many minutes?”

Ship seemed too pedestrian a descriptor for the vessel that towered above the launch. Its official name was Maochong, Mandarin for “caterpillar.” This was more an homage to the ship’s purpose than to its ungainly appearance. At forty meters wide and over two hundred long, Maochong displaced seventy thousand tons. The vessel boasted a crew of almost two hundred, and its onboard generators could power a small town.

But it was the Maochong’s profile that made the ship unique. In addition to a massive crane and a decking full of girders and other support equipment, the center of the vessel sported a multistory skeletal structure that resembled an oil rig.

But the Maochong did not drill for oil.

The ship collected something much more valuable.

Fen rolled up the sleeve of her slicker, revealing a large waterproof sports watch. The brand was American, but like everything else of significance, it was manufactured in China.

“Not minutes,” the Maochong’s captain said, squaring his chest. “Seconds. Give the order, and we will be heading to sea within thirty seconds.”

Fen eyed the captain, searching for signs of subterfuge.

In this endeavor, timing was everything. The excavation site was in the vicinity of the Paracel Islands, approximately five hundred and sixty kilometers southeast of Zhanjiang Port. The Maochong would require at least two days to make the journey, and more time still to employ her special cargo. This was the window within which Fen would be required to operate.

Begin too soon, and the entire endeavor would be compromised.

Start too late, and the opportunity would be missed.

The captain endured Fen’s scrutiny, his gaze revealing nothing. He appeared ready to back up his words with action.

Was Fen ready to do the same?

Fen dipped her hand into the raincoat’s oversized pocket, her fingers touching a piece of China’s future.

Her future.

Though only about the size of a walnut, the black polymetallic nodule held a mixture of ten different elements, including manganese, cobalt, nickel, and other rare earth metals. One enterprising entrepreneur had termed the nodule a battery in a rock, and Fen found the description apt. In a world consumed with an ever-growing appetite for stored electricity, the unassuming chunks of rock were pound for pound one of the most valuable materials on earth.

Or, in this case, under the earth’s ocean.

Just months ago, Fen had financed a voyage to obtain samples from a newly found deposit of polymetallic nodules in the Paracel Islands. As the rock in her pocket could attest, the seabed concentration was one of the richest ever discovered, and, more important, the depth of the deposit was not prohibitive. While no walk in the park, the nodule deposits were well within the operational envelope of the Maochong’s specialized collection equipment. There was just one problem—the waters in which the deposit was located were claimed by someone else.

Actually, several someone elses, if Fen were being precise.

But she had a plan for that, too.

Fen’s phone vibrated.

After checking her watch a second time, she withdrew her cell. As always, Fen’s operatives were precisely on schedule. This was one of the many benefits of employing former military. Schooling her features to remain blank despite her racing heart, Fen read the one-word text.

Success.

Looking from her phone to the sailor, Fen arrived at a decision.

“Launch your vessel, Captain,” Fen said.

This time, she didn’t even try to hide her smile.

12

Office of the Director of National Intelligence Headquarters

Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus, Virginia

Mary Pat Foley looked at her desk with a sigh.

The director of national intelligence was in her sixties, making her one of the older members of President Jack Ryan’s administration. Her nutmeg-brown hair had long ago transitioned to gray, and Mary Pat had resisted the urge to color it. She was an intelligence professional who worked alongside politicians. Though many of her colleagues had succumbed to the youth-obsessed culture of politics, Mary Pat was happy to be the exception. She kept her figure trim, but Mary Pat’s wardrobe still skewed more toward function than flattery. As was the case on most days, the dark-colored pantsuit, plain blouse, and functional flats she was wearing would probably not turn many heads.

That was fine.

Mary Pat wore her age as a badge of honor. The lines on her face spoke to the hard-won wisdom she’d accumulated over decades of service to her country. She was older than most federal employees and had come of age in an era still ruled by pen and paper.

Her desk reflected this truth.

While Mary Pat certainly had the obligatory laptop and desktop computers along with a tablet and a secure cell phone happily humming in close proximity to her workspace, these capable tools were not her preferred method of ingesting and analyzing the reams of information that found their way to her on a daily basis. As the DNI, or director of national intelligence, Mary Pat sat atop the eighteen agencies and organizations that called the intelligence community home, but her current posting was just the latest stop in her long and illustrious career. Mary Pat got her start in the Central Intelligence Agency and had spent her formative years running and recruiting agents behind the Iron Curtain.

That her boss, President Ryan, had also cut his teeth in the same organization was no coincidence. Back then, chalk marks, dead drops, and brush passes were a way of life, not the lexicon from a bygone era. Forty years ago, computers had been new, bulky, and not entirely secure. For that reason, case officers consumed information in the form of hard-copy documents.

In the ensuing decades, technology had progressed by leaps and bounds, and the profession of espionage with it. Today, analysts debated whether the once-fearsome Russian Bear was even capable of swallowing one of its smaller next-door neighbors, let alone all of Europe. Communications between agent and handler happened via unbreakable encryptions, and data was displayed in link charts produced by machine-learning algorithms.

Even so, the relationship between handler and asset was still decidedly analog, as was the woman who’d spent most of her career running agents. Mary Pat still thought best with honest-to-goodness paper between her fingertips, but the three documents currently dominating her workspace were defying her legendary intellect.

With another sigh, the nation’s top spy eyed the chipped mug taunting her from the far side of her desk. In a nod to his boss’s predilections, Mary Pat’s assistant, Sam, kept a constant supply of her favorite coffee brewing in a metallic monstrosity known as a silver bullet. Like her preferred method of consuming data, the percolator had been state-of-the-art at about the same time F-14 Tomcats had prowled the skies in search of Soviet MiGs to splash. Be that as it may, the coffeemaker functioned just fine. That it was stocked with Folgers, rather than one of the legions of craft coffee preferred by her younger workforce, only added to Mary Pat’s mystique.

At least that’s what she told herself.

A glance at the clock provided Mary Pat with the motivation required to resist the percolator’s siren song. Though she was still more than mentally capable of doing this job, physically Mary Pat was no longer the previous century’s cocksure case officer. Back then she’d subsisted primarily on coffee, takeout, and, when the occasion merited, nicotine. Now she had to watch her caffeine intake past noon lest she pass the night staring at the ceiling as Ed, her husband of forty years, snored beside her. Sleep had ceased to come easy for Mary Pat long ago. With the weight of the world on her shoulders, the last thing she needed was a chemical boost for her insomnia.

Which brought her back to the three documents.

Mary Pat loved her husband, but her devotion to John Patrick Ryan ran a close second. The current occupant of the Resolute desk embodied everything the Founding Fathers had imagined in a politician. Like Cincinnatus of old, Jack had come to political office reluctantly, with plans to return to civilian life as soon as possible.

In the ensuing years, Ryan had just as reluctantly come to terms with the notion that events beyond his control had extended his original as soon as possible longer than planned. Despite his years in the Oval Office, Jack still hadn’t developed a liking of Washington or the creatures that inhabited it. As he was wont to remind Mary Pat on an almost daily basis, once his term was up, Jack was done with D.C.

But while Ryan was the embodiment of a servant leader, he was not divine. More than anyone besides Cathy Ryan, Mary Pat understood the current commander in chief’s all-too-human limitations. Jack might have earned his spurs in the same Agency as Mary Pat, but he was not a clandestine officer.

At least not officially.

Jack had begun his intelligence career as an analyst, and he naturally defaulted to this role even now. Because of her boss’s predilections, Mary Pat took extra care when selecting what topics to bring to his attention. This was not because she was worried about his capacity to comprehend the complexity of rapidly evolving world events. The opposite was true. Jack loved raw intelligence and he relished dissecting the President’s Daily Brief, or PDB, in excruciating detail. Jack’s intellect was a powerful force, and Mary Pat took great care in deciding on what she allowed it to focus. Unlike the relationship between previous DNIs and their Presidents, Mary Pat personally reviewed the PDB each day before it went to Jack.

That this resulted in more work for her was a given, but Mary Pat had long ago accepted this as the price of doing business. Jack Ryan was brilliant, but he still required guardrails. Normally, she had an almost innate sense of what was important and what was not. Or, more specifically, what intelligence required a decision from the nation’s chief executive, and what fires could be fought by the other capable members of his team.

Not today.

Today, the seemingly disparate information vexed even Mary Pat’s legendary intellect. Though the topics at hand didn’t seem related, Mary Pat’s gut said otherwise, and over the course of a clandestine career that read like a spy novel, Mary Pat had learned to trust her instincts.

The topics summarized in the documents were three: the sinking of a Vietnamese trawler, the discovery of a Chinese glider, and a startling report from an American fast attack submarine. While these events were each significant in their own right, they would not normally rise to Mary Pat’s level. She had the inevitable job of keeping watch over the entire world. Even more so than the man she served, Mary Pat had to be capable of separating the signal from the noise. Her staff of tireless analysts and seasoned case officers did an exceptional job at this, but here Mary Pat had added her own ironclad rule—if something happened in the South China Sea, she wanted to know about it.

Immediately.

And all three of these events had occurred within the confines of the globe’s most important waterway.

The average American could be forgiven for not understanding why a stretch of water almost seven thousand miles distant merited such fuss. After all, why would the Western world care about the boundary squabbles of Asian nations? As the multiple foreign wars of the last twenty years could attest, the United States had more than enough to keep its military busy without nosing around for additional trouble.

And this was the trap that swallowed most of the uniformed. A South China Sea that could be safely navigated without fear of Chinese encroachment was critical to maintaining an independent Taiwan. An independent Taiwan was essential for national security reasons. Sixty-five percent of the world’s semiconductors were produced on the island nation. When it came to the kind of advanced chips that were essential to defense applications, the percentage jumped to close to ninety percent. Everything from common household appliances to the rockets that carried astronauts to outer space were dependent on a tiny country not much bigger than the state of Maryland.

Thriller novelists had long theorized about the devastating effects that an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, might wreak on a targeted nation’s economy. And while Mary Pat agreed with the potential for disruption, by some measures an EMP device that detonated above the United States might prove less catastrophic than a Communist Chinese invasion of Taiwan. Chips damaged by an EMP could be replaced, but if China developed a stranglehold on the world’s supply of high-tech microprocessors, Armageddon might well ensue. Optimistic estimates put the time that it would take to stand up replacement factories on U.S. soil at years. Mary Pat thought these predictions a bit too rosy. The United States had won World War II in part by depriving Germany and Japan of the natural resources required to manufacture replacements for their combat losses.

With control of Taiwan, China could very well do the same to America.

Picking up the nearest document, Mary Pat read the enclosed summary for the fourth time. At first blush, the sinking of a Vietnamese trawler, while tragic for the people involved and their families, was hardly the sort of event that merited the DNI’s attention. Even in the twenty-first century, life as a commercial fisherman was still a treacherous endeavor, and the crews that plied the South China Sea were no exception.

But this was no ordinary sinking.

A member of the crew had survived, and the tale he told was interesting. According to the fisherman, his boat had been sunk by a Chinese vessel. In the South China Sea’s congested and contested waters, this was also not a terribly unusual occurrence. Rubbing was racing in that part of the world. Sometimes captains jostling for position took things too far.

But if the survivor was to be believed, this was not that.

The fisherman claimed that his ship had been sunk by munitions fired by men on the Chinese vessel. RPGs, by the sound of things. Always eager to extract leverage from its much larger neighbor, the Vietnamese government had lodged a formal complaint with the international maritime court. China denied the altercation had taken place. The entire occurrence might have faded away were it not for the enterprising work of an analyst in the National Reconnaissance Office. While the woman hadn’t been able to retrieve imagery of the alleged attack, she had narrowed down a list of Chinese vessels that had potentially been in the area.

One of the vessels had set off alarm bells for Mary Pat’s staff.

The Dragon.

Officially registered as an oceanic research platform, the ship was classified by the CIA as dual-use. Like countless other similar vessels, the Dragon could indeed be used to gather data and conduct seabed extractions. But the CIA was convinced the vessel’s real purpose was not so benign: clandestine undersea work. In practice, this area of specialization could run the gamut from tapping undersea cables to attempting to recover American hydrophobic sensors or even shipwrecks. When the Dragon put to sea, American intelligence analysts paid attention. If the dual-use ship really had played a part in sinking a Vietnamese trawler, it served to reason that her crew was on a secretive mission.

A secretive mission in the South China Sea.

Setting the paper summarizing the incident aside, Mary Pat examined the second piece of the puzzle—flash traffic from the USS Delaware.

Jack Ryan was a naval specialist. While this wasn’t Mary Pat’s area of expertise, it didn’t take a tactician to understand the importance of the sub’s message. For a period of time, an unknown contact had tracked the world’s premier stealth platform. The analyst who’d prepared the estimate had included a short synopsis of another event in which an unexpected surprise had upended the U.S. submarine community.

Prior to fielding their own high-speed nuclear submarines, the U.S. Navy believed that American carriers could easily outrun the Soviet submarines sent to hunt them. This thinking was abruptly turned on its head after an encounter between the USS Enterprise, an American aircraft carrier, and a Soviet November-class nuclear submarine sent to tail her. Over the course of two days, the Enterprise’s captain slowly increased his ship’s speed until the engines were firewalled at thirty-one knots.

The Russian sub kept pace, with power to spare.

This was the moment when the U.S. Navy realized they needed their own high-speed nuclear-powered submarines to combat their Soviet adversaries. The technical innovations that followed ushered in an era of American submarine dominance. The USS Delaware was an apex predator. A submarine so silent that it made less noise under way than its predecessor had emitted while tied up in port. The Virginia class of submarines were undetectable.

Or so American intelligence had believed.

Now Mary Pat had powerful evidence to the contrary.

If the Delaware’s skipper was correct, her boat had been tracked through a series of evasive maneuvers. If the unknown contact was of Chinese origin, the balance of power in the South China Sea had just shifted.

Which brought Mary Pat to the final piece of information—the Chinese glider.

Setting aside the Delaware’s flash traffic, Mary Pat examined the only summary to include images. The pictured object wasn’t anyone’s idea of sexy. The glider was long and cylindrical, more resembling a fifties-era rendering of a rocket ship than a modern weapon of war. But retro look or not, the glider represented an opportunity that was impossible to ignore.

Gliders in their simplest forms were unmanned sensors propelled by the rising and falling of columns of water in the same way aerial gliders used thermals to stay aloft. This revolutionary design meant that while the sensor couldn’t travel fast, the glider could make its way through the ocean without a motor, allowing the device’s internal power to be devoted to sensors and communication devices. While first conceived as tools for long-duration oceanic research, gliders had quickly been apportioned for another task—sub hunting.

Constellations of distributed data-linked gliders could slowly prowl the ocean’s depths, searching for what was previously unfindable. But the glider’s unique method of propulsion was also its Achilles’ heel. With a top speed of no more than three or four knots and limited maneuvering abilities, a glider was vulnerable to any number of ocean hazards, including shifting currents and man-made obstructions.

Obstructions like fishing nets.

A CIA asset originally recruited to monitor weapons shipments flowing into and out of Navotas Fish Port Complex, located in Manila, had found something else instead.

A Chinese glider.

Mary Pat had considered asking the U.S. State Department for assistance with recovering the glider, but quickly abandoned the idea. The attitude of the Filipino government toward America was, in a word, unfavorable. Rather than asking State to potentially burn a diplomatic bridge, Mary Pat decided to solve the problem in-house. Recovering the glider was a job for a clandestine organization, but which one?

She didn’t want to use acknowledged CIA officers to retrieve the device, for the same reason she didn’t want to ask the Filipino government for help. If the operation went awry, the Filipino president might see returning the glider to China as a double win. In one fell swoop he could both thumb his nose at America and ingratiate himself with the Chinese. Not to mention the diplomatic fallout that would come from acknowledged CIA paramilitary officers conducting a clandestine operation on Filipino soil.

Fortunately, The Campus existed for situations such as this.

Though the intelligence entity’s original charter had imagined its command structure as separate from the U.S. government, this distinction had slowly eroded. From a practical standpoint, The Campus’s utility relied on its ability to glean actionable intelligence from U.S. sources. After all, even the world’s best operators weren’t worth much if they didn’t know where to point their rifles. But this was only part of the reason. The more practical thinking behind incorporating The Campus under the DNI lay with Mary Pat’s boss.

Jack Ryan, Sr., wasn’t much for plausible deniability.

While the President understood the need to operate out of sight as much as the next CIA officer, Jack would never hang a clandestine operative out to dry in the name of political expediency. After once finding himself on the receiving end of just such a policy in the Colombian jungle, Ryan had made it clear to Mary Pat on more than one occasion what he thought of such nonsense.

But in this case, using The Campus was the correct play. Clark and his merry band of marauders could slip into country using legends, secure the glider, and slip back out with no one the wiser. If word of the operation leaked, the Filipino president might suspect that the operation had been helmed by U.S. operatives, but he wouldn’t be sure. More important, he could say as much to his Chinese counterparts with a straight face. Mary Pat had signed off on Clark’s OPLAN to retrieve the glider hours ago, but if anything, the flash traffic from the USS Delaware made the endeavor even more urgent.

The Chinese had something cooking in the South China Sea.

Something new.

A look at this glider might just help the smart men and women at the Naval Research Laboratory better understand what America was up against.

And then there was the sinking of the Vietnamese boat.

That heavy-handedness seemed way out of proportion. A fishing trawler had crossed paths with a Chinese vessel that had probably been engaged in espionage. So what? What had been compelling enough to order the deaths of a dozen fishermen and risk the potential political ramifications that came with the killings? Mary Pat frowned as the opening scene to the movie Heat came to mind. The sequence in which a crew of hardened bank robbers execute defenseless guards to ensure there are no witnesses to the crime.

What was the crew of the Chinese vessel afraid the fishermen had witnessed?

Mary Pat shook her head.

Chasing hypotheticals was never a winning strategy. The Chinese were up to something in the South China Sea. As to what, she wouldn’t yet hazard a guess. Neither would she put it on her boss’s plate. After Clark did what he did best, she’d have a better understanding of the lay of the land. Until then, she’d concentrate on the world’s other dumpster fires.

They weren’t exactly in short supply.

13

Vicinity Regensburg, Germany

“You’re awfully quiet up there.”

Jack looked from the road to the Green Beret seated behind him.

“Something wrong with being quiet?” Jack said.

“For normal people, no,” Jad said. “But you’re our team’s version of an officer. When the officer gets quiet, bad things happen.”

“Hey, now,” Cary said from the front passenger seat. “That’s a bit rough.”

“Come on, boss,” Jad said. “You were thinking the same thing. You’re just too polite to say it.”

“You’re not?” Cary said.

“Nope,” Jad said. “We had dinner with Jack’s old man. Promised him we’d keep Junior here safe. That’s hard to do when he doesn’t let us in on whatever he’s cooking up.”

“I can actually hear you,” Jack said, “because I’m sitting right here.”

Jack changed lanes to make way for a marauding BMW.

“Good,” Jad said. “Then lay it on us. You’ll feel better once you get the craziness off your chest. Trust me.”

“He’s right,” Cary said with a sigh. “Between the two of us, Jad and I have served with half a dozen team leaders. The sooner you tell your NCOs what you’re scheming, the better chance we have of keeping you out of jail.”

Cary smiled as he spoke, but Jack still felt the gentle but firm truth beneath the man’s levity. In the brief but admittedly intense time they’d known one another, the two Green Berets had saved Jack’s life at least twice. This trip was supposed to be a reset. A chance for the commandos to feel out Jack and The Campus without the distraction of a real-world op. Instead, Cary and Jad had just been in a gunfight.

Not exactly what the pair had signed up for.

“Okay,” Jack said with a sigh of his own. “I was thinking about making a detour.”

Reaching into his pocket, Cary withdrew a handful of euros and tossed them over his shoulder.

“You’re just a sore loser,” Jad said as he collected the fluttering bills.

“What’s with you two?” Jack said.

“We had a bet,” Cary said. “I said you’d wait until we had the airport in sight. Jad figured it’d be sooner.”

“What would be sooner?” Jack said.

“Your decision to ignore your boss and interview the American scientist.”

Put that way, Jack suddenly wasn’t such a big fan of the choice he was contemplating.

“I’m not ignoring my boss,” Jack said. “I was just thinking that since Edelweiss Resort is only an hour southwest of Munich, we could head down there, talk to the scientist, and still make it back to the airport in plenty of time.”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night,” Jad said.

Jack vented his irritation by flooring the accelerator, but he’d no sooner put on his left turn signal than another vehicle roared by, this time a Honda. Of all the cars available to drive in Germany, Jack was stuck behind the wheel of something that made a Prius look sporty.

“Easy there, team leader,” Cary said. “Jad’s just busting balls. Besides, it’s kind of a compliment.”

“Yep,” Jad said.

“How so?” Jack said.

“Men like us don’t stop when there’s still a thread to pull,” Cary said. “My partner’s jackassery aside, you’re engaging in a common Green Beret practice.”

“What’s that?” Jack said.

“Developing the situation,” Jad said. “It’s a fancy doctrinal term for poking a hornet’s nest to see what flies out.”

“That’s a dumb analogy,” Cary said. “Of course hornets fly out of a hornet’s nest. Developing the situation is more like shaking a tree to see what falls from the branches.”

“Only if cinder blocks grow on your tree,” Jad said. “This is not our first operation with young Mr. Ryan. We both know there’s a high likelihood someone’s gonna get stung in the ass before this is over.”

“Again, right here,” Jack said, but he was smiling as he spoke.

The Green Berets were correct.

Jack was usually more of a hornet’s nest kind of guy, but not this time. Hans had given Jack a parting bit of information. The American scientist, Zhang Wei, was registered at Edelweiss Lodge and Resort, a hotel located in the mountainous region near the German/Austrian border. The child-friendly facility was part of the U.S. Army Garrison’s Bavaria installation and was intended for U.S. service members, Department of Defense civilians, and their dependents. Aside from a possible run on chocolate ice cream, Jack wasn’t worried about a catastrophe befalling the hotel.

Besides, Clark would probably thank Jack for conducting the interview. Campus resource requests ran through Mary Pat, who was already a busy woman. Every time a Campus operative needed help, the DNI had to figure out a way to disguise the tasking so that the paperwork trail didn’t inadvertently point back to an organization that didn’t officially exist.

The Campus was great at conducting nimble operations in denied environments. It was not so good at liaising with clunky government bureaucracies. The more Jack thought about it, the more it made sense for him to have a quick talk with the American scientist before Jack left Germany. He’d send a summary of the interview to Clark from the airport and then board the flight to Manila. If Clark then decided that the scientist merited official attention, he could pass along the request and a copy of Jack’s summary to Mary Pat.

If not, no harm no foul.

But that still left a couple blanks that needed to be filled in.

“What do we know about this guy?” Jad said.

Once again, the Green Beret seemed to be reading Jack’s mind.

“The short answer is not much,” Jack said, “but that’s about to change.”

“You bringing Lisanne into the loop?” Jad said.

Jack eyed the Green Beret in the rearview mirror before replying. The commando fit the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He also happened to be showing way too much interest in Lisanne’s well-being for Jack’s taste.

“No,” Jack said, resisting the urge to once again step on the gas. “The three of us are burned, but she might not be. Since she’s Isabel’s handler, Lisanne will stay in place until the conference is over. It’s time for you guys to meet my secret weapon.”

After ensuring that his cell was linked to the car’s Bluetooth system, Jack selected a contact from his favorites. The sound of ringing echoed through the speakers. By the fifth ring, Jack was beginning to second-guess his dramatic lead-up. Though they were willing participants in this operation, Cary and Jad were not Campus members, as John Clark had made perfectly clear. The director of operations saw this as more of an exchange program than an onboarding of two new shooters. Even so, Jack liked the two men and was already gearing up for the discussion he knew was coming.

The one that would center on adding the men to The Campus’s roster.

Unfortunately, that bit of convincing would have to go in two directions.

Jad had not been exaggerating with his earlier comment. At dinner, the senior Ryan had uncharacteristically made his case for The Campus directly to the Green Berets. Jack thought this was partly due to his father’s innate ability to spot talent and partly because he knew that the commandos were responsible for saving his son’s life. Jack Ryan, Sr.’s sales pitch had hit its target. Cary and Jad had both agreed to a Campus overseas exercise.

But Jack knew the men were far from convinced.

In addition to setting aside promising Army careers, the commandos would now be going into harm’s way absent the combat multipliers to which they’d become accustomed. Hitting an objective with Campus shooters meant sneaking and peeking in the dead of night without the comforting drone of an AC-130 gunship’s four turboprop engines providing the mood music. There were no 160th Night Stalker Little Birds waiting to wreak vengeance on the enemy and no QRF of amped-up Rangers ready to kick down doors and take names. Working for The Campus was sexy, but decidedly different than playing with the hard men and women who made up Special Operations Command. With this in mind, Jack wanted to be able to expose the Green Berets to The Campus’s brand of operational magic.

Assuming, of course, his chief combat multiplier actually answered his phone.

On the eighth ring, Jack got his wish.

“Jack? Is that you?”

As always, Gavin’s voice seemed rough, as if he’d just woken. Though the plump keyboard warrior’s hours tended toward the nocturnal, Jack knew this wasn’t the case today. Gavin had just been helping with Jack’s operation on the University of Regensburg campus. He should be wide awake.

Unless Gavin had decided to engage in one of his famous power naps.

“Yeah, it’s me, buddy,” Jack said. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” Gavin said. “I was just trimming my tree.”

Jack hit the mute button a millisecond before snickers echoed through the car.

“Uh, Gavin?” Jack said.

“What? Oh, come on, Jack. I’m talking about my bonsai tree. I’m testing for my aikido green belt tonight. Trimming my tree always gets me in the martial mood.”

This time Jack wasn’t quick enough with the mute, but he covered the sounds of laughter with several well-timed coughs.

So much for impressing the commandos.

“You okay, Jack?” Gavin said.

“Fine, buddy,” Jack said after loudly clearing his throat. “Just had something go down the wrong hatch. I need your help.”

“Help watching your back?” Gavin said. “I think that Green Beret Jade has the hots for Lisanne.”

“It’s Jad,” Jad chimed in from the back.

“You sure?” Gavin said.

“Positive,” Jad said. “I was there when my momma named me.”

This call was giving new definition to the term shitshow.

“Sorry, buddy,” Jack said. “Should have mentioned that the Green Berets are in the car.”

As one part of Jack’s mind was furiously trying to figure out how to do damage control, the other portion made a note of the fact that while Jad had corrected his name, he hadn’t said a thing about Lisanne.

Interesting.

“Hey, Gavin,” Cary said, stepping into the fray, “nice to meet you. And for what it’s worth, my son has a couple bonsai trees, too. He’s a big fan of Cobra Kai.”

“No kidding?” Gavin said. “Man, when Elisabeth Shue made a guest appearance I—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack said, “but we don’t have much time. We’re on our way to interview Zhang Wei, the American brother of Wang Lei, the Chinese kidnap victim. I was hoping you’d run us through what you’ve found.”

“Sure, Jack,” Gavin said. “Sure. So I queried the usual open-source sites and put the info into a targeting package that I sent to your Campus high-side account. Bottom line, Zhang Wei specializes in machine learning.”

“What does that mean?” Jad said.

“Is that Jade again?” Gavin said.

“Close enough,” Cary said.

“Thought so,” Gavin said. “I have a way with names and voices. Anyway, think of machine learning as data pattern analysis on steroids. Scientists develop algorithms that allow machines to make determinations about data sets. For instance, imagine you’re a company that manufactures brackets and one of your products keeps failing. You know something’s going wrong in the fabrication process, but you’re not sure what. Machine-learning algorithms would analyze all the data you’ve amassed on brackets that failed or passed inspection and draw conclusions. Oftentimes, these conclusions point in directions you wouldn’t normally consider.”

“Are there military applications?” Jack said.

“Tons,” Gavin answered. “Data analysis is analogous to the concept of stealth back in the seventies. It’s the new frontier. Machine learning at its best can both draw conclusions from vast data sets and teach the computers how to better solve problems.”

“Can you unpack that one for old Jade?” Jad said.

“Certainly,” Gavin said. “Everyone knows that computers do a better job of analyzing fingerprints than humans. A good algorithm might examine the arches, loops, and whorls in closer detail than a human bioinformatician. But that’s only part of the equation. Machine learning can analyze all the positive identifications made by human technicians and discover novel ways to identify a fingerprint’s owner. The machine learns.”

“Tracking,” Jad said.

The Green Beret sounded impressed, and Jack began to relax. For all his quirks, Gavin really was a force to be reckoned with. Maybe the hacker was winning over his audience after all.

“Any specifics on Zhang Wei’s work?” Jack said.

“Sorry, no,” Gavin said. “His dissertation and thesis are pretty standard fare, but then his résumé falls off.”

“What do you mean?” Jack said.

“After getting his Ph.D., Zhang Wei published several papers but then abruptly stopped. His LinkedIn profile shows some postdoc work for a couple of the Silicon Valley usuals, but the last entry was from almost five years ago. I called the company’s HR department and learned that he hasn’t worked for them in two years.”

“Government lab,” Jad said.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Gavin said.

“What do you mean?” Jack said, feeling a little irritated at the exchange.

“Academics have a saying—publish or perish,” Jad said. “If a scientist has stopped publishing it usually means one of two things. Either they’re no longer working in the field—”

“Or they’ve taken a job with a government lab doing the kind of work that you can’t talk about,” Gavin said.

Jack glanced at Jad in the rearview mirror only to see the Green Beret grinning back at him.

“He’s an Echo,” Cary said, answering Jack’s unspoken question. “That’s the equivalent of having a degree in RF engineering. Jad knows a thing or two about scientists. The smartest Green Berets are always Echoes.”

“And best-looking,” Jad said, his smile even wider.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Any idea why our boy’s vacationing at Edelweiss?”

“Not positive,” Gavin said, “but the fact that he was even able to make a reservation also suggests he works for a government lab. Since the resort is on a military base, you have to be a service member or government civilian, or sponsored by one, to gain access. As to why he’s at Edelweiss, the resort’s security camera footage from the last several days shows Zhang Wei in the company of a brunette. He eats breakfast with her every morning. His reservation for a single room began two days ago, but he also has a reservation for an additional room beginning tomorrow.”

“The day the conference at the University of Regensburg ends,” Cary said. “Does the brunette have a ring?”

“Stand by,” Gavin said, “let me check.”

“You have access to the video in real time?” Jad said.

“Of course,” Gavin said. “I compromised the system and mirrored the hard drives after Jack asked me to poke around. By the way, the hotel’s got a special going for the next three days in case you guys are interested. Also, yes, the girl has an engagement ring but no wedding band.”

“How in the hell were you able to—” Jad said.

“Geek out with your fellow keyboard ninja on your own time,” Cary said. “I think the second room is for Wang Lei. Maybe Zhang Wei wants to introduce his fiancée to his brother.”

“Or maybe the Regensburg conference provided the excuse for a family vacation to Europe,” Jad said. “Both scenarios make sense. So what’s the play?”

“Meet with Zhang Wei, tell him what happened to his brother, and see what he knows,” Jack said, feeling a bit like he was a passenger on a freight train that was barreling off the tracks. “Gavin, can you book us rooms? That way we don’t have to dodge security.”

“No problem,” Gavin said, his keyboard clattering. “Mountain or parking lot view?”

“Mountain, for sure,” Jad said.

“Got it,” Gavin said. “Oh, man, those are a bit pricey. Do the three of you want to split a room?”

“Gavin,” Jack said.

“Sorry, Jack,” Gavin said, “but Mr. C. is always on me about operational costs. Okay, three rooms booked with mountain views. Zhang Wei’s dossier is in your inbox. I’ve still got no hits on Wang Lei or his kidnappers.”

“Hits from where?” Jad said.

“The German closed-circuit television network,” Gavin said.

“The BfV shares CCTV feeds with The Campus?” Jad said.

“Not so much shares as they don’t stop us from taking it,” Jack said.

“My digital kung fu is strong,” Gavin said.

“Gavin,” Jack said.

“Sorry,” Gavin said, “but it seemed to fit. Anything else?”

“Nope,” Jack said. “Thanks, buddy.”

“No problem,” Gavin said. “Good luck.”

“We don’t need luck,” Jack said. “This is just a friendly interview.”

“Sure it is,” Gavin said with a chuckle. “Do you remember when—”

Jack hung up.

“Huh,” Jad said, leaning forward. “Do your calls always drop like that?”

“Only when the Chinese are jamming them,” Jack said.

“Maybe we should get some hardware before the knock and talk,” Cary said.

“It’s an interview,” Jack said, redlining the engine. “There will be no shooting.”

“Wanna bet?” Jad said.

Jack did not.

14

Ninety minutes later, Jack pulled into the resort’s parking lot.

The Edelweiss was a resort in every sense of the word. Nestled at the base of Germany’s tallest mountain, the facility boasted acres of pools, restaurants, health clubs, and other amenities. Unlike his father, Jack had never served in the military. As a result, he’d always assumed that military resort hotels would be poor imitations of their civilian counterparts. One look at the Edelweiss’s rustic interior had him reassessing this opinion. With its leather couches, exposed stone, and plethora of wood furnishings, the main lobby more resembled a high-end Austrian hunting lodge than a hotel for military families.

Walking up to the counter, Jack thought through how he was going to play the interaction. At first, he’d intended to check in and then walk up to Zhang Wei’s room and knock. But this approach didn’t sit right. Too passive. Besides the ticking clock associated with his pending departure from Munich, there was something else bothering Jack.

The kidnapping of Zhang Wei’s brother felt wrong.

Though the operatives who’d executed the rendition were no doubt professionals, the operation was off. Rushed. The smart play would have been to wait until after the conference instead of snatching their target in broad daylight like an action sequence from a Bourne movie. A quiet but forcible conversation in a crowded bar or, better yet, a surreptitious entry to the man’s hotel room would have accomplished the same goal with none of the associated fanfare.

A paramilitary team conducted an overt rendition for one reason only.

Timing.

There had to be some sort of operational constraint tied to time. A reason why burning the several hours it would have taken to set up a snatch at a far less circumspect location wasn’t feasible. This was the only explanation that made sense, but if so, this line of thought raised still more complications. The Chinese team had announced their presence in the most dramatic way possible—by killing a member of the German intelligence service. Germans, like most anyone else, do not like having their asses handed to them in their own backyard. Politicians might attribute the incident to the cost of doing business, but Jack thought the German populace would be out for blood.

Jack needed to discover Zhang Wei’s location. Quickly. This was the type of information that a luxury hotel’s staff knew about their guests. Withdrawing a set of credentials from his pocket, Jack opened them for the woman behind the check-in desk to see.

“Afternoon,” Jack said with a smile. “I need to speak with one of your guests.”

The credentials were a new addition to the Campus kit. A nod to the reality that the operatives employed by the off-the-books intelligence organization were no longer tasked with just sneak-and-peek operations. More and more often, field hands like Jack found themselves in situations where they had to not only explain their unlikely presence, but also compel the assistance of bystanders.

Hence the credentials.

The black billfold contained a picture of Jack, a false name, and the emblem of a real but unpopular governmental entity—the Department of Agriculture. This was seen as a compromise of sorts. While the DoA’s special agents did have investigative authority, the agency embodied none of the FBI’s or CIA’s sexiness. Nobody would want to tell their friends about the time they were interviewed by the Department of Agriculture.

At least that was the theory.

As Jack had hoped, the person behind the counter was American. She eyed the offered credentials and compared Jack’s photo to his face.

Then she spoke.

“I can’t give out room numbers,” the woman said, her dark eyes daring Jack to disagree, “but I can call a guest for you.”

“That would be great,” Jack said. “I’m looking for Dr. Zhang Wei.”

On a whim, Jack pulled up a picture of the scientist on his phone and slid the device across the counter. The woman paused in the act of dialing as she eyed the image.

“I can still call his room if you like,” she said, “but I think you just missed him.”

“Missed him?” Jack said, his smile growing more forced.

“Yes,” the woman said. “He asked me for directions to the Eibsee Hotel on his way out about ten minutes ago. The hotel’s located on a lake fifteen minutes from here.”

“Sure it’s him?” Jack said.

“Not positive,” she said, “but we don’t have many Asian guests.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “Can you call his room anyway?”

“Love to,” she said, but the tone of her voice suggested otherwise.

As the woman dialed, Jack ran a quick search on Eibsee Hotel with his phone. After reviewing the results, he understood the woman’s tone. Edelweiss was beautiful, but it was no Eibsee Hotel. That resort sat nestled on the eastern side of a glacier-fed lake bearing the same name. Its outdoor seating pavilion was feet away from the glistening water. If the handful of images posted to Google were any indication, the place could have doubled as a set for a remake of The Sound of Music.

Stunning didn’t really do the place justice.

“No answer,” the woman said, placing the phone back in its cradle.

Her self-satisfied tone gave Jack an idea.

“With your aptitude for faces,” Jack said, “you might be in the wrong line of work.”

The woman smiled. “I’m taking a semester off from school to travel. This isn’t my permanent career field.”

“What are you studying?” Jack said.

“Accounting.”

“If balance sheets ever start to feel boring, give me a call,” Jack said, placing his business card on the counter. “We’re always looking for good people, and the work can take you to exotic places. Thanks again for the help.”

“Just a minute,” the woman said as Jack was turning to go. “Do you want me to give you a ring if he comes back?”

“That would be great,” Jack said.

The woman was punching his number into her cell as Jack exited the hotel, proving once again that his mother was right—you could catch more flies with honey. This should have come as no surprise, because Cathy Ryan was usually right.

About everything.

15

“Reaper elements, this is Scepter, radio check, over.”

“Scepter, this is Reaper 1,” Cary said. “Read you loud and clear, over.”

“Scepter, this is Reaper 2,” Jad said. “Got you Lima Charlie as well, over.”

“Roger that,” Jack said.

Defaulting to the call signs they’d used during the North Korean operation was natural, but the brevity codes also brought with them a slew of emotions. Jack had been in plenty of tight spots, but the North Korean mission might just take the cake. In the ensuing weeks, he’d awakened more than once from dreams in which shadowy figures were overrunning his foxhole.

“Scepter, Reaper 1 has eyes on Sheldon. He’s sitting alone at a table on the white side of Schnitzel, over.”

Jack sighed.

If the Reaper and Scepter call signs dredged up bad memories, the brevity code words the Green Berets had selected for this mission were formulating new ones. Since Zhang Wei was a scientist, Jad had promptly christened him Sheldon, after the character in the TV show The Big Bang Theory. Not to be outdone, Cary had decreed that the Eibsee Hotel was Schnitzel, while the surrounding buildings were Brat, Wurst, and Spätzle. If nothing else, the radio traffic was sure to gin up an appetite.

“Roger that, Reaper 1,” Jack said. “Reaper 2, any uninvited guests, over?”

Their proclivity for strange radio protocol aside, the Green Berets would make great Campus operatives. The two men were both snipers and had more time surveilling high-value targets than most shooters spent cleaning their weapons. Even though the pair were absent the rifles and spotting scopes they normally carried into battle, the commandos had wasted no time preparing a plan of action centered on Jack’s engagement with the American scientist. If he’d been operating solo, as was usually the case, Jack would have thought nothing of ambling up to Sheldon and introducing himself.

Jad and Cary had vetoed the idea.

Though there was every reason to believe that the MSS direct-action team they’d tangled with earlier was long gone, this wasn’t a gamble the Green Berets were prepared to take. In truth, Jack was grateful for the commandos’ presence. Though night terrors might haunt Jack’s dreams, real life had turned out differently. The three of them had survived an encounter with a well-trained and numerically superior force. An encounter Jack knew would have turned out much differently absent the Green Berets. Jack considered the ferocity and precision with which the snipers dealt out violence a fair trade for their quirks.

Most days.

“Scepter, this is Reaper 2, that’s a negative on uninvited guests. I’ve got line of sight to the red and green sides of Schnitzel and a pretty good view of the woods to the black side. No Hermans in view, over.”

The hotel really was the perfect spot for a clandestine meeting.

The western, or white, side of the resort featured a wraparound deck that served as the outdoor seating area for the hotel’s restaurant just steps away from the glacial lake’s rocky beach. The beach continued to both the north and south. Cary was perched in the pavilion of a second restaurant about one hundred meters southwest of the hotel’s south, or green, side. From here, the team sergeant had an unobstructed view of the wraparound deck as well as a marina that occupied the space between the two buildings.

As the team’s spotter, Jad had chosen to position himself on the high ground.

Literally.

In a nod to the Zugspitze peak that dominated the surrounding terrain, the Germans had erected a cable car that ferried tourists to the summit. The cable car station was a contemporary glass-and-metal monstrosity that more resembled a modern art museum than the rickety conveyances of old.

After conducting his initial recon, Jad had settled into the second-floor observatory and made good use of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not only did his observation post offer an excellent vantage point, it also gave him a reason to use a hastily acquired set of Steiner binoculars. Though most of his fellow tourists were focused on the mountain, a good many were also marveling at the liquid-blue lake.

Perfect cover.

“Scepter copies all,” Jack said. “Entering Schnitzel now.”

Though the hotel’s facilities were officially closed to non-patrons, the reviews Cary had perused on Google as Jack drove suggested that this rule was not strictly enforced. After all, euros were euros whether they came from hotel guests or from outsiders. Jack figured that as long as the restaurant wasn’t too crowded, the hotel staff would be content to look the other way.

Now it was time to put this thesis to the test.

After mounting the steps, Jack breezed through the lobby as if he had somewhere to be. Which he did. The lanky fräulein manning the pedestal spit out a burst of German as Jack made eye contact. He responded by smiling and shaking his head as he pointed to the beckoning restaurant’s deck.

“Meeting someone,” Jack said, never slowing his stride.

The hostess seemed on the verge of objecting when a couple entering behind Jack demanded her attention. The woman opened with a deluge in German that her male companion accentuated with a word here or there. It didn’t take a linguist to understand that the pair were unhappy.

Jack quickened his step and then he was past the hostess and into the restaurant proper. A second hostess attempted to check his progress, but Jack was most of the way toward his goal and had no intentions of stopping. Once again, he played to the American stereotype, speaking loudly and slowly as he strolled on by.

“Heading back there,” Jack said, gesturing toward the deck.

The woman muttered something in German, but nodded.

Jack navigated the tables and passed through a set of double doors to the outdoor terrace. He hesitated on the far side, as much to take in the incredible view as to search for Sheldon.

The outdoor dining area sat on a cobblestone plaza that also served as the roof for a recessed meeting room. Balconied hotel rooms began on the second floor and continued overhead, leaving the dining area open to the elements. Tables were set apart from one another with collapsible umbrellas to offer shade. But it wasn’t so much the eating area as the expanse of blue beyond it that stole Jack’s breath.

Thanks to his father and mother, Jack had been a world traveler long before his employment with The Campus. In fact, some of his earliest memories involved toddling through London museums during Jack Senior’s tour with MI5. But as grand as these sights had been, the view of Lake Eibsee was in a category by itself.

The dining area was bounded by a waist-high railing that made the lake look like an infinity pool. The still water mirrored the surrounding lush, green hillside in startling detail. Had he been here under other circumstances, Jack would have gladly ordered a plate of currywurst and passed the afternoon soaking up the beauty of God’s creation.

But he wasn’t here under other circumstances.

Sheldon sat alone at the far right of the patio, close to the railing. One look at the scientist confirmed Jack’s suspicion that Sheldon wasn’t having a good day. A plate of Jägerschnitzel sat untouched in front of Sheldon with a scandalously full stein for company. Even the smile from the pretty blond fräulein who topped off Sheldon’s water went unnoticed.

The scientist had a lot on his mind.

Jack could sympathize.

“Reaper elements, this is Scepter,” Jack whispered. “Eyes on Sheldon. Sitting alone at the northwest corner of the patio, over.”

“Scepter, this is Reaper 1, roger that,” Cary said. “He’s obstructed by the column, but I’ve got eyes on the rest of the patio, over.”

The column Cary was referencing was one of four spaced evenly across the deck. They stood about fifteen feet high, and their bases were lodged in planters offset by bushes. A tarp covered each column. Jack didn’t have the slightest idea as to their purpose—perhaps they were heaters or misters, or maybe just a funky piece of German art.

That didn’t matter.

What did matter was that the column closest to the lake was hiding Sheldon from Cary. Even in picturesque Germany, no operation ever went as planned.

“This is Reaper 2,” Jad said. “Brat, Wurst, and Spätzle are still clear. I’ve got the hustle and bustle you’d expect, but no suspicious singletons and no Hermans.”

Herman was the brevity code word denoting potential Chinese operatives. Unlike their time on the Korean peninsula, Jack knew that he and the team had the advantage in homogeneous Germany. Unless the Chinese hitters were decked out in motorcycle gear again, they would be easy to spot against the sea of Caucasians. No Hermans equaled good news as far as Jack was concerned.

“Scepter copies all,” Jack said. “I’m going in.”

16

Jack had no trouble navigating the maze of tables. This time of the afternoon, the seats were less than half full. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. With the sun blazing from a blue sky, the lake crystal clear, and the mountains beckoning, Jack figured that the hotel’s patrons were busy enjoying the great outdoors.

This suited Jack just fine.

The conversation with Sheldon would be enlightening, which meant the fewer ears snooping, the better. Sheldon made eye contact with Jack and then looked away, his gaze traveling across the lake. Jack logged the man’s reaction as he considered what it meant. The seat across from Sheldon was empty, but the table held an extra place setting and menu.

Sheldon was waiting for someone.

“Look sharp,” Jack murmured. “Our guy’s expecting company.”

As Jack passed the final table separating him from Sheldon, the scientist eyed him. Sheldon’s dining area was set apart from the rest of the patio. No doubt the isolation was intended to facilitate intimate conversations out of earshot from the rest of the diners. A place for lovers to talk. Sheldon watched as Jack approached, and his previously blank expression changed to irritation.

“Is this seat taken?” Jack said.

Running agents was all about relationships. To be an effective handler, you had to convince your asset that you genuinely cared about them, not just what they could do for you. This was especially true during the initial meeting between handler and agent. In this first date of sorts, the asset always made judgments about their handler’s capability, veracity, and compassion. Nobody wanted to work for a boss who cared about the results at the expense of his people. This was doubly so for the world of espionage. Jack could have just taken a seat, but by first asking Sheldon if the chair was occupied, he afforded the scientist the illusion that their budding relationship was on equal terms.

“No,” Sheldon said, his face wrinkling in confusion. “I mean, not yet.”

Though Sheldon was slender, he had a runner’s or cyclist’s toned build rather than the skinny frame that came from diet alone. His hair was thick and black and swept away from his forehead in an unruly cowlick. His bronze face sported faint tan lines around his eyes. Jack assumed the marks came from sunglasses worn while running or biking, giving credence to his guess that Sheldon was an endurance athlete.

Actually, it wasn’t much of a guess.

Scientists tended to prefer solitary athletic activities, with swimming, cycling, and running topping the list. Sheldon’s narrow shoulders eliminated swimming. Based on the monstrous sports watch that occupied a quarter of the scientist’s left wrist, Jack bet on trail running. The mountains surrounding Edelweiss were riddled with pedestrian footpaths, making this the perfect vacation destination for someone like Sheldon.

Well, almost perfect.

“Great,” Jack said, settling in across from the scientist, “because I need a few minutes of your time.”

“Sorry,” Sheldon said, “but do I know you?”

“No,” Jack said, “but this isn’t about me. It’s about your brother.”

Jack had rehearsed his opening several times during the drive to the hotel. He wasn’t going for smooth or conciliatory. Jack was trying to provoke a reaction. His time was limited, and Jack needed to get to the heart of the matter quickly. He wanted to know if the scientist knew about his brother’s abduction. If so, Jack then wanted to ascertain whether the kidnappers had already given Sheldon instructions in the form of a task Sheldon had to complete before his brother would be released.

Judging by Sheldon’s face, the scientist definitely knew his brother had been abducted. Fear warred with anger, and Jack found himself updating his appraisal of Sheldon. Most people were sheep, and fear was an appropriate reaction for a herd animal. Anger, on the other hand, suggested that Sheldon had some fight in him.

This would be a welcome development.

“What do you know about my brother?” Sheldon said.

“Not much,” Jack said, “but I want to help.”

Reaching into his pocket, Jack withdrew his credentials. He opened the leather case and angled it so that Sheldon could read them while using the far side of the table to shield the creds from the rest of the patio.

Sheldon leaned forward, brow furrowing as he studied the document.

“Department of Agriculture?” Sheldon said, frowning. “Why am I not talking with the FBI or State Department?”

“Because I’m here and they’re not,” Jack said. “I saw your brother get taken, but I couldn’t stop it. I’m assuming his kidnapping has something to do with your work. Is that correct?”

Sheldon shook his head. “I can’t talk about what I do. You need to leave. Now.”

The anger Jack had seen earlier was still there, but now a different emotion superseded it. Sheldon’s thin fingers drummed out a staccato on the tablecloth as his gaze slipped over Jack’s shoulder. The scientist had chosen the seat offering a view of the entire dining area as well as the rocky beach.

He was definitely waiting for someone.

“What were the kidnapper’s instructions?” Jack said.

Sheldon’s eyes hardened as his cheeks flushed.

“The Department of Agriculture investigates missing scientists?”

“You work for a government lab,” Jack said, “right? Then I’m sure you can connect the dots. I’m guessing your brother was targeted because of you. If you insist on dealing with the kidnappers alone, I won’t stop you. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“What are you offering?” Sheldon said.

“Help,” Jack said. “Tell me what they said to you. I’ll do what I can to get your brother back, but you have to be honest with me.”

Sheldon looked at Jack without speaking.

Jack wondered what the other man saw.

Working for a government lab didn’t make Sheldon a covert operative by any stretch of the imagination, but it did mean the scientist probably rubbed shoulders with some interesting people.

People like Jack.

While Sheldon wasn’t overly impressed with the Department of Agriculture creds, he could guess their purpose, even if his conclusion probably pointed him toward the wrong agency. Jack’s clothes were rumpled, his face scratched, and his knuckles bruised. This was not the look you’d want for your financial adviser. But if you were facing the sort of rough problem that could be resolved only by equally rough men, Jack’s appearance might just be perfect interview attire.

“They told me to come here,” Sheldon said.

“To the hotel?” Jack said.

“No,” Sheldon said, shaking his head. “To this exact table. They even told me on which side to sit.”

The hair on the back of Jack’s neck stood up.

This was a setup.

Jack froze, unsure whether to get off the X and risk triggering the ambush or to remain in place and coordinate his next steps with the Green Berets.

Then the glass carafe next to his right hand exploded.

17

Cary Marks was pondering his poor life choices.

Though he was overlooking a glacier-fed lake reflecting a mountain, he was not happy. As much as he loved the feel of a cool breeze against his face and the warm sun on his neck, Cary found himself almost longing for the close confines of a sniper hide site. This was not because Cary missed lying in the dirt or the smell of his own body odor. No, Cary was unhappy for just one reason—his sixth sense said that things were about to go sideways, and he was armed with nothing but harsh language.

Well, that and his Special Forces can-do attitude.

Maybe he was just being paranoid.

“Reaper 1, this is Reaper 2,” Jad said. “This doesn’t feel right, over.”

Or perhaps not.

So as not to disturb Jack’s meeting with Sheldon, the Green Berets were utilizing a separate radio channel. The Campus operative had just relayed that he was entering the restaurant. If something was going to go wrong, Cary expected it to be soon.

“Concur,” Cary said. “What are you thinking?”

The pavilion Cary had chosen as an observation post was a little over one hundred meters straight-line distance from the hotel’s outdoor seating area. The lakeshore doglegged to the southeast for about fifty meters before curling back to the southwest, forming a small inlet. This geography offered Cary an unobstructed sight line across the expanse of water. He had no trouble identifying Jack as the Campus operative emerged from the restaurant’s interior, crossed the outdoor seating area, and settled into the seat across from Sheldon.

So far so good.

“Our boy has his back to the action,” Jad said. “His table is the closest to the beach.”

“Meaning he’s a big fat target,” Cary said, completing his spotter’s thought. “I don’t like it, either, but I’m not seeing any sign of trouble. You?”

The pavilion where Cary was seated was about half full of guests, most lingering over beers or glasses of wine. Though a variety of languages were being spoken, every face was Caucasian. In theory, this meant they were not the people Cary was hunting.

In theory.

But theory did nothing to quiet the tingling running down Cary’s neck.

“One, this is 2,” Jad said. “I’ve got nothing here, but I think I might have picked a bad spot. This is a fantastic venue for observation, but not for interdiction. If something happens, I’ll never get to you in time. I’m going to reposition, over.”

The Special Operation Forces sniper training class was known as the Special Operations target interdiction course. Interdiction was code for shooting, and Cary agreed with Jad’s assessment. Perhaps they’d both been looking at the situation wrong. Cary had chosen his spot for the pavilion’s unobstructed sight line to Jack, as well as the surrounding area. But in this case, perhaps he needed to think like a fellow sniper. If Cary was going to take a shot, it wouldn’t be from the crowded pavilion. Instead of a countersurveillance mission centered on Jack, maybe he and Jad needed to transition to a counter-sniper profile focusing on the areas that a fellow shooter would pick to construct his hide site.

“Good copy, 2,” Cary said. “Let me know once you’re in place. I’m going to reposition as well.”

Cary looked over his shoulder to signal the waitress, only to have his plans shift once again. The previously empty table ten meters behind Cary was now occupied by a man.

An Asian man.

Well, shit.

Cary took in his fellow diner’s appearance as he let his eyes slide over the potential shooter in search of the waitress. When his gaze naturally intersected with the Asian man’s, Cary didn’t shy away from the eye contact, but neither did he prolong it. There was no flash of recognition in the man’s eyes, but that might not mean much. The operatives who’d kidnapped Sheldon’s brother were professionals.

Professionals didn’t make rookie mistakes.

The pretty waitress smiled at Cary and started toward him. Which complicated things. Since he was weaponless, Cary was already at a disadvantage. He didn’t want to be both weaponless and surrounded by potential hostages or targets.

“Beer,” Cary shouted.

The waitress’s smile disappeared, and she gave a tight nod. Her reaction didn’t make Cary feel great, but better a disappointed girl than a dead one. Now Cary had to worry only about his new Asian friend. His interaction with the waitress had given Cary another opportunity to eye the potential shooter. While the man was sitting alone, he now had a cell phone pressed to his ear. This threw Cary for a loop. If the guy really was a shooter, he’d want both hands free.

Why was he on the phone?

Because he wasn’t the shooter.

Swearing, Cary keyed the transmit button as he finally understood what was happening.

His teammate beat him to the punch.

“One, this is 2,” Jad said. “I’ve got—”

The unmistakable cough of a suppressed rifle interrupted Jad’s transmission. A moment later the crinkling of shattering glass echoed across the water. Jack spilled from his seat but appeared to be unhurt. Hopefully. While Cary was worried about the Campus operative, his primary concern was seated behind him. Jad had eyes on the shooter, which meant the Asian man on the pavilion with Cary could be only one thing.

The spotter.

18

Accounting for wind drift was one of the most challenging aspects of distance shooting. The outdoor dining area was a nightmare of swirling vortices. The breeze blowing off the lake had to be significantly different from the airflow at the top of the parking lot where the shooter was located. This meant the Asian man behind Cary must be feeding the sniper wind information.

Which meant he was an enemy combatant.

Grabbing his stein, Cary whipped the mug at the Asian man.

Though beer mug throwing had not been a part of the curriculum covered in the Special Forces Qualification, or Q, Course, Cary was uniquely qualified in this aspect. Like most members of the Special Operations community, Cary had been a high school athlete. A pretty gifted one. Though the oblong glass wasn’t designed with aerodynamics in mind, Cary had been a catcher with a reputation for throwing out runners at second. From that perspective, accurately chucking a glass projectile twenty feet was child’s play.

Or so Cary had thought.

But a stein didn’t quite fly the same way a baseball did. No matter. The glass projectile had a bit more umph behind it.

The stein bounced off the table and cartwheeled into the Asian man’s chest. Other than soaking him with the sudsy remains of Cary’s brew, the projectile did no noticeable damage.

The same could not be said of Cary’s size twelve shoe.

Or, more accurately, the disruption his shoe caused when it impacted the table.

Cary kicked the table with everything he had, snapping his hips and waist into the blow. The table’s edge slammed into the Asian man, hitting him in the solar plexus. He folded over, the phone tumbling from limp fingers. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Cary threaded his fingers through the man’s black hair and bashed his face against the table three times. Strictly speaking, the first two blows were enough to finish the job, but in Cary’s experience, anything worth shooting once was worth shooting twice.

Or three times.

The man slid from his chair in a limp puddle.

While part of Cary’s mind realized that he’d received his last smile from the cute waitress, the other more rational section was fervently hoping that the man was armed. This was both so that Cary could better come to his friends’ aid and because he desperately wanted to believe that he hadn’t just beaten an innocent man senseless.

After a frantic pat-down, Cary found a bulge near the man’s waist. Stripping the pistol from the Asian’s pants, Cary racked the slide, chambering a round. Or, to be more specific, chambering a second round as the one already in the chamber cartwheeled through the air.

Fine.

Racking the slide was quicker than press-checking the pistol.

What was not fine was the sight greeting Cary as he stood, pistol in hand. Several of the more courageous bystanders were now converging toward him. Apparently, slamming a man’s head repeatedly against a table was frowned upon in Germany.

Cary was both sympathetic to their cause and impressed by their bravery. However, as the sound of scuffling echoing from his earpiece coupled with another rifle report could attest, he was out of time. So he persuaded the would-be vigilantes to step aside with the eloquence for which Green Berets were known.

“Back the fuck up,” Cary said, pointing the pistol at the nearest bystander.

Between Cary’s exquisite language skills and the pistol’s gaping black maw, the crowd got the message. Would-be heroes edged back, retreating into the restaurant.

Which was exactly the direction Cary needed to go.

“Avalanche, avalanche, avalanche.”

The person who’d last uttered those three words in succession had been Cary. At the time, he’d been in a fighting position overlooking a Syrian compound populated by a cult of apocalyptic Shia militants. Jad had been critically wounded, and the two snipers had been in danger of being overrun by militants.

This time, Jad was calling for help.

The beautiful surroundings suddenly didn’t seem quite so picturesque.

“Coming, brother,” Cary said, not bothering with radio protocol.

Then he jumped off the deck.

19

The pavilion was only about ten feet above the ground, but Cary’s drop zone consisted of the loose gravel that made up the lake’s beach. Not exactly the softest landing place, but it beat piling into a concrete runway with sixty pounds of gear strapped to his back.

Mostly.

Though Cary kept his knees bent and together in his best approximation of a parachute-landing fall, the gravel did him no favors. The loose rocks churned under his weight, bruising his feet and torquing an ankle. But those were concerns for another day. His best friend and teammate had just called an avalanche.

Cary had shit to do.

Turning toward the road leading to the parking lot that serviced the cable car, Cary took off at a dead sprint. The sounds of grunts and the deep thunks of flesh impacting flesh still coming from his earpiece added fuel to the fire, hitting his nervous system like a jolt of epinephrine.

Jad was fighting for his life.

Cary reached the top of the drive in five or six distance-eating strides, leaving him with a decision. The pavement spiraled to the right, climbing up the incline toward the cable car station. That’s where Jad had originally set up, but Cary didn’t think his spotter was there any longer. The platform didn’t have line of sight to the patio, and it was way too crowded. Passengers were still queued up outside the glass lounge, waiting for their chance to ride to the summit. Germans had a deserved reputation for stoicism, but moms were still moms. Cary couldn’t imagine that the women shepherding small children would still be passing out snacks and sippy cups if Jad was wrestling a shooter just feet away.

The gunman was elsewhere.

Looking to his right, Cary settled on the wood line cascading down from the hill to the lake’s rocky shore. That was where Cary would set up. Good lines of sight, secluded, and multiple egress avenues.

His decision made, Cary took off running.

“Heading into the trees,” Cary said, transmitting in the blind.

The answering silence was ominous.

Cary tried not to read too much into Jad’s non-response. His partner wasn’t Superman, but he was one hell of a fighter. Cary would put Jad up against any single opponent.

Except Jad probably wasn’t fighting a single opponent.

Adrenaline surged through Cary.

These guys were professionals. Professionals wouldn’t emplace a sniper without security. Jad must be going hands-on with two bad guys.

Two armed bad guys.

The odds no longer seemed quite so promising.

Transitioning from grass to forest, Cary resisted the urge to stop and listen for sounds of the fight. Instead, he followed the rolling terrain toward the summit, trusting his tactical sense. He didn’t have time to stop. If Cary chose wrong, Jad was a goner. If he was right, but took too long to get in the fight, Jad was just as dead.

Clambering up a stony outcropping, Cary caught movement to his right.

Three figures struggling.

Cary was too far away to identify the writhing shadows, but he knew he needed to end this.

Now.

Cary paused as he sighted along the pistol’s short barrel.

The distance to the pile of bodies was too great. He couldn’t distinguish Jad from the other two.

Cary changed tack.

Pointing the pistol at his feet, Cary fired three rapid shots.

The pistol’s report was incredibly loud in the forest’s stillness.

The sound of gunshots broke up the scrum. Two of the men stopped fighting and looked toward Cary, giving the third an opportunity to roll off the rocky ledge and onto the unforgiving ground below.

Jad.

The sight of his best friend’s limp body tumbling to the ground broke something in Cary. He rushed forward, firing as he moved. While he didn’t give in to his animal instinct to run, Cary covered the ground at a pace faster than he could accurately shoot. But just as he moderated his urge to sprint, Cary also restrained his desire to empty the pistol’s magazine in a span of seconds.

Instead, he maintained a constant, though rapid, rate of fire.

The rounds kicked up dirt, tore bark from the trees, and sparked off boulders. At least one bullet hit home, judging by the puff of fabric that flew from the assailant on the left’s chest. The strike spun the man, but didn’t put him down.

Which meant they were wearing body armor.

Cary’s day had just become much, much worse.

He dashed the last ten yards, his pistol now just a glorified noisemaker. Cary added his voice to the mayhem, shrieking a battle cry that would have done his Scottish ancestors proud. In a close engagement between numerically equal forces, sometimes raw aggression really could carry the day.

At least that’s what Cary was hoping.

A final burst of speed put him on top of Jad just as his pistol’s slide locked to the rear. Dropping the gun, Cary scooped up his spotter and dragged the limp man under the shelter offered by the cliff’s craggy overhang. The two assailants occupied the high ground and presumably still possessed ammunition for their weapons. They held all the cards.

All the cards but one.

Positioning.

The terrain sloped down from Cary while the cliff offered overhead shelter. To finish him off, the gunmen would have to clamber down the slope, exposing themselves. As Cary’s pounding heart could attest, the gradient grew much steeper on the far side of the shelter, meaning that a grenade dropped from above would probably roll down the hill before detonating. By the same token, the jutting and jagged overhang would limit the shooters’ ability to point their pistols over the edge and just spray and pray.

By dragging Jad into the rocky redoubt, Cary had become a cornered wolf. Now his hunters had to decide if they were willing to flush Cary out, knowing what it would probably cost them in the process. Judging by the fading sound of crackling leaves and snapping branches, Cary didn’t think they were ready to pay that price.

With a shuddered sigh, Cary turned his attention to his spotter. After verifying that the other Green Beret was breathing, Cary slid his fingers across Jad’s torso, looking for bullet wounds. Finding nothing, he eased his spotter over and performed the same triage across his back.

Still nothing.

Rolling Jad faceup again, Cary expanded his efforts, now looking for blunt-force injuries that might have caused an obstructed airway, broken bones, or internal hemorrhaging. A massive red welt covered the top of Jad’s face, but while the blow was undoubtedly painful, it didn’t look serious.

“Jad,” Cary said, lightly slapping his friend’s face, “come on, brother.”

“What?” Jad said, his eyes fluttering open. “What happened?”

“You got your ass kicked and fell off a cliff,” Cary said with a smile.

“Bullshit,” Jad said as he struggled to a sitting position. “I was conducting a tactical withdrawal. What about the bad guys?”

“I saved the day,” Cary said, “like usual. Can you walk?”

“I’m a Green Beret,” Jad said, his words losing some of their earlier slur, “of course I can walk. Find my knife and we’re out of here.”

“You have a knife?” Cary said.

“You don’t?”

“Jack said not to bring any weapons.”

“Have you met Jack?” Jad said.

Great point.

“Got a spare?” Cary said.

“Help me up,” Jad said. “Then we’ll address your stunning lack of preparedness. What’s our fearless leader up to, anyway?”

That was a very good question.

20

The sound of the shattering carafe surprised Jack even as a flood of water spilled across the table. For an instant he sat rooted in place, his tired brain not connecting the dots. Then Jack registered the sharp crack that had accompanied the crinkling of the glass.

The sound a high-velocity rifle makes as it transits the sound barrier.

Lurching out of his seat, Jack reached across the table as a second crack sundered the air. This time the bullet’s miniature supersonic boom was accompanied by another sound. The deep thunk of a projectile striking flesh.

Sheldon spun out of his chair.

Jack dove on top of the scientist even as additional rounds peppered the table and patio. Stone slivers scored grooves down Jack’s face as invisible death rained down around him. That Jack hadn’t been hit was nothing short of a miracle. But miracle or not, Jack knew that his luck was too good to last.

He wanted to radio the Green Berets, but his phone was nestled in his front pocket, giving new meaning to the phrase so close but so far away. Digging for the device would entail arching his back or flaring his elbow, neither of which went with his current plan of becoming one with the patio. Several times Jack heard a buzzing indicative of lead projectiles passing inches from his face. Any movement meant putting a body part into the real estate currently occupied by rifle rounds.

No, thanks.

But staying put wasn’t an option, either, as the hammer blow to his hamstring attested. The impact sent pins and needles racing the length of Jack’s leg. He groaned in pain. Steeling himself, Jack peered down the length of his body.

No blood.

Must have been a ricochet. He had to do something to change the equation.

Fast.

Looking to his left, Jack saw one of the mystery columns.

Perfect.

Sliding off the still-convulsing Sheldon, Jack grabbed the scientist by the legs and dragged him toward the row of columns. Progress was mind-numbingly slow, but by edging along the ground Jack was staying out of the sniper’s sight line. The same couldn’t be said of his fellow diners. Shrieks echoed as customers milled across the patio, unsure how to escape the unseen onslaught.

Jack was torn. He wanted to do something to help, but getting up would put him squarely in the line of fire.

Then he had an idea.

After positioning Sheldon at the base of the column, Jack worked his way up the slender metal until he found what he was hoping to see—a crank for a massive umbrella. Jack grabbed the handle and began to turn it with both hands, spinning the bracket as fast as he could. At first, his efforts yielded only a series of metal shrieks.

Then, little by little, the umbrella began to unfurl.

As Jack cranked, the bullets seemed to come faster. The earlier drizzle was now a full-fledged hailstorm. Taking this as a good sign, Jack cranked faster. The sniper must be rushing his shots in response to his disappearing target. After a couple dozen rotations, the massive umbrella partially unfurled like a peacock spreading its feathers.

The metal rainstorm became a pitter-patter, suggesting that either Jack’s scheme had worked or the gunman was approaching the end of his magazine. Or, better yet, maybe his two Green Beret friends had finally entered the equation. Either way, Jack had done all he could to help the restaurant’s patrons. For the first time, he turned his attention to Sheldon. Unlike in the movies, getting struck by a rifle round moving at several thousand feet per second was not insignificant. Even if the bullet entered an area of the torso devoid of vital organs, the round’s impact sent a shock wave convulsing through the victim’s abdominal cavity, rupturing organs and inducing massive hemorrhaging.

Jack started to rip away Sheldon’s red-stained shirt but stopped, his hands hovering above the scientist’s chest. Whether or not Sheldon’s torso wound was survivable was no longer a concern. At some point during the chaotic last few moments, the scientist had sustained a second injury. Most of the left side of his skull was missing.

Jack slowly withdrew his shaking hands and keyed the radio instead.

“Any Reaper element, this is Scepter,” Jack whispered, conscious of his surroundings.

The gunfire might have ceased, but screams still filled the air. Even so, Jack was still cautious. Everything up until now would be a muddled mixture of sensory inputs for the survivors. This wouldn’t be the case for much longer. Jack didn’t want to give a German bystander a reason to remember him when the polizei began to ask questions.

“Scepter, this is Reaper,” Cary said, sounding a bit winded. “Reaper 2 and I are egressing toward Wurst. We stopped the shooters, but they got away, over.”

“Roger that,” Jack said. “I’ll meet you there. Sheldon took a round to the head. He’s gone.”

“Reaper copies all,” Cary said. “You’d better beat feet. I can see flashing lights at the turnoff to the lake. You’ve got three minutes. Maybe less.”

Jack ground his teeth. He hated abandoning Sheldon. Even though he didn’t know the man, Jack felt somewhat responsible for the scientist’s death. Maybe if he had moved faster, Sheldon would still be alive. Jack’s instincts had been correct, but being right counted for nothing when the man you were trying to protect was now missing half his skull. But staying with Sheldon would help no one. At the very least, Jack would be taken into custody and questioned. Maybe he could leverage Hans as a get-out-of-jail-free card, but that would take time.

Time that Jack didn’t have.

It was just as likely that the BfV officer would throw Jack in a cell. Unlike what had happened at the University of Regensburg, this time a civilian was dead. Maybe more than one civilian. Germany didn’t have active-shooter events, and there was no way this catastrophe was going to be swept under the rug. Someone would have to take the blame, and that someone might just be an American intelligence officer who was conducting an unauthorized operation on an ally’s soil.

“Roger that,” Jack said. “Egressing now. Meet you at the rally point.”

“You sure?” Cary said. “We can pick you up at Wurst.”

“Positive,” Jack said. “I don’t want to chance you getting caught inside the polizei’s perimeter. Everything’s still chaotic here. No one’s gonna notice one more person running for cover.”

While Jack hoped that was true, there was only one way to find out. Already the screams and cries were beginning to quiet. If he wanted to leave before the inevitable lockdown, he needed to get a move on. Jack took one more look at Sheldon’s disfigured face, emblazoning the scientist’s features in his mind. Someone needed to avenge the scientist’s death.

Jack had a feeling he was that someone.

Jack was getting to his feet when he had a thought. Patting down the man’s pants, Jack found the scientist’s cell phone and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned and followed the rest of the crowd from the restaurant just as police sirens echoed up the drive.

Jack stayed with the flow of bodies until he reached the woods.

Then he jumped on a trail heading toward his Green Berets and vengeance.

21

“What now, boss?”

Though the question came from the car’s backseat, Cary, who was driving, looked to Jack as well. Both Green Berets seemed a little less taken with life as a Campus operative than they had at the beginning of their German adventure.

Jack understood.

He felt the same way.

“Decision time,” Jack said.

In a seeming first for the events of the last several hours, Jack’s egress from the hotel and the linkup with Cary and Jad had gone according to plan. Maybe at some point running away wouldn’t be the only part of the mission that went like clockwork.

After he’d belted himself into the front passenger seat, Jack had signaled Cary to drive. The Green Beret complied, heading northeast on A 95 at a comfortable one hundred and thirty kilometers per hour. Once they’d put a good twenty kilometers between themselves and the site of the shooting, Jack knew it was time to settle on the next step. He’d been turning options over in his mind when Jad had voiced his question.

Now was as good a time as ever to let his comrades in on his thinking.

They’d more than earned a vote.

“Here’s the deal,” Jack said, eyeing the sign announcing the rapidly approaching turnoff for Highway B 472 and the Austrian border. “The way I see it, we’ve got a couple choices. Mr. C. wants us to catch a flight to Manila out of Munich. Staying on A 95 will get us there. I’m thinking the smarter play is to head for Austria and fly out of Salzburg under new identities instead. But getting our hands on new legends is going to take time, and the delay might affect Clark’s operational timeline. There are risks with either course of action.”

“The kind of risks that get us arrested by airport security?” Cary said.

“Security?” Jad said. “Hell. The Germans have CCTV all over Munich Airport. We’ll be lucky to get out of parking. Jack’s been in two gunfights in a country with less than one hundred gun-related homicides per year. The polizei probably have his picture on continuous loop.”

“To be fair, Jack’s not the only one who’s been dropping bodies,” Cary said.

“From what I could see, you shot the shit out of some trees and not much else,” Jad said.

“I shot what needed shooting,” Cary said, “and for the record, I was aiming at those trees.”

“The guy I stuck with my knife probably lived,” Jad said. “His leather coat stopped the blade.”

“Wait,” Jack said, trying to regain control of the conversation, “you brought a combat knife into Germany?”

“Sure did,” Jad said, unclipping a Spyderco from his belt. “And it’s a good thing. My partner shoots like my grandma and doesn’t run much faster.”

“I said no weapons,” Jack said.

“I’ve needed a gun every time I’ve been in the same zip code as you,” Jad said. “Today was no different. Those last two jackwagons came pretty close to punching my clock.”

“Not that close,” Cary said. “I was there.”

“The goose egg on my forehead begs to differ,” Jad said. “Here’s the thing, Jack, your daddy might be President, but that damn sure doesn’t make you king. From now on, if I go somewhere with you, I carry a Glock. Even if it’s to grab a beer with your pops. If his Secret Service detail has a problem with that, they can pry my piece from my hairy fingers.”

Jack had been in combat with the Green Berets enough times to appreciate Jad’s tactical prowess, but he wasn’t sure who would win that dogfight. That was neither here nor there. Jack’s first operation as a bona fide team leader had not exactly been an unqualified success. The mission was blown, his team had been split, and the two remaining members were at each other’s throats.

This op needed a hard reset.

Starting with him.

“This is on me,” Jack said, “all of it. You two have already been through way more than you signed up for. Our asses are hanging in the breeze, we’ve got no in-country support, and I severely misjudged the threat environment. Twice. Option three is that we head for the U.S. consulate in Munich so you guys can get off this runaway train.”

“Now you’re trying to get rid of us?” Jad said. “That’s pretty messed up, isn’t it, boss?”

“Very messed up,” Cary said, nodding, “especially after what his daddy made us promise.”

“And who says no to Jack freaking Ryan?” Jad said.

“Not me,” Cary said.

“Wait,” Jack said, eyeing Jad in the rearview mirror, “my dad made you promise something?”

“Yep,” Jad said, “the moment you left to take a piss.”

“Very persuasive, your old man,” Cary said.

Jack fought the urge to ask the obvious question for as long as he could.

He lasted two seconds.

“What did he make you promise?” Jack said.

“Should we tell him, boss?” Jad said. “Seems like a breach of trust to me.”

“Definitely a breach of trust,” Cary said, “and loyalty seems pretty important to Jack freaking Ryan.”

“Very important,” Jad said.

“You’re not gonna tell me?” Jack said.

“How about this?” Cary said. “Let’s finish dealing with the shitbirds who tried to kill us. After we’ve helped them see the error of their ways and are safely back on American soil at an alcohol-serving establishment, we’ll reconsider your request.”

“And not just beer,” Jad said. “Gluten makes me bloated.”

For a moment Jack was truly lost. Even as the turnoff for B 472 grew closer, he couldn’t for the life of him understand what the two Green Berets were trying to tell him. He glanced at Cary, and though the commando was staring straight ahead, his lips were twisted into a ghost of a smile.

Then Jack got it.

“I take it you guys are okay with a detour to Austria?” Jack said.

“Are all spooks this slow, boss?” Jad said.

“I think what my spotter is trying to say,” Cary said, exiting onto B 472, “is that we’ve been knocked down twice now. Maybe it’s time we started doing the tackling. Did I get that right, Jad?”

“Sure enough,” Jad said.

“Then buckle up,” Jack said as the car angled east toward Austria. “The rest of the flight’s gonna be bumpy.”

“Bumpy as in more guys trying to kill us?” Jad said. “Or bumpy like you’re making this up as you go?”

“What did my dad say?” Jack said.

Jad sighed.

Sliding down in his seat, the commando closed his eyes.

“Wake me up when the turbulence is over.”

22

Zhanjiang Port, China

Fen Li stared at the flat-screen TV encompassing the far wall.

Like the rest of her office, the TV was sleek, ultramodern, and stylish, as befitting a chief executive officer of Fen Li’s status. As was always the case, the touchscreen TV displayed a China-centric map of the world populated by a collection of colored pins. Each pin represented an active contract Fen Li’s collection of former intelligence and paramilitary operatives were currently servicing. Although the vast majority of the pins corresponded to projects associated with the Chinese Communist Party’s expansive Belt and Road Initiative, which spanned large portions of Africa and Asia, or maritime fleets sailing through the pirate-infested waters of the South China Sea, the map did contain a few surprises.

One such surprise was located in Europe.

Germany, to be precise.

Unlike its compatriots, the pin marking a German city near the Austrian border was colored red. If she’d been of the mind, Fen could have crossed her office and tapped the red pin, bringing up a summary of the failed operation. There was no need. In a departure from the operational leeway she normally imparted to her subordinates, Fen had personally monitored the Germany operation.

Perhaps not closely enough.

Fen’s slender fingers found the walnut-sized polymetallic nodule that served as the only decoration on the otherwise empty glass slab that formed her desk. The nodule resembled nothing so much as a brick of partially charred charcoal, but like Fen, the rock was more than it seemed. The collection of ore would guarantee both the future of the company Fen had founded and her ascension into the upper echelons of the Chinese Communist Party.

Her coconspirator and benefactor had promised as much.

China might be a Communist nation, but it was as beholden to capital as any Western democracy. Maybe more so. In the last several years, the Party had made monstrous monetary bets on its trillion-dollar Belt and Road Initiative. Bets that had so far netted rather dubious returns.

And then there was Chinese real estate.

Between twenty and thirty percent of China’s gross domestic product was tied to its property market, and Chinese real estate sales were a bubble about to burst. Western analysts were likening the business practices of China’s largest property developers to a Ponzi scheme, while influential figures within the Chinese government were estimating that up to eight hundred billion yuan might be required to stabilize the market. Taken together, these signs pointed to a Chinese economy on the brink of collapse.

But not if Fen Li had her way.

The longer Fen’s cadre of hired experts pored over the data she’d collected during her clandestine exploration of the Paracel Islands deposits, the rosier their predictions became. Fen had at her fingertips the power to alter not just her own future, but China’s as well.

Assuming, of course, she succeeded where her team in Europe had failed.

Fen stared at the offending red pin, considering.

The conservative play would be to let her benefactor know about the setback in Europe and request additional resources. But this course of action came with its own risks. The deal she’d negotiated with her coconspirator depended in no small part on her assurances that she would bear the risks of their joint endeavor, allowing him to share in the rewards. If she asked for additional help, he would undoubtedly see this for what it was—an opportunity to revisit the terms of their agreement. The entirety of the company she’d spent her life building was tied to this effort. Fen had no intention of trading it away to a bureaucrat who’d faced nothing more deadly in his political career than the occasional paper cut, while Fen’s prior life in the Ministry of State Security had whitened her hair and broken her body.

Fen’s gaze moved from the touchscreen TV to the digital clock mounted above it.

The Maochong was already more than halfway to the Paracel Islands. Though the Germany operation had not gone as Fen would have liked, her coconspirator had already given her the means to address the shortcoming, and the pieces of her plan were falling into place.

The opportunity she’d been chasing was still right in front of her.

Fen needed only to be brave enough to seize it.

Setting aside the nodule, Fen withdrew a cell phone from her purse and made a call. The number she dialed did not belong to her benefactor. She’d succeeded thus far by relying on herself rather than the largesse of others.

Fen did not intend to change course now.

23

Salzburg, Austria

Turns out that it was quite some time before the turbulence was over.

Crossing from Germany into Austria was about as difficult as driving from Indiana to Ohio, but what came next was considerably more taxing. While all three men had traveled to Germany under their true names, Jack had wanted to flex as many Campus assets during the surveillance exercise as possible. This meant spinning up the document-creation folks to manufacture an alternate set of passports for the team. Unlike weapons, alternate documents could be easily concealed in specially designed compartments within each teammate’s luggage and just as easily disposed of if the need arose.

When it came to traveling clandestinely, Canada was the country of choice for American spies. There was no pesky accent to master, and outside of a couple major cities, almost no one knew anything about Canada. Also, unlike their American neighbors, the stereotype of Canadians as polite, nice people was both accurate and complimentary.

Unfortunately, the team’s passports were still in their luggage, which was resting comfortably in their Regensburg hotel rooms. While it was possible to get replacement documents into Austria through the CIA’s Vienna station, Jack was hesitant to make use of this connection. Every interaction with a legitimate member of the intelligence community put The Campus’s status as an off-the-books organization at risk. Sure, Clark had run some joint operations with Mary Pat’s blessing, but these needed to remain the exception rather than the rule. If this were truly an emergency, Jack would have no problem making the necessary request. While his time in Germany had been far from the idyllic shakeout operation he’d imagined, as Campus activity went, this did not yet qualify as an emergency. But if Jack were being honest, he’d have to admit that operational security took a backseat to his biggest concern.

John T. Clark.

Jack had given his boss a sitrep like an adult and Mr. C. had treated him as such. Rather than reining Jack in like he had countless times before, Clark had deferred to Jack as the on-the-ground team leader. That the team leader in question was the most junior member of The Campus had not been discussed. Clark had afforded Jack the same level of autonomy and discretion he would have allotted his second-in-command, Ding Chavez.

And how had Jack rewarded Clark’s trust?

By executing an on-the-fly operation that had resulted in the murder of their only lead and undoubtedly delayed Clark’s operation in Manila.

Jack sighed as he probed his half-empty espresso for answers.

With its stunning architecture, cobblestone streets, and scenic Salzach River, Salzburg was every bit as beautiful as the travel brochures claimed, but Jack was looking forward to an even more captivating sight.

And here she came.

Though she’d traded her half-shirt for a tank top and her cut-offs for a white denim skirt, the wardrobe change had done nothing to diminish Lisanne’s presence. Her hair fell loose in a raven curtain around her shoulders and the pair of aviator sunglasses shading her eyes only added to her mystique. Like the jean shorts, her skirt showed off miles of brown, toned legs, and the white fabric only served to highlight her olive complexion. Jack’s stomach fluttered as he heard his mother’s voice.

Marry that girl before someone else does.

Judging by the attention directed Lisanne’s way from the café’s male diners, Austria contained no shortage of someones.

“Hey,” Jack said, getting to his feet.

Once again, his lips twisted into the goofy grin he could never quite rein in around Lisanne. He was a grown man and a covert operative. A world traveler who brought justice to his nation’s enemies from the shadows.

But one look from this girl reduced Jack to a lovestruck teenager.

“Hey yourself,” Lisanne said.

She leaned in for a quick hug, and Jack pressed his face against the warmth of her neck, reveling in the hint of vanilla.

Her smell.

His face tingled, and Jack broke the embrace with effort.

“Any trouble?” Jack asked as he seated Lisanne before returning to his side of the table.

The dark-haired beauty shook her head.

“No,” Lisanne said. “I grabbed the luggage from both rooms. The suitcases went into a dumpster, but I’ve got the passports and IDs. I rented a car under my alias and took the scenic route into Austria. No sign of surveillance, but I didn’t have time to run a full SDR. Where are the boys?”

“Buying supplies,” Jack said as he processed Lisanne’s update.

The next flight to Manila left soon. Jack had booked separate tickets under the assumed names he, Jad, and Cary were using. Then he’d tasked the Green Berets to purchase appropriate travel attire and the usual accoutrements. People who flew internationally without baggage attracted attention. The kind of attention Jack couldn’t afford. So while the commandos ran errands, Jack had read through the research Gavin had forwarded while waiting for Lisanne to courier their new identities.

She’d agreed to Jack’s request, but had been reluctant to leave Isabel. The scientist couldn’t be linked to the rest of the Campus operatives, so there was no reason to suspect that Isabel was in danger. Then again, this morning there’d been no reason to suspect a gang of Asian operatives was about to conduct an extreme rendition in broad daylight, either.

Even so, the mission was no longer on the Regensburg campus. The center of gravity was in Austria with Jack and the Green Berets. But traveling to Salzburg had presented its own challenges. Normally Lisanne would have engaged in a long and circuitous SDR. These twists and turns were designed to ferret out surveillance, and the technique worked very well when done correctly.

But Jack didn’t have time for Lisanne to conduct the SDR correctly. Clark had made it abundantly clear that the operation in the Philippines was time-sensitive. Jack had missed his flight in Munich. He couldn’t afford to miss the one leaving from Salzburg. In the constantly evolving risk-versus-reward calculus, Jack had decided that speed was more important than security.

Accordingly, Lisanne had come straight to Salzburg.

With a larger team, she could have still accomplished a modified SDR by positioning Campus operatives ahead of her intended route to conduct countersurveillance, but there were no more bodies to draw from. As the leader, Jack bore the responsibility for the current state of affairs. In his defense, he’d had no intention of running an actual operation when he’d settled on the manning roster back in Arlington, but in the profession of espionage, results, not intentions, were what mattered.

That was a topic for later.

At present, Jack needed to focus on getting to Manila as fast as possible. But first he had to have a talk with Lisanne. A talk he was dreading. Jack opened his mouth, but Lisanne spoke first.

“I’m not going, am I?” Lisanne said.

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. “This operation has unexpectedly gone kinetic twice. I’m not taking you to a potential gunfight, Lisanne.”

Lisanne nodded, but her soft brown eyes turned hard.

“Are you saying that as my team leader or my boyfriend?” Lisanne said.

Jack sighed, but Lisanne pressed an index finger to his lips before he could reply.

“Sorry,” Lisanne said, “that was a cheap shot. It’s not you I’m mad at. It’s this.”

She punctuated the this by raising her arm.

The one that ended in a stump.

“I’m a Marine, Jack,” Lisanne said, “and a former police officer. I’m not the kind of girl that slinks offstage once the shooting starts. At least I didn’t used to be.”

Jack threaded his fingers through Lisanne’s.

“Lisanne Robertson, you’re still the same girl you’ve always been,” Jack said. “You’re a warrior. A fighter. Losing an arm doesn’t change who you are. But it does change the way you contribute.”

“I know,” Lisanne said, squeezing Jack’s hand. “I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

“What?” Jack said.

“Pulling back every time things get bad.”

“Is that the only thing that’s wrong?” Jack said.

Lisanne stared back at him for a long moment without answering.

Before, her eyes had seemed like shards of iron.

Now they were filling with tears.

Jack swallowed.

“I don’t know,” Lisanne said. “Probably not. I love being with you, but I can’t figure this out. One minute you’re my boyfriend. The next my team leader. Between my injury, my role in The Campus, and whatever the hell it is we’re doing, I feel lost.”

“What do you want?” Jack said, dreading the answer.

Lisanne hiccupped, half laughing and half crying.

She let go of Jack’s hand to brush away her tears.

“What I want doesn’t matter,” Lisanne said. “Two men are dead, and a scientist has been kidnapped. You’re about to hop a flight to the other side of the world, and we’re having the relationship talk. This just isn’t working, Jack. Your passports are in the satchel under the table. Good luck.”

Without waiting for a reply, Lisanne got to her feet, turned, and walked away.

A thousand and one thoughts flooded Jack’s mind as he watched the woman he loved melt into the crowd. As was par for the course for this operation, he had no idea what to do next, but he knew one thing for certain.

Lisanne was right.

This wasn’t working.

24

Manila, Philippines

“Junior—so good of you to join us.”

Jack paused at the apartment’s threshold, not quite believing what he was seeing. The décor was exactly what Jack would have expected of a safe house the world over. The three-room dwelling’s white walls were bare and the gray tile floors relatively clean. Furniture was cheap but functional—a couch with sagging cushions, a brown love seat with a couple cigarette burns, and a scarred end table. A no-frills kitchen was to the right and a living room with an ancient TV perched on a particleboard entertainment system to the left. A narrow hallway led from the living room, presumably to the bathroom and bedroom.

But while the apartment’s décor was not unexpected, the people occupying it certainly were. Seated on barstools ringing the kitchen’s small island were Ding Chavez, Dominic “Dom” Caruso, and the person who’d greeted Jack—John T. Clark.

Clark didn’t look happy.

To be fair, neither did the rest of the Campus team.

—

Jack and his team had spent much of the last twenty-four hours traveling. Salzburg offered multiple flights to Manila, but no direct options. Quite a few of the layovers occurred in German cities, and Jack rejected these outright. Though the legends he and the Green Berets were flying under had never been used, Jack took Jad’s comment about German CCTV capabilities to heart.

With this in mind, Jack had chosen a different flight for each of them. He and Cary were flying Turkish Airlines with separate departure times but similar arrivals, and Jad scored a Lufthansa ticket. The three operatives had navigated layovers in Istanbul, Doha, and Abu Dhabi before reconnecting in Manila.

It hadn’t been anyone’s idea of fun.

Jack had passed the travel time by reviewing the information he’d received from Gavin and assessing what had gone wrong with the Sheldon meet. As much as he didn’t want to believe it, Jack was stuck with the conclusion that somehow his team had been burned. Whether that was due to surveillance Jack hadn’t detected, sloppy tradecraft on their part, or some other reason he’d yet to identify, the conclusion was the same.

Jack’s team had been made, and now an American was dead.

Jack had decided not to attempt to update Clark on what had transpired or even that he and the two Green Berets would be arriving at Manila later than expected. Until Jack better understood what had gone wrong in Germany, he intended to operate under the assumption that all of his communications protocols had been compromised. The safe house in Manila would have a means to securely contact Clark.

Until then, Jack would remain dark.

On the few occasions when he wasn’t obsessing about the blown operation, Jack found himself replaying the scene at the café with Lisanne. Each time he arrived at the same conclusion. The correct response as a team leader was in direct conflict with the correct response as Lisanne’s boyfriend. Jack suspected that this was the exact quandary Clark had been trying to warn him about. With very rare exceptions, lovers did not make for good field partners. If you loved someone, the mission would always come secondary to their safety.

For proof of this adage, Jack looked no further than his father.

Jack Ryan, Sr., was the epitome of a manly man. He’d once slithered into a Soviet submarine to face down a KGB operative in order to prevent World War III. On another continent, Ryan had interrupted a family outing in order to stop an IRA assassin from murdering a British royal.

In the submarine Ryan had at least been armed with a pistol.

In London, he’d had nothing but his fists.

Jack’s father was no stranger to violence, but even he had recognized the necessity of stepping down from the presidency after a paramilitary group kidnapped Cathy Ryan. It just wasn’t possible to maintain objectivity when a person you loved was in the hands of evil men.

But the dustup with Lisanne was about more than just Jack’s dual role as her team leader and boyfriend. Jack had finally proven himself to be not just the equal of any Campus operator, but also leadership material. After his escapades in Syria, and then the Korean peninsula, Jack had been given his own team.

This was a new development.

On previous operations, Jack had utilized Campus support assets like Gavin, but he’d often worked apart from his fellow Campus shooters. Aside from the occasional phone call to Clark, usually asking for forgiveness rather than permission, Jack had been the master of his own destiny rather than the junior member of an accomplished team. He’d enjoyed the autonomy and hadn’t relished the idea of returning to the Campus fold. The pseudo–training exercise in Germany had been a way for both Jack and Clark to understand what Jack’s future with The Campus might hold.

Not much, from where Jack was sitting.

Germany had been a dumpster fire. Now Jack’s boss had flown into the field to clip Jack’s wings. Unexpectedly finding Clark, Ding, and Dom in the safe house angered Jack, but his fellow operatives weren’t the real source of his fury.

He reserved that honor for himself.

—

“We expecting a party?” Cary said, eyeing the apartment’s occupants.

“Reason one hundred and twelve why I will never again go anywhere with you unarmed,” Jad said, closing the safe house door behind him.

With a start Jack realized that this was the first face-to-face meeting between the Green Berets and the larger Campus crew. While Clark had approved Jack’s Germany mission, the director of operations had wanted to keep the commandos and Isabel separate from the clandestine Campus team. The senior Ryan’s invitation to the commandos aside, Clark was the ultimate arbitrator of Campus membership. Until Clark was certain about the two men, their involvement would be operationally siloed. An off-the-books organization could remain clandestine only if the number of outsiders who knew it existed was kept to a minimum.

Cary and Jad had been fine with this arrangement. They’d now gone to war with Jack twice, and the elder Ryan was one hell of a salesman. But knowing that the shadowy organization you were loosely affiliated with employed other operatives and coming face-to-face with them in a dingy apartment that reeked of fish and garbage were two very different things.

The Green Berets weren’t in combat mode, but they weren’t all smiles and sunshine, either. Cary had posted to Jack’s right while Jad had slid to his left, preparing to dominate the room. Like rival packs of wild dogs meeting on a crowded street, the five operatives sized one another up, instinctively doing the kind of battlefield calculus that was as natural as breathing to those who lived by the gun.

With a sigh, Jack interposed himself between the two groups.

“Hey, Mr. C.,” Jack said. “Wasn’t expecting you. Cary and Jad, this is my boss, John Clark, his 2IC, Ding Chavez, and Dom Caruso, my cousin and fellow shooter. Gents, meet Cary and Jad. Cary’s the team sergeant for ODA 555, and Jad is his teammate.”

“Triple Nickel,” Ding said with a smile and an outstretched hand. “That’s no 3rd Battalion, 17th Infantry Regiment, but your outfit’s reputation isn’t too shabby.”

“Please,” Jad said, returning Ding’s handshake. “From what I hear, you ninjas are only one step above SEALs.”

“What’s that about SEALs?” Clark said.

The former Rainbow Six was smiling, but there was iron in his voice.

“Sorry,” Jack said, “I probably should have added that in addition to serving as the first Rainbow Six, Mr. C. was also a Vietnam-era SOG member and Navy SEAL.”

Jack expected embarrassed silence.

He should have known better.

“Well, shit,” Jad said, eyeing Clark, “guess I stepped on it again, huh?”

“Par for the course,” Cary said, offering Clark his hand. “Honored to meet you, sir.”

“Honor’s all mine,” Clark said, his smile now genuine. “Triple Nickel has one hell of a legacy. Glad to have you both on board.”

“Our pleasure,” Jad said, taking his turn at handshakes. “Working with Jack is always interesting.”

Just that quickly, the moment of levity passed.

Clark and Ding both turned to the junior-most member of the team.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Clark said. “Jack, can you give us the CliffsNotes version of what happened? I haven’t had a chance to read your sitrep.”

“That’s because I didn’t send one, Mr. C.,” Jack said. Even though he appreciated his boss offering him a way to save face, Jack wasn’t having it. Leaders faced the music. “Once I had a chance to review Gavin’s data dump on Zhang Wei, I didn’t like the idea of leaving the scientist to someone else. Wei normally lives and works in America, but he just so happened to be in Germany on the day his brother was kidnapped. I didn’t believe it was a coincidence that Wei was staying at a hotel less than two hours from Regensburg. These factors seemed to indicate that interviewing Zhang Wei might be time-sensitive, so I deviated from the itinerary you and I discussed. Based on our scheduled departure from Munich, I should have had plenty of time to debrief Wei and still make our flight to Manila.”

“I’m guessing should is the operative word?” Clark said.

Jack nodded. “Things didn’t go as planned. We found Zhang Wei, but the kidnappers had already contacted him and set up a meet. As he and I were talking, somebody put a bullet in his chest.”

Clark shook his head. “Did you learn anything?”

“No,” Jack said, “but Cary and Jad got up close and personal with the team who killed him.”

“They were good,” Cary said. “Professionals. The shot wasn’t exceptionally difficult from a distance perspective, but it was very technical. The change in elevation from the rock outcropping where the shooters were situated to the target’s location at the base of the lake was significant.”

“High-angle shooting,” Clark said, nodding, “and I bet there was a breeze coming off the lake that made the target’s ambient conditions quite a bit different from the shooter’s.”

“Exactly,” Jad said. “You a distance shooter, too, Mr. Clark?”

“Call me John,” Clark said, “and no, I’m just a dabbler compared to you guys. I do my best work with a knife.”

Jad smiled, waiting for the punch line.

There wasn’t one.

“Jad and Cary saved my bacon,” Jack said, stepping into the void. “Jad interdicted the sniper and spotter bare-handed until Cary showed up.”

“Not exactly bare-handed,” Jad said. “I had my trusty Spyderco. Besides, saving Jack’s bacon seems to be part of the job description.”

This time, everyone laughed.

Everyone but Jack.

“You two are going to fit in just fine,” Ding said.

“Agreed,” Clark said. “What happened next?”

“We went head-to-head with a direct-action team twice in one day,” Jack said. “You taught me not to believe in coincidences, Mr. C. Somehow, we were blown, which meant that I had to assume everything else was blown, too—our identifications, travel plans, maybe even comms. So I called another audible. We changed legends, hopped across the border to Austria, and jumped on a flight out of Salzburg. Sorry I’ve been out of the loop, but going dark seemed better than potentially burning what’s happening here.”

All eyes turned to Clark.

After a long moment, Jack’s boss slowly nodded.

“That was the right play, Junior,” Clark said. “We can debrief in more detail later, but you handled the exfil correctly. Jad and Cary, this hasn’t been the shakeout cruise you two signed up for, but we could still use your help. You boys up for a bit more action?”

Jad shot a look at Cary, and the older Green Beret cleared his throat.

“We’re more than happy to lend a hand,” Cary said, “but I have a condition.”

“We,” Jad said. “We have a condition.”

“Sorry, Jad,” Cary said. “We have a condition.”

“Spit it out,” Clark said.

“We want guns,” Cary said. “Fists and knives only go so far.”

“We can accommodate that,” Clark said with another smile. “The back room’s stacked with Pelican cases. I’m sure you’ll find something in there that will wet your whistle. We’ll get you both kitted out as soon as we finish running through the concept of the operation.”

“Fantastic,” Cary said. “Then we’re all yours. Assuming our team leader agrees.”

While Jack appreciated Cary’s vote of confidence, he wasn’t sure he’d earned it. Their training, rather than Jack’s leadership, had been what kept the Green Berets alive. Though Clark had been generous with his assessment of Jack’s exfil, he hadn’t addressed the previous events.

Jack could read between the lines.

Mr. C. didn’t like the choices Jack had made.

But setting his performance as a leader aside, there was an even bigger elephant in the room. Ding was Clark’s second-in-command, and Dom was also senior to Jack. While he’d been a notional team leader up until this point, Jack’s time at the helm had come to a close.

“I’m a big believer in battle-rostered teams,” Clark said. “You three have operated together and are familiar with each other’s idiosyncrasies. I don’t intend to disrupt that. This op calls for two elements. Ding, Dom, and I will be the main element. Jack, you and the Triple Nickel boys will be in support. Everyone good with that?”

“Suits me just fine,” Cary said. “As long as we have guns.”

“Lots of guns,” Jad said. “With Jack, more is always better.”

25

Navotas Fish Port Complex

Manila, Philippines

“Scepter, this is Reaper, we are set. Good sight lines to Macbeth. Objective is clear. Nothing to report, over.”

“Reaper, this is Scepter,” Jack said. “Copy all. Charlie Mike, over.”

“This is Reaper, continuing mission, over.”

Jack eyed his cell phone to ensure he had the correct channel selected, then pressed the transmit button. Keeping separate nets for each team made sense, but the constant changing of channels was going to be the death of him. Jack had his audio set up so that he could listen to both nets at the same time, but he could still transmit on just one.

“Trident element, this is Scepter, over.”

“Scepter, this is Trident, go ahead, over.”

Hearing Ding’s voice using a SEAL call sign made Jack smile. But once the Green Berets had suggested operational call signs from the North Korea mission, Clark had latched on to the SEAL call sign. Jad had an impressive repertoire of frogman jokes, but being John Clark still counted for something. Jack also couldn’t help but notice that the normally free-spirited Green Beret tempered his SEAL jokes around Clark. As Ding had once confided to Jack, if even half the stories about Clark were true, Rainbow Six was one bad mama jama.

And the kicker was that all the stories Jack knew were true.

“Roger that, Trident,” Jack said. “Reaper element is in position. Good sight lines to Macbeth. You are cleared to proceed, over.”

“Trident copies all,” Ding said. “We are Phase Line Bravo, inbound, over.”

“Roger all,” Jack said, “call Phase Line Alpha.”

Jack examined the imagery on his cell phone as Ding replied with two clicks of the transmit button. Phase Line Bravo was a straight line stretching west from the intersection of the west/east-running Pescador II Road and the north/south Radial Road 10. As the support team leader, Jack had two very important functions. One, he served as the information conduit for the Green Berets, who were arrayed in sniper overwatch position approximately five hundred meters northeast of Objective Macbeth. This required Jack to maintain overall command and control of the operation while Clark, Ding, and Dom were focused on the objective.

Two, Jack was the single person QRF or quick reaction force.

Neither task was insignificant.

Jack shielded his phone from a pair of teenagers strolling by as he confirmed Phase Line Bravo’s location. Though the two boys looked harmless, Jack had long ago learned that youth did not equal innocence. In fact, the opposite was often true. Criminals frequently employed children as lookouts, errand boys, messengers, and, for the truly depraved, killers.

The closest teenager, a thin kid of about fifteen, gave Jack a hard glare, but kept walking. This close to the docks, hard glares were probably a way of life. And while he’d done his best to conceal his American appearance with a ball cap, shades, and bulky clothing, Jack was obviously not Filipino.

This made him different.

On the seedy side of Navotas Fish Port, different was not good.

To be fair, Jack thought his surroundings weren’t too far from what he would find in any industrial port. Be it Baltimore or Hong Kong, shipyards tended to attract a certain clientele. People accustomed to manual labor and a hardscrabble approach to making ends meet. The honest work available here was likely to be both backbreaking and dangerous.

The dishonest work doubly so.

Navotas Fish Port was one of the largest fish centers in Asia. Over three hundred tons of seafood were unloaded onto its docks daily from the fleet of more than fifteen commercial fishing vessels that called the port home. The sprawling complex was located on the west side of Highway R-10 and bounded by thick, head-high brick walls that separated the port proper from the nearby series of parks, greenbelts, and pedestrian areas.

Ports were by nature centers of gravity for a nation’s criminal element. Navotas was no exception. Within a stone’s throw of the brightly lit promenade and the leafy landscaping of Navotas Green Zone Park were the dingy warehouses, crumbling slips, and rusted derelicts of a working port. It was to one such warehouse, code-named Macbeth, that Clark, Ding, and Dom were now headed.

“Trident is approaching Phase Line Alpha.”

“Roger that,” Jack said.

He switched channels and relayed the information to the Green Berets as he shifted position to get a better view of the multilane R-10 behind him. Phase Line Alpha denoted Tioco Street, a small thoroughfare that branched to the east, just north of Pescador Park, Jack’s current position. Unlike the Navotas Green Zone Park on the western side of R-10, the park’s title was a bit grander than its facilities deserved.

Jack was seated on one of several concrete benches carved into a length of planters that separated the park from R-10’s busy traffic. The park itself consisted of a series of basketball courts surrounded by rust-colored iron fencing. The courts were filthy from a combination of debris from the surrounding vegetation and the dirt and grit kicked up by the constant vehicular traffic just meters away. The court was pockmarked and uneven, with sections of discolored concrete spreading across the ground like liver spots. Tagalog graffiti tags marked most of the concrete barriers, and only one of the four streetlights pointed at the court still functioned.

While not a place he’d want his children congregating, the lengthening shadows and unoccupied basketball court provided a perfect place for Jack to sit unobserved. The bench also gave him an unobstructed view of Phase Line Alpha, which would prove critical for what was about to happen. As if on cue, a dark-colored four-door sedan motored by. At first glance, there was nothing to set the car apart from the rest of the traffic teeming down R-10.

Nothing but the car’s occupants.

“Trident is Phase Line Alpha,” Ding said, just as the vehicle drew abeam to Tioco Street.

Activating its left turn signal, the car pulled a U-turn across traffic, heading for the collection of rusted buildings that marked the start of the waterfront on the western side of R-10. Jack relayed the information to Jad and Cary as he watched to see if any other vehicles would follow the Campus operatives west.

Traditionally, provocative actions like U-turns were avoided when conducting an SDR. The name of the game was to make the surveillance team continuously second-guess whether the target of their attention was attempting to link up with a spy for a clandestine meet or just going about the normal business of their day. A U-turn is the equivalent of a flashing red light, announcing that the game was afoot.

Usually.

But in the Philippines, as in many Asian countries, the rules of the road were a bit different. Here, traffic signs weren’t so much absolutes as suggestions, and aggressive maneuvers like a U-turn were more the rule than the exception. The location of the waterfront also helped. Even though traffic up and down R-10 was constant, there were no cross streets or stoplights to allow motorists to cross the road.

This limitation made Jack’s post a perfect spot to identify a surveillance team.

He watched a parade of motor scooters and cars pass even with the basketball court as Clark’s taillights vanished into the warren of alleys leading to the waterfront on the western side of R-10. After a minute or two spent observing the street, Jack felt good. No one was following Clark.

So far so good.

“Scepter, this is Reaper, I think we’ve got something.”

Or not.

26

Mario Reyes eyed the two men in front of him, unsure what he was seeing. On the one hand, they looked as he’d expected—hard. Not the kind of testosterone-induced bulkiness common among Mon Mon’s thugs. While the pair appeared fit, they weren’t bodybuilders. In fact, the opposite was true. Their physiques looked almost desiccated. As if everything superfluous had been scoured away. More than muscle and bone, the men had the appearance of steel and iron.

The sense of hardness extended to the men’s expressions. While not hostile per se, they radiated intensity from across the courtyard. The pair had the feel of men who were familiar with violence, but their mannerisms were absent the posturing practiced by local thugs or wannabe gangsters.

They were clinicians.

Professionals.

Soldiers.

Whatever the correct descriptor, the men’s body language and bearing suggested that they’d been schooled in the art of death and were well versed in its many facets.

But they were also old.

After he’d sent the pictures of the device to his American contact, Mario had received the expected reply. The Yankee contact was very much interested in whatever Mon Mon’s fishermen had pulled from the ocean. He would send men to collect it and pay a finder’s fee—half up front and half upon delivery. Negotiations on the finder’s fee amount were quick, which was to say nonexistent. Mario had proposed a rather exorbitant sum and the American had agreed. Instantly. This had made Mario both happy and a little sad. As a banker, he understood the truth of negotiations—leaving money on the table was second only to paying too much.

But that was a matter for later.

Mario had secured double the amount he’d promised Mon Mon and made his American friend happy in the process. And while Mario was no sycophant for the Yankees, he was a realist. In a world as ever-changing as Mario’s, an American intelligence operative was a friend worth cultivating. After concluding the business aspect of their endeavor, the American had sent Mario a series of straightforward instructions. His collectors would arrive at the fish market at a certain time, and Mario was to shepherd them to Mon Mon’s building and transfer the device into their custody.

Simple.

Except that Mario had expected his visitors to be, well, younger.

“Mario?”

Mario nodded.

The question had come from the elder of the two. The man was easily in his sixties, and Mario would have figured him too old for this type of work. Then Mario had a disturbingly different thought. Perhaps even at sixty the older man was still deadlier than operatives half his age. Staring into the man’s ice-blue eyes and weathered face, Mario hoped this question remained unanswered.

“Yes,” Mario said.

Like most Filipino businessmen, Mario spoke the international language of commerce—English. But Mario was willing to bet that if he hadn’t, the man’s brown-skinned comrade would have been able to engage him in several other tongues.

“Good,” the man said. “I’m Clark. This is Chavez. You have something for us?”

Chavez was easily a decade and a half younger than Clark, but his thick black hair was still streaked with gray. Though shorter than his comrade by half a foot, Chavez’s wide chest and heavy shoulders made up for his lack of stature. And then there was the man’s intensity. Chavez’s face was wrinkled with laugh lines, but the operative exuded purpose like a potbelly stove emitted heat.

These were not men to be trifled with.

Mario nodded, a sense of unease settling in his gut. The two operatives were not old hands about to be put out to pasture, but neither were they the junior muscle Mario had expected. Mario could only assume that the device was more valuable than he’d realized.

He should have asked for more money.

Maybe he still could.

His intended words died on Mario’s tongue. The same sixth sense that helped him sniff out the real estate deals his competitors missed encouraged him to be happy with what he’d negotiated and bring this encounter to a conclusion. Quickly. Men such as these were not used for routine operations. Best to part ways with the device before trouble had a chance to manifest.

“Will your friend be joining us?” Mario said, pointing to the men’s car. The driver was clearly visible behind the wheel, watching through the grimy windshield.

“No,” Clark said.

Clark’s tone brokered no argument.

Fine.

Mario wanted this business concluded as quickly as possible. His finder’s fee was growing smaller by the second.

“No problem,” Mario said, opening the building’s metal door to usher the pair inside. “You’ll be on your way shortly.”

The building’s interior suggested otherwise.

27

“Reaper, this is Scepter, go ahead,” Jack said.

“Roger that, Scepter,” Cary said. “I’ve got five military-aged males southwest of Macbeth where the boardwalk abuts the pier. They’re hunkered down between two moored fishing boats and a panel van. Probably out of sight of Trident. I designate this group Charlie 1, over.”

“Scepter copies all,” Jack said. “Passing info to Trident. Continue to observe and report.”

Cary replied with two clicks of the transmit button as a red diamond-shaped icon labeled C-1 appeared on Jack’s phone.

Like the operation Jack had conducted with the Green Berets in North Korea, each of the Campus team’s Android devices was running a version of the military software app known as ATAK. Designed to provide disparate end users with a common operating picture, ATAK was capable of merging a large number of sensors and operators. In addition to streaming live video from an ISR platform, the app also allowed operational graphics inputted by one user to be shared across the entire network. This meant that Clark’s team would instantly know about the men Cary had designated Charlie 1.

Assuming, of course, that the assault team was paying attention to their phones.

“Trident, this is Scepter,” Jack said. “Approach to Macbeth is clean from my vantage point. Be advised that Reaper has designated five military-aged males southwest of Macbeth. They are designated Charlie 1, over.”

“Scepter, this is Ringside,” Dom said. “Acknowledge all. We didn’t expect this place to be deserted. As long as Reaper has eyes on Charlie 1, you are cleared to reposition, over.”

“This is Scepter, roger all,” Jack said, getting to his feet.

If Dom was transmitting using his Ringside call sign, Clark and Ding must already be in contact with the Filipino asset and therefore unable to talk. Time to get this show on the road. Taking his life in his hands, Jack found a break in traffic and shot across the street as children braved the stream of motorists without a second glance. An expat friend of Jack’s claimed that traffic in Asian countries relied more on vehicular flow than rules.

Maybe the kids were better at surfing that flow than Jack was.

Or maybe they were just clueless.

Either way, Jack was coated in sweat by the time he reached the western banks of R-10. The teenager who’d paced him across the street had never once looked up from his phone.

Maybe Jack was getting old.

While the paved pedestrian paths, well-lit benches, and immaculate landscaping of the Navotas Green Zone were a far cry from the more austere park across the street, Jack wasn’t changing positions for the scenery. The northern end of the Green Zone was only about five hundred meters from Macbeth. Better still, while the manicured portion of the greenbelt ended a hundred meters or so from the west-leading street Clark had followed to the dock, the thick brush did not.

Jack intended to make his way through the brush until he came to a particularly thick section of foliage he’d identified using satellite imagery. From there, he would shimmy up a neem tree and boost himself over the wall into a west/east-running alley that paralleled the route Clark had driven. Clark said that the Filipino asset had already agreed to a price for the Chinese glider, but Jack wanted to be close by just in case the man decided to renegotiate the deal.

By force.

Moving through the underbrush, Jack monitored his pace count, marking the steps until he reached one hundred meters. Distinctions that seemed obvious on overhead imagery were often less so when viewed from a person’s vantage point. The pace count provided Jack with a rough idea of when to start looking for his ticket over the wall.

He needn’t have been worried.

Like an old man’s gnarled fingers, the tree’s twisting limbs reached over the crumbling stone exactly where Jack had expected to find them. With a quick glance to ensure he was alone, Jack unzipped his backpack, revealing a folded Heckler & Koch MP5.

After using the weapon in North Korea, Jack had developed a certain fondness for the submachine gun’s accuracy and concealability. It would never match an M4’s ability to reach out and touch someone, but the weapon was ideal for in-close work. This variant sported an integrated suppressor, and the compact submachine gun clipped nicely into the single point sling Jack was wearing beneath his unbuttoned shirt.

Clark and Ding were carrying concealed pistols, while Dom had a second MP5 on the car seat next to him. As the designated snipers, Cary and Jad were each equipped with HK416 rifles featuring under-barrel 40-millimeter grenade launchers. Not the weapons the Green Berets traditionally carried, but Jad had pronounced them adequate for the task at hand.

Jack shimmied up the tree, crawled out on the limb that spanned the wall, and dropped to the far side. The hiss that greeted Jack once he hit the ground was unsettling, but it did not belong to a coiled cobra, as he’d first feared. Instead, Jack found himself eye to eye with a crouching orange cat.

The feline was hunched over a fish carcass, ears flat against its head, lips barred.

“Keep it,” Jack whispered, taking his bearings as he slowly stood.

The cat hissed again before returning to its meal.

Jack hoped the rest of the mission went as smoothly.

“Scepter, this is Reaper,” Cary said. “Military-aged males vicinity of Charlie 1 are moving southwest along the pier, away from the red side of Macbeth, over.”

More good news.

In sticking with Cary and Jad’s convention, Macbeth’s four sides had been delineated by color. White was the southern side and the entrance to the building Ding and Clark intended to use. Black was the rear, or northern, section of building that abutted the dock and water. Green was the eastern side closest to R-10, while red was the western section facing the extended pier that ran along a boneyard of rusting fishing boats. If the men were moving away from the red side, they might be returning to a fishing boat. At the very least the military-aged males were putting distance between themselves and Macbeth, as well as the alley where Jack was hiding south of the white side.

Things were definitely looking up.

“Scepter, this is Ringside,” Dom said. “We’ve got trouble.”

Jack swore.

28

It wasn’t the building that gave Mario pause.

The dank structure still reeked of fish, and seawater puddled across the filthy concrete. The lights provided a weak counterpart to the thick darkness. A single lamp dangled above the stainless-steel fish-cleaning station, casting a sickly yellow circle on the device’s de facto cradle. Everything was as Mario expected it to be.

Everything but the cluster of men gathered around the device.

Men with Danilo at their center.

“What’s this?”

As before, the question came from the older of the pair. Clark. As before, Mario detected an undertone to the man’s comment. But if before there’d been only a hint of steel, Mario could now sense the entire bared blade.

“This is Danilo,” Mario said, “my cousin’s lieutenant. His fishing crew recovered the device.”

While Mario tried to keep his own tone light, there was no getting around the sense of menace permeating the air. Danilo’s group seemed to be as surprised to see Mario and the Americans as Mario was to see them. On closer examination, Mario realized that the five men were not from Mon Mon’s usual band. Though they wore the standard dock uniform of short-sleeve shirts and shorts, the ink crawling down their forearms bore no sign of the smiling skull that symbolized Mon Mon’s clique.

“What is going on, Danilo?” Mario said, switching to Tagalog.

Mon Mon’s lieutenant didn’t speak English and Mario sincerely hoped the Americans weren’t conversant in Tagalog. He had a terrible feeling that whatever was going to be said next would not make the Americans happy.

“Change of plans,” Danilo said. “Mon Mon decided to sell the device to another interested party.”

Mario’s relationship with Danilo was strained at best. Though he felt genuine affection for his cousin, Mario could not say the same about most of the men who shared Mon Mon’s life. Danilo was a criminal, plain and simple. His closely cropped bristly hair and narrow skull brought to mind a wire brush. His beady eyes and elongated nose made him look more weasel than man, a likeness Mario thought the thug’s actions merited. Mario had never cared for Danilo, but like it or not, the thug was Mon Mon’s man.

Mario took a closer look at the tattooed thugs, trying to make sense of what was happening. Then he saw dragons spiraling down their arms, tails encircling the English characters 14K. Mon Mon was a bit craftier than Mario had given him credit for. The newcomers were from the 14K triad, a Chinese organized crime syndicate known to act as a criminal arm for the Chinese Communist Party. Mario’s cousin was trying to kill two birds with one stone. By giving the glider to 14K, Mon Mon would cement an alliance with a powerful criminal enterprise and thereby counterbalance the pressure from upstart Filipino gangsters eager to move in on his turf. At the same time, Mon Mon’s actions would endear him to the Chinese Communist Party, potentially providing his fleet relief from CCP’s relentless efforts to crowd Filipino fishermen out of the best South China Sea fisheries.

Not a bad play at all.

If Mario discounted the operatives standing behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Mario said, turning to the Americans. “My cousin has decided not to part with the device after all.”

As he made eye contact with Clark, Mario realized three things. One, judging from their expressions, the Americans understood exactly what was happening. Two, they didn’t seem inclined to just walk away. Three, Mario had positioned himself between two groups of killers.

“Did you get that?” Clark said, directing the comment to his Hispanic companion.

“Most of it,” Chavez answered. “My Tagalog’s a little rusty, but from what I can tell, the short guy’s decided to sell our product to other buyers.”

Clark nodded and then turned back to Mario.

“Tell your cousin we’ll pay him double what the other guys are offering.”

“I’m sorry,” Mario said, already knowing how this would end, “but I don’t think—”

“Tell him.”

Clark hadn’t shouted the command, but his words crackled through the air all the same. Mario nodded, swallowed, and pulled out his cell phone.

“What are you doing?” Danilo said.

“Calling my cousin,” Mario said, dialing Mon Mon’s number.

The triad member standing closest to Danilo reached for his waistband.

Then all hell broke loose.

29

“Ringside, this is Scepter,” Jack said. “Define trouble.”

“Scepter, Ringside,” Dom said. “Ding just kicked off the Alamo signal.”

Abandoning any pretense of stealth, Jack took off like a lightning bolt.

This was the part of Campus operations for which Jack found himself growing increasingly less fond. Though they’d always operated on the very edge of what was possible, Jack now viewed the exploits of his fellow Campus shooters through the lens of his experience in North Korea. In that theater, Jack had been in the company of a SEAL team with the two Green Beret snipers in reserve.

While the mission had certainly unfolded differently than the operations order had foreseen, Jack had been able to fall back on the capabilities of the twelve rough men and the combat multipliers that came with them once violence became inevitable. Campus operators had no lack of grit, but sometimes quantity really was a quality all its own.

“Ringside, this is Scepter,” Jack said, answering Dom’s transmission. “Copy Alamo. I’m moving to Lear time now. Can you pass us a sitrep, over?”

Clark had anticipated the need to communicate without the use of voice or text transmissions. Accordingly, he and Ding had configured their phones to act as emergency transmitters. Pushing one set of buttons transmitted an audio tone known as Alamo—code for things were not as expected inside the warehouse. A second combination broadcast Custer, the brevity code signifying that the Campus operators were fighting for their lives. In Jack’s experience, these two radio calls often went together like peanut butter and jelly.

“Scepter, this is Ringside, nothing yet,” Dom said. “They just stepped inside and . . . Hang on a minute. Clark just triggered continuous broadcast.”

This feature was the primary reason why Jack and his Green Beret snipers were on one channel while the entry team and Dom used another. While Clark and Ding couldn’t mutter to themselves in a room full of hostiles, they could switch their microphones to continuous transmission. The mics were designed to pick up just the vibration of the speaker’s voice, so they weren’t capable of relaying ambient noise, but they were better than nothing.

“Okay,” Dom said, “sounds like they’ve got company inside the warehouse. Clark just asked what was going on. Then he offered to pay double for the glider. I think this op’s about to go sideways.”

Of that, Jack had no doubt. The only question was whether this was the kind of sideways that would be resolved with words or with bullets. Based on his luck thus far, Jack was betting on bullets.

“Copy all,” Jack said, huffing as he hurtled down the trash-strewn alley. “I’m almost to Lear. Break, break—Reaper, this is Scepter. Get ready to execute the contingency plan, over.”

Lear was a loading dock just to the southwest of the warehouse, which would allow Jack to stage almost on top of Macbeth while still remaining out of sight. From Lear, Jack needed only to hop a small wall separating the adjacent building from the target warehouse. In other words, it would position him close enough to help if things got loud.

At least that was the idea.

But as much as Jack loved the thought of riding to Clark’s rescue, he knew that he and Dom would probably not be enough manpower to turn the tide of the battle. For that, Jack would need the Green Berets.

But there was a problem with that scenario.

The Army commandos were in a hide site about three hundred and fifty meters northeast of Macbeth. Not an insurmountable distance, but they’d have to cross a section of harbor to get to Jack. The overland path meant traversing a bridge and then doglegging east down the same alley that Clark and Ding had used to reach Macbeth. Two Honda Click scooters stood ready at the base of the building Jad and Cary were using as a hide site for just that purpose, but the Green Berets’ response time would still be measured in minutes rather than seconds.

Minutes in a gunfight could be the difference between life and death.

With that in mind, Jack had briefed a contingency plan. An option to call the snipers forward if things started looking hinky. Since this course of action meant that the Green Berets would have to abandon their overwatch position, leaving the assaulters blind, Jack wanted to use it only as a last resort.

Based on Clark’s transmission, it was last-resort time.

“Scepter, this is Reaper,” Cary said. “Be advised, I’ve got a small watercraft approaching Macbeth from the black side at a high rate of speed. The cabin is enclosed, and the deck is empty, so I don’t have a head count on passengers, but it’s headed right for the dock, over.”

Jack swore even as he ran faster.

This was the exact reason why the snipers were positioned where they were. Their hide site allowed the Green Berets to both cover the assault team and maintain surveillance on the rear of Macbeth. Jack was torn. Should he order the commandos to fold up shop and augment his admittedly scarce QRF, or keep watch on the boat? Staying on the boat was the more conservative play. After all, it was John Clark and Ding Chavez inside that building, not a couple of rookie operators. To Jack’s way of thinking, there wasn’t much the Rainbow CO and his team leader hadn’t weathered.

Jack keyed the transmit button, intending to tell Cary and Jad to remain in place, when Dom stepped on his transmission.

“Scepter, this is Ringside. Custer, Custer, Custer, over.”

Sometimes Jack really hated being right.

30

Jack resisted the urge to ask Dom for an update. Clark had just called Custer. One of the most lethal men Jack knew thought his life was in danger. The specifics did not matter. Jack was singularly focused on getting himself and as much combat power into the fight as quickly as possible.

“Ringside, Scepter, copy Custer,” Jack said. “Break, break, Reaper, this is Scepter. Divide forces. One of you stay on the boat, the other moves here. Now.”

“Reaper acknowledges all,” Cary said. “Reaper 1 on the way.”

Jack took comfort in Cary’s radio call, but he still had business to attend to. Grabbing the wall, he vaulted over the side, landing in an ankle-deep puddle of motor oil, seawater, and God knew what else.

But that was not his concern.

Instead, Jack ran for the door on the red side of Macbeth.

A blur to his right demanded his attention.

Jack was in the process of bringing his HK onto target when he realized the blur was Dom racing for the same door. In the excitement, Jack had forgotten that Dom would be stacking with him. If Clark and Ding were already in a gunfight, it made no sense for Dom and Jack to enter behind the two men, potentially placing themselves in the fatal funnel formed by the white side door.

“One coming in,” Jack hissed.

Dom jerked, suggesting that Jack wasn’t the only one who’d let adrenaline cloud his thinking.

But that was a topic for later.

Since he’d made it to the entrance first, Dom took the number-one position in the tactical stack. With his HK tucked into his shoulder and the whole of his focus centered on the rust-streaked door, the former FBI agent looked every bit the warrior he was. Jack slid around the big man, taking up a position opposite his cousin. With a stack of just two, it fell to Jack to act as the breacher. In a perfect world, Jack would have waited for Cary’s arrival before entering, since a stack of three would be exponentially more deadly. But as the sound of gunfire echoing in the building could attest, this was not a perfect world.

Jack met Dom’s gaze, and his cousin nodded.

Jack turned the door handle.

Locked.

Shouldering his HK, Jack aimed where he imagined the bolt to be and squeezed off a three-round burst. As breaching techniques went, this one was a bit unorthodox, but the flimsy metal siding would offer no resistance to the 9-millimeter rounds. Hopefully the locking mechanism wouldn’t fare any better.

The muzzle blast reflected off the wall, buffeting Jack in the face.

No matter.

Speed and violence of action were now the names of the game. The aluminum buckled under Jack’s onslaught, and the shattered remains of the bolt loomed like a snaggletooth in a jack-o’-lantern’s leer through the jagged hole the 9-millimeter rounds had created.

Jack grabbed the door handle one-handed, cranked, and yanked.

Metal shrieked, but the door swung open.

Dom flowed through the entrance, and Jack tucked in behind him.

Chaos reigned inside.

Since he’d entered from the left, Dom button-hooked in the same direction. Normally, this would have been Jack’s cue to orient right.

Normally.

But as he was in the process of sweeping right, Jack remembered Clark and Ding and corrected his turn. If his Campus teammates were behind Jack, logic dictated that the threat was in front of him.

One look confirmed his hunch.

The building’s interior was dingy, dimly lit, and rectangular. It was also filled with men intent on killing one another. At first, Jack wondered why Clark and Ding hadn’t handled the situation already. Though the cluster of tattooed men to Jack’s left numbered at least five, they were also grouped together. With just a flimsy metal table stained with fish blood for cover, the gangsters were caught in the open. The two senior Campus operators should have made short work of them.

Then the crack of a semiautomatic rifle knifed through the air, and Jack understood.

A loft ran the length of the far wall. Jack imagined that the space was used to store equipment and nets out of reach of the corrosive mixture of fish offal and salt water that coated the floor.

It also contained a pair of snipers.

Jack tracked the red holographic dot from his EOTech reflex sight onto the first man as he thumbed the MP5’s selector switch to single shot. As soon as the crimson circle settled, Jack began squeezing the trigger as he advanced forward with a smooth rolling gait at serious odds with his thundering heart. Though moving toward the scrum of men felt counterintuitive, Jack knew remaining stationary equaled death. Besides, an adversary advancing triggered a primal response. The snipers’ brains might know that Jack couldn’t reach them, but their hearts wouldn’t be so sure.

Jack’s first aimed pair went low, sparking off the grating. The third and fourth found the mark. His ears registered bursts of fire as Dom and the rest of the Campus team engaged the men crouched behind the fish table, and Jack saw a sniper’s limp body fall from the loft.

Without halting his steady fire, Jack shifted to the second shooter.

When employed correctly, suppressive fire had a devastating effect on an opponent’s psyche. Unlike the rapid bursts associated with scared men, a consistent rain of bullets suggested an adversary calmly in control of the situation. Even though Jack didn’t have a clear shot at the second sniper, the continuous stream of 9-millimeter rounds rattling the loft’s floor and boxes the sniper was using for cover did the trick. The man scrambled up to a crouch, no doubt intending to retreat.

He didn’t get the chance.

Jack put four quick pairs into the crouching sniper.

Then he turned back to the floor.

Dom had been busy.

Of the five guys who’d been on their feet when Jack had breached, three were now down. One was still standing, weapon in hand, while his partner was beating feet for the door. Panning his sight left, Jack put an aimed pair into the standing gunman just as Dom did the same. The shooter spun, sprawling the length of the fish table before sliding to the ground. Jack tracked right, centered his red dot on the fleeing man’s back, and pressed the trigger twice more.

Then he was out of targets.

“Clear front,” Jack said.

“Clear side,” Dom echoed.

“Clear rear.”

Jack turned toward the unmistakable sound of Clark’s voice and got his first look at his fellow operatives. What he saw wasn’t encouraging. John Clark was standing tall, apparently no worse for the wear. Ding Chavez was a different story. The onetime Rainbow team leader was sprawled against the wall, his SIG still gripped in one hand as a scarlet circle spread from his right shoulder.

“Ding,” Jack said, moving toward his mentor even as a voice crackled across his earbud.

“Scepter, this is Reaper 2, the boat’s still closing in on the dock. Fifteen seconds, over.”

Jack turned to see Clark’s eyes were locked on him. Jad must have switched to the assault team frequency on his own accord. The Green Berets were some pretty switched-on dudes.

“You and Dom take a look at that boat,” Clark said. “Mario will help me get Ding to the car.”

For the first time, Jack registered the presence of their asset. The Filipino man was pressed up against the wall, trying to be small. To his credit, the banker stood in response to Clark’s command, even though his skinny legs were quivering. The asset had gumption, no two ways about it.

“On it,” Jack said.

Jack ran across the floor, trying to ignore the puddles of red. He was no stranger to gunfights, but the close quarters of this one had him rattled. His body was now reacting to the combat-induced adrenaline dump, and Jack had that jittery, high-on-coffee feeling.

“Scepter, this is Reaper 1, five seconds,” Cary said.

“Roger that, 1,” Jack said as he pushed open the building’s black side door. “We have one Eagle WIA. Rally on the red side of Macbeth to assist with the casualty, over.”

“Reaper 1 copies all.”

Jack had hesitated in the doorway while speaking with Cary. Coordinating multiple parts of an operation over the radio often required a team leader to stop and visualize the moving pieces. Until Dom tapped him on the shoulder, Jack hadn’t even realized he’d paused. With a start, Jack moved toward the water, his eyes locked on the boat speeding toward him.

But apparently not fast enough.

Dom shoved him in the back, sending Jack stumbling.

Then the world exploded.

31

The ocean’s roaring dragged Jack from the darkness. An all-consuming sound that washed against his pounding head in skull-crushing waves. Then came the burning sensation of salt in his eyes. Sputtering, Jack tried to push himself upright, only to slump back into the water.

Nearly drowning did the trick.

With a cough, Jack edged out of the surf and attempted to make sense of his surroundings. He was lying in shallow water near the dock, but couldn’t for the life of him remember how he’d gotten there. Then his addled brain identified what he’d previously mistaken for crashing waves.

Ringing.

His ears were ringing.

From an explosion.

Dry-heaving, Jack rose to unsteady feet. The shallows were covered in debris—pieces of wood, bits of steel, and the ever-present fish offal.

And something else.

A body.

With a curse, Jack realized that the floating form he’d mistaken for a piece of the dock was actually a person.

A person facedown in the water.

Dom.

Jack hooked the big man under the shoulder blades and hauled him toward shore. The distance wasn’t more than ten or so feet, but it still took Jack an eternity. The concussion-induced vertigo made it hard to stay upright, and the silt-covered shoreline clung to his feet. Jack fell twice during the short trek even as he pushed his wavering legs to go faster. Dom wasn’t in good shape, but there was nothing Jack could do until they reached dry land.

The growl of an outboard motor announced the return of Jack’s hearing. He turned to see a boat speed away in a cloud of diesel smoke. Jack tracked the craft’s progress for half a second before shifting his attention to Dom.

The watercraft wasn’t his concern.

Jack had his hands full right here.

With a final tug, Jack dragged Dom onto the slimy beach and dropped to his knees beside his cousin. What he saw wasn’t good. A length of jagged steel protruded from the operative’s leg. The metal shard was buried deep in Dom’s flesh, perhaps lodged in his thigh bone. But Jack was more worried about his cousin’s blood-matted head. Dom’s skull seemed intact, but head trauma can cause swelling in the brain. If this was the case, Dom would need surgery to relieve the cranial pressure, else he might suffer brain damage and death.

Jack’s cousin needed medical help.

Now.

“Any station this net,” Jack said. “Scepter has an Eagle down on the black side of Macbeth. I say again, Eagle down.”

A familiar voice answered Jack’s radio call, but the ringing in his ears hadn’t completely subsided. He couldn’t make out the words. Rather than ask the caller to identify himself, Jack ripped open the cargo pocket on Dom’s right leg.

As Jack had hoped, Dom had followed Campus SOP by carrying the low-profile first aid pouch Ding had put together in response to lessons gleaned from the nation’s two decades of combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. The unobtrusive pouch carried the bare minimum—several one-handed tourniquets, a package of QuikClot Combat Gauze, and a small pressure bandage. Nowhere close to the contents of a standard first aid kit, but God willing, enough to save Dom’s life.

“Dom, can you hear me?” Jack said.

His cousin’s rising and falling chest let Jack know that Dom was still breathing, and a quick check of the carotid artery confirmed a weak but stable pulse. But that was the only good news. Jack fit a tourniquet above the shrapnel wound, twisted the rod until the arterial bleed stopped, and locked it.

Dom didn’t so much as moan.

The Campus operative was in trouble.

Shaking out the pressure bandage, Jack eyed Dom’s head wound. He’d need to lift his cousin’s head to apply the bandage, but Jack was loath to do so. Without a way to first stabilize the operative’s neck, moving Dom’s head could aggravate a spinal injury, potentially paralyzing him. Jack keyed the radio, intending to transmit his request for help a second time, when a hand grabbed his shoulder, shaking him.

“We’ve got to go, Jack. Now.”

Jack looked up to see Cary.

“Help me stabilize his neck,” Jack said. “I’ve got to bandage the head wound.”

“No time,” Cary said even as the Green Beret’s fingers moved across Dom’s neck. “His spine feels intact. We can move him to the car and treat him there. Besides, I need you calling the shots, not playing medic.”

“Why?” Jack said. “I’m the junior Campus member.”

“Not anymore,” Cary said, grabbing Dom beneath the shoulders. “Ding’s concussed and in and out of consciousness. You’re it.”

“What about Clark?” Jack said, his leaden tongue barely able to form the words. “Is he . . . ?”

“No,” Cary said, “but they have him.”

The Green Beret inclined his head toward the vanishing launch.

Clark was on the boat?

Why?

What was happening?

“I don’t understand,” Jack said.

“I’ll explain in the car,” Cary said. “Grab his legs. We have to go. Now.”

The Green Beret lifted Dom’s torso, and Jack grabbed his cousin’s limp legs. Together the two men started up the slippery bank, splashing through water as the sound of sirens drifted across the bay.

This was really happening.

In the space of seconds, Clark had been kidnapped, Ding concussed, and Dom incapacitated.

Someone had just gutted the entire Campus.

Everyone was down.

Everyone but Jack.

Jack had thought he’d known what it meant to be the team leader.

He hadn’t.

32

“Jack. Jack!”

The words seemed to be coming from far away. Jack made eye contact with Cary in the rearview mirror.

“He’s crashing, Jack.”

Part of Jack’s mind realized that the Green Beret’s constant use of his first name was intentional. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Jack knew that he was dangerously close to slipping into shock.

Clark kidnapped, Ding incapacitated, Dom crashing.

Each of those hard truths hammered against his psyche, and Jack found himself mentally reaching for that soft, warm feeling beckoning from just out of sight. He wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his left hand as he kept his right firmly on the steering wheel.

Perforated eardrums.

Fantastic.

He wanted to blame his injuries, but Jack knew they weren’t the source of his lethargy. For the first time in his operational career, Ding, Clark, and the rest of his Campus brethren were out of the mix. Jack was the only operator still standing.

The one in charge.

Time he started acting that way.

Jack adjusted the mirror to better see the scene unfolding behind him.

The seven-person Mitsubishi Xpander was packed. Mario sat beside Jack in the front passenger seat, staring into space. The banker had helped Jack load the glider into the storage area behind the Mitsubishi’s rear seats, but had said nothing of substance since.

Ding was behind Mario, slumped against the door. The Campus’s second-in-command appeared to be concussed, and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. At the moment, Ding’s eyes were closed, and his hastily bandaged shoulder was soaked with blood.

The Xpander’s remaining seats had been laid flat, and Dom was stretched across them. Cary and Jad were crouched next to the unresponsive operator, and the pair began CPR as Jack watched.

His cousin was dying and there was nothing Jack could do.

Closing his eyes, Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose as he sorted through the ambush’s final milliseconds. Jack remembered pausing in the building’s doorway to answer Cary’s radio transmission and his cousin shoving him out of the warehouse.

Then, nothing.

But it was to the pause that Jack kept returning. His inadvertent hesitation had forced Dom to do the same. Then something had registered with his cousin. Maybe the sound of the bomb’s relay closing, or perhaps a tingle from the sixth sense that all operators develop over time. Regardless of its source, Dom’s premonition had caused him to act, shoving Jack clear of the warehouse. Dom had borne the brunt of the bomb’s concussive shock wave because of Jack’s inaction.

He might have just killed his cousin.

“Jack!”

“On it,” Jack said.

His voice sounded rough, like he’d been gargling with shards of glass. With an effort, Jack turned from Dom’s still form to the Filipino. The confident banker Jack had seen in Mario’s asset picture was gone. In his place was a creature more mouse than man. Someone who looked like he wanted to run from this car of blood and death at the earliest opportunity.

Jack understood.

“Mario,” Jack said, keeping his diction slow and his pronunciation clear, “we need your help.”

People loved to make fun of how Americans defaulted to speaking slowly and loudly when conversing with foreigners, but there was actually a method to this madness. Stress affected mental acuity. Judging by his trembling hands, Mario was barely hanging on.

“No,” Mario said, shaking his head, “I’ve done enough.”

“That ambush was preplanned,” Jack said. “Either your cousin set you up or his organization is in the middle of a corporate restructuring. Neither spells good news for you. Until we figure out which way the winds are blowing, you need us, and we need a doctor. Someone trustworthy and discreet.”

Mario shook his head even more violently.

“I am a banker, not a—”

“An important banker with important friends,” Jack said, talking over the man. “Friends who owe you favors. Call in some of your markers. I need a well-equipped clinic and doctor or my friend will die. But it needs to be private.”

“You do not understand what you are asking,” Mario said.

“I do,” Jack said. “And I think I also understand you. I used to be in finance, too. You’re a banker. You make deals for a living. Believe me when I tell you this will be both the easiest and potentially most lucrative deal you’ve ever closed. Your cousin’s organization is experiencing a hostile takeover, and your name is on the balance sheet right next to his. Help us and we will protect you and your family.”

“What if we want to go to the United States?” Mario said.

“Pack your bags,” Jack said.

“I have a very large family,” Mario said.

“Get us a private clinic and a doctor, and I don’t care if you want to bring half of Manila,” Jack said. “But if my friend dies while we’re dithering about the price, I’m going to be unhappy. Very unhappy.”

Mario thought for a moment.

Then he slowly nodded.

“Turn right there,” Mario said, pointing at the next stoplight. “I’ll call ahead.”

Jack turned at the indicated intersection and floored the accelerator. For once, he was grateful for the chaos of Manila’s traffic. The sea of cars and motor scooters gave him something to focus on besides the Green Berets’ increasingly frantic efforts.

Or the phone call he’d have to place once they reached the clinic.

33

Office of the Director of National Intelligence Headquarters

Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus, Virginia

Her ringing desk phone startled Mary Pat.

This was not because she was unused to receiving calls. To the contrary, even though her number wasn’t exactly publicly available, the DNI received countless phone calls every day. Or at least she would, were it not for the tireless work of her dutiful assistant, Sam.

At first, Mary Pat had pushed back against the notion that her phone calls needed to be scheduled. She wanted to be available to anyone at any time. It had taken her less than a week to see the error of her ways. While she wanted to believe that she was still a field hand rotating through another obligatory desk job, Mary Pat knew in her heart this wasn’t true. As much as she wished otherwise, her days of midnight asset meets in Gorky Park were long gone. Mary Pat was now a bureaucrat and the system recognized her as such. The ability to get the DNI on the phone was something of a status symbol among the Washington elite, and Sam guarded Mary Pat’s calendar like Cerberus barring the gates to Hades.

If her desk phone rang unexpectedly, it rarely heralded good news.

The number displayed on the caller ID caused Mary Pat’s fingers to freeze inches from the beckoning handset. The usual name or string of digits had been replaced by the word unknown. While Mary Pat was as vulnerable to spam calls on her personal cell as the average American, this wasn’t the case for her office line. To bypass Sam’s legendary vigilance, a caller needed to enter a series of numeric codes at an unacknowledged prompt. The people who knew these codes were already stored in Mary Pat’s phone under names or identifiers. In her many years as DNI, Mary Pat had never received a call from an unknown caller.

Until now.

Wrapping her fingers around the black plastic, Mary Pat lifted the handset to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Mary Pat? It’s me. Jack.”

“Jack?” Mary Pat said, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Why are you calling?”

“It’s bad, Mary Pat,” Jack said. “Really bad.”

Mary Pat listened without interruption as her oldest friend’s son spoke. At the end of his update, she had just one thought—he was right.

It was bad.

Really bad.

—

“MP—I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

John Patrick Ryan stood from where he’d been seated behind the Resolute desk with his back to the windows overlooking the Rose Garden. In two quick strides, he rounded the desk’s corner to greet one of his dearest friends. Mary Pat accepted a hug from the most powerful man in the world as her mind raced. She’d thought through a handful of potential approaches during her thirty-minute commute from her office at the Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus to the White House before discarding each one. This was the danger of serving with a friend. On the one hand, she would follow the man into the fires of hell without a second thought.

On the other, she’d become fiercely protective of him. Next to Cathy Ryan, Mary Pat had the most up-close view of the sacrifices the man in front of her had made while occupying the world’s most sought-after office. Everyone knew that the office prematurely aged its occupant.

Very few understood the toll it took on a person’s soul.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly, sir.”

The President’s grin retreated at the word sir. Though they’d already been fellow warriors for decades before the genesis of Ryan’s unexpected political career, Mary Pat still paid him the honorific his office deserved.

In public.

In private, Jack insisted she do otherwise.

With the title of commander in chief came great power and even greater isolation. As Jack had explained to Mary Pat early in his first term, only a handful of people outside of his family still saw him as a person rather than the President. Mary Pat fit that bill, and the price Jack requested for their ongoing friendship was the use of his first name. As she did with nearly everything her friend asked, Mary Pat had agreed. But even though the Oval Office held just the two of them, Mary Pat wasn’t here to talk to her friend.

She needed the President.

“Out with it, Mary Pat,” Jack said. “No secrets between us. You know that.”

Mary Pat did know that. She also knew that her friend was still recovering from a trauma the depths of which he had yet to fully process. Decades ago, the love of his life had been nearly killed by an assassin from the Irish Republican Army. Jack had once told Mary Pat that seeing Cathy lying bloody and unconscious in a hospital bed was the lowest point in his life.

Mary Pat no longer believed this to be true.

A year ago, Cathy Ryan had been kidnapped and held hostage for twenty-four hours. Those hours had taken a spiritual toll on the President. As she’d expected from a man with a moral compass as unwavering as John Patrick Ryan’s, her friend had relinquished his presidential duties.

But what happened next had been far worse.

Instead of the President, Jack Ryan had become just another man. A man helpless to do anything as the woman he loved languished in the hands of monsters. Fortunately, Cathy had been rescued, and though her physical injuries consisted of nothing more serious than bumps and bruises, the psychological injuries were considerably more serious. Jack’s wife had been moments from death. As someone who’d been forced to confront her own mortality on more than one occasion, Mary Pat knew that the First Lady had left a piece of herself in the forsaken house where she’d been held hostage.

Now Mary Pat was worried that Cathy’s husband might have done the same.

“Your immediate family is safe, sir,” Mary Pat said.

The President’s response was instantaneous, both confirming her suspicions and making her feel like a fool for not leading with this statement. Jack Ryan had been an intelligence analyst long before he’d taken up politics. She should have known that he would have understood the purpose of her visit the moment she’d walked into the room unaccompanied.

For an instant, Mary Pat saw the man, not the President. The relief projected in her friend’s shining eyes and the hitch in his shuddered breath. Ryan had once offered her the role of vice president. Though she’d turned down the job, Mary Pat had revisited that decision more than once during her ever-more-frequent bouts of insomnia. After witnessing Ryan’s reaction, she knew she’d chosen correctly. Risks to her person were part of the job, but she was not cut out to wonder if every bearer of bad news meant the death of someone she loved.

“Then what?” Ryan said.

“The Campus,” Mary Pat said. “There was an ambush. Your nephew, Dom Caruso, is in a coma. The prognosis is uncertain. Clark is wounded and missing, and Ding is incapacitated. Junior is a bit banged up, but overall he’s fine. He called me with the sitrep.”

Another shuddered breath.

“Tell me,” Ryan said.

Mary Pat nodded as she structured the information she was about to relay. Dom was family. Clark wasn’t family, but he was about as close to being part of the Ryan clan as someone could be. Clark, Jack Senior, and Ding were the original three amigos. First comrades-in-arms, then friends, then something much, much more. The President didn’t share blood with the former SEAL, but when it came to Jack Senior’s sense of honor, this was probably a distinction without a difference.

“The Campus was on an unacknowledged operation to recover a Chinese undersea glider,” Mary Pat said. “We think the sensor platform might be part of a new distributed network the Chinese are fielding in the South China Sea.”

“To detect submarines,” Ryan said.

Mary Pat nodded. Jack had made a name for himself as the lowly analyst who’d unraveled the mystery of the Red October. Now he might be the leader of the free world, but he would always be a navalist at heart.

“Yes,” Mary Pat said, “and according to some flash traffic we received from the USS Delaware during her patrol in the South China Sea, it might be working. I used The Campus because the glider was in Manila and—”

“You didn’t want to put the CIA in the position of stealing something from a sometime American ally,” Jack said, waving for Mary Pat to continue. “I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

Mary Pat knew this last statement was less of an indictment of her methods than of the world writ large. Jack Ryan would have made an excellent knight of the round table. Words like honor, right, and wrong were not abstract concepts to him. While Jack was not so naïve as to believe in the absolute ascendancy of U.S. foreign policy, he was very much in the Reagan camp when it came to his thoughts on American exceptionalism. The United States, while far from perfect, had done more to lift the world from darkness than any nation since the dawn of history. Jack Ryan understood the need for a deniable agency like The Campus, but he didn’t have to like it.

“Yes, sir,” Mary Pat continued. “In any case, the glider seems to have been used as bait.”

“For The Campus?” Ryan said. “How?”

This question had bedeviled Mary Pat since she’d received the younger Ryan’s call. If Jack Junior had the right of things, the operatives in the warehouse were waiting for someone. No, that wasn’t right. They weren’t just waiting—they’d set up a kill zone. An ambush.

“Uncertain,” Mary Pat said. “Initial indications point that way, but I don’t know that I’m ready to open that particular can of worms. However, based on the available intelligence I feel comfortable stating that Clark and his team walked into an ambush set for Americans.”

“What happened?” Jack said.

“An asset led Clark and Ding into the warehouse where the glider was being stored. Junior was not part of the entry team, so he isn’t certain what happened next. At some point Clark triggered a duress signal. Dom, Junior, and two non-Campus personnel responded.”

“Who?” Ryan said.

“A pair of Green Berets,” Mary Pat said. “Cary and—”

“Jad,” Ryan said, running his hands over his face. “That’s a hell of a shakeout tour for those boys.”

Mary Pat paused to see if her boss would elaborate.

As a former active-duty Marine, Jack Ryan, Sr., did not have the abstract view of battle that most of his predecessors brought to the Oval Office. He made it a point to know who paid the ultimate sacrifice on their nation’s behalf, especially if their deaths resulted from an operation he’d ordered. That he knew the names of the two pseudo–Campus personnel wasn’t unusual. Mary Pat did find it surprising that her boss was better read in than she was on the organization she notionally controlled. Perhaps once this was over, it was time to more cleanly delineate The Campus’s chain of command.

“Yes,” Mary Pat said after it became obvious Ryan wasn’t going to say anything more. “Cary was still en route and Jad was providing overwatch from a sniper hide site, so Jack and Dom entered the building and helped eliminate the threat. At that time, Ding was the team’s only casualty.”

“And then?” Jack asked.

“Things get fuzzy,” Mary Pat said. “Jad reported a boat approaching the pier at a high rate of speed. As Jack and Dom were exiting the building to get eyes on the boat, a bomb inside the warehouse detonated. Jack was thrown clear, but Ding, Clark, and Dom sustained shrapnel wounds. Dom coded en route to a medical facility. He’s still touch and go.”

For the first time, Ryan reacted as an uncle rather than the commander in chief. While Mary Pat knew that her friend had heard the news of his nephew’s predicament when she’d first relayed it, the analytical portion of his mind had been sorting, cataloging, and processing the information. Only now, after his formidable intellect had hashed through the implications of a state-sponsored attack against an undeclared intelligence organization, could his feelings catch up.

Ryan’s face fell and his right hand trembled.

Mary Pat looked at her friend, torn. Should she offer comfort or wait silently as Ryan sorted through his grief? In the end, she stood rooted in place. There would be a time for grieving.

This was not that time.

“Clark?” Ryan said.

The President’s voice was a bit unsteady, but the blue eyes he directed at Mary Pat were unflinching. This was not her friend. This was the commander in chief of the most powerful nation on earth.

“Jad reported that a team from the boat entered the building,” Mary Pat said. “Cary arrived at the same time from the opposite direction. He engaged the team. In the ensuing gunfight, the attackers left Ding but took Clark.”

“Clark was alive?” Jack said. “You’re sure?”

Mary Pat nodded. “Very much so. Jad had a clear view of the men hustling Clark onto the boat. He wasn’t going willingly.”

“Of course he wasn’t,” Jack said. “Who did this, MP?”

“Sir, we’re not—”

“Best guess. Who?”

Mary Pat sighed.

Just as she’d known that she needed to give this update to her boss alone and face-to-face, she’d also understood that he’d want a name. Someone or something to paint a bull’s-eye on. This was John Patrick Ryan.

But she still hesitated.

While it was true that the Ryan she’d known most of her life wasn’t prone to flying off the handle, she wasn’t sure that the person standing in front of her was still that man. Evil men had once again come for those he held dear. His nephew was at death’s door, and one of his oldest and dearest friends was missing. No one would expect the President to step aside during this crisis, and Mary Pat wasn’t convinced this was a good thing. Would the futility and fury spawned by Ryan’s helplessness during Cathy’s kidnapping influence his decisions this go-round?

Mary Pat met her boss’s gaze and knew her internal deliberations didn’t matter. The duly elected President of the United States had asked her a question. She was duty-bound to answer.

“My best guess is the Chinese,” Mary Pat said. “Junior was working on something in Europe that went sideways. A Chinese scientist was renditioned, and his American brother killed. The perpetrators were Asian. The Chinese are up to something. Something big.”

Jack slowly nodded. “Okay. What’s your recommendation?”

“Let me run with the Clark issue for now. I’ll handle the fallout from the operation and sync with Junior. I know you’ll want to talk directly with President Chen, but you need more than I have right now. Give me the time to work this so that when you do make that call, you’ll be dealing from a position of strength.”

“How long?” Jack said.

Mary Pat had war-gamed this question as well. Clark was in trouble, and The Campus was shattered. Whoever had set this into motion had a plan, and they were executing it. Mary Pat had precious little time to play catch-up. But if she didn’t ask for enough time, she risked coming back to Jack with nothing. She knew how that would play. Position of strength or not, Ryan would get the Chinese president on the phone and let the chips fall where they may.

As much as the President might espouse otherwise, Dom and Clark were personal.

“Four hours,” Mary Pat said.

“You can have two,” Jack said. “In the meantime, I’m going to be talking with Arnie and the secretary of defense.”

“I thought you were giving me time?” Mary Pat said.

“Oh, I am,” Jack said. “But not much. Si vis pacem, para bellum.”

Mary Pat wasn’t a Latin scholar, but she still knew the translation.

If you want peace, prepare for war.

34

“Is there anything else you require?”

“No,” Fen Li said without looking up from her computer.

The questioner was the boat’s captain. A hard man accustomed to a hard life. As a member of the Filipino Islamist group Abu Sayyaf, the captain probably considered himself a soldier for Allah.

Fen did not.

While the Abu Sayyaf terrorist organization had gone through many incarnations, the man standing before her was a pirate, plain and simple. Whether the captain kidnapped victims and ransomed captured ships in the name of Allah or just old-fashioned greed was not important to Fen. She just needed him to honor the agreement she’d brokered with his superiors.

Years of guarding Chinese ships against the menace posed by the Filipino pirates had given Fen a new perspective on how to mitigate the Abu Sayyaf problem. She’d reached a mutually beneficial agreement with the terrorist group’s leadership that allowed ships carrying her mercenaries to pass through their waters unmolested. In exchange for generous payments, the pirates also permitted Fen to hire their crews from time to time for special assignments.

Assignments like this one.

Fen had already been in a foul mood by the time her launch had rendezvoused with the captain’s boat. Saying that things had not gone well in Manila was a bit of an understatement. The captain’s reaction as she’d climbed aboard his boat in the company of her paramilitary team and their hostage had further rubbed salt in her wounds. Though he hadn’t questioned her authority outright, the man’s body language spoke volumes. Fen Li had a feeling that before this part of the operation was over, she would have to assert her dominance in a more dramatic fashion.

But that was a task for later.

First she needed to provide her coconspirator with an update.

“You’re sure?” the captain said, moving into the cramped cabin.

Rather than answer, Fen Li drew the QSZ-92 pistol from where it was secreted against her back and laid the weapon on her bunk with one hand as she continued poking at her laptop’s keyboard with the other. Like the upper echelons of the Chinese Communist Party, Abu Sayyaf pirates didn’t seem to think much of women leaders.

No matter.

The captain would not be the first headstrong male she’d had to put in his place. With respect to the Chinese Communist Party, Fen believed that her polymetallic nodules would go a long way toward leveling the playing field. In the captain’s case, Fen was prepared to employ a more visceral solution.

The captain took a step closer.

With a sigh, Fen reached for the pistol.

“There’s no cause for that,” the captain said with upraised hands. He backed out of her cabin and closed the door behind him, but not before his eyes lingered on her salt water–soaked T-shirt for entirely too long.

She waited for the captain’s retreating footsteps to fade and then slipped in her earbuds and activated her satellite phone’s encryption program. Like most Chinese technology, the app was based on software pilfered from a number of different nations. Also like most Chinese technology, the encryption worked, but not as well as its Western counterpart. That said, Fen Li was currently on a fishing trawler motoring through the ocean at ten knots. While the powers of the American NSA bordered on the mythical, the agency was not omnipresent. In a world full of emerging threats, a call placed from a small boat in the middle of nowhere had to rank pretty low on the NSA’s target list.

At least that’s what Fen told herself.

Entering in a number she’d memorized long ago, Fen pushed the call button and listened as the phone rang. The recipient answered almost immediately.

“Wei?”

“It is done,” Fen said, relishing the unexpected rush that accompanied her words.

“The target has been neutralized?”

“No,” Fen said, picturing the big American even as she started down the word path she’d rehearsed in the launch countless times during the bumpy ride to the Abu Sayyaf fishing trawler. “That was not possible.”

The answering silence was brief, but still caused Fen to shiver. The voice on the other end of the phone had as much as Fen riding on the outcome of this operation.

Perhaps more.

While he rewarded success extravagantly, he was just as thorough when it came to failure.

“If the American is still alive, how exactly is your mission a success?”

“I have something better than a dead American,” Fen said.

“What?”

“A live one,” Fen said.

“Explain.”

Fen took a breath.

Her presentation was almost as important as the information itself. Her coconspirator did not have her tolerance for risk. If her voice betrayed even the slightest hesitation, he would sense it. She needed to project a calm certainty that was starkly at odds with her thundering heart.

“In March of 1984, the Americans suffered one of the biggest blows ever visited upon the Central Intelligence Agency. It was not from a blown operation or asset, or the discovery of a mole. No, the cause was much simpler—a kidnapping. Beirut chief of station William Buckley was kidnapped by Hezbollah. From the moment of his kidnapping until his body was discovered fifteen months later, the entirety of American collection efforts in the Middle East was thrown into chaos.”

“Because they were afraid he was dead?”

“No,” Fen said, “because the Americans knew he was alive. Several proof-of-life videos were released. Each showed the effects of Buckley’s torture. He was the chief of one of the world’s most important intelligence stations, and his terrorist captors were extracting his secrets one by one. Though they would never publicly say it, by the end, his Agency brethren were secretly hoping that each videotape would show Buckley’s dead body. The man I captured is Buckley’s modern equivalent.”

This time the ensuing silence didn’t feel as daunting. It was almost as if Fen could hear her coconspirator’s thoughts as he ruminated over her words.

“What about the son?”

“What about him?” Fen shrugged. “Would his death have immobilized his father? Undoubtedly. But this is better. Not only is my captive privy to some of the most closely guarded secrets in the American intelligence community, he is also one of the President’s closest friends. The death of a man’s son is a horrible thing, but it also carries with it a finality. The President would have had to recuse himself as he did when his wife was captured, but eventually he’d come to terms with the tragedy and return. Perhaps emerging stronger. But this is something else. Imagine knowing that your friend is being taken apart by savages, piece by piece, even as he spills your most closely guarded secrets. I promised you that I’d distract the American President. With this man, I can do something better.”

“What?”

“Cripple the entire government,” Fen said.

“How?”

She outlined her plan in the terse no-nonsense manner her coconspirator expected.

“How do you know it won’t have the opposite effect? That Ryan won’t leverage everything in his power to rescue his friend.”

“I fully expect him to,” Fen said. “Either way, we win.”

There was no pause between Fen’s pronouncement and the man’s reply.

“Proceed. I will see to my part.”

He disconnected without waiting for Fen’s reply.

That was fine.

Fen had work to do.

35

Manila, Philippines

“How’s he doing?” Jack said.

The diminutive Filipino woman had just draped her stethoscope around her neck after a prolonged session of listening to Ding’s chest. As far as Jack was concerned, this was the universal signal that a healthcare professional was now ready to discuss their prognosis.

“Stable,” the doctor said, removing her glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. “I’m keeping him sedated since he’s intubated. His heartbeat is steady, but I’m worried about his head wound.”

Jack was also worried about Dom’s head wound.

Among other things.

Surrounded by machinery and sprouting tubes of all shapes and sizes, Dom looked frail. Diminished. Thanks to the ventilator, his chest was now rising and falling with machine-inspired regularity. The shrapnel in his thigh had been removed and his leg bandaged and immobilized, but the contusion on Dom’s head could still be concealing a ticking time bomb.

“I don’t think there’s bleeding on the brain,” the doctor said, breaking into Jack’s thoughts, “but I can’t tell for sure with the equipment I have on hand. If you’d let me take him—”

“No hospitals,” Jack said, shaking his head. “I appreciate what you’ve done. Help is coming.”

The doctor, Maria, nodded, but Jack could see she wasn’t happy. He understood. Dom wasn’t her only surprise patient. Ding lay propped up in an adjacent bed. While his injuries were not nearly as severe as Dom’s, Ding had suffered a gunshot wound as well as a nasty concussion. His periods of lucidity were lengthening, but Ding wasn’t going to be kicking in doors and shooting bad guys in the face anytime soon.

When it came to The Campus, Jack was still the senior operative on the ground.

“I cannot keep my clinic closed for much longer,” Maria said, hands on her hips.

Though the woman was barely five feet tall, her personality added a sense of gravitas to her short stature. Her dark hair was collar-length and graying at the sides, while her face bore the laugh lines of a woman in her late forties.

But her current expression wasn’t humorous in the least.

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, holding up his hands in surrender, “we’ll pay you for your time.”

“I am not worried about money,” Maria said, her expression growing more severe. “I am worried about the people you are forcing me to turn away. They need me, and I need to be open for them.”

Jack understood.

After Jack had communicated the need for an isolated medical facility to Mario, the banker had suggested an address deep within the Tondo slums. He’d assured Jack that while the neighborhood wasn’t great, the medical care was top-notch and the presence of law enforcement nonexistent. Maria’s clinic delivered on all counts, but now Jack realized that his presence was costing her something more meaningful than revenue.

Purpose.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, meaning it. “We’ll be out of your hair soon. My people should be here in thirty minutes or less.”

Maria’s frown didn’t magically transform into a smile, but Jack saw something different in the doctor’s eyes all the same.

Resignation.

One did not run a medical clinic in one of Manila’s highest poverty neighborhoods with aspirations of getting rich. Neither did one return to said clinic day after day and remain an idealist. While he knew she was most certainly a valued member of the community, Jack thought Maria was no stranger to navigating circumstances beyond her control.

“I know we’re keeping you from doing good work,” Jack said, “but I promise it will be worth your while. Make a list of medical supplies and medicine that are hard to come by. I’ll make sure you get them.”

“What about equipment?” Maria said, unfazed by Jack’s offer. “I could use a new X-ray machine and a portable ultrasound.”

If his horrifically injured cousin wasn’t lying just feet away, Jack might have smiled. Though she looked like a stiff wind might blow her over, Maria had grit. The kind of determination that allowed the doctor to face down Manila criminals and gun-toting Americans with equal vigor. Jack had a feeling that his mom would like this lady.

Hell, Cathy Ryan might just want to pay her a visit.

“Add them to your list,” Jack said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Maria gave a quick nod and then headed for the door leading to her small waiting/administrative area, where Mario, Jad, and Cary were parked. No doubt she intended to use the remaining time before the CIA extraction team arrived to fill as many sheets of paper with supplies and equipment as possible.

The door swung shut behind her, leaving Jack alone with his two friends.

Jack had flown to Germany what seemed like a lifetime ago, convinced that he had the stuff to be a team leader.

Now he wasn’t even sure if he was truly operator material.

“Is Dom your first?”

Jack nearly jumped out of his skin.

Turning, he found Cary standing behind him.

“First what?” Jack said.

“First man you might lose.”

“He’s not the first Campus operator to die,” Jack said.

“That’s not what I asked,” Cary said. “Is he the first man you might lose.”

This time Jack understood. There was a difference between serving on a tactical team and leading one. As a leader, you were responsible for your team’s successes.

And failures.

“Yeah,” Jack said.

Cary nodded and squeezed Jack’s shoulder. “I’d tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t. Everyone thinks that inspiring men to follow you into combat is the hardest part about being a leader. It’s not. The hardest part is looking at yourself in the mirror after a teammate dies on your watch.”

Jack stared at Dom’s still form.

“I could say it wasn’t your fault,” Cary said, “but you’re not ready to hear it. And maybe what you’re thinking is true. Maybe you are responsible for Dom. But trying to assign fault right now is bullshit. What we do is messy. I lost my first soldier in a training accident while practicing fast-rope insertions. It was our third run of the day, and the team was firing on all cylinders. The Black Hawk flared, and the crew chief kicked out the rope just like he had twice before. Chris was the first one out the door, just like the previous two runs. Except this time, he missed the rope. One minute he was standing next to me. The next, his lifeless body was crumpled on the concrete sixty feet beneath us.”

Cary paused to clear his throat.

Then the Green Beret continued.

“Wish I could tell you that Chris was the only guy I lost,” Cary said. “He wasn’t. If you stay in this business, Dom won’t be the last guy critically injured or killed on your watch. It’s a shitty deal, but we live in a shitty world.”

Jack nodded.

The Green Beret hadn’t said anything particularly profound. No earth-shattering conclusions, no life-changing wisdom. Even so, the commando’s words carried a weight because they’d been spoken by someone who’d lived them. Someone who’d stood over the body of a fallen comrade. This was not to say that Jack was absolved of his guilt or responsibility. The events of the assault and subsequent ambush would be dissected in unflinching detail during the post-mission after-action review. Corrective actions would be instituted, and if merited, blame would be assigned.

But not today.

Today, The Campus had taken a broadside, and Jack was the only operator still on his feet. Someone had targeted Jack’s brothers, and that same someone now had Clark.

This could not stand.

“All right,” Jack said, turning from his stricken teammates to Cary. “How are we looking?”

“Jad and I are fit to fight,” Cary said. “But I thought we were exfiling with the Agency extraction team along with Dom and Ding?”

“Not anymore,” Jack said. “Someone just punched us in the face. We’re gonna punch them back.”

36

Undisclosed location, South China Sea

“Begin,” Fen said, keying the transmit button on the walkie-talkie.

Though she was perfectly capable of performing the needed tasks herself, Fen had decided to delegate the duties. Nothing in this entire endeavor, from the work in Europe to the aborted ambush on the dock, had gone as expected. While she’d been in the espionage business long enough to know that no operation ever went completely as planned, this one was in a class all its own. Fen’s mother would look at the results and tell her wayward daughter that the ancestors were angry.

Then again, Fen’s mother had been blaming angry ancestors for every slight both real and imagined for as long as Fen could remember. But just because Fen didn’t agree with her mother’s diagnosis of the cause for her trouble didn’t mean that she disputed the truth. Something had gone very wrong, and Fen was taking nothing else for granted.

Especially the man strapped to the chair below her.

Though not constructed with interrogations in mind, the Abu Sayyaf fishing trawler hadn’t required many modifications to fit the purpose Fen envisioned. A couple additions to the refrigerated compartment where the fish were normally stored and Fen had exactly what she needed—a climate-controlled room, a chair mounted to the floor with freshly drilled screws, and a drain to catch by-products from the coming work. As an added bonus, an observation deck of sorts provided a vantage point through reinforced glass into the compartment. While the observation deck was undoubtedly intended to provide fishermen with a means to determine how much space remained in the cavernous container, Fen found that the deck also doubled as a fine place to observe and direct the effort.

Her mother’s take on divinity aside, Fen had no intention of being anywhere near the man secured to the chair. That he was never leaving the boat alive was a foregone conclusion. That he would depart this life without taking a few of his captors with him was less so.

As if he could hear her thoughts, the man stirred as the Filipino pirate Fen had designated as the interrogator approached. In truth, the term interrogator put too much stock in the man’s meager abilities. An Abu Sayyaf member to his core, the man was a blunt object in every sense of the word.

Though Fen guessed the man at barely thirty, his bristly hair was streaked with gray. Likewise, his frame was whip-thin and he walked with a limp. These features, combined with the length of scar tissue that bisected his right cheek, seemed to add credentials to his pirate persona. Religious notions aside, the man was a thug who made his living robbing and murdering sailors unwary enough to slip into his web.

No matter.

For what Fen had in mind, a blunt instrument was exactly the right tool for the job.

Fen studied the man strapped to the chair as the pirate strode toward him.

John T. Clark.

The paramilitary officer’s résumé was extensive. Portions of Clark’s history were still shrouded in mystery, even from the voracious Chinese digital warriors employed by the Third Department of the People’s Liberation Army’s General Staff Department. Known as 3PLA to Westerners, this organization was the Chinese equivalent of the American National Security Agency, and it had been focused like a laser for the past year on ferreting out everything there was to know about just one man—John Patrick Ryan, Jr.

The American had originally come to Fen’s attention due to what was thankfully an anomaly in her company’s storied operational history—a failed contract. Unlike other Chinese private security companies, the organization Fen had built specialized in conducting clandestine operations in denied environments. While her mercenaries could be found guarding ships in the South China Sea or securing Chinese road and belt infrastructure projects in third world countries, the bulk of Fen’s revenue did not come from these jobs. Instead, Fen had become a wealthy woman by serving as an unacknowledged instrument of Chinese foreign policy in places where the Ministry of State Security, or MSS, and PLA feared to tread.

Places like Israel.

A little over a year ago, Fen had received a contract to kill an American scientist on Israeli soil. Dr. Rebecka Schweigart had a Ph.D. in applied physics and the formulation for something known as stealth in a bottle—an appliqué coating capable of providing a radar-attenuating outer layer to everything from vehicles to aircraft.

Like many of the best American researchers, Dr. Schweigart was a university professor with her own private laboratory. But unlike many of her peers, Becka had refused both Chinese investment dollars and lucrative offers to participate in one of the many Chinese Communist Party–sponsored talent recruitment plans. After a Chinese graduate student at Becka’s university had stolen test data from the appliqué’s preliminary evaluation and provided it to her MSS handler, a decision had been made. If Becka wouldn’t work for the Chinese, she wouldn’t be allowed to work at all.

Enter Fen and her company.

Except the operation in Israel had gone tragically wrong due to the intervention of a single man—John Patrick Ryan, Jr. Fen had spent her life in paramilitary organizations, and she recognized a fellow operative when she saw one. In the most basic terms, the American was her competition.

Fen was determined to learn more.

After reading the operation’s after-action review, Fen had tasked her formidable organization with uncovering everything there was to know about the paramilitary operative who was at that point just an unknown American.

That’s when Fen hit a brick wall.

Or a blank page, to be more precise.

To begin her effort to flesh out the operative, Fen had turned to her benefactor and now coconspirator, Aiguo Wu. Aiguo was an influential member of the Central Committee of the Chinese Communist Party. A member with his sights set on the office of general secretary and the nation’s presidency. As with most successful business leaders in China, Fen had worked to cultivate relationships within the Central Committee. These power brokers were the men, and on rare occasions women, who shaped China’s future.

In Aiguo, Fen had found a kindred spirit. Someone with a bold vision for the betterment of China. Aiguo had been impressed with the white-haired woman whose company of mercenaries undertook the operations deemed too dangerous by her competitors and government alike. Aiguo was soon steering sizable government contracts Fen’s way, making her company a veritable extension of the MSS and the Chinese military. Fen reciprocated by awarding her benefactor a stake in her company and then using his status as a shareholder as a mechanism to award Aiguo generous kickbacks for each contract she received.

Was the practice corrupt?

Of course.

But it was also the way business was done in China.

So it was to Aiguo that Fen had presented her request for more information about the unknown American. Aiguo then tasked the 3PLA hackers to develop a complete profile of the mystery man. While Israel was a notoriously hard country to penetrate, Chinese investment in Israeli infrastructure projects and technology companies had risen dramatically in the past several years. As a result, it hadn’t taken long for 3PLA to obtain images of Ryan from hacked Israeli CCTV networks, and details about the American’s arrival from airport computers. But when the Chinese cyberwarriors tried to link this data to digital fingerprints in the greater World Wide Web, they found . . . nothing.

Ryan was for all intents and purposes a ghost.

But in the twenty-first century, no one can remain a ghost for long. Eventually the 3PLA operatives formed a mosaic of Ryan’s life piece by digital piece. Fen still recalled the absolute shock she’d felt after the Chinese hackers stumbled upon Ryan’s true identity.

But with that discovery came opportunity.

What had begun as an effort to identify and potentially settle the score with an adversary had morphed into something much, much bigger. Aiguo had been the one to bring the rumored polymetallic nodule repository in the vicinity of the disputed Paracel Islands to Fen’s attention. As was typical with their arrangements, Fen bore the financial burden of verifying the repository’s worth and would be responsible for mining the nodules, while Aiguo provided her with bureaucratic cover. But to stake a claim and begin harvesting the nodules, Fen would have to ensure the rest of the world was distracted.

Or, more precisely, that the world’s policeman was distracted.

And nothing distracts a father like the death of his eldest son.

After obtaining Aiguo’s blessing, Fen began to build a target package on Ryan. Using everything from airport surveillance cameras to passive biometric sensors, the MSS and 3PLA worked hand in hand to construct a link chart with Ryan at its center and his accomplices as spokes in the wheel. Through machine learning and data pattern analysis algorithms pilfered from laboratories and university campuses around the world, including some very nice code sequences from the United States, Chinese cyberwarriors were able to connect Ryan to other, previously unknown operatives.

One of those was John T. Clark.

But unlike Ryan, Clark had been a member of several acknowledged American entities, including the CIA, the U.S. Navy, and the Rainbow counterterrorism organization. As such, much of his personal and operational history was readily available, thanks to the 2015 Chinese hack of the United States Office of Personnel Management. This benign-sounding entity was the digital repository for the personal information of every American who held a security clearance. For an intelligence service, the data pilfered during this digital penetration represented an operational gold mine.

A gold mine Fen put to use.

The operation against Jack Ryan, Jr., in Germany had been a work of art. The perfect dangle coupled with the operational excellence for which Fen’s mercenaries were known.

And it had failed.

Which had led to Manila.

After getting a hit on Jack via a CCTV camera in the Salzburg Airport, Fen was able to determine that he was heading to Manila, where three other individuals in Ryan’s link chart were already gathered. Clark was one of the three. From there it hadn’t been too difficult to determine the why behind the Americans’ visit. Like any other intelligence service worth its salt, the MSS had contacts within the Filipino underworld that owned the territory around the nation’s largest port. It helped that the criminal who had discovered the glider was both greedy and not particularly bright.

In Fen’s experience, this wasn’t an all-too-unusual combination.

Still, setting up the ambush ahead of the arriving Americans had taken some doing. After her team’s failure in Germany, Fen decided to personally supervise the Manila operation, and she’d perhaps gone a bit overboard. She’d intended to finally rid herself of Ryan by detonating the bomb hidden in the warehouse, then check the results of her work. With the scattering of Triad, Filipino, and American bodies at the scene, she was certain the Filipino police would draw some very interesting conclusions.

Once again, Fen’s operation hadn’t gone according to plan.

Like a cat with nine lives, Ryan had somehow survived the explosion. Not only that, an unseen sniper and the arrival of a second gunman had prevented Fen and her Abu Sayyaf help from finishing the work the bomb had started. But she had not retreated empty-handed. In the confusion of the warehouse gunfight, she’d stumbled upon Clark and decided to capture rather than kill him.

But her up-close view of the operative had left her unimpressed.

Clark was old.

Too old for the field, in Fen’s estimation.

Perhaps she was about to do the Americans a favor.

The pirate ripped Clark’s hood off with one hand while holding a filleting knife in the other.

When trying to decide how to frame this first video, Fen’s eyes had settled on the rusted knife lying in a neglected corner of the compartment. She’d instantly known that the weapon was perfect for what she had in mind. Though the crew had tried to talk her into one of the freshly sharpened hunting knives they preferred to use when beheading their captives, one look at the curved blade and blood-soaked wooden handle convinced Fen otherwise. She wasn’t concerned with how well the knife parted meat. Fen wanted to inspire fear, and the brown-speckled blade did that in spades.

Clark’s head lolled to the side, seemingly lifeless.

For an instant, Fen was worried that she’d lost her American prize. The pirate had no such concerns. With the contempt of someone for whom violence is a way of life, he smacked the prisoner across the face with a lazy backhand.

Or at least he tried to.

If Fen hadn’t been watching what unfolded, she wouldn’t have believed it. The exact millisecond before the pirate’s hand impacted Clark’s face, the operative’s eyes opened.

Along with his mouth.

Lurching forward, the man Fen had been convinced was too old for field work clamped on to the pirate’s fingers. The terrorist screamed and dropped his knife in shock. Fen expected this to be the end of the prisoner’s rebellion.

She was wrong.

Like a terrier worrying a rat, Clark ground through flesh and bone as he shook his head from side to side. The pirate’s shriek became a high-pitched keening. Instead of punching the American in the jaw with his free hand, the pirate grabbed his own wrist and tried to pull his fingers free.

Were it not so sickening, Fen might have laughed.

The cocksure pirate was now in a tug-of-war with an angry grandfather. The drama played out long enough that Fen began to wonder whether the old codger might succeed in biting through the pirate’s fingers. Then one of the pirate’s contemporaries came to his senses. With a roar, a scraggly bystander belted the prisoner in the head with the butt of his AK-47. Blood splattered against the steel wall along with bits of flesh, not all of which belonged to Clark.

Either way, the pirate had his hand back.

Or what was left of it, anyway.

The pirate cradled his mangled fingers to his chest, his streaming eyes burning with rage. He shouted something in Tagalog to his companion, the words coming too fast for Fen to translate.

No matter.

She had a pretty good idea what had just been said.

Ending the video recording with one hand, she brought the walkie-talkie to her lips with the other. Her voice echoed through the hold just as the second pirate raised his AK-47. Clark’s head lolled against his chest, but this time Fen didn’t think the operative was faking. Fen issued rapid-fire instructions. The man with the Kalashnikov looked from her to his comrade, who was still dripping blood onto the metal decking. The wounded pirate shuddered, but shook his head all the same. Fen knew what the Abu Sayyaf terrorist wanted to do, but she couldn’t permit Clark’s execution.

Not yet.

The American would most certainly die in the dank metal tank that smelled of fish.

But first, Fen had more videos to shoot.

37

South China Sea

Lieutenant Tom McGrath wondered for the thousandth time what he had done to deserve to be this lucky. While most of his flight school classmates spent their non-flying time wedged into the unaptly named staterooms the Navy black-shoe non-aviators grudgingly afforded their pilot comrades, Tom had never set foot on a ship.

Okay, that wasn’t exactly true.

Tom had spent most of the summer between his junior and senior years of college experiencing all the Navy had to offer alongside thousands of other Reserve Officers’ Training Corps midshipmen. Over those several months, Tom dove to the depths of the ocean in an Ohio-class submarine, stood watch aboard a Ticonderoga-class cruiser, and had the ride of his life in the backseat of an F/A-18 Hornet. He’d even spent some time at the range with SEAL Team 10.

After returning from this nautical whirlwind, Tom had just two thoughts.

One, he wanted to fly.

Two, he never wanted to set foot on another boat.

Fortunately, the Navy had an aerial platform that matched both of these requirements—the P-8 Poseidon. As the replacement for the venerable P-3 Orion, the P-8 was big. Huge by the standards of naval aviation. The twin-engine aircraft was actually a retrofitted Boeing 737—a passenger plane much too large to land on an aircraft carrier. By competing for the jet, Tom eschewed the sexy fighters most of his classmates chased in favor of something that would allow him to sleep in a bed far from the ocean’s swells. For those reasons alone, Tom would have considered flying the Poseidon an even trade.

But that was before he’d actually become certified on the aircraft.

Much to his surprise, Tom loved piloting the lumbering jet. He loved the exotic locations, long-duration flights, and the crew comradery. Most of all, Tom loved the mission. Like its predecessor, the P-8 was a multipurpose platform. Though designed with finding and killing submarines in mind, the jet was also capable of conducting anti-surface warfare, and intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance missions.

And nowhere were those capabilities more needed than Tom’s current duty assignment—the South China Sea.

“Foreign military airplane, you are approaching my military secure area. Please turn around immediately to avoid intercept.”

Tom reached for the radio toggle to lower the volume. Chinese radio transmissions seemed to have just one level—loud.

“Right on schedule.”

The comment came from Lieutenant Junior Grade Jack Stewart, Tom’s copilot. The two men were battle-rostered together and had logged more time side by side over the last month than they had apart. Though the P-8 was in-flight refuellable, the men and women who operated the jet were still governed by the Navy’s crew rest requirements, which dictated how long a crew member could perform flying duties. This meant that the P-8 had to be based somewhere near the area of operations. In this case, that somewhere was Clark Air Base, located in the Philippines. Even pre-positioned, the distance to their northernmost patrol area in the South China Sea added three hours of commute time to their four hours of station time.

This translated to a lot of cockpit time with Jack.

But long stretches of straight and level flight still beat living on a boat.

“I am a United States military aircraft conducting lawful military activities outside of national airspace,” Tom said after keying the radio. “I am operating with due regard in accordance with international law.”

“Military aircraft, turn away now.”

The Chinese radio transmission could have originated from any of the dozens of islands, both real and artificial, that dotted the South China Sea. The Chinese had created the artificial landmasses as a means of enforcing their infamous “nine-dash line,” so named for the roughly drawn graphic denoting the area of the South China Sea the Chinese considered their own.

In no surprise to anyone, it equated to most of the body of water.

The man-made islands were of varying sizes, but all were militarized in some form or another. The larger ones sported runways, hangars, and missile batteries, while even the smallest housed sensor arrays and communication antennas. The islands acted as nodes in a fixed Chinese sensor network, and one thing an enemy sensor network did not want was a P-8 flying nearby.

“Who do you think we’re getting today?” Jack said.

Tom smiled as his eyes moved across the flat-panel displays that made up his digital cockpit. For the last week, a Chinese fighter had intercepted the P-8 each time Tom had voiced his intentions to ignore the radioed warning to remain clear of Chinese-claimed airspace. These interceptions fell into two categories, depending on the Chinese aviator. The first and preferable pilot Jack had termed Ice Man. When Ice Man was at the fighter’s controls, the interception of Tom’s P-8 was done smoothly and by the book. Though the J-16 fighter ventured a bit closer than Tom would have preferred, the Chinese pilot never put the P-8 in any danger.

The same could not be said of the second Chinese aviator.

Pilot number two had nearly torn the nose off the Poseidon the first time he’d intercepted the American plane. Tom was a firm believer in the adage that the amount of calm a good pilot projected needed to be inversely proportionate to the amount of crazy happening in the cockpit. But seeing a twin-engine Chinese interceptor flash past your windshield at better than four hundred knots tested the resolve of even the best aviator.

His second encounter with the Chinese aviator hadn’t been much better.

This time, the nimble J-16 had attempted to jostle the much bigger P-8 with jet wash by lighting its afterburners while passing from below the Poseidon to above in a maneuver known as “thumping.” As coffee cups and checklists bounced across the cockpit, Jack had wondered aloud whether the Chinese pilot had a death wish.

This comment led to the pilot’s nickname.

Kamikaze.

That the Japanese moniker would have surely infuriated the Chinese aviator only added to the call sign’s allure. But gallows humor or not, Tom was desperately hoping that it was Ice Man, not his homicidal countryman, who joined their flight today.

His hopes were in vain.

One second Tom was verifying the waypoints on the active route, the next he was reaching for the yoke and throttle as the P-8 bounced the way his old Ford Fiesta had when he’d hit the speed bumps in his high school’s parking lot at fifty miles per hour. A wailing siren announced that the abrupt turbulence had caused the autopilot to disengage, further adding to the fun.

“Holy crap,” Jack said.

“Language,” Tom said as he stabilized the aircraft and reengaged the autopilot, silencing the siren.

Jack famously bucked the cursing like a sailor naval tradition. For Tom’s devout copilot, uttering the word crap was the equivalent of dropping the f-bomb. Like an aircraft’s automated flight controls, Jack wasn’t easily rattled.

“What in the hell was that?”

This time the question came over the crew intercom from Lieutenant Commander Vinnie Shorts. The former Annapolis football player was not a pilot, nor was he particularly careful with his language, a condition that Tom suspected went hand in glove. Vinnie was the naval flight officer in charge of the aviation warfare operators who handled the Poseidon’s plethora of sensors in the cabin located behind the cockpit. Tom might be the pilot-in-command, but Vinnie saw the two aviators as nothing more than glorified bus drivers. He and his team did the real work, and Vinnie was not pleasant when his work was interrupted.

“Kamikaze,” Tom said after toggling the intercom switch.

“That was one hell of a jolt,” Vinnie said. “What did he do this time?”

“Not entirely sure,” Tom said, even as he scanned the sky for the fighter’s fleeting form. “If I had to guess, I’d say he cut across our flight path at just under Mach 1.”

“I wouldn’t bet on the under part,” Jack said.

“Where’s he now?” Vinnie said.

“I don’t have a visual,” Tom said. “Anything on sensors?”

Unlike its cousin the E-2 Hawkeye, the P-8 was not built with aerial surveillance in mind. The Poseidon was a sub killer, plain and simple. But over time that mission set had been expanded along with the suite of sensors needed to fill the jet’s newer roles. In addition to the acoustic sensor used to ferret out submerged submarines, the aircraft boasted a multimode maritime radar as well as a forward-looking infrared, or FLIR, turret. While both of these sensor platforms were meant to monitor sea-based targets, they could be directed against aerial contacts in a limited fashion.

“Stand by,” Vinnie said. “Lemme see what we can find.”

Tom added his own eyes to the search mission, but as before, he saw nothing but open sky. Not for the first time, he wondered whether this is what his World War II–era Army Air Corps predecessors had felt while piloting bombers over the skies of Europe.

“Want me to call it in?” Jack said.

“Good idea,” Tom said to his copilot. “I’m gonna keep an eye on the flight controls. Everything feels fine, but that shock wave was a doozy.”

“Roger that,” Jack said.

Out of habit, Tom eyed each of the six electronic display units that made up the P-8’s digital cockpit. He lingered on the screen showing the readings for the Poseidon’s two engines before cycling through the navigational and primary flight displays.

Everything seemed in order.

“Charlie Main, this is Badger 15,” Jack said. “We have a—”

“Tom,” Vinnie said, talking over Jack, “the fighter’s right—”

A rumbling as the Poseidon buffeted through unseen turbulence drowned out Vinnie’s words. No matter, Tom no longer needed the sensor’s help to find the Chinese fighter plane. The J-16 was just outside his windscreen. The twin-engine jet was so close that Tom reflectively put his hand to his face to shield his eyes from the glowing engine exhaust.

“Holy shit,” Jack said.

Tom grabbed the yoke and edged it forward as he added right rudder for trim, trying to slide his aircraft below the jet wash he was certain would be coming his way after the J-16 lit its afterburners.

He was half right.

Something was coming, but it wasn’t engine exhaust.

The air ignited as a stream of flares and glittering clouds of chaff erupted from beneath the J-16. Flares and chaff that Tom was forced to guide his plane through as he tried to descend. The countermeasures were meant to deter enemy missiles, but Tom thought that flares burning at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit and chaff composed of millions of tiny aluminum fibers would probably have a detrimental effect on his jet if either hit the Poseidon in the wrong place.

“Shit fire,” Jack said. “Number one engine is out.”

Like the number one engine, for instance.

38

As with most commercial jets, the Boeing 737 was designed to fly with just one engine if necessary. The number of modifications the P-8 had over its commercial sibling were too numerous to count, but in their bones the airplanes handled similarly. Under normal circumstances, the loss of an engine, while serious, was not a life-threatening emergency.

These were not normal circumstances.

As if summoned by Jack’s cry, the engine display unit heralded some rather ominous news. The number one engine was not only no longer producing power.

It was on fire.

Glancing down at the cluster of red switches located aft of the engine start levers in the center of the instrument console, Tom confirmed that the switch labeled 1 was illuminated.

The number one engine was toast.

“Engine fire, number one engine,” Tom said, reciting the emergency procedure from memory. “Disengage auto throttle.”

Tom settled his right hand on the number two engine’s thrust lever, preventing Jack from inadvertently performing the emergency procedure on the engine that was still producing power. This technique was known as “guarding” the power lever. It reflected the bitter truth that even the most experienced pilot could misidentify a power lever during the adrenaline-saturated environment of an actual emergency. All too often, simple pilot error caused aviation incidents to progress from manageable emergencies to fatal ones.

“Auto throttle disengaged,” Jack said.

“Thrust lever engine one, confirmed closed,” Tom said.

“Confirmed,” Jack said.

“Engine start lever, number one engine, confirm cut off,” Tom said.

“Confirmed,” Jack said.

“Engine fire switch number one engine,” Tom said, “confirm and pull.”

“Pulling,” Jack said.

Tom watched as Jack pulled the illuminated fire switch. Then Tom’s eyes tracked to the eng overheat light. It was still illuminated.

Engine one was still on fire.

“Rotate engine fire switch to the stop and hold for one second,” Tom said.

Jack complied, and the eng overheat light extinguished.

The engine fire was out.

Progress.

Except that the controls still didn’t feel quite right.

“We’ve got an issue with number two,” Jack said. “EGT is close to redline.”

EGT stood for exhaust gas temperature. It was a measure of the jet engine’s internal temperature. A redlining EGT meant that the combustion chamber was abnormally hot. This could happen for a number of reasons, but troubleshooting the malfunction’s cause wasn’t important at the moment. If left unchecked, the high temperature would eventually damage the engine, perhaps permanently.

At the moment, a damaged engine ranked pretty low on Tom’s priority list.

He was more concerned with keeping his jet in the air.

Like everything else aboard the Poseidon, control of the engines was relegated to a computer. In this case, the computer in question was aptly named the Electronic Engine Control. In addition to ensuring that the correct air/fuel mixture was achieved for each desired power state, the EEC helped to ensure the engine itself remained undamaged by regulating the amount of fuel allocated to it.

While this was a great idea in theory, this bit of electronic wizardry was in the process of biting Tom in the ass. To keep the engine from overheating, the EEC was decreasing the amount of fuel that flowed into the combustion chamber. This in turn limited the amount of thrust the engine produced. Judging by his jet’s rapid rate of descent, engine number two was not generating enough thrust to keep the underside of the Poseidon from making the acquaintance of the frothing salt water ten thousand feet below.

Not good.

“What’s going on up there?” Vinnie said.

“Might have to ditch,” Tom said. “Secure the cabin.”

To his credit, the normally verbose sensor operator replied with a succinct “Aye, aye” before dropping off the net. Nothing focused a conversation like the possibility of an unplanned swim in an angry ocean.

“How’s it feel?” Jack said.

Tom shook his head. “Like she doesn’t want to fly. I can’t maintain altitude.”

“EGT’s not coming down,” Jack said. “I think we’re fixing to lose engine two.”

Tom eyed the engine display unit as he reduced the throttle for the number two engine another quarter inch to idle. The effect on the troubled engine should have been immediate.

It was not.

If anything, the internal temperature on the belabored engine continued to climb.

Tom had two choices. He could try to baby the engine and limp closer to shore at the risk of a fire potentially engulfing the rest of the aircraft, or he could accept that the engine was gone and set the best possible conditions for ditching while he still had altitude to play with. Tom ran through the possible ramifications of each choice even as the EGT inched upward and his altimeter spooled downward.

Decision time.

“We’re ditching,” Tom said, his voice sounding surprisingly calm even to his own ears. “You get the mayday call, I’ll tell the crew.”

“Roger that,” Jack said, reaching for the radio transmit button. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, we are a U.S. Navy P-8—”

Tom tuned out Jack in favor of triggering the intercom toggle.

“We’re ditching,” Tom said. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes, aye,” Vinnie said. “Crew is strapped in. We’re sanitizing the bird.”

Like its predecessor the P-3, the P-8’s innocuous-looking fuselage contained a few surprises. Though the former passenger plane lacked a B-2 stealth bomber’s intriguing shape or a Spectre gunship’s protruding weapons, the Poseidon held some of the nation’s most closely guarded secrets. Between its array of cutting-edge sensors, libraries of submarine-related data, and the algorithms that fused the two together, a P-8 falling into Chinese hands would be the equivalent of handing an adversary a stack of classified documents.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Part of the work would be done by Vinnie and his cadre of sensor operators as the technicians wiped hard drives and destroyed valuable data. As the pilot-in-command, Tom bore overall responsibility for the aircraft. This obligation did not end once the jet was on the ground, or, in this case, water. It would fall to Tom to ensure that the aircraft was configured in a manner that would not allow the Chinese to exploit the crash site. While everyone else abandoned ship, Tom would be focused on scuttling the plane.

But that was a concern for later.

At this moment, Tom cared about just one thing—flying his stricken jet.

“I think we need to start the APU,” Tom said.

“Why?” Jack said. “That’s not part of the emergency procedure.”

“The emergency procedure didn’t imagine us losing both engines,” Tom said. “No engines means no power to the flight instruments or hydraulic pumps. Kind of hard to fly without those.”

“Tracking,” Jack said, “starting the auxiliary power unit.”

“Cockpit, this is cabin,” Vinnie said. “We’ve got flames outside the number two engine cowling.”

“Roger that,” Tom said, easing the nose over. “Steepening my dive. Assume crash positions.”

“Assuming crash positions,” Vinnie echoed.

“Passing through five thousand feet,” Jack said as he locked his harness in preparation for impact.

“Five thousand feet,” Tom echoed.

He steeped the dive angle even more, knowing that he was on borrowed time.

A modern jet engine was constructed from a multitude of exotic materials. Metals and alloys designed to withstand the high temperatures and rugged environments that formed the engine’s performance window. Some of these components burned at temperatures that were almost impossible to extinguish. If the number two engine cooked off, the wing and its thousands of gallons of jet fuel would not be far behind.

Tom needed to get this bird on the water.

Now.

“EGT is still climbing,” Jack said. “Slipstream isn’t helping.”

For a moment Tom was confused by his copilot’s comment. Then he understood. Jack thought Tom was diving in an effort to blow out the flames or at the very least cool down the engine. Normally not a bad plan, but the words eng fail displayed in amber on the EGT indicator told a different story. The engine temperature was now beyond what the sensor was capable of reading.

Tom was now officially piloting a flying bomb.

“One thousand feet,” Jack said.

“We’re gonna bring her in hot,” Tom said. “Give me forty degrees of flaps.”

Normal landings were conducted as close to the aircraft’s stall speed as possible. This was because the plane’s velocity affected the force at which the 138,000-pound metal bird impacted the runway, and passengers, not to mention the millions of dollars’ worth of sensitive equipment on the jet, preferred soft landings to a controlled crash.

But not in this case.

As if reading Tom’s mind, the jet shuddered in response to a deep thump.

“Number two engine is completely engulfed,” Vinnie said. “Flames are spreading to the wing.”

“Roger that,” Tom said. “Brace for impact.”

“Five hundred feet,” Jack said. “Airspeed’s looking good.”

If able, Tom would have promoted his copilot to pilot-in-command on the spot. Anyone who could speak that calmly while riding right seat in a dead-stick bird trailing flames certainly had the decision-making skills and maturity required to be the one calling the shots. But Tom didn’t have the mental capacity to give Jack even a simple attaboy.

He was too focused on the rapidly approaching ocean.

“Impact, impact, impact,” Tom said as he eased the yoke backward, attempting a flare.

Salt water exploded across his windshield.

39

Washington, D.C.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” Mary Pat said, hurrying into the situation room.

Though the underground bunker was held at a constant temperature and humidity, the air always felt oppressively cold to her, regardless of the time of year.

Today was no exception.

“No apologies, Mary Pat,” President Jack Ryan said. “I’m the one who called the unscheduled meeting. Or I guess it’s more accurate to say the Chinese did.”

Ryan rose as he spoke, indicating the vacant chair to his right. Mary Pat smiled her thanks. John Patrick Ryan might be the leader of the free world, but he was still a gentleman, and always behaved as such. No amount of private chiding about the pecking order inherent in their official roles would ever stop her friend from standing when she entered the room and then personally pouring her a cup of coffee. Normally, Mary Pat welcomed the subtle reminder that she and the President had been friends long before he ascended to the nation’s highest office and, God willing, would remain so long after he left.

But not today.

Today, Mary Pat had to show her friend something that would pierce his soul and then ask him to set aside his justified emotional response in favor of his responsibilities as commander in chief.

Not an easy proposition.

“What did I miss?” Mary Pat said as she settled into her seat.

Mary Pat could normally make a pretty good guess at what she was walking into based on who the President had asked to attend the meeting. Today, the chief of staff, secretary of state, and secretary of defense were all in attendance, along with some minor staffers. Admiral Billings was the naval representative, and it was clear from the illuminated flat screens along the walls that he had been about to brief Ryan in her absence.

Or perhaps had already started, seeing that the PowerPoint slide showed an enlarged image of the South China Sea with the nine-dash line superimposed. Though Jack was a stickler for holding briefings only after the intelligence community, usually in the form of Mary Pat, was in attendance, sometimes this wasn’t an option. The ability to monitor events occurring halfway around the globe in real time meant that decisions had to be rendered quickly. Other times, briefers attempted to address the President in Mary Pat’s absence for less charitable reasons.

In an administration with a foreign policy as muscular as Ryan’s, the military and intelligence communities often jockeyed for position. The two decades spanning the war on terror had altered the uniformed service in many ways, not all of them good. Case in point, Mary Pat was seeing more and more flag officers adopt attitudes reminiscent of their political counterparts.

Though she had no desire to ever serve beyond her current role, Mary Pat had been a fixture in government for too long. Many D.C. insiders were convinced that she was angling for a post-Ryan political future. If only they knew. Not only had she turned down the job of vice president, but nightly Mary Pat had to contend with her husband Ed’s bedtime musings about what their life would be like after the Ryan administration. As of late, these soliloquies had become far less subtle. Ed had also been a career CIA case officer and was no stranger to selfless service.

But he was a grandfather.

A grandfather who understood that the time he and his wife had to spoil their grandchildren was finite. Ed wanted Mary Pat to retire and enjoy the fruits of their labor. The last several years had been hard. Hard enough that Mary Pat found herself slowly coming around to her husband’s way of thinking. But even so, something kept her in this chair.

John Patrick Ryan.

Until her dearest friend finished his term, she would endure this purgatory with him. This was their final battle, and Mary Pat intended to remain shoulder to shoulder with her comrade in arms until its conclusion.

“Go ahead with your presentation, Admiral,” Jack said.

The reprimand was subtle but noticeable, as the admiral’s reddening complexion could attest. People who tried to outmaneuver Jack Ryan did so at their own risk.

“Yes, sir.”

A fresh-faced Navy lieutenant whose nameplate read caine advanced the slide, seemingly oblivious to the power struggle playing out around her. Or at least Mary Pat hoped the pretty brunette was oblivious. When Mary Pat had been the woman’s age, she’d been focused on running agents in East Germany one step ahead of the murderous Stasi. Office politics had been the furthest thing from her mind. What did it say about the current state of things that Mary Pat saw the Cold War as the good old days?

Maybe Ed was right.

“Approximately fifteen minutes ago, a P-8 Poseidon transmitted a mayday call after nearly colliding with a Chinese J-16 fighter,” Admiral Billings said. “The transmission included the aircraft’s GPS coordinates, which placed it here.” The flat screen now reflected a rendering of the P-8’s flight plan showing the crash site as a section of the South China Sea, roughly equidistant from Hong Kong, the southwestern tip of Taiwan, and the northwestern corner of the Philippines, along with a stock picture of the Chinese twin-engine, dual-seat multirole fighter.

“We knew this would happen,” Bob Burgess said. “The Chinese have been playing with fire. It was only a matter of time before one of their fighter jocks pushed things too far.”

Mary Pat found the secretary of defense’s sentiment understandable. In fact, she agreed with his assessment. But this was a time for clarity, not emotion.

“What’s the status of the P-8?” Ryan said.

Of course this was the first question her boss would ask. Ryan was certainly not naïve to the human cost of his policies, but he treasured each man and woman under his command. Service members who fought and died at his behest would never be relegated to sterile casualty reports.

This was exactly what had Mary Pat worried.

“The aircraft’s emergency location transmitter activated, indicating that the jet impacted the water,” Admiral Billings said. “In addition to GPS coordinates, the data burst from the Poseidon contains information from a mini black box of sorts. Based on the aircraft’s speed and rate of descent, we believe the ditching was survivable.”

“Survivors?” Ryan said.

Lieutenant Caine shook her head. “Unknown at this time, sir. We’re scrambling every ISR asset in the area, but the P-8 was at the outermost limit of its patrol. It will take time to get friendly eyes overhead.”

“What about satellite coverage?” Ryan said.

The question was directed at Jason Jackson, the liaison for the National Reconnaissance Office. Though Mary Pat sat at the pinnacle of the intelligence community, her position was created more to ensure that all of the organizations that fell under her umbrella operated in a synchronized fashion. She didn’t manage individual intelligence community members. That responsibility rightfully resided with the respective agency’s director.

But she was very much interested in Jason’s answer.

“I can have my folks take a look at the coordinates,” Jason said, “but I suspect it’s probably a bit outside our birds’ current tracks. The P-8’s mission profiles are built with this in mind. The jets fly patrols meant to fill in the gaps from our nonterrestrial coverage.”

“Why can’t we change orbits?” Ryan said.

“We can, Mr. President,” Jason said, “but I’ll need to run the numbers on the impact to the satellite’s life expectancy.”

Though Jason had been in his role for several months, his answer indicated he still didn’t understand how his boss thought. At least not completely. Jason’s response made sense from a dollars-and-cents perspective. Satellites reached orbit with a finite amount of maneuvering fuel. Once that propellant was expended, the satellite was committed to an orbit. Even if their new position was advantageous to the analysts who handled their collection priorities, the satellites would eventually fall back to earth without the periodic propellant boosts required to maintain their eternal fight against gravity.

The cost of manufacturing a spy satellite could easily approach a billion dollars and take up to a year and a half of assembly time. They were not assets to be trifled with. But Jack Ryan was suggesting just that for the sake of seven women and men who may or may not already be dead.

Ryan’s comment helped to remind Mary Pat why she still resisted Ed’s entreaties.

“Rescuing the crew is my top priority,” Ryan said, locking gazes with Jason. “I don’t care about the bird’s life expectancy. If repositioning an orbit will allow us to get eyes on that crew, do it. Now.”

Ryan hadn’t raised his voice, but his message had been delivered. Unequivocally. A rustling enveloped the table as attendees reached for secure cell phones and tablets to dash off messages or to make inquiries. Ryan might be a shoo-in for Mount Rushmore, but he was also very much human. When aroused, his Irish temper was legendary.

No one wanted to be the next exemplar of the Ryan Doctrine.

“What about the 7th Fleet?” Ryan said.

Secretary of Defense Burgess nodded as if he’d expected the question.

Good.

“The bulk of the carrier task force is about four hundred nautical miles away from the crash site. That’s pretty close to the maximum range for our fighters. The alert F-18s have already been launched, along with several slower-moving search-and-rescue platforms. Even at supersonic speeds, it’s going to take a bit for our birds to get overhead. Once they arrive, the Hornets will only have a few minutes before they’ll need to break station to link up with their tankers.”

“We have a Poseidon crew potentially treading water, and you’re telling me we can’t do anything but twiddle our thumbs?” Ryan said. His voice was still even, but a flush was building at the base of his neck.

Never a good sign.

“There is one other option,” Burgess said. “The USS Delaware is on patrol nearby. She can intervene, but doing so will compromise her mission profile. Several PLA Navy frigates are heading toward the P-8’s crash site. I expect that entire section of ocean will soon be crawling with ships.”

Expending the propellant on a billion-dollar satellite to find Americans was one thing. Exposing a three-and-a-half-billion-dollar submarine was something else. Stealth was a submarine’s greatest asset. Using the Delaware to rescue the crew would not only give the Chinese a look at one of America’s most secretive weapons systems, it would also compromise the sub’s purpose in the South China Sea.

The cost-benefit analysis for such an action was much, much different.

But not for Ryan.

“Rescue that crew by any means necessary,” Ryan said. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Secretary Burgess said.

“Good,” Ryan said. “Scott, I want you to get me on the phone with President Chen. When one of his submarines was disabled, I gave him space to recover it. He’s about to return the favor.”

Mary Pat knew that was coming. Ryan was a Boy Scout through and through. His absolute sense of right and wrong was one of his best traits, but his unwavering moral compass could also be a blind spot. Because he always acted with integrity, the President believed that, given the chance, others would do the same.

Providing a counterbalance to Ryan’s better angels was part of Mary Pat’s job.

“Understood, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Scott Adler said, “but I’d ask that you let me relay the message. My counterpart can yell at me first, setting the conditions for a second call between you and President Chen. One in which he graciously agrees to your terms. Allowing the Chinese to save face might permit us to steer through this mess without escalating the situation further.”

The flush that had begun at Jack’s neck was now creeping toward his ears, but the President still nodded. Even at his angriest, the analyst at Ryan’s core allowed him to dissect and analyze arguments without emotional interference.

Usually.

“Okay, Scott,” the President said, “but the clock’s ticking. The Chinese caused this mess, and my patience is wearing thin.”

Left unsaid was the reason for Jack’s impatience. The P-8 crew wasn’t the only reason Ryan looked like he wanted to pummel the Chinese with his bare hands. Mary Pat knew that Clark was at the forefront of the President’s mind, and if proof that the Chinese were behind Clark’s kidnapping and Dom’s attack surfaced, all bets were off.

“Yes, sir,” Scott said. “I’ll get my counterpart on the phone as soon as we’re done here. Give me thirty minutes. An hour, tops.”

“Thirty minutes is better,” Jack said. “Bob—I need everyone in the region to understand the severity with which we view what happened. Have our naval assets in the area start steaming toward the projected crash site.”

“Which ones?” the secretary of defense said with a frown.

“All of them,” Ryan said.

Silence greeted the President’s words as the secretary of defense and Admiral Billings exchanged glances. Finally, the admiral bit the bullet.

“Sir, even if the USS Ronald Reagan sprinted ahead with minimal escort, it would take the carrier thirteen hours to get to the crash site,” Billings said.

“I understand,” Ryan said. “This action is separate from the rescue. It’s about displaying our intentions to recover those crewmen. Period. We are juggling with dynamite. The Chinese must not misjudge our commitment, and nothing says commitment like seven U.S.-flagged warships sailing in the same direction.”

Mary Pat wholeheartedly concurred. The last time she remembered this large a naval effort was almost forty years ago when a certain Soviet submarine had gone missing.

She decided to keep this observation to herself.

“Anything else?” Ryan said. After surveying the silent room, Ryan nodded. “Good. Get after it, people. We’ve got Americans in the water.”

Wisely, no one bothered to point out that the assembled group had no idea if this were true. Jack Ryan was an optimist, and he expected those he surrounded himself with to adopt the same attitude. Until proven otherwise, he believed that the P-8 crew had survived the crash, and that U.S. forces would rescue them. Though he was pissed, Jack was also in the zone.

This was her friend at his best.

Mary Pat hoped this remained true after he heard her dark news.

40

“Sir, can I have a minute of your time?” Mary Pat said.

Jack looked over at her, his blue eyes taking in her countenance.

“Of course,” Ryan said. “Do we need anyone else?”

“No, sir,” Mary Pat said.

“Okay,” Ryan said. “Arnie, wait for me in the Oval Office, please.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Arnie van Damm said, shooting Mary Pat an irritated look.

The President’s chief of staff obviously wasn’t happy at being excluded, but he didn’t press the issue. Among the President’s inner circle, only Cathy Ryan rated higher than Mary Pat. Arnie had been with Jack for ages, but he’d never bled with the President.

Mary Pat had.

The room emptied in a collection of rustling papers, swishing fabric, and clicking heels.

Then it was just the two of them.

“What do you have, MP?” Ryan said.

Mary Pat unpacked a secure tablet from her messenger bag, powered it on, and progressed through the myriad security protocols. Only once the screen was replaced by a paused video did she turn her attention to the President.

“Jack,” Mary Pat said, laying her hand atop his, “you need to prepare yourself. Clark’s alive, but it’s not pretty. Okay?”

Ryan’s eyes hardened, but he slowly nodded.

Mary Pat squeezed Jack’s fingers and then pressed play.

The video was horrible, and not just because of the creepy lighting and shaky video. The audio captured every thunk and highlighted every scream. Mary Pat had watched the sequence three times at her desk and once more on the drive over. It had turned her stomach, but the sound quality was excellent. She thought she could even make out the sound of finger bones snapping as Clark savaged the guard’s hand before the former SEAL was beaten senseless.

Then it was over.

“Again,” Ryan said.

“Jack, I—”

“Again.”

The President hadn’t raised his voice, but Mary Pat still jerked. It wasn’t the volume that had startled her. It was the tone. Jack was speaking with a Marine’s command voice.

Biting her tongue, Mary Pat pressed play. This time she didn’t watch, and that might have been a mistake. Without the savage images to distract her mind, the visceral audio was all the more prominent.

Bile unexpectedly burned its way up her throat.

Mary Pat placed a hand to her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

“I’m sorry, MP,” Ryan said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, Mr. President,” Mary Pat said, shaking her head. “I’d be more worried if watching this didn’t make me vomit. I’m sorry for distracting you.”

Ryan squeezed her arm.

“You didn’t distract me, MP,” Ryan said, “you reminded me to be human. I just learned that seven people crashed into the ocean because they flew a patrol on my orders. Before that I had to tell my sister that another one of her sons might die in service to our nation. Now this with Clark. The urge to just turn off my emotions is almost irresistible.”

“You’re the commander in chief, sir,” Mary Pat said. “Maybe that’s the right call.”

“I know what you mean,” Ryan said, “but I don’t agree. There’s a reason why a person instead of a computer sits behind the Resolute desk. The best leaders acknowledge rather than suppress the emotional aspect of their decisions. It’s what keeps us human.”

Mary Pat understood Jack’s point, but she still worried. A commander who placed too much emphasis on his troops’ lives often drifted into indecisiveness or decisional paralysis. While she agreed that the President should not rush into conflict, neither should he dither once it became obvious that a conflict was unavoidable.

But Mary Pat did not say this to the President. Instead, she nodded and gave him space to process what he’d just seen. She needed Jack to be on his A game for what she had in mind. This was why she’d chosen to show him the video in private. In front of his staff, Jack needed to be the President of the United States. But here, in this unguarded moment, he could shed his mantle of responsibility and react like a grief-stricken friend.

Briefly.

“Who has Clark?” Ryan said.

Mary Pat placed both hands flat on the table as she prepared to deliver the second piece of bad news. “The short answer is that we’re not sure,” Mary Pat said. “The video popped up on one of the Abu Sayyaf YouTube channels. Analysts are working on the digital forensics now. Preliminary data suggest that the video was uploaded from a hilly area of Basilan Island in the southwestern part of the Philippines. It’s a known Abu Sayyaf stronghold and would further seem to suggest that Clark is being held by the Islamic terrorists.”

“But you don’t think so,” Ryan said.

Mary Pat paused to gather her thoughts.

This was why summarizing intelligence was more art than science. The very best briefings combined facts with the analyst’s intuition—a perfect pairing between man and machine. But the balance required to walk this tightrope was not easily attained. Too much intuition and the briefer could inadvertently supplant raw intelligence with their own biased suppositions. Too few human inferences and the intelligence could be reduced to meaningless data points, bread crumbs that were interesting on their own but led nowhere.

“I think there’s more here than meets the eye,” Mary Pat said. “Clark could very well be in the hands of Abu Sayyaf, but this doesn’t fit the group’s normal pattern. Yes, they engage in piracy and kidnapping, and yes, Abu Sayyaf has conducted operations in Manila. It’s also not a stretch to think that the organization wields influence in one of Asia’s busiest ports, but this is still a departure from their usual MO. What happened to the Campus team occurred in two parts. First, a gunfight between rival elements both interested in the Chinese glider. But the second half of the engagement is the most troubling. That pre-positioned bomb combined with the kidnappers’ presence points to something preplanned. An ambush. I’m beginning to believe this, taken with the kinetic action in Europe, points to an operation meant to target The Campus itself.”

“Then why the video of Clark?” Ryan said, gesturing at the tablet. “Why not just put a bullet in his skull? For that matter, why go to the trouble of kidnapping him in the first place?”

These were the same questions that burned through Mary Pat.

Questions she couldn’t answer.

There were moments when she wished that her boss hadn’t spent his formative years working for the world’s premier intelligence organization.

“I don’t know yet, sir,” Mary Pat said, “but I will find out. I promise.”

Jack eyed her for a long moment before sighing.

“I believe you, MP,” Ryan said, “but what about Clark?”

“Let me work Clark,” Mary Pat said. “My sense is that everything we’re seeing in the region is related. A Campus member was critically injured and one of your oldest friends was kidnapped. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“Meaning what?” Ryan said.

Though his voice was still calm, Ryan’s tone changed.

He knew where she was heading, and he didn’t like it.

“Less than a year ago you were forced to step aside because your wife was kidnapped,” Mary Pat said. “I told you then, and I still believe now, that voluntarily relinquishing your duties was the right call.”

“But?”

“But the world’s bad guys were watching. And learning. If we assume that The Campus has somehow been penetrated, then we should also assume that the same bad actors know about your ties to Junior, Clark, Ding, and Dom. You are a formidable President who acts decisively and wisely on the world stage.”

“Unless I’m put in a position where I can’t,” Ryan said.

Mary Pat nodded. “Attacks on our loved ones affect us at a visceral level, no matter our station in life. You mitigated that to some extent when Cathy was kidnapped by stepping aside, but what if you hadn’t? What if you’d stayed in power and your anxiety about your missing wife had interfered with your ability to make unbiased decisions?”

“What are you saying, Mary Pat?” Ryan said. “That I should step aside because Dom’s in a coma and Clark’s been kidnapped?”

“No, sir,” Mary Pat said, shaking her head, “I’m not. But I do think that you need to be aware that your decision-making ability might be the ultimate target of whatever is happening here.”

“What is happening here?” Ryan said. “So far, I’ve got a P-8 in the water and not much else. If your theory’s correct, what am I missing?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Mary Pat said for what felt like the hundredth time. “But forewarned is forearmed. That’s why I want you to let me handle Clark while you focus on what’s unfolding in the South China Sea.”

As if Mary Pat’s comment reminded him of what was happening outside of the Situation Room’s sterile atmosphere, Ryan glanced at his watch. “By now Scott should have the Chinese ambassador on the phone,” Ryan said. “If history is any guide, it’ll be my turn in about forty-five minutes. I’ll take your advice, but I need you to produce, Mary Pat.”

“Understood, sir,” Mary Pat said. “I have assets in place to work the Clark situation, but I’m going to need something from you.”

“What?”

“Authority. Clark’s clock is ticking. We need to be able to leverage every asset under our control and merge their taskings and output seamlessly. No barriers, artificial or otherwise.”

Ryan frowned as she spoke.

Then he understood.

“The Campus,” Ryan said. “You want to bring it under the intelligence community’s official umbrella?”

“Semantics, Mr. President,” Mary Pat said. “I don’t care about org structures or federal charters. Neither am I concerned with get-out-of-jail-free passes. I want your approval to integrate The Campus as I see fit. If I’m right, someone has already penetrated the veil of secrecy surrounding the organization. If I’m wrong, well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Ryan looked back at her, for once his expression unreadable.

Then he slowly nodded.

“Okay,” Ryan said, “do what you have to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Mary Pat said, collecting her things. “Unless you have anything else, I need to get to work.”

“Just a warning, MP,” Ryan said.

His tone made Mary Pat freeze mid-gesture, her fingers hovering above the secure tablet. “Sir?” Mary Pat said.

“I’m not prepared to let one of my oldest friends get tortured to death,” Ryan said. “I’ll give you time and space, but if another video comes in, all bets are off. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Mary Pat said. “We’ll get Clark back.”

As the President stood, Mary Pat hoped that she hadn’t just lied to her friend.

41

USS Delaware

South China Sea

“You need to see this, Skipper.”

Commander Christina Dixon looked from the paper she’d been reviewing to the anxious face of her executive officer. Even though the entire boat was one sprawling computer network, Christina still preferred to review the daily department statuses in paper form rather than on her networked tablet. Christina had been a child of the digital age, but she still found flipping through the status update and adding comments with her ever-present government-issued black Skilcraft pen comforting.

From the look on her XO’s face, she was about to need some comfort.

“What have you got, Dan?” Christina said.

Rather than speak, Dan handed over a printout. This was another bad sign. If Dan wanted her to read the message for herself, Christina had a feeling that things were about to get wonky.

She was right.

A P-8 had just gone down and the Delaware had been tasked to investigate. No, that wasn’t quite right. The orders were not vague, but they offered room for interpretation, as was normal for a submarine captain. While the Delaware was instructed to make for the crash site at best possible speed, what Christina was supposed to do next was not specified. This was because her boat was the biggest single weapon in her nation’s arsenal when it came to deterring potential Chinese aggression, and this deterrent depended on her ability to skulk in the waters surrounding Taiwan undetected.

The very rumor of her presence affected Chinese behavior in the same way that a single hidden sniper caused havoc in a platoon of thirty men. Every Chinese vessel had to wonder if the Delaware was lurking just out of sight with a targeting solution fed to its contingent of Mark 48 torpedoes or twelve Tomahawk cruise missiles. But Christina’s advantage vanished the moment she abandoned her stealthy profile. If her enemies detected her, the battlefield calculus changed.

The Delaware was still a dangerous predator, but far less so once exposed.

“How far?” Christina said.

“Twenty miles.”

At her patrol speed, the transit would take Christina several hours. Several hours that the crash survivors would have to brave the elements and contend with potentially life-threatening injuries. On the other hand, the Delaware could get to the crash site a whole lot faster, but traveling that quickly would increase the sub’s ambient noise. This in turn would render the Delaware’s passive sonar less effective and potentially make Christina’s boat easier to detect.

Decision time.

“Officer of the Deck,” Christina said, “plot an intercept course for the crash site. Make your speed twenty knots.”

“Plot an intercept course for the crash site and make my speed twenty knots, aye, Captain,” Brian said.

“Make sure the navigator takes into account where the currents and wind might have pushed the survivors,” Christina said. “If there are American sailors in the water, we need to get to them before the Chinese do.”

After listening to the officer of the deck acknowledge her orders, Christina turned to Dan. “Send a reply to the message. Tell COMSUBPAC that Delaware is responding.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Dan said.

Though his eyes gave away his thoughts, Dan was smart enough not to voice them. Christina was the commander of a 7,800-ton nuclear-powered machine of war. She was afforded far more latitude on how to best employ her boat than her surface-based peers. Even so, her reply had just pushed that latitude to the max. It was customary for a captain to be more specific when describing her intentions.

Christina had not been.

Contrary to what Dan might think, this was not due to bravado. Christina still wasn’t sure what she intended to do if she discovered survivors at the crash site, and with her boat churning through the ocean at twenty knots, she had less than an hour to decide.

Time to start thinking.

42

Manila, Philippines

“Lisanne, can you guys hear me?” Jack said.

“Yes,” Lisanne said. “Gavin and I have you loud and clear.”

Lisanne’s raspy voice sent a shiver down Jack’s spine.

Though he hadn’t had the chance to follow up on their last conversation, Jack had still arrived at the answer to a question he hadn’t realized he’d been asking. Jack was not going to let the raven-haired beauty walk out of his life, unlike the many girls who’d preceded her. Whatever it took, he was going to win Lisanne back and keep her.

Unfortunately, this bit of relational insight couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“Great,” Jack said, talking past his anxiousness. “Here’s where we stand.”

Jack took a deep breath, more because he wasn’t exactly thrilled with his team’s current situation than to steady his nerves. Then again, as his surgeon mother liked to say, more than one thing could be true at the same time. Jack could be both a ball of nerves at the sight of Lisanne’s pretty face on his laptop screen and less than happy that he, Cary, Jad, and Mario had traded the gloomy confines of Maria’s clinic for the equally gloomy confines of an apartment located on Manila’s rougher side.

“Mary Pat sent a CIA extraction team for Ding and Dom,” Jack said. “Ding is being evaluated at the embassy. Dom was stabilized and is being medically evacuated back to the States. He’s still in a coma.”

This time, his pause wasn’t an attempt to delay the inevitable.

While Jack knew turning down the extraction team’s offer to bring them all in from the cold was the correct decision, he still felt guilty that he wasn’t accompanying his cousin home. Cary’s earlier words had done much to put the Campus operator’s injuries into perspective, but Jack was close to his aunt. He should have been with her when she received her critically injured son.

But that would be something Jack would have to deal with later. Right now, the sum of his efforts was focused on Clark. Until The Campus’s director of operations was back in friendly hands, everything else would have to take a distant backseat.

Including sorting out his relationship with Miss Robertson.

“Where are you?”

The question came from off-screen, but Jack recognized Gavin’s high-pitched voice.

“We’re in a safe house, Gavin,” Jack said. “Sort of.”

After the Agency extraction team had departed, Mario had tried to do the same. While Jack had felt sympathetic to the Filipino’s plight, he couldn’t let Mario leave. Mario was their only in-country contact. His connections to the city’s underworld were the Campus team’s best shot at understanding who took Clark, and where the kidnappers might be now.

Jack asked the banker to stay with the team in return for providing Mario’s family sanctuary at the U.S. embassy, which was located on Manila’s waterfront within walking distance of Mario’s home. Since he’d been unable to reach his cousin Mon Mon, the banker was still unsure whether Danilo had been operating in accordance with his boss’s instructions or had decided to strike out on his own. Either way, Mario wanted his family safe until he understood which way the wind was blowing.

Jack had readily agreed.

After he received confirmation that his wife and children were safe on embassy grounds, Mario had jumped back on board with both feet. With a handful of calls, Mario secured the location of a recently repossessed property in return for Jack’s request for a safe house and the combination to the keyless-entry pad.

This was where Jack and his meager team were currently holed up.

“What do you need?” Lisanne said.

That was a very good question.

Jack took in the dingy apartment as he considered his response.

With buzzing overhead lights, a dripping sink, and grime-encrusted floors, this wasn’t the worst safe house he’d occupied, but the two-bedroom flophouse was certainly in the running. That said, the toilets flushed and something approaching cold air blew from the air conditioners.

As far as accommodations, the team was set.

Weapons and kit were in a similar state of tolerability. While not equipped for war, Jack and the Green Berets had the weapons they’d used during the last firefight and were still green on ammunition, thanks to the commandos’ foresight. Before leaving the first safe house, the Green Berets had pilfered The Campus’s Pelican cases, loading up their backpacks with as much ammunition as the two men could carry.

Jack had laughed at the time.

He wasn’t laughing now.

With logistics taken care of, there was just one thing Jack still required—a target.

“I need Clark’s location,” Jack said. “Mario reached out to his sources at the dock, but no one knows anything about the shooters who kidnapped Clark, where they came from, or why the warehouse was rigged to blow.”

“Then we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Lisanne said.

“Yep,” Jack said, resisting the urge to contradict his teammate’s assessment.

After making the decision to stay operational, Jack knew that he’d need all the help he could get. This meant looping Lisanne and Gavin into the mix. Lisanne would act as the effort’s operations officer while Gavin worked on fleshing out the intelligence picture. The pair would become the effort’s de facto support cell, enabling Jack and his pipe hitters to do what they did best—shoot bad guys in the face.

At least that was the theory.

“What do you have?” Lisanne said.

“That thing,” Jack said, tilting the laptop so Lisanne could see the Chinese glider lying on the floor.

Though he knew the sight of him, Jad, and Cary carting the glider up a flight of steps from their car must have resembled something from a Saturday Night Live routine, Jack wasn’t letting the Chinese contraption out of his sight. Though he still didn’t know why the glider was so important, it was apparently worth killing for. This made it too valuable to leave in the car’s trunk.

Especially in this part of town.

“I took a look at the images you sent of the glider’s control panel,” Gavin said. “The data port looks like a standard USB would fit. Can you plug it into your laptop?”

Jack looked at the screen as he waited for Gavin’s laugh to signify that the keyboard warrior was kidding.

It didn’t come.

“You want me to connect my computer to the torpedo thing?” Jack said.

“Got a better idea?” Gavin said.

Jack did not.

Even so, exposing his laptop to a piece of Chinese military tech didn’t seem like a great idea. Then again, Gavin had a point. Ideas weren’t exactly beating down Jack’s door.

“Okay,” Jack said, unrolling a cable before plugging it into the port Gavin had indicated. “Just for my edification, what exactly are you looking for?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” Gavin said, unwrapping a piece of bubble gum and popping it into his mouth. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

This seemed thin to Jack, but Gavin had worked larger miracles with less.

Besides, what was the worst that could happen?

“Hey, Gav,” Jack said as the laptop’s hard drive began to whir, “how sure are we that this glider doesn’t contain a warhead of some kind?”

“Definitely not a warhead,” Gavin said, smacking the gum. “I’ve been researching these babies. That little propeller on the end is more for attitude control than propulsion. The intel I’ve seen suggests that the glider can do two knots. Maybe three or four, tops. That’s way too slow to chase down ships.”

Jack exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“On the other hand,” Gavin said, “I guess an antitamper device isn’t out of the question. We should probably watch for that.”

Jack jerked his hand away from the glider.

“When you say ‘watch for that,’ what specifically should I be looking for?” Jack said.

“What?” Gavin said. “Oh, you mean the antitamper device? I really don’t know, Jack. Maybe see if the LCD screen on the glider’s control panel shows a countdown or something. That’s how it happens in the movies.”

Jad muttered something that sounded like Arabic while Cary began reciting the 23rd Psalm.

Jack felt tempted to join in.

“How we doing, Gavin?” Jack said instead.

“Good, thanks for asking. Though headquarters is out of cold brew again. I gotta see somebody about that.”

“I’m talking about the glider, Gavin,” Jack said. “Or, more specifically, the glider’s antitamper device.”

“Oh, that,” Gavin said. “The good news is that I’ve powered up the device’s hard drive and have begun to image it. Since nothing’s exploded, I think we’re in pretty good shape. Though I guess the real test will come when I finish. I mean, if it was me, I’d configure the electronics so that an unauthorized intrusion would arm the device. Then I’d wait for the hard drive to be almost completely imaged before I detonated the antipersonnel device. You know, to draw the suckers in?”

Jad switched to English and the Green Berets finished the Psalm’s final stanza in unison.

“How close are we to being done?” Jack said.

“Geez, Jack, I’m not a miracle worker. This data’s encrypted, so it’s going to take me a while to see what we’re looking at. First I’ll need to—”

“The hard drive, Gavin,” Jack said. “How close are we to being done imaging the hard drive?”

“Oh, that? If nothing happens in the next five seconds, we should be good. I think—”

A chime reverberated through the room.

A chime originating from the glider.

43

Jack gritted his teeth, waiting for the bright flash of light that would precede an audience with the Almighty. If the situation wasn’t so dire, it would be the start of a really good joke. A Muslim, a Catholic, and a Protestant find themselves at the Pearly Gates . . .

Then the chime sounded again.

And again.

With a shuddered breath Jack realized that the sound wasn’t coming from the glider.

It was originating from his back pocket.

The one holding his burner phone.

Withdrawing the cell with shaking fingers, Jack answered.

“Hello?”

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Mary Pat. Are you all right?”

Jack wasn’t quite sure how to answer.

“Hey, Mary Pat,” Jack said. “I’m good. Just kind of in the middle of something.”

“Can you talk?”

Jack eyed the icon on the laptop displaying Gavin’s progress. The status bar had crested ninety percent and was still rising. If Gavin’s prediction about the potential antitamper device was on point, things could become interesting real soon. On the other hand, Jack had a feeling that the DNI wasn’t giving him a ring just to shoot the breeze.

“Sure,” Jack said as the bar pushed through ninety-five percent, “but we might get cut off unexpectedly.”

“No problem,” Mary Pat said. “I’ll make this quick.”

Jack doubted the spymaster would be faster than electrons traveling through the glider’s wiring at the speed of light, but he supposed that didn’t matter. What was going to happen was going to happen. Mary Pat had more than enough to worry about without adding a Chinese antitamper device to her list.

“Okay,” Jack said, “shoot.”

“It’s imaged,” Gavin said from the laptop, “but don’t unplug the dongle from the glider. Sometimes the antitamper devices are wired into the control port. This thing could still explode. Maybe.”

“Jack,” Mary Pat said, “what exactly are you doing?”

“Not me specifically,” Jack said, disconnecting the dongle from his computer. “Gavin’s doing the heavy lifting. I’m just providing him with access to the Chinese glider we captured.”

“Did he say something about it exploding?” Mary Pat said.

“You know Gavin,” Jack said. “He’s a worrier.”

“With good reason,” Gavin said. “I—”

Jack hit the laptop’s mute button as he prepared for the tongue-lashing he was certain he was about to receive from the nation’s intelligence chief.

“It’s actually good he’s on the line,” Mary Pat said, “because what I’m about to say involves him as well. Can he hear me?”

“Just a minute,” Jack said. The entire conversation was beginning to feel like a game of telephone. Muting Mary Pat, Jack activated the laptop’s mike. “Mary Pat’s on the cell. I’m going to put her on speaker so she can address us all. Until then, keep the line clear, please.”

“Of course,” Gavin said, sounding slightly offended. “I won’t say a word.”

Jack strongly doubted that, but enough was enough. Between Clark’s kidnapping, the war in gangland that might or might not be brewing, the Filipino police who had to be crawling all over the dock by now, and the antitamper device that might or might not exist, it was long past time to get this show on the road.

“Okay, Mary Pat,” Jack said after unmuting his phone, “you’re on with the group. Cary and Jad are here with me. Lisanne and Gavin are connected via my laptop.”

“Great,” Mary Pat said. “Hello, everyone. I want you each to know that while I feel for your injured teammates, we can do nothing more for them. The same isn’t true for Clark, so I’m going to spend our precious time on him. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Jack said as Cary and Jad both nodded.

While what Mary Pat had said might have been obvious, Jack appreciated that she’d taken the time to address the elephant in the room. Ding was doing fine, but Dom was still touch and go. This was not just another day at the office, and Jack was grateful to Mary Pat for not pretending otherwise.

“Okay,” Mary Pat said. “Here’s how this is going to go—as of this moment, The Campus is officially part of the U.S. intelligence community, reporting to me.”

“Why?” Jack said.

“Because we have neither the time nor the resources to pretend otherwise,” May Pat said. “The South China Sea might as well be a pool of gasoline waiting for a match. This is the closest we’ve been to war with the Chinese in my lifetime. A J-16 fighter just brought down an American P-8, and Chinese frigates are racing toward the crash site. The President has directed all available conventional assets to focus on recovering the P-8’s crew. I might be able to vector a Ground Branch team in your direction or possibly one of the special mission units, but that’s going to take time. Until then, if getting Clark back requires a kinetic operation, The Campus has the job.”

Jack swallowed as he recognized the significance of Mary Pat’s words. As of this moment, The Campus consisted of exactly three gunfighters.

But that was a problem for later.

Right now, Jack needed just one thing—actionable intelligence.

“Understood,” Jack said, “but we’ve got nothing on the people who took Clark.”

“You’ve got nothing right now,” Mary Pat said. “That’s about to change. Since The Campus is now an official member of the intelligence community, the floodgates are open. I’m signing an emergency intelligence finding that will authorize linkage between The Campus’s hardened IT network and our own. Gavin and Lisanne will have access to everything we have—ISR feeds, source reporting, the works.”

“Even the NSA’s haul?” Gavin said.

“Everything,” Mary Pat said.

Jack clicked and muted Gavin’s mike before he could reply. The jubilant expression on the keyboard warrior’s face would have been laughable had the situation not been so dire. Gavin looked like a little kid who’d just been handed the keys to the toy store. In a way, Jack supposed he had. After spending most of his career engineering work-arounds and second-rate apps meant to mimic the U.S. government’s true capabilities, Gavin now had access to the real thing.

But as much as he appreciated what Mary Pat was doing, Jack was also a realist. To have a chance of finding Clark, the Campus team needed a starting point from which they could venture into the unknown. Without this, the resources put at their disposal might prove to be nothing more than a distraction.

“Thanks, Mary Pat,” Jack said. “That will be a huge help. But the best flashlight in the world isn’t worth much if you don’t know where to shine it. Do you have anything we can use? Anything to help us narrow down who took Clark and where they might be?”

The sigh that echoed from the phone was answer enough.

“Precious little, I’m afraid,” Mary Pat said. “Something has been uploaded to one of the Abu Sayyaf group’s social media accounts. A video of Clark being tortured.”

“How bad is it?” Jack said.

“Not as bad as it could be,” Mary Pat said. “Clark got the shit beat of out him, but he’s still alive.”

“What do we have on the video?” Jad said.

“Excellent question,” Mary Pat said. “The analysts on this side of the Pacific determined where the video was uploaded. The metadata attached to the file suggests Basilan Island, which is in the southwestern part of the Philippines about five hundred miles from Manila, but this only tells us where the file joined the Internet.”

“Not necessarily where it was shot,” Jack said. “Besides, there’s no way the people who took Clark could have covered five hundred miles this quickly.”

“Exactly,” Mary Pat said.

“Hey, Jack,” Jad said, “looks like Gavin wants to talk.”

Jack glanced at his laptop to see Gavin with his hand raised like a schoolchild. The image should have made Jack smile, but the hopeless feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t allow it.

“Sorry, Gav,” Jack said, unmuting the laptop.

“No problem,” Gavin said. “Can you ask Mary Pat to send me the source video? I’ve got an idea.”

“Of course,” Mary Pat said. “In fact, I’ll do you one better. I’ll provide you with my assistant Sam’s direct line. Anything you need, he’ll get. Anything. He’ll be your one-stop shop for all the resources the intelligence community has to offer.”

“Fantastic,” Gavin said. “Right off, I know we’re going to need to—”

“Hey, buddy,” Jack said, “Mary Pat’s time is valuable. Unless you have something specific for her, let’s hold all that for her assistant.”

“Right,” Gavin said. “Got it, Jack.”

As if on cue, the sound of a phone ringing echoed from Jack’s handset.

“That’s my office line,” Mary Pat said, “which means I need to take it. Anything else, Jack?”

“Yes,” Jack said, the question forming even as he spoke. “Dad said you were the best intelligence officer he’s ever worked with. If you had to guess, where would you place Clark?”

The phone rang twice more before Mary Pat spoke.

“The water,” Mary Pat said. “There are thousands of fishing boats and commercial vessels that ply that stretch of ocean. If Clark was my high-value target, that’s where I’d stash him. Good luck, Jack. I’ve got to go.”

Mary Pat ended the call.

For a long moment Jack stared at the dead phone as if it might spring back to life. It didn’t. Dropping the device into his pocket, Jack turned to confront his team’s waiting faces.

His team.

His Campus, really.

“Gavin,” Jack said. “You tracking everything Mary Pat said?”

“On it,” Gavin said. “I need some time to review the video. I also want to take a peek at what we recovered from the glider. I’ve got the beginnings of a plan, but I need time to flesh it out.”

Time was in rather short supply, but Jack didn’t say that. Ding had once told Jack that understanding what motivated your team was one of the most important aspects of being a leader. Gavin didn’t need motivation to work faster.

But maybe Jack could help in a different way.

“Lisanne,” Jack said, “I need you to battle-captain this. Grab any ISR assets you can. Hell, commandeer anything you think would be useful. I’m not counting on Mary Pat’s special mission unit or paramilitary operators riding in to save the day. That said, taking down a ship with three people is a hard act. A platoon of SEALs would be great right about now.”

Jad opened his mouth but then slowly shut it.

“Cat got your tongue?” Cary said.

“No,” Jad said, shaking his head. “I feel obligated to make a SEAL joke, but I just can’t. If Lieutenant Brandon Cates and his fellow frogmen walked through the door right now, I might just hug them.”

People chuckled, but the laughter sounded forced. Jack had done some crazy things in his Campus career, but taking down a boat with just three shooters was a nonstarter. But that was a problem for later.

First, he needed to find the boat.

“I understand,” Lisanne said.

She held Jack’s gaze for a beat before giving a quick nod.

Jack knew she really did understand, both the specified tasks he’d given her and the implied one—keep Gavin on track. He thought he might have seen something else in her brown eyes. Something suggesting that all wasn’t lost between them. But determining whether the olive branch was real or imagined would have to wait.

“Thanks, guys,” Jack said. “Ping us once you get something.”

Gavin and Lisanne both nodded. Then the call ended, leaving Jack alone with two Green Berets and a Filipino banker who looked as if he was questioning his life choices.

Join the club.

“Where’s this leave us?” Cary said.

“With time to fill in a couple holes in our plan,” Jack said.

“Only a couple?” Jad said.

“Ease back on the negativity,” Cary said. “He has a plan. I feel better already.”

Jad snorted.

“Go on, Jack,” Cary said. “Tell us the plan.”

“First we need to get a boat,” Jack said.

“Great,” Cary said. “Where do we get one?”

“I was thinking someone else could help with that,” Jack said.

Three sets of American eyes centered on Mario.

The little man muttered in Tagalog, but he didn’t argue.

Progress.

44

USS Delaware

South China Sea

“Looks a wee bit crowded up there, Skipper,” Dan said.

Christina had to steel her expression as she took in the digital navigation plot.

Her XO’s gift for understatement was on full display once again. The digital nav plot was a horizontal electronic display akin to a huge Microsoft Surface. In Virginia-class submarines, the chart tables of old were gone. The digital nav plot incorporated nautical charts as well as all the contact information from sonar in a single moving map. But digital or not, Christina had never seen a nav chart so crowded in her fifteen years in the silent service. A dozen separate surface contacts cluttered the display, and several were heading her way.

“Officer of the Deck, what’s the range to the suspected crash site?” Christina said.

“Two miles, Captain.”

Christina had sounded general quarters fifteen minutes ago, and while she had every confidence in her crew, the nav plot suggested that the next several minutes were going to be a handful. Then again, sailors didn’t vie for a spot on a nuclear-powered fast attack submarine because they wanted a sleepy cruise spent turning circles in the ocean. Judging by the no less than three Chinese frigates steaming toward the projected crash site, the USS Delaware was about to have action aplenty.

“Periscope depth,” the officer of the deck said.

“Up periscope,” Christina said, the buzz of energy the simple-seeming command elicited more pronounced than usual.

Nothing more symbolized life as a submariner than standing with your face pressed against the viewfinder as the optic broke through the waves fifty feet above. As a little girl, Christina had watched all the classic submarine movies with her father. From oldies like Run Silent, Run Deep to more contemporary films like Crimson Tide.

Now Christina was living her dream.

Sort of.

In a first for U.S. submarines, Virginia-class boats no longer featured a traditional periscope with mirrors and lenses. Instead, the USS Delaware sported a photonic mast that was connected to monitors in the sub’s control room via fiber-optic cables. This eliminated the old periscope viewing well, instead providing the captain with high-resolution, color, or infrared images displayed on a television screen for everyone to see. While the improvements certainly made her boat much more lethal, Christina was more than a little nostalgic for the old days.

The view from above the water drained the levity from her thoughts. The seas were at state four. To the uninformed, this designation meant very little, but to a sailor, sea state four meant that the seething foam could reach heights of eight feet. The swells now looked to be closer to four and a half feet. While a frigate could handle these waves with ease, smaller pleasure crafts would have a hold full of seasick passengers.

But Christina wasn’t looking at a pleasure craft.

Instead, she’d spied an orange raft crammed with people in flight suits who were doing their best to keep from being tossed overboard. But that wasn’t the worst of it. A black form loomed just ahead. Christina activated the mast’s digital zoom, already knowing what she would see.

A moment later, the menacing hull of a warship swam into view.

But not just any warship.

The vessel was a Type 054A Chinese frigate screaming toward the survivors.

Things were about to get interesting.

45

South China Sea

Commander Lixin Wang of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy eyed the digital display prominently located in the bridge of the Type 054A frigate he commanded.

It was an honor to serve as the Xuchang’s skipper. Its 2017 commissioning made the warship one of the newest in the PLA’s fleet, and her nerve center reflected this modernity. From here, Lixin could watch the returns generated by the Xuchang’s target-acquisition and fire control radar while simultaneously plumbing the ocean’s depth with both active and passive sonar. He could also target a variety of threats in the air, on land, in the sea, or even under it. The Xuchang’s portfolio of weapons ran the gamut from 76-millimeter guns, to antisubmarine rockets, to cruise missiles capable of destroying either ships or land-based targets.

But it was not a warship or enemy aircraft that was currently giving Lixin pause. No, that honor belonged to an orange raft that was barely weathering the pounding waves.

“How long until we’re alongside?” Lixin asked.

“Fifteen minutes, sir.”

The answer came from Lieutenant Yan Zhang, Lixin’s executive officer. Lixin had sailed with the man for the last eighteen months. Together, they’d stalked pirates, enforced Chinese sovereignty in the disputed islands, and shadowed American warships across the South China Sea.

But like Lixin, Zhang seemed more nervous than usual.

Perhaps it was because he also understood what was at stake.

“Increase speed to twenty-seven knots,” Lixin said.

“Make my speed twenty-seven knots,” the officer of the deck said before relaying the order.

With her four 7,600-horsepower Shaanxi diesel engines, the Xuchang was capable of holding this speed almost indefinitely. But under emergency conditions, the four-thousand-ton frigate could accelerate to over thirty. Sustaining that blistering pace for too long risked damage to the vessel’s drive shaft and screws, but in this case, Lixin was comfortable with the gamble.

Perhaps because the consequences of failure were far greater.

The deck vibrated beneath Lixin’s feet as the Xuchang’s power plant responded. While Lixin hadn’t detected a competitor in his race to snare the Americans, that didn’t mean someone wasn’t out there, unseen. Though he wasn’t privy to the geopolitical events unfolding in this stretch of ocean, Lixin understood two things—a Yankee spy plane had crashed, and he had been ordered to secure the survivors. It stood to reason that if the PLA Navy’s South Sea Fleet command was willing to task every available vessel with recovering the stranded crew, the Americans would be just as eager to get to their countrymen first.

Lixin could not permit this to happen.

His orders had been unambiguous—capture the crew at all cost. Though even a message as black-and-white as this one developed shades of gray when confronted with the ocean’s reality. Lixin wasn’t so much worried about convincing the survivors to come aboard—the weather would do that for him. No, Lixin was concerned about something more treacherous than surging tides or rogue waves.

The American Navy.

What should Lixin do if an American vessel attempted to rescue the survivors? His orders hadn’t addressed this contingency, and Lixin was willing to bet the omission was purposeful. No matter. While Lixin had no control over the fickle nature of the bureaucrats in Beijing who held his life, and that of his crew, in their hands, he could control one thing—getting to the survivors first.

“Is the helicopter ready?” Lixin said, eyeing Zhang.

The man shook his head.

“Not yet, Comrade Captain,” Zhang said. “The crew is still troubleshooting a hydraulics issue.”

Any sailor worth his salt knew that naval aviation was unreliable at best, and the single Z-9C helicopter the Xuchang carried was doubly so. The rotorcraft was a derivative of the French Eurocopter Dauphin. The original version had been a licensed production, while this improved iteration was a Chinese design made from mostly Chinese-sourced components. Lixin was not an aviation expert, but in the eighteen months he’d been in command of the Xuchang, the aircraft had spent the majority of its time in the hangar.

Today was shaping up to be no exception.

Lixin eyed the tactical display as the range between his ship and the presumed location of the stranded aircrew continued to shrink. Less than ten minutes remained until he’d have the Americans off the side of his ship, but Lixin had an uneasy feeling that this would be too late. Though his suite of multimillion-dollar sensors had not detected any Yankees, Lixin’s sailor intuition said otherwise. With the usually large number of surface contacts in this stretch of ocean, zeroing in on a nearly silent American submarine would be even more difficult than usual. Lixin’s sonar operator had developed a promising track just minutes ago, only to lose it amid the sea of ambient noise.

Lixin needed to get to the crash survivors.

Now.

“Instruct the engine room to firewall the diesels and start the timer on the engine’s transitory torque,” Lixin said. “Also, tell the aviators that their aircraft will be leaving my ship in ten minutes. The helicopter will either fly under its own power or be pushed from the deck. The pilots will be strapped inside in either scenario.”

“Yes, Captain,” Zhang said, his expression carefully blank. “Anything else?”

“Sound general quarters,” Lixin said.

Zhang’s normally stoic face registered a fleeting reaction. Nothing drove home a captain’s singular purpose like his ship’s weapons stations preparing for action. With both his surface-search and over-the-horizon radars radiating, Lixin knew that any hidden Americans would see him coming.

Good.

Hopefully his actions would also demonstrate his depth of purpose. In ten minutes’ time, the undoubtedly soggy crash survivors would be aboard his frigate. Whether that happened with or without a fight was up to their countrymen.

46

“Thoughts?” Christina said, eyeing the tactical display.

“We’ve got two choices,” Dan said. “Either convince the frigate to back off so we can surface and rescue the crew, or . . .”

“Watch as the Chinese take our brothers and sisters hostage,” Christina said, finishing her XO’s thought.

Dan gave a slow nod.

Christina looked from the tactical display to a second video screen, this one showing a loop of the video recorded while the photonic mast had been above the waves. Though she’d spent most of the time ogling the approaching frigate, Christina had also quickly panned the optic across the raft. Now the results of that scan played out in front of her.

Seven crewmen.

Christina wasn’t sure how many souls had been on board the P-8, so she didn’t know if the crew had suffered any fatalities. But she did know who was responsible for their predicament—the Chinese.

Just as they had been more than twenty years earlier.

“Hainan was before my time,” Dan said, reading her thoughts.

“Mine, too,” Christina said, “but an Academy classmate’s brother had been part of the crew.”

On April 1, 2001, a Chinese J-8 interceptor collided with a P-3 Orion on patrol in the South China Sea. The PLA pilot had perished, and the American crew had come close to dying as well. Displaying extraordinary airmanship, the Navy pilots brought the heavily damaged aircraft down safely against all odds.

But that was only the beginning of the ordeal.

With his plane badly damaged, the aircraft commander had made the difficult decision to land on Hainan, a Chinese-controlled island. The Chinese promptly seized the multimillion-dollar spy plane and imprisoned its crew. Over the course of ten days, the aviators were repeatedly interrogated and were released only after the American government sent two humiliating letters of apology to the Chinese.

In the ensuing years, relations with China had only grown worse. This newest encounter between an American and Chinese plane might become a flash point for the entire region. Christina didn’t believe the American crew battling the sea above her would fare any better than their predecessors. In fact, there was good reason to think they might not be released anywhere near as quickly.

Or at all.

Once more Christina considered her options.

Below the sea, the Delaware was a force to be reckoned with. Seventy years after the launch of America’s first nuclear submarine, the U.S. fleet had reached mythical status. Apart from a brief period of time when the Soviet Union came close to achieving technological parity, no vessel could operate as clandestinely as a U.S. submarine. And the Soviets’ success with their Typhoon- and Akula-class boats had been during the late eighties, with advances largely stolen from the U.S. Navy, thanks to an American father-son espionage ring. In the ensuing years, diesel submarine technology had become much quieter, and the Chinese were now fielding nuclear-powered submarines of their own. But at this moment, Christina still reigned supreme.

Until the Delaware surfaced.

There was no way to rescue the stranded aviators without giving away her position. As soon as Christina surfaced, her modern marvel of technology became just another boat. No, that wasn’t right. In truth, the Delaware would be rendered less than just another boat. While the sub still had the use of her four torpedo tubes, in a surface fight, the Chinese frigate hopelessly outclassed the Delaware.

Which meant Christina needed to set the conditions for the rescue now.

“Up scope,” Christina said. “Prepare to verify the range to the Chinese frigate with active sonar. Use just one ping.”

“Prepare to verify range with just one ping, aye,” the officer of the deck said.

Christina caught Dan’s gaze and the question in his eyes was obvious. Did she know what she was doing? Employing active sonar against another vessel was tantamount to an act of war. Then again, so was kidnapping a downed naval crew under the guise of rescuing them.

Did she know what she was doing?

Christina wasn’t really sure.

Only one way to find out.

“Sonar, standing by,” the officer of the deck said.

With a deep breath, Christina eyed the image of the Chinese frigate.

Then she spoke.

“Ping them.”

47

Lixin had always assumed that the noise of a ship cracking around him would be the most terrifying sound he’d ever hear.

He’d been wrong.

One moment, he’d been listening to the roar of his overstressed engines. The next, the striking of a giant tuning fork reverberated through his ship’s hull. The sonar ping rang with such energy that Lixin could have sworn his fillings were vibrating.

“Report,” Lixin bellowed.

“Undersea contact, bearing 070, range two thousand meters.”

Lixin looked at his first officer, who nodded.

The submarine was just beneath the bobbing American raft.

“Are torpedoes in the water?” Lixin said.

“Negative, Captain,” Zhang said. “No sounds from the torpedo outer doors opening, either.”

Which meant the Americans might have already opened the torpedo hatches in preparation to fire. Or the torpedo doors could still be closed, which would communicate something else entirely. The single sonar ping was obviously meant to convey a message. Modern submarines had no need to use active sonar to acquire a target, especially American submarines.

So the ping was what?

A warning to back off?

This was probably what the submarine’s captain intended to communicate, but in a scenario this serious, Lixin was not prepared to operate off assumptions. Even now, he imagined standing in front of the South Sea Fleet commander explaining his actions. He doubted the fish-faced vice admiral would take kindly to one of his frigate commanders abandoning the American prize in response to a single sonar pulse.

Lixin couldn’t afford to blink.

Besides, the submarine captain might lose his nerve first. While the single sonar ping had revealed the sub’s location, the vessel was still far from helpless. The American captain could fire a spread of torpedoes at Lixin’s ship. Even if the fish missed, the submarine could use the opportunity to crash-dive in the hopes of hiding beneath a sonar-confounding thermal inversion layer. But to recover the stranded crewmen, the sub would have to surface, thereby stacking the terms of the engagement in Lixin’s favor.

Would the sub captain trade the safety of his boat for the helpless aviators?

Lixin didn’t know.

If the situation were reversed, Lixin certainly wouldn’t countenance such a choice. But Americans were different. Unpredictable. Either way, Lixin wasn’t backing down.

The American viper had just rattled its tail.

Now it was time to see if the sub commander was willing to strike.

48

“Chinese frigate is still on an intercept course,” Dan said. “He’s increased speed slightly. He’ll be on station in five minutes.”

Five minutes.

In the time it took to brew a pot of coffee, Christina would be face-to-face with a Chinese warship capable of reducing her boat to an oil slick. While Christina had never played chicken in a speeding car, she had stared down disaster more than once.

As the goalie for her lacrosse teams, Christina had learned that nothing brings the world into focus quite like the sight of an attacker barreling down the field at you with the ball in her lacrosse stick’s pocket and nary a defender in sight. From her first game as a child to her last at Annapolis, Christina had never backed down from a confrontation, regardless of her opponent’s size.

She wasn’t going to start today.

“Prepare to surface,” Christina said. “We’re going after our aviators.”

“Prepare to surface, aye,” the officer of the deck said.

“Blow ballast and open the outer doors to torpedo tubes one and two,” Christina said.

Once again the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Andrews, repeated the command without pause, but she thought Brian stood a little straighter as he bellowed the words. For sailors who made their living hunting submarines, there was just one sound more recognizable than the gurgling of compressed air forcing water from a sub’s ballast tank—the ominous grinding as the steel outer doors that protected the torpedo tubes opened. Christina had just done the equivalent of telling the approaching frigate that while she didn’t want any trouble, she wasn’t leaving without her fellow sailors.

She just hoped the Chinese captain received her message.

49

Lieutenant Tom McGrath had seen better days.

He’d ditched his jet into choppy water with a landing that might not be considered smooth, but could charitably have been termed functional. In the ensuing chaos, his crew had followed the ditching drills to a T. Survival rafts had been inflated and lashed together, and the able-bodied had helped the injured abandon ship. All seven crew members had made it out of the jet alive. Just as important, the aircraft had been configured to sink, taking the multitude of secrets and sensitive equipment housed within its innocuous-looking fuselage to a watery grave.

And sank it had.

Perhaps too well.

The jet went under faster than anyone had expected. Tom had taken a turn with one of the raft’s small paddles, frantically trying to keep the bobbing craft clear of the swirling vortex created by the massive aircraft. He helped to prevent his crew from following the P-8 into the ocean’s depths, but this was where Tom’s streak of good luck ended. With an abruptness that was all too common for this part of the world, weather conditions had changed. The sea hadn’t exactly been placid before, but the waves had been manageable.

No longer.

As the wind kicked up, the frothing water responded, coiling into undulating mounds that threatened to swamp the fragile survival rafts. A rogue wall of water had nearly tossed Jack over the side, prompting Tom to order the crew to tie themselves into the supposedly capsize-proof raft. After an hour of battling the elements, Tom had emptied his stomach of the granola bar he’d snacked on earlier, as well as everything he’d eaten in the last week.

Then salvation had arrived.

Except it hadn’t.

“Definitely a Chinese frigate,” Jack said, confirming Tom’s suspicions. “I can see her ensign.”

The sight of the gray-hulled warship had buoyed the spirits of the waterlogged survivors, until Tom thought the ship’s silhouette looked a little too familiar. In a bad way. Since the bag containing the survival equipment was lashed to a carabiner next to Jack, he’d asked his copilot to find the binoculars and take a look. Jack had complied, losing a couple odds and ends from the bag in the process, but rendering a judgment all the same. The question Tom now faced was a hard one—which was the better option, the Chinese or the sea?

“That’s what I thought,” Tom said. “Anything on satcom?”

Jack shook his head. “I think our ELT is beaconing, but I can’t get anything on the voice channel.”

Tom nodded, disappointed but not surprised.

The waterproof radio was designed to send out a stranded crew’s location via satcom radio, but that frequency band was notoriously spotty during inclement-weather conditions. The cloud cover and moisture-saturated air played havoc with voice transmissions, but the data burst containing their GPS coordinates probably had enough juice to burn through.

Probably.

“What are you thinking?” Jack said.

The copilot pitched his voice so that only Tom could hear.

Tom understood.

While their two nations were not at war, Tom knew that the Chinese warship did not represent rescue. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. Tensions hadn’t been nearly as high twenty years ago, and the Chinese had still squeezed the maximum propaganda out of the situation. If the choice was between survival and boarding the frigate, he would come down on the side of his fellow sailors, but Tom wasn’t sure he was there yet.

“Let me see the radio,” Tom said. “Maybe the problem’s operator error.”

Jack snorted, but handed Tom the transmitter.

Both men knew that Jack was much better with radios of any sort. Some pilots just had a gift when it came to the finicky contraptions, and Jack had coaxed more than one wayward receiver to accept the daily cipher or reset its GPS time long after Tom had given up. But the look Jack gave Tom suggested that he understood the true purpose of Tom’s request.

Tom’s responsibility as aircraft commander had not ended with the ditching. For better or worse, until the Americans were back in friendly hands, he was in charge. As such, the decision about what to do when the Chinese frigate pulled alongside also resided with Tom. Before he potentially ordered his crew to stay in their waterlogged raft, he wanted to give the radio a try.

After accepting the transmitter, Tom made a show of inspecting the collapsible antenna, seating the battery, and scrolling through the various presets. But a show was all it was. As he’d suspected, Jack had done a far more thorough job troubleshooting the device than he could have. Deciding that he’d delayed the inevitable long enough, Tom lifted the device skyward and depressed the transmit button.

Just as a random wave smashed against the raft.

If he hadn’t been tied in, Tom was certain he would have gone over the side. The radio wasn’t so lucky. One moment he’d been about to speak, the next his hands were empty.

Tom didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The erupting ocean answered the question for him.

50

The surfacing submarine didn’t resemble so much a human creation of metal and steel as a black leviathan. Though Lixin’s sonar operator had communicated the Americans’ intent, seeing the monstrosity rocket out of the water was still a surprise.

One moment there had been nothing but green-tinged swells.

The next, an obsidian structure loomed above the ocean.

“Orders, Captain?”

Lixin stared at the image rendered by the frigate’s high-definition cameras as he thought. The second sound his sonar man had relayed had been equally unambiguous—the outer doors to the Americans’ torpedo tubes opening. The submarine was all but assured to lose a fight with the Xuchang. Lixin had an array of weapons he could rain down on the helpless sub, and now that he knew its location, several more that could follow the boat into watery depths if the submarine attempted to crash-dive.

But still he hesitated.

Though he wanted to pretend otherwise, Lixin understood the significance of the Americans’ gesture. The submarine had opened its torpedo doors but had yet to flood the tubes. Like the single active sonar ping from earlier, this was a show of restraint.

A wolf baring its teeth but not yet lunging for the kill.

But would the American actually fire?

Lixin’s aviation comrades had been getting the better of their American counterparts for decades, as the bobbing orange survival raft demonstrated. Perhaps it was time Lixin took a page from their playbook.

“Captain?” the officer of the deck said.

“Maintain current course and speed,” Lixin said.

Time to see what the American sub captain was made of.

—

“What is he doing?” Dan said.

Christina could forgive the waver in her normally steadfast XO’s voice. He was standing next to her in the cramped confines of the Delaware’s sail, surrounded by the sub’s assortment of electronic masts. Unlike the conning towers of old, which once housed the mechanisms needed to steer a submarine, the sail on a Virginia-class attack sub served as an observation post only. The section of steel was exposed to the elements with only a chest-high metal rail to grip as the boat wallowed in the crashing waves.

But Dan’s inflection wasn’t driven by the sea.

No, that honor belonged to the Chinese frigate bearing down on them.

The warship had to be making close to thirty knots, as evidenced by the frigate’s frothing white bow wave. Worse still, the looming hull was pointed directly at Christina’s boat. Viewing the pixels that represented the Chinese warship on the Delaware’s tactical display had been concerning, but seeing the monstrosity with her own two eyes brought a new level of urgency to Christina’s decisions.

“Trying to get our attention,” she said. “Officer of the Deck, come right to course 075 degrees.”

The officer of the deck echoed Christina’s orders as Dan scrambled down the ladder leading to the submarine’s external deck to lend a hand. The Delaware’s sailors had already secured the survival rafts to the submarine, but three of the naval aviators were still struggling to board the sub’s slick exterior. Like a matador turning inside a charging bull, Christina’s abrupt course change was meant to buy time for the crew members to board by slipping the submarine past the frigate.

Unfortunately, Christina’s boat was not the nimble dancer on the ocean’s surface that it was below the waves. The Delaware simply could not turn quickly enough, and the Chinese frigate’s bow was still on a path to bisect the Delaware’s hull.

The Aldis lamp on the Chinese ship’s bridge flashed out a message in Morse code.

engine problem. unable to change course.

In an instant, Christina understood what her Chinese counterpart was attempting. By communicating that he was experiencing maneuvering issues, the frigate’s captain was laying the groundwork for a plausible defense.

A defense for a looming catastrophe.

The homicidal maniac was going to try to ram her.

“Officer of the Deck, prepare to crash-dive,” Christina said.

“Prepare to crash-dive, aye,” the officer of the deck echoed.

Two sailors remained on the Delaware’s hull—Dan and one of the injured aviators.

Christina looked from her struggling XO to the looming frigate.

It was going to be close.

—

“Five hundred meters to the submarine, Captain,” Zhang said.

“Sound the collision alert,” Lixin said.

As Klaxons echoed through the bridge, Lixin ground his teeth. He’d fully expected the Americans to abandon their downed aviators in the face of his mad charge.

They hadn’t.

In fact, the opposite had proven true. First one, then both of the officers manning the sub’s sail had abandoned their post in favor of aiding their stricken crew members as they clambered aboard the submarine’s slippery deck. The final three were scrambling up the ladder to the sail now.

A blond woman was in the lead.

Zhang met Lixin’s gaze from across the room, the question in his eyes obvious.

Lixin shook his head.

His instructions from the vice admiral had been unambiguous. Lixin knew that every command he issued had been recorded and would be analyzed in painstaking detail at the conclusion of this engagement. Even so, this was a no-win scenario. The American submarine was designed to withstand the ocean’s crushing depths. The HY-100 plate steel that formed the sub’s pressure hull was more than a match for the sheet metal that made up the Xuchang’s exterior. A collision between the two vessels would more than likely split Lixin’s frigate in two.

But there was still a chance.

In the South China Sea, collisions between competing vessels were a way of life. Accordingly, the Xuchang’s bow had been purposely reinforced with a blend of proprietary alloys. While this makeshift battering ram hadn’t been constructed with submarines in mind, Lixin thought that his bow might just be able to inflict enough structural damage to render the American vessel incapable of diving. With the sub trapped on the surface, the balance of power would rapidly shift as additional Chinese frigates joined the fray. It was a desperate gamble born of a desperate man, and Lixin had no idea if his ploy would succeed.

But he was certain of one thing.

For the sake of his career and perhaps his life, he could not back down now.

“One hundred meters,” Zhang said.

The submarine was now close enough for Lixin to see the top of the sail in detail. Two of the three remaining sailors disappeared inside, leaving only the blond. She paused for a split second, looking into the frigate’s camera as if locking gazes with Lixin.

Then the sail was empty.

A series of geysers erupted the length of the hull as the submarine flooded its ballast tanks, and the obsidian structure began to slide beneath the water’s oily surface.

“Fifty meters,” Zhang said.

“Brace for impact,” Lixin said.

A second, more dire-sounding, Klaxon gonged through the ship.

Lixin gripped his chair’s armrests.

Then the Xuchang’s hull plowed through swirling water that had only moments ago held a submarine.

51

West Wing, Washington, D.C.

“Ma’am?”

Mary Pat looked up from the stack of papers on her desk to see Sam standing in the office doorway. She’d been so absorbed in her work that she hadn’t heard him approach. If she were being honest, that wasn’t the only reason Mary Pat felt out of sorts. Rather than return to her office at Liberty Crossing, she’d appropriated a spare workspace in the West Wing for herself and Sam. She knew the decision to remain close to Jack was the correct one, but the new digs came at the expense of the familiarity of her own space and the proximity to her full staff.

Not to mention her secret stash of Folgers.

“Is it another video?” Mary Pat said, taking in Sam’s drawn face.

Her voice caught in her throat as she asked the question.

Contrary to what she’d told the President, Mary Pat didn’t know how many more of those videos she had in her. Jack Ryan kept her beside him over the years because he trusted her implicitly, but the situation with Clark had her second-guessing herself. How long would she be able to continue to render impartial counsel when she knew he was being tortured?

“No,” Sam said, taking the question as an invitation to enter. “I’m sorry, I should have led with that. And here, I brought you this.”

This turned out to be a mug.

A mug full of Folgers, by the smell.

Where Sam had managed to locate the brew, Mary Pat didn’t know, but she gratefully accepted it all the same. Gesturing for him to continue, Mary Pat took a sip. She could almost feel the caffeine flood her tired brain.

How long had it been since she’d slept?

Just as she needed to be aware of her blind spot with regard to Clark, Mary Pat had to ensure that she was well rested enough to provide the analysis Jack required. The steaming mug would prolong her crash, but even Folgers couldn’t hold off her exhaustion indefinitely.

“There’s been some action in the South China Sea,” Sam said, handing Mary Pat a tablet. “We got to our downed aviators first. The Delaware pulled them out of the drink right under the nose of a Type 054A Chinese frigate.”

“That’s good news,” Mary Pat said, scrolling through the offered tablet. “Did grabbing our folks cool the region’s temperatures at all?”

Sam shook his head. “Unfortunately not. If you check out the last slides in the deck, you’ll see what I mean.”

Mary Pat swiped her way to the end of the presentation and swore.

If anything, the situation in the disputed body of water had worsened. In the last update, a handful of frigates had been heading toward the suspected crash site. Now it looked as if the entire Chinese fleet had put to sea in one giant armada, but instead of the crash site, the warships were congregating on an even more sensitive target.

Taiwan.

“The President’s called a meeting with the principals,” Sam said. “I’ve been sifting through analysis from across the intelligence community and bouncing it off what DoD is seeing. The consensus is that this is a show of force, not a prelude to an initial invasion.”

Mary Pat nodded.

She’d arrived at the same conclusion. While the number of conventional forces churning toward the Taiwan Strait really was astounding, an invasion of Taiwan wouldn’t begin with a massed flotilla. While that had worked at Normandy, the days of achieving surprise with a massive amphibious assault were over, especially in a section of ocean as heavily monitored as the one hundred miles separating Taiwan from mainland China. Smart money said an invasion would begin with a bombardment of Taiwanese defenses and airstrips by a combination of ballistic and cruise missiles launched from the mainland.

This was not that.

Which led to the more obvious question: What in the hell were the Chinese doing?

“It’s like they’re showing off,” Sam said. “Trying to save face after we beat them to the P-8 crew.”

“Or trying to get our attention,” Mary Pat said, mumbling as she paged through the slides.

“Why?” Sam said.

Another excellent question.

“My dad was an amateur magician,” Mary Pat said, thumbing back to the beginning of the presentation. “He said that magic was really about just one thing—controlling where the audience looked.”

“Watch the right hand while the left hides the rabbit?”

Mary Pat nodded. “Are there any slides that show imagery farther south? Like, say, around Hainan?”

Sam leaned over Mary Pat’s shoulder, scrolling through the presentation at something approaching light speed. “Try slides six through eight,” Sam said. “What are you looking for?”

“Remember that Vietnamese trawler?” Mary Pat said. “The one that the Chinese sunk.”

“Sure.”

“What were the coordinates for that?”

“Much farther south,” Sam said. “Vicinity of the Paracel Islands, if I remember correctly.”

“Do we have imagery for any of the major southern Chinese ports?”

“Not in the presentation,” Sam said. “But I can get it.”

“Do it,” Mary Pat said. “Run it back to the time of the trawler’s sinking.”

“We already looked for that,” Sam said. “Between the weather and the uncertainty of the trawler’s position, we weren’t able to find anything.”

“I know,” Mary Pat said, getting to her feet. “I’m more interested in what happened after the trawler sank. See what you can find of the entire area. Time-lapse shots. If a Chinese ship really did sink that trawler, I want to know where it put into port.”

Sam frowned. “Okay, but that’s thousands of square miles and might be hundreds of vessels. We’re not even talking a needle in a haystack. It’s more like sifting through a coffee can of nails to find the short one.”

Mary Pat arched an eyebrow.

“What?” Sam said defensively. “My dad was a farmer. He didn’t believe in wasting nails.”

“Or anything else, I’d wager,” Mary Pat said. “You’re right, the data set is too big, and we don’t know what we’re looking for. But that’s okay. We’re not the ones who are going to find it.”

“Come again?” Sam said.

“This is a problem for the boys and girls in analytics,” Mary Pat said. “I keep getting updates on the new machine-learning algorithms they’re applying to the NSA’s metadata. Find someone to put them to work on the satellite imagery using the Paracel Islands as the southern boundary. Bookend it from the time the trawler sunk until now, but pay special attention to maritime activity starting with the attack on the Campus team in Europe. Time-stamp significant events like Clark’s kidnapping, and the downing of our P-8.”

“Wait,” Sam said, “you think the Chinese crashed our plane on purpose?”

“I don’t know if that was the pilot’s intent,” Mary Pat said, “but I think the interaction was meant to cause an international incident. A distraction to make sure we’re looking at the magician’s empty right hand instead of the floppy-eared bunny in his left. The USS Ronald Reagan’s carrier strike group was already heading north toward the P-8’s crash site. Now they’re probably pivoting even farther north toward Taiwan. So where’s nobody looking?”

“The Paracel Islands,” Sam said.

“Where a Vietnamese trawler was sunk and we still don’t know why,” Mary Pat said, grabbing a legal pad. “Tell the computer nerds to put up or shut up. Find me the rabbit, Sam. Oh, and check in with Gavin. If another video drops, I’ve got to be able to tell the President we’re closer to finding Clark.”

“But we aren’t,” Sam said as Mary Pat made for the door.

“Then get on it,” Mary Pat called over her shoulder. “Don’t make me a liar.”

52

Undisclosed location, South China Sea

In what should have been no surprise to Jack, the boat Mario found . . . was not a boat. Though, strictly speaking, Jack supposed the craft could be classified as one, since it floated and was for the most part seaworthy. This was where the similarities ended. Unlike most any other craft that called the Manila Yacht Club home, Mario’s boat did most of its traveling without ever touching the water.

Because it flew.

“Anyone else feel like we should be scouring the water for Japanese submarines?”

The question came from Jad.

The irreverent Green Beret seemed capable of finding humor in just about any situation, but in this case, his question could have been literal. While the Grumman HU-16 Albatross the men were riding in had been first manufactured in 1949, four years after the end of World War II, the aircraft’s exterior and twin radial engines reminded Jack of the Allied seaplanes famous for rescuing downed American aviators and scouting for the Imperial Japanese Navy.

Jack just hoped that the Grumman’s flight instruments were a bit more modern.

“I was thinking more of smugglers,” Cary said from the other side of the cabin. “Didn’t Jimmy Buffett crash one of these?”

“Yeah,” Jad said, “but he swam out. Almost wasn’t so lucky a couple years earlier in Jamaica. Authorities thought he was a drug runner and shot up his plane.”

“Never happened,” Cary said.

“I’m a surfer from SoCal,” Jad said. “You’re a farm boy from New Hampshire. Which of us is more qualified on this subject?”

“Boy, I came out of the womb a Parrothead,” Cary said. “Besides, the Granite State is the SoCal of New England.”

Jack thought Jad had a point, but he didn’t weigh in on the Libyan American’s side of the argument. This was somewhat because when it came to rhetorical skirmishes, Jad seldom needed help. But the real reason was a bit more dire.

Jack wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t lost his mind.

“This is fun and all,” Jad said, “but maybe we should talk about how long we’re going to keep burning holes in the sky.”

And there it was.

Though Jack was tempted to attribute Jad’s grouchiness to the roaring engines, the turbulent flight, and the plane’s less-than-five-star accommodations, he knew this wasn’t the case. As a sniper, Jad was quite conversant on the topics of boredom and unpleasant living conditions. Over dinner with Jack’s father, the Green Berets had recounted a time when they’d set up a sniper hide site in an Iraqi trash pile. A hide site they occupied for twelve hours in one-hundred-and-twenty-degree heat in order to get a bead on a troublesome Shia militia leader.

Jad wasn’t grouchy because they were bouncing around the sky in a World War II–era plane. He was grouchy because the three men were soaring over a one-and-a-half-million-square-mile expanse of water looking for a boat for which they had no description and were not entirely sure existed. Meanwhile, Clark’s clock continued to tick down as the Chinese Navy conducted maneuvers within shooting distance of Taiwan.

Jack didn’t necessarily disagree with the Green Beret’s assessment.

But he had absolutely nothing else to go on.

—

Things had begun promisingly enough. Jack had requested a boat. Something fast enough to run down Clark’s captors’ several-hour head start, but with enough endurance to hang with the target vessel as Jack’s meager crew developed the situation. It didn’t take Jack long to realize that those two constraints were in conflict. Fast boats typically didn’t have great endurance, while a fuel-efficient trawler would never make up the lost ground.

Enter the seaplane.

Though he didn’t much care for fishing, Mario loved exploring places off the beaten path. When you lived on an island nation, air was the best way to do that. Mario was an aviation enthusiast, and the HU-16’s top speed of over two hundred knots coupled with its almost three-thousand-mile range and ability to land on the open ocean made the Grumman seaplane perfect for the job.

With his mode of transportation now secured, Jack had transitioned to his next task—figuring out where to look for Clark. This was also easier than he’d anticipated. If the Chinese were behind Clark’s kidnapping, it made sense that they would move the former frogman somewhere they considered secure. Over the last several years, Chinese territory had edged steadily closer to the Philippines, thanks to the series of Chinese-made islands that now dotted the South China Sea.

Jack thought the handful of disputed reefs and shoals located in the vicinity of the Spratly Islands approximately five hundred miles southwest of Manila were a good place to start. More important, this section of ocean also hosted the over-one-hundred-and-twenty-ship-strong Chinese maritime militia.

Though the Chinese government claimed otherwise, the militia had become one of the CCP’s most reliable means of enforcing its maritime goals. Comprised of Chinese citizens who received training from the People’s Liberation Army and worked as sailors, fishermen, or other marine-related vocations, the fleet was a perfect tool for bullying and intimidating would-be encroachers into Chinese fishing waters and maritime territories. While the militia vessels lacked overt martial capabilities, the swarming tactics employed by the vessels were impressive.

Jack thought the fleet would provide excellent cover for whatever the Chinese kidnappers had in mind for Clark. If his boss was still on the water, finding him among the maritime militia would be the equivalent of trying to identify a single grain of sand on a beach full of sediment. Jack and his team had to locate Clark’s boat before his captors made it to the protection offered by the militia or, worse, Chinese soil in the form of one of the man-made islands or reefs.

Using the assumption that the kidnappers were making for friendly territory at a trawler’s or freighter’s best possible speed, Jack had worked with Mario to draw up a possible search grid. Then Jack and the Green Berets had moved their kit and equipment into the Grumman and taken to the air.

Unfortunately, what had seemed like a fairly straightforward plan while poring over nautical charts on the ground was considerably less so bouncing through the choppy sky. Located four hundred or so miles southwest of Manila and about six hundred miles due east of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, the fisheries surrounding the Spratly Islands were some of the richest in the world.

And the most contested.

China, Vietnam, the Philippines, Taiwan, Malaysia, and Brunei all laid at least partial claim to the islands and surrounding waters. With each of these nations jockeying for position, Jack had no shortage of potential targets. Even after narrowing down their search parameters to vessels heading toward the Spratlies from Manila to meet the timeline Jack and Mario had agreed on, the three men had identified half a dozen potential ships.

And these were just the boats they could see.

Though Jad and Cary had spent years perfecting their search and observation skills, combing the ocean with just binoculars was a daunting task. Conducting a truly effective search required multiple radar-equipped ships and aircraft. The ocean distances were simply too vast and the potential targets too small for Jack to feel comfortable believing that his team had identified all the boats that could be carrying Clark.

As plans went, this one was not shaping up to be one of Jack’s finest.

—

“Gavin said he might have an idea how to find Clark,” Jack said, lowering his binoculars to rub tired eyes. “I want to be in position to take advantage of whatever he comes up with, but you’re right. I don’t know that this is getting us anywhere. I’m going to talk to Mario about putting us down in the water to save fuel. Then I’ll check in with Gavin.”

“Any idea what Gavin is doing?” Cary said.

Jack shook his head. “It’s usually better not to ask. Trying to follow his thought process while he’s working his digital magic is like watching a puppy chase its tail. But I will say this—Gavin always comes through.”

This was true.

What was also true was that Gavin’s idea of coming through didn’t always line up with Jack’s.

“No worries,” Cary said. “I actually wouldn’t mind a little time on the water. It will give us a chance to re-zero our weapons.”

Cary gestured to the HK416 rifles secured to the bulkhead, and Jack nodded. Though both men had used their rifles during Clark’s kidnapping, the snipers were fanatical about maintaining their rifles’ zero. The atmospheric conditions on the ocean were similar but by no means identical to what the men had encountered in Manila. Before attempting any high-precision shots, the Green Berets would want to confirm that their long guns were performing as expected. Of course, the world’s most accurate rifle didn’t count for much without a target.

Jack was about to make his way to the cockpit when his pocket vibrated. Pulling out the pulsing cell, he examined the caller ID.

Gavin.

“Speak of the devil,” Jack said, angling the screen so that Cary and Jad could see.

53

Oval Office, Washington D.C.

Mary Pat heard her boss’s voice through the thick door dividing the Oval Office from the reception area just outside. He didn’t sound happy. Mary Pat exchanged glances with the Secret Service agent who opened the door for her. Their eye contact lasted for no more than a second or two, but his gaze communicated volumes.

Things were not going well.

“President Chen, that is simply not true.”

Ryan’s tone seemed almost robotic. Devoid of feeling. As someone who’d seen the President experience the entire spectrum of emotion, Mary Pat recognized the warning tell for what it was. When John Patrick Ryan spoke this way, he wasn’t just angry.

He was incandescent.

Ryan looked up as Mary Pat walked in, but for once he didn’t rise. Probably because it was taking every bit of his control not to reach through the telephone centered on the Resolute desk in front of him and strangle the Chinese president. Arnie van Damm was seated in his usual spot on the couch to the President’s right, and his suit looked somehow more wrinkled than normal. Ryan’s chief of staff leaned forward as Ryan spoke, as if worrying that he’d need to physically restrain the President.

It wasn’t an unrealistic concern.

To Mary Pat’s practiced eye, Ryan looked like a caged animal. His fists were clenched and planted on either side of the phone and his torso was hunched forward as if the desk itself were holding him back. Perhaps another reason why he’d elected not to stand.

The door closed with an unusually loud thump, and it added a sense of finality to Mary Pat’s arrival. Ryan made eye contact with her and raised his eyebrows. Though he hadn’t said a word, she knew what he was asking.

Do you have anything?

Bitterness flooded Mary Pat’s mouth as she shook her head.

Ryan gave a quick nod, but his shoulders still slumped.

She’d come up short. Though Mary Pat knew that Ryan understood the fickle nature of intelligence-gathering, that didn’t make his look of defeat any easier to bear. Her friend had been counting on her and she’d failed him.

Oblivious to the exchange, Arnie scooted over on the couch, making room for Mary Pat, but she remained where she was. Though she’d never been a naval officer, Mary Pat had to believe that this is what it felt like to be on the bridge in the middle of combat. On a ship of war, only the captain was permitted to sit.

“The incident between our aircraft occurred because your spy plane was in Chinese territory.”

While President Chen spoke English, the voice on the phone was young and female, meaning it belonged to a translator. This was normal practice for a high-stakes conversation, but it still added a sense of surrealness to the event. Ryan was engaging in a discussion that could be the prelude to all-out war, and he could neither hear nor see his adversary.

The President’s face flushed at the reference to the P-8.

While the Delaware had successfully rescued all seven crew members, one of the aviators had sustained a broken arm in the crash sequence and a one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar spy aircraft had been lost, to say nothing of the Delaware’s altered mission profile. These were not insignificant events to Ryan, and while he might be persuaded to meet the Chinese halfway if they acknowledged their own culpability in the incident, he would not be sending a letter of apology like his predecessor.

But at the moment, the downed aircraft was the least of anyone’s concerns. Clark was still in captivity, and a large portion of the Chinese fleet was conducting maneuvers on Taiwan’s doorstep. A single misstep by anyone could turn what was now a diplomatic impasse into a shooting war, and Mary Pat had nothing to offer her boss to tilt the conversation to his advantage.

“We obviously see this event differently,” Ryan said. “I vehemently disagree with your characterization of what happened. Your aircraft intercepted mine in a dangerous manner which disregarded all established international norms. Your pilot then compounded an already precarious situation by deploying chaff and flares into my aircraft’s flight path. This provocative act resulted in the destruction of the airplane and nearly caused the deaths of seven Americans. I do not take these actions lightly, Mr. President, but neither do I want the regrettable actions of one pilot to offset the trust you and I have built together over our long and mutually beneficial relationship.”

There it was.

The lead-up to a gentle reminder Ryan intended to deliver about the leeway he’d granted the Chinese president so that he could recover his stranded submarine. Except rather than being dealt from a position of strength, Ryan’s hole card more resembled a Hail Mary. A last-ditch plea for restraint rather than a face-saving off-ramp for President Chen.

This wasn’t going to work.

Mary Pat’s cell phone vibrated.

She flipped over the device to see a text from Sam.

Outside. Now.

Catching the President’s eye, Mary Pat held up her index finger.

Ryan frowned but nodded.

One minute.

Her boss would stall for sixty seconds in the hopes that his top spy had come up with a way to save the day. Not for the first time, Mary Pat was glad she’d worn flats.

It was damn hard to run in heels.

54

“What have you got?” Mary Pat said.

“The missing piece,” Sam said.

For the first time, Mary Pat registered her assistant’s appearance.

At barely thirty, Sam normally dressed like an academic twice his age, probably in an attempt to offset his youthful countenance. If this was his purpose, Sam was failing. His black curly hair, perpetually pale skin, and unlined face brought to mind one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys in spite of the corduroys, sweaters, and sport coats Sam favored. But though his dress was a bit eccentric, Sam’s attire was always spotless and completely put together.

Not today.

Today, Sam could give Arnie a run for his money. His shirt was half untucked, with one sleeve rolled up to his elbow and the other drooping around his wrist. His hair resembled Einstein’s tangled mess, and his eyes sported dark circles. Somehow, Mary Pat had completely missed that she wasn’t the only one going without sleep. She needed to do better by Sam.

But that was a thought for later.

Mary Pat had sixty seconds to keep the South China Sea from erupting.

Everything else would have to wait.

“How did you get answers so soon?” Mary Pat said. “I know that AI algorithms are good, but they’re not magic.”

“Not AI,” Sam said, his curls bouncing as he shook his head. “I did it your way. I looked for the rabbit instead of watching the empty hand.”

Mary Pat had no idea what Sam was talking about.

Neither did she have time for him to explain.

She could feel the seconds passing by one by one like the gong of a clock.

“Bottom-line me,” Mary Pat said. “The boss is on the phone with the Chinese president. I’ve got less than a minute.”

“No problem,” Sam said, turning his tablet so Mary Pat could see. Though his hands were shaking from nerves, too much caffeine, too little sleep, or all of the above, his voice was clear and steady. “This is the Maochong, Mandarin for ‘caterpillar.’ It left Zhanjiang Port two days ago, around the same time Junior ran into trouble in Germany. It’s been steaming southeast ever since and is currently in the vicinity of the section of ocean where the Vietnamese trawler was sunk.”

Mary Pat frowned as she considered the Maochong.

The ship was an odd-looking vessel, without a doubt. It vaguely resembled a container ship, but instead of aluminum shipping containers, the ship’s deck was covered in metal scaffolding. A pair of industrial-sized cranes sat at the stern and what looked like an oil-drilling rig was located midship.

“Does it drill for natural gas or oil?” Mary Pat said.

“Close,” Sam said. “Based on the equipment lashed to the deck, we believe the Maochong is designed to vacuum up polymetallic nodules from the ocean’s floor.”

Mary Pat shook her head.

“You’re losing me, Sam. What does this have to do with what’s happening in the South China Sea?”

“Everything.”

Sam began to speak. His explanation took slightly longer than the thirty seconds Mary Pat had remaining, but once he finished, she understood.

Everything.

“Okay, Sam,” Mary Pat said, interrupting her assistant with an upraised hand, “I’ve heard enough. You’re coming with me.”

“Where?” Sam said.

“To backstop me when I brief the President.”

“I . . . I can’t,” Sam said, his white skin somehow growing even paler. “I’m just an analyst.”

“Not anymore, kid.”

55

“Sorry for the interruption, President Chen,” Ryan said. “We had technical issues on our end and the call dropped. Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you,” the female interpreter said.

As she entered the Oval Office with Sam in tow, Mary Pat noticed two things. While still behind the Resolute desk, Jack Ryan was now standing. Two, judging by the mortified look on Arnie’s face, there had been no technical difficulties. Unless of course you counted Jack Ryan’s index finger. She’d asked her boss for one minute, and rather than improvising, the leader of the free world had hung up on his Chinese counterpart.

Mary Pat didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

As the Oval Office door closed behind her, Ryan pointed at Mary Pat as his eyebrows shot toward the roof. The question was as obvious to her this time as her boss’s silent inquiry had been earlier.

Do you have the goods?

Mary Pat nodded.

Then she pointed to herself.

To his credit, the President didn’t hesitate.

“Good,” Ryan said. “The next person you’ll hear speaking is my director of national intelligence, Mary Pat Foley. She has some late-breaking information that I think might help shed some light on what’s happened thus far. Mary Pat.”

Ryan stepped back from the phone, offering her the floor. In that moment, Mary Pat knew that regardless of what she told Ed, she was never leaving this man’s side.

Mary Pat loved her husband, but she adored Jack Ryan.

“Hello, President Chen,” Mary Pat said, staring down at the phone. “I apologize in advance for any confusion. My assistant will be sending over a summation to my Chinese counterpart of what we discuss, along with the relevant images and data, immediately after this call. We have evidence that a Chinese company named HAZ has mounted a concerted and deliberate attack against American intelligence officers, and that this company, in conjunction with the Abu Sayyaf group, is holding and torturing one of those officers now. We believe the purpose of these attacks is to lead our two nations to the brink of war.”

For once, Mary Pat was glad that this was not a video teleconference. Never known as a superb poker player, Arnie sat with his mouth hanging open and his fingers gripping the couch. From the other side of the phone, Ryan looked at her as if she’d lost her mind, which Mary Pat wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t. Beside her, Sam was almost quivering, whether from a caffeine high or because he was in the Oval Office face-to-face with the President for the very first time, or maybe even because he wasn’t quite as sure of the conclusions he’d laid out for her as he’d let on.

For both their sakes, Mary Pat prayed it wasn’t the latter.

The silence from the other end of the phone seemed to last an eternity.

Mary Pat knew that she’d just done the equivalent of emptying a dump truck into Chen’s lap, but even with the translation and the inevitable checking of her facts, the quiet seemed to stretch. Ryan’s infamous index finger hovered over the mute button, as if he couldn’t decide whether to push it and ask Mary Pat for a more detailed explanation or press on and damn the torpedoes.

His calloused forefinger was descending toward the button when the silence was broken.

“Why would HAZ want us to go to war?” said the interpreter.

Mary Pat exhaled the breath she was holding as quietly as possible. As a case officer, Mary Pat had become adept at war-gaming the direction a conversation would most likely flow. Sometimes crash meetings between an asset and her handler lasted less than a minute. In sixty short seconds, the CIA officer had to garner intelligence, communicate a tasking, and reassure her agent.

While it had been a while since she’d whispered instructions to the Cardinal of the Kremlin, anticipating a person’s thoughts was something Mary Pat still did well. In a first for the last several hours, something had gone according to plan. President Chen had asked the exact question she’d hoped for, and like a slugger stepping into a fastball, Mary Pat swung for all she was worth.

“Great question, Mr. President,” Mary Pat said. “I should have been more precise with my language. I don’t believe the person responsible for this situation intends for us to go to war. I think they want us focused elsewhere long enough for them to stake a claim on the deposit of polymetallic nodules located in the vicinity of the Paracel Islands. The same location the Chinese-flagged ship Maochong, which departed from Zhanjiang Port two days ago, is steaming. My assistant is emailing you pictures of the Maochong now. As you can see by the twelve-meter-long, twenty-five-ton undersea robot secured to the Maochong’s deck, the ship is specifically designed to harvest the nodules.”

Mary Pat debated going further, but didn’t.

This conversation was a cross between a prisoner interrogation and an asset debrief. The key was to give enough information to convince the Chinese that she knew exactly what was going on, while at the same time holding the evidence close to her chest. Which, in truth, wasn’t much more than what she’d already said. Sam was good, but he wasn’t omniscient. He’d laid out several startling coincidences that hinted at something bigger. Ironclad proof this was not, but Mary Pat had learned long ago that in both espionage and poker you played the hand you were dealt.

The silence stretched for a beat, broken only by the sound of Sam’s frantic typing as he emailed the appropriate images and a brief summary of their findings to the Chinese. Sam hit a final key, and the email was sent to the accompanying sound of a chirping bird. Sam’s face flushed scarlet, making him look even younger. Mary Pat would have found the entire episode adorable were the stakes not so high. Still, the kid recovered admirably enough. Sam tapped a couple more keys and then made eye contact with Mary Pat and nodded.

The email had been received.

“As you can see from what we’ve sent you,” Mary Pat said, “the Maochong was rented by a front company associated with HAZ. As I’m sure you’re aware, HAZ provides military contractors for hire and enjoys close ties with the Chinese Communist Party.”

The last statement was deliberately provocative, and Mary Pat succeeded in getting attention. Everyone’s attention. The President locked gazes with her, his lips twisted into a slight frown, while Arnie looked as if he was going to throw up. Sam’s mouth soundlessly opened and closed, giving him the appearance of a curly-haired beached fish.

But the biggest reaction came from the disembodied female voice.

“Are you saying my government had something to do with this?”

And just like that, Mary Pat was in.

“Of course not, sir,” Mary Pat said. “We all know that if the Chinese government were to have sanctioned an undersea mining effort without first requesting a permit through the United Nations’ International Seabed Authority, the seven other exploration permits held by Chinese companies could be summarily revoked and awarded to other nations, potentially sacrificing years of work and billions of dollars. Based on the magnitude of what is at stake, we can only assume that this endeavor was undertaken by rogue elements within the HAZ Corporation without the Chinese government’s approval or knowledge.”

Mary Pat surveyed the room as she finished speaking. Arnie still had both hands dug into the leather couch like he was holding on for dear life, and Sam’s fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm on his tablet, but Mary Pat cared about only one man.

The one standing behind the Resolute desk.

John Patrick Ryan’s expression was still grim, but as he locked gazes with Mary Pat, the President nodded. The gesture was slight, but noticeable. An acknowledgment from one professional to another.

She’d done it.

“President Chen,” Ryan said, “this is President Ryan. I will speak plainly. I would like to request your help with two things. One, our two nations have been tricked into an escalation that could prove deadly. I certainly don’t want that to happen, and I don’t believe you do, either. If you will terminate the live-fire exercises you are currently conducting in the Formosa Strait, I will instruct my carrier strike group to return to their previous patrol.”

Mary Pat felt herself nodding along with the President’s words. Providing an avenue to save face was important when dealing with any foreign leader. With the Chinese, this concept was paramount. By referring to the Taiwan Strait by its Chinese name and offering to vacate the contested section of ocean, Ryan was doing just that.

“What is your second request?”

This time, the voice was male, older, and spoke with perfect Oxford English.

President Chen himself.

Ryan took a steadying breath and leaned closer to the phone. “The man being held by the rogue members of HAZ is a friend of mine. I’d be very grateful if you could help me get him back.”

56

Undisclosed location, South China Sea

“Hey, Gavin,” Jack said. “What have you got?”

Jack pushed a sleeping bag off the lower of two bunk beds mounted to the Grumman’s bulkhead and took a seat on the soft mattress. Though he didn’t want to admit it to the Green Berets, the seaplane was actually growing on him. As air travel went, the aircraft was still a far cry from first class on an international flight, but its furnishings had a campy feeling that brought to mind family trips in a rented RV.

“Jack—tell me you’ve still got the Chinese glider.”

Jack’s muscles tensed despite the memory-foam bed. Gavin was an incredible asset when leveraged correctly, but Jack had learned long ago not to expect the keyboard warrior’s mannerisms to reflect the angst Jack felt while operating at the tip of the spear.

This was not because Gavin didn’t understand the life-or-death nature of Jack’s work.

He did.

But with rare exceptions, Gavin labored in a world of ones and zeros far away from the smell of cordite or the ear-ringing cacophony of a gunfight. Gavin was naturally more relaxed because the stress he faced on his side of the phone, while not inconsequential, was just not in the same league as the pressure under which Jack operated. So when Gavin’s normally laissez-faire phone voice was replaced with one full of urgency, Jack paid attention.

“Yeah, we’ve still got it,” Jack said.

The glider’s winged shape peeked out from the nest of blankets Jad and Cary had created to cradle the Chinese device.

Jack wasn’t sure what had possessed him to keep the submersible. Maybe it was because the price paid to obtain the device made it too valuable to leave behind. Once Gavin had finished mirroring the device’s hard drive, its worth was probably minimal, a sentiment echoed by the Agency extraction team. Even so, Jack couldn’t abandon it. To do so would suggest that Dom had been critically injured for nothing more valuable than a disposable sensor.

While this might be true, Jack couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

So the glider had gone with them down to the marina and into Mario’s seaplane.

“Thank goodness,” Gavin said, his voice even squeakier than usual. “That thing’s going to lead us to Clark.”

Jack got up from the bed and crossed the narrow cabin until he was standing over the glider. In the aircraft’s dim lighting, the device was somehow even less impressive than before. With the dongle from Jack’s laptop still dangling from its USB port and shadows crawling along its fuselage, the glider more resembled a prop from a B science fiction movie than Clark’s salvation.

“Help me out with this, buddy,” Jack said. “I’m not seeing how this hunk of junk is going to help us find Clark.”

“Two things,” Gavin said, his words coming faster in response to his growing enthusiasm. “One, I confirmed Clark’s on a boat. Whoever uploaded the video didn’t do a great job of sanitizing the ambient noise. I had to run the raw file through several software filters, but I was able to grab enough background sound to both confirm the video was shot on a boat and develop an audio profile that will allow us to find it.”

Jack paused as thoughts of what sounds Gavin must have filtered out came to mind.

Sounds of Clark being tortured.

“Audio profile?” Jack said, pushing his anger to the side.

There would be time to feel all of this.

Later.

“Yeah,” Gavin said, oblivious to Jack’s struggle, “in the same way submarine sonar operators develop profiles that allow them to identify ships based on the noise they emit. We now have the acoustical fingerprint for the ship where Clark is being held.”

“You did this yourself?” Jack said.

“Not hardly,” Gavin said. “I’m good, but not that good. But when Mary Pat said that she was opening the intelligence community’s floodgates, she wasn’t kidding. Turns out there are some pretty smart people at—”

“Okay, Gavin, I got it,” Jack said, keenly aware that the Grumman’s radial engines were devouring fuel at an alarming rate. “And this glider’s what—gonna listen for Clark’s boat?”

“Of course not,” Gavin said, his tone almost offended at Jack’s ignorance. “Its sensors have an extremely limited range. The glider would never be able to—”

“Gavin,” Jack said.

“Sorry, Jack. I should have explained this better. That glider is part of a distributed network of sensors that spans a chunk of the South China Sea. Since your glider was discovered by Filipino fishermen working in the same portion of ocean where the people who have Clark are currently hiding, it’s logical to assume the rest of the glider fleet is located in the same general area.”

“And this glider gives us access to the entire submerged network?” Jack said.

“Not exactly. Communication through the water is extremely difficult. We believe that the gliders surface periodically like porpoising whales to data-burst the data they’ve gathered to an autonomous sea drone.”

“A what?” Jack said.

“Think of the gliders as worker bees,” Gavin said, “and the sea drone as the hive’s queen mind. The sea drones are uncrewed high-endurance autonomous vehicles that collect and analyze data from the glider network before passing the finished product back to China via satcom. Naval intelligence thinks one of these sea drones actually tracked a Virginia-class submarine a couple days ago as the boat transited the glider network.”

“And we’re going to use our glider to sync with the sea drone in the hopes that we can leverage the sensor network to find Clark’s boat?” Jack said.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” Gavin said.

Jack looked from the glider to the two other members of his three-man assault team. As professional soldiers were wont to do, the Green Berets were making use of the downtime by giving their rifles a little TLC. Both men seemed completely engrossed in the process of oiling and cleaning their weapons, but Jack wasn’t fooled. Cary had wiped down his already spotless bolt carrier three times, while Jad was unloading and reloading the same magazine over and over like a glitched factory automaton. Jack was never going to be tapped for a job at the Navy Research Laboratory, but even to him what Gavin was proposing was thin.

Then again, so was the idea of taking down a boat full of terrorists with three men.

One problem at a time.

“Okay,” Jack said. “What do we do?”

—

In what should have been no surprise to Jack, Gavin was a little iffy on how to transition his idea of hacking into the Chinese equivalent of Skynet from theory to reality. After a bit of brainstorming that seemed a bit too off-the-cuff for Jack’s taste, Gavin had provided a set of maritime coordinates where he wanted Mario to land. The designated section of open ocean took into account a number of data points, including estimates for Clark’s current location based on the length of time that had elapsed since the kidnapping and the target ship’s probable speed, the distributed glider network’s likely area of coverage, and the vicinity of the as-of-yet-unseen sea drone based on the Delaware’s reporting.

Jack had been wrong earlier.

This wasn’t thin.

It was ludicrous.

But they had nothing else.

Twenty minutes later, the Grumman was bobbing on the ocean’s swells. The seaplane’s port-side hatch was open, and Cary and Jad were holding the glider above the water as Jack plugged his laptop back into the device. He’d already connected the computer to a satellite phone–enabled Wi-Fi hotspot and ceded control of the laptop to Gavin.

At this point, Jack really was no more than a monkey.

“See if any of the LEDs in the glider’s access port are lit, Jack,” Gavin said. “I’m not getting anything.”

Jack stood corrected.

A monkey would probably at least have the good humor to enjoy the situation. Jack knew enough to be worried, but too little to do anything more helpful than follow Gavin’s increasingly terse commands.

With a sigh, Jack set the laptop on a bench seat and joined the Green Berets.

In perhaps the first bit of luck in a long time, the cable connecting the laptop to the glider was long enough that Jack had been able to remain inside the aircraft while the commandos wrestled the glider partially out the hatch. The intent was to provide the device’s satellite antenna a block of clear sky while keeping the contraption out of the surf.

The Green Berets were succeeding.

Mostly.

While the nubs that Gavin was certain contained satellite aerials had unobstructed access to the overcast sky, the ocean wasn’t being terribly cooperative. The sea state had increased, and the Grumman was now waddling from side to side as waves broke against the fuselage, soaking the Green Berets. This had seemed funny when Jack had been warm and dry inside the seaplane.

It was considerably less humorous now.

“Gavin wants to know if any of the LEDs are illuminated,” Jack said.

“Hell if I know,” Jad said.

For all his professions of being a lifelong SoCal surfer, Jad seemed to have a particularly low tolerance for cold salt water. But Jack wisely kept this observation to himself. Leaning past the men, he examined the access port.

A pair of dark LEDs stared back at him.

“No lights, Gavin,” Jack said as he verified that the USB adapter was snug in its port.

“Okay,” Gavin said. “My best guess is that this thing has some kind of standby mode that shuts down all nonessential systems in case the glider accidentally beaches itself. Its microprocessor acknowledged receipt of the executable file I just uploaded, but the device’s peripherals are still powered down.”

“English, Gav,” Jack said, ducking back inside the aircraft just as another swell crashed against the seaplane’s underwing pontoon float.

“The glider powers itself down if it’s out of the water for too long,” Gavin said. “I think you guys need to disconnect the laptop, close the glider’s access port, and hold the device in the ocean for a couple minutes. Once the glider’s microprocessor detects seawater, it should power the sensors and transmitters back up.”

Ignoring the word should, Jack asked the obvious question, even though he already had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Exactly how long do we have to keep the glider in the water?” Jack said.

“No idea,” Gavin said. “I would assume the device powers up pretty quickly. Five minutes?”

“Two minutes in the water it is,” Jack said.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Jad said.

As Jack had expected, the commandos had been monitoring his side of the conversation. As he’d also expected, they were less than thrilled with Gavin’s prognosis.

“Come on, Jad,” Jack said, “you’re always saying that whatever a SEAL can do a Green Beret can do better.”

“And with less hair gel,” Cary said.

“You boys really know how to take the fun out of an interservice rivalry,” Jad said. “Okay, how we doing this?”

“I’ll help you two once I get this USB cable stashed,” Jack said, unplugging the dongle and then closing the glider’s waterproof access port. “Between the three of us, this should be no problem.”

“Waves are picking up. We need to take off before they get much bigger.”

The comment came from Mario, who was still seated in the Grumman’s cockpit. Jack had heard their aviator slide open the cockpit window, but he’d assumed the banker was going to offer an encouraging word or two.

Apparently not.

“How much time?” Jack said.

“I need to start the engines in three minutes,” Mario said.

“No problem,” Jack said, tossing the laptop onto the bunk bed.

From inside the cabin, the aircraft’s swaying was even more apparent. They needed to get this show on the road. Cary and Jad appeared to be of the same mind. The two Green Berets had already muscled the nose of the glider into the water, and Jack grabbed the aft end.

The glider was heavy and awkward. Fortunately, once the forward half was in the sea, the aft end was much easier to handle. With a minimum amount of muscle strains and cursing, the trio got the device into the ocean and oriented parallel to the Grumman. Jad latched on to a dorsal fin–shaped antenna that was positioned midway down the glider, while Cary held on to one of the wings.

“Okay, Gavin,” Jack said. “It’s in the water.”

“Two minutes,” Mario yelled.

A surge of seawater smacked the glider against the Grumman’s fuselage. Cary narrowly got his hands out of the way in time, but then had to dive headlong for the slippery wing as the glider began to slide away. Jack caught the Green Beret by the belt buckle, just as Cary’s fingers closed around the wing.

“This gives new meaning to the term shitshow,” Jad said between clenched teeth. He’d grabbed hold of the dorsal fin when Jack had been forced to let go, and his arms were shaking with the effort.

“One minute,” Mario said.

“How we looking, Gavin?” Jack said.

“Uh . . . I don’t . . . Wait. Wait!”

“Gavin, I swear to God,” Jack said, “if you don’t—”

“It’s working, Jack,” Gavin said. “It’s working. The peripherals are powering back up. I can see the GPS receiver trying to acquire satellites. Huh. That’s weird.”

“Gavin?”

“Some kind of secondary processor is powering up. Looks like it’s— Pull it in, Jack. Pull the glider back in!”

Jack was only flesh and blood. As such, it took a moment for his human brain to comprehend Gavin’s instructions and then form words of his own.

The glider was under no such constraints.

One moment the device was docilely floating next to the Grumman.

The next, the tiny propeller at the glider’s aft end roared to life.

Apparently, tiny was in the eye of the beholder. Up until that moment, Jack would have sworn that the multibladed length of glittering steel was more ornamental than functional.

That assessment changed the moment the propeller started turning.

The glider rocketed out of the men’s hands and into an approaching swell. Then the nose dropped and the stubby shape knifed into the ocean’s murky depths like a homesick demon.

“Fuck,” Jack screamed. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!”

“That about covers it,” Cary said.

“We are leaving,” Mario said, “right now.”

“Where’d the glider go?” Gavin said.

“Judging by its trajectory, I’d say straight to hell,” Jack said, slumping against the bulkhead. Jad took a seat on the opposite side of the cabin as Cary closed the fuselage hatch to the sound of the Grumman’s starting engines.

“What are you going to do now?” Gavin said.

Jack didn’t have a clue.

57

“I’m sorry, Jack. Really, I am.”

Jack didn’t answer.

At least not right away.

Though the Grumman’s takeoff had been decidedly less smooth than their earlier departure from a relatively placid Manila Bay, the turbulent air and squeamish feeling in Jack’s stomach were not the reason for his silence. No, Jack wasn’t answering Gavin for a much more basic reason—he didn’t trust that he could speak without losing his shit. Clark was probably getting the hell beat out of him at this very moment, and the only potential clue to his whereabouts was now at the bottom of the sea.

Jack was way past Gavin’s heartfelt sorry.

Okay, that wasn’t really fair.

Yes, the glider’s unexpected departure was undoubtedly linked to something Gavin had accidentally done, but it wasn’t like the hunk of plastic and steel held the GPS coordinates to Clark’s location somewhere in its computer brain. The whole bit with the glider had been a long shot. Besides, Gavin had been following the same playbook Jack had used for years. When you have only one card left in your hand, lay it on the table and hope for the best. This time, that strategy hadn’t been enough.

Besides, Jack knew Gavin wasn’t the real target of his anger.

That honor belonged to him.

“Jack?”

“I’m here, buddy,” Jack said. “Look, man, it’s not your fault. Without your glider idea, we had nothing. We’re in no worse shape than when we started.”

Technically, that wasn’t true. The gas the Grumman’s engines were devouring and the minutes that were elapsing were both finite resources. The situation was definitely worse off than it had been, but Jack didn’t say this to Gavin. He needed the computer ninja on his A game, and berating Gavin for this mistake wouldn’t help. As much as Jack wanted to curl up in one of the bunk beds and let someone else take a shot at being in charge, he couldn’t. He had to lead, even if at this moment leading consisted of nothing more than ensuring his teammates didn’t quit.

“I just wish I had something left,” Gavin said. “Another idea.”

Jack’s lips were forming the words to another platitude when his thoughts jumped off the train he’d been riding and onto another headed in the opposite direction.

“Hey, Gav,” Jack said, “what about that software app you were playing around with back in Germany? The one you were trying out on the Chinese minders?”

“What, PARSEC? That’s meant to—”

“No, not the Star Wars–sounding one,” Jack said. “The other.”

“Oh,” Gavin said, “you mean HOUDINI. Sure, I was using that to try to penetrate the minders’ phones and—”

“What about the kidnappers on motorcycles?” Jack said. “Would it have penetrated their phones, too?”

“Huh. That’s a great question, Jack. But why would I—”

“The kidnappers in Germany and the operatives in Manila work for the same organization,” Jack said. “If your HOUDINI penetrated their phones, then you’d have access to their contacts and call histories. Figure out who they called and then who those people called. Build out the entire bad-guy network. Then figure out if any phone associated with that network is pinging a satellite or Wi-Fi connection from somewhere in the South China Sea.”

The long pause at the end of his diatribe suggested to Jack that he was onto something. He resisted the urge to prompt Gavin, instead giving the hacker room to think. A patch of turbulence sent the aircraft lurching one way and Jack’s stomach the other.

Right about now, travel by seaplane didn’t seem quite as charming.

“That’s not a half-bad idea, Jack,” Gavin said, “but I don’t have the resources to do that kind of computing.”

“The hell you don’t,” Jack said. “You heard Mary Pat—the walls are down. The entire intelligence community is at your disposal. Get her assistant Sam on the phone and explain what you need. He’ll have the NSA’s supercomputers at Fort Meade crunching data in no time.”

“I’m on it, Jack. I’m on it.”

Gavin ended the call.

“That sounded promising,” Cary said.

Jack looked from his phone to the Green Berets seated across the cabin from him.

“After what just happened, promising isn’t a very high bar,” Jack said.

While he had been talking with Gavin, the commandos had reassembled their weapons and readied their kit. By the looks of things, the men had also taken a turn with Jack’s HK.

“Do you think Gavin will be able to find Clark?” Cary said.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Honesty’s good,” Cary said.

“Yeah,” Jad said, “we can work with that. What’s the play if Gavin’s keyboard magic fails?”

“We pick a boat and hope for the best,” Jack said.

“Seriously?” Jad said.

“You wanted honesty,” Jack said.

“Not that much,” Jad said.

“We know Clark’s on a boat,” Jack said, “and based on the math we did earlier, we have a pretty good idea which subset of ships could be holding him. Let’s do high-level recons of each one and sketch up takedown plans. At this point, that’s all we can do.”

“Agreed,” Cary said. “I’ll sync with Mario. I just hope that Gavin works faster than this bird’s engines burn fuel.”

So did Jack.

58

Undisclosed location, South China Sea

“It is over.”

Fen stared at her phone, as if it was the device itself that had betrayed her. Though she recognized the words that had just been spoken, she could not comprehend their meaning.

“I don’t understand,” Fen said, trying to keep the concern from her tone.

“It is simple,” Aiguo Wu said. “The Americans have seen through your ploy.”

Though confined spaces had never bothered Fen, her cabin’s dingy walls suddenly seemed to be collapsing. Her gaze drifted to a dirt-colored section of ceiling, the discoloration reaching down the steel like clutching fingers. Surely a fishing trawler’s filthy cabin was not where the struggle for both her future and that of her nation would end.

“How?” Fen said.

“How is not important,” Aiguo said. “At Ryan’s request, President Chen has agreed to provide Chinese assistance rescuing the American operative you’re holding captive. Jiaolong commandos have been tasked with securing your pirate ship. I suggest you not be present when they arrive.”

“What of the nodule deposits?” Fen said.

“I do not know how to say this more plainly,” Aiguo said. “Your plan has failed. The Americans know everything. President Chen has ordered the Maochong to return to port. Your corporate offices are being raided even now. I’m telling you this out of respect from one professional to another. Disappear while you still have the chance.”

Fen could disappear.

Like every successful corporate CEO in China, she knew that her existence depended on maintaining favor with a mercurial Chinese Communist Party. While her alliance with Aiguo had provided Fen with some level of protection, she’d also fashioned her own safety net in the form of offshore bank accounts and falsified passports. As a former intelligence operative, Fen knew how to hide. If she took Aiguo’s advice and disappeared for a time, perhaps her benefactor might be able to facilitate her return at some point in the future.

But Fen didn’t believe in running.

“No,” Fen said. “I will stay the course.”

Then she ended the call.

She would not abandon her plan.

She would finish it.

While this venture certainly would have enriched her, Fen hadn’t embarked on it for money or power. Her nation’s rivalry with America had driven it to the brink of economic collapse. With Clark as her captive, Fen still had a chance to strike a crippling blow to China’s most dangerous adversary.

She intended to take it.

59

Undisclosed location, South China Sea

Jack’s cell vibrated.

He pulled the device from his pocket and checked the caller ID, hoping for Gavin.

He saw Mary Pat’s number instead.

“Hey, Mary Pat,” Jack said.

“They’re gonna kill him, Jack. They’re gonna kill Clark.”

Jack’s first instinct was to ask Mary Pat whether she was sure, but he bit back the response. She was the director of national intelligence and a former CIA case officer.

She was sure.

“How much time do I have?” Jack said.

“Not enough,” Mary Pat said. “Another message just went up on the Abu Sayyaf group’s social media site teasing a final video. An execution video. Whoever is running this from the Chinese side must not have had as tight a leash on their coconspirator as they thought.”

Mary Pat’s words battered Jack, but he refused to feel their weight. He had a job to do. A job that required clear eyes and a full heart. A job that would permit no emotional attachment to the victim. In this moment, Clark was not his friend or mentor. The Campus operative was just a nameless, faceless American hostage.

A hostage Jack intended to rescue.

“Can I count on any help?” Jack said.

As much as he fought to keep his voice calm, some of his emotion must have leaked through. Jad looked up from where he was fiddling with his rifle, and Cary reached for his body armor. The two Green Berets had to know that they were facing insurmountable odds, but the commandos were kitting up just the same.

Jack’s chest burned with pride.

“No,” Mary Pat said. “The Chinese have grudgingly offered assistance, but we’re a long way from fleshing out what that would actually look like. Our special mission unit shooters are en route, but their plane is still hours away. You’re it, Jack.”

Mary Pat’s words were comforting in a way. While Jack would have traded his left eye for Brandon Cates and his merry band of frogmen, introducing newcomers into his tactical stack now would be more hindrance than help. As recent events had made clear, Campus operators weren’t invincible. But when it came to a gunfight, Jack would much rather be standing next to operators he’d already shed blood with than an unknown team. Besides, knowing that his resources were limited to the people in the Grumman helped to bring the tactical situation into focus.

The unknowns were gone from the equation.

This would all come down to Jack and his boys.

“Okay,” Jack said, “I’m on it.”

“Jack?” Mary Pat said.

“Yeah?”

“Take them to the woodshed.”

Mary Pat ended the call.

Jack speed-dialed Gavin’s number.

“Jack,” Gavin said, “I was just about to call you. I—”

“Sorry to interrupt, buddy,” Jack said, “but it’s decision time. We have to hit a target. Now. What do you have for me?”

“I need more time, Jack,” Gavin said, his voice quaking. “I’ve got some promising leads, but—”

“They’re going to kill Clark, Gavin,” Jack said. “Right now. I’m not asking for perfect. I just need your best guess.”

Jack kept his tone calm, even though his stomach was quivering.

This was it.

The moment of truth.

“But what if I’m wrong?” Gavin said. “Last time I was wrong, we lost the glider. This time one of you could come home in a body bag.”

“Listen to me, Gavin,” Jack said. “I’m the team leader, and this is my call. Mine. Whatever happens is on me, not you. Now give me your best guess. Please.”

For a long moment, Jack was worried that Gavin would refuse to answer.

Then a sigh echoed from his phone.

“Okay, Jack,” Gavin said. “Here’s what I think.”

Gavin read aloud a string of coordinates, which Jack compared to the nautical chart stretched across the table he’d appropriated as a workspace. Though not exact, the coordinates corresponded to one of the trawlers he and the Green Berets had marked as a potential target.

They were in business.

“Great job, Gav,” Jack said. “I’ll give you a ring once we have Clark.”

Jack ended the call.

“What’s up, boss?” Jad said.

Until now, Jad had reserved the title of boss almost exclusively for Cary. That the Green Beret was now applying it to Jack meant something. But Jack wasn’t going to take a victory lap quite yet. He might be making progress, but Jack had a feeling he’d be right back at square one once the Green Beret heard what he intended.

“We’re going after Clark,” Jack said.

“I’m down with that,” Cary said. “Who’s in the assault team?”

“You’re looking at them,” Jack said.

“You just had to ask,” Jad said.

“Got it,” Cary said. “Who else is in the assault team?”

“I guess they breed them big and dumb in New Hampshire,” Jad said.

“We’re it,” Jack said, “so the good news is that we won’t have to worry about coordinating with unfamiliar units during the assault.”

“I don’t think I want to hear the bad news,” Jad said.

“What’s the plan?” Cary said.

“Not so much a plan as a concept of the operation,” Jack said.

“Told you,” Jad said.

“Told me what?” Cary said.

“That he was an officer,” Jad said. “Only officers spew that kind of bullshit.”

“Right here, guys,” Jack said. “I’m right here.”

“Better lay it on us,” Cary said. “The sooner you finish talking, the sooner we can get to shooting.”

Jack couldn’t help but think that there was a strange sense of logic to the Green Beret’s words. Maybe they really were gelling as a team. Or maybe he was losing his mind.

Only one way to find out.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Here’s what I’m thinking.”

60

Undisclosed location, South China Sea

Antel Andang did not put much stake in the miraculous. Though he espoused the same Muslim faith as his crewmates, when it came to day-to-day living, Antel was practical. He survived through kidnappings and theft. That the imam had given him sanction for the bloody work as long as he donated ten percent of his take to the mosque’s coffers meant very little to Antel. In the years he’d been plying his trade on the Sulu and Celebes Seas off the coast of the Philippines, Antel had witnessed plenty of strange sights, but he’d never seen Allah personally weigh in on his behalf.

Until today.

One moment, Antel had been standing watch on the bridge. The next, the heavens opened and a bucket of money fell into his lap. Not a literal bucket of money, perhaps, but pretty close. Antel had been a pirate his entire adult life. As such, he’d developed a finely tuned sense for what was going to make him rich versus what equated to just another headache.

The plane bobbing on the water in front of his ship had dollar signs written all over it.

Antel had heard the twin-engine aircraft before he’d seen it. While his aviation experience was admittedly limited, he knew motors, and the ones powering the airplane were struggling. The sound of the sputtering engine had him looking skyward through the bridge’s dirty windows just as the plane had limped into view. Between the dense, white smoke pouring from the craft’s cabin and the misfiring engine, Antel didn’t think the aircraft could make it very much farther.

Apparently, the pilot shared his view.

The plane made a tight turn around Antel’s ship and then came in for a landing. The craft bounced across the waves before settling into the water, its engines coughing a final time and then dying. While the pilot appeared to have set down in the nick of time, landing the seaplane in no way abated smoke pouring from the cabin’s open window.

If anything, the noxious cloud grew thicker once the cabin door opened.

A small raft was thrown out the door by unseen hands, automatically inflating after splashing into the seawater. Then two men leapt into the rolling surf and pulled themselves into the raft. Without pause, the pair began paddling toward Antel’s vessel as if their lives depended on it.

Judging by the smoke still billowing from the airplane, perhaps they did.

One of the men, American by the look, uncapped a flare and began waving the device at Antel as the second continued to paddle.

As if the pirate could have missed the stricken plane’s arrival.

“Throw down the cargo net,” Antel said to a trio of deckhands as he eased his trawler closer to the pair, “and help them aboard.”

While the airplane might be a lost cause, the two crew members certainly weren’t. Anyone wealthy enough to travel by airplane was wealthy enough to be ransomed. And if Antel was wrong, disposing of their bodies in the ocean would be no great chore.

Perhaps Allah really did look after those who looked after themselves.

61

“Looking good, boss,” Jad said. “You’re really selling it.”

Jack responded with two clicks of the transmit button. Sound traveled easily over the open water, and he didn’t want to accidentally alert the pirates that all was not as it seemed.

Besides, Jad was right, they were really selling it.

Jack liked to think that Mario was furiously paddling because he, too, believed in the tactical genius of Jack’s plan. But this probably wasn’t true. Jack had promised the banker that once Jack got aboard the trawler, Mario’s role in their rescue operation would be complete. This was most likely why the Filipino was paddling like a madman.

That was fine with Jack.

With four-foot swells battering his meager raft and a boatload of armed pirates towering over him, Jack was also ready to conclude this phase of the rescue.

“Okay, Scepter,” Cary said, his tone all business, “I’ve got movement in the bridge. I need that guy outside to guarantee the shot, though, over.”

Shooting through glass was always an iffy proposition.

The silicon-based barrier altered a projectile’s trajectory in unpredictable ways, making it difficult to achieve target effect with the first shot. This was doubly so with the light 5.56-millimeter round the Green Berets’ HK416 rifles fired. Jack needed the pirate standing watch on the bridge dead, which meant that he had to get the terrorist to move to his side of the glass.

With a sigh, Jack eyed Mario and settled on what he had to do.

62

“Has that boy lost his mind?” Jad said.

Cary didn’t answer. After working this long with Jack Ryan, Jr., Cary considered Jad’s question rhetorical. But to be fair, right about now Cary was half convinced that they’d all lost their minds.

“I said we needed the pirate out of the bridge,” Cary said. “He’s getting him out of the bridge.”

“By stripping Mario naked?” Jad said.

“Maybe he’s a Method actor,” Cary said.

“Or maybe his luck has finally run out.”

“Call the shot,” Cary said.

This was less because Cary needed a wind call and more because he wanted his spotter focused on something other than the theater of absurdity playing out in front of them.

“Winds from the northwest at three miles per hour,” Jad said, his voice now all business. “Range is one hundred fifty meters.”

Most civilian hunters could manage such a shot with an off-the-shelf rifle and a plain-Jane optic. A Special Operations–trained shooter like Cary could have made the shot with iron sights and an ancient M-16. Since the Green Beret was equipped with an HK416 and a SIG Sauer Tango6T rifle scope, taking out the pirate should have been the equivalent of Babe Ruth stepping up to the plate in a slow-pitch softball league.

But as with everything associated with Jack Ryan, Jr., the devil was in the details. In this case, the two Green Berets were not on solid ground firing down at an unsuspecting insurgent. Instead, the men were huddled on a makeshift shooting platform recessed in the Grumman’s cabin, peering through recently removed windows as the aircraft bobbed in the swells.

And then there was the smoke.

On the positive side of the ledger, there was actually nothing wrong with Mario’s seaplane. The Grumman was not in danger of sinking, and its engines still functioned just fine. On the negative side, Jack knew that he had to give the pirates a reason why he and Mario would abandon a perfectly good airplane for the open ocean.

Smoke grenades provided the answer.

And while Jad had tossed the munitions as close to the open ramp as possible, the air inside the cabin was still getting a bit stuffy as acrid chemical fumes brought tears to Cary’s eyes. This kind of suck wasn’t in the same league with rotting garbage heaps in Iraq, but neither was the pending hundred-meter shot a walk in the park.

Cary centered the red cross representing his round’s point of impact on the pirate’s head and waited. If Jack floated all the way to the side of the trawler without convincing the pirate to show himself, Cary would shoot through the glass and hope for the best. He debated offsetting the aiming reticle to try to account for the deflection imparted by the glass, but didn’t. Trying to guess how his first shot would break was a fool’s errand. Better to aim where he wanted to hit, with the intention of sending a second bullet chasing the first if necessary.

“Lookee there,” Jad said, “our boy just might win an Academy Award after all.”

A cargo net cascaded down the trawler’s side, offering Jack and Mario a way to board the ship. But Jack’s frantic actions must have convinced the pirates that he was in need of help. Though not exactly known as the Florence Nightingales of the sea, the pirates were probably also loath to let a potential payday slip through their fingers. Cary’s target left the bridge to join a cluster of sailors, even as another pirate grabbed hold of the cargo netting and began to climb down toward Jack’s raft.

That was good.

What was not so good was that Cary now had multiple targets to engage.

“Get on your gun,” Cary said, adjusting the plan on the fly. “I’ll take the man closest to the bridge. You have his friend.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Jad said, trading his binoculars for his HK. “What about the Crow on the cargo net?”

“He belongs to our fearless leader,” Cary said.

63

“Scepter, this is Reaper, targets acquired. Be advised, you have one Crow climbing down the cargo net toward your boat. He’s yours. We will initiate on your go, over.”

Jack nodded, too busy doing chest compressions on a perfectly fine Mario to click the transmit button. Or at least the banker was mostly perfectly fine. If given the choice, Mario would probably rather not be lying in a puddle at the bottom of the raft with his shirt off.

To Mario’s credit, the most reluctant member of Jack’s team was doing his best to sell Jack’s performance. Then again, since getting kidnapped by Islamic terrorists turned pirates was the alternative, Mario probably didn’t have much difficulty finding his motivation for the role. Jack continued to thump on Mario’s chest as he played out how the engagement would flow. The raft had drifted slightly, and Jack’s back was now to the ship, so he couldn’t see the pirate scrambling down the net.

But the Green Berets could.

“Scepter, Reaper, Crow is ten feet above you.”

This time, Jack didn’t bother to nod. He simply waited, visualizing the coming fight like he was choreographing an action scene. In a manner of speaking, that’s exactly what he was doing. Jack would need to surprise and silence the pirate in concert with the two snipers. Two snipers who were bobbing on the ocean one hundred yards away in a smoke-filled airplane.

Just once, Jack wished for something easy, but as his SEAL friends loved to say, the only easy day was yesterday.

“Scepter, Reaper, Crow is— Shit.”

This was not the update he’d been expecting. Jack was about to turn when the raft quaked beneath him, answering his unasked question. Rather than climb the rest of the way down, the pirate had jumped the remaining five feet.

So much for a carefully synchronized operation.

“Tayo,” the man shouted.

“Thank goodness,” Jack said, turning toward the pirate. “He’s having a heart attack. I—”

The pirate didn’t seem to be one for bedside manners. With the casual disregard one might show a buzzing mosquito, the pirate reversed the short-barreled AK-47 he was carrying, and butt-stroked Jack in the head.

Strike two for Jack’s choreography.

The blow rang Jack’s bell. He stopped himself from face-planting into the rubber, but he was in no position to administer a killing strike with the folding knife he was palming. Jad’s folding Spyderco knife. A scream from Mario helped clear his cobwebs, and only then did Jack realize what was happening. The pirate’s solution to Mario’s cardiac arrest was simple—shoot the patient.

The pirate was tightening his finger on the trigger when Jack struck, burying the blade into the tender portion of the man’s inner thigh. Jack missed the femoral artery, but he got the pirate’s attention all the same. The AK-47 fired, but the burst went wide. Unfortunately, not wide enough. The rifle’s chatter was greeted with an immediate hiss as the stream of 7.62-millimeter rounds punched through the raft’s flimsy rubber frame.

But that was a problem for later.

The entirety of Jack’s attention was focused on preventing the pirate from firing a second, more lethal burst. Snapping his hand up the man’s thigh, Jack grabbed a fistful of testicles and twisted. The pirate’s scream turned decidedly high-pitched, but the AK-47’s looming maw continued tracking toward Jack’s face. Jack dropped the Spyderco and reached for the metal barrel, trying to redirect the rifle.

His efforts were wasted.

The distance was simply too great.

And then Mario was there.

The Filipino tackled the pirate, bearing him to the raft. The rifle fired again and the report buffeted Jack’s head with unseen fists. No matter. He was still alive. Jack celebrated his continued existence by grabbing the Spyderco and plunging the knife into the man’s neck and ripping.

Blade work was rarely clean.

This was no exception.

After a string of savage thrusts that coated Jack’s hands to the wrists in blood, it was done. The guard was dead, and Jack and Mario were alive and unhurt.

Relatively speaking.

Unfortunately, they were also passengers in a shot-up and sinking lifeboat.

“Scepter, this is Reaper, if you’re done fiddle fucking around, you might want to get moving. Your kill wasn’t exactly silent. Besides, your boat’s sinking.”

Sometimes Jack didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Without bothering to reply, Jack grabbed hold of the cargo net and began to climb.

64

Fen Li looked at the decking above her, trying to place the source of the unusual sound. That it was a motor of some kind she had no doubt. The trawler’s metal walls were vibrating with the engine’s deep bass, but it sounded . . . wrong. As if it were running roughly or perhaps not firing on all cylinders. The roar crescendoed, and Fen clutched her phone for support, preparing for the worst.

Then the rumbling began to subside as whatever it was passed by.

“Check on that,” Fen said to Haoyu in Mandarin.

To his credit, her second-in-command didn’t argue. Instead, the hulking mercenary gave a brisk nod and then slithered up the ladder leading topside, leaving Fen in the refrigeration compartment with a single Abu Sayyaf pirate named Radullan and Fen’s prisoner, Clark. Gone were the days of Fen issuing instructions from the safety of the observation deck. This needed to be done perfectly, which meant she intended to do it herself.

“What was that?” Radullan said.

Like his compatriots, Radullan was Filipino, small, and skinny. But unlike his fellow pirate, who was now short several fingers, Radullan had reacted quickly and decisively to Clark’s earlier outburst. He would be a worthy partner in this final endeavor.

“Probably nothing,” Fen replied. “Either way, Haoyu will handle it. You and I will finish the work here.”

Radullan looked from Fen to Clark and back again. “How?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” Fen said.

The pirate shrugged and set to tying one end of the rope he was holding into a noose as Fen tossed the other through the metal loop secured to the ceiling. She didn’t know the piece of metal’s intended purpose. Nor did she care. The circular section of steel looked as though it would bear Clark’s weight, and that was all that mattered.

The rope’s coarse fiber irritated her skin, and for a moment she considered what it would feel like cinched across her own throat. If done correctly, hanging was a quick and relatively painless method of execution. The victim’s falling body weight drew the noose tight, snapping their spine.

Death was nearly instantaneous.

Clark’s execution would not be done correctly. Fen and Radullan would hoist the American into the air and let him hang until the noose collapsed his windpipe and his brain died from lack of oxygen.

This would make for extremely good television.

After watching Clark piss himself as his face turned ever deeper shades of blue, Jack Ryan would be infuriated, and infuriated people made mistakes.

Deadly ones.

“Ready?” Radullan said.

“One moment,” Fen said.

She’d need both hands to help the pirate hoist the American into the air. Looking around the compartment for a place to stage her cell phone, she spotted a small shelf running the length of the far wall. She configured her phone to auto-record as she crossed the bloodstained decking and placed the device on the ledge.

After a several-second trial run, she reviewed the results.

Perfect.

Clark and his chair were centered in the frame. The zoom would capture him as the rope dragged him upward, while keeping her and Radullan out of the image. Or at least her, anyway. Perhaps it would be better if the Americans were allowed to see the pirate. Ryan’s coming rage would need a target.

After deleting the trial run, Fen set the countdown feature on her phone and placed the device back on the shelf.

Then she turned back to Radullan.

“It is time.”

65

Jack scampered up the cargo netting, trying not to think about what might be waiting to greet him on the trawler’s deck. He’d intended to use the Green Berets’ suppressed rifles to effect a silent boarding.

Or at least nearly silent.

As anyone familiar with firearms knew, while the soda can–shaped suppressors dampened the rifles’ report, they could do nothing about the distinctive crack a high-velocity round made as it transited the sound barrier. But that was fine. The ocean’s ambient noise combined with the constant background chatter of a working boat ought to go a long way toward masking the shots.

That had been the theory, anyway.

But since Jack’s pirate had gone full rock ’n’ roll with his AK, stealth was out the window. Now the steady barrage of rifle fire coming from the seaplane provided Jack with some much-needed confidence. He might still be outgunned and outmanned, but his Green Beret friends were doing their best to level the playing field.

“Reaper, this is Scepter,” Jack said, pausing just below the lip of the boat’s steel side. “How am I looking?”

“Scepter, Reaper, wait one.”

Jack hesitated, clutching the swaying rope with gloved fists. Two cracks echoed from across the water.

Then a form tumbled over the gunwale and splashed into the ocean.

“Scepter, Reaper, you’re clear over the ledge. Be advised, we’re going to reposition one at a time onto the seaplane’s roof. This will give us better visibility of the boat, but you’ll be down a rifle until we’re both set, over.”

“Roger that, Reaper,” Jack said. “Good shooting.”

Once again Jack found himself thanking his lucky stars for the commandos. The snipers had elected to operate from inside the seaplane for better concealment and cover. While transitioning onto the roof would undoubtedly offer the shooters better sight lines, it would also make the pair easier to see. But as always, threats to their person didn’t seem to factor into the Green Berets’ decision-making process.

Their job was to cover Jack.

If they could do their job better from the airplane’s roof, moving was a foregone conclusion despite the tactical risk.

Jack might be boarding the ship by himself, but he wasn’t alone.

Jack hoisted himself over the gunwale and landed on the deck in a crouch. He brought his MP5 up to his shoulder, panning the EOTech’s crimson circle across the deck. The cabin door to Jack’s left swung open, revealing a bearded face. Jack fired twice, but the first shot did the job. The man fell forward, his rifle clattering off the deck. Jack stalked toward the door, keeping the crimson circle floating in the space the man’s head had just occupied.

Based on a bit of quick research, Lisanne had estimated the trawler probably had a crew of six or so, along with room for another handful of passengers. Judging by the bodies sprawled across the decking, Cary and Jad had been doing a fine job thinning the herd, but that was still a huge imbalance in comparison to Jack’s one-man rescue operation.

Fortunately, he had a plan to address that.

Or, more accurately, Cary had a plan.

After closing the distance to the still-open door, Jack conducted a quick peek around the corner, leading with the MP5’s muzzle. The passage was dimly lit and stank, but was mercifully empty.

For now.

“Scepter is inside,” Jack whispered as he flowed down the hallway. “Execute Phase Two.”

“Roger that,” Cary said. “Fire in the hole.”

The ship’s thick bulkheads kept Jack from hearing the beginning of Phase Two, but there was no mistaking its culmination. An explosion echoed the length of the hall as dirt and grit drifted from the shuddering bulkhead. Though Jack had been skeptical when Cary had first explained his idea of a distraction, he was now sold. The 40-millimeter grenades the Green Beret was lofting from the M320 launcher mounted to the bottom of his HK416 were nowhere near powerful enough to do serious structural damage to the trawler, but they made a hell of a bang. Hopefully this would be enough to give what remained of the crew something to focus on for the next several minutes.

Something that wasn’t Jack.

Up ahead, the passageway swung ninety degrees to the right. The narrow corridor didn’t offer enough room for Jack to ease around the corner using the slicing-the-pie method of clearing the space, and neither did he want to take the time for a quick peek. By firing high-explosive grenades into the top of the ship’s superstructure, Cary was calling attention to himself in an unmistakable way.

Time was of the essence.

Crashing the corner, Jack dominated the space.

Or at least he would have dominated the space, had there not been a burly Asian man sprinting toward the door with the same idea. The fighter hit Jack like a locomotive. Both men fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs and automatic weapons.

While Jack was certainly familiar with the notion of fighting in an elevator, he’d never been in an environment this restrictive. His fingers reflexively went to the MP5’s plastic stock, but there was no way he was getting the submachine gun into the fight. With one shoulder wedged against the bulkhead, the other pressed flat against the deck, and the HK smashed against his chest by a combination of the Asian man’s weight and AK-47, Jack needed to think creatively.

So he used his head.

Literally.

Jack headbutted the fighter in the face with the short, quick strike he’d practiced countless times in the Campus fight house. It didn’t go so well. Rather than crunching the man’s nose or rearranging his grille, Jack’s forehead connected with the fighter’s head. The skull-to-skull contact made Jack see stars, but it also created space between the combatants.

Space Jack filled with his right elbow.

Though the angles and body position were once again not in Jack’s favor, he didn’t try for a perfect strike. Rather than gunning for the temple or jaw, Jack plowed his body’s hardest bone into the Asian man’s neck. His first hit landed high, almost at the man’s jawline, but his second impacted lower on the neck in brachial stun territory. The fighter slumped, but Jack drilled him twice more. The shots disrupted the flow of the blood to the man’s brain, inducing a blackout. A blackout made permanent after Jack secured his MP5 and shot the fighter twice in the chest.

As with most hand-to-hand combat scenarios, the entire episode had been both brief and brutal. Getting to unsteady feet, Jack took a breath even as he combat-reloaded the MP5. He’d been lucky, no two ways about it. A misplaced shot or a quicker reaction on the fighter’s part and Jack could have been the one on the floor with two holes in his chest.

Jack stared at the dead fighter. The hulking fighter looked Asian. Chinese, if Jack had to bet. Which meant that maybe Jack was on the right boat after all.

Things were finally starting to go his way.

“Scepter, this is Reaper.”

“Go for Scepter,” Jack said, seating the new magazine.

“You need to hurry. Our diversionary attack has been a bit too successful, over.”

“Reaper, Scepter,” Jack said, “it’s already been a long day. Spell it out in black-and-white, please.”

“The fishing trawler’s on fire, over.”

Of course it was.

66

Between the explosions rocking the ship and the sounds of automatic rifle fire, Fen knew things weren’t going well, but that was okay. She had one task left in this life to complete, and by her ancestors, she would complete it.

“Quickly,” Fen said, “throw it around his neck.”

Radullan gave a long look at the hatch leading from the compartment, but he didn’t abandon her. Instead, the pirate shrugged and finished the noose, checking the loop with two quick tugs to verify his handiwork.

Then he turned toward Clark.

The American watched the pirate approach with an expressionless face.

It was difficult to anticipate how a man would approach death, no matter how well you knew them. Some who Fen had thought were warriors cried like children when the moment came. Others faced the eternal with a stoicism that defied description.

And then there was Clark.

Though the man was handcuffed and his chair bolted to the floor, the American’s empty expression still gave Fen chills. He wore a look of foreboding. A darkness reminiscent of an angry storm cloud moments before lightning erupted from its roiling mass. Clark more resembled the executioner than the condemned.

But it was Clark’s eyes that most troubled her. As they locked gazes, Fen didn’t see fear.

She saw death.

Suppressing a shiver, Fen ran her end of the rope through a pulley mounted to the bulkhead. Clark had to weigh at least ninety kilos. Even with Radullan’s help, it would be no small task to get him airborne. She would take all the mechanical aid she could get. After giving the rope a yank to ensure it had fed through the pulley mechanism correctly, Fen turned back to Clark and nodded at Radullan. The pirate had learned his light-fingered compatriot’s lesson.

As agreed, the pirate snapped a fist into Clark’s jaw, torquing the American’s head to the right. Dazed, Clark slumped. The pirate looped the rope over the American’s neck and drew the noose tight in one practiced motion.

Next, Radullan bent to release the set of cuffs securing Clark to the chair. As before, the pirate’s motions were practiced and smooth. The same could not be said of the cuff’s locking mechanism. Whether the key had been bent, the keyhole rusted, or the ratchet coated in condensation, Fen didn’t know. When the handcuff didn’t immediately release, the pirate went to one knee, resting his shoulder against the back of Clark’s chair as he continued to work the key.

Though nothing in Clark’s appearance suggested that the American had emerged from his punch-drunk twilight, Fen’s stomach still clenched.

Something wasn’t right.

Fen opened her mouth to shout a warning when a steel-on-steel shriek announced the handcuffs’ release. She jerked the slack from the rope, intending to put tension on Clark like he was a dog on a leash.

It was the wrong decision.

Exploding upward, Clark propelled himself backward. The rigid chair acted as a pivot point, the screws securing it to the floor preventing it from tipping. Clark flopped over the chair into the still-kneeling pirate. Fen tugged the rope for all she was worth, putting her entire fifty-kilo weight into the endeavor. The rope snapped tight, jerking Clark toward the ceiling, but the American’s girth was too much for Fen to bear.

Then she understood why.

Though he had crashed into the pirate with the grace of a boulder rolling off a cliff, Clark had not missed the opportunity offered by the collision. In the fraction of a second the two men were entangled, Clark had wrapped his legs around Radullan’s neck. Though her initial adrenaline-fueled movement had indeed jerked Clark skyward, Fen had unwittingly provided additional tension for Clark’s choke. Tendons stood out on the American’s neck like steel cables as he fought the noose even as he thrashed Radullan from side to side.

Fen’s arms shook with the effort of bearing the weight of both men, but she didn’t dare let go. Despite Clark’s best efforts, the noose was cinching into his throat, and his face was beginning to redden. The American was tough but not invulnerable. If Fen could keep tension on the rope, Clark’s weight would do the hard work for her. Her screaming back and arm muscles begged for relief, but Fen held tight. As Clark had twice demonstrated, he was as dangerous handcuffed as most men were free.

A lesson Radullan was relearning.

As often happens when people are put in a fight-or-flight situation, the pirate engaged his muscles rather than his brain. Radullan spasmed as he tried to pry Clark’s legs from his neck. His fists battered the American’s thighs with ineffective strikes. The solution was easy for Fen to see, but Radullan’s fear and rage prevented him from arriving at the same conclusion.

“Stand,” Fen said as her slender arms shuddered beneath the strain. “Stand up!”

Something in Fen’s tone must have cut through the pirate’s mental fog. Just as Fen’s arms were about to give out, Radullan gathered his feet and stood. Fen resisted the urge to allow slack into the rope. Instead, she kept the line taut, maintaining pressure on Clark’s neck as the now standing pirate forced the American to bear most of his own weight with his quivering legs. For a long moment the fight devolved into a contest of wills—Fen’s as she ordered her screaming arm and back muscles not to give way, and Radullan as he stood and pushed down on the American’s torso.

Clark was stretched in one direction by the tension on his neck and a second by his body weight. The pirate took a stumbling step toward Fen, and the American swayed like a rope bridge, anchored at one point by the noose and the other by his leg lock on the pirate’s neck. Fen gritted her teeth even as she voiced her agony in a guttural moan.

Something had to give.

Clark broke first.

Releasing his leg hold on the pirate’s neck, Clark caught the chair with his feet, relieving the pressure on his neck. Like an anaconda tightening its coils, Fen jerked the slack from the rope as she screamed at the pirate.

“Help me!”

The latch activating the pulley’s ratchet taunted her, just centimeters away. If she could trigger it, the American’s weight would be borne by the locking mechanism instead of her quivering muscles. But now that she had the tiger by the tail, Fen couldn’t let go. For a long moment, Radullan swayed on his feet. Then, like a dog shedding water from its coat, the pirate shook his head from side to side.

Finally, his dark eyes settled on Fen.

With a shout, Radullan charged toward her.

67

An unseen sense of urgency propelled Jack deeper into the bowels of the boat. He sprinted down dingy corridors and hurtled blindly through turns. A feeling he couldn’t quite explain but nonetheless believed told him that time was running out. Though explosions still rocked the trawler and the smell of smoke lay heavy on the air, Jack didn’t think the vessel’s deteriorating condition was the source of his distress.

He’d never responded to an active-shooter scenario, but Jack imagined this must be what the first law enforcement officer on the scene felt. An overwhelming sense that if he did not get to his destination quickly, the horror he would find would prove unbearable. A tiny part of Jack’s mind was thankful that it wasn’t a classroom full of helpless children he was rushing to save. Nonetheless, desperation still roiled his stomach.

The Campus was still reeling from the aftereffects of the warehouse ambush. The close-knit organization wouldn’t be able to weather the loss of yet another teammate.

Neither would Jack.

So he ran.

Ran like a man possessed.

Jack still carried the MP5 in the high-ready position, but he no longer bothered with clearing corners or stacking on closed doors. His carelessness might very well result in his own death, but Jack didn’t slow. Like a captain was expected to go down with his ship, Jack was coming home with John T. Clark or not at all.

A shadow stretched across the wall.

Jack brought the MP5 up to his shoulder, taking the slack out of the trigger. A millisecond later, a man rounded the corner. Jack fired a burst into the man’s chest and then trampled his still-twitching body without breaking stride.

Speed.

Speed was everything.

Jack dropped the MP5, letting the sling catch the submachine gun as he pumped his arms. For a moment, he was back in high school, running the hundred-yard dash as his father looked on from the stands. His breath came in shuddering gasps as the balls of his feet pounded against the metal decking. Jack surged down the corridor.

He was out of time.

Like a runner sliding into second, Jack skidded around the final corner. As per the blueprints Lisanne had provided for the trawler, a ladder stood in a dingy corner. A ladder leading to the fish-refrigeration compartment. Grabbing the rungs, Jack slid into the darkness. For the first time, he heard what before had been too faint for anything but his subconscious to notice.

Screams.

Screams coming from inside the compartment.

Jack slammed onto the deck and turned toward the compartment’s door.

The screaming stopped.

68

Radullan grabbed the rope with dirty hands and pulled. Though the stringy pirate was not the epitome of strength, equal parts adrenaline and anger must have fueled his effort. With one enormous yank, Clark lurched toward the ceiling. The American’s toes were now just above the chair, but those millimeters might as well have been kilometers.

Clark’s legs thrashed as the rope bit into his neck.

With a shaking hand, Fen threw the locking mechanism.

The gears engaged, and the strain from her muscles vanished.

It was over.

With a shuddering sigh, Fen turned toward Radullan, a smile on her face.

Then the door exploded inward.

69

Jack entered the room like a breaching charge.

Shouldering aside the door, he swept the compartment, his focus narrowing to the EOTech’s holographic circle. The red dot in the middle of the circle centered on a figure hanging from a rope.

Jack registered the limp body even as he forced himself to ignore it.

Buttonhooking right, Jack came face-to-face with two combatants—a man and a woman. Jack thumbed the MP5’s selector switch to fully automatic and hammered the trigger. As the submachine gun spit bullets, Jack panned the muzzle from person to person. This was not the way he’d been taught to engage targets, but once again Jack was trading speed for precision.

He registered both figures crumbling, but he didn’t pause to administer safety shots. Instead, Jack emptied the remainder of the magazine into the wall-mounted pulley. Jack had spent much of his Campus career learning to temper his brute-force instincts. To become more scalpel and less sledgehammer.

But sometimes a sledgehammer was just what the doctor ordered.

Bullets sparked off the metal until the MP5’s magazine ran dry, and the bolt locked to the rear. The pulley was battered, but still clinging to life. Grabbing the end of the rope, Jack yanked it away from the wall like he was starting a lawn mower.

The ratcheting mechanism gave way in a metallic scream.

Then Clark’s weight and life were in Jack’s hands.

Desperate to relieve the killing tension from Clark’s neck, Jack released the rope. Clark crashed into the chair, his limp form falling to the deck.

Jack crossed the room with two distance-eating strides.

Wedging his fingers beneath the noose, Jack worked the rope from Clark’s neck. Clark’s face was purple, his eyes closed, and his chest unmoving. A reddening welt encircled his throat, and Jack pressed two fingers into the hollow of his friend’s jaw.

Nothing.

Tilting back Clark’s head, Jack gave two quick rescue breaths before starting chest compressions. Usually, compressions were more important than breathing. Without a heart to pump the oxygenated blood from the lungs to the brain, the victim would quickly die. Some studies had even shown that a person might gasp or begin breathing on their own during chest compressions without the help of rescue breathing.

But that didn’t take into account a person who had been hung.

Jack’s greatest fear was that the rope had crushed Clark’s windpipe. If this were the case, performing a tracheostomy might be the only way Jack could save his friend. Time slowed as Jack’s mind raced, trying to recall the steps in the process. Mike Houtz, an emergency medicine physician at Johns Hopkins, had provided a trauma refresher course for Campus operatives several months ago. He included a block of instruction on how to perform an emergency trach, but the classroom conditions were significantly different than what Jack faced now.

Jack eyed the swelling around Clark’s neck. Jack had a knife, but he would have to stop compressions while he did the surgery. Then again, if Clark wasn’t breathing, he’d die from oxygen starvation.

What to do?

With a start, Jack realized he was mumbling.

No, not mumbling.

Praying.

He was praying the rosary.

Jack stopped compressions and flicked open the Spyderco with a metal-on-metal whisk. Pressing his fingers against Clark’s throat, Jack felt the confirmation he needed.

A pulse.

Clark had a pulse.

With a shuddering breath, Jack probed the base of Clark’s neck with one hand, his blade held ready in the other. To do a tracheostomy, Jack needed a hollow tube or needle to insert into the incision he was about to make into Clark’s throat.

He didn’t have one.

Maybe he could hold the incision open with his fingers.

“Please, God,” Jack whispered, “don’t let him die.”

With a hand that was steadier than he would have imagined, Jack pressed the tip of the blade against Clark’s throat and began to apply pressure.

“Get that away from my neck before I kill you.”

Jack jumped, nearly impaling his patient.

Clark’s voice sounded like a rusty hinge, but it was still recognizable.

“You weren’t breathing,” Jack said.

“Getting your throat cut is a great motivator,” Clark said. “Do I smell smoke?”

With a start, Jack realized that the air now tasted of soot.

“Probably,” Jack said. “The boat’s on fire.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Clark said. “What do you say we get the hell out of here?”

That sounded just fine to Jack.

70

While Jack was in violent agreement with Clark’s suggestion to abandon ship, the task proved to be more work than Jack expected. To be fair, getting beaten by terrorists and then hanged tends to take it out of you. Clark was now more dead weight than operator, and that made escaping from the ship’s bowels an interesting proposition, to say the least.

And then there was the fire.

Thick, clinging smoke hung in the air, turning the already poorly lit corridors into a murky twilight. Since the ladder Jack had used to descend into the subdeck now served as a reverse chimney, he had to drag Clark to the opposite side of the hold, where a second ladder awaited. Thankfully, the air there seemed a bit cleaner, but the climb was no shorter and Jack had his doubts about Clark’s ability to scale the steel rungs.

“Hey, Mr. C.,” Jack said, leaning Clark against the ladder. “Can you climb?”

“What am I, an invalid?” Clark rasped. “Of course I can climb.”

It became readily apparent that Clark’s ability to climb was in the eye of the beholder. Yes, Clark could transition his body from one steel rung to the next, but at the pace he was moving Jack figured they’d both be dead long before they made it to the top. The only question was whether their deaths would be due to smoke inhalation, burns, or drowning after the trawler capsized.

“Let me give you a hand,” Jack said. “Sit on my shoulders.”

“I’ve got this, Junior,” Clark said.

“I know,” Jack said, “but I need you to have something left when we get to the top. Getting off this dump is gonna be a lot harder than getting on.”

Whether it was from Jack’s face-saving effort or that after ascending barely two rungs Clark was forced to confront the reality of his battered body, Jack didn’t know. Neither did he care. The important thing was that Clark settled on Jack’s shoulders.

For an instant, Jack felt his lips twist into a smile.

If only his Campus brothers and sisters could see them now. John T. Clark, the man who had once ended a man’s life with his bare hands, now sat on Jack’s shoulders like a teenager about to play chicken-fight at the local pool.

Then Jack started up the first rung and the situation didn’t seem quite as funny.

Clark was a big man, and he must have been even more spent than Jack figured. Though The Campus’s director of operations was grabbing hold of the rungs, he wasn’t doing much to hoist his body. The first three or four rungs went okay, but by the sixth, Jack’s legs were trembling. He didn’t dare stop to rest for fear that Clark would insist on finishing the climb under his own power.

But that was only part of Jack’s concern.

His greater worry lay with the billowing smoke rising from the compartment beneath him and the heat radiating from the passage’s metal walls. The ship was going up in flames. As much as Jack respected his boss, Jack had no intention of spending his last moments in the bowels of a fishing vessel with Clark for company.

Summoning a final burst of resolve, Jack cleared the last several rungs.

Or at least he would have.

With just one rung remaining, Jack nearly lost his grip. This wasn’t because his legs felt like Jell-O and his arms were trembling. No, Jack almost lost his grip due to a distraction.

The distraction of Clark firing the HK Jack had handed him at the start of the climb.

The MP5 coughed four times, but in the steel confines of the ladder well, the already loud reports sounded like thunderclaps. Jack swayed on the ladder, gripping the rungs so tightly that his right forearm began to spasm. Though the pain from the muscle cramp was intense, it was nothing compared to his pounding eardrums.

“Clear,” Clark called. “Let’s go.”

Ignoring his quivering limbs, Jack summitted the last rung, spilling Clark onto the decking next to a dead pirate. An AK-47 lay beside the man, who sported a rapidly expanding crimson circle in the center of his chest. After enduring multiple beatings and a near hanging, John T. Clark could still put a four-shot grouping into a man’s chest one-handed.

Jack might be a pretty good operator, but there was still only one Rainbow Six.

Resisting the urge to rest, Jack looped Clark’s arm over his shoulder and staggered down the hall, triggering the radio transmit button as he moved.

“Reaper, this is Scepter, two coming out.”

“Scepter, this is Reaper, good to hear your voice. Confirm you are exiting the port side, over?”

Jack knew he had definitely entered the ship’s superstructure on the port side, but after backtracking through the rat’s nest of passageways to avoid the smoke and pirates, he was no longer sure which side of the boat he was on.

“Mr. C.,” Jack said, defaulting to the sailor, “are we on the port or starboard side?”

“Starboard,” Clark said. “Definitely starboard.”

The SEAL devolved into a fit of coughing after answering, preventing Jack from asking any follow-up questions, like How in the world would you know that? Maybe sailors were just born with the ability to tell port from starboard. Like homing pigeons, but with boats.

The smoke must be getting to him.

Clearing his throat, Jack keyed the transmit button.

“We’re coming out the starboard side, Reaper,” Jack said.

“Roger that, Scepter,” Cary said. “Stand by. We need to reposition.”

The plan had been for Mario to paddle back to the seaplane and fire up her engines after Jack boarded the ship. No small feat in a sinking raft. But unless one of the Green Berets was now piloting the Grumman, the banker must have made it. Just when he was about to bask in the feeling of goodwill that came from knowing an operation was proceeding according to plan, Jack faced another curveball.

A pirate peeked around the far corner.

Or at least Jack assumed it was a pirate. All he saw was the muzzle of an AK-47, but that was more than enough for Jack to get the picture.

Especially once the muzzle started spitting fire.

Fortunately, the pirate had adopted the pray-and-spray methodology, while Clark went with the aim-and-shoot plan. Unsurprisingly, Clark’s method was more successful.

Another pirate toppled to the decking as Jack lost another year off his life.

“Negative, Reaper,” Jack said. “We’re coming out now.”

Jack dragged Clark toward the hatch at the far end of the corridor. The one opening to the ship’s starboard side.

He hoped.

If he objected to being treated like an invalid, Clark didn’t say so. Or maybe with a submachine gun in his hands and his Irish temper flaring, The Campus’s director of operations was in his happy place. Either way, Jack kept his head down and his legs pumping and he tried to ignore the MP5’s coughing as Clark covered their retreat. That was a little easier said than done, especially when a bullet sparked off the wall to his left before ricocheting around the corridor, sounding like hail on a tin roof.

Apparently, there were still a couple pirates left alive.

And they didn’t seem happy.

Jack got to the hatch just as Clark’s measured fire ceased.

“I’m Winchester,” Clark said.

Jack didn’t bother replying. Instead, he kicked open the door, dragged the SEAL through, and closed the hatch behind him even as a flurry of rounds impacted the steel, buckling it outward.

They’d made it.

Sort of.

What Jack saw wasn’t encouraging. While this section of the trawler was clear of pirates, it didn’t take Jack long to understand why. With the exception of a length of decking leading off the boat like a gangplank, everything was on fire.

Everything.

“Come on,” Jack said, helping Clark to the edge. “Time to abandon ship.”

Except they couldn’t.

Jack looked over the side of the boat only to see the ocean in flames. The fuel leaking from the stricken vessel had ignited, turning the roiling sea into something resembling a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

The two men were stuck.

Jack turned back toward the hatch just as a piece of flaming superstructure crashed to the decking, barring their way.

There was no going back and no going forward.

“Well, shit,” Clark said.

The two innocuous words carried with them a world of meaning. Jack had known from the moment he’d started his paramilitary career by plunging a syringe loaded with poison into a terrorist that there was a high likelihood his life would end violently. Those who lived by the sword really did often die by it. But even so, Jack would have never imagined that Well, shit would be the last words he heard.

Come to think of it, though, that phrase might just make a fine tombstone epitaph.

“Scepter, this is Reaper, we’re coming from the stern. Get ready to jump.”

Jack turned to look behind him and was rewarded with a glorious sight.

Like an angel escaping hell’s lake of fire, the Albatross bounced across the flaming water. Cary and Jad stood on the aircraft’s massive wing as the seaplane pulled even with the boat. The port engine’s three-bladed propeller wasn’t turning, but between the heaving trawler and the licking flames, this would be no walk in the park—a sentiment reinforced by the chatter of Jad’s rifle as he swept the deck of pirates.

“Jump,” Cary screamed.

The Green Beret stood at the edge of the wingtip, ready to grab tumbling bodies, but Jack knew Clark wasn’t going to be able to make the leap.

“Go ahead, Junior,” Clark said, as if reading Jack’s thoughts. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Sure thing, Mr. C.,” Jack said.

Then he grabbed his mentor by the back of his belt and the scruff of his neck, took a running step forward, and hurled The Campus’s director of operations into space like Jack was tossing a hay bale. To his credit, Clark landed like a cat—an old angry feral cat, but a cat all the same. Clark crashed to the wing on all fours, and Cary grabbed the SEAL, hauling him to safety.

Before he could change his mind, Jack followed his boss.

Jack wasn’t nearly as graceful.

Whether it was a sudden shift in the waves, a gust of wind, a miscalculation, or just tired legs, Jack smacked into the top of the wing in a full sprawl. Then he skidded off the slick canvas like an egg sliding out of a skillet.

One moment Jack saw Cary’s horror-stricken face.

The next he was tumbling into space.

Or at least he would have been if not for the portside underwing float. Jack caught the bright yellow, bullet-shaped pontoon between his legs, halting his fall and bruising his thighs. The ensuing jolt rang the length of Jack’s spine, promising another visit to his long-suffering chiropractor.

He didn’t care.

The pain radiating from his groin meant he was still alive.

Jack wrapped his aching legs around the float as he gripped the vertical nacelle with his arms.

“You actually made it!”

Jack looked up to see Cary peering at him from the top side of the wing.

“Get us the hell out of here,” Jack said.

Cary nodded and then vanished. A moment later, the aircraft yawed to the right, bouncing across the ocean as Mario powered away from the stricken trawler. With the wind in his face, salt spray coating his clothes, and the knowledge that Clark was safe somewhere above him, Jack had a final thought.

Maybe the German college student had been right.

Maybe Jack really was getting too old for this shit.

Nah.

Epilogue

Alexandria, Virginia

The breeze rolling off the ocean tousled Lisanne’s hair, framing her face in strands of midnight. The last of the day’s light traced golden fingers across her olive skin and the faint hint of her perfume teased at Jack, promising more if he could just close the six inches that separated them.

Those six inches might have been six miles.

Though candlelight played along crystal glasses, the wine they held hadn’t been touched.

“Why are we here, Jack?” Lisanne said.

The question, while not accusatory, was tinged with sadness. A sorrow the twin of which resonated in Jack’s chest. They were seated side by side at a table draped in white linen on the second-floor deck of one of Old Town Alexandria’s most exclusive restaurants. As per Jack’s arrangement with the owner, the couple had the deck to themselves, but the softening twilight had done little to bridge the chasm between them. Their table was positioned to offer a view of the harbor, and Lisanne had done Jack the favor of keeping her focus on the horizon as she’d spoken.

Even so, her question still burned.

Viewing Lisanne only in profile didn’t make the tear trickling down her cheek any easier to bear.

Jack reached for Lisanne’s hand, but she deftly moved her fingers out of reach.

“Words, Jack,” Lisanne said. “It’s time for words.”

He’d endlessly practiced the words he wanted to say, but they were now lodged in his throat. Clark was no worse for wear and Ding’s through-and-through gunshot wound was healing, along with his concussion, but Dom wasn’t so quick to mend. The Campus operator had just been weaned from the ventilator the previous evening. Surgery had been initially required to ease the cranial pressure brought on by the swelling of Dom’s brain, but the procedure had been complication-free. After Dom had a battery of tests and several weeks of recovery, his neurologist was now confident that he hadn’t suffered permanent brain damage.

That was the good news.

The not-so-good news was that the piece of metal shrapnel embedded in Dom’s thigh had shattered his femur. Correcting the damage had required multiple surgeries. The orthopedic surgeon expected the Campus shooter to regain full use of his leg, but a long regimen of physical therapy awaited.

Judging by what Jack had just seen, the road back to recovery would not be easy.

To celebrate Dom’s discharge from ICU and the accompanying visitor privileges, Jack, Lisanne, and several other Campus members had gathered in Dom’s small hospital room a few hours ago. While Jack was no stranger to wounded men, the sight of Dom’s battered and bruised body shook him to his core. From the dressing on Dom’s shaved skull, to the still-healing trach stoma, to the mass of bandages on his thigh, the Campus operative was clearly a man who’d come within a whisker of making the trip home from Manila in a body bag.

Adara Sherman’s reaction had been even more profound.

The normally even-keeled woman had wrapped her arms around Dom and sobbed. After Adara’s tears continued unabated for several minutes, the rest of the group had quietly withdrawn to give the couple privacy. Lisanne must have seen Jack’s look of confusion. On the elevator ride down to the hospital’s entrance, she’d whispered something that had rended his soul, her devastating words in stark contrast to the husky voice he loved and the warmth of her breath.

Several months ago, Adara had miscarried Dom’s baby.

Jack and Lisanne hadn’t spoken during the trip from the hospital to the restaurant. To his mind, the silence had been warranted.

Then.

Not anymore.

Lisanne was right.

It was the time for words.

“Look,” Lisanne said, still staring at the horizon, “neither of us are in the right headspace for a relationship talk. Why don’t I just get an Uber back to my place? This will keep.”

“No,” Jack said, “it won’t.”

With a sigh, Lisanne turned to face him.

“Damn it, Jack,” Lisanne said, her eyes dark pools, “can you not be noble just once? I’m trying to give you an out.”

“Lisanne Robertson,” Jack said, whipping away her tears with his thumb, “I don’t want out. I want in. All the way in.”

“What are you talking about?” Lisanne said.

“You were right,” Jack said. “What you said in Austria was right. The way we’ve been doing things hasn’t been working. I want our relationship to change. Completely.”

For a moment Lisanne looked at him in silence, her confusion evident.

Then her eyes widened.

“Are you out of your mind?” Lisanne said, leaning back in her chair. “We just came from Dom’s hospital room.”

“I know,” Jack said. “Believe me, I know. But here’s the thing. I finally feel like I am in my right mind. Do you know what my mom said to me after she met you the first time?”

Lisanne shook her head.

“Marry that girl before someone else does.”

“Jack, I—”

“Just let me get this out,” Jack said. “Okay?”

Lisanne slowly nodded.

She looked equal parts bewildered and horrified. As if wondering whether Jack had lost it.

Not exactly how he’d pictured this moment.

“I’m not saying this because of what happened in Manila or even because of my mother,” Jack said. “I’m saying it because I thought I’d lost you in Salzburg. Forever. In that moment, I didn’t care about the mission, or gaining Clark’s respect, or even living up to my old man’s reputation. I only cared about growing old with you. I don’t mean the rest isn’t important. It is. I’ve spent my life trying to prove that I’m good enough. That I deserve to be part of The Campus for my skills, not just because my last name is Ryan. But whether it’s tomorrow or in twenty years, one day I’ll leave The Campus. When that time comes, I want to go home to you. Does that make sense?”

“Nothing about this makes sense,” Lisanne said, her words coming slowly, “but I understand what you’re saying. I think. And I know you’re being sincere, but we’re not normal people, Jack. Know what I learned in Salzburg? That two people who love each other can’t do this kind of work. At least not together. But I’m not sure I know how to do anything else. Are you willing to go back to a desk and spreadsheets?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said.

Jack didn’t know.

He’d finally achieved what he’d most wanted. His actions in Manila had cemented Jack’s status as a Campus operator and team leader. More important, he’d earned the respect of John Clark and Ding Chavez. The two men who’d shaped him more than anyone but his parents. Instead of the annoying little brother who’d been allowed to tag along at Dad’s behest, Jack was now their peer.

He should have been happy.

He wasn’t.

The image of Adara sobbing into Dom’s chest cycled through Jack’s thoughts on repeat.

Cary was right. If Jack continued down this path, there would be more tears. More pain. More hushed words and more gatherings with subdued comrades. Perhaps one day he would be the one lying in a hospital bed.

Or a grave.

This was the way of the warrior. To pretend otherwise was to ignore the reality he’d just experienced. For as long as he could remember, Jack had relentlessly pursued a life at the tip of the spear. This quest had become the singular purpose for which he’d subordinated all else.

But no longer.

“I don’t know,” Jack said again, “but if that’s what it takes to have a life with you, I’m willing to try. I hope we’ll be lucky enough to have kids and grandkids. That someday we’ll retire and watch the sun rise over cups of coffee. But I can’t promise any of that. Our days are numbered, and our lives are fleeting. I don’t know how many tomorrows we have, but I do know that I want to spend each of them with you.”

Jack took Lisanne’s hand again.

This time, she didn’t pull away.

Getting down on one knee, Jack removed a ring from his pocket. The ring that Cathy Ryan had helped him choose. Opening the box one-handed, Jack presented the sparkling diamond to the woman he loved.

“Lisanne Robertson,” Jack said, “will you marry me?”

Lisanne’s eyes welled up with tears.

Then she spoke.

“Yes.”

About the Authors

Thirty-five years ago Tom Clancy was a Maryland insurance broker with a passion for naval history. Years before, he had been an English major at Baltimore’s Loyola College and had always dreamed of writing a novel. His first effort, The Hunt for Red October, sold briskly as a result of rave reviews, then catapulted onto the New York Times bestseller list after President Reagan pronounced it “the perfect yarn.” From that day forward, Clancy established himself as an undisputed master at blending exceptional realism and authenticity, intricate plotting, and razor-sharp suspense. He passed away in October 2013.

Don Bentley is the New York Times bestselling author of the Matt Drake series (Forgotten War, Hostile Intent, The Outside Man, Without Sanction) and three Tom Clancy novels. Bentley spent a decade as an Army Apache helicopter pilot and deployed to Afghanistan as an Air Cavalry Troop Commander.  Following his time in the military, Bentley worked as an FBI special agent and was a SWAT team member.  Bentley is also a graduate of the Seton Hill University Writing Popular Fiction MFA program.  He resides in Austin, Texas with his family.  Learn more at www.donbentleybooks.com.

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