Clear & Present Danger by Clancy, Tom

Clark walked up to the officer’s brow, guarded by a Marine corporal who had his name written down on his clipboard list of official visitors. The Marine checked off the line on his list and lifted the dock phone to make the call that was mandated by his instructions. Clark just kept going up the steps, entering the carrier at the hangar-deck level, then looking around for a way topside. Finding one’s way around a carrier is not easy for the uninitiated, but if you kept going up you generally found the flight deck soon enough. This he did, heading for the forward starboard-side elevator. Standing there was an officer whose khaki collar bore the silver leaf of a Commander, USN. There was also a gold star over one shirt pocket that denoted command at sea. Clark was looking for the CO of a squadron of Grumman A-6E Intruder medium attack bombers.

“Your name Jensen?” he asked. He’d flown down early to make this appointment.

“That’s right, sir. Roy Jensen. And you are Mr. Carlson?”

Clark smiled. “Something like that.” He motioned to the officer to follow him forward. The flight deck here was idle. Most of the loading activity was aft. They walked toward the bow across the black no-skid decking material, little different from the blacktop on any country road. Both men had to talk loudly to be heard. There was plenty of noise from the dock, plus a fifteen-knot onshore wind. Several people could see the two men talking, but with all the activity on the carrier’s flight deck, there was little likelihood that anyone would notice. And you couldn’t bug a flight deck. Clark handed over an envelope and let Jensen read its contents before taking it back. By this time they were nearly at the bow, standing between the two catapult tracks.

“This for-real?”

“That’s right. Can you handle it?”

Jensen thought for a moment, staring off into the naval base.

“Sure. Who’s going to be on the ground?”

“Not supposed to tell you – but it’s going to be me.”

“The battle group’s not supposed to be going down there, you know -”

“That’s already been changed.”

“What about the weapons?”

“They’re being loaded aboard Shasta tomorrow. They’ll be painted blue, and they’re light for -”

“I know. I did one of the drops a few weeks ago over at China Lake.”

“Your CAG will get the orders three days from now. But he won’t know what’s happening. Neither will anybody else. We’ll have a ‘tech-rep’ flown aboard with the weapons. He’ll baby-sit the mission from this side. Your BDA cassettes go to him. Nobody else sees them. He’s bringing his own set, and they’re color-coded with orange-and-purple tape so they don’t get mixed up with anything else. You got a B/N you can trust to keep his mouth shut?”

“With these orders?” Commander Jensen asked. “No sweat.”

“Fair enough. The ‘tech-rep’ will have the details when he gets aboard. He reports to the CAG first, but he’ll ask to see you. From there on it’s eyes-only. The CAG’ll know that it’s a quiet project. If he asks about it, just tell him it’s a Drop-Ex to evaluate a new weapon.” Clark raised an eyebrow. “It really is a Drop-Ex, isn’t it?”

“The people we’re -”

“What people? You do not need to know. You do not want to know,” Clark said. “If you have a problem with that, I want you to tell me right now.”

“Hey, I told you we could do it. I was just curious.”

“You’re old enough to know better.” Clark delivered the line gently. He didn’t want to insult the man, though he did have to get the message across.

“Okay.”

USS Ranger was about to deploy for an extended battle-group exercise whose objective was work-ups: battle practice to prepare the group for a deployment to the Indian Ocean. They were scheduled for three weeks of intensive operations that involved everything from carrier landing practice to underway-replenishment drills, with a mock attack from another carrier battle group returning from WestPac. The operations would be carried out, Commander Jensen had just learned, about three hundred miles from Panama instead of farther west. The squadron commander wondered who had the juice to reroute a total of thirty-one ships, some of them outrageous fuelhogs. That confirmed the source of the orders he’d just been given. Jensen was a careful man; though he’d gotten a very official telephone call, and the orders hand-delivered by Mr. Carlson said everything they needed to say, it was nice to have outside confirmation.

“That’s it. You’ll get notice when you need it. Figure eight hours or so of warning time. That enough?”

“No sweat. I’ll make sure the ordies put the weapons in a convenient place. You be careful on the ground, Mr. Carlson.”

“I’ll try.” Clark shook hands with the pilot and walked aft to find his way off the ship. He’d be catching another plane in two hours.

The Mobile cops were in a particularly foul mood. Bad enough that one of their own had been murdered in such an obvious, brutal way, Mrs. Braden had made the mistake of coming to the door to see what was wrong and caught two rounds herself. The surgeons had almost saved her, but after thirty-six hours that too was over, and all the police had to show for it was a kid not yet old enough to drive who claimed to have hit one of the killers with his granddad’s Marlin ’39, and some bloodstains that might or might not have supported the story. The police preferred to believe that Braden had scored for the points, of course, but the experienced homicide investigators knew that a two-inch belly gun was the next thing to useless unless the shoot-out were held inside a crowded elevator. Every cop in Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, and Louisiana was looking for a blue Plymouth Voyager minivan with two male Caucs, black hair, medium, medium, armed and dangerous, suspected cop-killers.

The van was found Monday afternoon by a concerned citizen – there really were some in Alabama – who called the local county sheriffs office, who in turned called the Mobile force.

“The kid was right,” the lieutenant in charge of the case observed. The body on the back of the van was about as distasteful to behold as any cadaver would be after two days locked inside a car, in Alabama, in June, but for all that the hole near the base of the skull, just at the hairline, was definitely a .22. It was also clear that the killer had died in the right-front seat, hemorrhaging explosively from the head wound. There was one more thing.

“I’ve seen this guy. He’s a druggie,” another detective observed.

“So what was Ernie wrapped up with?”

“Christ knows. What about his kids?” the detective asked. “They lose their mom and dad – we gonna tell the whole fucking world that their dad was a dirty cop? Do that to a couple of orphaned kids?”

It merely required a single look for both men to agree that, no, you couldn’t do something like that. They’d find a way to make Ernie a hero, and damned sure somebody’d give the Sanderson kid a pat on the head.

“Do you realize what you have done?” Cortez asked. He’d steeled himself going in to restrain his temper. In an organization of Latins, his would be – had to be – the only voice of reason. They would respect that in the same sense that the Romans valued chastity: a rare and admirable commodity best found in others.

“I have taught the norteamericanos a lesson,” Escobedo replied with arrogant patience that nearly defeated Félix’s self-discipline.

“And what did they do in reply?”

Escobedo made a grand gesture with his hand, a gesture of power and satisfaction. “The sting of an insect.”

“You also know, of course, that after all the effort I made to establish a valuable information source, you have pissed it away like -”

“What source?”

“The secretary of the FBI Director,” Cortez answered with his own self-satisfied smile.

“And you cannot use her again?” Escobedo was puzzled.

Fool! “Not unless you wish me to be arrested, jefe. Were that to happen, my services would cease to be useful to you. We could have used information from this woman, carefully, over years. We could have identified attempts to infiltrate the organization. We could have discovered what new ideas the norteamericanos have, and countered them, again carefully and thoughtfully, protecting our operations while allowing them enough successes to think that they were accomplishing something.” Cortez almost said that he’d just figured out why all those aircraft had disappeared, but didn’t. His anger wasn’t under that much control. Félix was just beginning to realize that he really could supplant the man who sat behind the desk. But first he would have to demonstrate his value to the organization and gradually prove to all of the criminals that he was more useful than this buffoon. Better to let them stew in their own juice for a while, the better to appreciate the difference between a trained intelligence professional and a pack of self-taught and over-rich smugglers.

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