Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

this could have been an interesting negotiation. Corp wanted the additional

up-front money to buy arms in order to reconquer the country that he had

once almost owned. The U.N. had displaced him, but not quite thoroughly

enough. Relegated to dangerous obscurity in the bush, he had survived the

last year by running caq into the cities, such as they were, and he’d made

enough from the trade that some thought him to be a danger to the statfe

again, such as it was. With new arms, of course, and control over the coun-

try, he would then renegotiate the continuing royalty for the molybdenum/ It

was a clever ploy, Clark thought, but obvious, having dreamed it up himself

to draw the bastard out of his hole. /

“Well, yes, we are concerned with the political stability of the region,”

John allowed, with an insider’s smile to show that he knew the score. Ameri-

cans were known for doing business all over the world, after all, or so Corp

and others believed.

(.’have/, was fiddling with the GPS device, watching the LCD display. At

ihe upper-right corner, a block went from clear to black. Ding coughed from

the dust in the air and scratched his nose.

“Okay,” Clark said. “You’re a serious man, and we understand that. The

fifty million can be paid up-front. Swiss account?”

“That is somewhat better,” Corp allowed, taking his time. He walked

around to the back of the Rover and pointed into the open cargo area.

“These are your rock samples?”

“Yes, sir,” Clark replied with a nod. He handed over a three-pound piece

of stone with very high-grade Molly-be-damned ore, though it was from

Colorado, not Africa. “Want to show it to your people?”

“What is this?” Corp pointed at two objects in the Rover.

“Our lights, sir.” Clark smiled as he took one out. Ding did the same.

“You have a gun in there,” Corp saw with amusement, pointing to a bolt-

action rifle. Two of his bodyguards drew closer.

“This is Africa, sir. I was worried about-”

“Lions?” Corp thought that one pretty good. He turned and spoke to his

“policemen,” who started laughing amiably at the stupidity of the Ameri-

cans. “We kill the lions,” Corp told them after the laughter settled down.

“Nothing lives out here.”

Clark, the General thought, took it like a man, standing there, holding his

light. It seemed a big light. “What is that for?”

“Well, I don’t like the dark very much, and when we camp out, I like tc

take pictures at night.”

“Yeah,” Ding confirmed. “These things are really great.” He turned anc

scanned the positions of the General’s security detail. There were twc

groups, one of four, the other of six, plus the two nearby and Corp himself.

‘ ‘Want me to take pictures of your people for you?” Clark asked withoui

reaching for his camera.

On cue, Chavez flipped his light on and played it toward the larger of thk his head. Too had, the sergeant thought.

The Rangers were shaking their heads as they strapped into their seats on

the helicopter. As soon as they were airborne, Clark donned a headset and

wailed for the crew chief to set up the radio patch.

“CAPSTONE, this is BIRD DOG,” he began.

The eight-hour time difference made it early afternoon in Washington. The

UHF radio from the helicopter went to USS Tripoli, and then it was uplinked

lo u satellite. The Signals Office routed the call right into Ryan’s desk phone.

“Yes, BIRD DOG, this is CAPSTONE.”

Ryan couldn’t quite recognize Clark’s voice, but the words were readable

through the static: “In the bag, no friendlies hurt. Repeat, the duck is in the

bag and there are zero friendly casualties.”

“I understand, BIRD DOG. Make your delivery as planned.”

It was an outrage, really, Jack told himself as he set the phone back. Such

operations were better left in the field, but the President had insisted this

time. He rose from his desk and headed toward the Oval Office.

“Get’m?” D’Agustino asked as Jack hustled down the corridor.

“You weren’t supposed to know.”

“The Boss was worried about it,” Helen explained quietly.

“Well, he doesn’t have to worry anymore.”

“That’s one score that needed settling. Welcome back, Dr. Ryan.”

The past would haunt one other man that day.

“Go on,” the psychologist said.

“It was awful,” the woman said, staring down at the floor. “It was the

only time in my life it ever happened, and …” Though her voice droned on

in a level, emotionless monotone, it was her appearance that disturbed the

elderly woman most of all. Her patient was thirty-five, and should have been

slim, petite, and blonde, but instead her face showed the puffiness of com-

pulsive eating and drinking, and her hair was barely presentable. What ought

to have been fair skin was merely pale, and reflected light like chalk, in a flat

grainy way that even makeup would not have helped very much. Only her

diction indicated what the patient once had been, and her voice recounted the

events of three years before as though her mind was operating on two levels,