THE WAR ON TERROR
A Jack Ryan Jr. Novel (Promo e-Book)
Fiction & Literature, Military, Action Suspense
| Author: | Roby Kent, Tom Clancy | ISBN: | 1230003328347 |
| Publisher: | G. P. Putnam’s Sons | Publication: | July 19, 2019 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Roby Kent, Tom Clancy |
| ISBN: | 1230003328347 |
| Publisher: | G. P. Putnam’s Sons |
| Publication: | July 19, 2019 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
The night has been cool, and very pleasant. There were more stars above than lights below and the moon shone brightly over the Eternal City, giving an endless veil of a blue glow over the ancient buildings nestled on both sides of the Tiber River. This part of the city was part of a private property, located next to the Vatican’s outer fence, and trespassing was prohibited. There were a sufficient number of Jersey barriers installed after September 11th, mostly to create serpentine in-routes to slow traffic around the Vatican state’s perimeter. There could be seen a few people—passersby or tourists, but not vehicles. At the same time, as the rescue missions around the globe started, a dark Mercedes SUV stopped at the barrier in front of the main entrance of the underground complex located beneath the Castle Sant’ Angelo. Almost forty seconds later, the barrier with a ‘NO ENTRY’ sign started moving up mechanically to allow vehicle passage. Another forty seconds later, a round-faced man in straw-made clothing emerged from the guard shack and walked slowly towards the vehicle. Apparently, the vehicle’s arrival had caught him slightly off guard. I’m not saying that he was sleeping until now, but the security guard didn’t seem too interested in doing much of anything just at the moment. He pulled out his flashlight and pointed it at the vehicle. Obviously, he hasn’t dealt with luxury vehicles like these and he stopped for a second to casually admire the vehicle. The Mercedes SUV had dark tinted windows and a small sticker with the Vatican City Flag, stuck on the windshield’s left corner, down. As the guard came closer, the driver side window automatically slid down several inches, revealing a white man’s face. The guard at once recognized the driver and grinned, “Buona sera, signore. Noi siamo lieti di vederti qui (Good evening, sir. We are glad to see you here),” he said. “Ciao Salvatore. Dove sono gli altri? (Hello Salvatore. Where are the others?),” the driver asked in turn. His voice was friendly. He had an accent, maybe Sicilian. “Tutto a posto (Everything’s alright). They are all here and waiting for you, but you came a bit early than expected,” the guard said, glancing at his watch. He took another deep breath and added, “Sorry for inconvenience, but I have to check the vehicle first... After that you can enter into the facility.” The driver shrugged and made his best world-weary grimace. Salvatore then headed back to the guard shack and the driver turned off the vehicle’s engine. All four people in the vehicle remained silent. Between the two-backseat passengers was a man whose face was obscured by a black baseball cap. The man, Ziyad Al-Tabari, a male with dark curly hair, light green eyes and pale skin, sat calmly though many questions raced through his mind. He was very attractive as a child and as a young man. As I always say, it’s better to have great genes than a great plastic surgeon. Now Ziyad Al-Tabari was twenty-seven years old and despite he has undertaken a facial plastic surgery recently, he was still very attractive especially for women. That day, Ziyad Al-Tabari had finally made a long-awaited return trip to Italy after an eight-year absence. The guard approached the car and began an undercarriage inspection using a mirror on a stick. There was nothing suspicious. “Tutto è sicuro (Everything is clear),” the guard said loudly at last and gestured a thumbs up to the driver. The driver smiled and started the engine, and drove the vehicle forward. From the car, Mr. Al-Tabari observed a well lit ancient-looking complex as it gradually emerged from the surrounding darkness. Last year, Al-Tabari had heard, the host organization had replaced old streetlights with new and brighter LED lights. The car’s headlights also increased the brightness of the road leading into the complex, and Ziyad Al-Tabari noted it was paved with rectangular quarried stones mixed with tarmac to form a smooth surface. After passing under a barrier that automatically rose to greet it, the Mercedes SUV headed for a parking lot a few yards away from the State of Vatican City’s outer fence. Al-Tabari watched silently through the vehicle’s side window. On the other end of the spacious parking lot the complex’s main building stood majestically. Al-Tabari stared at it, dumbfounded. He knew exactly what the building represented, because a church is always different from the buildings that surround it. Its architecture strongly resembled a 6th-century octagonal basilica. In front of the building stood two security guards dressed in black baggy pants, black bomber jackets and straw-colored bulletproof vests. Armed with Uzi machine guns, these were Navy SEALs, Hauser and Morata, the Olympic athletes of their profession: killing. These Olympic athletes, however, would never climb a podium to receive their medals while their national anthem blares. No, SEALs are not playing sports and are a special breed of Sicilian Americans—SiculoAmericani; while civilians typically don’t recognize them; they are instantly recognizable to each another—even if they have never met before. But it’s not their capes that distinguish them—they are not superheroes in the comic book sense of the word. They breathe and bleed, but their lives often end quite differently than most others that breathe and bleed. Anyway, Mr. Al-Tabari could no longer resist addressing the uncertainty that had been welling up in mind as he observed the scene, and he dared to ask out loud, “Hey guys... where exactly are we going?” The two other men in the vehicle smiled and remained silent, but not the driver, who looked rough and raw in the rear view mirror; this rugged, middle-aged man, Donnie De Sapio, known to Al-Tabari from previous missions, had blue eyes and a pale face that did not appear to have smiled often. He was almost bald and wore a dark wig—a real Mafioso. “Relax, man,” De Sapio replied, glancing back at Mr. Al-Tabari, while still gripping the steering wheel. “You see that building over there?” He pointed at the windshield’s right corner and continued, “The boss is waiting for you there. He will explain to you everything... Capisci? (Do you understand?)” De Sapio seemed oddly benevolent. “If you want to become a member of a secret society like the Feliciano clan,” he asserted, “you are obligated to enforce all the clan regulations.” The others nodded in confirmation. “Really? Dean didn’t say anything about that. I guess he may have told me what we’re going to do, but I was not paying attention...,” Al-Tabari said. Being too serious was not one of his vices. Mr. Al-Tabari was getting more and more restless as the vehicle approached the ancient edifice, now clearly visible as a church. “I’m not going there. There’s no way I can ever go there,” Al-Tabari said loudly. He felt the alert red lamp trigger as the man seated next to him tried to pull out his gun. Mr. Al-Tabari narrowed his eyes and closed the palm of his right hand in front of the man, forming a fist and slamming his knuckles into the man’s face. An instant later, Al-Tabari had knocked out the other passenger that sat at front seat next to the driver and taken his gun and pointed it at the driver. “Stop the vehicle right now, or I swear I am going to kill you! Call your boss. Tell him I need to see him immediately because I’m not going there. You hear me?” Al-Tabari hissed through his clenched teeth. “Va bene, vado a chiamare la capo in questo momento—all right, I’m going to call the boss right now,” De Sapio replied evenly. * * * Atacames Canton, Ecuador. Same time. Twelve people made up the security detail of the kingpin’s mansion. Six of them were in the underground cellar, where the Delta team’s thermal energy trackers couldn’t detect them. The entire group was gathered around a water tank inside the underground complex, which appeared more like an abandoned military bunker. The atmosphere had a high percentage of moisture. It looked like a river ran beneath the mansion. Many species of fish and even crocodiles swam in the water. Some crocodiles had tried to escape, intent on finding something to eat, but there were men standing guard on both sides of the tank. The guards held weapons that looked similar to UZI submachine guns. These weapons produced sound waves audible only to animals, not to humans. A huge crocodile rushed toward one of the guards. The man came closer to the reptile and aimed his “Uzi” against the beast and pulled the trigger. After just two clicks, the crocodile turned its head and began to withdraw. Then, the creature jumped back into the water because it could not bear the ultrasound affecting its central nervous system. The spacious underground chamber had not been plastered and the dark-red bricks were covered with mold and silt. Halogen bulbs hung from the ceiling. In addition to the security guards, the mansion had two technicians—IT specialists, and two who were supposed to be in charge of the management of the estate. There was only one person in the whole mansion that could talk on the phone personally with the big boss. The big boss—Dean was currently in Rome. The name of the man who had a conversation with the big boss was Gonzalo. He was a short, well-built Latino-American male with curly black hair, black eyes, and a mustache. While it was difficult to discern Gonzalo’s age, his hair had certainly been touched up to hide some gray hairs. The three tattooed tears under his right eye highlighted the smoothness of his cheek. * * * Gonzalo was on a chair staring at several computer monitors in the control room of the underground complex, just ten feet below the main building. The monitors displayed footage from the security cameras within the mansion’s perimeter. Gonzalo could watch everything that happened on the surface, including the room where the hostages were held. That day he clutched a tiny red device in his hand from the Cold War era. This small, Japanese-made gadget could provide remote control over a satellite phone jammer installed in the highest peak of the mansion’s roof. This satellite jammer was able to block all frequency transmissions implemented by means of satellite phones, and covered all frequency bands up to two to five miles in sunny, mostly dry and breezy weather conditions. That day, the weather conditions were exactly that. Upon activating the satellite jammer, all satellite and cellular phones indicated “NO SERVICE.” After deactivating the device, all phones automatically re-established communications and provided full service. Suddenly, one of the monitors flashed loudly on the video wall. This attracted the attention of Gonzalo. He raised his glasses and pointed to the screen. “Ay Dios mio!” he shouted. “Increase the picture from camera 23 to full screen. Something’s wrong…” There was a sudden, spontaneous explosion. The watchtower built on the roof of the main building burst into flames. The guards on the roof rushed in. A few smoke grenades were launched against the men standing guard at the watchtower, creating a thick mist. A sniper from Charlie team waited for a clear view of his target. It was Lieutenant Ian Ripley. He fired two rounds. Both guards on the roof were hit, collapsing limply. White smoke drifted across the scene. Jack Ryan couldn’t hear the firing coming from inside the mansion, but he heard the explosion and smiled. “Did you hear that sound? Those are my people!” Gonzalo did not hesitate and reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an old model cell phone. The control room went quiet. All the men stopped talking to each other and stared at the monitors. Gonzalo watched the phone display as he called. After a while, a male voice came from the phone. “Hola amigo mio. What’s wrong?” It was the big boss. “We’re under attack... the Americans, sir,” Gonzalo said, his voice betraying his fear. * * * Rome, Italy. Same Time. Deandre Grand, aka Dean, was born somewhere in the desert of Australia. His mother had died during the childbirth, and he had never known his father. Dean was adopted at six weeks by a wealthy family of British immigrants who were living in South Africa, where he lived for most of his childhood. After his seventh birthday, Dean became a regular student in the most prestigious school in the UK. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he just disappeared. We haven’t found any record of Dean on the date of the search, and there is no criminal record. He’s now no longer living in the shadows. Ruthless, brutal and believed to be a real psycho, he loves wearing couture, smoking marijuana, driving furious fast cars and ordering creative cold-blooded assassinations. The underground complex located beneath the Castle Sant’ Angelo looked set to welcome new recruits for the host organization. As you may have already found out, the host organization for which Dean had worked for falls into the category of mafia-type organizations, although their business was similar to the activities of terrorist organizations like al-Qaeda, for instance.
The night has been cool, and very pleasant. There were more stars above than lights below and the moon shone brightly over the Eternal City, giving an endless veil of a blue glow over the ancient buildings nestled on both sides of the Tiber River. This part of the city was part of a private property, located next to the Vatican’s outer fence, and trespassing was prohibited. There were a sufficient number of Jersey barriers installed after September 11th, mostly to create serpentine in-routes to slow traffic around the Vatican state’s perimeter. There could be seen a few people—passersby or tourists, but not vehicles. At the same time, as the rescue missions around the globe started, a dark Mercedes SUV stopped at the barrier in front of the main entrance of the underground complex located beneath the Castle Sant’ Angelo. Almost forty seconds later, the barrier with a ‘NO ENTRY’ sign started moving up mechanically to allow vehicle passage. Another forty seconds later, a round-faced man in straw-made clothing emerged from the guard shack and walked slowly towards the vehicle. Apparently, the vehicle’s arrival had caught him slightly off guard. I’m not saying that he was sleeping until now, but the security guard didn’t seem too interested in doing much of anything just at the moment. He pulled out his flashlight and pointed it at the vehicle. Obviously, he hasn’t dealt with luxury vehicles like these and he stopped for a second to casually admire the vehicle. The Mercedes SUV had dark tinted windows and a small sticker with the Vatican City Flag, stuck on the windshield’s left corner, down. As the guard came closer, the driver side window automatically slid down several inches, revealing a white man’s face. The guard at once recognized the driver and grinned, “Buona sera, signore. Noi siamo lieti di vederti qui (Good evening, sir. We are glad to see you here),” he said. “Ciao Salvatore. Dove sono gli altri? (Hello Salvatore. Where are the others?),” the driver asked in turn. His voice was friendly. He had an accent, maybe Sicilian. “Tutto a posto (Everything’s alright). They are all here and waiting for you, but you came a bit early than expected,” the guard said, glancing at his watch. He took another deep breath and added, “Sorry for inconvenience, but I have to check the vehicle first... After that you can enter into the facility.” The driver shrugged and made his best world-weary grimace. Salvatore then headed back to the guard shack and the driver turned off the vehicle’s engine. All four people in the vehicle remained silent. Between the two-backseat passengers was a man whose face was obscured by a black baseball cap. The man, Ziyad Al-Tabari, a male with dark curly hair, light green eyes and pale skin, sat calmly though many questions raced through his mind. He was very attractive as a child and as a young man. As I always say, it’s better to have great genes than a great plastic surgeon. Now Ziyad Al-Tabari was twenty-seven years old and despite he has undertaken a facial plastic surgery recently, he was still very attractive especially for women. That day, Ziyad Al-Tabari had finally made a long-awaited return trip to Italy after an eight-year absence. The guard approached the car and began an undercarriage inspection using a mirror on a stick. There was nothing suspicious. “Tutto è sicuro (Everything is clear),” the guard said loudly at last and gestured a thumbs up to the driver. The driver smiled and started the engine, and drove the vehicle forward. From the car, Mr. Al-Tabari observed a well lit ancient-looking complex as it gradually emerged from the surrounding darkness. Last year, Al-Tabari had heard, the host organization had replaced old streetlights with new and brighter LED lights. The car’s headlights also increased the brightness of the road leading into the complex, and Ziyad Al-Tabari noted it was paved with rectangular quarried stones mixed with tarmac to form a smooth surface. After passing under a barrier that automatically rose to greet it, the Mercedes SUV headed for a parking lot a few yards away from the State of Vatican City’s outer fence. Al-Tabari watched silently through the vehicle’s side window. On the other end of the spacious parking lot the complex’s main building stood majestically. Al-Tabari stared at it, dumbfounded. He knew exactly what the building represented, because a church is always different from the buildings that surround it. Its architecture strongly resembled a 6th-century octagonal basilica. In front of the building stood two security guards dressed in black baggy pants, black bomber jackets and straw-colored bulletproof vests. Armed with Uzi machine guns, these were Navy SEALs, Hauser and Morata, the Olympic athletes of their profession: killing. These Olympic athletes, however, would never climb a podium to receive their medals while their national anthem blares. No, SEALs are not playing sports and are a special breed of Sicilian Americans—SiculoAmericani; while civilians typically don’t recognize them; they are instantly recognizable to each another—even if they have never met before. But it’s not their capes that distinguish them—they are not superheroes in the comic book sense of the word. They breathe and bleed, but their lives often end quite differently than most others that breathe and bleed. Anyway, Mr. Al-Tabari could no longer resist addressing the uncertainty that had been welling up in mind as he observed the scene, and he dared to ask out loud, “Hey guys... where exactly are we going?” The two other men in the vehicle smiled and remained silent, but not the driver, who looked rough and raw in the rear view mirror; this rugged, middle-aged man, Donnie De Sapio, known to Al-Tabari from previous missions, had blue eyes and a pale face that did not appear to have smiled often. He was almost bald and wore a dark wig—a real Mafioso. “Relax, man,” De Sapio replied, glancing back at Mr. Al-Tabari, while still gripping the steering wheel. “You see that building over there?” He pointed at the windshield’s right corner and continued, “The boss is waiting for you there. He will explain to you everything... Capisci? (Do you understand?)” De Sapio seemed oddly benevolent. “If you want to become a member of a secret society like the Feliciano clan,” he asserted, “you are obligated to enforce all the clan regulations.” The others nodded in confirmation. “Really? Dean didn’t say anything about that. I guess he may have told me what we’re going to do, but I was not paying attention...,” Al-Tabari said. Being too serious was not one of his vices. Mr. Al-Tabari was getting more and more restless as the vehicle approached the ancient edifice, now clearly visible as a church. “I’m not going there. There’s no way I can ever go there,” Al-Tabari said loudly. He felt the alert red lamp trigger as the man seated next to him tried to pull out his gun. Mr. Al-Tabari narrowed his eyes and closed the palm of his right hand in front of the man, forming a fist and slamming his knuckles into the man’s face. An instant later, Al-Tabari had knocked out the other passenger that sat at front seat next to the driver and taken his gun and pointed it at the driver. “Stop the vehicle right now, or I swear I am going to kill you! Call your boss. Tell him I need to see him immediately because I’m not going there. You hear me?” Al-Tabari hissed through his clenched teeth. “Va bene, vado a chiamare la capo in questo momento—all right, I’m going to call the boss right now,” De Sapio replied evenly. * * * Atacames Canton, Ecuador. Same time. Twelve people made up the security detail of the kingpin’s mansion. Six of them were in the underground cellar, where the Delta team’s thermal energy trackers couldn’t detect them. The entire group was gathered around a water tank inside the underground complex, which appeared more like an abandoned military bunker. The atmosphere had a high percentage of moisture. It looked like a river ran beneath the mansion. Many species of fish and even crocodiles swam in the water. Some crocodiles had tried to escape, intent on finding something to eat, but there were men standing guard on both sides of the tank. The guards held weapons that looked similar to UZI submachine guns. These weapons produced sound waves audible only to animals, not to humans. A huge crocodile rushed toward one of the guards. The man came closer to the reptile and aimed his “Uzi” against the beast and pulled the trigger. After just two clicks, the crocodile turned its head and began to withdraw. Then, the creature jumped back into the water because it could not bear the ultrasound affecting its central nervous system. The spacious underground chamber had not been plastered and the dark-red bricks were covered with mold and silt. Halogen bulbs hung from the ceiling. In addition to the security guards, the mansion had two technicians—IT specialists, and two who were supposed to be in charge of the management of the estate. There was only one person in the whole mansion that could talk on the phone personally with the big boss. The big boss—Dean was currently in Rome. The name of the man who had a conversation with the big boss was Gonzalo. He was a short, well-built Latino-American male with curly black hair, black eyes, and a mustache. While it was difficult to discern Gonzalo’s age, his hair had certainly been touched up to hide some gray hairs. The three tattooed tears under his right eye highlighted the smoothness of his cheek. * * * Gonzalo was on a chair staring at several computer monitors in the control room of the underground complex, just ten feet below the main building. The monitors displayed footage from the security cameras within the mansion’s perimeter. Gonzalo could watch everything that happened on the surface, including the room where the hostages were held. That day he clutched a tiny red device in his hand from the Cold War era. This small, Japanese-made gadget could provide remote control over a satellite phone jammer installed in the highest peak of the mansion’s roof. This satellite jammer was able to block all frequency transmissions implemented by means of satellite phones, and covered all frequency bands up to two to five miles in sunny, mostly dry and breezy weather conditions. That day, the weather conditions were exactly that. Upon activating the satellite jammer, all satellite and cellular phones indicated “NO SERVICE.” After deactivating the device, all phones automatically re-established communications and provided full service. Suddenly, one of the monitors flashed loudly on the video wall. This attracted the attention of Gonzalo. He raised his glasses and pointed to the screen. “Ay Dios mio!” he shouted. “Increase the picture from camera 23 to full screen. Something’s wrong…” There was a sudden, spontaneous explosion. The watchtower built on the roof of the main building burst into flames. The guards on the roof rushed in. A few smoke grenades were launched against the men standing guard at the watchtower, creating a thick mist. A sniper from Charlie team waited for a clear view of his target. It was Lieutenant Ian Ripley. He fired two rounds. Both guards on the roof were hit, collapsing limply. White smoke drifted across the scene. Jack Ryan couldn’t hear the firing coming from inside the mansion, but he heard the explosion and smiled. “Did you hear that sound? Those are my people!” Gonzalo did not hesitate and reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out an old model cell phone. The control room went quiet. All the men stopped talking to each other and stared at the monitors. Gonzalo watched the phone display as he called. After a while, a male voice came from the phone. “Hola amigo mio. What’s wrong?” It was the big boss. “We’re under attack... the Americans, sir,” Gonzalo said, his voice betraying his fear. * * * Rome, Italy. Same Time. Deandre Grand, aka Dean, was born somewhere in the desert of Australia. His mother had died during the childbirth, and he had never known his father. Dean was adopted at six weeks by a wealthy family of British immigrants who were living in South Africa, where he lived for most of his childhood. After his seventh birthday, Dean became a regular student in the most prestigious school in the UK. Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he just disappeared. We haven’t found any record of Dean on the date of the search, and there is no criminal record. He’s now no longer living in the shadows. Ruthless, brutal and believed to be a real psycho, he loves wearing couture, smoking marijuana, driving furious fast cars and ordering creative cold-blooded assassinations. The underground complex located beneath the Castle Sant’ Angelo looked set to welcome new recruits for the host organization. As you may have already found out, the host organization for which Dean had worked for falls into the category of mafia-type organizations, although their business was similar to the activities of terrorist organizations like al-Qaeda, for instance.
