Read Online Jack Ryan 6 - Clear and Present Danger by Tom Clancy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tom Clancy
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yourself, Sergeant.”
Jackson
rose to return it properly.
“We own the night, sir!” Chavez replied in the manner of the Ninjas, 3rd Battalion, 17th Infantry. Twenty-five minutes later he climbed aboard a Sikorsky UH-60A Blackhawk helicopter for the fifty-minute ride back to Ord. The battalion sergeant-major handed him a message as he got aboard. Chavez had an hour to get cleaned up before appearing at the divisional G-1 or personnel office. It took a long shower to erase the salt and “war paint,” but he managed to arrive early in his best set of BDU camouflage fatigues.
“Hey, Ding,” said another staff sergeant, who was working in G-1 while his broken leg healed. “The man's waiting for you in the conference room, end of the hall on the second floor.”
“What's it all about, Charlie?”
“Damned if I know. Some colonel asked to see you is all.”
“Damn—I need a haircut, too,” Chavez muttered as he trotted up the wooden stairs. His boots could have used a little more work also. Hell of a way to appear before some friggin' colonel, but then Chavez was entitled to a little more warning than he'd been given. That was one of the nice things about the Army, the sergeant thought. The rules applied to everyone. He knocked on the proper door, too tired to be worried. He wouldn't be around much longer, after all. His orders for
Fort
Benning
were already cut, and he was wondering what the loose womenfolk in
Georgia
were like. He'd just broken up with a steady girlfriend. Maybe the more stable life-style that went with a drill sergeant would allow him to-
“Come!” a voice boomed in reply to his knock.
The colonel was sitting behind a cheap wooden desk. He was dressed in a black sweater over a lime-green shirt, and had a name tag that said
SMITH
. Ding came to attention.
“Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Okay, relax and sit down, Sergeant. I know you've been on the go for a while. There's coffee in the corner if you want.”
“No, thank you, sir.” Chavez sat down and almost relaxed a bit until he saw his personnel jacket lying on the desk. Colonel Smith picked it up and flipped it open. Having someone rip through your personnel file was usually worrisome, but the colonel looked up with a relaxed smile. Chavez noticed that Colonel Smith had no unit crest above his name tag, not even the hourglass-bayonet symbol of the 7th LID. Where did he come from? Who was this guy?
“This looks pretty damned good, Sergeant. I'd say you're a good bet for E-7 in two or three years. You've been down south, too, I see. Three times, is it?”
“Yes, sir. We been to
Honduras
twice and
Panama
once.”
“Did well all three times. It says here your Spanish is excellent.”
“It's what I was raised with, sir.” As his accent told everyone he met. He wanted to know what this was all about, but staff sergeants do not ask such questions of bird-colonels. He got his wish in any case.
“Sergeant, we're putting a special group together, and we want you to be part of it.”
“Sir, I got new orders, and—”
“I know that. We're looking for people with a combination of good language skills and—hell, we're looking for the best light-fighters we can find. Everything I see about you says you're one of the best in the division.” There were other criteria that “Colonel Smith” did not go into. Chavez was unmarried. His parents were both dead. He had no close family members, or at least was not known to write or call anyone with great frequency. He didn't fit the profile perfectly—there were some other things that they wished he had—but everything they saw looked good. “It's a special job. It might be a little dangerous, but probably not. We're not sure yet. It'll last a couple of months, six at the most. At the
Jackson
rose to return it properly.
“We own the night, sir!” Chavez replied in the manner of the Ninjas, 3rd Battalion, 17th Infantry. Twenty-five minutes later he climbed aboard a Sikorsky UH-60A Blackhawk helicopter for the fifty-minute ride back to Ord. The battalion sergeant-major handed him a message as he got aboard. Chavez had an hour to get cleaned up before appearing at the divisional G-1 or personnel office. It took a long shower to erase the salt and “war paint,” but he managed to arrive early in his best set of BDU camouflage fatigues.
“Hey, Ding,” said another staff sergeant, who was working in G-1 while his broken leg healed. “The man's waiting for you in the conference room, end of the hall on the second floor.”
“What's it all about, Charlie?”
“Damned if I know. Some colonel asked to see you is all.”
“Damn—I need a haircut, too,” Chavez muttered as he trotted up the wooden stairs. His boots could have used a little more work also. Hell of a way to appear before some friggin' colonel, but then Chavez was entitled to a little more warning than he'd been given. That was one of the nice things about the Army, the sergeant thought. The rules applied to everyone. He knocked on the proper door, too tired to be worried. He wouldn't be around much longer, after all. His orders for
Fort
Benning
were already cut, and he was wondering what the loose womenfolk in
Georgia
were like. He'd just broken up with a steady girlfriend. Maybe the more stable life-style that went with a drill sergeant would allow him to-
“Come!” a voice boomed in reply to his knock.
The colonel was sitting behind a cheap wooden desk. He was dressed in a black sweater over a lime-green shirt, and had a name tag that said
SMITH
. Ding came to attention.
“Staff Sergeant Domingo Chavez reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Okay, relax and sit down, Sergeant. I know you've been on the go for a while. There's coffee in the corner if you want.”
“No, thank you, sir.” Chavez sat down and almost relaxed a bit until he saw his personnel jacket lying on the desk. Colonel Smith picked it up and flipped it open. Having someone rip through your personnel file was usually worrisome, but the colonel looked up with a relaxed smile. Chavez noticed that Colonel Smith had no unit crest above his name tag, not even the hourglass-bayonet symbol of the 7th LID. Where did he come from? Who was this guy?
“This looks pretty damned good, Sergeant. I'd say you're a good bet for E-7 in two or three years. You've been down south, too, I see. Three times, is it?”
“Yes, sir. We been to
Honduras
twice and
Panama
once.”
“Did well all three times. It says here your Spanish is excellent.”
“It's what I was raised with, sir.” As his accent told everyone he met. He wanted to know what this was all about, but staff sergeants do not ask such questions of bird-colonels. He got his wish in any case.
“Sergeant, we're putting a special group together, and we want you to be part of it.”
“Sir, I got new orders, and—”
“I know that. We're looking for people with a combination of good language skills and—hell, we're looking for the best light-fighters we can find. Everything I see about you says you're one of the best in the division.” There were other criteria that “Colonel Smith” did not go into. Chavez was unmarried. His parents were both dead. He had no close family members, or at least was not known to write or call anyone with great frequency. He didn't fit the profile perfectly—there were some other things that they wished he had—but everything they saw looked good. “It's a special job. It might be a little dangerous, but probably not. We're not sure yet. It'll last a couple of months, six at the most. At the
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