Locked On

By Tom Clancy with Mark Greaney

#1 New York Times bestselling author Tom Clancy is back and the stakes have never been higher.

Jack Ryan has only just moved back into the Oval Office when he is faced with a new international threat. An aborted coup in the People’s Republic of China has left President Wei Zhen Lin with no choice but to agree with the expansionist policies of General Su Ke Qiang. They have declared the South China Sea a protectorate and are planning an invasion of Taiwan.

The Ryan administration is determined to thwart China’s ambitions, but the stakes are dangerously high as a new breed of powerful Chinese anti-ship missile endangers the US Navy’s plans to protect the island. Meanwhile, Chinese cyberwarfare experts have launched a devastating attack on American infrastructure. It’s a new combat arena, but it’s every bit as deadly as any that has gone before.

Jack Ryan, Jr. and his colleagues at the Campus may be just the wild card that his father needs to stack the deck. There’s just one problem: someone knows about the off-the-books intelligence agency and threatens to blow their cover sky high.

2012 Barry Awards

LOCKED ON

The yacht was called La Sirena, it lay at anchor here seven miles out in the bay, wide of the shipping lanes that ran to the port or the marina, but close enough to shore so that its owner and his entourage could enjoy all that Puerto Vallarta had to offer. It was long and sleek and beautiful, and crowned by a state-of-the-art black Eurocopter helicopter resting on the helipad above the upper aft deck. But Eduardo Gamboa ignored the style of the ship in front of him and focused fully on the substance. After forty minutes under water his night vision was tuned to its peak. With his naked eye he saw two guards on the upper sundeck standing near the bow. He imagined the same number on the opposite side.

A cluster of small, uninhabited islands sit in Bandaras Bay, just a few hundred yards off of Mismaloya. Collectively called Los Arcos, they are named for the archlike formations carved out of the rock by cen- turies of pounding surf. During the day the protected marine reserve around Los Arcos was full of scuba divers, snorkelers, and pleasure boats, but one hour before midnight the only creatures in the waters around the tiny islands were fish, lobster, sleeping blue-footed boo- bies and other sea birds.

Fifty yards closer to shore a pair of private boats bobbed in the water. In each boat four men sat with M16 rifles in their laps. Two men in each boat had a M203 grenade launcher mounted on their M16s.

He passed the two boats twenty minutes later, traveling sixty feet below them and breathing as slowly and as shallowly as he could to minimize bubbles above. Twenty minutes after that he was below the surf, the ocean floor crept up towards the beach, each wave that surged him forward was followed by an undertow that pulled him back, but he kicked to maximize his progress and, after ten minutes of heavy exercise, he worked his way ashore. He’d let the current push him south of the lights of the building, south of the beach and into the rocks.

Three olive drab pickup trucks turned off the road from the plaza and onto Canalizo, the Gamboas’ street. Standing in the beds and leaning on the cab’s roof in each vehicle were two Mexican Army soldiers with bulky green flack jackets and large black G3 rifles. Behind them in the truck beds were two more armed soldiers facing the rear, their weapons trained on the street. Counting the driver and a passenger in each cab, Court realized eighteen guns and gunners had just arrived on the scene.

“Or the army.” Court repeated, more to himself than to Laura.

His three .357 magnum bullets seemed so much worse than nothing now.

The army vehicles pulled to a stop, and the soldiers climbed out and jumped off, began speaking with the six San Blas cops, who now seemed ridiculously unprepared to protect anyone, outfitted as they were with Billy clubs and baby blue polo shirts.

There were only twelve in the second wave, but they had better training, better equipment, better intelligence, and a better plan of attack than that first failed attempt. All twelve were marinos, Mexican marines, and they’d driven up to the hacienda from their base in Guadalajara on orders from Spider Cepeda himself.

Though they were regular military men, they moonlighted as sicarios for the Black Suits. They were well trained in small-unit assault tactics and armed with HK MP5 submachine guns, flash-bang grenades, body armor, and olive drab uniforms that blended well into the green black predawn landscape of this part of the Sierra Madre Mountains.