Patriot games - Tom Clancy [202]
"Jack, this is Jean-Claude. He's one of our French colleagues."
Ryan shook hands with a man twenty years older than himself, whose face was the embodiment of civilized irony. "What gives, Marty?"
"Professor Ryan," Jean-Claude said. "I am informed that you are the man we must thank."
"What for-" Ryan stopped. Uh-oh. The Frenchman led him to a TV monitor.
"Jack, you never saw this," Cantor said as a picture formed on the screen. It had to be satellite photography. Ryan knew it at once from the viewing angle, which changed very slowly.
"When?" he asked.
"Last night, our time, about three A.M. local."
"Correct." Jean-Claude nodded, his eyes locked on the screen.
It was Camp -20, Ryan thought. The one that belonged to Action- Directe. The spacing of the huts was familiar. The infrared picture showed that three of the huts had their heaters on. The brightness of the heat signals told him that ground temperature must have been about freezing. South of the camp, behind a dune, two vehicles were parked. Jack couldn't tell if they were jeeps or small trucks. On closer inspection, faint figures were moving on the cold background: men. From the way they moved: soldiers. He counted eight of them split into two equal groups. Near one of the huts was a brighter light. There appeared to be a man standing there. Three in the morning, when one's body functions are at the lowest ebb. One of the camp guards was smoking on duty, doubtlessly trying to stay awake. That was a mistake, Ryan knew. The flare of the match would have destroyed his night vision. Oh, well
"Now," Jean-Claude said.
There was a brief flash from one of the eight intruders; it was strange to see but not hear it. Ryan couldn't tell if the guard moved as a result, but his cigarette did, flying perhaps two yards, after which both images remained stationary. That's a kill, he told himself. Dear God, what am I watching? The eight pale shapes closed on the camp. First they entered the guard hut-it was always the same one. A moment later they were back outside. Next, they redeployed into the two groups of four, each group heading toward one of the "lighted" huts.
"Who are the troops?" Jack asked.
"Paras," Jean-Claude answered simply.
Some of the men reappeared thirty seconds later. After another minute, the rest emerged-more than had gone in, Ryan saw. Two seemed to be carrying something. Then something else entered the picture. It was a bright glow that washed out other parts of the picture, but the new addition was a helicopter, its engines blazing in the infrared picture. The picture quality deteriorated and the camera zoomed back. Two more helicopters were in the area. One landed near the vehicles, and the jeeps were driven into it. After that helicopter lifted off, the other skimmed the ground, following the vehicle tracks for several miles and erasing them with its downdraft. By the time the satellite lost visual lock with the scene, everyone was gone. The entire exercise had taken less than ten minutes.
"Quick and clean," Marty breathed.
"You got her?" Jack had to ask.
"Yes," Jean-Claude replied. "And five others, four of them alive. We removed all of them, and the camp guards who, I regret to say, did not survive the evening." The Frenchman's regrets were tossed in for good manners only. His face showed what he really felt.
"Any of your people hurt?" Cantor asked.
An amused shake of his head: "No. They were all asleep, you see. One slept with a pistol next to his cot, and made the mistake of reaching for it."
"You pulled everybody out, even the camp guards?"
"Of course. All are now in Chad. The living are being