Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

Jack most of all.

—

As Clark and Bravo team cut down the sicarios Adara hadn’t already killed on the outer decks, Charlie team—Dom and Jack—began clearing the interiors, Jack in the lead.

One fat, hairy gunman, naked save for his bikini underwear, leaped out of his stateroom with a gold-plated Desert Eagle, aiming it at Jack’s face as he bolted past the door. A bullet from Dom’s HK tore off the man’s jaw before he could fire his pistol. He fell to the floor, mewling in agonizing pain.

Dom did him a favor and put a second one in his skull.

Jack raced up the three flights of interior stairs, reaching the fourth deck, where Logan’s private quarters were located.

Logan reached for a mag to slam home into his daddy’s ivory-handled .45 Colt just as Jack turned the corner into the door, his PDW held high ready.

Jack charged forward and knocked the pistol out of Logan’s meaty hand with the butt of his HK. The Colt crashed to the floor with the thunk of heavy metal. Jack pulled his weapon back to his eye.

Jack heard the calm, professional chatter of his team echoing in his skull, and the sharp retorts of the last 4.6x30mm rounds dispatching the remaining sicarios.

Logan looked at Jack like a wounded child, slapped around by an angry parent.

“I wasn’t gonna use that on you, boy.” He glanced at the pistol on the floor. “It was for me.”

“No shit.”

Jack’s finger slipped onto the HK’s two-and-a-half-pound trigger. It would take more energy to scratch his nose than to kill this son of a bitch where he sat.

But his dad’s orders were clear.

Alive, not dead.

“No easy way out for you, Logan. Instead, you’re going to spend the next forty years of your miserable life in a cement hole somewhere, tied into your chair and crapping in a baggie in the dark.”

Logan squared up in his chair, puffing out his chest, defiance burning in his eyes.

“I don’t care what you do to me. It won’t change the fact I kicked the President’s ass. My name will still go down in history.”

“As an asterisk, at best.”

“I did what was right.”

“Are you kidding? How does setting the world on fire constitute ‘right’ in any sane universe?”

Logan sat up straighter. “Sane? Sane? Two hundred and forty-four trillion dollars of global debt is sane? The whole financial system needs one giant flush. A Year of Jubilee for the whole world, to start everything all over again. That’s what I was gonna do.”

“And the five trillion you stole was just a finder’s fee, right?”

“A man’s gotta get paid, doesn’t he?”

“Forget your Freakonomics. A world war isn’t a fresh start for anybody.”

Logan leaned forward, his face reddening.

“I make no apologies for trying to defend my country. Extreme threat demands extreme action. I’m a loyal American patriot. It was my duty to try and destroy America’s enemies before they destroyed us. In less than a decade, the Chinese and the Russians will have the means to wipe us out. They already have the will to do it.”

“You just forgot one thing. The Chinese and Russians might have blown themselves to bits in the Bering Sea, but they would’ve figured out pretty damn quick that someone else was behind it—and they would’ve blamed us.”

“That’s why I did it! I put the ball in the red zone. First and goal. All Ryan had to do was punch it into the end zone and win the game once and for all. I knew he didn’t have the balls for a first strike. So I was gonna do it for him because I sure as hell do.”

“The only problem, Logan, is that you aren’t the President and never will be.”

Logan chuckled with disgust. “Don’t I know it.” He sat back. “It was my destiny to be President. I was born and bred for it.”

Logan’s big hands rubbed the armrests of his hated wheelchair. “But the hell of it is, sometimes fate makes the wrong man king.”

—

Clark gave the order to stack the dead bodies into the yacht’s first-floor deck compartment away from prying eyes until they got deeper out into the Gulf, where they’d toss them overboard, chum for the hungry sharks patrolling the deeper waters.

Clark, a former chief boatswain’s mate, knew how to handle a boat, even one as big as the Dulces Sueños. He maneuvered it closer to Adara, still in the water, the Songar already packed for the trip home. Dom helped her on board as Ding made the call to the CV-22B Osprey, a SOCOM tilt-rotor bird winging its way toward them from its base at MacDill AFB, Florida. The others pulled the DiveJets from the water and secured them, then prepped the yacht for the journey across the Gulf to Houston.

Jack arrived on the aft deck with a handcuffed Logan slumped in his chair just as the tilt-rotor Osprey arrived overhead. Its twin turbo-shaft Rolls-Royce engines rotated to ninety degrees to vertical, converting the airplane into a helicopter in just twelve seconds.

The pilot’s voice echoed clearly in Jack’s skull. The Sonitus mics eliminated the ambient noise of the roaring turbines and beating rotor blades.

Jack confirmed. The clock was ticking the moment the Osprey entered Mexican airspace, something a hostile Mexican government wouldn’t look kindly upon. Interceptors would be launched within minutes if the Osprey didn’t clear back out pronto.

Clark reported the yacht’s onboard radar showed the Uxmal making a turn, and heading back their way at flank speed.

“We need to get this tub moving, fast!”

A rope was lowered from the hellhole in the belly of the Osprey. A dual Y strap was attached to the rope with carabiners on each arm of the Y.

Jack snapped the carabiners to the D-rings on the shoulder straps of Logan’s STABO extraction harness.

“He’s on the string,” Jack said.

“Roger that,” the pilot said.

A winch inside the Osprey turned. Logan lifted out of his chair helplessly, his dead legs dangling, his cuffed hands immobilized. He cleared the deck five feet, then ten. The big, crippled body began slowly spinning in the prop wash.

“If you like fishing with live bait, he’s all yours,” Jack said. The pilot had been briefed on his cargo’s criminal actions.

“Too bad I forgot to bring my fishing license.” The pilot laughed as he signed off.

The Osprey’s big engines roared again as it leaped into the sky, Logan still dangling from the rope. No time to wait and pull him into the Osprey. The accelerated speed and rotor wash spun him like a top as he rocketed into the moonless air. The pilot swung away at a steep angle, pointing his machine toward home.

Jack’s eyes tracked Logan into the dark that finally swallowed him up.

Logan was still alive. Mission accomplished.

A wide grin creased Jack’s face.

He could still hear Logan’s screams.

EPILOGUE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE WHITE HOUSE RESIDENCE

Jack came in the private entrance, his face shielded by an umbrella and the two PPD agents that accompanied him. There wasn’t any press standing around in the rain, and if there had been, the PPD would have shooed them away.

To maintain his cover, Jack never appeared in current family photos or at public events with his parents. But he loved hanging out with his folks. It was too much trouble for them to come to his place, so he came to them whenever he could. Especially when his mother offered to make her famous Burgundy beef stew and apple pie for dinner, his favorites. His three siblings were all out of town. He wished they could be there, too.

Jack came into the kitchen and hugged his mom, holding her for a little longer than usual.