Mark Greaney - Full Force and Effect

Ling asked, “When do we need to rescue your agent?”

Ryan said, “Within the hour would be ideal, Mr. President.”

Ling just stared at his translator in shock.

76

Adam Yao lay in a thick copse of trees alongside the Yalu River, some fifty yards from the gravel road behind him. He heard trucks passing on the road, back and forth, over and over, for most of the day. They couldn’t see him, he was well hidden, but he knew that as soon as the army thought to dismount some troops to check the wood line he would have to crawl to the river or lie here and await capture.

And the river was too cold to ford, especially in his weakened state.

Adam’s knee was swollen like a grapefruit, and the huge gash was showing signs of infection just twenty-four hours after he dove out of the racing SUV. He had crawled the last fifty yards through a muddy rice paddy after he fell off the bicycle, and an hour earlier when he tried to stand up he had been unable to put any weight on the leg at all.

He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. It had been a bone-chilling and wretched evening, and he told himself he was ready to die. Freezing to death had always seemed so awful those few times in his life he’d ever thought about it, but now he found himself accepting his fate. At peace with it.

Occasionally he thought he heard voices, never right on top of him but certainly on the road and perhaps even on boats passing on the Yalu River. He’d not understood any of the words, and after a while he started to wonder if his mind was not just playing tricks on him.

Though he had heard the footfalls of individual men traveling on the road far below him, he did not hear the men in white at all until they were right on top of his position. He opened his eyes suddenly, aware of a presence close by, and he saw a group of armed men in white snow camouflage surrounding him here in the trees.

It was too dark to tell anything else about them, but Adam assumed they were North Korean Special Forces.

One of the men knelt down at his head while two more began working on his leg wound. The others, Adam saw, had taken up positions in the woods, their guns up in defense of him.

What the hell was going on?

In Mandarin the man at his head said, “Yao?”

How did they know his name? He shook his head. “Wu.” No.

“Your country sent us.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe whatever you want. We are putting you on a stretcher and taking you over the river into China.”

And Adam Yao just let them do it. He was in no position to argue.

—

Edward Riley stood on the fifth-floor rooftop of the apartment building across from Mae Fah Luang–Chiang Rai International Airport in Chiang Rai, Thailand. With his binoculars in hand, he looked over the entire length of the tarmac, his eyes wide to take in the scant electric lighting; his binoculars were all but useless in the evening darkness.

Where are they? They were supposed to be here hours ago.

Once he was clear of immediate danger in Mexico, Riley had contacted Óscar Roblas and told him he was still in play. He exaggerated his abilities and influence, and he asked Roblas what he needed to do to prove he was still an asset to the operation.

Riley had been almost surprised when Roblas answered him, giving him the specifications of the froth flotation tanks, relaying the size and weight of the equipment, and filling him in on the special logistical problems involved in moving the huge industrial devices into North Korea.

Now Riley was here, in Thailand, and he had moved mountains to accomplish the one thing the North Koreans and Roblas had not been able to do for themselves. In the past five days Riley had played every last card in his deck. He’d used contacts, made deals, traded on old friendships, and called in every last favor he’d ever been owed by anyone. With this intangible currency he’d made it out of Mexico, over to Asia, and he’d negotiated with Russian cargo companies and Thai businessmen.

If he could pull this off he could show both Roblas and Pyongyang that he was worth the risk and an asset to their lucrative enterprise. Though compromised to the Americans, wanted as an accessory after the fact to the damnable thing that happened in Mexico City, he still could come through with the goods, and they would keep him under their wing.

He’d arranged for a pair of Russian Antonov cargo aircraft to land at the airport here, and once they arrived, he’d only have to contact Roblas, who was trying to secure the delivery of a new set of froth tanks that were on the water from Brazil. If the planes showed up as arranged, Riley could fly the bloody equipment into North Korea and bypass the Americans and their blockade.

But so far, the fucking Russians hadn’t shown.

He’d work the phones, he’d make sure the tanks were on the ship and on the way, and he’d make sure the payment from the North Koreans made it to the seller.

But if the Russians in their cargo planes didn’t make it to Thailand, then this deal was dead in the dirt.

He tried the binoculars again. Nothing. “Where are those bloody planes?”

He lowered his binoculars and turned to head back to the stairs.

He stopped suddenly when he saw a man standing there in the low light, forty feet away.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who’s come a long way for this.”

Riley did not recognize the man, though he could tell he was American. Riley didn’t have a gun, but the other man showed no hint of a weapon, either. “FBI?”

The man shook his head.

“Who, then?”

“My name is Jack.”

Meant nothing to Riley.

“A friend of Chavez.”

Oh.

“A friend of Veronika’s.”

What?

Riley thought about running for the stairwell, but this man looked prepared to stop him. He could just put down his head and charge forward, throw punches, and hope for the best, but Riley wasn’t any kind of fighter.

“What is it you want?”

“I’m taking you back to the United States.”

“All by yourself you are? Or did you bring your friends? The friends from Cuernavaca.”

The man called Jack said, “I have a lot of friends, but to tell you the truth, I think I’ll do it all alone.”

Riley nodded almost to himself, seemed to think it over dispassionately, and then he charged.

Not toward the man by the stairs. But in the other direction.

Toward the building’s edge.

There was another apartment building next door, but that structure was separated by an alleyway fifteen feet wide. The neighboring rooftop was one story lower, and Riley thought he could make it. He charged on, picking up as much speed as possible, knowing his one avenue of escape was a massive leap between two buildings some seventy-five feet in the air.

—

Jack Ryan, Jr., thought he might be able to stop the man before he threw himself over the side of the five-story building. He could shout something and run for him, either catch up or hope the man hesitated near the edge. But Ryan just stood there, watching, while the Englishman leapt. The man kicked his legs and flailed his arms; then he disappeared over the side of the apartment building. Ryan did not hear him land on the other rooftop. Instead he heard a long, shrieking scream that grew more distant.

He heard no impact, but immediately his earpiece came alive.

“Ryan! I saw someone fall! You okay?” It was Chavez.

“I’m fine. Did you see him hit?”

“Facedown in the middle of the alley.”

Jack said, “No better than he deserves.”

“Yeah.”

Clark’s voice came over the net now. “Works for me. Let’s pack it up. If we leave now, we’ll be back in time for Sam’s funeral at Arlington.”