Night Moves
Tom Clancy
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
PART ONE - The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
PART TWO - Base, Angle, Leverage
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
EPILOGUE
THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF
TOM CLANCY
THE TEETH OF THE TIGER
A new generation—Jack Ryan, Jr.—takes over in Tom Clancy’s extraordinary, and extraordinarily prescient, novel.
“INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE.”
—Daily Mail (London)
RED RABBIT
Tom Clancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—in an engrossing novel of global political drama . . .
“A WILD, SATISFYING RIDE.”
—New York Daily News
THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON
A clash of world powers. President Jack Ryan’s trial by fire.
“HEART-STOPPING ACTION . . . CLANCY STILL REIGNS.”
—The Washington Post
RAINBOW SIX
John Clark is used to doing the CIA’s dirty work. Now he’s taking on the world . . .
“ACTION-PACKED.”
—The New York Times Book Review
EXECUTIVE ORDERS
A devastating terrorist act leaves Jack Ryan as President of the United States . . .
“UNDOUBTEDLY CLANCY’S BEST YET.”
—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
DEBT OF HONOR
It begins with the murder of an American woman in the backstreets of Tokyo. It ends in war . . .
“A SHOCKER.”
—Entertainment Weekly
THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER
The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—the incredible search for a Soviet defector and the nuclear submarine he commands . . .
“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING.”
—The Washington Post
RED STORM RISING
The ultimate scenario for World War III—the final battle for global control . . .
“THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT.”
—Newsweek
PATRIOT GAMES
CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists . . .
“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT.”
—The Wall Street Journal
THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN
The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars missile defense system . . .
“CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL PAGE-TURNER.”
—Los Angeles Daily News
CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER
The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the
American government’s explosive, and top secret, response . . .
“A CRACKLING GOOD YARN.”
—The Washington Post
THE SUM OF ALL FEARS
The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world . . .
“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED.”
—The Dallas Morning News
WITHOUT REMORSE
His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?
“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING.”
—The Wall Street Journal
Novels by Tom Clancy
THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER
RED STORM RISING
PATRIOT GAMES
THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN
CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER
THE SUM OF ALL FEARS
WITHOUT REMORSE
DEBT OF HONOR
EXECUTIVE ORDERS
RAINBOW SIX
THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON
RED RABBIT
THE TEETH OF THE TIGER
SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE
Nonfiction
SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP
ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT
FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING
MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT
AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE
CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER
SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES
INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND
(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret., and Tony Koltz)
EVERY MAN A TIGER
(written with General Charles Horner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)
SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES
(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)
BATTLE READY
(written with General Tony Zinni, Ret., and Tony Koltz)
Created by Tom Clancy
TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL
TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL: OPERATION BARRACUDA
TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL: CHECKMATE
TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL: FALLOUT
Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: WAR OF EAGLES
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: SPRINGBOARD
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: THE ARCHIMEDES EFFECT
Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: WILD CARD
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE®: NIGHT MOVES
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Netco Partners
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / April 2000
Copyright © 1999 by Netco Partners.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-00246-9
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We’d like to thank Steve Perry for his creative ideas and his invaluable contributions to the preparation of the manuscript. We would also like to acknowledge the assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Denise Little, John Heifers, Robert Youdelman, Esq., Richard Heller, Esq., and Tom Mallon, Esq.; Mitchell Rubenstein and Laurie Silvers at BIG Entertainment; the wonderful people at Penguin Putnam Inc., including Phyllis Grann, David Shanks, and Tom Colgan. As always, we would like to thank Robert Gottlieb of the William Morris Agency, our agent and friend, without whom this book would never have been conceived. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.
“The history of the sword is the history of humanity. ”
—Richard Burton
“Putting on the spectacles of science in expectation of finding the answer to everything looked at signifies inner blindness. ”
—J. Frank Dobie
PROLOGUE
Friday, April Ist, 2011, 2:15 A.M.
Outside Sahiwal, Pakistan
The middle of the night, and still the temperature hovered near ninety. The humidity was so high that sweat did not evaporate and, having nowhere else to go, sour perspiration soaked the men’s black uniforms. Only April, and already a new record high for this date in the Punjab, almost a hundred and fifteen, with more of the same predicted for tomorrow. Pah.
Three of the men in sodden black camouflage clothes lay in the darker shadow of a row of stunted bushes a few dozen yards from the railroad tracks, waiting.
In the distance, the sound of the train’s whistle announced that it was on its way.
“It won’t be long now,” Bhattacharya said. Fat as he was, the others sometimes called him Ganesha, after the elephant god, though they did not say this to his face. However corpulent he might be, Bhattacharya was quick to anger, equally quick to move, and once moving, a formidable opponent. Until two years ago, Bhattacharya had been an officer, a colonel. Then, at a garden party in Panipat, he had stabbed another colonel who had insulted him, and it was only the lucky presence of a doctor that had saved the fat man from a murder charge. As it was, what he’d done was enough to have him stripped of his rank and arrested—and offered jail or a transfer to the Special Unit.
Like similar covert organizations around the world, the Special Unit did not officially exist. None of the men carried regular army-issue weapons or gear. Their assault rifles were surplus Chinese AKs, their pistols German, their sheath knives were from Japan. Their communications equipment came from New Zealand, their boots from Indonesia, their clothes from Australia. No man had upon his person any item that would officially identify him at all, much less identify him as an Indian soldier. And during an operation, no man was to allow himself to be captured. If such an event became likely, a quick suicide by gun or knife was expected. This was not as heroic as it might seem. Anyone who refused to do his duty would soon be dead anyway: Before embarking upon this mission, each man had taken a slow-acting poison. If he returned from the mission, he would be given the antidote and would suffer only a few days of flulike misery. If he did not return for any reason, he would die a lingering and painful death, the effects of which made suicide seem a picnic in the park. Better to choose the quick exit, if it came to that.
When there were dark military things to be done in India, the SU was called upon to do them. Most countries had such units, though most would quickly deny such an accusation.
This mission was as dark as any. Sneaking into Pakistan for a covert operation was a risky proposition at best. Packy was a touchy one, and given the current political situation, it was easy to understand why.
Next to Ganesha lay Rahman, around forty, a man of no particular caste from New Delhi. Rahman was long and lean, the opposite of Bhattacharya. Rahman was familiar with this area of Pakistan, having once been a member of India’s Border Security Force, the BSF footstampers who faced the Pakistan Rangers across the wire at the Wagah Post. There, each evening, both sides danced the mutual show of stylized aggression that marked the daily lowering of the flags and ceremonial blatting of the bugles. Crowds came from miles to see the mock battle, cheering each side on as if it were a soccer match.
The third man was Harbhajan Singh and, naturally, he was called The Sikh. Although Singh was certainly not an unusual name for a Sikh, he had in fact been named specifically for the particular soldier who had achieved moksha—enlightenment—while patrolling the border with China in the 1960s near Nathu-La. All they had ever found of that Singh were his snow goggles, his helmet, and his rifle. To this day, Singh’s ghost still patrolled the area, and the Chinese often saw him standing on top of a mountain or walking across the surface of a stream. The army had not believed the story for a long time, until a visiting general offered disrespect to the ghost and for his attitude was promptly killed in a helicopter crash on his way home. From then on, the new commanders of the region were most careful to send their personal cars to the area once a year, to offer Singh a ride to the train station for his annual leave. And a seat would be booked for the ghost on the train, too. It must have made for an interesting trip to have been the driver of the car, though no one had ever claimed to see Singh riding in the car or on the train.
All of which was fascinating, but not doing much to alleviate the discomfort this Singh felt under his beard and turban from the night’s tropical h
eat. Even though his great-great-grandfather had lived near Lahore, only a few miles north of here, Singh had spent much of his life in Madras, on the Bay of Bengal, and while that city was certainly warm year-round, at least there were sea breezes to offer relief. Too, he had lived several years in Calcutta, and that had been hotter than Madras, but even Calcutta was not baked as was the Punjab, the hottest place on earth, so it was said. He could believe it.
“There it is,” Bhattacharya said. “See the light, there?”
Singh and Rahman nodded and murmured their agreement. Along the track, the other “mercenaries” would be gathering themselves for the attack. There were sixty of them, and while some would probably die during the assault, they would be missed only by their comrades. You did not join the SU unless you were alone in the world: no wife, no family, no ties to anything. You were expendable.
The train’s whistle bleated again, drawing nearer.
Singh gripped his AK-47 clone and took a deeper breath of the fetid and hot night air. He was not a very good Sikh, had not been for many years, but he was moved to repeat God’s name a few times anyway. No harm in that.
The train came into view. What the engineer could not see ahead was a set of angled derailing plates that had been artfully welded to the rails, right where the tracks curved and banked a hair to the left.
