Page 139 of Tom Clancy Line of Sight

He heard Aida curse in the distance, and the sound of feet shuffling through the dirt. Jack listened again, and aimed his pistol in the direction of the sound. He fired three more rounds.

Only two left now.

But his last three shots had lit up the tunnel near where he was lying. He caught sight of a small alcove just a few feet up ahead on his right—a storage area, he guessed.

He belly-crawled as fast as he could to the alcove and rolled into it, bumping into what felt like more wood shelving. His ringing ears quieted enough that he could hear the music more clearly now, still muffled at the far end of the tunnel. Melodic male voices were singing a cappella in, what, Arabic? Hecouldn’t be sure. The voices were joyous, upbeat, powerful. What did they call that kind of music?Nasheed,Jack remembered. Islamic hymns.

The kind of stuff that jihadis sang before going into battle.

It wasn’t so loud that he couldn’t hear Aida swearing and tramping ahead, though.

Where was she going?

She was running toward the music.

Jack rolled out of the alcove again and stayed on his belly, aiming his pistol forward with muscle memory, since he couldn’t actually see anything. It was so dark he couldn’t be sure his eyes were actually open except by blinking. He was hoping Aida would fire at him again and he could use her flash as a target now that he was ready for it, but none was coming.

If she reached that other trapdoor, she might get help. Or worse. He couldn’t let her do that.

He had to assume that the miners would dig the tunnel as straight as possible to avoid wasting their energy, and if there was another trapdoor on the other side of the tunnel, that’s what Aida would be moving toward. And that door would be straight ahead, too. All he had to do was to aim straight down the center of the tunnel, halfway between the floor and the ceiling. Two shots of .45-caliber lead in the square of her back would put her down easily. Drop her before she could reach the ladder.

Jack sighted the pistol in the blinding dark, hoping he was aiming dead center. He started to squeeze the trigger.

He stopped.

Aida would know that his only hope of hitting her in the dark would be to shoot dead center.

Jack angled his pistol left, toward what he imagined was the far-left corner, and fired twice. He pointed right and fired again. His pistol locked open after just one shot.

Out of ammo.

He listened. All he could hear was the muffled music.

And gurgling.

He dropped his empty weapon, jumped up, and scurried forward in a low crouch, weaving just a little in case she was aiming in the dark, too, but in the cramped space he had little hope of dodging anything like a bullet, especially as he got closer to the sound.

He reached for his phone just as he heard feet kicking hard in the dirt in front of him. He dove for the ground. The kicking and gurgling sounds suddenly stopped. Jack held his breath. He listened again in the smothering dark. Only the distant, muted music.

He crawled forward on his elbows until his left hand hit something and he recoiled, freezing in place. He listened again. Nothing. He reached his left hand out. Felt around. Touched hard rubber. He flinched back. Waited. Reached out again. It was the sole of a shoe. He pulled up his phone and touched the flashlight feature.

His eyes ached from the bright light. He shined it at the shoe. It was Aida’s foot, all right, attached to her corpse. A half-open duffel lay by her side, along with several stacks of cash scattered on the dirt floor. He moved closer. Her body lay against the left tunnel wall, her throat torn open by a .45-caliber slug, which practically decapitated her.

The bulb in the phone formed catchlights in her lifeless blue eyes.

He checked the time on his iWatch.

It was 10:08 a.m.

Seven minutes to launch.

—

At 10:08 a.m. local time, the first Tomahawk arrived at its last GPS waypoint, five miles due west of the Sarajevo airport terminal. It slowed its speed by half. This latest cruise missile variant was capable of loitering over a battlefield like a regular aircraft, and able to retarget via its two-way satellite control and GPS targeting systems.

Not having the luxuries of either knowing the target location in advance or having the time to wait to launch, President Ryan decided to put two Tomahawks in loitering mode over an unpopulated area near Sarajevo. He hoped to God that Jack and the rest of The Campus could locate the BM-21 Grad launcher before 10:15 local.

In the event the target couldn’t be acquired, the Tomahawks would be redirected back out to the Adriatic Sea and their explosive payloads detonated harmlessly. Croatian and Bosnian air traffic control were notified about the Tomahawks’ unannounced “training mission” and their flight paths just before launch, as were their respective governments. Ryan believed it was always better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially in a crisis situation.