Jack Ryan, Books 7-12 Read Online Free PDF Page A

its furthest by no more than two days—irregularities in the subsurface rock had been a problem for Hole Number 6, and in truth they’d done well to catch up as closely as they were now. He’d have to speak to them, congratulate them for their Herculean effort, so as to mitigate their shame at being last. Team 6 was his best crew, and it was a pity that they’d been unlucky.
    “Three more months, we will make the deadline,” the site foreman said confidently.
    “When Six is also finished, we will have a party for the men. They have earned it.”
     
     
    “This isn’t much fun,” Chavez observed.
    “Warm, too,” Clark agreed. The air-conditioning system on their Range Rover was broken, or perhaps it had died of despair. Fortunately, they had lots of bottled water.
    “But it’s a dry heat,” Ding replied, as though it mattered at a hundred fourteen degrees. One could think in Celsius, instead, but that offered relief only as long as it took to take in another breath. Then you were reminded of the abuse that the superheated air had to be doing to your lungs, no matter how you kept score. He unscrewed the top from a plastic bottle of spring water, which was probably a frigid ninety-five, he estimated. Amazing how cool it tasted under the circumstances.
    “Chilldown tonight, all the way to eighty, maybe.”
    “Good thing I brought my sweater, Mr. C.” Chavez paused to wipe off some sweat before looking through the binoculars again. They were good ones, but they didn’t help much, except to give a better view of the shimmering air that roiled like the surface of a stormy, invisible sea. Nothing lived out here except for the occasional vulture, and surely by now they had cleaned off the carcasses of everything that had once made the mistake of being born out here. And he’d once thought the Mojave Desert was bleak, Chavez told himself. At least coyotes lived there.
    It never changed, Clark thought. He’d been doing jobs like this one for ... thirty years? Not quite but close. Jesus, thirty years. He still hadn’t had the chance to do it in a place where he could really fit in, but that didn’t seem terribly important right now. Their cover was wearing thin. The back of the Rover was jammed with surveying equipment and boxes of rock samples, enough to persuade the local illiterates that there might be an enormous molybdenum deposit out there in that solitary mountain. The locals knew what gold looked like—who didn’t?—but the mineral known affectionately to miners as Molly-be-damned was a mystery to the uninitiated in all but its market value, which was considerable. Clark had used the ploy often enough. A geological discovery offered people just the perfect sort of luck to appeal to their invariable greed. They just loved the idea of having something valuable sitting under their feet, and John Clark looked the part of a mining engineer, with his rough and honest face to deliver the good and very confidential news.
    He checked his watch. The appointment was in ninety minutes, around sunset, and he’d shown up early, the better to check out the area. It was hot and empty, neither of which came as much of a surprise, and was located twenty miles from the mountain they would be talking about, briefly. There was a crossroads here, two tracks of beaten dirt, one mainly north-south, the other mainly east-west, both of which somehow remained visible despite the blowing sand and grit that ought to have covered up all traces of human presence. Clark didn’t understand it. The years-long drought couldn’t have helped, but even with occasional rain he had to wonder how the hell anyone had lived here. Yet some people had, and for all he knew, still did, when there was grass for their goats to eat ... and no men with guns to steal the goats and kill the herdsmen. Mainly the two CIA field officers sat in their car, with the windows open, drank their bottled water, and sweated after they ran out of words to