The Protector Read online

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  Also By David Morrell Fiction

  First Blood (1972)

  Testament

  (1975) Last Reveille (1977)

  The Totem (1979)

  Blood Oath (1982)

  The Brotherhood of the Rose (1984)

  The Fraternity of the Stone (1985)

  The League of Night and Fog (1987)

  The Fifth Profession (1990)

  The Covenant of the Flame (1991)

  Assumed Identity (1993)

  Desperate Measures

  (1994) The Totem (Complete and Unaltered) (1994)

  Extreme Denial

  (1996) Double Image (1998)

  Black Evening

  (1999) Burnt Sienna (2000)

  Long Lost (2002)

  Nonfiction

  John Barth: An Introduction (1976)

  Fireflies (1988) American Fiction, American Myth

  (Essays by Philip Young)

  edited by David Morrell and Sandra Spanier (2000)

  Lessons From a Lifetime of Writing:

  A Novelist Looks at His Craft (2002)

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  DAVID MORRELL

  The Protector

  WARNER BOOKS An AOL Time Warner Company

  * * *

  To Henry Morrison, who has been my agent since 1968,

  almost a lifetime ago. My heartfelt thanks

  for your friendship and guidance.

  * * *

  The excerpt from Robinson Jeffers's "For Una" appeared in Be Angry at the Sun, copyright 1941 by Robinson Jeffers. Copyright renewal by Donnan Jeffers and Garth Jeffers.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2003 by David Morrell All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc., 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 Visit our Web site at www.twbookmark.com An AOL Time Warner Company Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing: May 2003

  10 987654321

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Morrell, David.

  The protector / David Morrell.

  p. cm. ISBN 0-446-53068-9

  1. Illegal arms transfers—Fiction. 2. Bodyguards—Fiction. 3. Scientists—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR9199.3.M65 P76 2003 813'.54—dc21 2002038001

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  Acknowledgments

  Much of the tradecraft in The Protector has not appeared in fiction before. I learned it from a great many people who have firsthand experience in the high-risk activities depicted here and who were kind enough to teach me. The tactical uses of duct tape, lead fishing sinkers, chamois car-washing cloths, and partially serrated shotgun shells are only a few of the things I was taught. My thanks to the following:

  Linton Jordahl, former U.S. marshal. The U.S. Marshals Service ranks with the Secret Service and the Diplomatic Security Service as one of the premier protective units of the United States government.

  Don Rosche and Bruce Reichel of the Bill Scott Raceway's Executive Security Driver Training course. Various U.S. government agencies, including the Diplomatic Security Service, send their personnel to BSR to learn defensive and offensive antiterrorist driving techniques. Rather than provide a recipe for committing felonies, I left out a small but important step in hot-wiring vehicles.

  Lt. Dave Spaulding of Ohio's Montgomery County Sheriff's Department. Lieutenant Spaulding's department contributed to the high-level security for the 1995 Dayton (Bosnian) Peace Accords. He is one of America's foremost firearms instructors. See his Handgun Combatives and Defensive Living, the latter cowritten with retired CIA operations officer Ed Lovette.

  Karl Sokol, master gunsmith. Many military and law-enforcement personnel credit their lives to the dependability of a Sokol-modified firearm. The refinements made to "the protector's" Sig Sauer 225 are typical of his craft.

  Ernest Emerson. In addition to being one of the best manufacturers of tactical knives (his CQC-7 is featured in this novel), Mr. Emerson is also a top-level blade instructor who works with various elite military and law-enforcement units.

  Marcus Wynne, former paratrooper with the Eighty-Second Airborne, former federal air marshal, and first-rate thriller novelist. See his No Other Option and Warrior in the Shadows. As a young man, Marcus was one of my literature students when I was a professor at the University of Iowa. Years later, he returned the favor and taught me many aspects of the world of high-risk operators.

  Dan "Rock" Myers, former member of U.S. Special Operations/military intelligence and former contract officer for the Diplomatic Security Service.

  The Protector

  also features nonlethal tradecraft, and for that, I am grateful to Jake Eagle and the staff of NLP Santa Fe, practitioner trainers in neuro-linguistic programming. Years ago, when I learned that the CIA and other intelligence services, as well as some elite military units, require NLP as part of their training, I took certification classes in it. In all these matters, if I got the details right, it's because of my teachers. If the details are wrong (always remembering what I said about not supplying recipes for felonies), I'm the one to blame.

  No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear. —Edmund Burke, On the Sublime and Beautiful

  David Morrell, Santa Fe, New Mexico

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  PROLOGUE

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  State of Emergency

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  1

  RIOT POLICE DISPEL PROTESTORS

  St. Louis, Missouri, April 14 (AP)—What officials feared would be a third day of rioting ended this morning when two thousand armor-clad policemen used batons, pepper spray, and tear gas to dispel ten thousand protestors. The riots disrupting the World Trade Organization conference here had turned downtown St. Louis into what amounted to a war zone, with damage from fires and vandalism estimated at $15 million.

  The protestors claim that WTO ignores environmental and labor abuses in undeveloped countries. Although similar demonstrations in Seattle four years earlier had alerted St. Louis authorities about what to expect, police still found themselves overwhelmed. "We prepared for six months," Police Chief Edward Gaines said at a press conference. "But these anarchists are even more organized than they were in Seattle. Thank God, we finally wore them down."

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  2

  "Anarchists." The think-tank supervisor considered the word. "Nicely chosen."

  "Al suggested the police chief include it in his statement," the Army general said.

  "But the chief has no idea what really happened. A perfectly successful operation," the military analyst said.

  Two lieutenant colonels and a tall, sinewy woman filled out the group. The "Al" (short for Alicia) to whom the general had referred wore a khaki pantsuit that resembled a uniform. She sat with the others in a darkly paneled drawing room. Their high-backed chairs were arranged before a large screen, onto which an overhead television projector beamed videotaped images of the crisis.

  Highlights from NBC's coverage had just ended. Now a condensed version of CNN's began. The initial sequences showed the first day of rioting. Protestors stretched all the way from Busch Stadium and the Federal Courthouse to the huge America's Center, where the World Trade Organization was holding its conference. By nightfall, downtown St. Louis was paralyzed. On the screen, rioters smashed every window they came to. They overturned v
ehicles and set fire to them. Flames reflected off sidewalks covered with shattered glass.

  The second day's edited sequences showed more protestors cramming the streets, damaging anything they could find. At a press conference, the mayor declared a state of emergency, ordering all civilians to avoid the downtown area.

  But on the third day, the outnumbered police, joined by state troopers and the National Guard, organized a counterattack. The screen showed them using tear gas to funnel the rioters along Market, Chestnut, and other downtown streets toward Memorial Park. There, in the green space around the towering Gateway Arch, retreating protestors trampled a tent city they'd erected.

  A reporter spoke urgently as a camera in a helicopter peered down on the rioters being pushed beyond the Arch. Protestors threw rocks and bottles at the relentlessly converging policemen. One bottle was filled with liquid and had a rag stuffed into it. As a young man lit and threw it, the camera whipped to show it crashing into flames. Gas masks, helmets, shields, and body armor made the police resemble "an army of Robocops," the reporter breathlessly announced. Ignoring the burning gasoline and the rocks, the police fired tear-gas canisters. So much haze spewed around the rioters, they could barely be seen.

  A camera on a Mississippi barge now showed the action. The rioters stumbled from the haze. Bent over, coughing, they looked as frightened as they'd looked angry moments earlier. Police in gas masks emerged, pounding with batons, pushing with shields. Coughing harder, the protestors panicked and lurched in the only unimpeded direction available: the Mississippi. Thousands tumbled into the river, struggling to stay afloat as the dark figures of the police reached the bank and stood guard.

  "I'm sure you noticed the man who threw the Molotov cocktail," the general said. "Some liberal commentators are claiming he's part of a group of agitators. The theory is that the corporations whose policies are under attack paid thugs to instigate the violence. The police fought back, and the legitimate protestors had to defend themselves, eventually becoming rioters and discrediting their cause."

  "A conspiracy theory." The think-tank supervisor sighed. "There always has to be a conspiracy theory. But in this case, they happen to be correct. It's just not the conspiracy they imagine."

  The general nodded. "And it was right there on television for everyone to see. On every network. As plain as day. But nobody noticed."

  "As I said"—the military analyst made a congratulatory gesture to the four men and the woman seated near him—"a perfectly successful operation."

  * * *

  3

  ARMY RANGERS DIE ON TRAINING MISSION

  Camp Rudder, Florida, April 24 (AP)—The commander of Camp Rudder, headquarters for the Army Sixth Ranger Training Battalion, confirmed that fifteen Army Rangers had drowned in a swamp two nights earlier while on a training exercise. The announcement had been delayed, he said, so that family members could be notified.

  "We're still trying to determine what happened," Lt. Col. Robert Boland said. "We train in that area all the time, but we almost never have problems. Granted, last night was unusually cold for this time of year, and recent rains had made the water unusually high. But these men were Rangers. At this stage in their training, they'd already been taught to endure much more difficult conditions. All we know is they didn't make radio contact when they were supposed to."

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  4

  The swamp is my friend, Braddock insisted to himself.

  Holding his M-16 above his head, wading through the cold chest-high water, pulling his combat boots out of muck, he repeated the mantra his survival instructors had drilled into him long ago when he'd joined the Rangers.

  The swamp is my friend.

  A lot had happened since then. Braddock had been through combat in Grenada, Panama, Iraq, Afghanistan, and in numerous unpublicized missions, often in jungles. Now he was an instructor, and as he slogged through the darkness, leaning slightly forward to compensate for his sixty-pound pack, he hoped that every man in his squad had made "The swamp is my friend" their mantra, as well.

  The alligators are my friends.

  The snakes are my friends Don't think.

  Just repeat it and believe it.

  Ignoring what felt like a sunken log that shifted under him, nearly causing him to lose his balance, Braddock focused on those words to live by, hoping that his men would also.

  They'd been in the swamp for three hours, with another two to go. You're more than halfway through, Braddock wanted to assure them, but he couldn't. This exercise was being conducted under strict voice silence. Even their radio transmissions every half hour to their companion squad a quarter mile away were voiceless, composed of electronic pulses. As a further deprivation, none of them wore night-vision goggles, on the theory that sophisticated equipment was a luxury they shouldn't rely on.

  The darkness is my friend.

  This night had been chosen because it didn't have a moon. As a bonus, thick clouds from yesterday's storm lingered, blotting out the stars. Hulks of dead trees loomed in the darkness, gray against black, only the slightest gradations at the lowest end of the light spectrum providing an indication of Braddock's surroundings. Under such sightless conditions, the streaks of green-and-black camouflage grease on their faces might have seemed unnecessary, but Braddock had warned them to plan for every contingency, saying that even on a night mission, camouflage grease was mandatory.

  His drenched, cold uniform clung to his legs, hips, and chest. He saw a slight glow ahead as the squad's scout checked a luminous compass and shifted direction, the other men following. Braddock would have to discipline him for that, confine him to barracks, make him run extra miles. I shouldn't have seen the glow from the compass, he thought. A sniper out there would have seen it, too.

  Despite the insect repellant Braddock wore, mosquitoes settled on his face, drawing blood, making him itchy. He ignored them. Insects are my friends.

  He listened to the ripple of water as his squad waded onward through the barely visible dead trees. His upraised M-16 cramped his arms. The fetid swamp rose to his neck. Under the water, something nudged against his left side. He smelled rotting vegetation.

  He shivered.

  That troubled him. Accustomed to much worse conditions, Braddock accused himself of starting to lose his edge.

  A gray mist drifted over him, a pungent odor beginning to irritate his nostrils. As the water felt colder, he shivered harder. But the numbness in his legs and the tightness in his chest didn't matter. More important things occupied him.

  Any second now, Braddock thought.

  His sense of timing was perfect. Overhead, flares burst. Haloed by smoke, their harsh light pierced the darkness. Brad-dock's men stared up in surprise, the descending glares reflecting off the scummy water. Although Braddock had known about the flares, he'd been under orders not to tell his men.

  Anticipate.

  Don't be surprised by anything.

  Part of the point of the exercise was to make Braddock's already-stressed unit feel unexpectedly threatened. At once, three fighter jets streaked over the skeletal trees, their approach so swift that only after the jets passed could they be heard, their thunder deafening. Braddock wore a waterproof electronic location transmitter so that the pilots knew where not to shoot. Ahead, the jets fired rockets and 50-mm tracer bullets into the swamp. Two hundred yards away, the night became alive with explosions and fire.

  "Jesus," somebody said.

  No!

  Braddock mentally shouted. You're not supposed to talk! "What the—" somebody else demanded. "Don't they know we're here?"

  Braddock surged through the water toward the second man and glared. Shut your mouth, Braddock's eyes said.

  Smoke from the flares drifted over them, smelling of cordite and dead things, almost making Braddock gag.

  "Christ, those rockets almost hit us," a third man said.

  Braddock splashed urgently toward him, glowering him into silence. Damn it, keep control. Obey o
rders, he wanted to shout.

  The water seemed colder. As another soft thing nudged against Braddock's left side, he shivered harder. His heart pounded. His breathing quickened.

  "Nobody mentioned anything about rockets," a fourth man said, his voice wavering.

  Furious, Braddock surged toward him, then stopped as the descending flares hissed into the water, spewing more smoke, darkness overcoming everyone. Braddock shivered so hard that his teeth chattered.

  At the same time, his stomach felt on fire. Unaccountable fear crept up his torso, cramping his muscles, spreading heat around his heart. His breath came so fast, he couldn't control it. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold it, one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three. Inhale, one, two, three. Hold it, one, two, three.

  But his chest kept heaving, refusing to obey. He didn't understand. After the numerous combat missions he'd been through, this was nothing. The swamp is my friend. The darkness is my friend. What's happening to me? he wanted to scream.

  One of his men—the toughest of his trainees—did scream. "Something bit me!"

  No! The man sounded as out of control as a civilian would have been. It didn't make sense.

  "A snake!"

  A log—or something—bumped against Braddock's side.

  "An alligator!"

  "Something's under my—"

  Suddenly, one of Braddock's men fired full-auto at the darkness, muzzle flashes illuminating ripples in the water, bullets shredding dead trees, men screaming as they, too, fired at the night. A bullet seared Braddock's right arm. He lost his balance and fell back, greasy water flooding into his mouth and up his nose.