The End Begins is a series of short stories of the events which lead up to the World War III in Tom Clancy's EndWar and its novelization.
Stories[]
| OCTOBER 14, 2021 PALMILAS DE PICHACA, GUANAJUATO, MEXICO The marker wasn't marble. It wasn't even stone, just two boards, painted white and nailed together into a cross that someone had jammed into the ground fifteen klicks due south of nowhere. Written in black marker on the crosspiece was a name: Slaten, spelled out in painstaking capital letters. Nothing else on the hill stood higher than a foot or two off the ground, scraggly shrubs and bushes and weeds that were making the best of a hard situation. The ground was exposed in places, reddish-brown dirt baked hard and dry by the Mexican sun. Two men stood by the cross, staring down at it as if doing so would convince it to give up its secrets. The taller of the two, brown-haired and blue-eyed, looked at his companion once before taking a knee. Packing in loose dirt, he straightened the cross from where it sat at a cockeyed angle. His friend looked around, the wind tugging at the brim of the USS James Lawrence baseball cap he wore. "I guess so, Crenshaw. They really buried him all the way out here?" Lt. Colonel David Crenshaw stood, brushing the dust from the knees of his jeans. "That's what they told me. More like they buried what they found in what was left of the cockpit when he splashed. It wasn't much." "You shot him down, right?" It was a statement of fact and an apology to the dead, all at once. "Yeah, I did." Crenshaw adjusted the cross one last time, then stepped away, satisfied with his handiwork. "His choice, really. When the Air Force reactivated the squadron, his name was on the invite list. Come back, get your rank reinstated, fly one of the XA-20 Razorback – the whole deal. "And that worked great until he had to fly against Uncle Sam?" Crenshaw stared off into the distance, carefully not meeting the other man's eyes. "He's dead and I'm not, which pretty much says it all, I think." There was silence for a moment. "I gave him the chance to pull off his run, you know." "I know, David. I was there." Nothing more was said as the two men relived the moment, the last dying gasp of the independent PMCs. The mercenary squadron had come in low and fast, headed for the Salamanca oil refinery. The Mexican government was still getting its legs back under it after the riots of '15, and didn't have an air force worth the name. It had asked for help from the United States, over protests, and the US had responded with the H.A.W.X. And Captain David Crenshaw, flying patrol the day the mercs made their run, had shot down and killed one of his oldest friends in the line of duty. He closed his eyes and imagined for a moment that he could smell the burning fuel and hot metal, could hear the dull boom of the impact as Jeremy Slaten's plane had hit the ground and broken into cartwheeling fragments. Some of the pieces were still out here, he knew, abandoned to the elements by the company that had employed Slaten, just as they'd ultimately abandoned Slaten as well. "You should have come home, Jerry," Crenshaw said, and started walking down the hill. After a moment, the other man followed. |
|---|
| FEBRUARY 19, 2014 CRYSTAL CITY, VIRGINIA, UNITED STATES Colonel Harris propped himself against the wall, near the door, hoping no one in the nearly circular boardroom noticed him. Dimly lit, the room was illuminated partially by dull halogens turned low, and more so by the disconcerting satellite images projected on the wall-sized screen at the far end. It seemed awfully warm. Eleven figures sat in high-backed leather chairs around an oak table, ranking officers never before allowed to gather all in one place at one time, men and women whose names Colonel Harris himself had redacted from countless internal and top secret memos. "Colonel Harris. Files." Harris nodded crisply and moved around the table, placing copies of a thick personnel file in front of each officer, careful not to make physical or eye contact with anyone. As he walked back to his place by the door, he suffered a sudden realization and hoped that none of the files had been smudged by the light sheen of sweat coating his palms. The officers flipped through the personnel file, skimming quickly, picking out the relevant details from amongst the military jargon and blacked-out text. General Keyes, the grey-haired, eagle-eyed four-star running the show, cleared his throat. "Delta Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group," he said, the only one not bothering to read the file. "The Ghosts. I suspect you're all familiar with some of their work. I doubt anyone knows about all of it." He lifted his copy of the personnel file off the table, flipped it around to display the name at the top. MITCHELL, SCOTT J. "Except this man." Keyes turned the file, dropped it flat on the table, allowing the solid thwack from its heft emphasize his point. "Colonel Harris," said Keyes, turning the conference over for the moment. Harris thought about surreptitiously wiping his hands on his pants, then thought better of it and stepped forward once more. "The Ghosts have carried out operations in Georgia, Eritrea, Cuba, Colombia, Korea… pretty much every corner, nook, and cranny of the world," Harris began, then paused, working some moisture back into his mouth. "In the past decade, they've more than proven their effectiveness as a single unit working in intelligence-gathering, unconventional warfare, and direct action capacities. The recent decision to give them greater independence in the field, under Major Scott Mitchell's immediate authority--" "Skip the PR, Colonel," a gravel-voiced General interrupted from the far corner of the table. "Why are we here?" "General Keyes asked me for an assessment of future warfare, sir," replied Harris. "Given the Ghosts' effectiveness and high rate of operational success, I've recommended an expansion of the specialized program they've already prototyped for us." "And I believe Mitchell is the man to get it done," Keyes added. Murmurs sounded from around the table. The gravel-voiced General spoke up. "He's a Major." "He can be whatever we want him to be," Keyes answered. "That would require some …," another General chimed in, "non-traditional career pathing." "Mitchell's career's been anything but traditional," said Keyes. "You want to bring him in?" asked gravel-voice. Keyes nodded. "How far?" Keyes eyed each of the gathered officers in succession. "All the way." |
|---|
| MARCH 4, 2019 BOLAN PASS, BALUCHISTAN, PAKISTAN The beep came when Logan Keller least wanted to hear it, in the place he least expected to. Crouched down behind a sandstone outcropping in the hills of the Bolan Pass, his team moving into position around a lonely roadhouse, the last thing he wanted was the voice SIX whispering in his ear. Not that he didn't respect the man, of course, but it was nearly go time, and getting helpful advice from Hereford, half a world away, probably wasn't going to help the situation on the ground any. He waited a moment, then another, then answered. "Sir. Team One Leader here." "Team One Lead, this is SIX." The familiar voice came over the line, crisp and clear. The years in England had worn away a little of the Los Angeles lilt to his words, but it was still there if you listened for it, still strong when he got angry. It was strong now. Privately, Keller wondered what he'd done to piss the Old Man off. Thus far, the operation had gone like clockwork. INTEL had been correct; there were four trucks loaded with explosives and the components necessary for rigging sophisticated IEDs parked outside the roadhouse, and the team's sniper, Lt. Fred Franklin, had confirmed the shipments. En route was the man who'd be orchestrating the weapons' use on the other side of the Bolan Pass, in Kabul or Herat or Ghazni or someplace else where innocent people shouldn't have to worry about getting blown up every time they walked down the street. "Sir, we have confirmation from Haider that Takfir is en route. Team One is deployed around the roadhouse, Team Two is in support position, and we are good to go." There was a crackle of static. "Abort the mission, Keller." Logan blinked in surprise. "Sir? Did I…" "I said abort the mission. Your orders are to stand down." "What?" Logan didn't bother to hide his disbelief. "We are deployed, Command. We have been working toward this for two years, sitting up to our asses in sand for the last six days waiting for this moment, and you want me to pull out?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded weary. The members of the field teams always called SIX "the Old Man"; it was meant as a term of respect, but today of all days Logan understood how much the role could age a man. "Team One Lead, right now it doesn't matter if you've got Takfir sitting in the corner with bells on. The politicians have had their say, and what they're saying is that they don't want active cooperation in the field between U.S. and European Federation forces." "Pardon me for saying so, sir, but that's bull." "That's politics." SIX gave a heavy sigh. "So pull your people out of there, or at least the Europeans. They're under orders to go home on the next flight out. U.S. and U.K. personnel will be kept under your command, but RAINBOW as we know it is kaput." Logan blinked and looked around. "We're in Baluchistan. What are they going to do, walk home?" "That's your problem. I expect you to find a solution. Command out." Shaking his head, Logan lowered his rifle and picked up his field glasses. Zooming in, he picked out the other members of his team where they were positioned, nearly invisible against the yellowing stone. They were ready, poised for the moment when they would be unleashed on the murdering madman who, even now, was making his way toward their position. And he had to call them off. Had to tell them a working partnership of years was over, years of putting nationality and origin aside to strive toward a common good was over, that RAINBOW was over. And that smug bastard Takfir would never know how close he'd been to never bothering the world again. In the distance, he could hear the sound of a truck's engine laboring as it climbed a steep hill. It backfired once, a pale imitation of a gunshot that echoed through the barren hills. Time was running out. "Team One, Team Two, this is Team One Lead. I hate to say this, people, but I just got the order to pull the plug." "What?" The response was almost deafening. It was Arnavisca, Rifle One-Two, who spoke. "Sir, we have him. I can see him. We can't pull out now." "According to SIX, as of five minutes ago, the politicians took their toys and went home. We're not allowed to play together anymore." "They can't be that stupid." Keller took a deep breath. "They just were. RAINBOW no longer exists." "Sir." "You get that, Rifle One-Two?" It wasn't phrased as a question. There was a moment's pause, a hiss of static. "Sorry, Command. That one, uh, broke up in transmission. I didn't hear any of it, really." Logan felt a grin creeping across his face, tried to fight it and lost. "The rest of you? Did anyone hear that message?" A chorus of responses came back. "No, sir." "Nope." "What message?" "Why the hell are they calling us when we've got a job to do?" "I'm glad nobody's getting distracted." "You do know what you're doing here, right?" Fred Franklin's voice cut through the chatter. The team's senior sniper sounded agitated. Logan thumbed a switch and took the communication over into a private channel. "You mean by not calling off the op?" "I mean by disobeying a direct order to stand down and disband the team ASAP. There's going to be some hell to pay when this is over with, and you're the one they're gonna stick with the check." There was a cloud of dust visible on the horizon now, moving closer. It had to be Takfir's truck. He shrugged. "You heard the team. I couldn't pull them out now if I wanted to." "That's a cop-out and you know it." Franklin sounded angry now. "Listen, Logan, I've been with RAINBOW since the beginning. I was there when we took down those sons of bitches who were holding kids hostage; I was there when we went in after those missiles and half of us didn't come back. But no matter where we have gone and what we have done, we have always followed our commanding officer's lead – spoken or unspoken." There was a pause. "You went after Dieter in Morocco, even when you were told to to stand down." "Yeah. We did." Another pause. "On SIX's orders. Think about it." The truck was visible now, a black Range Rover colored tan by the dust. It bounced over the ruts in the road and began the last ascent to the high plateau where the roadhouse waited. Inside the building, Takfir's contacts were agitated. He could see them start to spill out, standing by the parked vehicles and unloading crates marked with big, black Cyrillic characters. "We can go home later," he whispered to himself, and opened the main comm channel. "Okay, people, on my mark. And… go!" |
|---|
| DECEMBER 3, 2015 SEA OF OKHOTSK The worst part of the job, Leon Coltrane had long since decided, was not the part where strangers shot at him on a semi-regular basis. Oh, that part sucked, sure, but it wasn't the worst. Neither were the interrogations, the moments spent hiding while angry men with loaded weapons searched for him, the face-to-face meetings with psychopathic terrorists or even the food at the commissary at Ft. Meade. No, the worst part was the throbbing headache he got every time he had to spend an hour and a half hanging upside down, trying to disable some tin-pot dictator's security system without touching the floor. The headaches lasted two days, on average, and damned if every single op he got assigned to didn't call for some variation on the old trapeze act that Sam Fisher had made legend. Privately, Leon suspected that Director Grímsdóttir had it in for him. Why else would she keep on assigning him to crap like this – infiltrations of unmanned nuclear-powered lighthouses on Russia's northern shore, hacking a Swedish air defense command outpost from the inside, personally and permanently disabling a Russian listening station, all in the interest of following up on one word in a dead man's communiqué: Snegurochka. And now this, infiltrating a top-secret Russian research lab hidden on a deep sea drilling platform. One of the smart boys back in Maryland had noticed on satellite imagery that the rig didn't seem to be doing a whole lot of drilling, and even less pumping, and that meant it was very interesting to certain people who didn't like the Russians keeping secrets. People like Director Grímsdóttir. All of which meant that he was out here in the middle of the Sea of Okhotsk, hanging upside down in the control room of a research facility that had no right existing. Of course, it was also a research facility that had pressure-activated floor trigger alarms tied into a multiply redundant lockdown system, not to mention armed guards who looked to have been drawn from the Delfin unit stationed at Russkyy Island. Leon had run into four of them already, had sent three over the side while stuffing the fourth's corpse into an equipment storage locker, but he had no desire to try his luck with a fifth. "Could use a fifth of something," he muttered to himself as he lowered himself to the floor. Workstations covered one wall of the room; the other was dominated by a high window that looked down on a large test chamber half-filled by a large glass tank full of water. There was equipment down there as well, some of it submerged, some of it ominously left half-out of the tank. Or, he realized, half-in. Cursing under his breath, Leon extracted what looked like a USB key from his belt pouch and plugged it in to one of the workstations. Immediately it lit up like a Christmas tree, as lines of text scrolled frantically across several of the monitors. Leon studied them for a moment and decided he didn't like what he saw. It was clear now what the platform's real purpose was, and while a transmitter in his goggles sent a direct visual feed of everything he saw back to Third Echelon, some things you needed to say to another human being directly. That was especially true, he thought, when what you saw involved the potential to turn the entire West Coast into a giant bulls-eye. "Control, this is Icefish. Do you read me?" Static crackled in his ear for a moment, the sound of his transmission fighting its way through the miles and the storms between him and the nearest friendly listener. Outside, the weather was picking up. He could hear the heavy thud of the waves slamming against the sides of the rig like a man chopping wood with a dull axe. If he didn't get out of here soon, he realized, he wasn't getting out of here at all. The weather would keep him here, and the Russians would see to the rest. Feeling a little more urgency, he tried again. "Control? This is Icefish. Come in." "I read you, Icefish." The voice on the other end of the line was cool, professional, and female. "Director Grímsdóttir. This is an honor." That wasn't exactly true. Having the Grim Reaper on the line with you meant two things, neither of which was an honor. It meant that what you were doing was top-line priority, and it meant that you were screwed. "Spare me. What have you got?" Leon coughed, softly. "Nothing on Snegurochka, but there's more than one kind of bad news. I'm uploading the data now, but it looks like this is a testing site for the new generation of Shkvals." "Supercavitating torpedoes. Wonderful." "It looks like they've solved the guidance problem." He checked the progress on the upload, then checked his divers' watch, then checked the upload again. 22%, steady progress. Another two minutes and he'd be done, and then it would be time to get the hell out of Dodge. "That's going to make Annapolis really unhappy." She chuckled, an unpleasant sound. "Right. Leave a couple of obvious surprises, and then bury the real killer deep." "You don't want me to wipe it?" Leon was surprised. "No. Not yet. I want to be able to trigger that remotely when it's going to do the most damage. In the meantime, I want you to let them know they've been hit, let them know we're watching, let them know we're not going to just let them walk in the back door – and then we'll see what they do next." He groaned. "Please tell me that whatever they do next, they'll do someplace warm." "Why, Icefish. You sound like Sam." And with that, she cut the connection. |
|---|