BooksBarbecue
Back The Janson Directive Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Title Page
  2. Table of Contents
  3. Prologue
  4. PART ONE
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. PART TWO
  14. Chapter Nine
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Chapter Fifteen
  21. Chapter Sixteen
  22. Chapter Seventeen
  23. PART THREE
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. Chapter Twenty-one
  28. Chapter Twenty-two
  29. Chapter Twenty-three
  30. Chapter Twenty-four
  31. Chapter Twenty-five
  32. Chapter Twenty-six
  33. Chapter Twenty-seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-nine
  36. Chapter Thirty
  37. Chapter Thirty-one
  38. PART FOUR
  39. Chapter Thirty-two
  40. Chapter Thirty-three
  41. Chapter Thirty-four
  42. Chapter Thirty-five
  43. Chapter Thirty-six
  44. Chapter Thirty-seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-one
  49. Chapter Forty-two
  50. Chapter Forty-three
  51. Epilogue
  52. ALSO BY ROBERT LUDLUM
  53. Critical Praise for Robert Ludlum
  54. Copyright Page

In the moonlight, he saw the man’s eyes, and just underneath, the bore hole of the AK-47. Each, he knew, had spotted the other, and what AK-47 fire lacked in precision it made up for in volume. Now he saw the VC brace the butt on his shoulder and prepare to squeeze off a fusillade just as Janson located the man’s torso in his crosshairs. Within seconds, one of them would be dead.

Janson’s universe constricted to the three elements: finger, trigger, crosshairs. At that instant, they were all he knew, all he needed to know.

A double tap—two carefully aimed shots—and the little man with the submachine gun pitched forward.

Yet how many more were out there?

“Get us the fuck out of here!” Janson radioed back to base. “We need backup now! Send a Mike boat. Send whatever the hell you’ve got. Just do it now!”

“Just one moment,” the radio operator said. Then Janson heard the voice of his commanding officer coming on the line: “You holding up OK, son?” Demarest asked.

“Sir, they were expecting us!” Janson said.

After a pause, Demarest’s voice crackled on the radio headphones. “Of course they were.”

“But how, sir?”

“Just consider it a test, son. A test that will show which of my men have what it takes.” Janson thought he heard choral music in the background. “You’re not going to complain to me about the VCs, are you? They’re just a bunch of overgrown kids in pajamas.”

Despite the oppressive tropical heat, Janson felt a chill. “How did they know, sir?”

“If you wanted to find out how good you were at shooting paper targets, you could have stayed at camp in Little Creek, Virginia.”

“But Hardaway—”

Demarest cut him off. “He was weak. He failed the test.”

He was weak: Alan Demarest’s voice. But Janson would not be. Now he opened his eyes with a shudder as the plane touched down on the macadamized landing strip.

Katchall had for years been declared a restricted, no-entry location by India’s navy, part of a security zone that included most of the Nicobar Islands. Once it was rezoned, it became nothing less than a trading post. Mangoes, papaya, durian, PRC-101s, and C-130s all made their way to and from the sun-scorched oval of land. It was, Janson knew, one of the few places where nobody would blink at the sudden arrival of military transport vehicles and munitions.