Who Dares Wins

by Zahal

In the spring of 1967 Israel is threatened with destruction by its Arab neighbors. The United States is reluctant to believe that such an attack will happen and Jack Ryan is sent in to find proof. If Jack can find the proof then Israel may be able to strike first and survive. If not, the future of the Middle East may be a Soviet Red.

1. Chapter 1

Marchand T. MacDermotRoe

Who Dares Wins

By Marchand T. MacDermotRoe

Introduction

Darkness, there's nothing but darkness. A sound rings through the air, crack, zip, snap. The clang of the bolt of a Soviet made AK-47 echoes with a nerve shattering distinction. His heart is racing like engine, his hands feel numb and there is an odd aching in his ears. The sound rings out again, crack, zip, snap. He can almost feel the ripples in the air. In the darkness a man screams. It is a gut wrenching, nauseating scream.

Suddenly, in the darkness a black clad figure emerges. Standing silently, a skeletal figure, dressed in black fatigues walks slowly and ominously forward. His face is still obscured but in his hands is the unmistakable weapon of every peasant army, a rugged and beaten AK-47, with a magazine in the well and the safety off. The creature, if you can call him that, raises the weapon and takes aim.

Jack's eyes snap open and he takes an intense breath in. His heart is in this throat and pounding so heard it should break a rib. Sweat is pouring from his face. "Jesus Christ" Jack sighs as he realizes he's awake and on the sofa in his living room. He sits up, and rubbing his face looks at the TV, realizing once again he fell asleep on the couch watching Fox News. On the table is an empty glass of Glenfidich Scotch and smoldering cigar. This is just another Tuesday night for Jack Ryan.

Jack looks over at the clock, it's 0450. He has to get up in an hour anyway so why try to go back to sleep. He staggers to his feet and running his fingers through his hair, Jack walks to the shower. Sleeping never gets easier Jack ponders to himself as he turns on the hot water. What he wouldn't give for just one good night's sleep, just one night without the nightmares, just one night without the feeling of panic, just one night of peace. Jack's thoughts are interrupted by looking at himself in the mirror. "Holy shit I look like smashed ass", he mutters out loud. Fumbling about for his razor and soap and gets in the shower. He's a minimalist alright, razor, washcloth and all purpose soap.

The task seems almost automatic now as Jack finishes and gets dressed. He puts on his dark blue suit, white shirt and blue tie. Even though he feels like a donkey kicked him, he still has to make sure everything is in precise order. Few things drive him crazier than a line out of place, a wrinkled shirt or hair unkempt. An old Staff Sergeant once told him that you can tell a lot about a man from the way he wears his uniform, if it looks like garbage, chances are he's garbage.

Grabbing his ID and credentials, Jack walks out the door. He enjoys the stroll through the car to the parking lot. It's peaceful and quiet at 0520 in the morning. A cool mist hangs in the air and a gentle breeze passes by. He takes in the spring air with a refreshing deep breath. There is something about the moist, cool air that clears his mind and brings him a sense of absolute calm.

He steps over and gets into his car, a 1963 Buick Special. He turns on vehicle and the radio kicks over. Over the speakers echoes a familiar song, Au Fond Du Temple Saint. Jack thinks to himself, those guys know just what song to play at the ass end of dawn. Jack loves Opera, mainly because it is passionate and driven. It speaks to the deepest part of the soul and takes us to places we hitherto thought impossible.

The drive this morning seems to take longer than usual but Jack doesn't mind. A nice drive, some good opera and no traffic, what more could a man ask for. His drive to CIA Headquaters in Langley goes uneventfully and he pulls up to the front gate. He shows his credentials at the gate. "Morning Mr. Ryan" belts out SGT Bill Mitchells.

A former First Sergeant in the US Army's 2nd Ranger Battalion, SGT Bill Mitchells is a short, stocky man in his early 50s. His voice is deep and loud which tend to throw most people off guard. A veteran of innumerable battles, SGT Bill Mitchells is enjoying his retirement as a CIA police Sergeant. He chats up the secretaries on their way into work and shoots the breeze with agents off to their next mission. As a young soldier he used to always say that he was "living the dream". Now he feels that he truly is.

Jack can't help but wonder how in the hell anyone is this enthusiastic this early in the morning. "Morning Bill. Did you have a cup of hoaah this morning?" Jack said with affectionate sarcasm. SGT Mitchells with a sly smile responds "An old soldier always remembers false motivation is better than no motivation Mr. Ryan." As the arm to the front gate rises and Jack begins to pull his car away, he stops and chuckling says to SGT Bill Mitchells "Bill you just remember, never go full Hooaah." With a hardy laugh the two old soldiers part ways.