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Tom Clancy Point of Contact

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1 The North Sea Albuskjell Oilfield, Norway Latitude 56° North, Longitude 3° East Freeze or drown. He wasn't sure which one would come first. It didn't really matter. Either way, Jack Ryan, Jr., knew he was going to die in the next two minutes. The F470 Zodiac rubber raiding craft pounded through the chopping waves beneath a storm-shrouded moon. Jack clutched the safety ropes in both fists to keep from getting thrown overboard. So did Adara Sherman, seated in front of him. She was getting it worse than he was. Every bounce threw more spray in their faces. Jack's NVGs were spattered with ice. He couldn't risk wiping off the night-vision lenses while he was riding this bucking bronco. But a half-mile ahead he could still barely make out the oil rig, lights off, its hulking frame a black shadow above the surging sea. That was fine by Jack. The darkness shielded their approach. Jack's teeth chattered and his mind clouded in the numbing cold. The freezing North Sea wind seemed to slice right through his five-millimeter wetsuit, and the stinging sleet felt like a broken beer bottle dragged across his exposed skin. Despite their misery, Bartosz Midas Jankowski gunned the engine full throttle, his goggled eyes fixed on his GPS. They were supposed to run quiet, but they got off late. At least the howling wind swept away most of the noise from the baffled fifty-five-horsepower outboard motor in back. The high winds also meant a helicopter landing was out of the question, and fast-roping out of it-Jack's favorite new skill-even more so. All three of them were getting beat to hell, and time wasn't their friend. If they didn't reach the oil platform ladder in the next two minutes, they would fail the mission. Assuming we survive for the next two minutes, Jack reminded himself. And then there were the gunmen on the oil rig to deal with. But right now, armed killers seemed like the least of their problems. As if on cue, a rogue wave swelled beneath the speeding craft, lifting the port side out of the water. Jack had shoved the toes of his boots through the safety rope along the rubber deck for purchase but felt himself pitching over the side anyway. Midas grabbed the drag handle of Jack's vest with a sure hand at the last second, saving him from a headlong dive into the angry black sea. Jack glanced to his right at the other Zodiac just a few yards away. In the green haze of his iced NVGs, Jack saw Dom Caruso flash him a quick Okay? with his gloved thumb. Jack thumbed him back. No time for chitchat. Ding Chavez drove Dom's boat, his eyes fixed on the GPS locator. The five special operators of The Campus were a close-knit team, the tip of the spear of the private off-the-books intelligence agency known only to President Ryan and a select few of his closest advisers. They were a small organization, but they punched hard-and far above their weight. This mission was proof of that. They did the jobs the CIA or other government intelligence services couldn't do. Or wouldn't. Tonight was no exception. Jack ran through the schematics of the oil rig platform in his mind again, particularly the control room and machine shop-his two targets. Gavin Biery's webmaster magic had come through again. If it weren't for him they'd be going in totally blind. Gavin's intel brief confirmed four hostages and six Green Army Faction eco-terrorists, armed and trained. But intel on a hostage-rescue operation like this was always sketchy. John Clark's warning echoed in his head. Stay frosty out there. You don't know what you don't know. True that. It's time, Ding whispered in everyone's comms. Roger that, Midas confirmed. Jack watched Ding's boat veer off at a sharp angle, its bulletproof Armorflate rubber skin shredding water into the turn. The small drilling platform had two access ladders.