Read Rainbow Six (1997) for Free Online Page B

be based in the United Kingdom. The reasons for this are simple:
    • The U.K. currently owns and operates the Special Air Service, the world’s foremost—that is, most experienced—special-operations agency.
    • London is the world’s most accessible city in terms of commercial air travel—in addition to which the SAS has a very cordial relationship with British Airways.
    • The legal environment is particularly advantageous, due to press restrictions possible under British law but not American.
    • The long-standing “special relationship” between American and British governmental agencies.
     
    For all of these reasons, the proposed special-operations team, composed of U.S., U.K., and selected NATO personnel, with full support from national-intelligence services, coordinated at site. . . .
    And he’d sold it, Clark told himself with a wispy smile. It had helped that both Ed and Mary Pat Foley had backed him up in the Oval Office, along with General Mickey Moore and selected others. The new agency, Rainbow, was blacker than black, its American funding directed through the Department of the Interior by Capitol Hill, then through the Pentagon’s Office of Special Projects, with no connection whatsoever to the intelligence community. Fewer than a hundred people in Washington knew that Rainbow existed. A far smaller number would have been better, but that was about the best that could be expected.
    The chain of command was a little baroque. No avoiding that. The British influence would be hard to shake—fully half of the field personnel were Brits, and nearly that many of the intel weenies, but Clark was the boss. That constituted a major concession from his hosts, John knew. Alistair Stanley would be his executive officer, and John didn’t have a problem with that. Stanley was tough, and better yet, one of the smartest special-operations guys he’d ever met—he knew when to hold, when to fold, and when to play the cards. About the only bad news was that he, Clark, was now a REMF—worse, a suit. He’d have an office and two secretaries instead of going out to run with the big dogs. Well, he had to admit to himself, that had to come sooner or later, didn’t it?
    Shit. He wouldn’t run with the dogs, but he would play with them. He had to do that, didn’t he, to show the troops that he was worthy of his command. He would be a colonel, not a general, Clark told himself. He’d be with the troops as much as possible, running, shooting, and talking things over.
    Meanwhile, I’m a captain, Ding was telling himself in the next car behind, while eagerly taking in the countryside. He’d only been through Britain for layovers at Heathrow or Gatwick, and never seen the land, which was as green as an Irish postcard. He’d be under John, Mr. C, leading one of the strike teams, and in effective rank, that made him a captain, which was about the best rank to have in the Army, high enough that the NCOs respected you as worthy of command, and low enough that you weren’t a staff puke and you played with the troops. He saw Patsy was dozing next to him. The pregnancy was taking it out of her, and doing so in unpredictable ways. Sometimes she bubbled with activity. Other times, she just vegetated. Well, she was carrying a new little Chavez in her belly, and that made everything okay—better than okay. A miracle. Almost as great as the miracle that here he was back doing what he’d originally been trained for—to be a soldier. Better yet, something of a free agent. The bad news was that he was subject to more than one government—suits that spoke multiple languages—but that couldn’t be helped, and he’d volunteered for this to stay with Mr. C. Someone had to look after the boss.
    The airplane had surprised him quite a bit. Mr. C hadn’t had his weapon handy—what the hell, Ding thought, you bother to get a permit that allows you to carry a weapon on a civilian airliner (about the hardest thing you can wish to