Locked On jrj-3

by Tom Clancy

  The helicopter above began circling slowly.

  Shouting voices now. Barking orders and yelled threats. John tucked his head into his neck　, there was nothing else he could do strapped to the chair, but it felt right to do something. His hand hurt like a motherfucker, so the new activity in the building gave him something to think about, at the very least.

  Red laser lights appeared like fireflies shooting across the surfaces of the floors, the table, the men standing around, and John Clark himself. In the cold dusty air John could see the needle-thin lines of the red lasers as they swept around. He was then bathed in white light, and he shut his eyes tightly.

  When he opened them he realized the overhead hanging light fixtures, two stories above him on the ceiling of the warehouse, had been turned on, and the big room was awash in light now.

  Valentin Kovalenko was the smallest figure in the building. In front of him, facing him, black-clad gunmen with HK MP5 submachine guns.

  These were Spetsnaz troops, and they were led by a man in civilian dress. Kovalenko and his men — there were eight in total, John could now see — all raised their hands.

  Who the fuck was this new clown? Clark wondered. Out of the frying pan, then into the fire, but now what? Could it get any fucking worse?

  Valentin and his crew were led out of the warehouse with just a few gruff comments from the man in street clothes, who then left the warehouse with several, but not all, of the paramilitaries. The helicopter took off a minute later.

  The chopper that had been hovering above peeled away.

  Behind the Spetsnaz soldiers remaining in the room a lean man in his late fifties walked into the cold cellar. The man had a short crew cut, narrow wire-rimmed glasses, and bright intelligent eyes on his deeply creased face. He looked like he ran five miles before breakfast every morning.

  John Clark felt like he could be looking at a mirror image of himself, only in a Russian suit.

  Except it wasn’t a mirror. Clark knew the man in front of him.

  The man stood over the American and he ordered one of the men to cut away Clark’s bindings. While doing so the older man said, “Mr. Clark. My name is Stanislav Biryukov. I am—”

  “You are the director of the FSB.”

  “I am, indeed.”

  “Is this just a changing of the guard, then?” Clark asked.

  The FSB man shook his head emphatically. “Nyet. No, of course not. I am not here to continue with this madness.”

  Clark just looked at him.

  Biryukov said, “My country has a serious problem and we find ourselves needing to call on your expertise. At the same moment, we realize that you are here, right here in Russia, and you seem to have a bit of a problem yourself. It is fate that brings us together today, John Clark. I am hoping the two of us can come to a quick and mutually beneficial agreement.”

  Clark wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Keep talking.”

  “There has been a terrorist incident in Kazakhstan involving our space launch facility at Baikonur.”

  Clark had no idea what was going on beyond his field of view. “A terrorist incident?”

  “Yes. A terrible thing. Two rockets tipped with nuclear bombs are in the hands of terrorists from the Caucasus, and they have the manpower and k　now-how to launch the rockets. We have asked for assistance from your former organization. I am not speaking of the CIA, I am speaking of Rainbow. Unfortunately, the men leading Rainbow at the moment find themselves unprepared for the magnitude of this problem.”

  “Call the White House.”

  Biryukov shrugged. “We did. Edward Kealty sent four men with laptop computers to save us. They are at the Kremlin. They did not even go to Kazakhstan.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “Rainbow is positioned there right now. Forty men.”

  Clark just repeated himself: “What are you doing here?”

  “I have asked my president to appeal to Rainbow to let you take temporary command of the organization for the Baikonur operation. Russian Spetsnaz forces would assist you in any way you wish. The Air Force, as well. In fact, you will have the entire Russian military at your disposal.” He paused, then said, “We will need to take action by tomorrow evening.”

  “You are asking me to help you?”

  Stanislav Biryukov shook his head slowly. “I am begging you, Mr. Clark.”

  Clark raised an eyebrow as he looked up at the head of the FSB. “If you are appealing to my love of all things Russian in order to stop the attack on Moscow, well, sorry, comrade, but you’ve caught me on a bad day. My first inclination is to root for the guy with his finger on the button over there in Kazakhstan.”

  “I understand, in light of present circumstances. But I also know that you will do this. You will want to save millions of lives. That is all that you will require to accept this role, but I have been authorized by President Rychcov to offer you whatever you want. Anything.”

  John Clark stared at the Russian. “Right now I could use a goddamn bag of ice.”

  Biryukov acted as if he had just noticed the swollen, broken hand. He called out to the men behind him, and soon a Spetsnaz sergeant with a medical kit came over and began unwrapping the towel. He placed cold gel packs on the horrific injuries, and he slowly moved the two twisted fingers back into place. He then began to wrap the entire hand and ice packs with compression bandages.

  While he did this, Clark spoke through winces of pain. “Here are my demands. Your people talk to the press about how Kovalenko conspired with Paul Laska to bring down the Ryan administration with fabrications about me. The Russian government distances themselves from the allegations completely, and hands over any evidence they have on Laska and his associates.”

  “Of course. Kovalenko has brought shame and embarrassment on us all.”

  The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment before Clark said, “I’m not going to take your assurances. There’s a guy at The Washington Post. Bob Holtzman. He’s tough but fair. You can have your ambassador meet with him, or you can call him yourself. But this needs to happen before I do anything to help you out of that little fix you are in at the spaceport.”

  Stanislav Biryukov nodded. “I will contact President Rychcov’s office and see that it happens today.” He then looked around at the torture implements on the table. “Between you and me, between two old men who have seen a lot more than many of the young people who have risen to the top ranks today… I would like to apologize for what the SVR has done. This was not an FSB 　operation at all. I hope you will tell your new president that personally.”

  Clark responded to this request with a question: “What will happen to Valentin Kovalenko?”

  Biryukov shrugged. “Moscow is a dangerous place, even for an SVR leader. His operation, his rogue operation, I will say, has been an embarrassment for my country. He will make important people angry when it is found out what he has done. Who’s to say he might not meet with an accident?”

  “I am not asking you to kill Kovalenko on my behalf. I am just suggesting that he will have a problem when he finds out I’ve been freed by the FSB.”

  Biryukov smiled. Clark could tell the man was not in the least bit concerned about Valentin Kovalenko. “Mr. Clark. Someone has to shoulder Russia’s responsibility in this unfortunate affair.”

  John shrugged it away. He wasn’t going to worry about saving Kovalenko’s ass right now. There were innocent people out there who actually deserved his help.

  John Clark and Stanislav Biryukov climbed into a helicopter five minutes later. Heavily armed commandos helped John walk, and the medic applied cold packs and compression bandages around his broken ribs. As the helo lifted off into the night sky the American leaned over to the head of the FSB. “I need the fastest plane to Baikonur, and a satellite phone. I need to call a former colleague from Rainbow and get him here. If you can speed up his visa and passport process, it would be very helpful.”

&nbs
p; “Just tell your man to get himself on the way to Baikonur. I will contact the head of customs authority of Kazakhstan personally. There will be no delays getting him in the country, I can promise you. You and I will meet him there. By the time we land, Rychcov will have negotiated authority for you to lead Rainbow once again.”

  76

  Chavez, Ryan, and Caruso met with Mohammed al Darkur shortly after touchdown at Allama Iqbal International Airport in Lahore, the capital of the state of Punjab. The Americans were pleased to see that the ISI major had recovered from his shoulder wound for the most part, though it was evident from his stiff movements that he was still dealing with some issues.

  “How is Sam?” Mohammed asked Chavez as they all climbed into an ISI van.

  “He’s going to be okay. The infection is clearing up, wounds are healing, he says he’s a hundred percent good to go, but our bosses wouldn’t hear of him coming back to Pakistan just yet.”

  “It is not a good time for anyone to come to Pakistan. Especially Lahore.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  The van headed toward the airport exit. In addition to the driver, Mohammed had one other man in front, and he passed loaded Beretta 9-millimeter pistols out to the Americans as he talked. “It is getting worse by the hour. There are nearly ten million people here, and anyone who can get out of town is doing just that. We are only ten miles from the border, and the public fully expects an invasion by India. There are reports already of artillery crossing in both directions.

  “The PDF has moved armor into the town, you will see for yourselves. There are police and military checkpoints going up even now amid rumors of foreign agents in the city, but we will not have any problems passing.”

  “Anything to those rumors about Indian spies?”

  “Maybe so. India is agitated. Understandably in this case. Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous has fomented a real international crisis, and I do not know if we can be pulled back from the brink.”

  Caruso asked, “Is your government going to fall, especially now, after your bombs turned up in the hands of Dagestani terrorists?”

  “The short answer, Dominic, is yes. Maybe not today or this week, but certainly very soon. Our prime minister was not strong to begin with. I expect the Army will depose him in order, they will say, to ‘save Pakistan.’”

  Chavez asked, “Where is Rehan now?”

  “He is in a flat in the old section of Lahore called the Walled City, near the Sunehri Mosque. He does not have a lot of men with him. We think just his assistant, Colonel Saddiq Khan, and a couple of guards.”

  “Any idea what he’s up to?”

  “None, unless it is to meet with Lashkar terrorists. This is an LeT stronghold, and he has been using them in operations over the border. But, honestly, Lahore seems like the last place for Rehan to be right now. The city is not a fundamentalist stronghold like Quetta or Karachi or Peshawar. I have a pair of men near his flat, so if he leaves for any reason we can try to follow him.”

  Al Darkur took the Americans to a nearby apartment. They had just settled in when Chavez’s mobile phone rang.

  “Go for Ding,” he said.

  “Hey.” It was John Clark.

  “John! Are you okay?”

  “Makin’ it. Remember when you said that if I needed you, you’d come running?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Then get your ass on a plane, pronto.”

  Chavez looked across the room at the two younger operators. He’d have to leave them on their own, but there was no way he wouldn’t be there for Clark. “Where am I heading?”

  “Center stage.”

  Fuck, thought Chavez. He just said, “The Cosmodrome?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  John Clark had changed into Russian camo fatigues and a heavy coat by the time he climbed out of the helicopter in the parking lot of the Sputnik Hotel. The bandaging on his hand and his head was of a professional grade, Biryukov had seen to it that an orthopedic surgeon had flown along with them from Moscow to attend to the American’s wounds.

  It hurt like a bitch. John was pretty certain his hand would bother him as long as he lived, even after the God knows how many surgeries he’d require to have the bones put back together, but that was a worry for another day.

  The snow fell heavily during his arrival. It was eight a.m. local time, and the Sputnik looked to Clark to be in near chaos. Different organizations of men, both uniformed and in civilian dress, had staked out tiny kingdoms both outside and inside, and there seemed to be no one in charge.

  While John walked from the chopper to the hotel everyone in his path stopped and stared. Some knew he was the former commander of Rainbow, here to take control of the situation. Others knew he was John Clark, the international fugitive wanted by the United States for multiple murders. Many simply re뀀cognized the presence of the man, who walked with purpose and authority.

  But everyone saw the bruised face, a dark purple jaw and black eyes, and a right hand encased in fresh white dressing.

  Stanislav Biryukov was by his side and a dozen more FSB and Alpha Group men followed them as they entered the hotel and marched through the lobby. In the hallway leading to the main conference room military officers and diplomats and rocket scientists alike all stepped aside for the procession.

  Biryukov did not knock before entering the command center. He had spoken with President Rychcov moments before landing at Yubileinaya and, as far as Biryukov was concerned, he had all the authority he needed to do whatever he goddamn well pleased around here.

  The command center had been notified of the arrival of the American and the FSB director, so those working there were seated and ready for a conversation. Clark and Biryukov were asked to sit at the table, but both men remained standing.

  The director of the Russian intelligence agency was first to talk. “I have spoken with the president directly. He has had conversations with the commanders of NATO regarding Rainbow.”

  The Russian Ambassador to Kazakhstan nodded. “I have spoken with the president myself, Stanislav Dmitrievich. Let me assure you, and let me tell Mr. Clark, that we understand the situation and we are at your service.”

  “As am I.” General Lars Gummesson entered the room. Clark had met Gummesson when he was a colonel in the Swedish Special Forces, but he did not know the man, other than the fact he was the current head of Rainbow. He’d expected friction from the officer, it would be only natural for someone relinquishing command, but the tall Swede saluted Clark smartly, even while looking curiously at the older man’s beaten face and wounded hand. He recovered and said, “I’ve talked to the leadership at NATO, and they have explained that you will be commanding Rainbow for this operation.”

  Clark nodded. “If you have no objections.”

  “None at all, sir. I serve at the pleasure of my government and at the pleasure of NATO leadership. They have made the decision to replace me. Your reputation precedes you, and I expect to learn much in the next twenty-four hours. Back when Rainbow was actually used in direct action, that is to say, back when you were in charge, I am sure you learned many things that will be helpful in the coming hours. I hope to see action tonight in any way you can use me.” Gummesson finished with, “Mr. Clark, until this crisis has passed, Rainbow is yours.”

  Clark nodded, not as happy about taking on this responsibility as the Swedish general seemed to think he would be. But he had no time to worry about his own circumstance. He immediately began working on the operation. “I need plans of the launch control center and the missile silos.”

  “You will get them immediately.”

  “I will need to send recon units out to get an accurate impression of the target areas.”

  “I anticipated this. Before dawn we inserted two teams of two men each to within one thousand yards of each of the three locations. We have reliable comms and real-time video.”

  “Excellent. How many Jamaat Shariat men at each site?”

  “Sinc
e the launch from 109, they have consolidated their men. There seem to be about eight to ten tangos around each launch silo. There are four more at a bunker near뀀 the access road that leads to the Dnepr area. We have no idea how many are in launch control. From a distance we’ve seen one man on the roof, but that doesn’t really help. The facility is essentially a bunker, and we cannot get our eyes in there. If we attack, we will have to attack blind.”

  “Why can’t we use surface-to-air missiles to take out the rockets if they launch?”

  Gummesson shook his head. “When they are still very low to the ground that is possible, but we are unable to move the equipment close enough to take them out before they are moving too fast for SAMs. Missiles fired from aircraft cannot reach them, either.”

  Clark nodded. “Figured it wouldn’t be that easy. Okay. We also need our own operations center. Where are the rest of the men?”

  “We have a large tent outside for CCC.” Communication, command, and control would be the Rainbow operations center. “There is another tent for equipment and a third where the men are billeted.”

  Clark nodded. “Let’s go there now.”

  Clark and Gummesson talked as they walked with Biryukov and several Alpha Group officers toward the parking lot. They had made it into to the lobby of the Sputnik when Domingo Chavez entered through the front door. Ding wore a brown cotton shirt and blue jeans, no coat or hat, though it was well below freezing.

  Chavez noticed his father-in-law from across the lobby and he approached. As he neared, his smile faded. He gave the older man a gentle hug, and when he pulled away Ding’s face showed unbridled fury. “Jesus Christ, John! What the fuck did they do to you?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “The hell you are!” Chavez looked around at Biryukov and the other Russians, but he continued to address John. “What do you say we tell these Russians to fuck themselves, then we can go home, find a couch and a TV, then sit back and watch Moscow burn to the goddamned ground?”