Locked On

  The cleaver rose off Clark’s wrist. Hung in the air a foot above it.

  “This is disgusting,” Kovalenko said. “Please, Mr. Clark. Do not make me watch this.”

  Clark had no humorous retort to this. Every nerve in his body was on edge, every muscle tightened for the impending swing of the cleaver against his wrist.

  Kovalenko looked back toward the American. “Really? You really will allow your body to be disfigured, your fucking hand to be severed, just to keep the information you have secret? Are you that fucking committed to some foolish cause? Are you that beholden to your masters? What sort of automaton are you? What kind of robot allows himself to be chopped to bits for some foolish sense of valor?”

  Clark squinted his eyes shut. He’d readied himself as much as possible for the inevitable.

  After thirty seconds, Clark opened his eyes back up. Valentin stared at him in disbelief. “They do not make men like you anymore, Mr. Clark.”

  Still, Clark said nothing.

  Kovalenko sighed. “No. I cannot do it. I don’t have the stomach to see his hand chopped off and lying on the floor.”

  Clark was surprised; he began to relax, just a little. But Valentin turned back to him, looking up to the man with the big sharp tool. “Put that down.”

  The man next to Clark heaved his chest. A little disappointed, maybe? He put down the cleaver.

  Kovalenko now said, “Pick up the hammer. Break every bone in his hand. One at a time.”

  The Spetsnaz man quickly grabbed a stainless-steel surgical hammer that rested on the table next to the cutting instruments. With no warning whatsoever he slammed the hammer onto John’s outstretched hand, shattering his index finger. He pounded a second and then a third time, while Clark shouted in agony.

  Kovalenko turned away, jabbed his fingers into his ears, and walked to the far wall of the warehouse.

  The fourth finger cracked just above the knuckle, and the pinky shattered in three places.

  A final, vicious pounding of the back of Clark’s hand threatened to send him into shock.

  Clark gritted his teeth; his eyes were shut and tears dripped out from the sides. His face was a dark shade of crimson. He took short bursts of air, fast replenishments of oxygen, to keep from going into shock.

  John Clark continued to cry out, slamming his head back hard against the stomach of the man behind him. He yelled, “You motherfucker!”

  A minute later, Kovalenko was back over him. Clark could barely see the young man through the tears and sweat in his eyes and the poor focus of his dilated pupils.

  Valentin winced as he glanced at the shattered hand. It was already swelling, black and blue, and two of the fingers were twisted perversely.

  “Cover that!” he shouted at one of his men. A towel was tossed over the damaged appendage.

  Kovalenko shielded his ears from the worst of the cries of agony, but he shouted, as if angry at the man in the chair for forcing him to do this, “You are a fool, old man! Your sense of honor will bring you nothing but pain here! I have all the time I need for you!”

  Even through his agony, John Clark could tell Valentin Kovalenko was on the verge of nausea.

  “Talk, old fool! Talk!”

  Clark did not talk. Not then, not in the next hour. Kovalenko was growing more and more frustrated by the minute. He’d ordered Clark’s head held under a bucket of water, and he’d had his men pound the American’s rib cage, breaking a bone and bruising him so badly he could barely breathe.

  John did his best to disassociate himself from what was going on with his body. He thought of his family, his parents, long since dead. He thought of friends and colleagues. He thought of his new farm in Maryland, and he hoped that, even though he would never see it again, his grandkids would grow up loving the place.

  Clark passed out two hours after the torture began.

  74

  The light indicating an incoming call from the crisis center had been blinking now for more than ten minutes.

  Safronov watched the news from Moscow on one of the main monitors, the other men at launch control, unwilling participants, sat in rapt attention.

  Georgi had hoped for a bigger spectacle. He knew launch site 109 contained the Dnepr loaded with the satellite and not one of the nukes, but he had targeted the central fuel storage containers at the Moscow Oil Refinery, which should have created a much larger explosion and fire. The payload had missed its target only by a quarter-kilometer, however, and Safronov felt he had gotten his point across.

  After watching the news a few seconds more he finally lifted the headset off the control panel, put it on, and accepted the call. “Da.”

  “You are speaking with President Rychcov.”

  Safronov responded in a cheery voice. “Good morning. You may not remember me, but we met at the Bolshoi last year. How is the weather in Moscow?”

  There was a long pause before the president’s reply, delivered curtly but with a slight tone of anxiety. “Your attack was unnecessary. We understand you have the technical capabilities to do that which you threaten. We know you have the nuclear weapons.”

  “That was punishment for your attack on this facility. If you attack again … well, President, I have no more kinetic missiles. The other two Dneprs at my disposal are nuclear-tipped.”

  “There is nothing for you to prove. We only need to negotiate, you in a position of power, me … in a position of weakness.”

  Safronov shouted into his headset, “This is not a negotiation! I have demanded something! I have not entered into negotiations! When will I be allowed to speak with Commander Nabiyev?”

  The president of Russia replied wearily. “I have allowed this. We will call you back a little later this morning and you will be able to speak with the prisoner. In the meantime, I have ordered all security forces back.”

  “Very good. We are prepared for another fight with your men, and I do not believe you are prepared to lose five million Muscovites.”

  This was not how Ed Kealty planned on spending the time left in his term, but at nine p.m. Washington, D.C., time, he and members of his cabinet met in the Oval Office.

  CIA Director Scott Kilborn was there, along with Alden, the deputy director. Wes McMullen, Kealty’s young chief of staff, was in attendance, as were the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the director of national intelligence, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the national security adviser.

  Kilborn gave a detailed briefing on the situation in Kazakhstan, including what the CIA knew about the attempted retaking of the Dnepr launch facilities by Russian Special Forces. Then the NSA briefed the President on the Baikonur launch and the fire at the oil refinery in Moscow.

  While they were all together President Rychcov called, Kealty spoke with him through a translator for about ten minutes, while Wes McMullen listened in, taking notes. The call was amicable but Kealty explained he would need to talk some things over with his advisers before committing to Rychcov’s requests.

  When he hung up the phone, his polite demeanor evaporated. “Fucking Rychcov is asking us to send SEAL Team 6 or Delta Force! Who the hell does he think he is, requesting specific military units?”

  Wes McMullen sat by his phone with his notepad in his lap. “Sir, I think he just knows who our tier-one anti-terror assets are. Nothing malicious in his request.”

  The President said, “He wants political cover in case this all ends badly. He wants to tell his people that he trusted America and Ed Kealty promised him a happy resolution, but that we screwed up.”

  The men in the room were Kealty’s people, for now, anyway. But to a man and to a woman they realized that their president was looking for a way out of this. A couple of them recognized he’d always been this way.

  Scott Kilborn said, “Mr. President. I respectfully disagree. He wants to prevent two twenty-kiloton bombs from taking out Moscow or Saint Petersburg. That could kill …” Kilborn looked to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Wha
t do your experts say?”

  “Each weapon will kill in excess of one million in the initial blast and fallout. Another two million–plus within a week from burns and disruption of the infrastructure and electrical grid. God knows how many more down the road. Seven to ten million deaths are likely.”

  Kealty groaned; he leaned forward at his desk and put his head in his hands.

  “Options?”

  The secretary of state said, “I think we send them over. We can green-light or red-light any action later.”

  Kealty shook his head. “I don’t want them to commit to anything. I don’t want them walking into this hornets’ nest and then having to act immediately. The Russians couldn’t pull it off, and they’ve practiced there before. Who’s to say we could do any better? Give me something else. Come on, people!”

  Alden said, “Advisers.”

  “Advisers? What do you mean?”

  “If we send a couple of JSOC people over there as advisers to their Spetsnaz, we can offer help, covertly, but not use our men in the attack.”

  Kealty loved the idea, everyone could immediately tell.

  The chairman, an Army general with spec ops experience in the Rangers, said, “Mr. President. This is a very fluid event. If we don’t have JSOC operators over there ready to act on a moment’s notice, well, we might as well not send anyone at all.”

  Kealty sat at his desk, thinking it over. He looked to the secretary of defense. “Any chance they will launch a missile at us?”

  SecDef held up his hands. “They are not threatening us. The Dagestani militants’ problems are with Russia. I do not see the U.S. as a target.”

  Kealty nodded, then beat on the desk. “No! I am not walking out the door of the Oval Office with this, this shit, being my legacy.” Kealty stood. “Tell President Rychcov that we will send advisers. That’s it!”

  Wes McMullen said, “Remember, sir, there are six Americans at the facility.”

  “Whose safety I hold Rychcov personally responsible for. Tell our advisers that any mission they help with needs to come up with a way to get our citizens out alive.”

  SecDef said, “Sir, with due respect—”

  But Kealty stood and headed for the door. “Good night, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Melanie called Jack at one-thirty in the afternoon. “Hey. Really sorry, but it is nuts here today—can I get a rain check for dinner tonight?”

  “Okay. Or if you want, I could bring some Chinese over late. We don’t have to go out. I’d love to see you.”

  “That sounds awesome, but I don’t know when or if I’m going to get out of here tonight. You can imagine. There is a lot going on these days.”

  “Yeah. I can imagine. All right, hang in there, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Jack.” Melanie hung up the phone. She hated canceling plans with Ryan, but there would be more work to do than she would possibly get done this evening anyhow. The data to go through about Rehan’s travel in—

  The phone on her desk rang. “Melanie Kraft?”

  Ninety seconds later, Melanie leaned into Mary Pat’s office. “I need to run out for just a second. Maybe a half-hour. Can I pick up anything for you?”

  Foley just shook her head. She started to say something, but her phone chirped.

  Kraft walked out to the bus stop in front of her building and took the next bus toward Tysons Corner, but she got out at the Old Meadow stop. She walked alone into Scott’s Run Community Park, made her way to some park benches overlooking a snow-and-ice-covered vista. Bare trees blew in a frigid wind, and she pulled her coat tighter around her.

  She sat down.

  The first man approached a minute later. He was big and black; he wore a long gray raincoat over his dark suit, but it was open as if he were impervious to the chill.

  He was a security man, and he looked her over and then spoke into a cuff mike.

  Behind her in the parking lot she heard a car pull up, but she did not turn around. She just kept looking at the swaying trees.

  The security man turned away, walked up the path, and then stood there, watching the road.

  Deputy Director of the CIA Charles Sumner Alden appeared from behind and he sat down next to her. He did not make eye contact. Instead he looked out over a snow-covered baseball diamond. “I am racking my brain here, Miss Kraft, trying to think how I may have possibly been more clear in my instructions to you. And I just can’t think of a way. I was certain we had an understanding. But today you tell Junior that you don’t have time to meet him tonight? Trust me, young lady. You do have time.”

  Melanie gritted her teeth. “Really, sir? You are bugging the phone of an analyst at NCTC? Are you that desperate?”

  “Yes. Frankly, we are.”

  “About what?”

  “About Jack Junior.”

  Melanie sighed cold vapor.

  Alden changed his voice a bit, less smarmy and more fatherly. “I thought I was clear about what I needed.”

  “I’ve done what you’ve asked.”

  “I’ve asked you to produce results. Have dinner with him tonight. Find out what he knows about Clark, about his dad’s relationship with Clark.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Now Alden was even more fatherly than before. “You wanted to help us. Has something changed?”

  “Of course not. You told me you had heard Clark worked with Ryan. You wanted me to find evidence of Jack’s work at Hendley Associates.”

  “And?” he asked.

  “And you are the DD/CIA. Of course it is my job to follow orders.”

  “Jack Junior is tighter with Clark than he is letting on. We know this. We have guys at the Agency who can tie Clark and Chavez to Hendley Associates, your boyfriend’s employer. And if Clark and Chavez work at Hendley, you can be goddamned sure more goes on there than arbitrage and trading. I want to know what Jack knows, and I want to know it now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Melanie said again.

  “Look. You have a bright future. I may be leaving my post soon, but CIA is not about the political appointees. It’s about the rank and file. The career men and women in the Agency know what you are doing, and they appreciate your hard work. We can’t allow criminal actions in the name of national security. You know that. So dig deeper.” He paused. “Don’t do it for me. Do it for them.” Then he sighed. “Do it for your country.”

  Melanie nodded distantly.

  Alden stood, turned, and looked down at the twenty-five-year-old analyst. “Jack wants to see you tonight. Make it happen.” He walked off through the snow, and his security man moved with him back toward the parking lot.

  Melanie walked back to the bus stop, and she pulled her phone from her purse. She dialed Jack’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “Hey.”

  “Look, I’m sorry about before. Just stressed from work.”

  “Believe me, I get it.”

  “To tell you the truth, I do need to get out of here for a bit. How ’bout you come over tonight? I’ll make dinner, we can hang out and watch a movie.”

  The pause was long, and only broken when Ryan cleared his throat.

  “Something wrong?”

  “No. I wish I could, Melanie, but something came up.”

  “In the past thirty minutes?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to go out of town. I’m on the way to the airport right now, in fact.”

  “To the airport,” she repeated, incredulously.

  “Yeah, just a quick flight back over to Switzerland. My boss wants me to meet some bankers, take them to dinner, get them to spill secrets, I guess. Should just take a couple of days.”

  Melanie did not respond.

  “I’m sorry. Dinner and a movie sounds great. Can we do it when I get back?”

  “Sure, Jack,” she said.

  Melanie climbed off the bus ten minutes later and headed back to the operations center. As soon as she got out of the elevator she saw Mary Pat at her
desk, leaving her a note. Mary Pat saw her approaching and motioned for her to head into her office.

  Melanie was nervous. Did she know about the meeting with Alden? Did she know the deputy director of the CIA was using her to spy on Mary Pat’s friend, Jack Ryan Jr., to see what his professional association with John Clark was?

  “What’s up?” she asked Mrs. Foley.

  “Big happening while you were gone.”

  “Really?” Melanie swallowed nervously.

  “A CIA asset in Lahore has positively identified Riaz Rehan. He arrived at the airport with his security detail and his second in command.”

  Melanie thought of Ryan’s rapid travel plans. “Really. When did this happen?”

  Foley said, “Within the past hour.”

  In an instant, Melanie knew. She did not know how he found out, because she was certain he was not CIA. But somehow Ryan had been tipped off and, for some reason, Jack Ryan Jr. was on his way to Lahore.

  75

  The on-site temporary command center for all Russian security forces for the Baikonur situation had been set up in the Sputnik Hotel in the town of Baikonur, well to the south of the Cosmodrome. Here Russian military and intelligence personnel, Federal Space Agency officials, Baikonur management, and other parties had set up camps both outside in heated tents and trailers and inside in the rooms, the restaurant, and the conference facilities. Even the Luna Disco off the main lobby had been taken over by a team of Army nuclear experts brought in from Strategic Rocket Forces.

  At four p.m. local time a General Lars Gummesson stepped into the conference room, leading two younger men. The combat fatigues of all three were generic, without any marking or insignia. They sat down at a long table across from Russian politicians and diplomats and military leaders.

  Gummesson was the leader of Rainbow, a secret international force of counterterror paramilitaries, chosen from the best tier-one military units on earth. He and his men had been requested by the Russian and Kazakh governments within an hour of the failure of the Alpha commandos, and he was returning to the command center to deliver his report on the situation and Rainbow’s readiness to engage.