Locked On

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.

“Gentlemen. My team leaders and I have spent the last four hours going over an operation plan to retake the Dnepr launch control center and the two launch silos. Taking the lessons learned by last night’s mission by the Russian Army into account, as well as our own capabilities at present, I regret to say that, although we feel confident that if we marshal all of our efforts on the LCC we have an eighty percent chance of success of retaking the building and rescuing the majority of the hostages there, it is a heavily fortified bunker and Mr. Safronov is entrenched there, he is highly skilled, and very motivated. We therefore feel there is a fifty-percent chance that he and the men there will have time to launch one ?vehicle, and a twenty-percent chance they will be able to launch both.”

The Russian ambassador to Kazakhstan looked at General Gummesson for a long moment. In highly accented English he said, “So. That is it? All your men with guns, and you say it is fifty-fifty whether or not Moscow is destroyed?”

“I am afraid so. Our training funds have been cut in the past year or so, and the men rotating into service with us have not had the coordinated experience that Rainbow used to offer, back when we were called on more often. I am afraid our readiness has suffered.”

“This is not simply an aversion to risk on your part, General Gummesson?”

The Swedish military officer showed no annoyance at the implication. “We have looked at the situation, and it is grim. We have no idea how many men Safronov has remaining with him. Interviews with men from the processing facility who were let go yesterday morning suggest the number could be over fifty. Presumably some were killed in last night’s Spetsnaz attack, but we have no way of knowing how many there are remaining. I will not send my men into the unknown like this, no matter the stakes. My force and I will be returning to Britain immediately. Gentlemen, good afternoon, and good luck.”

Gummesson stood, turned to leave, but a Spetsnaz colonel at the far end of the table stood quickly. “Excuse me, General Gummesson.” This man’s accent was even thicker than the ambassador’s. “Could I ask you to remain here in Baikonur? At least for a few hours?”

“For what purpose, Colonel?”

“I will speak with you about it privately.”

“Very well.”

Clark had been given time alone to “think.” His shattered hand remained under a dirty towel, but the pain from the swelling and soft tissue damage, and from broken bones in his hand and ribs that moved every time John tried to find a more comfortable position, was sheer and utter agony.

Sweat poured off of John’s face and down his neck, even in the meat-locker cold of the warehouse, his shirt was soggy from the perspiration and this gave him chills.

His mind had gone numb, though his body had not. He wanted relief from the pain, but more than this he wanted relief from the worry that this stupid kid might actually break him if the barbarity continued.

Clark knew he could have lied, could have made up false relationships, told a complicated story that would take days to confirm. But he worried that any obfuscation on his part could be detected with fact-checking or a little legwork on the part of Kovalenko’s people. And if he was caught in a lie, if he delayed for too long, then perhaps Valentin would come back with some SP-117, the truth serum that, according to some reports, was light-years ahead of the unreliable sodium pentothal of the past.

No, Clark told himself, as much misery as he was in right now, he would take his lumps in the hope that his brutal torturers went a bit too far and killed him.

Better that than fucking with his mind and turning him into a one-man wrecking crew for The Campus and President Jack Ryan.

“Time is short, everyone back to work!” Kovalenko shouted as he reappeared in the light hanging above Clark’s head. Valentin leaned in close and smiled, reinvigorated, apparently, from the smell of his breath, by strong coffee and a Russian cigarette. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. How are you holding up?” Clark said dryly.

“Any desire to talk and stop the pain from continuing? We have some wonderful medicine we can give you to make it go away. And we will drop you off at a local hospital. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Valentin,” Clark said, “whatever you do to me, my people will find out. And whatever you do to me, they will do to you. Just keep that in mind.”

Kovalenko just stared at the American. “Just tell me who they are, and there will be nothing more for me to do.”

Clark looked away.

Kovalenko nodded. “I swear I wish my father was here now. The old ways were best for this, I am certain. Anyway, John, you have lost a hand already, but I am just getting started. You will leave here a crippled old man. I am about to destroy you.”

He waited for John to ask how, but John just sat there.

“I will have my friends here shove a scalpel into your eyes, one at a time.”

Clark stared Kovalenko down. “And my people will do the same to you. Are you prepared for that?”

“Who are your people? Who?”

John said nothing.

A big Slav grabbed John’s head from behind and held it perfectly still. Clark’s eyes watered, tears dripped down his face, and he blinked rapidly. “Fuck you!” he screamed through a jaw held tight with a meaty hand, and the headlock tightened.

The other Spetsnaz goon stepped in front of John. A stainless-steel scalpel in his hand glinted in the light from above.

Valentin stepped back, turned away so that he could not see. “Mr. Clark. This… right now… is your very last chance.”

Clark could tell by the resignation in the young man’s voice. He would not back down.

“Fuck you!” was all that came out of the American’s mouth. He took a deep breath and held it.

Kovalenko shrugged dramatically. While facing toward the wall he said, “Votki emu v glaz.”

Clark understood. Put it in his eye.

Through the fish-eye effect of the water in his eyes, Clark saw the scalpel come closer to his face as the man knelt in front of him. Beyond that, he saw Kovalenko step away. He thought the Russian just had no stomach for what was about to happen, but in another instant John realized Valentin was reacting to a noise outside.

The sounds of a helicopter echoed through the warehouse. The thumping came fast and frantic, as if the aircraft was falling straight down out of the sky. It landed outside; Clark could see the lights shining through the walls, creating wicked shadows that wiped back and forth over everyone. The man with the scalpel stood up quickly and turned around. Over the incredible noise, noise that told John there was more than one helicopter in the mix — the other one likely hovering just feet above the tin roof — Valentin Kovalenko yelled orders to his security men around the perimeter. Clark caught a glimpse in the sweeping lights of the SVR assistant rezident. He looked like a panicked, cornered animal.

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,