Operation Barracuda

“I figured that’s how you’d answer so I didn’t bother to ask.”

“So what happened at your place in Hong Kong? Who did you burn up in your place?”

Hendricks shakes his head and says, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. It’s shame that Yoshiko had to die. I was rather fond of her but she was conveniently in the right place at the right time. She worked at the Purple Queen, you know. As for the male corpse, he was someone the Shop provided to me. Some Caucasian they’d kidnapped from the street, cleaned up, and dressed in my pajamas. I had to make the Lucky Dragons, as well as Third Echelon, think I was dead, you see. You understand.”

“Oh, of course. Very well done.”

“Thank you. Now the problem is that I’ll have to change my name and appearance and settle my old estate through a third party, which is such a bore. Oh, well, it had to be.”

“And now you’re free to help a mad Chinese general attack a defenseless country and extort the United States into not interfering. You’re an enterprising guy, Mason.”

“Oh, you’ve figured out our scheme, have you? Do you know what we’re extorting the United States with, as you so delicately put it?”

“You’ve got a Russian warhead and you’re putting it in one of the MRUUVs that the submarine headed for America is carrying.”

“I’m impressed, Fisher. Two hours ago you didn’t know that.”

“And I’ve already transmitted the plan to Third Echelon. You’ll never get away with it.”

Hendricks’s eyes flared. “You’re lying, Fisher. You haven’t told Third Echelon squat. The last communication you had with them was around the time you were caught and you didn’t say anything about it. I think you just figured it out and haven’t had the time to make a report. I monitor all of Third Echelon’s communications, Fisher. How else would I have been on top of you every step of the way?”

He’s right. I believe him. He had full access to our satellite feeds and could plug into my implant conversations.

Hendricks removes something from his coat pocket. He discreetly hands it to Zdrok, who grins for the first time since he entered the room.

“Andrei here has something for you. He wants you to know how much he appreciates everything you’ve done for him and the Shop.”

Zdrok holds a pair of brass knuckles. He makes a big show out of slipping them on his right hand, over black leather gloves. While he does this, Hendricks motions for me to stand. I have no choice so I do so. He then moves behind me and tightly wraps his arms around my chest, preventing me from going anywhere.

“Don’t try any of your Krav Maga moves, Fisher,” Hendricks says. “I’m quite proficient in self-defense myself.” I know he speaks the truth.

“Mr. Fisher,” Zdrok says as he approaches me, “you have seriously damaged my company over the last year. It gives me great pleasure to hurt you in this way.”

With that, he carefully lifts his fist, aims at my stomach, and lets me have it with as much force as he can muster. When the brass knuckles connect to my solar plexus it feels as if my entire abdomen has exploded. The pain is worse than anything I’ve ever known and I’m overcome by a wave of nausea and blackness. I vaguely remember falling to the steel floor like a sack of rice.

* * *

Days go by. I know that because the guards bring me a plate of soggy lukewarm rice every twelve hours or so. Mealtime is an extremely pleasant experience, seeing as how my hands are still tied behind me. I get to lap the rice off a plate on the floor as if I’m a dog. And twice a day they come and escort me to the head. If I don’t have to go when it’s time, then tough luck. If I have to go when they’re not around to take me, then tough luck. But I’m happy to say I haven’t made a mess of myself yet. For the most part, though, they’ve kept me in this stupid cell for nearly a week. I’m very much alone.

And my stomach hurts like hell. A horrendously ugly bruise covers my solar plexus and I fear there may be internal damage. For the first day or so there was blood in my urine and stool but that seems to have subsided. Nevertheless, the area of my body between my rib cage and hip bones is in constant pain and is incredibly tender to the touch. Those cracked ribs I sustained in Los Angeles don’t help either. Zdrok’s brass knuckles really did a number on me. I hope I don’t have a ruptured spleen or something like that, but then again I’d probably be much sicker than I am if that were the case. I’m no doctor. If any of those internal organs were indeed busted up, wouldn’t I be dying? I suppose I should be thankful I’m not worse off than I am.

What the hell are they keeping me alive for? Every time one of the goons comes in with food or to take me to the head, I ask for Hendricks or somebody. The Chinese guards ignore me and just do their jobs. What’s the point of keeping me here for days? I don’t get it. They don’t provide any medical attention for my stomach, they keep me in isolation, and yet they feed me.

I haven’t heard a peep from Third Echelon. Perhaps they really have Protocol Sixed me. I would have thought that Lambert or Coen or someone would have spoken through my implants and told me something. Instead it’s been completely dead. The radio station is completely off the air.

There have been times when I’ve heard activity outside — shouts from soldiers, vehicles moving, even airplanes flying overhead. Yesterday it sounded as if the entire company was moving out of the base. It’s been deadly quiet since then.

Then, out of the blue, the door opens and in walks Mason Hendricks, accompanied by Yvan Putnik, who is carrying a gym bag. I’m sitting on my bunk and don’t make any effort to move. Hendricks greets me and doesn’t bother to introduce his pal.

“How are you feeling, Fisher?” he asks.

I just glare at him.

He snorts. “That good? You look awful, too.” He jabs me in the stomach and I wince. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing, really. Thought you might like some company after all this time. Perhaps you’d like some news of the outside world?”

I wait for him to go on but I try not to appear eager.

“A skeleton crew is here on the base. General Tun and the rest of his men are on a frigate off the coast of Taiwan. The attack is imminent.” He looks at his watch. “I’d say it’s going to begin in about an hour. They’ll start with an air bombardment and then a sea assault.”

I sigh but it comes out as a groan.

“Yes, I know, Fisher. Sounds pretty bad. And you know what? Our country is not going to do anything to stop them. Oh, we talked tough for the last several days, and I believe our president is in seclusion with the Chinese president right this minute. You see, General Tun told the United Nations this morning that the United States would be the target of his ‘secret weapon’ if we lift a finger to help Taiwan. China is claiming no responsibility but they’re not raising any hands to stop him.”

Hendricks begins to pace back and forth as he speaks. Putnik stands there solemnly, his spooky gaze fixed on me. He really does look like Rasputin.

“The Chinese submarine Mao reached the coastal waters of Los Angeles earlier today. Three MRUUVs were launched from the torpedo tubes. Two decoys and one armed with the warhead. Before the U.S. Navy could pinpoint the sub’s location, the Mao had moved back into international waters. The bomb can be detonated manually from a control panel located on the submarine or here in the command post. Andrei Zdrok, Oskar Herzog, and I will have the pleasure of watching the drama unfold. We were going to leave last week but General Tun made us an inviting offer. You see, we had no place to go, so the good general offered us safe haven here on the base at least until after all this has blown over. He’s going to help us relocate the Shop headquarters and he’ll probably take over the position once held by General Prokofiev in Moscow.”

“What about me?” I ask.

“Oh, what about you? You’re wondering why we’ve kept you alive all this time. You can thank General Tun for that. As soon as he saw that a National Security Agency Splinter Cell had been arrested and was in his custody, the general left strict orders to keep you alive — for a while. I think he wanted to figure out