Tom Clancy - Locked On

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, 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.