Tom Clancy - Locked On

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?”

“Since 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?”

One of the big Russian Spetsnaz men, an English speaker obviously, moved on Chavez, but the smaller, older Mexican-American stood up to him. “Fuck you.”

Clark found himself having to play peacemaker. “Ding. It’s okay. These guys didn’t do this to me. It was a rogue SVR guy and his crew.”

Chavez did not back down from the big Slav standing over him, but finally he gave a half-nod. “Okay, then. What the fuck? Let’s go save their asses, I guess.”

Mohammed al Darkur knocked on the door of Ryan and Dominic’s flat at nine a.m. The Americans were up and drinking coffee, and they poured a cup for the Pakistani major while he talked.

“There have been developments overnight. Artillery shells from India have struck the village of Wahga, just east of Lahore, killing thirty civilians. PDF returned fire into India. We don’t know about damage there. Another shelling, just a few miles further north, damaged a mosque.”

Ryan cocked his head. “How strange that Rehan, the guy who’s orchestrating this entire conflict, happens to be in the area.”

The major said, “We can’t discount his involvement in these acts. Rogue Pakistani forces could be firing on their own country in order to escalate Pakistan’s response.”

“What’s the plan today?” asked Caruso.

“If Rehan leaves his flat, we follow him. If anyone comes to Rehan’s flat, we follow them.”

“Simple enough,” replied Dom.

Georgi Safronov sat alone in the third-floor cafeteria of the LCC and finished his breakfast: coffee, a reconstituted bowl of potato soup from the cafeteria, and a cigarette. He was bone-tired, but he knew he would get his energy back. He had spent most of the early morning conducting phone interviews with news stations from Al Jazeera to Radio Havana, spreading the word of the plight of the people of Dagestan. It was necessary work, he needed to leverage this event in any way possible to help his cause, but he had never worked so hard in his life as he had in the past few months.

While he smoked he watched the television on the wall. It was a news report showing Russian armored forces moving north near the Caspian Sea in northern Dagestan. The commentator said Russian government sources were denying this had anything to do with the situation at the Cosmodrome, but Safronov knew that, like much of Russian television, it was a bald-faced lie.

Several of his men had seen a television in a ground-floor office, and they rushed in to the cafeteria to embrace their leader. Tears welled in his eyes as the emotion of his men brought his own nationalistic pride to the forefront of his consciousness. He had wanted this all his life, long before he knew what that feeling inside him was, the sense of purpose, of untapped power.