Tom Clancy - Locked On

So Safronov stayed away from Jamaat Shariat. It was just as well, too, because his company’s fortunes had continued to rise through the years, and he found himself extremely busy in Moscow. KSFC benefited with the sunset of the U.S. Space Shuttle program. KSFC contracts increased even more as it became one of the major players in space delivery. Yes, there were other launch vehicles, run by other companies, launching satellites and supplies and men. The Soyuz, the Proton, the Rokot, to name three. But Safronov and his Dnepr-1 vehicle were expanding operations at a faster pace than the others. In 2011, Safronov’s firm successfully launched more than twenty rockets from their three launch platforms at the Baikonur Cosmodrome in the flat grassy steppes of Kazakhstan, and 2012 contracts were on pace to outperform even that.

He was a busy man, to be sure, but he was not too busy to drop everything and head south on the Caspian Highway when the message came from Murshidov, Abu Dagestani — Father of Dagestan.

Georgi Safronov looked down at his Rolex and was happy to find he would arrive at the meeting exactly on time. He was a rocket scientist, after all. He abhorred imprecision.

Jamaat Shariat used the farmhouse just west of Volgograd from time to time when they had business north of their area of influence. The property was close to the airport but secluded from the hustle and bustle of the city itself, so they did not need more than a few sentries patrolling the dirt roads and a carload of Dagestani gunmen up near the turnoff to the highway to keep those meeting or overnighting inside the property secure from Russian police or internal security forces.

Georgi Safronov made it through the light cordon of security with a pat-down and a check of his identification, then he was led inside the dimly lit farmhouse. Women in the kitchen averted their eyes when he greeted them, but the sentries brought him into the great room of the house, where he was met by his spiritual leader, Suleiman Murshidov, the oup. whne he called Abu Dagestani.

A low table was adorned with a lace tablecloth. The women placed a bowl of grapes, a bowl of individually wrapped candies, and a two-liter bottle of Fanta orange soda in front of the men, and then they disappeared.

Safronov beamed with pride, just as he always did when in the presence of the spiritual leader of the organization fighting for the rights and the future of Georgi’s own people. He knew he would not have been asked to come here, in this way, if it were not of the utmost importance. The capture of Israpil Nabiyev the previous month — Russian authorities had not said they had taken the man alive, but survivors of the attack on the Dagestani village had seen him carried off in a helicopter — must have something to do with why he was being called here.

The Russian space entrepreneur expected that Suleiman Murshidov was going to ask him for money. Perhaps a large sum to try to effect the release of Israpil. Georgi was excited at the prospect of playing, for the first time, a tangible role in the struggle of his people.

The old man sat on the floor on the other side of the table. Behind him, two of his sons sat on chairs, but they were removed from this conversation by the width of the room. Murshidov had spent the past few minutes asking about Georgi’s journey, about his work, and telling the Russian/ Dagestani about events in the Caucasus. Safronov felt much more love for this old man than he did for his own father, the man who betrayed him, who took him from his people, who tried to turn him into something he was not. Abu Dagestani, in contrast, had given him back his identity.

The old bearded man said, “My son, son of Dagestan, Allah supports our resistance against Moscow.”

“I know this to be true, Abu Dagestani.”

“I have learned of an opportunity that, with your help, can do more for our cause than anything that has ever happened in all the days before. More than the war, more than brother Israpil was able to accomplish with all his troops.”

“Just tell me what you need. You know I have begged you to let me do something, to play some role in our struggle.”

“Do you remember what you told me when you were here last year?”

Safronov thought back. He had said many, many things, all ideas he had that would allow him to aid the cause of Jamaat Shariat. Georgi stayed up nights working on schemes to promote the cause, and during his annual visits to Makhachkala he offered up his best ideas to Murshidov. He did not know which of these plans his leader was referring to. “I… Which thing, father of Dagestan?”

A thin crease of a smile spread across the old man’s lips. “You told me that you were a powerful man. That you controlled the rockets that went off into space. That you could redirect your rockets to hit Moscow.”

Safronov beamed with excitement at the same moment his mind filled with worry and consternation. He had told the old man about his many ideas for retribution against the Russians with whom he lived and worked. Changing the path of one of his space delivery vehicles so that it would not reach orbit but instead send its payload into a crowded population center was, by far, the most fanciful of his boasts to Murshidov. There were a hundred or more problems with that plan of his, but yes, it was not beyond the realm of possibilities.

Safronov knew now was not the time to show doubt. “Yes! I swear I can do it. Just give me the word and I will force the Russians to either ret tot surn our military leader or suffer for this crime.”

Murshidov began to speak, but Safronov, amped with excitement, said, “I need to say that such a strike would be best used against an oil refinery, even if it is outside of a city. The capsule itself is not explosive, so although it would hit at a high rate of speed, it will need to hit something flammable or explosive to do the greatest amount of damage.” Georgi worried the old man would be disappointed in this; he’d probably neglected to give a realistic explanation of just what a kinetic missile could accomplish when he’d made his boast the year before.

But Murshidov posed a question: “Would your weapons be more powerful if they were tipped with nuclear bombs?”

Safronov’s head cocked. He stammered briefly. “Well… yes. Of course. But that is not possible, and even without them they still can be powerful conventional weapons. I promise you that if I target fuel storage or—”

“Why is it not possible?”

“Because I have no bombs, Father.”

“If you did, would you still proceed? Or is your heart made heavy by the thought of the deaths of hundreds of thousands of your adopted countrymen?”

Safronov’s chin rose. This was a test. A hypothetical. “If I had bombs, I would act with even more passion. There is no equivocation in my heart.”

“There is a man here that I want you to meet. A foreigner.”

Safronov had seen no foreigner. Was this a hypothetical, too? “What man?”

“I will let him tell you who he is. Talk to him. I trust him. He comes highly respected from our brothers in Chechnya.”

“Of course, Abu Dagestani. I will speak with him.”

Suleiman Murshidov motioned to one of his sons, who beckoned Safronov to follow him. Georgi stood, confused by what was happening, but he followed the man into the hall and up the staircase, and then into a large bedroom. Here three men in casual clothing stood with assault rifles hanging over their shoulders. They were not Dagestanis; not Arabs, either. One man was very tall, and he was Georgi’s age; the other two were younger.

“As salaam aleikum,” the older man said. So they spoke Arabic, anyway.

“Wa aleikum as salaam,” Safronov replied.