Operation Barracuda (2005) by Tom Clancy
“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 what he wanted to do with you. Perhaps you could be some kind of bargaining chip in the talks with the U.S. I’m not really sure. I said it was a dumb move but he wouldn’t listen to me. At any rate, all that doesn’t matter now. We got word just a little while ago that the general no longer has any interest in you. With talks deteriorating between China and the U.S., with the attack on Taiwan imminent and Los Angeles about to be destroyed if the Americans defend the Taiwanese—he finally figured you’re just useless to him. So Yvan here has volunteered to make you go away. Permanently.”
Putnik grins at me. So this is it. They’ve kept me here like an animal and now it’s time for the slaughter. Fine. Get it over with.
“Oh, Yvan doesn’t speak English. But he wanted me to tell you he’s going to take his time. He’s interested in seeing how much pain a tough Splinter Cell like you can take. It’s for his personal research, you see. I told him you’d be happy to contribute statistics to his work. I’ll leave you two alone now. Goodbye, Fisher.”
Hendricks raps on the door and a guard unlocks it. It slams shut behind him and I’m left alone with my executioner. Damn, I wish I had the use of my hands. I could take this guy, I know I could. Just give me a fair fight. Please.
Putnik slowly removes his jacket. Underneath he’s wearing a T-shirt. He opens his gym bag and removes a roll of tape, the kind boxers wrap around their fists before stuffing them inside their gloves. I watch as he methodically covers his hands and every now and then punches the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. He then takes out a couple of knives. One is long and slender, like a stiletto. The other is clearly a Rambo knife the size of an American bowie. He places these on the floor next to the bag. Then he looks at me, smiles, and nods his head. He’s ready.
I waste no time. I leap from the bunk and ram my head into his stomach, throwing him against the wall with a loud clang. Not stopping there, I kick him repeatedly until he manages to grab my bare foot and twist it sharply. It happens to be the ankle I sprained a week ago and the pain surges back. I can’t help yelling as I fall to the floor.
Putnik stands and is no longer smiling. He moves forward and delivers a fast kick to my weakened, sore stomach. The pain is immense and it effectively paralyzes me for several seconds. Putnik walks around me, obviously intending to draw out the punishment as promised. But just as he’s standing directly behind me, I recover enough to roll over onto my back and jab my feet into his crotch. The man cries out and twists away, holding onto his groin as if I’d set it on fire. I grin in satisfaction as I pull myself up and face him, ready to attempt a side kick to his chest. But he’s ready for me; Putnik lashes out, growling like a wild animal. His eyes widen with madness, drawing further comparisons to old photos of Rasputin. The assassin leaps at me with the speed of a tiger and we both fall to the floor. His hands are around my neck as I try to buck him off. With my own hands tied, all I can do is jerk my upper body like a fish out of water and hope for the best.
Then, as if storm clouds suddenly decided to open and release a torrential rain, the high-pitched whine of an incoming missile fills the air. This is followed by an explosion that rocks the building so hard that Putnik falls over.
For a moment the two of us remain frozen. Then we hear gunfire outside. Shouts and screams. Then more gunfire. Putnik stands and raps on the door. No one comes to open it and he looks worried.
Another incoming shriek is even louder than the first. This time the temporary building we’re in is hit dead-on. It’s like being in the center of a vacuum—it feels as if the very air around you is imploding and your physical surroundings have ceased to be solid. I experience the sensation of falling but there’s nowhere to descend. All I know is the world around me no longer exists and smoke and flames have replaced it.
36
DAZED, I kick rubble off of me and attempt to assess the damage. The smells of gunpowder and burning metal are the first things I’m aware of. Then I see the blue sky and white clouds above me and realize the building I was in has been blown to bits. I’m covered in ash, pieces of steel and aluminum, and chips of concrete, but my body appears to be unharmed, I think. But my hands are still tied, damn it.
There’s more gunfire all around me. I see Chinese men running, shooting at soldiers. These men are not dressed in uniforms but rather in clothing you’d expect guerilla fighters to wear. Their heads are wrapped with red scarves.
Civilians! Civilians have attacked the base!
I roll over and brush against a jagged edge of metal that cuts into my arm. After cursing for a moment, I get an idea. I position myself in front of the sharp edge so that it rests against my wrists. As carefully as I can, I rub my wrists up and down against the serrated metal and allow it to dig into the cords that have bound my hands for a week. I manage to slice my skin a bit while doing so but I’m willing to withstand a few seconds of discomfort to be free. A minute later and the cord snaps loose. My arms groan with pain when I move them in front of me for the first time in days. It hurts so good—the relief is unbearably sweet. The cuts and nicks are bleeding all over the place but I don’t give a damn.
I push the rest of the rubble off and sit up. That’s when I see Yvan Putnik lying under a piece of concrete support. He doesn’t look too good.
The gunfire draws closer and I see a squad of soldiers retreating and firing at a group of the civilian warriors. The army seems to be no match for the newcomers. The civilians appear to be well armed and relentless. One of them carries a pennant on a stick and then I understand what’s going on. I recognize the Chinese characters on the pennant as the sign of the Lucky Dragons. Jon Ming listened to me after all. The Triad finally came to try to stop General Tun. I just hope they’re not too late.
Putnik groans and moves. Being the compassionate son of a bitch that I am, I lift the pylon off of him and slap his face a little.
“Hey!” I shout. “You all right?” Then I remember to speak Russian, so I do. Putnik opens his eyes and looks past me. He’s having trouble focusing. Finally, recognition sets in and he actually snarls at me.
With an unexpected burst of energy, Putnik brutally jabs his knee into my side. I gasp in pain and fall back onto burning wood and metal. I scorch my back and roll off in alarm. Putnik pulls himself to his feet, brushes off the soot, and comes at me. Krav Maga teaches you to fight as if your life depended on winning. If that means you have to fight dirty, then so be it. There are no rules in Krav Maga.
Therefore I grab a piece of the burning timber beside me and hurl it into Putnik’s face. It shatters and he recoils, clutching his eyes. Ignoring the ache in my side, I manage to stand and deliver a ferocious kick to his abdomen. The Russian doubles over, still blinded by the fiery splinters in his eyes. His position allows me to grab him from behind and apply a choke hold to his neck. Putnik struggles against me as I lift him off the ground by his head. I tighten the grip around his throat and whisper in Russian, “This is for Katia, you bastard.”
The man jerks and kicks like a wild beast but I don’t loosen the vise. After all the pain I’ve suffered in the last week, his clumsy attempts at self-defense are trivial. Finally, after thirty or forty seconds, the killer weakens. His struggles become slower and less effective until eventually he collapses in my arms. Then, for good measure, I twist his head sharply. The sound of bones cracking is music to my ears. I let him go and the corpse crumples to the ground like a rag doll.
The base is in shambles. I’m not sure what the Triad hit it with but they’ve got some heavy-duty firepower. It’s ironic that most of it came from the Shop. I make my way out of the rubble and realize I must be an incongruous sight. I’m barefoot,
Two armed Triads appear in front of me and shout a command. I’m too dazed to understand. I try to tell him in the best Chinese I can speak that I’m an American captive. They don’t understand. Then I mention the words, “Cho Kun, Jon Ming,” and their eyes light up. They nod enthusiastically and motion for me to follow. I can barely walk so one of them lets me lean on him a little. We move toward the beach, where the submarine pens are in flames. A group of Triads are standing outside the unharmed command post and waving automatic rifles in the air. They shout something that resembles a victory cry. The mass of men parts and I see Jon Ming standing in the middle and pointing a handgun at the head of another man who is on his knees. The prisoner is Andrei Zdrok.
Ming sees me and grins. The Triads all turn and look at me as I approach. Zdrok eyes me with fear and hate. His expensive suit is covered in soot and grime, and one of the sleeves is nearly torn off his arm. There’s a gash above his eyebrow but otherwise he looks none the worse for wear.
“You look terrible, Mr. Fisher,” Ming says.
“I feel terrible,” I answer. “Thank you for coming.”
“It is our pleasure. Look what we have here. What shall I do with him, Mr. Fisher?” Ming asks.
“Was he armed?”
“Only with this.” Ming shows me the pair of brass knuckles that Zdrok used to make mincemeat of my stomach. I take them and slip them on my right hand. Zdrok’s eyes widen and he shakes his head.
“No! No!” he cries.
I slug Zdrok as hard as I can, crushing his nose and possibly fracturing the bone beneath it. The man screams and falls to the ground. The Triads cheer.
“He’s all yours,” I tell Ming as I let the brass knuckles fall to the ground.
Exhausted and weak, I push my way into the command post to see what’s left of it. The place is littered with bodies and the equipment has been destroyed. The body of Mason Hendricks lies awkwardly on the floor, his torso riddled with bullet holes. Close to him is Oskar Herzog, also perforated in a dozen places. His body is draped over the smashed control panel that might have disabled the MRUUV.
I press the implant in my throat and say, “Colonel, if you’re there, I really need to talk to you.” But all I receive is silence. “Colonel Lambert? Coen? Anyone?”
I collapse into a chair as a wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelms me. I’m about to lose consciousness when Ming comes in and squats beside me.
“Mr. Fisher,” he says, “Americans are here. They’re looking for you.”
37
ONCE again I sleep through a series of transitions. My dreams are troubled and feverish. Part of the time I believe I’m back in Towson, Maryland, working out in the gym or practicing Krav Maga with Katia. Then I’m teaching a very young Sarah how to swim in the military base’s pool in Germany. Images of Andrei Zdrok and Yvan Putnik interrupt the serenity and suddenly I’m dodging bullets. The final part of it is terrifying. I dream that Third Echelon has Protocol Sixed me and left me to rot in a Chinese prison. I see myself growing old and thin, wasting away until finally there’s no reason for me to keep living.
And then I wake up. The first thing my eyes focus upon is the face of Colonel Irving Lambert. He has a goofy grin on his face and he says, “There you are. Welcome aboard, Sam.”
My tongue feels heavy and my mouth is dry. “Hi,” I say. What did he mean by aboard? Then I’m vaguely aware of a gentle rocking motion. “Where the hell am I?”
“You’re aboard the USNS Fisher,” he answers. The Fisher? How appropriate. I recall it’s one of Military Sealift Command’s LMSRs, a large, medium-speed, roll-on, roll-off navy ship, mostly used for transporting armies, equipment, and vehicles. “How long have I been here?” I ask.
“About eight hours. We flew you to Hawaii yesterday afternoon and gave you a sedative to help you sleep. We then dropped you onto the Fisher a few hours later and here we are.”
“Where are we going?”
“California. We’re three hours away. How are you feeling?”
I take stock of my body. There are aches and pains everywhere. My stomach is the worst but it doesn’t seem as bad as it was.
“Okay, I guess.” I try to sit up and realize I’ve got an IV in my hand and there’s a tight bandage wrapped around my middle. “What’s going on?”
“We’re building up your strength, Sam. You were dehydrated and had gone without substantial nourishment for what, a week?”
“Something like that.”
“You’ll be happy to know that your insides are all right. Nothing badly damaged. You had a ruptured peritoneum but by some miracle you didn’t develop peritonitis. The doc says you should have received a very bad case of it and perhaps even died, but someone upstairs is looking after you, Sam. The tear in the peritoneum began to heal on its own and you’re well on the way to recovery. Doc says it’s most likely due to your healthy lifestyle, the fact that your abdominal muscles are in tip-top shape and you do a million sit-ups a day, or whatever it is you do. You’re living proof that exercise and diet can save your life. What happened to you, anyway?”
“Andrei Zdrok punched me in the stomach with brass knuckles.”
Lambert almost laughed. “I understand you paid him back with interest.”
“Yeah? What’s happened to him?”
“The Chinese have him in custody. He’s in a hospital in Fuzhou and probably not a very good one. You messed him up pretty bad, Sam. The front of his facial bone plate is broken and the orbit of his right eye dropped. If he doesn’t die then he’ll stand trial for terrorism and espionage in China. He and Eddie Wu, too. They caught him trying to run away from General Tun’s base.”
“Wait. What happened at the base? The Triad—”
“Your little talk with the head of the Lucky Dragons apparently did some good. The Triad brought an army of three hundred men up from Hong Kong and bombed the place with some Stinger missiles and mortars before rushing in and taking it over. Of course by then most of Tun’s men had already moved out. The Lucky Dragons didn’t know it, but the Chinese army was three miles away, standing ready for orders from Beijing to do something about General Tun. Those orders never came. When our spy satellites picked up on what was going on, the CIA got together a crew posing as a Red Cross team. They asked for and received permission from China to do a reconnaissance flight over the base for the sole purpose of locating you. We knew you were still alive. Those implants told us that.”
“Why didn’t you get a message to me? Colonel, I thought I had been . . . I thought you had abandoned me.”
“Sam, I won’t lie to you,” Lambert says. “We almost activated Protocol Six. If Tun had attacked Taiwan and forced us into a skirmish with China, then that’s what would have happened all right. We would never have been able to get you out. We couldn’t communicate with you because Mason Hendricks was monitoring our transmissions. We had to stay silent. I’m sorry, Sam.”
I nod and shrug. “And the Triad?”
“Most of them got away. When they attacked the encampment, Beijing gave the orders for the Chinese forces to storm the base. That happened shortly after the CIA got you out. The Triad dispersed because technically they’re traitors. It’s a very strange situation. We think China wants General Tun to fail in a big way before he attacks Taiwan so they don’t have to lose face in stopping him. If he doesn’t mess up, then they’ll have to appear as if they’re supporting their general. The hard-liners in Beijing agree with Tun’s motives. Anyway, some of the Triads were caught and will most likely be tried for treason.”
“What about Jon Ming?”
“As far as we know he got away.”
“And nothing has happened in Taiwan?”
“Not yet. It’s been a standstill for twenty-four hours. Tun has threatened us with his nuke off the coast of California—he won’t say where exactly. I’m hoping you have some things to tell us.”
“That I do.” I proceed to rel
“And what are we going to do with those fuckers when we find them?” I ask.
Lambert winks at me. “Let me ask the doc if you can get out of bed. I have something to show you.”
THE LMSR is Military Sealift Command’s newest class of ship and provides afloat prepositioning of a heavy brigade’s equipment and a corps’ combat support, as well as surge capability for lift of a heavy division’s equipment from the United States. LMSRs can carry an entire U.S. Army Task Force, including fifty-eight tanks, forty-eight other track vehicles, plus more than nine hundred trucks and other wheeled vehicles. The ship carries vehicles and equipment to support humanitarian missions as well as combat missions. The new construction vessels have a cargo carrying capacity of more than 380,000 square feet, equivalent to almost eight football fields. In addition, LMSRs have a slewing stern ramp and a removable ramp that services two side ports, making it easy to drive vehicles on and off the ship. Interior ramps between decks ease traffic flow once cargo is loaded aboard ship. Two 110-ton single-pedestal twin cranes make it possible to load and unload cargo where shoreside infrastructure is limited or nonexistent. A commercial helicopter deck is used for emergency daytime landing, which was how I was brought aboard. The Fisher is a prime specimen of an LMSR.