John Clark continued to cry out, slamming his head back hard against the stomach of the man behind him. He yelled, “You motherfucker!”
A minute later, Kovalenko was back over him. Clark could barely see the young man through the tears and sweat in his eyes and the poor focus of his dilated pupils.
Valentin winced as he glanced at the shattered hand. It was already swelling, black and blue, and two of the fingers were twisted perversely.
“Cover that!” he shouted at one of his men. A towel was tossed over the damaged appendage.
Kovalenko shielded his ears from the worst of the cries of agony, but he shouted, as if angry at the man in the chair for forcing him to do this, “You are a fool, old man! Your sense of honor will bring you nothing but pain here! I have all the time I need for you!”
Even through his agony, John Clark could tell Valentin Kovalenko was on the verge of nausea.
“Talk, old fool! Talk!”
Clark did not talk. Not then, not in the next hour. Kovalenko was growing more and more frustrated by the minute. He’d ordered Clark’s head held under a bucket of water, and he’d had his men pound the American’s rib cage, breaking a bone and bruising him so badly he could barely breathe.
John did his best to disassociate himself from what was going on with his body. He thought of his family, his parents, long since dead. He thought of friends and colleagues. He thought of his new farm in Maryland, and he hoped that, even though he would never see it again, his grandkids would grow up loving the place.
Clark passed out two hours after the torture began.
74
The light indicating an incoming call from the crisis center had been blinking now for more than ten minutes.
Safronov watched the news from Moscow on one of the main monitors, the other men at launch control, unwilling participants, sat in rapt attention.
Georgi had hoped for a bigger spectacle. He knew launch site 109 contained the Dnepr loaded with the satellite and not one of the nukes, but he had targeted the central fuel storage containers at the Moscow Oil Refinery, which should have created a much larger explosion and fire. The payload had missed its target only by a quarter-kilometer, however, and Safronov felt he had gotten his point across.
After watching the news a few seconds more he finally lifted the headset off the control panel, put it on, and accepted the call. “Da.”
“You are speaking with President Rychcov.”
Safronov responded in a cheery voice. “Good morning. You may not remember me, but we met at the Bolshoi last year. How is the weather in Moscow?”
There was a long pause before the president’s reply, delivered curtly but with a slight tone of anxiety. “Your attack was unnecessary. We understand you have the technical capabilities to do that which you threaten. We know you have the nuclear weapons.”
“That was punishment for your attack on this facility. If you attack again … well, President, I have no more kinetic missiles. The other two Dneprs at my disposal are nuclear-tipped.”
“There is nothing for you to prove. We only need to negotiate, you in a position of power, me … in a position of weakness.”
Safronov shouted into his headset, “This is not a negotiation! I have demanded something! I have not entered into negotiations! When will I be allowed to speak with Commander Nabiyev?”
The president of Russia replied wearily. “I have allowed this. We will call you back a little later this morning and you will be able to speak with the prisoner. In the meantime, I have ordered all security forces back.”
“Very good. We are prepared for another fight with your men, and I do not believe you are prepared to lose five million Muscovites.”
This was not how Ed Kealty planned on spending the time left in his term, but at nine p.m. Washington, D.C., time, he and members of his cabinet met in the Oval Office.
CIA Director Scott Kilborn was there, along with Alden, the deputy director. Wes McMullen, Kealty’s young chief of staff, was in attendance, as were the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the director of national intelligence, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the national security adviser.
Kilborn gave a detailed briefing on the situation in Kazakhstan, including what the CIA knew about the attempted retaking of the Dnepr launch facilities by Russian Special Forces. Then the NSA briefed the President on the Baikonur launch and the fire at the oil refinery in Moscow.
While they were all together President Rychcov called, Kealty spoke with him through a translator for about ten minutes, while Wes McMullen listened in, taking notes. The call was amicable but Kealty explained he would need to talk some things over with his advisers before committing to Rychcov’s requests.
When he hung up the phone, his polite demeanor evaporated. “Fucking Rychcov is asking us to send SEAL Team 6 or Delta Force! Who the hell does he think he is, requesting specific military units?”
Wes McMullen sat by his phone with his notepad in his lap. “Sir, I think he just knows who our tier-one anti-terror assets are. Nothing malicious in his request.”
The President said, “He wants political cover in case this all ends badly. He wants to tell his people that he trusted America and Ed Kealty promised him a happy resolution, but that we screwed up.”
The men in the room were Kealty’s people, for now, anyway. But to a man and to a woman they realized that their president was looking for a way out of this. A couple of them recognized he’d always been this way.
Scott Kilborn said, “Mr. President. I respectfully disagree. He wants to prevent two twenty-kiloton bombs from taking out Moscow or Saint Petersburg. That could kill …” Kilborn looked to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “What do your experts say?”
“Each weapon will kill in excess of one million in the initial blast and fallout. Another two million — plus within a week from burns and disruption of the infrastructure and electrical grid. God knows how many more down the road. Seven to ten million deaths are likely.”
Kealty groaned; he leaned forward at his desk and put his head in his hands.
“Options?”
The secretary of state said, “I think we send them over. We can green-light or red-light any action later.”
Kealty shook his head. “I don’t want them to commit to anything. I don’t want them walking into this hornets’ nest and then having to act immediately. The Russians couldn’t pull it off, and they’ve practiced there before. Who’s to say we could do any better? Give me something else. Come on, people!”
Alden said, “Advisers.”
“Advisers? What do you mean?”
“If we send a couple of JSOC people over there as advisers to their Spetsnaz, we can offer help, covertly, but not use our men in the attack.”
Kealty loved the idea, everyone could immediately tell.
The chairman, an Army general with spec ops experience in the Rangers, said, “Mr. President. This is a very fluid event. If we don’t have JSOC operators over there ready to act on a moment’s notice, well, we might as well not send anyone at all.”
Kealty sat at his desk, thinking it over. He looked to the secretary of defense. “Any chance they will launch a missile at us?”
SecDef held up his hands. “They are not threatening us. The Dagestani militants’ problems are with Russia. I do not see the U.S. as a target.”
Kealty nodded, then beat on the desk. “No! I am not walking out the door of the Oval Office with this, this shit, being my legacy.” Kealty stood. “Tell President Rychcov that we will send advisers. That’s it!”
Wes McMullen said, “Remember, sir, there are six Americans at the facility.”