Locked On

by Tom Clancy

  Georgi offered all of his money to the cause, but the spiritual leader turned down the offer. In fact, he forbade Safronov from any philanthropy toward Dagestan or the Caucasus. The old man from the mountains somehow had the foresight to see that Georgi was his “inside man” in the Russian corridors of power, and he would not allow anything to threaten that. Not new schools, not new hospitals, not any benefit for his cause whatsoever.

  On the contrary, Murshidov instructed Safronov to return to Moscow and support the hard-line stance against the republics. For many years Georgi had been sickened to sit with his adopted father’s friends and discuss the stamping out of insurgencies in the Caucasus. But these were his orders. He lived within the belly of the beast.

  Until that day when Murshidov called for his return, his help, and inshallah—God willing—his martyrdom.

  Safronov did as he was told. He returned briefly and in secret once each year to meet with Suleiman, and in one of these meetings he’d asked to be introduced to the famous warrior, Israpil Nabiyev. The old spiritual leader forbade this meeting, and this angered Safronov greatly.

  But Georgi knew now that his leader had been correct all along. If Nabiyev knew about Safronov, even a hint that there was a man high in the ranks of Russia’s private space service, then Safronov would now be dead or in prison.

  Safronov now knew that his own vanity had been in control when he’d insisted that Suleiman introduce him to Nabiyev last year in Makhachkala. And it had been the hand of Allah himself, working through Suleiman, when Suleiman had refused to make the introduction.

  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.

  29

  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 one 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 return 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?”

  S
afronov’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.

  “Lift your arms in the air, please.”

  “I am sorry?”

  “Please, friend.”

  Safronov did so, unsure. The two young men approached him and frisked him thoroughly but with no obvious intentions of disrespect.

  Once this was complete, the older man bade Safronov to sit on a worn sofa against the wall. Both men sat down, and glasses of orange soda were placed on a table in front of them.

  “Mr. Safronov, you may call me General Ijaz. I am a general in the Pakistani Defense Force.”

  Georgi shook the man’s hand. Pakistan? Interesting. Slowly Suleiman Murshidov’s words downstairs began to bear some context.

  Rehan asked, “You are Dagestani? And a faithful Muslim?”

  “I am both of these things, General.”

  “Suleiman promised me you were just exactly the man I need to speak to.”

  “I hope I can be of service.”

  “You are in charge of Russian space operations?”

  Safronov started to shake his head. That was a gross oversimplification of his role as president and main shareholder of Kosmos Space Flight Corporation. But he stopped himself. Now was no time to equivocate, though he did explain further. “That is almost true, General Ijaz. I am president of the company that owns and operates one of Russia’s best space launch vehicles.”

  “What do you deliver into space?”

  “We deliver satellites into orbits, primarily. We made twenty-one successful launches last year, and expect twenty-four next year.”

  “You have access to the missiles to launch the vehicles?”

  Safronov nodded, proud of himself and the company he had grown over the past fifteen years. “Our principal space delivery vehicle is the Dnepr-1 Space Launch System. It is a converted RM-36.”

  Rehan just stared at the Russian. He did not like to admit that he did not know a fact. He would wait silently until this little man explained himself.

  “The RM-36, General, is an intercontinental ballistic missile. Russia … I should say the Soviet Union, used this to deliver nuclear missiles. It was only in the 1990s when my company reconfigured the system into a civilian space rocket.”

  Rehan nodded thoughtfully, feigning only mild interest when, in fact, this was an incredible piece of news.

  “What can be put inside of this missile, Mr. Safronov?”

  Georgi smiled knowingly. He understood from Murshidov’s questions what was happening here. He also understood it was his job to sell this idea to this stern-faced Pakistani in front of him.

  “General, we can put in it whatever you have for us that will fit inside the payload envelope.”

  “The devices I am considering are 3.83 meters by .46 meters.”

  “And the weight?”

  “Just over one thousand kilograms.”

  The Russian nodded happily. “It can be done.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Are you prepared to tell me what this device is?”

  The man Safronov knew as General Ijaz just looked him in the eye. “Nuclear bombs. Twenty-kiloton yield.”

  “Bombs? Not the warheads of a missile?”

  “No. These are air-dropped bombs. Is that a problem?”

  “I know very little about bombs, more about Russian missile warheads from my time in the military. But I do know the bombs can be removed from their cases to make them smaller and lighter. This will not affect the yield of the blast. We will need to do this to put them in payload containers for our missiles.”

  “I see,” Rehan said. “Tell me this. Your missiles… where can they go?”

  Now Safronov took on a guarded expression. He started to speak but stopped himself. Stammered a bit.

  Rehan said, “I am only curious, friend. If I decide to give these devices to your organization, then they are yours to do with as you wish.” Rehan smiled more broadly. “Although I’d prefer you did not target Islamabad.”

  Safronov relaxed a little. For a moment he worried this operation was to be some sort of job for the Pakistanis. Safronov would not do this for money. He would only do this for his cause.

  “General Ijaz, my missiles will go anywhere I tell them to go. But there will be no debate. One of them will land in Red Square.”

  Rehan nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Finally Moscow will beg at your feet for mercy. You and your people can have what you have long desired. An Islamic caliphate in the Caucasus.”

  The thin Russian with the boyish flop of hair on his forehead smiled, the rings of his eyes reddened and moistened, and the two men embraced there in the cold attic room.

  As Riaz Rehan hugged the smaller man, the Pakistani general himself smiled. He had been marshaling zealots and criminals since he was a fourteen-year-old boy, and he was very, very good at it.

  After the emotional embrace, Rehan returned to the business at hand. “Mr. Safronov. You may, in the coming days, hear faint rumors of strangers asking questions of you, your history, your background, your education, your faith.”

  “Why is this?”

  “First and foremost, I will have to look into you very carefully.”

  “General Ijaz. I understand completely. You and your security service may look into me all you wish, but please do not take too long, sir. There is a scheduled launch at the end of the year. Three Dnepr-1 rockets carrying three satellites for United States, British, and Japanese companies will be launched on three consecutive days.”

  “I see,” said Rehan. “And you will be there?”

  “I had already planned on it.” Safronov smiled. “But you give me additional incentive.”

  The two men went over details for the rest of the afternoon, and then into the evening. They prayed together. By the time he returned to the Volgograd airport, Rehan was ready to hand the bombs over to the energetic Dagestani partisan.

  But first he had to acquire the bombs, and for this he had a plan, yes. But he also had much work still to do. Operation Saker, a plan that he had been working on for years and thinking about for well over a decade, needed to begin as soon as he returned to Pakistan.

  30

  Jack Ryan Jr. breathed out a long, slow breath, and with it a small measure of his anxiety.

  He dialed the number. With each ring, half of him hoped there would be no answer on the other end. His blood pressure was up, and his palms perspired slightly.

  He’d gotten the phone number from Mary Pat Foley. He’d written several e-mails to her over the last few days, but each one he’d deleted before hitting that irrevocable send key. Finally, on perhaps his fourth or fifth try, he’d written Mary Pat a succinct but friendly message thanking her for the tour around the office the other day, and, oh, by the way, he was wondering if she would pass on Melanie Kraft’s phone number.

  He groaned when he read his message, he felt more than a little foolish, but he sucked it up and hit send.

  Twenty minutes later a friendly message came back from Mary Pat.
Mary Pat said she had enjoyed running out for sushi, and she had found their conversation exceedingly interesting. She hoped to be able to add to the conversation soon. And at the end, following a simple “Here you go,” Jack saw the area code 703, Alexandria, Virginia, preceding a seven-digit number.

  “Yes!” he shouted at his desk.

  Behind him, Tony Wills spun around, waited for an explanation.

  “Sorry,” said Jack.

  But this was all yesterday. Jack’s initial excitement had turned to butterflies, and he was doing his best to fight them as Melanie’s phone continued ringing.

  Shit, Jack thought to himself. It wasn’t exactly a gun battle in central Paris he was facing here at the moment. Why the nerves?

  A click indicated that someone had answered. Shit. Okay, Jack. Play cool.

  “Melanie Kraft.”

  “Hi, Melanie. This is Jack Ryan.”

  A brief pause. “It is an honor, Mr. President.”

  “No … Not … It’s Jack Junior. We met the other day.”

  “I’m just kidding. Hi, Jack.”

  “Oh. Hey, you got me. How are you?”

  “I’m great. Yourself?”

  The pace of the conversation slowed. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  Jack did not speak.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Uh.” Snap out of it, Jack. “Yes. Actually, a little bird told me you live down in Alexandria.”

  “Does that little bird happen to serve as associate director at the National Counterterrorism Center?”

  “As a matter of fact, she does.”

  “Thought so.”

  Jack could hear a smile in Melanie’s voice, and he could immediately tell everything was going to be okay.