Operation Barracuda (2005) (33 page)

“Don’t try any of your Krav Maga moves, Fisher,” Hendricks says. “I’m quite proficient in self-defense myself.” I know he speaks the truth.

“Mr. Fisher,” Zdrok says as he approaches me, “you have seriously damaged my company over the last year. It gives me great pleasure to hurt you in this way.”

With that, he carefully lifts his fist, aims at my stomach, and lets me have it with as much force as he can muster. When the brass knuckles connect to my solar plexus it feels as if my entire abdomen has exploded. The pain is worse than anything I’ve ever known and I’m overcome by a wave of nausea and blackness. I vaguely remember falling to the steel floor like a sack of rice.

 

 

DAYS
go by. I know that because the guards bring me a plate of soggy lukewarm rice every twelve hours or so. Mealtime is an extremely pleasant experience, seeing as how my hands are still tied behind me. I get to lap the rice off a plate on the floor as if I’m a dog. And twice a day they come and escort me to the head. If I don’t have to go when it’s time, then tough luck. If I have to go when they’re not around to take me, then tough luck. But I’m happy to say I haven’t made a mess of myself yet. For the most part, though, they’ve kept me in this stupid cell for nearly a week. I’m very much alone.

And my stomach hurts like hell. A horrendously ugly bruise covers my solar plexus and I fear there may be internal damage. For the first day or so there was blood in my urine and stool but that seems to have subsided. Nevertheless, the area of my body between my rib cage and hip bones is in constant pain and is incredibly tender to the touch. Those cracked ribs I sustained in Los Angeles don’t help either. Zdrok’s brass knuckles really did a number on me. I hope I don’t have a ruptured spleen or something like that, but then again I’d probably be much sicker than I am if that were the case. I’m no doctor. If any of those internal organs were indeed busted up, wouldn’t I be dying? I suppose I should be thankful I’m not worse off than I am.

What the hell are they keeping me alive for? Every time one of the goons comes in with food or to take me to the head, I ask for Hendricks or somebody. The Chinese guards ignore me and just do their jobs. What’s the point of keeping me here for days? I don’t get it. They don’t provide any medical attention for my stomach, they keep me in isolation, and yet they feed me.

I haven’t heard a peep from Third Echelon. Perhaps they really have Protocol Sixed me. I would have thought that Lambert or Coen or
someone
would have spoken through my implants and told me
something
. Instead it’s been completely dead. The radio station is completely off the air.

There have been times when I’ve heard activity outside—shouts from soldiers, vehicles moving, even airplanes flying overhead. Yesterday it sounded as if the entire company was moving out of the base. It’s been deadly quiet since then.

Then, out of the blue, the door opens and in walks Mason Hendricks, accompanied by Yvan Putnik, who is carrying a gym bag. I’m sitting on my bunk and don’t make any effort to move. Hendricks greets me and doesn’t bother to introduce his pal.

“How are you feeling, Fisher?” he asks.

I just glare at him.

He snorts. “That good? You look awful, too.” He jabs me in the stomach and I wince. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing, really. Thought you might like some company after all this time. Perhaps you’d like some news of the outside world?”

I wait for him to go on but I try not to appear eager.

“A skeleton crew is here on the base. General Tun and the rest of his men are on a frigate off the coast of Taiwan. The attack is imminent.” He looks at his watch. “I’d say it’s going to begin in about an hour. They’ll start with an air bombardment and then a sea assault.”

I sigh but it comes out as a groan.

“Yes, I know, Fisher. Sounds pretty bad. And you know what? Our country is not going to do anything to stop them. Oh, we talked tough for the last several days, and I believe our president is in seclusion with the Chinese president right this minute. You see, General Tun told the United Nations this morning that the United States would be the target of his ‘secret weapon’ if we lift a finger to help Taiwan. China is claiming no responsibility but they’re not raising any hands to stop him.”

Hendricks begins to pace back and forth as he speaks. Putnik stands there solemnly, his spooky gaze fixed on me. He really does look like Rasputin.

“The Chinese submarine
Mao
reached the coastal waters of Los Angeles earlier today. Three MRUUVs were launched from the torpedo tubes. Two decoys and one armed with the warhead. Before the U.S. Navy could pinpoint the sub’s location, the
Mao
had moved back into international waters. The bomb can be detonated manually from a control panel located on the submarine or here in the command post. Andrei Zdrok, Oskar Herzog, and I will have the pleasure of watching the drama unfold. We were going to leave last week but General Tun made us an inviting offer. You see, we had no place to go, so the good general offered us safe haven here on the base at least until after all this has blown over. He’s going to help us relocate the Shop headquarters and he’ll probably take over the position once held by General Prokofiev in Moscow.”

“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.

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, wearing Chinese pajamas, and I’m bloody and bruised.

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.