Splinter Cell sc-1

by Tom Clancy

  Then the alarm sounds. As they say, all hell breaks loose.

  I run into one of the wings containing nonexistent stores and head for the exit, the one I came in. When I’m about forty feet from the doors I see two guards on the other side of the glass. I pause long enough to swing the SC-20K off my shoulder, unlock the safety, and blast away, shattering the glass and killing the men. I barge forward like a bull, ready to smash through the remaining shards of glass, but a volley of gunfire behind me forces me to hit the floor. I roll to the wall and try my best to squeeze as close as I can to it, but the bullets are frighteningly near. The rifle’s still in my hands, so I let loose a barrage of rounds at my pursuers while lying on my back. I hit two of them, but the others jump for cover. This gives me the seconds I need to jump up and run through the broken glass doors. A shard cuts into my uniform at the shoulder, ripping the outer layer and opening a water tube. I fall to the ground outside the complex, roll, and leap to my feet without breaking the momentum of my progress.

  The parking lot is clear. I’m almost free.

  I run to the electrical van, pull open the door, and find that my buddy is no longer on the floorboard. What the hell, forget him. I put the key in the ignition and start it up, ready to throw it into reverse and tear out of the parking lot.

  The cold metal of a gun barrel presses against the back of my neck.

  I look in the rearview mirror and see my old friend the electrician behind me. He says something in Turkish and he doesn’t look too happy. I guess I must have hurt his head earlier and it’s payback time. I slowly raise my hands and he relieves me of my SC-20K. He then opens the panel door and tosses my gun to the ground just as a dozen of Tarighian’s armed guards surround the van.

  35

  “Mr. Fisher,” Tarighian says as they march me into the control room. “Is spying on my facility a part of your Interpol report?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” I reply. I know it sounds lame, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

  I scan the room to see what my opposition consists of. Besides Tarighian and the three guards holding me, I see Farid the bodyguard and Albert Mertens busy at a desk with another man. The odds would be pretty fair if I didn’t have my hands tied behind my back. They’ve also taken my Osprey, my headset and goggles, my weapons, and emptied all my pockets.

  If looks could kill, Farid’s expression says it all. He’s obviously put two and two together and figured out I’m the one who broke his arm. I give him a smile and a wink.

  Tarighian looks at me with those cold, brown eyes. “You should have stayed in Lake Van, Mr. Fisher. That’s where I thought you ended up.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “You know, when I turn you over to my men, they will murder you and videotape it at the same time. They’ll up-load the tape on an Islamic Web site and the whole world — and all of America — will see you beheaded. You are American, are you not? You’re not Swiss, like you said.”

  I don’t answer.

  “I assure you that if I had the time I could make you talk. But I’m in a bit of a hurry. I fear I’ll have to expedite your sentence and make sure you’re no longer a threat to me before I begin this morning’s operation.”

  “And what might that be?” I ask. I hope to appeal to his ego. “That’s an impressive-looking machine out there. What’s it do?”

  Tarighian’s eyes flickered and he moved to the window. “It is lovely, isn’t it? I call it the Babylon Phoenix. The Babylon because it’s a reimagining of Gerard Bull’s supergun that was designed for Iraq in the 1980s, and the Phoenix because it has been reborn from the ashes of its ancestor.”

  Hearing the mention of his creation, Mertens looks up and smiles at me.

  “This is your doing, I gather?” I ask him.

  The Belgian ignores me, but Tarighian answers for him. “Yes, Professor Mertens did an excellent job. To my specifications, of course.”

  “What’s your game, Tarighian? What are you going to do?”

  Upon hearing his real name, the man smiles at me. “You know who I am. I was afraid of that. Who do you work for, Fisher? The CIA? The FBI?”

  “The NSA, not that it matters.”

  He shrugs. “No, it doesn’t matter. You will be dead within the hour.” He gestures toward the supergun and says, “The Babylon Phoenix utilizes nine tons of special supergun propellant that can fire a 600 kilogram projectile over a range of approximately 1,000 kilometers.”

  “That’s what Bull’s supergun was supposed to be able to do.”

  “Yes. Alternatively, I could launch a 200-kilogram object into orbit with the assistance of a 2,000-kilogram rocket. The barrel, when fully extended, is 156 meters long with a one-meter bore. The launch tube is 30 centimeters thick at the breech, tapering to 6.5 centimeters at the exit. Like the V-3, the gun is built in segments. Twenty-six six-meter-long sections make up the barrel, totaling 1,510 tons. Added to this are four 220-ton recoil cylinders and the 165-ton breech. The reinforcement around the breech is fifty feet of solid concrete, steel, and rock. From our base here in Cyprus, we can hit any target in the Middle East we wish.”

  “But it’s crazy,” I say. “You shoot the thing once and you’ll have the entire world on top of you in no time.”

  “You’re right,” he answers.

  “You only want to fire it once?”

  “Yes. Once is all I need.”

  “And what, may I ask, is your target?”

  “I’m afraid you will go to your death not knowing that,” Tarighian says.

  “Then can you tell me what kind of payload you’re firing?”

  Tarighian scratches his chin and says, “Why not? I’m using a 600-kilogram MOAB, or as you call it, a Massive Ordnance Airburst Bomb. I think you know what this can accomplish?”

  I knew what he was talking about. It’s similar to our CBU-72 Fuel-Air Explosive. It’s an incendiary, advanced cluster bomb carrying ethylene gas that explodes in the air, creating a fireball and explosive wave that spreads quickly over a much greater area than traditional explosives. The aftereffects of the explosion are very similar to those of small nuclear bombs but without the radiation. It’s a nasty, deadly device. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction — this is certainly it.

  “You’re evil,” I mutter. Tarighian’s eyes flare and he approaches me. He turns his head slightly, as if he’s preparing to strike me, but instead he spits a glob of phlegm at me. It hits me in the face and dribbles down my cheek.

  “That’s what I think of America,” he says. He moves away and addresses Mertens. “Begin the calibration. It’s time.”

  Mertens nods and picks up a phone. After a moment he says, “Begin calibration. Raise the Phoenix.”

  Six seconds later the control room shakes and a loud hum reverberates throughout the complex. Through the windows I see the ceiling part and slide away, revealing the dome two levels above. The supergun and its heavy platform begin to rise on a hydraulic lift toward the ground floor above us.

  Tarighian, satisfied that everything is working properly, turns to me and addresses the guards. “He’s seen enough. Take him to the incinerator room and kill him.”

  Farid grunts and makes a face at Tarighian. “I’m sorry, Farid,” he says. “I need you with me. Perhaps you’d like to hurt him a little right here?”

  The brute smiles like an ogre. Even though his good arm is in a cast, I’m sure his other one can pack a wallop as well. The guards hold me steady as Farid faces me. He raises his free arm, makes a fist, pulls it back, and puts his entire weight into a punch that nearly knocks my head off. For a moment I hear a ringing in my ears and see nothing but bright lights. A tremendous spear of pain shoots through my now-broken nose into the back of my brain. Before I have time to recover even slightly, Farid hits me hard in the stomach. The guards let me fall to my knees as I gasp for breath. Blood pours from my nose onto the floor.

  I hear Tarighian say, “That’s enough. Take him away and ge
t rid of him. Be sure you videotape it. Make it gruesome. You know what to do.”

  The men roughly pull me out of the control room.

  36

  There was a seven-hour time difference between Cyprus and Washington, D.C. At precisely the moment that Sam Fisher infiltrated the shopping mall complex, Colonel Irving Lambert finished a phone call with the secretary of defense and waited impatiently at his desk for news from his Splinter Cell. He knew that Fisher had arrived safely in Cyprus, had received diving equipment from the Brits, and was on his way to Tarighian’s “shopping mall” outside of Famagusta.

  In anticipation of Fisher’s report, Lambert had already been in discussions with not only the secretary, but also the top military brain trust at the Pentagon, the president of the United States, and the secretary of state. In turn, these people were in touch with their counterparts in the Middle East. Should a strike in Cyprus become necessary, Lambert wanted an immediate response. As of the current time, all the appropriate players were ready and willing — except for Turkey. Even in the face of proof, the Turkish authorities refused to believe that Namik Basaran was really Nasir Tarighian, mastermind and patron of one of the world’s most dangerous terrorist organizations. The prosperity he had brought to southeastern Turkey was unquestionable. He had created jobs for hundreds of unemployed. He had contributed food and money to just causes. He had created a great deal of goodwill between Turkey and her neighbors. How could this man be the evil being that the United States claimed?

  Lambert’s intercom buzzed. “Yes?” he said, pushing the button.

  “We’ve got some news on Horowitz,” Bruford said.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Lambert rose, grabbed his coffee cup, and rushed to the Operations Room where Bruford and other team members were working. Carly St. John had her hands on a printout that she was studying closely.

  “What have you got?” Lambert asked, taking a seat at the table.

  “Eli Horowitz isn’t an Israeli,” Bruford said. “He’s from Azerbaijan. He entered Israel when he was sixteen on the pretext that he was a Jewish refugee from Russia. The Mossad has just confirmed that Horowitz — which is his real name by the way — has used a number of aliases throughout his life. When he was living in Azerbaijan, he was arrested on conspiracy charges with a group of terrorists associated with the Kurds there. Because of his age and some political connections, he was set free. On a later occasion he was arrested in Georgia in possession of a cache of illegal weapons. He was about to stand trial when he miraculously escaped from jail. It was a daring operation that involved several participants. Georgian authorities believed the jailbreak to be the work of a powerful Russian mafia.”

  “The Shop?”

  “Very likely. That terrorist watch list he was on, when it was tardily discovered by U.S. Immigration, identified Horowitz as a mule for the Shop.”

  Lambert slapped the table. “Okay, so we’ve definitely established he’s a bad guy. How the hell do we find him?”

  Carly spoke up. “The Mossad has been very cooperative. They found his apartment in East Jerusalem and ransacked it. The boy left the place as if he was planning to return. All of his clothes and belongings were there — including a computer.”

  Lambert raised his eyebrows, and Carly wiggled hers in reply.

  “And we might have something,” she said. “This is a printout showing the contents of the hard drive. Although there isn’t anything that directly connects him to the Shop, we’ve retrieved some recent e-mails that indicate he was planning something before Sarah Burns came to Israel. Most of the mail prior to two weeks ago was deleted, but the Mossad is delivering a subpoena to Horowitz’s ISP as soon as they can. What we do have are some of the last communications between him and Sarah, much of which we already uncovered on Sarah’s computer in Illinois, but also some e-mails between Horowitz and someone named Yuri. We’ve traced this Yuri’s e-mail address, and the server is at the Russian-Israeli Bank in Jerusalem.”

  “The Russian-Israeli Bank? Is that legit?” Lambert asked.

  “It is. It’s a private and fairly young institution. The bank opened two years ago, and the board of directors consists of nothing but Russians.”

  “Interesting.”

  Then Carly smiled, pausing for dramatic effect. “And here’s the clincher. The bank is a subsidiary of the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank.”

  Lambert raised his fists above his head. “Praise the Lord! We need the Israel Security Forces to get in there and tear the place apart. Now.”

  Bruford replied, “It’s already in the works. The bank manager and its employees are going to have a rude surprise when they arrive at work in the morning — which should be happening any minute over there.”

  “Great work, people,” Lambert said. “Now if we’d just hear something from Fisher, my ulcer might settle down.”

  Chip Driggers spoke up. “Colonel, there’s a transmission coming through!”

  Lambert rose and went over to Driggers’s terminal. “Is it Sam?”

  “Looks like it. He’s sending some JPG files.”

  When the image appeared on the monitor, both men’s jaws dropped.

  “Holy shit, what the hell is that thing?” Driggers asked.

  Lambert rubbed his eyes and looked again. “It’s a goddamned Babylon supergun. We should have known. We should have known!”

  “There are more pics coming through. Look.”

  The entire team gathered around the monitor, watching in awe as Fisher’s captures of the Babylon Phoenix came into view. Lambert didn’t waste any time running back to his office. He picked up the phone on Bruford’s desk and ordered, “Get me the president.”

  37

  Nasir Tarighian wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at his watch. The sun had completely risen, and he felt that time was running out. If the American had contacted his people during the night, it was only a matter of hours — maybe minutes — before the forces arrived to stop his plan to punish Iraq.

  His advisers had been telling him for months that the plan was folly. Albert Mertens and his team were against targeting Baghdad, and his committee heads strongly protested the choosing of Iraq. Tarighian knew fully well that he might be sacrificing the Shadows as an entity to satisfy his lust for revenge. He didn’t care. His most trusted colleague, Ahmed Mohammed, had said that this was a plan of “madness.” But Tarighian knew he wasn’t mad, at least not in the “crazy” sense. He was simply intent on allowing his wife and children to rest peacefully. If it meant that he had to die a martyr, then so be it. Many others had done the same.

  He looked out the control room window and up at the magnificent creature that was his to command. The Babylon Phoenix was primed and ready, calibrated to fire the MOAB at Baghdad. He was awaiting last-minute preparations that Mertens assured him would take no longer than a half hour. That was forty minutes ago.

  “Mertens!” he called across the room. “What the hell is going on?”

  Mertens exchanged glances with Eisler, and Tarighian didn’t like it. He had seen too many furtive looks between those two.

  “Yes, sir?” Mertens asked calmly.

  “Are we ready yet?”

  “Not quite. There seems to be a problem in the engine room. I would like you to come with me to check it out. I want you to see with your own eyes the problems we are having. This rushing to fire the weapon on such short notice is having a domino effect.”

  “What kind of problem is it?”

  “I’m not sure. The engineers want us down there in person. I suggest that you come with me.”

  “Damn,” Tarighian muttered. “All right, lead the way.” Farid started for the door and Tarighian said, “Yes, Farid, you come with us.” The mute strongman grunted and held the door open. Once again Mertens and Eisler exchanged looks, and both men rose to head out of the control room. They followed Tarighian and Farid down the short flight of steps and walked across the platform to the bloated hydraulics
base that was supporting the Babylon Phoenix on ground level. Several of Tarighian’s more loyal armed soldiers stood nearby. They watched as Mertens opened the heavy iron door that led to the bowels of the mechanism, which were enclosed deep within.

  Mertens gestured inside. “After you, sir.”

  Tarighian ducked his head and clambered down the steel steps into the engine room. Although illuminated by work lights, the place was darker than other areas of the compound. The monstrous engines that manipulated the hydraulics dominated the room, which pounded noisily with life. Several men were busy at control panels while two worked feverishly on one of the hydraulics.

  Once the four men had entered the room and shut the door, another man wearing a jeballa and turban turned from the control panel and faced Tarighian.

  “Ahmed!” Tarighian said. “What are you doing here?”

  Ahmed Mohammed gave Tarighian a slight bow. “I have been in the complex since last night. You were too busy to notice.”

  “Why, I’m sorry. You should have—”

  “I was concerned about your plans, Nasir. That’s why I am here.”

  Tarighian put an arm around his Political Committee head and said, “I am happy that you are. You are just in time! This morning we shall fire the Babylon Phoenix and finally show the West that Islam will not let America and its allies control Iraq or the Middle East. In a few minutes there will no longer be a Baghdad. What do you think of that, Ahmed?”

  Mohammed shook his head. “Nasir, my friend, I must tell you that we all feel you have strayed too far from the path. This insane notion you have of destroying Baghdad is nonsense. Baghdad is a Muslim city. Iraq is a Muslim country. You are blinded by your thirst for revenge. Your goals are misplaced and inappropriate. The decision has been made to relieve you of your leadership.”