by Tom Clancy
Hansen led them down to Fisher’s position, and there Noboru dropped to a knee and aimed the ARWEN back up the ramp.
There was a sudden change of plans. Fisher now wanted Hansen and Valentina to clear medical. Noboru would hold the ramp. Fisher and Gillespie went charging off to ballistics, where Gillespie thought she’d heard Ames shouting at someone.
GILLESPIE was about a hundred yards down the corridor, running just ahead of Fisher, when she heard Ames’s voice again: “Shouldn’t have left it sitting here alone, Chucky.”
And then came another voice, presumably Zahm’s, given the British accent: “Aw, bloody hell, you little weasel! Come down here so I can put a bullet in your brain!”
“Can’t do that, Chucky!”
“Don’t call me Chucky!”
They reached sight of the main door into ballistics, level 4, then peeked around the corner. Similar to the zones above, the level was cavernous, like a stadium with a stone roof, and lined with engine test stands and ancient-looking tractors and treads for moving the heavy motors. Fisher raised his binoculars and saw that Zahm was at the far end of the zone with two men. They were near the mouth of the center blast funnel, near the last collection of Anvil cases. He told Gillespie to keep her eyes sharp for Ames. He was in there somewhere, and, she figured, had probably been double-crossed by Zahm, which was why he was still around and possibly about to exact his revenge on the self-appointed auctioneer as well as his best buddies in Third Echelon.
She and Fisher moved past the door and crept over to the nearest workbench. She took point and immediately found a covering position, while he eased in beside her. She got her first look at Zahm, a tall and stocky character with a thick shock of wavy hair. He was probably about Fisher’s age, though his hair was suspiciously devoid of gray. He wore a dark green turtleneck with suede patches on the shoulders.
Zahm lifted his voice. “Give it up, Ames! You won’t get ‘em open!”
“Don’t want to!” Ames answered, his voice emanating from somewhere above.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered to Fisher.
“Don’t know.”
The others checked in over the headset. Noboru had heard the remaining guys moving around, trying to call the elevator. Fisher told him to hold position and that they had Zahm and what was left of the arsenal. This wasn’t exactly the original plan, but they’d take it. Hansen would clear weapons and electronics, ensuring no surprise attacks for their escape; then he would rally back at Noboru’s position. Valentina would do likewise.
With that, Fisher gestured to Gillespie, and they hustled off, working their way between the shelves and equipment, the vehicles and engine parts, keeping low and tight to the corners, advancing fluidly like two lethal components controlled by a single brain.
The strangest sensation washed over Gillespie, and she found it hard, for a moment, to concentrate. There was something incredibly sexy, even erotic, about darting through the shadows with him, the threat of being caught reinforced by every footfall. When they paused at the next bench, she just looked at him, in awe, and he looked at her: What? She just shuddered and mouthed, “I’m okay.”
No, Sam, I could never have shot you. Who was I kidding?
They came within a hundred yards of Zahm and his two men. He gave her the hand signal to take the man on the left. She nodded. Set up. Took aim. The Groza felt perfect in her hands. Groza means “thunder.” Oh, yeah, she was about to deliver her thunder… .
They would do it just like training. She waited for his shot. The instant she heard it, she squeezed the trigger. Her target could not react in time.
Both of Zahm’s men dropped. One, two. Textbook head shots.
The man himself spun away, but Fisher was already running toward him. “Hi, Chuck.”
Gillespie dropped in beside Fisher.
Zahm whirled to face them, a 9mm semiautomatic clutched in his right hand. He looked at Fisher, then at Gillespie, and she could almost hear the ticking of his thoughts: If I shoot Fisher, then the woman kills me.
You can bet on it, Gillespie thought.
Fisher ordered Zahm to lose the gun.
Zahm set down his weapon. “Fisher,” he cried, as though to a long-lost friend.
Fisher shot Gillespie a look, then motioned her to the exhaust vents ahead to search for Ames. She rushed forward, past Zahm, and began her search, while behind her, the conversation continued:
“You just couldn’t sit still, could you?” Fisher asked. “Couldn’t have stayed in Portugal, enjoyed your villa and your mojitos and your boat.”
“Boring. Too damned boring.”
“Then you’re going to hate prison.”
“You can put me in, but you can’t keep me there.”
From somewhere in the space above, Ames yelled, “You’re both wrong!”
“He’s not in here,” Fisher called to her. “The echo’s wrong. He’s above us—ballistics, second level. He’s yelling down the exhaust shaft.”
Gillespie glanced up into the exhaust shaft, but she couldn’t see a thing. She switched on her flashlight, aimed it up, and still nothing but piping covered in a thick layer of carbon.
Fisher was suddenly on the radio to Hansen: “Move now, back to the ramp. All of you get topside as fast as you can.”
“What’s going on?” Gillespie asked.
“Do it. Blast your way through whoever’s up there, but don’t slow down.”
“Roger.”
Gillespie was about to question Fisher when Ames shouted again: “Okay, Chucky, here it comes… .”
Fisher screamed to her, “We’re leaving. Move!”
She was still confused but wouldn’t argue and began jogging back to him.
From the far end of the space came a crash. She turned back to see an Anvil case about the size of a footlocker bounce off the middle exhaust funnel and slam into the wall behind it.
Zahm craned his neck and stared at the case. “Son of a bitch! Ames!”
A second case dropped, this one so big that Ames must’ve used all his might to push it over the side. It was as large as a gun safe, Gillespie guessed. It struck the floor so hard that it broke open. Dozens of cylindrical objects spilled out and rolled across the concrete. And yet another case dropped. Then another, while Zahm continued shouting at the top of his lungs. He even screamed for Fisher to go up there and shoot the bastard.
Ames shouted, “Missed one. Here it comes!”
Gillespie stole a look over her shoulder at the exhaust vent, just as a white object about the size of a brick plummeted out of sight to the bottom of the tube.
“Aw, bloody hell,” cried Zahm.
Gillespie shouted to Fisher, “What?”
He had two words for her. “Semtex! Run!”
Chapter 42.
GILLESPIE’S legs were burning as she and Fisher retreated at full tilt toward the door at the far end of the zone. They were, Gillespie estimated, about sixty or seventy feet from the exit when the Semtex detonated.
A slightly muffled boom came first, followed by a single echo; then through that hollow ringing came several more explosions, grenades perhaps, and, finally, a deafening explosion that stole the air from her lungs and threatened to burst her eardrums.
Not two seconds later, the shock wave swept her into the air and sent her hurtling, end over end, like a Barbie doll flung by an angry four-year-old. The floor and ceiling spun, and there was utter disorientation until she thought she whacked against the door and suddenly dropped, as though someone had thrown the GRAVITY ON switch. She hit the floor, facedown. Felt her shoulder pop. Her arms and legs continued to burn.
She tried to look up, but a wave of nausea took hold, the room still spinning. Was that Fisher calling her name? Her shoulder throbbed now. She thought she could move her legs despite the fire.
What was that sound? Like Niagara Falls …
Finally, she glanced at the far end of the zone. The entire back wall was gone, and the concrete blast funne
ls now lay in mountains of rubble. In their place was a massive hole like the business end of a huge, fully opened fire hose. Car-sized pieces of rock were already being swept aside by the jetting water and unstoppable current.
Fisher crawled toward her, and, remarkably, her headset was still clipped tightly to her head. “What the hell was that?” called Hansen.
“Level four is blasted open,” Fisher answered. “The lake’s coming in.” He looked at her. “Can you walk?”
“The hell with that,” she said, glancing back at the oncoming water. “I can run!”
She rolled over, pulled herself painfully to her feet, felt some sharp pains in the shoulder, but otherwise she could indeed run. They sprinted together toward the ramp, around the railing, and started up the incline. She paused a second as the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis. Whoa!
The first wave of water surged through the intersection, sweeping so quickly down the corridor that she thought it’d be only a minute before the entire level was flooded. The hissing and crashing of water against doors and blasting into the various zones was entirely surreal. She got the chilling feeling they were aboard a sinking ship, and the ice-cold water did nothing to dispel that sensation.
A second wave crashed into their legs, shoving them back and into the side railing.
She looked over at Fisher.
He was gone.
“Sam!”
She looked back the ramp, now fully engulfed, the water like boiling oil in the flickering light.
And then a head appeared. Fisher was there, but his face was covered in blood. He must’ve bashed his nose, blood was streaming from his nostrils. She started back toward him, clutching the railing, but the current was beginning to carry him back and away. She reached out just as Valentina came up behind her, grabbed her arm.
“No, I’m okay,” Fisher cried. “Keep going!” Then his gaze turned to Valentina. “Take her!”
Gillespie tried to pull away, but Valentina was far stronger and dragged her back up the ramp.
Meanwhile, Noboru, who’d come down right after Valentina, positioned himself over the railing and was leaning over, trying to reach Fisher, while Hansen darted behind and grabbed onto his legs. Fisher shouted something about them taking off, but they kept trying to reach him. Finally, Noboru caught a hand, and they brought Fisher back onto the ramp.
“He’s okay,” said Valentina. “We’re going now!”
Gillespie nodded.
HANSEN didn’t believe Fisher when he said he was okay, but there wasn’t time to discuss it. He and Noboru hurried back up the ramp. When he looked back, Fisher was limping, barely able to keep up.
“Your foot,” cried Hansen.
“Fell asleep.”
The water suddenly lapped over Fisher’s ankles. Hansen started back to him. “I can help you, Sam.”
“Get everybody topside. I’m right behind you.”
This was an argument Hansen would not win. He nodded and double-timed back up the ramp.
At the top, with the water rising rapidly, he turned back for Fisher, who was gone. Hansen cursed and tried to call him on the radio. Nothing.
Stubborn bastard. What’re you up to now? You die, and you’ll really piss me off… .
AFTER checking on the elevator, Hansen and Noboru linked up with Valentina and Gillespie on the first level. The entire facility seemed to tremble under the weight of the flooding lake. Pipes screeched as they were bent like taffy in all directions, and most of the lower ramp had been swept away to crash into the walls.
They came rushing into the utility room, where their rope still hung down through the air shaft. Hansen could already hear the water rushing up toward them. He tried to call Fisher again. Nothing. Noboru went up the rope first, followed by Valentina. Together they would help pull Gillespie up. Hansen remained there, pacing like a fool, calling Fisher over and over until finally …
“Ben, where are you?”
“First level. Bad guys are either gone or dead. Elevator’s out of commission. We’re getting out the way we came in.”
“Good.” Fisher said something else, but the transmission was garbled. Hansen waited, then:
“Leave the rope for me.”
“Roger.”
From the sound of it, Fisher had no intention of coming up to meet them, and the ‘leave the rope’ line was just BS. He either had his own plan of escape or had already realized that it was too late for him.
Hansen glanced up the shaft, saw that Gillespie was almost at the top. In a minute they’d drop the rope to him. He took a deep breath and heard the footfalls a moment before the man appeared, brandishing his AK- 47.
He was one of Zahm’s guards, a heavily tattooed Brit clever enough to escape, and he trained his rifle on Hansen even as Hansen did likewise. Standoff.
“We can both get out, mate,” he said, his face covered in stubble, his teeth yellow. “No need for a shooting contest.”
“Here comes the rope!” cried Noboru.
“Hold up!” shouted Hansen.
“What’re you doing?” asked the guard, his glance flicking up toward the shaft.
There were moments, Hansen knew, where muscle memory and reflex took over, where all the calculations in the world wouldn’t help you. You just reacted, barely conscious of the effort, based on the instinct to survive.
Hansen shot the guard.
Three rounds punched into his chest. Just like that. No forethought. No afterthought. Just noise. And death.
The guy fell back before he could get off a shot, and as he hit the floor, a wall of water came blasting through the corridor, sweeping him away and sending Hansen crashing into the wall behind him.
“Throw down the rope!” he screamed. “Throw down the—”
Another wave took him under, and the water was so cold that for a moment he swore his heart skipped a beat. Frantically he kicked up, tried to find the surface, but his head banged hard into something metal, and there was only white foam before his eyes, nothing to focus on. He reached out, trying to find the rope, groping frantically like a man with an anchor tied to his waist.
He was beginning to lose his breath.
And a bitter resignation took hold. After everything, he would now drown in an air shaft because some asshole guard had decided not to play nice and die when he should have. Where were Dad’s aliens now? Hansen could sure use an alien abduction at the moment. Beam me up, Scotty.
He reached out one last time, and something brushed against his outer forearm. The rope. He rolled, kicked hard, and took hold, now advancing hand over hand, pulling himself against the current until his hand felt dry, and then, in the next instant his head popped above the bubbling water.
The gush of water resounded. He was in the air shaft, being carried up. He sucked in a huge breath as, above, Valentina and Noboru screamed, asking if he was all right.
Sure, he was fine. Couldn’t be better. And how are you?
He took one more breath and cried, “Pull me up!” And the water once more rose over his head before he could climb any higher. The rope began moving through his hands. He tightened his grip as they hoisted him up.
NOT two minutes after Hansen cleared the air shaft, he watched as Gillespie rushed back to it. “He’s not coming, is he?” she said, watching as the water streamed out of the air vent.
“Tell you what. You stay here and wait,” said Hansen, still shivering and blinking hard. He looked at Noboru and Valentina. “Perimeter search. Maybe he found another way out.”
Valentina looked grim, Noboru grimmer.
“Let’s get this done quickly. This entire area is growing unstable.”
Hansen thought about his rise up the air shaft and decided to hit the meadow hut first. And when he did, he almost laughed. There was Fisher, lying on his side, soaked to the bone, having dug his way out of the hut by exploiting the weakened grout between the cinder blocks.
“You should’ve come with us,” Hansen said, dumbfounded and g
rinning.
Fisher rubbed his sore eyes and shuddered. “Didn’t want to slow you down.”
Hansen looked at the hut, the water still pouring from the hole in the cinder blocks. “Nice exit.”
“I’m usually a little more discreet.”
Hansen grinned. “Gotta move now. Sinkholes opening up all over the place… .”
THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM
KOVAC burst through the door and marched up to Grim, who was seated behind one of the computer terminals. She didn’t look back at him. Not yet. He panted in anger.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Slowly, she turned around, then glanced past him to Moreau, who was standing in the shadows with a security team.
“It’s the end of the world,” she said. “Your world.”
He snorted. “You’re done, Grim. Done. Do you hear me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Mr. Kovac,” called Moreau. “If you’ll come with us …”
“What’s this?”
Grim narrowed her gaze on him. “This is you going bye-bye. Say bye-bye… .”
He began to hyperventilate. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“I’m curious. Why’d you do it? Not just for the money …”
“I don’t owe you anything but a pink slip.”
She dismissed him with a wave. “Marty, get this scumbag out of my sight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kovac cursed at Moreau, who looked at Grim. She nodded.
And Moreau took Kovac by the back of the neck and led him out of the room, saying, “Mr. Kovac, are you familiar with our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? Are you familiar with the stories of torture in the Bible? Are you familiar with the barbaric means men once used to extract information from each other?”
“You can’t torture me! That’s illegal!”
Moreau cackled like a hyena. The door closed after them. Grim took a deep breath. It was over. Or just beginning.
PORTINHO DA ARRABIDA, PORTUGAL
FISHER looked much better than the last time Hansen had seen him, three months before. He was refreshed, well groomed, and deeply tanned. The veteran Splinter Cell had stayed in Washington only long enough to have surgery on his ankle and attend three days of intense debriefing. Then he’d vanished off the face of the earth. Or at least that was how Hansen’s dad would have put it. Apparently, Fisher had gotten a one-year lease on Zahm’s old place and was taking time off to relax and enjoy the villa, the mojitos, life… . Would his name ever be cleared? No one knew. Not yet, anyway …