by Tom Clancy
Fisher nodded.
“The airlocks are operated from outside. When you’re ready to come out, walk to the airlock and give us the thumbs-up. We’ll process you out. Do not try to force your way out. If you do, we’ll have to pump a sedative into your oxygen supply. Do you understand?”
Fisher nodded again. He felt another pat on his shoulder followed moments later by the sucking swish of the airlock door closing behind him. He heard the muffled surge of the air movers bringing the airlock back up to full positive ventilation.
The door before him slid open.
Stepping carefully, Fisher shuffled toward the bed. Above his head he heard a metallic rasping, and it took a moment for him to place it: the oxygen hose’s track, sliding along behind him. As he neared the bed, the other suited figure came around to his side.
“Sir, we’ve got him on a fairly high dose of pain meds,” the woman said, her voice muffled by her headpiece. “He’s mostly lucid right now, but don’t be surprised if that changes. He comes and goes.”
“He’s in pain,” Fisher said. “How much?”
She hesitated. “It’s hard to quantify it, but we believe it’s a significant level.”
A significant level. Though his business was rife with them, Fisher had never liked euphemisms; they blurred reality and fostered illusion.
“Please don’t touch any of the equipment, the IV lines, or EKG leads.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be nearby if you need me.”
Fisher saw her slip from his peripheral vision. Her hose track rasped along for a few seconds, then went quiet. Fisher stepped closer to the bed until he felt his thighs touch the mattress. Peter lay on his back with both hands curled in loose fists on his chest. The index finger on his right hand twitched in a steady but erratic rhythm, as though tapping out a Morse code message. His fingernails were dark blue.
“Peter, it’s me,” Fisher said. “It’s Sam. Peter, can you hear me?”
Peter groaned. His chest heaved, and from somewhere deep in his lungs came a wet rattling sound. A line of pinkish sputum leaked from the corner of Peter’s mouth, rolled down his chin, and dropped onto his chest.
Ah, God… Peter, what happened to you?
“Peter, it’s Sam. Come on you, mudack, wake up.” Mudack—roughly translated as “dumb ass”—was Peter’s favorite nickname for those who tried his patience, and Fisher had over the years done just that, albeit most often intentionally.
Peter’s eyes fluttered open, and his tongue, swollen and gray, darted out to lick his cracked lips. With what looked like painful effort, he turned his head to face Fisher.
It took everything Fisher had not to react, and at that moment he knew regardless of whatever diagnosis Seltkins came up with, Peter was a dead man.
Peter’s hair, once thick and black, had fallen out in clumps, leaving behind a jigsaw puzzle of pale, blue-veined skull. What little hair remained looked brittle and had turned yellow white. His face was shrunken, and the skin, paper-thin and nearly translucent, clung to his cheek and jawbones as though his face had been shrink-wrapped. His eyes, once a deep blue, had been leached of all color save a tracery of ruptured, bloody capillaries. His pupils were black pinpricks. The tendons and veins and arteries bulged from the flesh of his neck; it looked like a pair of skeletal hands had encircled his throat and were precariously holding his head in place. No Hollywood special effects wizard could have created what Peter’s face had become.
Peter’s eyes stared vacantly at Fisher for a long five seconds before Fisher saw even the barest flicker of recognition. Peter opened his mouth, revealing blackened gums, and whispered something. Fisher knelt beside the bed, took Peter’s hand and gave it a squeeze, and leaned in closer to hear. Peter’s fingertips were scraped raw, the nails on several of them torn away.
“What, Peter? Say it again.”
“… to see you again, mudack.”
* * *
Fisher spent ten more minutes with Peter before he drifted into unconsciousness. Fisher signaled that he was ready to come out, and the same nurses processed him through the airlocks, helped him out of the biohazard suit, then left him to change in the locker room. Five minutes later he was back with Lambert and Dr. Seltkins.
“How long has he got?” Fisher asked.
“Difficult to say.”
“Try,” Fisher said with a little steel in his voice.
Seltkins spread his hands. “Days. Three at most. Whatever diagnosis we come up with won’t matter. He’s already in advanced multiple organ failure; we’re past the point of no return there. The best we can do is keep him comfortable.”
“Do that,” Fisher said. “I’ll be back.”
Fisher and Lambert turned to leave, but Seltkins stopped them with a question. “If you don’t mind… I saw you holding his hand. Are you family or a friend?”
Fisher paused a few moments, looking at the floor. “A little of both, I guess. He’s my brother.”
5
ALATAU MOUNTAINS, KYRGYZSTAN
Omurbai spoke to the troops for a full hour, whipping them into a frenzy for what he proclaimed would be a “new day for the Kyrgyz people, for Islam, and for the ways of their forefathers,” then dismissed them to celebrate.
With AK-47s and chants for both their resurrected leader and for Allah, Omurbai retired to a tent with Samet and the three most powerful warlords that together represented the thirty-two sanjira, or tribes, in Kyrgyzstan. These men, along with Samet, had kept the KRLA alive in Omurbai’s absence. The tent was long and rectangular, its walls lined with heavy tapestries and piled high with trunks and ammunition cases, the floor covered in thick, overlapping rugs of various sizes. At the center of the tent was a scarred mahogany table surrounded by five chairs, and aligned above the table, three hissing kerosene lanterns. Charcoal braziers stood burning in each corner of the tent to ward off the chilled mountain air.
Omurbai took his seat at the head of the table and gestured for the others to sit. As was his place, Samet took the chair to Omurbai’s immediate right. Servants entered the tent and placed before each man a ceramic mug and a steaming carafe of warm chalap.
Omurbai smiled and gestured for them to drink.
These four men represented not only the bulk of the KRLA’s fighting force but also, as Omurbai had drummed into them, the heart of the Kyrgyz people — the true Kyrgyz people — the Sary Bagysh, the Solto, the Bugu, the Adygene, the Dungan, the Uygur — those of pure blood, those who had resisted the “Soviet infection” and resisted still the “insidious disease of Western materialism and modernity that poisons our land.” These were favorite topics of Omurbai’s, but they were more than simply rallying slogans. They were, he promised, the greatest enemy to the future of the Kyrgyz homeland and of Islam itself.
Omurbai waited until each man at the table had drunk from his cup; then he spoke.
“Brothers, it is good to be home. Good to see your faces again and feel the air of our homeland in my lungs once again. We have much to discuss, but I assume you have questions for me, so let us address those now.”
There was silence around the table for a few seconds, and then one of the warlords, the leader of the combined southern, or Ich Kylyk, tribes, spoke up. “My khan, forgive me, but how is it you are alive? We watched you die.”
Omurbai smiled. “A worthy question to begin with. You saw an illusion, my old friend. I had long foreseen the betrayal that led to my capture and was prepared for it. The man you saw die was a loyal son of Kyrgyzstan who volunteered for martyrdom.” Omurbai chuckled softly. “The fact that he shared my fine and handsome features was the will of Allah.”
There were returning chuckles from around the table.
Another warlord spoke up. “Where have you been? Could you not have trusted us with your secret?”
“As for your first question, the friends of the Kyrgyz people are legion. And to your second question, trust was never the issue, my friend. In fact, it was quite the oppos
ite. I knew our homeland would remain safe in your hands — all of your hands — until I returned. Silence was a necessary evil, and soon you’ll see why.
“The new future of the Kyrgyz people begins today, with my return and with your continued loyalty. In a matter of weeks, by the grace of Allah, our homeland will be returned to us and set back on the one true course.”
“And what is this course?” the other warlord asked.
“The ways of old,” Omurbai replied. “The ways of Manas, before our land was polluted by immorality and technology and Western thought. I’ve watched from afar, my old friends. I’ve seen the disease spreading across our country, starting in the cities with billboards and flashing signs and dancing. Our people have lost their way, but I tell you this: With my return I bring the cure.”
“And this is?”
Omurbai waggled a finger at him as though admonishing a child. “Patience. All will soon be made clear.” Omurbai sat back in his chair and silently stared at each man in turn, then suddenly slapped both palms on the table. One of the chalap carafes tipped over, spilling its contents on the tablecloth.
“To other business,” Omurbai announced. He stood up and began walking around the table, placing a hand on each warlord’s shoulder in turn, finally stopping behind Samet. “As you know, Samet here has faithfully stood in my place since my departure. You’ve followed him loyally, and for that I thank you. The Kyrgyz people — those from the Land of Forty Tribes, thank you. However, I am disappointed in you.”
Omurbai had stopped behind Samet’s chair with both hands resting on his shoulders.
“Why, my khan?” asked the Ich Kylyk warlord.
“As I told you now and I’ve told you before, the disease that infects our country is insidious. No one is immune. Not you, not me, not the most hardened and loyal soldier. Even Samet here, loyal Kyrgyz that he is, has faltered. Isn’t that true, Samet?”
Samet craned his neck to look up at Omurbai. “I don’t understand, my khan. How have I failed you?”
“In word, Samet. You have failed me in word. I have it on trusted authority you have been seen in Bishkek — that you have been heard answering to your old Soviet name, Satybaldiyev.”
“No, my khan, this is not true—”
From the folds of his jacket Omurbai produced a long, curved knife. In one smooth motion, he reached across Samet’s throat, inserted the tip of the knife below his ear, and drew it cleanly across his larynx. Eyes bulging, Samet opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Blood gushed from the wound and sprayed across the tablecloth. His head, nearly severed, lolled to one side, and he toppled forward, his forehead cracking against the mahogany. His body spasmed and bucked in its chair for another ten seconds, then went still.
Omurbai jammed the tip of the knife into the tabletop and then looked around the table. “The disease of which I speak, my friends… It knows no bounds.”
He returned to his chair, sat down, poured himself more chalap, and took a sip.
“Now,” he said, “to business.”
6
THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM
Fisher hadn’t known Peter’s true name or origin until he was twenty-one, when his mother and father had sat him down to tell him. Peter, his adopted brother, was in fact Pyotr Limonovich, the only son of a now-dead friend of Sam’s father. It wasn’t until Peter turned eighteen that their father, now retired from the U.S. Department of State, told them the whole story.
Peter was the son of a man named Ivan, a major in the former Soviet Union’s KGB, their equivalent to the United States’s CIA; and Fisher’s father, a career diplomat, was not a diplomat at all but a twenty-five-year veteran case officer in the CIA.
It had all happened when Fisher was barely old enough to remember his father being gone for an extended period. A specialist in agent handling and defection, his father had been dispatched to Moscow. This was 1968, the height of the Cold War, his father explained, the years of North Korea’s capture of the USS Pueblo, the Soviet army’s brutal crush of the Czechoslovakian revolt, and the space race — events that for young Sam were only vague headline memories.
A major named Ivan Limonovich had made contact with the CIA’s deputy chief of station and over the next few weeks made clear his intention to spy for the United States. The “bride price” as it was known in the tradecraft lexicon, would be that Ivan and his newly born son, Pyotr (Ivan’s wife had died in childbirth), would be smuggled out of Russia after two years. The CIA agreed, and Fisher’s father was dispatched to be Ivan’s primary controller. Over the next two years, Ivan fed the United States invaluable information, including information that led to the release of the Pueblo’s crew and details of the Soviet nuclear arsenal that later became essential to the signing of SALT I, the first series of Strategic Arms Limitation Talks between the United States and the Soviet Union. As often happened in the world of espionage, Fisher’s father and Ivan became friends.
At the end of the agreed-upon two years, Fisher’s father made arrangements to smuggle Ivan and his son from the country, only to see the plans go awry at the last minute. In a running gun battle at the Finnish border, Ivan Limonovich was killed, and with Soviet border troops at his heels, Fisher’s father managed to slip across the border with young Pyotr.
Once home, the Fishers did the only thing that seemed right and adopted Pyotr as their own and raised him along with their son Sam. Pyotr, too young to have learned any Russian or gain an accent and too young to have anything but the fuzziest of memories of his father, quickly grew into a typical American boy.
THIRD ECHELON
Dr. Seltkins was as good as his word. Two days after arriving at the army’s Chemical Casualty Care Division, Peter died. Fisher, who had spent as much time as they would allow him at Peter’s bedside in the airlocked hospital room, had gone to the cafeteria to catch a quick breakfast when the crash code was called. He returned to find Seltkins emerging from the airlock and a trio of nurses at Peter’s bed removing the IVs and monitor leads from his now-lifeless body.
Still lacking a diagnosis, the army erred on the side of caution and flew Peter’s body to the Umatilla Chemical Agent Disposal Facility in Oregon, where it was cremated in a closed incinerator, then stored in the bowels of the facility inside a specially designed lead/ceramic composite container.
* * *
Fisher swiped his ID badge through the reader outside Third Echelon’s situation room. There was a muted beep, and the reader’s LED turned green. Fisher pushed through the door.
Decorated in earth tones and lit by soft halogen track lighting, the situation room was dominated by a long, diamond-shaped teak conference table. The walls were lined by forty-two-inch, high-definition LCD status boards and monitors that could be calibrated to display a variety of information ranging from weather, local and foreign news broadcasts, radar feeds — virtually anything that could be digitized and transmitted. Four computer workstations, each with enough processing power to control the electrical grids of a small country, were built into each of the long sides of the table.
Fisher had called Third Echelon his professional home for more years than he could recall. A top secret offshoot of the National Security Agency, or NSA, Third Echelon and its small collection of lone Splinter Cell operatives was a bridge of sorts: a bridge between the world of intelligence gathering and covert operations.
Splinter Cell operatives were recruited from the special warfare communities of the navy, army, marine corps, and air force, and then remolded into the ultimate covert soldiers able to survive and thrive in the most hostile of environments. The informal credo for Third Echelon was “no footprints.” Third Echelon went where no other government agency could go, did what no other agency could do, then disappeared, leaving behind nothing that could be tracked back to the United States.
Itself the most secretive of the government’s intelligence organizations, the National Security Agency was located a few miles outside Laurel, Maryland, on an army pos
t named after the Civil War Union general, George Gordon Meade. Once home to both a boot camp and a World War II prisoner-of-war camp, Fort Meade has been the NSA’s home since the 1950s.
Charged with the gathering and exploitation of SIGINT, or signals intelligence, the NSA could and did intercept virtually every form of communication on the planet from cell phone signals to microwave emissions and ELF (extremely low frequency) burst transmissions from submarines thousands of feet beneath the surface of the ocean.
Lambert and Anna Grimsdottir were sitting together at one end of the conference table drinking coffee. Three of the monitors on the wall behind them were tuned to the muted broadcasts of MSNBC, CNN, and BBC World.
Fisher grabbed a mug from the nearby coffee kiosk, poured himself a cup, and sat down at the conference table.
“Morning,” said Lambert.
“That’s debatable,” Fisher said, taking a sip. The coffee was hot and almost bitter, with a touch of salt. Lambert must have made it.
“When did you get back?” Grimsdottir asked. As Peter had no other family than Fisher, and his remains would probably forever remain locked deep inside Umatilla, Fisher had, in lieu of a funeral or memorial, accompanied him on the flight to Oregon and stood by as the technicians slid his body into the incinerator.
“A couple hours ago,” Fisher replied.
“You didn’t have to come in,” Lambert said.
“Yeah, I did. Do we know anything? Anything from Seltkins?” Even as Fisher had boarded the plane for Oregon, the CCCD’s labs had yet to determine what had killed Peter.
Grimsdottir pulled a manila folder from the stack before her and slid it across the table to Fisher. She said nothing. Fisher stared at her eyes for a few seconds until she looked away. Very bad news, Fisher thought.
Grimsdottir’s official designation was computer/signals intel technician, but Fisher thought of her as more like a free safety. To operatives in the field she provided tech and information support and she was, at least for Fisher, that constant voice in his ear during missions that represented his lifeline back to Third Echelon and the real world. Fisher had yet to see a computer-related problem too tough for Grimsdottir to crack.