Blacklist Aftermath

by Tom Clancy

  Ignoring the desert blurring by and the sand beginning to rip through the rotors, Fisher couldn’t help himself. He chanced a look at the sandstorm—perhaps a quarter mile away and barreling toward them.

  Oh my God . . .

  The diminutive train and even tinier chopper lay directly in the path of what resembled a thousand-foot-tall tidal wave as murky and thick as the ocean itself.

  Chilled, Fisher flicked his gaze back on the oil container, focusing on his upper deck landing zone.

  Then, with a curse that really meant no, I’m not too old for this shit, he pushed away from the helicopter and plunged two meters to the top deck.

  As his boots made impact, they gave way on a thin coating of oil that had whipped up from the rotor wash and was dripping off the railings.

  He hit hard on his rump and began slipping off the deck, a hairsbreadth from being blown right off the container—when Briggs’s hand latched onto his, just as Fisher went swinging off the side and across the oil-slick surface.

  Suspended now, Fisher caught another glimpse of the man who’d been firing at them, illuminated in the pale green glow of his trifocals. He was an Iranian MOIS agent, Fisher assumed, with balaclava tugged over his head, Kevlar vest strapped tightly at his chest and waist, and baggy combat trousers. Two pistols were holstered on his right side, one at the waist, the other on his lower hip. The rifle was an AK-47—and it popped again as Briggs dragged Fisher up and onto the deck.

  Another salvo cracked from the AK, and Fisher swung back toward the chopper.

  Hammad was just pulling away, taking heavy fire now from the agent, rounds sparking and ricocheting off the fuselage, a few punching into the side window.

  Salvo after salvo tracked him.

  He banked hard to the right. Too hard. Blood splashed across the side window. He lost control of the bird—

  And before Fisher could open his mouth, the helicopter flipped onto its back, pitched slightly, then crashed with a thundering explosion into the desert behind them, the flickering fireball sweeping into the rising gale. Secondary explosions lifted into the first, with contrails of black smoke instantly shredded by the sand.

  With the picture of Hammad’s little girls abruptly and permanently etched in Fisher’s memory, he gritted his teeth and sprang to his feet.

  Thoughts of payback did not blind him with rage, but the anger did trigger a massive adrenaline rush. There wasn’t a combatant in the world who could stop him now.

  He raced across the top of the container car, reached the end, and just as the agent glanced up from his perch at the foot of the ladder, Fisher unleashed a volley of 9mm NATO rounds directly into the bastard’s head, punching him back and sending him tumbling off the train.

  “Sam, duck!” cried Briggs.

  Fisher dropped to his haunches as more gunfire whirred over his head. Two cars up, another agent had mounted the ladder, placed his elbows on the top of the container, and begun trading fire with Briggs, whose submachine gun fire drove the man back behind the tank.

  “Keep him busy,” cried Fisher, who crawled forward, slid under the upper deck railing, seized one of the grab irons, then allowed himself to slide down, off the right side of the container. He descended on two more grab irons until he was able to latch both hands onto the base of the upper deck railing. Now, with his legs dangling freely, he worked himself sideways across the deck, concealed from the agent’s view, while Briggs squeezed off another volley of suppressing fire, the MPX booming over the rattle and clack of the train.

  Fisher continued slipping across the container until he reached the end and once more shifted down to the grab irons. He lowered himself between the cars, crossing over the coupler receiver hitch and reaching the next ladder.

  Three more rounds cracked overhead, these from the agent, and Briggs answered with another triplet of fire.

  “Almost there,” Fisher told Briggs.

  “Roger, let me know.”

  Fisher scaled the ladder and once more began skimming his way across the side of the container—

  But without warning the train lurched forward, thundering at what must be full speed now, the diesel locomotive running at least sixty-five miles per hour. Fisher felt his grip falter and he tensed, fighting to pull himself higher and keep moving, each release of his gloved hands coming in smooth, practiced strokes. All those pull-ups and all that French Parkour training focusing on using momentum to breach obstacles always paid off.

  “Sam, if you can still hear me, the train’s only about ten minutes away from Abqaiq,” Grim said. “We’re running out of time here!”

  “Okay. We’re on the train. We’ll get it done.”

  “You’re breaking up now. I didn’t get—”

  Static broke over the subdermal as a gust wrapped around the tank, rattling the undercarriage.

  When he was about two-thirds of the way down the container, he took a deep breath. “All right, Briggs. Hold fire.”

  “Holding.”

  Fisher reached up, slapped a gloved hand on the bottom rung of the upper deck’s railing, then, hanging by one hand, he drew his Five-seveN and swung up a leg, latching it around a support post. As he forced himself back onto the upper deck, sliding on his belly, he brought up his pistol and watched as the agent chanced another look.

  Bang. Fisher shot him in the eye. “Briggs, move up!”

  The wind was so fierce now, the sand battering them so violently, that Briggs could only stagger his way across the deck, keeping both hands latched onto the railing.

  “We’re too slow!” Fisher shouted.

  “I know! I know!”

  Four MOIS agents and one rogue GRU agent. That was Fisher’s initial threat assessment. Two down. There should only be three remaining, but there was no telling yet if the MOIS agents had brought in more recruits.

  That was until the next three began firing at them, even as they descended the next ladder to continue moving up the train.

  “That’s not the rest of them,” Briggs shouted.

  “No, we’ve got more than we thought.”

  “Shit. Let me get an active sonar reading. Okay, there it is. Picked up those three, maybe a few more near the front, but the signal’s weak, too much downtime between bursts.”

  “We’re nine minutes from Abqaiq,” said Fisher.

  “Then we get up there, and it’s guns blazing! We got no choice,” Briggs said.

  “There’s another railing that runs low along the wheels,” said Fisher. “I think I can make better time using that one. Same deal. You cover, I move up.”

  “All right, but my way’s faster.”

  “I agree. Your way will get us killed faster.”

  Briggs frowned.

  “Let’s do it.” Fisher slid around the side of the container and stepped onto the lower railing, merely a thin bar and protective skirt for the wheels. The grab irons were too high to reach, and there was no way he could balance himself on that rail without hand supports and with the train dieseling hard at sixty-five miles an hour, so he clutched the rail, then allowed himself to fall forward, swinging beneath it, ankles latched, and he began a swift, hand-over-hand approach, with the cacophony of the wheels at his side until he reached the midsection, the wind passing under the container and coming in short bursts, the sand hissing and getting into his mouth, ears, and nose. Ignoring the blood rushing into his head and the fire in his pectoral muscles, he grimaced and slid even faster.

  Briggs’s machine gun cracked another announcement, but then footfalls thundered across the top of the container, followed by another exchange of gunfire—

  And suddenly, one, two, three agents were dropping away from the train, smashing into the dirt, wiping out below Fisher, and flailing into the darkness.

  “Three down. Let’s keep moving,”
said Briggs through the subdermal.

  “I told you, same plan,” Fisher snapped.

  “I know. I accidently killed them as I was trying to distract them.”

  “Yeah, right, hang on, I’m coming.” Fisher reached the end of the container, then swung himself up between the cars as Briggs descended the ladder to join him.

  “It’s a long way to the front,” said Briggs. “But we’re clear for at least another five cars. Visibility is shit. Come on, come on.”

  Fisher hauled himself up the next ladder and clutched the railing with both hands. His boots actually lifted from the tank several times, and it felt as though a construction worker were holding a sandblaster to his cheeks. When he glanced to the right, he couldn’t see anything save for the swirling phosphorescent sand via his night vision, and he wouldn’t dare remove the goggles.

  Briggs was right behind him, hunkered down, pistol in one hand, the other sliding across the railing.

  The next gust slammed Fisher into the railing . . .

  And when he looked back to check on Briggs, the man was gone.

  35

  SHOUTING his partner’s name was a reflex action. Fisher didn’t expect to find the man. He’d already assumed that Briggs had been swept off the train.

  But then he was glad he’d called out—because a voice came from near his boots:

  “Sam! Down here! Little help!”

  Fisher lifted his chin to glance over the side of the oil tank.

  There was Briggs, both hands locked onto a grab iron. He must’ve slid down the container and seized the iron as he smashed into it. Time to repay the earlier favor. Fisher got on his haunches and reached over, taking Briggs’s hand, then, raging aloud in exertion, he hauled his teammate back onto the deck.

  Coughing and spitting out sand, Briggs nodded, and they got back up and forged on, the train moving relentlessly through the storm now, the containers—despite being weighed down with oil—beginning to shimmy as though threatening to fall apart.

  They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand signal to Briggs then took off running. He made a flying leap over the gap between cars, then hit the deck and flung out his hands to seize the railing. Briggs bounded forward, made his jump, and landed behind Fisher. They both crouched down to spy the end of the tank. No response from anyone ahead. Now they would make some time.

  Yet before they reached the end of the tank, something very odd happened, something that had them standing more upright and glancing around, their gazes lifting to the skies . . .

  The din of howling winds and hissing sand faded, as though they were passing through some strange boulevard deep in the heart of purgatory, soft whispers coming on the air, the sand falling in light flurries like snow, the clinking of the train more distinct.

  They took advantage of this lull and raced across two more containers. En route, Fisher spoke quickly into his SVT: “Grim? Charlie? Can you read me?”

  “We got you, Sam,” answered Charlie. “Looks like you’re in some sort of pocket.”

  “Roger that. We’re almost there.”

  “And, Sam, we got some new intel on that rogue Russian agent with the group.”

  “You got an ID?”

  “Yeah, and—”

  Charlie’s voice dissolved into a rush of static accompanied by a blast of wind and sand that struck with a vengeance, slamming Fisher and Briggs into the opposite railing.

  He could barely see his gloved hands now, and while reaching the HEP car and locomotive would take more time, the storm would, for the most part, conceal their approach until the very last second. He doubted the MOIS agents were equipped with protective gear, so they might’ve retreated inside. The reduced visibility could actually work in Fisher’s favor, adding precious time to their remaining six minutes. The trigger man’s top priority was to ensure the bomb was physically in the Abqaiq compound before completing the firing circuit. Right now he was presumably as blind as Fisher.

  The next connection between cars required them to descend and ascend the ladders since the gusts—coming in erratic salvos like gunfire—made it far too risky to jump. Fisher took another sonar reading as they came within two containers of the HEP car. He glimpsed right through the oil-filled container to detect the shimmering white outlines of a pair of agents huddling against the wind between cars, ready to ambush them. There was another one inside the locomotive serving as engineer, and two more inside the HEP car.

  So the Iranians had, indeed, picked up a few reinforcements. The GRU agent would more than likely be in the HEP car with the bomb.

  Before they could climb up, ready to ambush the ambushers, a reverberation worked through the oil tank and into the ladder. Fisher ascended a few rungs, then caught the barest thump of footfalls. He turned back to Briggs, issued a hand signal, and Briggs gave a curt nod, ready.

  Just as the agent above neared the edge of the railing and spotted Briggs, who was acting as the bait, a word came through Fisher’s subdermal, just a whisper from his partner: “Now.”

  Clutching the ladder with one hand, his pistol jammed tightly in the other, Fisher pushed up from his current rung, leaned back, and shot the agent point-blank beneath the chin just as the agent was bringing his rifle to bear.

  As he shrank back onto the deck, Fisher continued his ascent, slapping his arm across the dead agent’s knees in order to target the Iranian’s partner, who’d dropped to his belly about two meters ahead and had propped himself on his elbows.

  Yet before either of them could get off a shot, what seemed like a long chute of sand—a twister tipped on its side—ripped across the train, sweeping the first agent’s body right out from beneath Fisher, who seized the railing at the last second.

  When he looked up again, the other agent was hurling through the air, writhing against invisible claws and firing wildly in a reflex response, the rounds drumming into the tank, a few ricocheting off the rails.

  “Briggs?”

  “Right behind you. No plans to slip again.”

  “We’re clear to move. You get up there past the HEP car and take out the engineer.”

  “Roger. I’ll need to check that windshield first to make sure they can’t see us.”

  “Good call. We’re down to five minutes here.”

  Fisher struggled up the ladder and hooked his arm completely over the railing, driving it into the crook. He clutched his wrist, using his arms like a carabiner clip to fasten himself to the deck. Briggs shifted past him, then Fisher carefully unhooked his arm and fell in behind, taking another sonar reading.

  “Hold up,” he ordered Briggs.

  “Shit, what now?”

  One of the agents inside the HEP car was not there. He took another reading, and the image came up indistinct, suggesting that maybe the two agents were so close together that he couldn’t tell them apart.

  “What?” Briggs.

  “Forget it. Keep going!”

  They left the last tanker car and then Briggs motioned them onto their bellies. They crawled forward so that Briggs could get a more furtive glance at the HEP car’s operator’s booth, which was facing toward them.

  “Can’t see much,” said Briggs. “Let’s do it.”

  As they clambered to their feet, rings of light appeared in the distance, like fireflies buzzing in a tight orbit, sparking and tinkling, with smaller, perpendicular pairs flashing in a random sequence of yellow and white behind them.

  Next came the whomping. And Fisher’s jaw dropped.

  The twin silhouettes of Shammari’s AH-6 light gunships burst from the gloom. The prince had ignored Fisher’s request to keep them on standby and had sent them directly into the storm. As they approached, the shimmering rings became brighter and resembled Fourth of July sparklers spun by overzealous chil
dren. The effect was created by their rotor blades, as the air had turned into 80 grit sandpaper rubbing against their surfaces.

  The first chopper knifed through more draperies of dust, and its pilot opened up on Fisher and Briggs, laying down a bead of 7.62mm rounds fired from a pair of miniguns. Rounds stitched their way up, across the tank container, cutting a line right over the deck between them.

  Fisher dove forward, with Briggs crossing the path of fire as the second bird came in behind the first, swooping down and tipping forward, its rotors mere meters above them.

  “What’s he doing?” cried Briggs.

  “Grim, if you can hear me, you need to call off these choppers!” hollered Fisher.

  Automatic weapons fire cracked from the HEP car, and the fuselage of the chopper came alive. The pilot broke off and banked away at a steep angle, sure to come around for another pass.

  Ironically, the agents inside the HEP car had driven off the bird—and that allowed Fisher and Briggs to reach the ladder.

  The HEP car’s windows were darkly tinted, so they couldn’t see the agents who’d just slid open the side door and leaned out to fire. Out of options, Fisher and Briggs descended anyway, rushing down between the cars, then Briggs climbed along the front of the HEP to remain low, beneath the windshield. From there, he’d claw his way above it, reaching the upper deck of the HEP from the storm side. That was the best path to the locomotive.

  “Make it fast, buddy. Those birds are coming back, and our triggerman’s got to be nervous now.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  They banged fists, and Briggs tested his purchase on the HEP, then hauled himself away. There was no upper deck on the HEP car, just a series of rungs across the top not meant for climbing. Once he scaled his way up there, the gauntlet to the locomotive would prove, in a word, interesting.

  Meanwhile, Fisher took one more sonar reading, and the image brought a curse to his lips.