Splinter Cell (2004)

  All this occurred in five point four seconds.

  I glance at my OPSAT, check the timer, and see that two minutes are left before the frag grenades go off. I go back to Abbott and empty his pockets, retrieving my knife, Five-seveN, goggles, and other equipment. He left my SC-20K over by the incinerator, and I’ll pick that up on my way out. But first I have to cut the rope around my hands. I move to the table saw, switch it on, and carefully hold my wrists over the spinning blade. I nick the rope just enough for me to unravel it and I’m free.

  I gather all my stuff and get the hell out of there. I open the door carefully, peer outside to make sure no one is around, and step into the corridor. I run to the edge of the central area just in time to witness the domed ceiling parting. Simultaneously the supergun’s huge barrel begins to rise vertically as the hydraulics lift the entire weapon flush with the ground floor. For a moment I have to stand and watch the thing, it’s so goddamned awesome. Eventually the tip of the barrel protrudes through the domed opening. The machinery inside the massive breech then begins to rumble, and I see the barrel tilt and point in a southeasterly direction.

  Then—wham-wham-wham! I hear my frag grenades go off in a succession of explosions. I’m not sure what kind of damage they’ll do, but I hope it will delay firing the weapon for a bit. I run around the supergun to the wing where I originally entered and head for the glass doors I smashed earlier. The floor beneath me shakes, and I hear what sounds like an earthquake. Hoorah!—the perimeter balcony must have collapsed as I had hoped. That will surely cause some confusion.

  I make it outside into the sunlight. No one is around. The electrical company van is gone, so I’m going to have to hoof it.

  At that moment I hear the sound of aircraft. I look northward and see a squadron of six planes heading this way. Time to move!

  I run as fast as I can out of the parking lot and toward the front gate. Two guards are there, weapons in hand. I have no time to argue with these guys, so I draw my Five-seveN, stop, assume a firing stance, and pop them—one, two—before they have a chance to ask me for my “papers.” I resume speed and hurdle over the gate.

  Once I’m out of the compound, I breathe a little easier but I keep moving. I climb the hill overlooking the site, the one I had used early this morning, and figure this is as good a place to watch the main attraction as any.

  I press the implant in my throat. “Colonel?”

  “Sam? My God, where have you been?”

  “Uh, a little tied up. But I’m out now. I can see the planes.”

  “Thank goodness. You had me worried. Get to the Famagusta docks. Captain Martin will meet you there in his patrol boat and take you back to Dhekelia. We have transportation to Israel all lined up for you.”

  “Thanks, Colonel. Any news on Sarah?”

  “Not yet, Sam. But get going.”

  I sign off but linger a few moments to watch. I recognize two F/A-18E Super Hornets leading the formation—leave it to the U.S. to do so—followed by two British Sea Harrier F/A Mk 2s. It takes me a moment to identify the other two planes and then realize they’re F-16s from the Turkish air force! I’m happy to see the Turks getting involved, which must have been a major diplomatic coup for Lambert.

  The Super Hornets let loose a couple of Maverick ASMs, which score direct hits on the supergun. The explosions are immense, and I feel the heat wave all the way up here. The Harriers drop an array of bombs I don’t recognize, but they produce magnificent blasts all over the complex. The Turks follow with another spread of bombs, but the smoke is way too thick for me to see what they are.

  By now the entire shopping mall is engulfed in smoke and fire. The only thing I can see is the supergun’s barrel poking out of the dark cloud. The six fighters circle around, bank, and head for the complex for another round of strikes.

  Suddenly there’s a huge boom and the entire earth around me shakes. It’s like a sonic blast only it’s right in front of me. My first thought is that I’m in the middle of a ten-point Richter-scale earthquake, but my second thought is even worse.

  They’ve managed to fire the Babylon Phoenix!

  I find I’m lying on my back, a bit stunned and squinting into the sky. Then I witness something I’ll never forget as long as I live.

  The supergun’s payload is shooting up into the sky, soaring high above the fighters at a tremendous speed. My God, I think, it’s all over. The bad guys win after all. But then I see the two Super Hornets veer off their courses and head up and in pursuit of the MOAB. I’m able to think to reach into my Osprey, grab my portable binoculars, and watch the drama unfold in the blue sky.

  The MOAB is over the sea now, disappearing from view, and the two American fighters become tiny dots following it. Then I see two air-to-air missiles—no, four AAMs—leave the fighters. They’re probably AIM-120 AMRAAM Slammers, supersonic fire-and-forget missiles.

  Holy shit! The sky over the sea bursts into a bright orange-and-red fireball, one that certainly engulfs the two fighters. I’m aware that I’m not breathing for a moment as I watch the flaming horror fall in slow motion to the Mediterranean. All I can think of is what heroes those men in the fighters are. They sacrificed themselves to take out the MOAB and succeeded against tremendous odds.

  I get to my feet and watch the debris hit the water.

  “Sam? What’s happened? Talk to me!” Lambert calls.

  I press the implant. “We lost our two fighters, but the guys are heroes. They shot the MOAB right out of the sky. It fell into the sea.”

  “Christ. What about Tarighian’s complex?”

  I turned back to look at the inferno below me. The remaining fighters had apparently suspended their attacks after the supergun fired. Now they swing back around and continue to bomb the shopping mall to smithereens. In fact, the supergun’s barrel is no longer in view. It must have collapsed while my back was turned.

  “You don’t have to worry about it, Colonel,” I say. “All gone.”

  I can see Lambert rubbing the top of his head and sighing with relief. The rest of the Third Echelon team is most likely pulling out the champagne.

  “How did you get the Turks to cooperate?” I ask.

  “Carly created a slideshow file that presented all the photos you took, backed with all the written evidence, and we sent it to the Turkish government. Needless to say, she did a convincing job.”

  “Of course she did.”

  “What about you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Colonel. But now I have to get to the docks and catch a ride to save my daughter.”

  “Go for it, Sam.”

  39

  I arrive in Tel Aviv that afternoon and have another twenty-four hours to acknowledge to Sarah’s captors that I’m in Israel. Before making the call, though, I have a conversation with Captain Abraham Weiss of the Israel Security Forces in the back of an unmarked black Lexus. Captain Weiss met me at Ben-Gurion Airport, where I was whisked away as a government VIP without the rigmarole of Israel’s tight security and Immigration checks.

  “I’ve been in contact with your people,” Weiss says as the car rolls out of the airport. “And we’ve been working around the clock to locate your daughter. I’m happy to say we know where she is. At least we think we do.”

  My heart nearly leaps out of my chest, for I was really sweating it out in the short plane ride from Cyprus. “Where?” I ask.

  “We’re nearly one hundred percent certain she’s in an abandoned warehouse very near the small airport north of Jerusalem.” Weiss speaks confident English with a heavy Israeli accent. I have a good feeling about him and did so from the moment we met. I have great respect for the Israelis’ security personnel. They live day in and day out with the threat of constant danger. The pressure must be immense.

  “We got lucky when we raided the Russian-Israeli Bank this morning,” he continues. “At first it seemed as if the bank was completely legitimate and we’d hit a dead end until we began to examine real estate transac
tions. Most of them were perfectly reasonable, but then one of our analysts questioned the validity of a couple of buildings because of where they are located. One is this warehouse. The Russian-Israeli Bank owns it. However, our analyst happens to have performed some work in another building not far from this location, and he remembered that it’s on a street full of derelict buildings. They’re all due for demolition sometime next year. We made a leap of faith and posted a hidden surveillance team outside the warehouse. Within an hour Eli Horowitz was seen leaving the building. He returned almost an hour later. The surveillance team is certain there are others in the building with him, but it’s not clear how many.”

  “I don’t care how many assholes are in there,” I say. “I’m going to wipe them clean.”

  Captain Weiss shrugged, not getting the poor attempt at humor. “I’ve been told by my superiors that this is really the U.S.’s show, although we’ll be supplying you with a backup team. In other words, you’re in charge. We’d like to arrest the men responsible for your daughter’s kidnapping and for the murder of Rivka Cohen, but should an accident befall any of them, there would be no questions asked by our government.”

  That’s his way of saying I’m free to do whatever the hell I want with the kidnappers. I probably have Lambert to thank for that.

  “I want to go in tonight. Alone,” I say.

  “I assumed you would say that,” Weiss says. “Let’s meet your backup team first.”

  After a forty-minute drive we reach the northern outskirts of Jerusalem and stop at a staging point in front of an auto parts factory. We’re in an industrial area, and the captain says the warehouse is two miles away. A team of ten Shin Bet Special Ops soldiers are here, equipped and ready to go. Shin Bet, or Shabak, is a branch of the ISF responsible for internal security. They spend a lot of time protecting government officials, preventing violent insurrection, gathering intelligence, pinpointing terrorist cells and dealing with them. Shin Bet’s activities are always classified. Their job is a lot like mine, so I feel as if I’m with family.

  They appear well equipped, too. I really like their replacement for the Uzi, the Tavor “Bull Pup” Assault Rifle, made by Israel Military Industries. It comes in a few different designs, each one suited for specific needs. One of the men shows me his weapon and says it’s the Micro T.A.R., which is uniquely configured for security forces and special missions. They use a 30-round magazine of standard NATO 5.56mm ammunition.

  Captain Weiss hands me a cell phone and tells me to call the kidnappers’ number. He says the phone is untraceable just in case they try to figure out where I’m calling from. I bring up the stored number on my OPSAT and dial. I get a recorded message from a man with a heavy Russian accent.

  “Mr. Fisher, if you are in Jerusalem, please indicate so at the sound of the beep, and we will be in touch with you shortly.”

  When I hear the tone I say, “This is Sam Fisher. I’m not in Israel yet but will be tomorrow morning. I’m traveling from a great distance. I will call again before noon and will await your instructions. Please keep my daughter safe.” I disconnect, look at the captain, and ask, “Now what?”

  “We wait until nightfall. The team will deploy around the warehouse, out of sight,” he says. “I understand you have a subdermal implant for communicating with your superiors in Washington?”

  My, my, nothing’s sacred in the intelligence community. “That’s right,” I say.

  “We will have your people configure the transmissions so the team can hear you. I’ve already spoken to your colonel about this. That way, you can call the shots should you be required to lead the assault team into the building.”

  “That’s mighty accommodating of you.”

  Someone provides kosher turkey sandwiches for us, and we spend a few hours in the captain’s Lexus. We talk about the security situation in his country and the different plans of attack for combating terrorism. Mid-evening I take the opportunity to grab two hours of sleep. When I wake I find it’s just after ten o’clock. In the meantime, Carly St. John has provided me with the warehouse blueprints via my OPSAT. I now have a complete map of the building, showing entrances and exits, corridors, and rooms. I’m itching to get going, but I decide to wait two more hours, hoping to catch them in their pajamas. Finally, at midnight, I tell the captain it’s time to move.

  “You know they’re probably setting a trap for you,” the captain says.

  I shrug. “Trap, Shmap. Let’s go.”

  “You ready?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He gives the order and we move out in separate unmarked civilian cars toward the site. A minute later we arrive at a crossroad. The captain points to the new road and says, “It’s that way about a mile. We’ll get out here and go the rest of the way on foot.”

  The drivers park the cars behind various empty buildings, and we proceed to hike through undeveloped terrain off-road. There’s not a lot of trees and natural cover here. Israel is an arid country and it’s hot and dry at this time of year. For a Mediterranean destination, I’ve never found Israel to be particularly pretty. I guess it is if you like sand and rocks. The land is fertile enough, although I can’t imagine why it was once considered the “Promised Land.”

  I separate from the Shin Bet as we get closer to the warehouse. I want to make the first approach on my own.

  “Mr. Fisher?” It’s the captain’s voice in my ear. “Do you read me?”

  “Loud and clear,” I say, pressing the implant.

  “There are three cars parked in the back of the warehouse, under a tarp. A Ferrari, a Jaguar, and a Chevy Cavalier.”

  “Then there’s probably not too many men inside.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking, too.”

  I can now see the warehouse, but I’m well hidden behind some rocks, fifty feet away. I know the Shin Bet have surrounded the building, but I see no signs of them. These guys are good.

  The building looks as if it hasn’t seen a human being in thirty years. It consists of a large space that takes up most of the structure. From Carly’s blueprints I understand there’s a second floor with a window. This second floor is more of a “loft” that hangs over a third of the first floor space with a stand-alone staircase connecting the two. Along two sides of the building are corridors with rooms—old offices, I imagine.

  “How do you want to handle it?” the captain asks.

  “I’m going to find a way in, probably from the second floor. Stand down until I give the order. Then storm the place with everything you’ve got. Until I find Sarah and make sure she’s all right, I don’t want them to have any indication that you’re out here.”

  “Understood,” he replies.

  I emerge from my hiding place but stick to the shadows. There are no lights on around the building so that’s a plus. The first thing I do is a quick recon around the warehouse. The front door is a rusty steel job with faded paint and lettering. The few windows are painted over. In the back I find the three cars covered by a tarp and another steel door. Up high I see another window, one that’s not painted over. That’s my target.

  I take my cigar holder and rope and fashion a grappling hook. I sling the thing around and toss it, catching it onto the roof on the first try. I give it a tug and then climb up the side of the building. When I reach the window I peer inside.

  I see the loft; it’s full of junk and extends maybe thirty feet. A lone lantern burns on the floor next to an empty bedroll. I can’t discern anything beyond the edge of the loft, mainly because of the junk piles. The main thing is that no one is there. Good. I wrap the rope around my waist so I can use both hands as I hang by the window. I draw my Five-seveN, flip on the T.A.K. laser microphone with my thumb, and point the barrel at the glass. The square in the center of the camera screen doesn’t turn red—it’s not picking up any sound. Excellent. I switch off the T.A.K. and holster the pistol, then try to raise the window. It doesn’t budge. The decades-old paint has hardened, but the window itself doesn?
??t appear to be locked. I draw my combat knife and chisel away on the window edges, finally getting to where I can stick the blade through the slits. I sheath the knife and try the window again. This time it moves a little. I rearrange myself so I can put my weight into the very center of the top windowsill and push it up with a forceful thrust. The window gives way and slides open, a bit too noisily for my comfort. But it’s enough for me to snake through. I unwrap the rope from my waist and go through the window, feet first.

  Once I’m inside, I carefully move to the edge of the loft and look down. It’s a wide-open, empty warehouse except for a lot of junk stacked along the sides of the room—mostly old appliances like refrigerators and stoves. I see a couple of doors leading to other parts of the building.

  There’s no one around.

  A set of unsupported wooden stairs leads down from the loft. I start to take them, but they creak loudly. Instead I leap off the steps and land on all fours with a quiet thud. One single noise is better than a series of horrible creaks.

  I focus on the door I know leads to a series of rooms in a corridor. Once again I take the Five-seveN and flip on the T.A.K. I aim it at the door and this time the screen turns red. Somebody is talking behind the door. I creep to the wall, flatten myself, and listen.

  The voices are muffled, but they’re speaking in Russian, that much I can tell. I consider storming through the door and blasting the hell out of them, but before I can act, I hear footsteps approaching.

  The door swings open, hiding me behind it. Two men emerge and walk toward the middle of the warehouse. They’ve got AK-47s around their shoulders.

  “Turn on the lights, Yuri,” one says in Russian. “I can’t see a fucking thing.”

  The one called Yuri walks toward the front of the building. Shit. They’re going to hit the lights and here I am standing behind the door. So what do I do? I slip around the door without being seen and go into the corridor, just as the lights come on.