Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (6 page)

Fisher reached the table and scanned the schematics of the drone, displayed on a data
bar to his right.

Equipped with the ARGUS array composed of several cameras and a host of other sensor
systems, the Hummingbird and her systems were capable of capturing 1.8 gigapixel high-resolution
mosaic images and video, making it one of the most capable surveillance drones on
the planet.

At the moment, the UAV had her cameras and sensors directed at a rugged, snowcapped
mountainside with a long pennon of black smoke rising from it.

“What?” asked Fisher.

“That’s Dykh-Tau,” said Grim. “It means ‘jagged mount’ in Russian. It’s about five
klicks north of the Georgia border, and it’s the second-highest peak in the Caucasus
Mountains.”

“That’s a pretty big fire down there.”

“That’s not just a fire. Kasperov’s plane just crashed.”

“Was it shot down?” asked Briggs.

“Don’t know,” answered Grim. “No reports of aircraft scrambled, nothing on radar.”

“What’s our ETA over that site?” asked Fisher.

Grim brought up the maps, worked furiously on the touchscreen, and then the SMI drew
the line and displayed the data bars. “If we divert from Incirlik right now, it’ll
be eighteen minutes at top speed.”

“The Russians will send in some S&R crews. Think we can beat ’em?”

Grim consulted the SMI and pinpointed the locations of the nearest military bases
and local authorities equipped with air power. “That location’s pretty remote. You’ve
got a shot. But the sun doesn’t set for another two hours, and if you HALO jump right
in there, they’ll spot your descent.”

“I know. I’ve got a work-around.”

“What about getting out?”

“That part always gives me a headache. You mind calling us a cab or something?”

Grim rolled her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Fisher hustled away from the table. “Briggs? Come with me. We’ve got a lot of prep
and no time.”

The man rose from his station. “Sam, you mind if we make sure our extraction plan’s
in place before we . . .” The young man drifted off, and wisely so, because Fisher
was already ignoring him—

But he did turn back and fix Briggs with a hard look. “Is there a problem?”

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Because the jump alone might kill you. Let’s go.”

6

PALADIN’S
cargo bay had been sealed off from the rest of the pressurized aircraft so that the
side door and rear loading ramp could be opened to take on cargo or make hasty departures.
The bay was still large enough to stow a small helicopter with the rotors removed
but significantly smaller than an unmodified C-17 capable of carrying more than 100
paratroopers and 170,000 pounds of cargo.

Fisher stood near the door, double-checking Briggs’s gear while Briggs did likewise
for Fisher. The loadout was always the same, each item meticulously chosen and inspected
by Fisher before it was ever stowed on board the plane. They each wore an HGU-55/P
ballistic helmet, tactical goggles, an MBU-12/P oxygen mask, Airox VIII O2 regulator,
Twin 53 bailout bottle assemblies, tac-suits, gloves, and high-altitude altimeters.

The final piece of gear was, of course, the topic of conversation:

“How do you like that squirrel suit?” Fisher asked Briggs over the radio.

The man extended his arms to reveal the black wings. “I’m proud to wear it.”

“You look like a dork.”

Briggs raised his brows. “That makes two of us.”

Fisher repressed his grin. “Your record says you’ve made a few jumps.”

“A few.”

Fisher nodded. “So . . . two hundred twenty-six miles per hour . . .”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the world record speed for the fastest wingsuit jump. I think we can beat
it.”

Briggs’s eyes widened from behind his mask. “Do you mind if we don’t?”

Fisher spun the man around, giving his MC-5 parachute rig a final inspection. The
chute added considerable bulk and cut down on aerodynamics but tended to come in handy
if they chose to actually survive their HALO—high altitude low opening—jump. Briggs
checked Fisher’s suit and flashed him a thumbs-up.

“All right, gentlemen, stand by,” said Grim. “Thirty seconds.”

Fisher levered open the side door, then slid it over until it locked in place. The
icy wind whooshed inside and nearly knocked him off his feet. He immediately joined
Briggs on one knee to clutch metal rungs attached to the deck. Leaving the aircraft
even a few seconds too soon or too late would severely affect their infiltration.
Grim was using the SMI to calculate their entire jump, from the second they left the
plane until the second they should, in theory, touch down on the surface within a
quarter kilometer of the crash site—if not closer. The SMI factored in all the data
such as the “forward throw” while exiting the aircraft; the “relative wind”; the air
temperature, wind speed, and direction; the barometric pressure; and how much pizza
Fisher had eaten for lunch—well, perhaps not that last part.

Out beyond the door, the clouds were backlit in deep orange and red, and the setting
sun coruscated off the wing tip. Fisher cleared his mind of the clutter, the past,
the pain, the torn loyalties, the nightmares he’d had over that time Grim had shot
him in the shoulder, which had been part of her plan to undermine Tom Reed.

On cold days like this the shoulder still ached. But that was okay. He’d told her
to do what she had to do. And he was still here, ready to show Briggs the ride of
a lifetime.

“Okay, stand by,” said Grim. “Remember, radio blackout once you pop chutes. In five,
four, three, two . . .”

The flashing red light above the door turned green.

Without hesitation, Briggs vanished into the ether.

Fisher shivered through a breath, the adrenaline coursing through his chest. No matter
how many times you did it, every step into oblivion was a tremendous rush.

The loadmaster was there to shut the door behind him. He gave the young airman first
class a curt nod, which she returned, then he threw himself out of the aircraft.

The wind struck a massive blow to his body, wrenching him far and fast. The disorientation
was normal and no reason to panic. Reflexes and training took over, muscle memory
causing him to extend his arms and legs so the wingsuit would catch air. The roar
of the wind deepened as he straightened his spine and pushed his shoulders forward.
Since his entire body was now acting as an airfoil, he need only adjust his arms,
legs, and head to maneuver deftly through the air.

Briggs was down below, appearing as a black hourglass against a mottled backdrop of
snowcapped mountains and an almost imperceptible thin line of smoke. He, too, knew
they needed to cover a great distance, so like Fisher, he was now lowering his chin
against his neck, rolling his shoulders even farther forward, and pushing the wingsuit
into a head-low position downwind while narrowing his arms. Decreasing the amount
of drag always increased velocity, and you always sacrificed altitude in order to
gain speed. Indeed, HALO jumps were dangerous enough, but a wingsuit insertion from
nearly thirty thousand feet opened a whole new world of hazards, including unrecoverable
spins that led to blackouts and unhappy endings. Moreover, they hadn’t had much time
to pre-breathe 100 percent oxygen beforehand, so the possibility of getting the sort
of “bends” that sometimes accompanied scuba diving was still there.

Briggs banked to the left, aiming for the smoke and mountains, and Fisher began twisting
his arms and legs in small but appreciable movements to drop in behind the man. The
key was to make gradual changes, no sharp or chaotic moves that could result in a
loss of control. As a former SEAL, Fisher likened the maneuvering to swimming underwater
and shifting one’s body to change direction. Flight was simply the relationship of
four opposing forces: weight, lift, thrust, and drag, and as expected, Grim adroitly
reminded him of those facts:

“Sixteen thousand feet and falling. Airspeed 191. Your glide ratio looks excellent.
On target.”

They might be on course, but that airspeed was too slow for Fisher. “Tighten it up,
Briggs. Let’s get in there a little faster.”

“Roger that.”

Briggs narrowed his position even further and dropped like a missile, picking up so
much speed that Fisher found it difficult to follow his lead.

“Airspeed 210,” reported Grim. “Take it easy, Briggs.”

“I’m good. I’m good.”

“Sam, you’re up to 215. Slow down! You can’t afford to get sick.”

Fisher rolled his wrist slightly inward to check his altimeter and airspeed, verifying
it against Grim’s report. He shifted his arms a little wider. No, he wasn’t going
to break any records today. They’d never get reported anyway. And who knew if that
speed record still held? He’d read that report a few months prior. Better to just
take a deep breath and enjoy the ride.

He soared in behind Briggs, and they swooped down like a pair of vultures, tiny against
the mountains, impossible to see by most distant aircraft whose radar systems would
filter out slower moving blips like themselves, mistaking them for birds.

His breathing grew even as they approached the mountainside and the long rings of
talus and scree scattered like broken necklaces across the valley. The peaks thrust
up in crystalline white arches that made him feel insignificant. These were the Caucasus
Mountains, a broad range considered the dividing line between Asia and Europe, with
the northern section in Europe and the southern in Asia. The region was split between
Russia, Turkey, Iran, Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan, and it was bounded on the
west by the Black Sea and on the east by the Caspian Sea. This was a land of rugged
people and even more rugged terrain.

Briggs turned again, coming in for their final approach, but the wind was suddenly
gusting. He adjusted quickly, once more pulling away from Fisher. It seemed the younger
man was schooling Fisher in wingsuit drops, and it took everything Fisher had to stay
with the man.

“Ten seconds, Briggs,” Grim reported.

“Just say the word,” he answered.

The treetops were visible now, blurring by in a dozen shades of green.

“Five.”

Fisher ticked off the seconds and watched as Briggs released his drogue then main
chute and suddenly shot upward. Good opening.

“Ten seconds, Sam,” came Grim’s warning.

He didn’t know exactly why it was, and he’d discussed the issue with other paratroopers,
but during free fall there was always a tingling sensation at the back of his neck
that urged him to tempt fate and delay his chute opening. The adrenaline pumped harder,
and the thrill magnified as he whispered in death’s ear:
“No, not today. You can’t have me.”

Even so, if for some reason Fisher became incapacitated or listened too intently to
the siren’s call, the CYPRES would kick in and save his life. An acronym for Cybernetic
Parachute Release System, the CYPRES was an automatic activation device, or AAD, that
could open the chute at a preset altitude if the rate of descent was over a certain
threshold.

“And three, two, one!” cried Grim.

Bracing himself, Fisher reached back, deployed the drogue chute, then, three, two,
one,
boom!
The main chute deployed, ripping him upward and swinging him sideways for a few seconds
until he took control of the toggles and began to steer himself down, once more falling
into Briggs’s path.

Relief warmed his gut like a good scotch, although at the moment, he’d rather have
the scotch. During his SEAL days he used to joke that his uncle was the navy’s greatest
parachute packer: no operator ever came back to complain that the chute didn’t open.

“Nice work, gentlemen. Continue on track,” Grim reported. “Radio blackout now.”

Fisher wanted to tell Briggs how impressed he was with the man’s jump, but that could
wait until later. They floated at a painfully slow rate now, drifting in toward the
smoke directly ahead, and as they descended to within a thousand feet, Fisher’s chest
tightened.

His reservations were voiced by Briggs, who’d suddenly broken radio silence: “Dense
canopy down there, Sam. I can’t . . . I can’t find a good opening.”

“You’ll need to call it at the last second. We’re on our own here.”

“Shit, the wind’s knocking me all over the place.”

Fisher grimaced. “Just get off the channel and focus. You own this landing.”

“Roger that.” Briggs cursed again and then, out ahead of Fisher, with the smoke about
a quarter klick north of them, Briggs was swallowed by the canopy.

Even as Fisher was tugging his lines, buffeted hard by the wind and fighting for a
spot between two giant pines, a long string of curses erupted from Briggs, followed
by a breathy groan . . . and then . . . silence.

“Briggs, you all right?” Fisher cried, just as he came slicing between the trees,
his seven-cell canopy missing the branches by only inches before he thumped down hard
on some patches of snow and beds of pine needles. He ejected his parachute and pack,
then turned back and gathered up the chute. “Briggs, you there?”

No reply.
Shit
.

He unbuckled his helmet and oxygen gear and buried them in a pile of snow, then did
likewise with his chute and pack. Holstered at his right hip was his FN Five-seveN,
which he immediately drew, and on his left hip he’d packed a secondary weapon, one
equally impressive and having a lot of sentimental value: his SIG SAUER P226 semiautomatic
9mm pistol, the one he’d carried as a Navy SEAL. The gun was now known as the P226
MK25 and was one of the most reliable firearms in the world.

Fisher’s updated OPSAT, or operational satellite uplink, was strapped to his left
wrist, facing inward. The full-color screen, which could also be set to dim green
stealth mode, glowed and provided real-time data integration with field intel collection.
Fourth Echelon comms and onboard access to the SMI analytics engine up on Paladin
were newer additions to the software. The OPSAT was like having a powerful computer,
a satellite phone, and a smartphone in one device. It even offered ambient sound readings
to check his own movements, along with light and temperature measurements. As its
name implied, the OPSAT also linked Fisher to Keyhole spy satellites and drones like
the Hummingbird wheeling overhead. He was capable of downloading data directly from
them and from Grim on Paladin. The device even offered a rudimentary alarm system
in the form of a T-shaped rod that nudged his wrist.

Willing himself into a moment of calm, Fisher worked the touchscreen, keying in on
Briggs’s GPS location. A satellite map with glowing grid overlay marked each man’s
position. He sprinted off in the direction of Briggs’s landing zone, with the OPSAT
serving as navigator, muttering course corrections to him via his subdermal.

The OPSAT screen flashed with an encrypted message from Grim, and Fisher slowed to
read it:

No RF jamming of those enemy birds yet. As soon as we begin jamming, they’ll be onto
us. I’ve plotted your course to Briggs. Keep heading straight. I’ve told him to shut
down his beacon, so if you lose it, just stay on the coordinates of his last signal.
Then you shut down yours. Total blackout now.

Fisher raced around a pair of trees, spun, then checked his OPSAT while trying to
catch his breath in the much thinner air of the mountains. The beacon was gone, meaning
Briggs had to be conscious. However, Fisher was on top of his last signal. He moved
around the largest of two pines, then spotted the man’s helmet off to his right. He
winced and looked up. “Aw, shit.”

Briggs was dangling nearly ten meters above the forest floor between a pair of thick,
snow-covered limbs, his lines caught in the web of smaller branches. He was trying
to swing himself back toward the nearest tree, but he was too far out.

Fisher sent Grim a three-word status report: Briggs in tree. Then he holstered his
pistol, took a deep breath, and began hauling himself up and across the sticky bark,
wrapping his legs around the tree trunk until he reached the nearest branch. After
that, he ascended much more quickly, reaching Briggs within a handful of seconds.

He immediately got to work, digging into a pouch on his belt near his spare magazines
to produce a twenty-yard length of 550 paracord. He unraveled the cord, broke off
a small branch, then tied the rope around the branch so it would serve as a weight
or small anchor. He reared back and tossed the branch to Briggs, who caught it on
the first try and reeled in some line.