Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (21 page)

27

FISHER
caught himself holding his breath as Charlie brought up the I-70 traffic cams from
Topeka. They watched as the lead thorium truck was directed off the highway and toward
a dirt lot behind a row of warehouses. From there, Charlie switched to the ghost truck’s
dash cam, where the driver tapped a command into his keyboard, hit the panic button,
then hopped out of the cab.

The SMI next lit up with similar traffic cam footage from the other trucks scattered
across the United States, all seven being directed to areas away from the highway
to disable their vehicles. Fisher watched one driver in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and
the SMI noted that a detonation there would have effectively closed the I-24, I-75,
and I-59 interchange, where three hazmat trucking routes converged. Chattanooga’s
180,000 citizens would’ve been thrust into a radioactive hell, even as the Tennessee
River carried contamination southwest into Alabama and Mississippi. He could barely
imagine what would happen if all eight had gone up simultaneously.

“Madame President, we need a thorough investigation into the Yucca Mountain site security,”
said Grim. “Hazmat and EOD teams need to search every one of the trucks. The thorium
needs to be removed and transferred to secondary trailers.”

“We’ll be on that immediately,” said Caldwell. “And, Mr. Kasperov, if we do find explosives
aboard any of those trucks, then you realize that what you did today saved thousand
of lives.”

“Thank you, Madame President. But you must understand that oligarchs have little tolerance
for failure.”

“What do you mean?”

Kasperov frowned, glanced at the team, then spoke evenly, “I mean it’s not over. I
believe they sent one man to oversee operation, triggerman if you will. He would locate
one or more of trucks using spotters along route. He would wait until best moment
to destroy them.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying I know this man, and right now, he’s calling his bosses in Moscow for
instructions.”

“What instructions?”

Kasperov’s expression turned grave. “Mr. Fisher, there is always plan B.”

Fisher lost his breath. “We need to find this guy—right now!”

“The NSA’s got tabs on all the big players in Russia,” said Grim. She faced Kasperov.
“I need to pursue those names you gave us.”

Kasperov closed his eyes. “Some of these men were once my friends.”

“Not anymore,” said Fisher.

“Can I borrow a computer?” he asked resignedly. “I will help you.”

Briggs rose from his station and escorted Kasperov to his chair, where the man sat
and began typing in the names he’d given them: Perov, the arms manufacturer; Yanayev,
the aerospace mogul; and Kargin, the investment banker. Charlie and Grim were already
patched into his screen, and Grim directed the SMI to access the NSA’s databases and
began searching the phone records of those three men, keying in on calls placed within
the hour between Moscow and anywhere in the United States. Charlie was monitoring
the same feed.

“Got something,” he said. “Gotta be it. It’s the only one. Call coming in to a dacha
outside Moscow, one of Kargin’s lines. Well, this is strange. Call was placed from
the Omni Houston Hotel at Westside. But it’s not a smartphone. Long distance using
the room phone.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” asked Grim.

“Maybe he thinks he’s been compromised already,” said Fisher. “Didn’t want to use
his own phone. Maybe that phone was the trigger.”

“Either way we would’ve traced him, so it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. “I’m already
in the hotel, bringing up the security cameras.”

“Flight deck, change course. Get us to Houston,” said Fisher.

“Roger that,” said the pilot. “Any plans to land or just recon?”

“I’ll let you know. What’s our ETA?”

“We’re already in the gulf with a significant tailwind. You want me to crank it up,
I’ll get you there in less than twenty minutes.”

“Roger that. Top speed.” Fisher swung around to regard Grim. “Any of the trucks near
Houston?”

“No. Not sure why he picked that location. Just random, maybe. Wouldn’t matter where
he was if he planned to remote detonate via cell or satellite phone.”

“Check this out, guys,” said Charlie, transferring the hotel’s security camera footage
to the overhead screens.

A group of three men were hurrying down a hallway. They were dressed in designer suits
and were led by a fourth, an older man, at least sixty, with a gray widow’s peak and
carrying a briefcase.

Charlie froze the image and zoomed in on their faces.

“That’s him,” said Kasperov, pointing out the gray-haired man. “I know him only by
his nickname, ‘Chern.’”

“Facial recognition in progress,” said Charlie as the image was immediately cut and
lifted out of the footage to run against hundreds of thousands of others captured
within the Russian Federation.

“Wow, this guy’s really underground,” said Charlie. “Usually get a hit within seconds.”

“He’s supposed to be member of SBP, Presidential Security Service, but he serves unofficially
as President Treskayev’s courier. I suppose even this is not true anymore. He’s left
to work for oligarchs.”

“And to be honest, sir, I don’t think he ever worked for the SBP,” said Charlie. “We’ve
got good records of that organization, and if he’s been there a long time, trust me,
we’d have his face.”

Charlie switched to the exterior views from the hotel, and they watched Chern and
his men climb into a slate blue Infiniti G37 luxury sedan. Charlie ordered the camera
to zoom in and got the tag number. “Rental car out of the airport. Got the record
here. Bogus ID and credit card.”

“Charlie, we can’t lose him,” said Fisher.

“We could have local authorities pick him up,” said Briggs.

“He’s already spooked, and he’s too important to trust with some local yokels. Plus
we’ve got operational security to consider. Let’s see if we can get to him first.”

“I agree,” said Grim. “We’ll keep Houston police and the local feds on standby.”

“They’re on I-10,” said Charlie. “Just got him on the traffic camera. But they’re
heading west, away from the airport.”

Grim zoomed in on the SMI’s map. “The executive airport’s about eighteen miles west
of the hotel.”

“Flight plans of everything coming in and out of there,” said Grim.

“I’ll pull those,” said Briggs.

Kasperov rose from his chair and, still staring at the monitors, drifted over to Fisher
and muttered in Russian, “This is quite a team you have.”

Fisher nodded. “If you would’ve told me last year I’d be working with them, I would’ve
laughed at you.”

“And why is that?”

“Being a team player’s not exactly my MO.”

“I understand. I spent most of my life alone, behind a computer—and now I’m beginning
to regret it. But I guess it’s not too late . . . for either of us.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Hey, Grim, there’s a private charter on the ground that’s fueling up right now,”
said Briggs. “Flight plan shows it’s heading to Denver.”

“And from there they fly up to Anchorage and on to Russia,” said Grim.

“Flight deck, get us to the Houston Executive Airport,” said Fisher. “Briggs, get
ahold of that charter pilot. Tell him I want to speak to him.”

“You got it.”

“Sounds like you have a plan,” said Grim with a gleam in her eyes.

28

TEN
minutes later, as twilight washed a pale crimson across the western sky, Fisher and
Briggs leapt from Paladin and plunged into the cold air over Houston. After a brief
free fall, they popped chutes and floated soundlessly toward the pair of hangars on
the airport’s northeast side.

Houston Executive Airport covered an area of about 1,980 acres split by a single asphalt
runway designated 18/36 and measuring more than 6,000 feet by 100 feet. The runway
ran north–south, and on its west side lay a pair of taxiways joining in a Y shape
to form a single road leading to the main hangar/service center and its fuel farm.
This, according to the broad placard hanging over the hangar, was Henriksen Jet Center,
named after the airport’s founder and owner, local pilot Ron Henriksen.

Fisher took note of the targets below as the pilot’s voice buzzed through his subdermal:
“Standing by. Final approach on your mark.”

“Roger that,” answered Fisher.

“Sam, Charlie here. Just spoke with the charter company’s owner. He says the Russians
are really pissed off. Pilot says he’s not sure he can stall them any longer. Turns
out one of the Russians is an airplane mechanic himself and they’re having a hard
time bullshitting him about the engine malfunction.”

“Just need another five minutes. Grim, we need to time this perfectly.”

“Understood.”

“Briggs, how’re you feeling today?”

“Feeling pretty dangerous.”

“Good. Just remember. We keep the old man alive.”

“No lead poisoning for grandpa. Gotcha.”

Fisher steered himself behind the hangar and came to a gentle landing fifteen seconds
ahead of Briggs.

Leaving nothing to chance, they’d donned their tac-suits and goggles and had brought
along both their primary and secondary pistols as well as SIG516 rifles slung over
their backs. The rifles had 10.5 inch barrels and were fitted with thirty round magazines
of 5.56mm ammo. Better yet, those rounds were factory fresh, not reloaded by Russians
whose fingers were covered in peanut butter. The rifles were also fitted with grenade
launchers, but said grenades had been replaced by the less-than-lethal sticky shockers
like the ones Fisher had used with his crossbow.

They stored their chutes and vanished into the lengthening shadows behind the facility.
The pungent scent of jet fuel hung heavy in the air, reminding Fisher of the Kasperov
jet’s crash.

Pistols drawn and with Fisher on point, they darted along the hangar walls, moving
across the building to the corner, where Fisher hunkered down, signaling Briggs to
halt.

Goggles over his eyes now, Fisher zoomed in on the charter jet, a Citation CJ2 that
had been fueled and moved to just outside the hangar. A maintenance panel had been
opened on one of the engines, and a mechanic in coveralls stood on a rolling ladder,
speaking with one of the suited men Fisher had seen in the hotel camera video. Charlie
confirmed that he was one of Chern’s accomplices.

Fisher raised his hand and made a circular motion in the air.

Briggs understood and set free one of the micro UAVs, the tri-rotor humming away above
the hangar, then slowly passing it as Fisher activated the drone’s camera, patching
the image into his OPSAT.

The building’s rolling metal door was wide open, and inside were Chern; a man dressed
business casual who Fisher assumed was the pilot; two other of Chern’s associates;
and another man, a heavyset guy wearing Levi’s, gator-skin boots, and a Stetson cowboy
hat—probably the charter company’s owner.

“Okay, Sam, I see them,” said Grim.

“Call the owner, tell him we’re good to go,” said Fisher.

“Calling.”

“Pilot, you’re clear,” said Fisher.

“Roger that,” answered the pilot. “Coming in.”

The grumbling of Paladin’s engines grew more distinct, drawing the attention of the
mechanic on the ladder and Chern’s associate.

Removing his cowboy hat, the fat man took a phone call, then glanced up and waddled
out of the hangar, across the tarmac and toward the ladder. He began waving his hand
at the mechanic.

Fisher gave Briggs another hand signal: get ready.

Just as the mechanic and Chern’s man began descending the ladder, Fisher glanced to
Briggs and nodded.

They took off running along the side wall, reached the next corner, then crouched
down again, the hangar door just around the corner to their right. They could hear
the men now, lifting their voices over the Paladin’s rumble. A glance at his OPSAT
showed the group leaving the hangar, peering up, one pointing at the bewinged behemoth
on its final approach toward the runway.

“That’s a military craft,” cried one of the men in Russian.

“Do you get military landings here?” Chern asked the cowboy.

“Sure, yeah, all the time. Routine.”

“Bullshit! This is private executive airport,” cried Chern.

At that, all three of Chern’s men drew pistols from concealed holsters. They held
the mechanic, the pilot, and the cowboy at gunpoint.

“Okay, we got their attention,” said Charlie.

“Sam, you ready?” asked Grim.

“Yeah,” Fisher answered. “Three hostages, four bad guys, one plane . . . no problem.”

“Come on!” shouted Chern. “We’re taking off!”

Briggs came up beside Fisher, shoved up his trifocals, and said, “Got my targets marked.”

Fisher nodded. “Let’s roll.”

29

AS
Paladin’s tires hit the tarmac with puffs of burning rubber and the plane’s hydraulic
landing gear boomed as it worked to suppress the massive forces of impact, Fisher
and Briggs slipped around the hangar and ducked inside, behind the doorway, keeping
to the shadows.

“We’re all going for a ride now,” shouted Chern. He gestured to his men that they
take the pilot, mechanic, and cowboy owner into the plane.

Briggs lifted his rifle.

As did Fisher.

Freeing the hostages would require three perfectly timed and placed shots. Even the
slightest miscalculation might allow one of Chern’s men to reflexively pull his trigger
and kill his hostage.

Fisher hoped that any lingering doubts Briggs might’ve had were already put to bed—because
he was taking two shots while Fisher took one, focusing all of his attention on the
dark-haired Russian clutching the cowboy.

Meanwhile, Paladin’s pilot was steering the C-17 toward the taxiway with the intent
of parking the plane between the two exits, creating a 585,000-pound roadblock.

If for some reason, Paladin had been late or the operation on the ground had gone
south and the Russians had managed to get near their jet, Fisher had a pair of EMP
grenades tucked into one of his belt pouches. Destroying the electronics of an expensive
jet was hardly a consideration when it came to matters of national security, but if
they could save the taxpayers a hefty repayment to the cowboy they would. Besides,
having the C-17 on the ground would allow them to make a hasty exit with their high-value
target. Fisher couldn’t wait to see the look on Chern’s face when he was reunited
with Kasperov. They would all need glasses of vodka for that conversation.

Judging from Paladin’s current position on the runway and the men now moving toward
the jet, Fisher assumed that the charter pilot couldn’t get his plane moving in time.
The C-17 was coming, and nothing could stop it.

Chern’s party began storming across the tarmac, their gazes still distracted by the
Paladin’s approach.

“Come on, Sam, I got a bead,” said Briggs.

“On three,” answered Fisher. He counted down while staring through his night-vision
scope, the reticle centered over the Russian’s head as the man walked toward the plane.

Fisher took a deep breath.

Exhaled halfway.

And slowly squeezed the trigger. The hammer strike was, indeed, a surprise, and before
the round even left his muzzle, he could tell this was a good shot.

The round struck the Russian’s head, knocking him forward, onto his stomach.

Briggs’s rifle cracked a nanosecond after Fisher’s, and another of Chern’s men took
a round just left of his ear and tumbled sideways, away from the mechanic he’d been
escorting.

Then, with remarkable precision, Briggs got on his second target as the man was attempting
to hit the deck. Chern’s last associate was a handsome blond man with the trendy hairstyle
of a Calvin Klein model. Briggs’s round removed a section of the man’s head before
he reached the ground.

The old man Chern whirled and seized the pilot, grabbing him in a choke hold and using
him to shield himself against Fisher and Briggs.

Chern stole a glance over his shoulder as Paladin’s nose came up behind the tiny charter
jet like a white shark casting its massive shadow over the tarmac.

Fisher burst from the gloom with Briggs at his side. They charged toward Chern, who
shuffled in retreat, nearing the open door and fold-out stairs.

Briggs shouted for the cowboy and mechanic to get back to the hangar, and they weren’t
arguing. Fisher had never seen a man that large run that fast.

Fisher locked his gaze on Chern and shouted in Russian, “Sorry, this flight’s been
cancelled!”

“You think glib remarks can save you now?” Chern cried.

Charlie, who now had control of the drone, brought the UAV in tight over Fisher and
Chern.

Meanwhile, Briggs had his rifle raised at the Russian, keeping the man’s head in his
sights.

The charter pilot was a clean-cut guy in his thirties, probably a young father who
looked tense but was smart enough to keep still and offer no resistance, giving Briggs
a cleaner line. Still, a sticky shocker to the head was not a good thing, especially
for an old man like Chern. Better to free the hostage and target his center of mass
with that shocker.

“Stand down,” Fisher ordered as he lifted his hand toward Paladin. “You’re done.”

Chern took a step back toward the jet. “You’re a little man with a big job. And this
job is too big for you.”

“Listen to me,” Fisher cried even louder now, his patience gone, his anger working
its way into his hands and the vice-like grip he kept on the rifle.

Chern shook his head. “There are no more words!”

Fisher lowered his rifle and took a step closer. “We know who you are. We know what
you’ve done. Don’t waste any more of my time with this standoff—because my partner
will
blow your brains out.”

“He’ll do nothing! You want me for information!”

Fisher smiled. “I don’t need shit from you. Your plan has three stages. We know all
about them. We know who your bosses are, and right now President Treskayev is having
them all arrested. It’s over!”

Chern muttered something under his breath, his hair beginning to rage in the engine
wash, his piercing blue eyes widening with what Fisher assumed would be a sense of
defeat but strangely, something else was there. Something unnerving. His gaze was
now borderline maniacal, and whatever he had in that briefcase must’ve been hugely
important, because he’d taken the pilot with one hand but had never let go of the
case.

Abruptly, he shoved the pilot aside, and the man took off running toward the hangar.

“You made the right decision,” Fisher shouted.

Chern clutched the briefcase to his chest and began shaking his head. “We must all
make our sacrifices for the motherland.”

Fisher’s mouth fell open.

There was no computer with satellite link inside that briefcase.

No documents associated with the oligarchs’ plan.

No innocent travel arrangements or pornographic magazines or personal hygiene items.

There was, Fisher concluded in that second, only one thing:

A way for Chern to ensure that he was not captured by the enemy and turned for information.

Chern had been prepared all along for that contingency, and his associates had probably
had no idea that inside his simple briefcase were blocks of C-4 rigged to a detonator
built into the case’s handle.

Chern’s thumb slammed down on a button at the base of that handle.

Fisher turned to Briggs and cried, “Run!”

Grim and Charlie were shouting in their ears, but it was all white noise as Fisher
wondered how many steps he could take before the explosion went off.

An even more troubling thought jabbed like a needle: What if Chern wasn’t just committing
suicide?

What if he had something much more powerful than C-4 inside that case?

“There is always plan B,”
Kasperov had said.