by Tom Clancy
Fisher’s boss, Colonel Irving Lambert, had chosen Fisher as a guinea pig. If Fisher survived the program—which it seems he had—and then was able to put what he learned to work in the field—which was yet to be seen—Irving would send other Splinter Cells through the program.
Truth be told, Fisher didn’t need a real-world field test to tell him what he’d learned in CROSSCUT would be invaluable. He would always prefer to work alone, and he’d always prefer shadows to sunlight, but this business rarely conformed itself to one’s preferences. The world of covert operations was a roller-coaster ride of balance: chaos versus order; well-laid plans versus inevitable disasters, both large and small. Of course, whether or not Third Echelon continued to participate in CROSSCUT would be Lambert’s decision, but Fisher knew what his recommendation was going to be.
Jackie’s cell phone trilled. She flipped it open and walked a few steps away from the table. She listened for a few moments, then disconnected and said to Fisher, “Call home.”
Fisher turned around in his chair, retrieved his cell phone from his coat pocket, powered it on, then dialed. After two rings, a female voice answered, “Extension forty-two twelve.”
“It’s me,” Fisher replied. Though the woman who answered knew his voice, she followed protocol and paused a moment to let the voice-print analyzer confirm his identity. “Hold a moment, Sam,” said Anna Grimsdottir. “I’ve got the colonel for you.”
Lambert came on the line a few seconds later. “Sam, I’ve got a Gulfstream headed to the Coast Guard Air Station. Get on it and come home.”
“Miss me that much, Colonel?”
“No, I just got a message from the State Department. A man admitted to Johns Hopkins asked to see someone from the CIA. It’s Peter, Sam. He’s in a bad way. You need to get here.”
Fisher felt his heart flutter in his chest. Peter . . .
“I’m on my way.”
4
ABERDEEN PROVING GROUND, EDGEWOOD AREA, MARYLAND
FISHER pulled to a stop at the guard shack, rolled down his window, and handed his driver’s license to the guard, who checked his name against a clipboard. It was a crisp autumn day with a slight breeze; the scent of burning leaves wafted into the car.
The guard scrutinized Fisher’s face, then nodded and handed back the license. “Straight ahead to Administration. Long white building with a brick entry. You’ll be met.”
Fisher nodded and pulled through the gate. The administrative building was a short fifty-yard drive away. Fisher pulled into the awning-covered turnaround and climbed out. An army private appeared at his door. “I’ll park it for you, sir. Your party’s waiting inside.”
“Thanks.”
Fisher found Lambert waiting in the lobby. The decor was done in vintage army: pale pus-yellow linoleum tile and walls painted mint green on the upper half and paneled in dark wood on the lower. The tangy odor of Pine-Sol hung in the air. A lone nurse sat behind the reception counter; she looked up as Fisher entered and gave him a curt nod.
Fisher shook Lambert’s extended hand. “What’s going on, Colonel?”
Just minutes before Fisher’s Gulfstream had touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, Grimsdottir had called Fisher with a change of plans. Peter was being moved to the army’s Chemical Casualty Care Division at Aberdeen. The CCCD is a division of the army’s Medical Research Institute of Chemical Defense. Fisher had had his own dealings with the CCCD over the years, most recently a few months ago as a patient after the Trego incident.
Why Peter had been moved Grimsdottir didn’t know or couldn’t say, but either way, Fisher knew it wasn’t good news. Peter’s admitting hospital, Johns Hopkins, was top-notch; the possibility that Peter’s condition was beyond its abilities worried Fisher.
“The doctors are with him right now,” said Lambert. “The chief attending ER doc at Johns Hopkins took one look at him, then got on the phone with the CCCD. They’re not talking so far, but if he’s here . . .”
“I know.” Fisher paced away, stopped, and pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He turned back to Lambert. “So we wait.”
“Yeah.”
The lobby was empty, so they took a pair of orange Naugahyde chairs near the counter. On the arm of Fisher’s chair, scrawled in faded ballpoint pen, were the words, The Army way: Hurry up and wait.
Fisher chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
“Remember Frank Styles, back at Fort Bragg?” Fisher asked.
He and Lambert had history dating back to their Army Special Forces days and then later as they were selected to participate in an experimental program that took special operators from the army, navy, air force, and marines, and transferred them to another branch of the special forces community. In Fisher’s and Lambert’s case, they had gone from the Army’s Delta Force to the navy’s SEAL (Sea, Air, Land) teams.
Lambert, who had early on shown a head for organization and logistics, had later been tapped to head Third Echelon’s Field Operations slot, including all its Splinter Cell operatives. At Lambert’s urging, Fisher had resigned his commission in the army and joined Third Echelon.
Lambert said, “Stylin’ Frankie. Yeah, I remember.”
“He always used to joke when he got out he was going to start a Nauga ranch and sell their hides to the army for all these damned chairs.”
Lambert smiled. “And dentists’ offices.”
“Yeah.” Fisher leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stretched his neck. After a moment he asked Lambert, “Did you see him?”
“Peter? Only briefly as they were packing him into the ambulance.” Lambert paused, cleared his throat.
“What?” Fisher asked.
“They had him in a tent, Sam.”
This made sense. The CCCD dealt with biological, chemical, and radioactive infectious processes. Until they had a diagnosis or could proclaim him noninfectious, the army would handle Peter with Level 4 containment procedures, complete with biohazard suits and positive ventilation plastic barriers. Unless he was unconscious or sedated, Peter had to be terrified watching those space-suited doctors and nurses milling around him.
“Where’d they find him?”
Lambert cleared his throat, hesitated.
“Colonel?”
“We’re still working on all the details, but from what I gather, a fishing boat found him floating in a life raft in the Labrador Sea, off the coast of Greenland. He was suffering from hypothermia, barely hanging on. He was taken first to Nuuk, then to the States.”
“Greenland,” Fisher whispered. How had this happened? he wondered. Had he fallen overboard or gone over of his own accord, and if so, why? “Did any ships file a missing persons report?”
“No,” Lambert said. “I’ve got Grim digging, but as of an hour ago, nothing.”
It seemed unlikely such a disappearance would go unnoticed. What did that mean? There seemed to be only two explanations, then: Peter had either been a stowaway, or he’d been thrown overboard.
AN hour passed, then two, and finally a doctor in dark green scrubs and square, thick-rimmed black glasses pushed through the swinging doors beside the counter. He walked over to them. His hair was plastered with sweat.
“Dr. Seltkins. You’re here for—?”
Fisher nodded. “How is he?”
“Well, we’ve got him stabilized, but I don’t know how long that’ll last.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Lambert asked.
“We don’t know yet. We’re running tests. It’s an infectious agent, but of what type we don’t know. I’m inclined to rule out biological; his symptoms are . . . unique—too unique for fungal, viral, or bacteriological. My guess is we’re looking at some kind of chemical or radiological exposure—or both.”
“I want to see him,” Fisher said.
“We’ve got him in Level 4—”
“I know that. Suit me up. I want to see him.”
Dr. Seltkins sighed, then looked down
at his feet.
Lambert said, “Doctor, if you need authorization—”
“No, you’re both cleared,” Seltkins said, then looked hard at Fisher. “His condition is . . . It’s not pretty. Are you sure you want to—”
“Suit me up,” Fisher repeated.
FISHER had been inside Level 4 environments before and had hated each experience for the typical reasons. He was neither claustrophobic nor terrified of running out of air due to a suit puncture. What bothered him most was the lack of freedom. He owed his survival over the years to a number of things—relentless training and practice, superb conditioning, quick thinking, dumb luck—but all of them were useless without freedom, the freedom to move quickly and freely. The ability to react in the blink of an eye had saved his life more times than he could remember. With a Level 4 suit on, its bulbous helmet, oversized boots, and bulky gloves left him feeling as vulnerable as a newborn infant. It was born of rote instinct, he knew, this irrational aversion, but it was ingrained in his mental circuitry.
Led by a pair of nurses, Fisher was taken first to a locker room, where he changed into one-piece surgical scrubs with bootied feet, then on to the first Plexiglas airlock alcove where he was helped into a Level 4 biohazard suit. The nurses checked him from head to foot for proper fit and, satisfied there were no gaps or tears, hooked him into the oxygen system, a series of hoses that hung from swivel tracks in the ceiling. Fisher heard the gush of air rushing into his suit, felt it fill his headpiece. The oxygen, so cold on his skin he felt goose bumps rise on his neck, had a slightly metallic taste.
One of the nurses checked the gauge on his arm, said, “Positive vent,” and then they guided him to the second airlock. Beyond the Plexiglas wall, under the cold glare of fluorescent lighting, he could see a single bed with a figure in it. Peter’s face was turned away; all Fisher could see was his ear, the curve of his jaw, the clear nasal cannula tube snaking over his cheek toward his nostrils.
Another biohazard-suited figure—a nurse or doctor, Fisher assumed—stood beside the bed, reading a vitals monitor and making notations on a clipboard.
Fisher felt a pat on his shoulder. “You’re set,” the nurse said. “When the airlock door closes behind you, the next one will open. There’s a panic button on your wrist cuff.”
Fisher looked down, saw the square, stamp-size red button beneath a hinged clear plastic cover.
“If you run into trouble, just push it, and we’ll get to you within sixty seconds. Do you understand?”
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.”
