by Tom Clancy
Yet another super skyscraper in the area, the Almas Tower, was of greater interest to Brent because it housed the country’s main vault, a subterranean affair newly renovated in 2018 to include sophisticated biometric security measures. If the Snow Maiden was coming to Dubai for the money, then the Multi Commodities Centre vault should be her main target.
The militia’s commander was also aware of what lay beneath his feet, as the patrols were heaviest near the Jumeirah Lakes Towers area, particularly around Almas. How the Snow Maiden intended to bypass those forces remained to be seen. Brent and his people would have their work cut out for them, if they were to remain undetected—at least initially. The real trick would be to cash in on what Special Forces did best: linking up with and recruiting locals to their cause. If he could turn this militia into allies, then the Snow Maiden wouldn’t stand a chance of escape.
But what if they were wrong about this woman? What if she wasn’t coming to Dubai? They would lay an elaborate trap for nothing, and Brent wouldn’t just be out of Ghost Recon; he’d be regarded as a fool and fall guy by his colleagues. Once again, his career was in the hands of the intel they’d received. Good, bad, or ugly. And in the end, his fellow operators would remember only that the mission had failed, not the true reasons why.
He reassured himself that this had to be the Snow Maiden’s plan: The kid and the money man could get her into the vault, and that was her goal. What else could she possibly want with them? Both were connected to Dubai. There was no reason to believe the money had been moved—no records of such movement. The country had been sitting in a radioactive vacuum for years, and the intel indicated that prior attempts to gain access to the main vault by the leaders of the remaining emirates had failed.
During the submarine ride, Brent had read up on “living keys” and other security techniques. It seemed clever and reasonable that Dubai’s leaders would employ the most sophisticated measures available to them, but they hadn’t anticipated losing so many of their “living keys” in one fell swoop.
Now the Snow Maiden had found some of those keys.
Worse, she wasn’t operating alone, and whatever faction was behind her could be extremely powerful, perhaps backed by the Russians, the Chinese, or maybe even a clandestine group within the JSF or European Federation. For all Brent knew he could be an unwitting participant in the flushing out of a mole.
Brent shoved the rebreather into his mouth as the water rose above his neck and filled the trunk. The others lifted their thumbs. After a muffled clunk, the door swung open, and they swam into a long tunnel of ocean dimly lit by the delivery vehicle’s red lights.
Once everyone was linked up with the craft, the SEAL chiefs shut the lights and set course for the marina. Sometimes the SEAL pilot and co-pilot were part of the combat team, but in this case, after dropping off the Ghosts, they’d return to the sub. Andreas had warned Brent that Russian subs were sniffing for them, so he’d best have an alternate extraction plan in case Florida got caught up in that cat-and-mouse game. As “on-scene” commander, Brent would make that call. The USS Independence , a futuristic-looking assault transport with a trimaran hull, was also operating in the Gulf of Oman area and could be called on if they needed her. Farther out was the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower Carrier Strike Group.
The team’s course would take them around the Palm Jumeirah, one of three artificial islands shaped like a palm tree with long fronds once serving as beachfront property for hundreds of homes now deserted. These islands were as surrealistic and improbable as many other parts of Dubai, where architectural ambitions had been fueled by magnificent wealth. The most elaborate of all projects had been known as “The World,” an archipelago of three hundred human-made islands meant to resemble the land masses of Earth. The project had been abandoned, the islands now eroding back into the sea.
Once they skirted those areas, the SEALS would head into the marina and follow the canals toward the city proper. Lakota kept in touch via hand signals and closely monitored the radiation levels. Brent had already picked out several underground locations, subbasements and parking garages within the nearby Gold and Silver Towers that he believed would afford them some protection between observation shifts. Even with their suits, Brent was taking no chances by keeping anyone exposed for more than eight hours. He’d studied the blueprints of both buildings and would put Schleck on the roof of one, Riggs on the roof of the other. Those snipers would be rotated out with the rest of the team.
Within thirty minutes they had slid through the central canal and reached the Nuran Dubai Marina bridge. With the delivery vehicle still submerged, the team began to ascend, breaking the surface beneath the bridge and hidden from satellite view. Local time was 0924. They transferred the waterproof load-out bags to the concrete underpass, and then, with all the gear unloaded, Brent cut loose the SEALs with a hand signal.
“Better suit up now,” said Lakota, consulting her wrist-mounted radiation detector.
Without a word, the group began the process, with Schoolie giving Thomas a hand because he’d practiced donning the Natick 9V Exoskeleton combat suit only a few times. The suits were a flexible and modular armor system, offered NBC protection (which certainly made them a necessity in Dubai), yet still allowed a remarkable range of motion. Brent had once listened to a trainer spend more than an hour discussing the suit’s capabilities—including ballistic and blast protection and integrated data gloves for hand gesture interface with the Cross-Com, which was now part of the fully sealed combat helmet (no monocle or earpiece was required). The suits also had climate systems and user-specific operation modes with voice and facial recognition so enemies couldn’t exploit them—but the bottom line, as Brent reminded his people, was that no amount of technological magic could replace the fervor of the human heart.
“Captain, there’s a problem,” said Lakota, over a private channel.
Brent winced. The volume on his communications system was much too high. He issued a verbal command to lower it, then responded, “What’s up?”
“It’s Schoolie,” she said, gesturing across the way to the back of the group. Thomas, Schleck, and Park had surrounded the man and were working on his helmet. “He can’t get a good seal.”
Brent cursed. “He really wanted to come along, too.”
“Either he sits this out, or we keep him in the basement as security.”
Brent shifted through the group and faced Schoolie. “How we doing, bro?”
Schoolie shook his head and bore his teeth. “Don’t send me back. This is just my luck.”
“We can keep you with the gear. You need to stay below ground and to avoid full exposure.”
“Brent, I’ve got an idea,” said Thomas. “After I set up my sticky cams, we let Schoolie run them. That frees me up to focus on communications intel.”
“What do you think?” Brent asked Schoolie.
“Beats sitting on the bench,” said the big man.
Brent nodded to Thomas. “Let’s do it.” Then he whirled to regard the rest of the team. “Everyone else good to go?”
As they nodded, raised their thumbs, or shook their fists, a circle of avatars representing each Ghost appeared in Brent’s HUD, with his own positioned in the center. All but one of the figures showed green suits, fully online, fully functional. Schoolie’s avatar showed a flashing red line at the helmet seal, as expected. Beside each avatar floated data bars that included vital signs, weapons carried, ammo, and the combatant’s current GPS position, among other details.
With the flick of his gloved index finger, Brent minimized the report to the HUD’s margin and returned to the “home” image of scanning the battlefield for potential threats.
They broke into four teams:
Brent, Daugherty, Noboru, and Thomas were Alpha team.
Lakota, Copeland, Heston, and Park made up Bravo.
The sniper team was always known as Charlie and was staffed by Riggs and Schleck.
Delta team or the “base” te
am was actually a one-man show. Schoolie would still have a chance to do his part.
Brent’s team led the others up along the embankment. They wove their way between the marina buildings, wary of contacts and keeping tight to the walls.
The suit’s 360-degree sensors and three-dimensional audio queuing heightened Brent’s situational awareness, and the results of seeing what was behind him and sensing the depth of sounds around him was so effective that he couldn’t help but smile. The taxpayers had sure bought him some nice toys.
Within five minutes they reached the pedestrian footbridge spanning Sheikh Zayed Road. The concrete walls afforded some cover, so they crouched down and hustled across. Working their way on foot to the Gold and Silver Towers some 0.75 kilometers away was unavoidable, and doing so in broad daylight seemed surrealistic, but as Dennison had mentioned, the patrols had vanished like insects fleeing the light of day.
The team left the bridge and descended another concrete access way toward the Lake Terrace Tower, a forty-floor office building standing in the shadow of the much more massive Almas Tower.
“We have solar-powered surveillance cameras all over the place,” said Thomas. “Sensors picked up their motors first, but now I’ve locked on to their broadcasts.”
“Roger that, me, too,” said Lakota.
“Hold up,” Brent ordered. They strung out along a footwall beside the valet parking entrance to the Lake Terrace Tower. “Everybody sight a camera. The system will tell you if you’re doubling up. I want eleven knocked out on my mark. Stand by ...”
They raised their rifles, and Brent waited until the computer confirmed that each one of his people had sighted a different surveillance camera.
“Uh, Ghost Lead, this is Remus,” called Thomas, using his call sign and reminding Brent of George, who’d gone by the other Roman twin, Romulus. “I have an idea.”
“Not right now. Stand by, everyone.”
There were four more cameras in their path toward the Gold and Silver Towers, but knocking out this many in one fell swoop would speed up the infiltration.
“Locked on,” called Lakota.
Brent took a long breath. “In three, two, one. Fire!”
Eleven suppressed rounds sliced the air, and the flashing red dots superimposed over Brent’s HUD all went gray, nearly in unison.
“Wow, that’s one for the textbooks,” cried Lakota.
Brent gasped. “You’re damned right it is.”
“Uh, Ghost Lead?” called Thomas again. “I could have jammed those video signals in about ten seconds. They’re using old-school technology, and it’s not even encrypted.”
“Don’t ruin my moment,” said Brent with a laugh. “But all right, then. Jam the rest. And keep them jammed.”
“You got it, Boss.”
Brent rose. “Let’s move out!”
As they bolted off, Brent told the computer to issue him verbal warnings regarding the proximity of enemies in the zone. The computer began to issue those reports, and as expected, two vehicles were inbound from another office building about a kilometer northeast of their position, ETA five minutes or less. Those men had probably sought shelter underground.
“Hustle up, people, they’re coming to check on their camera problem ...”
“Got ’em, too,” said Lakota.
Chopra had tried to persuade the young sheikh to go along with his plan, but the boy had refused, and now it seemed inevitable that the country’s assets would be surrendered to a thug—unless Chopra was willing to sacrifice himself. It might come to that. Did he have the courage? Would that be the ultimate repayment for being rescued from the slums? But if he stood up to her, and she shot him, the boy could only get her into the computers inside the vault, not the vault itself. He’d be useless. She’d kill him.
“Listen to me,” he had whispered to Hussein while the Snow Maiden had been out of the room and they were being watched by a man posing as a hotel employee. “I’ll tell her that if your vital signs are broken while inside the vault, the entire area is rigged to detonate.”
“Is this true? Did my father tell you this?”
“No, but telling her the vault might explode could be the only way to save your life—after you give her what she wants.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to do that.”
“Now you might have to. I think if we go against her, she’ll kill us both and walk away, without getting anything. I think that’s in her nature.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a sociopath.”
The boy snorted. “You mean a psycho?”
“I mean she no longer has a conscience. And she’s working for others, so she might not care.”
“Can I tell you something stupid?” The boy lowered his voice even more. “I feel horrible about what happened to everyone back home. But my life was so boring. And this is really exciting.”
Chopra took a deep breath. “You understand this is real.”
“Duh.”
“You’re not watching this on TV. You saw the people she killed.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then you should find this horrifying.”
“I know.” He thought a moment. “So you’re right. We have to give her what she wants.”
Chopra widened his eyes. “And then what? What reason would she have to keep us alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen to me again. I’m telling her if she kills you, the vault will explode. And you’ll go along with that.”
“I don’t think she wants me to die.”
“Don’t believe anything she says.”
“If you lie, I’ll tell her,” said Hussein.
“Why have you taken her side?”
“Because ... I don’t know. I think maybe she can help me.”
“And I can’t?”
“As a prisoner like me? No.”
Chopra hardened his tone. “She’s come to rob our country.”
Hussein shook his head. “My country.”
“And you’ll let her get away with that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Once we get her inside, she’ll keep us alive until she moves out all the gold and you give her the locations of the oil reserves. After we get out of the building, she’ll kill us. So during her operation is when we must make our move. I know the vault very well. And the tunnels.”
“If you run, I’m not sure I’ll go with you,” said Hussein.
“Then you’ll die. And your father’s dream will die with you.”
For a moment, Chopra had thought he’d seen tears begin to form in the boy’s eyes ...
Now Chopra sat in the hotel, staring at the sleeping boy and listening to the Snow Maiden speak softly into her cell phone. He looked to the window, thought of throwing himself through the glass and plunging to the street below. It was a reckless thought brought on by self-pity. He closed his eyes, and there, in the darkness, he saw the first of the three angels with long metal wings and fire running beneath their skins.
“She is afraid. And you need to exploit that,” said one of the men, his voice echoing.
“How?”
“You know how.”
“No, I don’t! Tell me!”
“She’s only a little girl.” The angel smiled and vanished, and Chopra opened his eyes to find the boy staring at him.
“You were talking,” he said. “You woke me up.”
Brent and his people reached the Gold Tower parking garage entrance exactly twenty-one seconds before the trucks arrived. He, Lakota, and Schleck remained at the entrance to observe while the others fell back to defensive positions deeper within the facility. The vehicles weren’t military at all but a pair of Mercedes SUVs, and out hopped a pair of men from each. They wore conventional MOPP 4 gear that made them resemble old-school combatants. MOPP stood for Mission Oriented Protective Posture and Brent couldn’t remember what the hell the four stood for, but had read about how confining, restrictive, and nearl
y impossible it was to operate with all that junk hanging from your face and limbs.
He used the helmet’s camera to zoom in as the men pointed up at the damaged cameras mounted to the buildings. They glanced around, as though suddenly suspicious, then fell back to their vehicles.
“We need to make contact with these guys,” he told Lakota.
“Take us to your leader,” she responded in a mock alien voice.
“Exactly.”
“I’ll work with Voeckler.”
“All right.” Brent made a circle motion with his finger, brought up his roster, and tapped on the avatars of Schleck and Riggs. “Hey, guys. You’re cleared to head up top. Riggs, you stay here, and Schleck, you head next door. Let me know if you have any problems getting up there.”
“If the backup generators are down, it’ll be a long walk up to the roof,” said the sniper.
“Just keep me posted.”
Brent shifted to Thomas’s avatar and tapped on it. “Mr. Voeckler, you’ll be accompanied by Copeland and Daugherty. Get your sticky cams in place, then hand over command to Schoolie.”
“I’m on it,” said the Splinter Cell.
“And then, while you’re working on communications, I’ve got another job for you. You’ll recon that entire vault. Alone. You’re a spy. Do what spies do. Why? Because I don’t trust blueprints. I trust you.”
Thomas’s tone grew more enthusiastic. “Nice. I won’t let you down.”
“No, you won’t. All right, Bravo and Delta teams, down to level four. On your HUDs. You’ll set up the tents. Couple million tons of concrete and glass should help us from glowing green.”
“Ghost Lead, this is Riggs. Backup generators are down over here. Going to be a long morning, and this ain’t no stairway to heaven, over.”
Brent patched into her camera and saw the endless flight of stairs hanging overhead, the ceiling lost in the distant shadows. “You’re a true warrior.”
“I know that.” She groaned. “Could be worse. I could be wearing heels.”
