Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath

by Peter Telep

  “Follow up. Right now we got a shipment out of Natanz we need to find.”

  “Don’t be coy, Fisher. I know what you’re looking for. I eavesdrop on everything.”

  “Then you already got something for me.”

  “What the fuck? You think I got a guy in every city? A guy in Iran for God’s sake?”

  “Why not? You sold weapons to the Blacklist Engineers. You didn’t care about that.” Fisher scowled.

  Kobin took a step back, thought it over, opened his mouth, hesitated, then finally stammered and said, “Look, I got one guy down in Bandar Abbas, but that port’s pretty far south. Not sure why they’d send the container all the way down there. I’ll give him a call, but listen, I don’t think I have shit on this one. Wish I did.”

  “Make the call.”

  “Okay. And hey, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

  Fisher almost smiled. “You actually have brain cells left?”

  “Seriously, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  Fisher frowned.

  “You know. For everything. The past is the past. I think we make a great team.”

  Fisher took a step toward Kobin, staring him down. “You know what I think? I think it’s all about you. You’re not sorry. You’re just saving your ass here. What you’ve done for us is good. You helped us find Kasperov. Thank you. But let’s agree to just use each other and keep the apologies and this fantasy you have about joining our team out of the equation. Right now you’re a consultant—and that seems to work. Okay?”

  “Damn, I’m just trying to make nice over here. Not exactly in a good mood, are we?”

  “You make nice by calling your buddy.”

  Fisher left the man standing there by the servers. Yes, Kobin had been a great help, but his abduction of Sarah and desire to have Fisher killed meant that no amount of “making amends,” “earning his keep,” or anything else could fix what he’d done. Ever.

  Before returning to the control room, Fisher took a moment to calm himself. That bastard had set his blood to boil, and he knew he’d take it out on the team if he didn’t let go.

  After a deep breath, he started forward. “Hey, Charlie, we get anything?”

  “Perfect timing, because, yeah, I found a link I’ve been looking for.” The kid swung around in his chair, rubbed his eyes, then waved his peanut butter spoon like Excalibur. “Come see this.”

  Grim and Briggs joined Fisher at Charlie’s station.

  “If this is another dead end . . .” Grim warned.

  “Hell, no, boss,” Charlie answered, pointing to satellite photos of a seaport labeled King Abdulaziz.

  The port was in the city of Dammam along Saudi Arabia’s east coast and about halfway down the Persian Gulf, between Kuwait City and Abu Dhabi. Fisher recalled that it was one of the largest in the entire gulf. A data window beside one image indicated that the port was a main gateway through which cargo entered the Eastern Province and moved on into the central provinces of Saudi Arabia and was strategically placed to service the oil industry. The port had its own administration offices; mechanical and marine workshops; electrical, telephone, and marine communication networks; and water treatment plants. A clinic, a fire department, and housing complex for employees with nearby mosques and supermarkets helped classify the surrounding harborage as a city within a city.

  Was this the oligarchs’ third target?

  “Given our timetable, it’s possible that our device could’ve been transported down to the southern coast like Sam said, then put on a ship—because three different Iranian ships called on the port within the last four hours.”

  “So they want to blow up the port?” Fisher asked.

  Charlie shrugged. “The generator’s a booster, yeah, but I’m thinking these guys are bolder than that. They’ll bury it within a bigger shipment and try to slip it past security. They wouldn’t worry about that if they wanted to blow the port. Hell, they could leave it on the ship and just detonate it there.”

  “Come over here,” said Grim, crossing back to the SMI. “Great work, Charlie. You finally got something that points to Abqaiq. I’ll take it now.”

  Charlie grinned. “I knew you would.”

  Grim zoomed in on a map of Saudi Arabia, the vast plains of desert stretching out across the display like a piece of tanned leather. She narrowed the image toward a splotch of gray, a birthmark on an otherwise unbroken flesh-colored stretch sixty miles southwest of the port. The image came into focus to detail a cookie-cutter community with adjacent industrial facility to the east. Photos popped up in a gallery to the left, along with more data bars that identified the region as Abqaiq—pronounced “Ab-cake.”

  While the overhead image showed circular storage tanks and rectangular buildings, the photos revealed an even vaster network of pipes—like the exposed bowels of some metallic beast—along with huge columns of smoke backlit by flames shooting skyward in long, thin tongues.

  This wasn’t just an oil well. This was an oil processing facility, and it was located within a gated community of thirty thousand owned by Saudi Aramco, a Saudi Arabian national oil and natural gas company based in Dhahran.

  “You’re looking at one of the largest oil processors in the world,” said Grim. “This facility handles more than half of Saudi Arabia’s daily oil exports. It’s a key node in the global energy pipeline. The main thing they do here is remove hydrogen sulfide from the crude oil so it doesn’t spontaneously explode during shipping.”

  Grim tapped one data window to bring up a list of news stories. “Al-Qaeda launched an attack on Abqaiq back in 2006. They tried to get two cars carrying a ton of ammonium nitrate close to the processing plants, but the Saudis shut that down pretty quickly. They have security and entrances set up like an old medieval castle, where after you cross the gate, there’s a wide open area nearly a mile long that allows the second tier of forces to take you out. Since then, there have been hundreds more attempts, all of them small and barely worth mentioning. The Saudis have increased security—higher fences, electronic surveillance, and a garrison of over thirty-five thousand troops. They have operators from the Special Security Forces, Special Emergency Forces, the General Security Service, as well as local reps from fire and police. The bigger players include specialized brigades of the Saudi Arabian National Guard, the Royal Saudi Navy, and even the Coast Guard. They have a contingency plan for hijacked aircraft being flown into the plant, with F-15s from their nearest base on continual standby.”

  “Tighter than Fort Knox,” said Briggs.

  “And the Russians know it,” Charlie added.

  “So what’re you thinking, Grim?” asked Fisher. “They’re smuggling the device into the processing plant?”

  “There are two equipment warehouses on the east side in an area called Material Supply.” Grim spread her thumb and forefinger apart, coming in tight on the buildings. “The device could be hidden within some larger shipment and move through security. Some of those neutron generators—not all of them but some—emit radiation, and they’re expected to do so. I’m not sure the fluctuations or increase in readings would be picked up by those security teams when they’re already expecting some radiation—and I think that’s what the oligarchs are counting on.”

  Fisher snickered. “So we won’t find a nose-cone-shaped warhead with a ticking clock on it, huh?”

  Grim rolled her eyes and typed something on the touch keyboard. The screens faded to expose another map of the region with concentric circles of devastation flashing in crimson red, along with data bars popping up all over the screen to detail the destruction. “A fifteen kiloton nuclear explosion—about the size of the detonation in Hiroshima—would kill everyone at the plant and surrounding community, some 65,000 in all, including many American engineers.” She flicked her glance between Fisher and the SMI. “Within the first two to four months of the bombing, the acute effects of Hiroshima killed 90,000 to 166,000 people, with roughly half of the deaths occurring on the firs
t day. The Hiroshima prefecture health department estimated that, of the people who died on the day of the explosion, sixty percent died from flash or flame burns, thirty percent from falling debris, and ten percent from other causes. Now take a look at this.” Grim brought up another series of windows with charts, graphs, and tables. “This data comes from conflicting sources, and the Saudis are always giving us the best-case scenario and boast that they’ve got enough backup supplies, reserves, facilities, and personnel to take a major blow like this and come out unaffected.”

  “No way,” Briggs said.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Grim. “Shutting down Abqaiq could take up to fifty percent of Saudi oil off the market for years and with it, much of the world’s spare capacity.”

  “To hell with the oil. There are too many lives at stake—including Americans,” Fisher said. “And we lose credibility if the world learns assets were in place and we didn’t act. Let’s get on the horn right now.”

  Grim’s expression grew tentative. “We need to be careful. We can’t run in there and cry wolf.”

  “I know,” Fisher said. “But the Saudis need to suck it up and understand what’s at stake here.”

  “I agree, Sam, but we can’t forget that the Saudis are a very proud people. We lose credibility as an organization and as a nation if we’re not absolutely sure about this. We know Abqaiq is a likely target. We have three Iranian ships that ported at Dammam within our time frame . . . but I’m concerned that’s not enough for us to impose our will on them. We can alert them, sure, we’ll do that, but I know you’ll want to go in, and I know they’ll want to handle this themselves.”

  Fisher looked at Charlie, who shrugged.

  Briggs pursed his lips. “Iranian ships stop at that port all the time.”

  “We only need to be wrong once,” said Fisher. “And that’s not good enough for me. I’d rather piss off the Saudis and cry wolf than play games. We need to be there. We need to inspect anything that goes through there ourselves.”

  “But if we just had a little more,” Briggs said. “Because you’re right—we only need to be wrong once. And if we’re sitting there at Abqaiq and a bomb goes off someplace else . . .”

  “We need more?” Fisher asked, raising his voice in frustration. “All right, damn it, I’ll get us more.” He whirled and rushed off toward the infirmary.

  As he opened the hatch, a dark thought crossed his mind: He could use Kobin to lie for him.

  Fisher was not prepared to tiptoe around political interests. That wasn’t happening. Not on his watch. Kobin would make up a story. Charlie would falsify the contacts. It’d all look plausible to Grim and Briggs. He understood their reservations, but he didn’t have to agree with them. Abqaiq was the target with the highest strategic value. That was a fact.

  Then again, maybe Fisher was more like Kasperov than he cared to admit: a man with a conscience.

  Damn, what was he thinking? He couldn’t do that to his team. They deserved better.

  He’d take up the Russian’s offer. Kasperov still had contacts. While it was true Grim had kept much of the intel away from him in the interest of national security, they didn’t need to hand over much: A nuclear device might have been smuggled into Abqaiq, and did any of his contacts know anything about that or could they confirm any connection to the processing plant?

  After giving the man a capsule summary, Fisher sighed and said, “Can you help?”

  “I need a computer,” Kasperov said.

  Fisher called Charlie, who came down with a laptop and remained there, watching.

  “Damn, you’re calling him,” said Charlie.

  “Yes, I am,” Kasperov answered, speaking in English for Charlie’s benefit.

  “And you know where he is?”

  “Of course, I’ve always known. He’s been right hand, ace in hole, as you say, for long time. He is at risk right now, but I think he will understand.”

  Fisher caught sight of a name on the screen: Kannonball.

  Kasperov was in an encrypted chat session with his former employee, and they were now chatting in Cyrillic.

  “Can you read any of that?” Fisher asked Charlie.

  “Not really.”

  “They’re typing too fast. Mr. Kasperov? What’re you saying?”

  “I’m letting him know about problem.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Several of oligarchs have GRU agents on payroll now, and Kannonball has hacked into GRU network. He says one GRU agent sent to Dammam with orders to intercept another agent on ground. No IDs yet because information wasn’t being transmitted until pursuing agent arrived on target.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about one agent killing another.”

  “They’re cleaning up a mess.”

  “Exactly.”

  “On whose order?”

  “Kannonball thinks maybe President Treskayev or Izotov from GRU ordered execution.”

  “Who does the rogue agent work for? One of the names on our list?”

  “Correct. Recently hired. Rogue agent might be at port to receive shipment.”

  That left Fisher puzzled. “Why would they do that? If the agent is caught, that pins it back to the oligarchs. They’re taking a big risk.”

  “Oligarchs would hire Iranians, yes. Train them, yes. But trust them entirely with something like this? No way. They would demand agent oversee operation, agent on suicide mission who either knows about bomb or does not.”

  “I think he’s right,” said Charlie. “And if that’s the case, then maybe we’ve got enough.”

  “I’m taking this to Grim,” said Fisher. “It’ll have to be enough.”

  Within seconds he was back in the control room and sharing the news.

  And when he was finished, Grim took a moment to mull it over, then said, “I’m proud of you, Sam.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re making sure we have more evidence before we move.”

  “Yeah, well, you and Briggs are right. It helps.”

  She nodded. “The truth is, my gut was already telling me Abqaiq is the target, and yes, I said we have to be careful, but I think I would’ve pulled the trigger right there.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. But I’m glad I didn’t say anything—because it seems like we’re rubbing off on each other.”

  “Yeah, finally. In a good way.”

  She smiled at him.

  He smiled back.

  She glanced away. “Okay, awkward moment. I’ll call over to the processing plant right now.”

  Fisher headed over to Briggs, unable to repress his smile. “Let’s get packed.”

  32

  WITH Abqaiq finally ID’d as their next destination, the pilots filed for the city’s local airport, only to discover that the lone runway had been abandoned fourteen years prior and was no longer usable. The processing plant did boast an active helipad intended for medevac and visiting Saudi royal family tours. Consequently, Fisher and Briggs chartered a small, four-passenger Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter from Dubai, a trip that took approximately 2.5 hours. They set down on the northwest helipad a few minutes after sunset. Their pilot would wait for them for the return trip out, but he warned of bad weather on the way.

  They were met by Prince Al Shammari, a heavyset man in his forties dressed in a brown woolen thawb flowing in deep creases to his ankles. On his head was the traditional small white cap called a taqiyah. The cap prevented his much larger scarf-like ghutra from slipping off. The long ghutra was bound by a doubled black cord fitting tightly across his forehead. When visiting an Arab country, Fisher sometimes chose to dress like the locals, but when he didn’t, conservative clothes were the order of the day. Fisher and Briggs wore simple business casual shirts and slacks—one size too large because beneath them were hidden their tac-suits.

  Shammari was already waving his hands and booming a welcome from across the well-lit pad. In addition to his securit
y duties he was the assistant interior minister of the country and had been educated in California, so his English was excellent, if not tinged by a little Los Angeles slang. Grim had warned Fisher that he was a devoted technophile, addicted to his social media outlets and smartphone, and he’d demanded that Fisher videoconference with him before they met in person.

  As Fisher climbed out of the chopper, he crinkled his nose over the strong scent of crude oil. He’d heard from those who worked around such facilities that the stench eventually vanished because you became used to it, not that it ever truly went away.

  Shammari was accompanied by two squads from the Special Security Force. These were highly trained and heavily armed counterterrorism troops wearing permanent scowls and desert camouflage utilities. They cross-trained with special forces from all over the world, including Navy SEALs. The entire party had arrived in four Humvees whose diesel engines chugged behind them.

  Fisher lifted his voice above the chopper’s rotors as they spun down. “Prince Shammari, we appreciate you allowing us into your processing plant. We need to move as quickly as possible.”

  “Relax. As I said, I’ll indulge your hunch because I want to show you how absolutely secure we are here. I don’t believe that we are suddenly going to explode this very minute. Boom!” He waved his hands in the air, then glanced back at the troops, who broke out in laughter.

  Briggs gave Fisher a look, as if to say, Famous last words . . .

  “You told me you were bringing weapons and equipment. We’ll need to see them now.”

  Briggs and Fisher turned over their duffel bags, and the squad leaders came forward and picked through their pistols, trifocals, and pair of SIG MPX submachine guns they were toting. Briggs said the trifocals were just prototype night-vision goggles, and the troops dismissed them. They did admire the MPXs because they were shaped like miniature assault rifles with curved thirty-round magazines and were the only submachine guns in the world that allowed the operator to change barrel length, caliber, and stock configuration in the field to meet mission requirements.

  “You come to shoot bears,” said the prince. “But I told you, all we have here is oil!”