by Tom Clancy
Checkmate
( Splinter Cell - 3 )
Tom Clancy
David Michaels
HE OPERATES OUTSIDE OF EVERY LAW… AND KILLS IN THE LINE OF DUTY.
Few know he exists. But when millions of American lives are at stake, Third Echelon special operative Sam Fisher is the man to depend on. He handles covert missions either too sensitive or too risky for even the CIA or FBI. And he operates alone.
Fisher is called off of a training exercise to intercept a cargo freighter loaded down with radioactive material and heading straight for the U.S. coast. He has minutes to disable the ship — or die trying. While he races to beat the clock, another attack has hit its target. As the residents of a small town in New Mexico start dying of radiation poisoning, Fisher weaves through a tangled web of clues to find the mastermind behind the strikes: one of the greatest enemies of the free world…
Tom Clancy, David Michaels
Checkmate
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The name on a book’s cover rarely tells the whole story of its birth. Many thanks to the following for their energy and input. Couldn’t have done it without you…
Julie, who was with me every step of the way. As always.
The steadfast Tom Colgan and all of the good folks at Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Vanessa, for her dedication and creativity.
Michael, for the vision and the opportunity.
PROLOGUE
SHANGHAI, CHINA, 2003
In retrospect, he would find it an astonishing way to start a war.
But then again, he didn’t start this war.
The meeting, and the information it had subsequently revealed, came to him purely by chance. Synchronicity, the Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung had called it. A confluence of seemingly unrelated events that have meaning — albeit hidden to all but the most discerning. It was a sophisticated concept, especially for a Western mind, Kuan-Yin Zhao thought.
Of course, there were corollaries in his own life. Xiangqi, one of his passions, was an exercise in manipulated synchronicity. At its heart, the mastery of Xiangqi, and its lesser cousin, chess, was nothing more than recognizing the patterns your opponent was trying to hide, and creating patterns your opponent will fail to see until too late. Great Xiangqi players never move a single piece. On the board, it may be a pao moving five squares, but in the mind of a master, it is the pao’s move, combined with the myriad moves available to his opponent, combined with a countermove, and so on until victory or defeat.
Though pleased that Xiangqi might inspire a solution to his dilemma, he was also unsurprised. All he’d needed was the hint of an opening move, and now he had it. From there his mind would expand across the board — or in this case, across nations.
* * *
If not for an underling’s father who had left China thirty years earlier to find greener pastures, he would have never found the linchpin of his plan. Like the rest of the world, he’d believed the public stories, but of course public stories were usually generated by governments, and governments weren’t known for their forthrightness — especially the Russians, whose natural gift for deception was second only to that of Beijing’s politicians.
A coal mine in Evenki collapses, killing hundreds, and the world knows nothing about it; a Russian submarine sinks to the bottom of the Kara Sea with all hands, and it simply ceases to exist; a Russian death squad sneaks onto Chinese soil, breaks into a man’s home, and murders him in front of his children and it’s called war.
Why would this secret be any different? All the better, Zhao thought.
What better way to begin the greatest game of his life than with a move no one would ever see?
* * *
“It’s there, I tell you,” the old man said.
“You’re sure of this? You’ve seen it with your own eyes?”
The old man nodded. “I was there, with a shovel like all the rest.” The old man took a gulp of tea and timidly held out his cup for a refill. “It’s a cursed place, I can tell you that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s haunted. I saw things… strange things.”
Zhao tried not to suppress a smile. The old man was addled. Even so, his background had checked out; he was who and what he said he was. “How easy is it to find?”
“As easy to find as your own toes. It might take a little work getting to it, but it’s there.”
“Tell me this: You did this for how long?”
The old man scratched his scalp. “I lived there for twenty years. When I got sick, I wanted to come home, to be buried in Chinese soil — not that garbage over there.”
“Why did you remember this one detail? Out of everything you’d been through, why this one?”
“Because I watched them do it and I thought how stupid they must be. I’m a simple man — not a smart man — and even I couldn’t believe what they were doing.”
“Who else knows about this?”
The old man pursed his lips, thinking. “Many, I imagine, but many are dead as well. Those that remember probably do their best to forget. Besides, who would want it?”
Who indeed? Zhao thought.
“Who have you told?”
“No one!” the old man said, stiffening in his chair. “My son, no one else.”
“That’s not quite true, is it, old man? You’ve told me.”
“That’s different. It’s my granddaughter, you see—”
“Yes, yes… very sick — you told me that, too.”
“She’s all I have. I convinced her to join me there. I wanted her to go to school, make something of herself. Instead… They’ve done things to her. Drugs. Men. She can’t get away from them.”
Of course she can’t, he thought. The teenage prostitution market had always been profitable, and in the right country a petite Chinese girl would bring thousands. Drugged or sober, the clientele didn’t care. In fact, drugs made them easier to handle.
“I heard you were a decent man,” the old man said. “I don’t believe the stories. They’re all liars. You’re a decent man. You can help her.”
He refilled the old man’s cup. “And I will. You’ll have your granddaughter back before another month passes. But first, you’re going to draw me a map, aren’t you?”
The old man nodded vigorously.
1
39°00’ NORTH, 74°01’ WEST
Sixty miles and thirty thousand feet above Washington, D.C., the MC-130H Combat Talon began its second hour of circling in the dark night sky. Designed to covertly insert special operators into sensitive areas, the Talon could fly in rain, snow, high winds, pitch darkness, and radar-saturated environments.
The lone man in the black Nomex bodysuit sitting in the cargo bay was worried about none of these things. He’d ridden, jumped from, and in some cases flown, the Talon dozens of times into dozens of hot spots, and it had always delivered him safely. Of course, “delivery” usually meant being dropped into a denied area full of heavily armed bad guys only too happy to kill him. It came with the job.
Tonight what Sam Fisher was worried most about was death by boredom.
He shifted his body on the bench seat, trying to find a position that didn’t put either his legs or butt to sleep, and wondered if the Talon’s designers had gone out of their way to find the most uncomfortable seats they could find. Either way, they’d succeeded.
The glamour of special ops, he thought, extending his foot and stretching his calf.
Between missions and looking to keep his skills honed, he’d volunteered to test one of DARPA’s newest gadgets, in this case an extended-range radar-absorbent HAHO (High-Altitude, High-Opening) parafoil code-named Goshawk. Not only was the Defense Advanced Resea
rch Projects Agency the Pentagon’s ultrasecret think tank for all things military, but it also supplied Third Echelon with much of the gadgetry and weapons that made Fisher’s job easier — and survivable. If nothing else, when the Goshawk finally went into service, he’d be assured of its reliability. Providing it didn’t kill him, of course.
The two-hour wait was courtesy of a malfunctioning radar station on Rhode Island that NORAD had set up to track — or hopefully fail to track — Fisher’s descent on the Goshawk. If the stations failed to detect him, the Goshawk would go operational as the first stealth parachute, capable of dropping soldiers 150 miles outside a target area and allowing them glide in, invisible to radar.
And Third Echelon would probably get the first working model.
As a subdivision of the National Security Agency, Third Echelon was tasked with handling covert missions either too sensitive or too risky for traditional entities, such as the CIA or standard special forces. Like all of Third Echelon’s operatives, Fisher was known as a Splinter Cell — a self-contained and lone operator. How many other Splinter Cells existed Fisher had no idea, nor did he wish to know. Third Echelon was about invisibility. Deniability. Zero footprint. Only a handful of people knew where Splinter Cells went and what they did.
A voice crackled to life in Fisher’s subdermal: “Incoming traffic for you, Major.”
As far as the Talon’s crew knew, Fisher was a major in the 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment out of Fort Benning, Georgia. Not that they cared; given the nature of their work, Talon crews knew how to not ask questions.
“Patch it through.”
“Roger. On your button five.”
Fisher’s communications system was a far cry from the traditional headset he’d worn in his pre-Third Echelon days. The two-part system was comprised of a nickel-sized subdermal receiver implanted beneath the skin behind Fisher’s ear. The subdermal bypassed the route normally traveled by sound waves — through the outer ear to the tympanic membrane — and sent vibrations directly into the set of tiny bones within the ear (known as the ossicles), or the hammer, anvil, and stirrup, which then transmitted the signal to the brain for decoding.
For speaking, Fisher wore a butterfly-shaped adhesive patch known as a SVT, or Sub-Vocal Transceiver, across his throat just above his Adam’s apple. Learning to use the SVT had required a skill Fisher likened to a cross between whispering and ventriloquism.
Together, they allowed him a virtually silent communications system.
Fisher tapped his subdermal to switch channels, then said, “Up on button five.”
“Standby for Xerxes,” a tinny voice said in Fisher’s ear, followed by a few seconds of clicks and buzzes as the encryption scrubbers engaged. Xerxes was Fisher’s boss and longtime friend, Colonel Irving Lambert, Third Echelon’s Director of Operations. Lambert’s voice came on: “Change of plans, Sam.”
“Let me guess,” Fisher said. “We’re going to fly around until the wings come off.”
“As of now, you’re on-mission.”
As if on cue, Fisher felt the Talon bank sharply to starboard. The drone of the engines increased in pitch, going to full throttle.
“Your OPSAT’s being updated now.”
Fisher pulled back the cuff of his jumpsuit and pressed his thumb to the OPSAT, or Operational Satellite Uplink, screen, which glowed to life:
//… BIOMETRIC SCAN ENGAGED…
… SCANNING FINGERPRINT…
… IDENTITY CONFIRMED… //
There was a flash of static, and then the screen resolved into a gray-green satellite image. The biometric scan feature was an upgrade to the OPSAT, designed not only to prevent prying eyes from using it, but to keep an inadvertent bump of the touch screen from changing modes. During his last mission, Fisher, on the run, had found himself suddenly staring at a map of downtown Kyoto, rather than the schematic of the Nampo shipyard he was trying to escape.
“What am I looking at?” he asked.
Anna Grimsdottir, Lambert’s chief technical guru, replied, “Real-time feed from an advanced KH-12 Crystal. You’re looking at the Atlantic Ocean, about six miles east of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. See the highlighted blip?” A tiny football shape in the top right corner pulsed once.
“I see it. Cargo freighter. So what?”
“Here’s the infrared side.”
The OPSAT screen shimmered, then resolved. The freighter had turned into a bloom of red and orange. “That’s hot,” Fisher said. “Somebody forget to change the antifreeze in the engines?”
Lambert said, “We wish. The radiometric signature makes the source nuclear. We’re trying to nail it down right now, but something on that ship is radioactive. And it’s headed toward our coast.”
“Radio contact?”
“She’s ignored all hails. At current speed and course, she’ll run aground in twenty-two minutes.”
* * *
With a minimal load-out for the training jump that didn’t include weapons, Fisher had to improvise. He made his way to the cockpit, where he found the crew had already gotten Lambert’s order. The pilot handed Fisher his personal sidearm, a Beretta model 92F 9mm, along with an extra magazine.
“How far?” Fisher asked him. Two minutes had passed since Lambert’s message.
“We’re thirty miles out; I’ll drop you at five.”
“Cutting it close.”
Lambert was listening in. “Close calls are what you’re good at, Sam.”
“You always say the nicest things.”
“We’ve got two Coast Guard cutters and a Navy destroyer en route, but you’ll still get there first. A pair of F-16s are lifting off from Homestead, should be overhead about the time you hit the deck.”
Providing I hit the deck, Fisher thought. Dropping by parachute onto a pitching deck in the black of night was dicey — and deadly if you missed the target. “Who’s making the calls on this?” he asked.
“SecDef. If you can’t stop the ship, he’s going to order the F-16s to sink her.”
“If she’s full of what we think she is—”
“Then we’ll have an ecological nightmare on our hands. Good luck.”
“Thanks so much. I’ll be in touch.”
The pilot said, “Two minutes to drop, Major.”
And then what? Fisher thought. What would he find once aboard that ship?>
2
Arms braced on either side of the open cargo door, legs spread apart and coiled, Fisher stared at the red bulb above his head and waited for the green go signal. Wind tore through the door, whipping cargo webbing and rattling tie-down buckles. The C-130’s engines — before a dull drone — were now a deafening roar he felt in the pit of his stomach. Cold, metallic-tasting oxygen hissed through his face mask. Beyond the door he saw only blackness, punctuated every few seconds by the flash of the plane’s navigation strobes.
As it always did before a mission, the image of his daughter Sarah’s face flashed through his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself back to reality.
Concentrate on what’s in front of you, he commanded himself.
Above his head, the red bulb flashed once, turned yellow, went dark, then flashed green.
He jumped.
The slipstream caught him immediately and almost before his brain could register it, the plane’s fuselage zipped past his field of vision and was gone. He counted, One… two… three… Then he reached across his chest and pulled the release toggle. With a whoosh-whump the parafoil sprang open. Sam felt himself jerked upward. His stomach lurched into his throat.
Silence. Floating. Surrounded by blackness and with no points of reference, he felt strangely motionless. Suspended in space. Aside from the initial leap out the door, this transition was always the most unnerving for airborne soldiers. To suddenly go from hurricane winds tearing at your body to floating in virtual dead silence was a jarring sensation.
He glanced up to check the parafoil. It was cleanly deployed, a wedge-shaped shadow against an
even darker sky. Had the chute failed to deploy, a visual check wouldn’t have been necessary. His uncontrolled tumbling toward the ocean at 150 mph would have been his first clue he was in trouble.
He lifted his wrist to his faceplate and studied the OPSAT’s screen, which had changed to a ringed radar picture superimposed on a faint grid. In the southwest corner of the screen, some thirty thousand feet below, the freighter was a slowly pulsing red dot. Numbers along each side of the screen told him his airspeed, altitude, rate-of-descent, angle-of-descent, and time-to-target.
He shifted his body weight ever so slightly, which his motion-sensitive harness translated into steering for the Goshawk. He banked slightly to the west until his course was aligned with that of the freighter’s.
He heard a squelch in his earpiece, then Lambert’s voice. “Sam, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I take it the Goshawk’s working as designed.”
“Like I said, I’m here.”
Grimsdottir’s voice: “Sam, check your OPSAT; we’ve got info on the freighter.”
Sam punched up the screen. A model of the ship appeared, complete with exploded deck schematics and the ship’s details:
VESSEL NAME/DESIGNATION: TREGO/DRY
BULK TRAMPER
LENGTH/BEAM: 481/62
CREW MANIFEST: 10
REGISTRATION: LIBERIA
DESTINATION: BALTIMORE
“Right past Washington,” Fisher said. “How convenient.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” Lambert said.
Everything’s relative, Fisher thought. If the Trego ran aground, anyone exposed to her cargo wouldn’t call the experience miraculous. Fisher had seen radiation poisoning up close; the memories were haunting.
Grimsdottir said, “Projected impact point is False Cape Landing, just south of Virginia Beach. You’ve got fourteen minutes.”
