Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (26 page)

Bang. Fisher shot him in the eye. “Briggs, move up!”

The wind was so fierce now, the sand battering them so violently, that Briggs could
only stagger his way across the deck, keeping both hands latched onto the railing.

“We’re too slow!” Fisher shouted.

“I know! I know!”

Four MOIS agents and one rogue GRU agent. That was Fisher’s initial threat assessment.
Two down. There should only be three remaining, but there was no telling yet if the
MOIS agents had brought in more recruits.

That was until the next three began firing at them, even as they descended the next
ladder to continue moving up the train.

“That’s not the rest of them,” Briggs shouted.

“No, we’ve got more than we thought.”

“Shit. Let me get an active sonar reading. Okay, there it is. Picked up those three,
maybe a few more near the front, but the signal’s weak, too much downtime between
bursts.”

“We’re nine minutes from Abqaiq,” said Fisher.

“Then we get up there, and it’s guns blazing! We got no choice,” Briggs said.

“There’s another railing that runs low along the wheels,” said Fisher. “I think I
can make better time using that one. Same deal. You cover, I move up.”

“All right, but my way’s faster.”

“I agree. Your way will get us killed faster.”

Briggs frowned.

“Let’s do it.” Fisher slid around the side of the container and stepped onto the lower
railing, merely a thin bar and protective skirt for the wheels. The grab irons were
too high to reach, and there was no way he could balance himself on that rail without
hand supports and with the train dieseling hard at sixty-five miles an hour, so he
clutched the rail, then allowed himself to fall forward, swinging beneath it, ankles
latched, and he began a swift, hand-over-hand approach, with the cacophony of the
wheels at his side until he reached the midsection, the wind passing under the container
and coming in short bursts, the sand hissing and getting into his mouth, ears, and
nose. Ignoring the blood rushing into his head and the fire in his pectoral muscles,
he grimaced and slid even faster.

Briggs’s machine gun cracked another announcement, but then footfalls thundered across
the top of the container, followed by another exchange of gunfire—

And suddenly, one, two, three agents were dropping away from the train, smashing into
the dirt, wiping out below Fisher, and flailing into the darkness.

“Three down. Let’s keep moving,” said Briggs through the subdermal.

“I told you, same plan,” Fisher snapped.

“I know. I accidently killed them as I was trying to distract them.”

“Yeah, right, hang on, I’m coming.” Fisher reached the end of the container, then
swung himself up between the cars as Briggs descended the ladder to join him.

“It’s a long way to the front,” said Briggs. “But we’re clear for at least another
five cars. Visibility is shit. Come on, come on.”

Fisher hauled himself up the next ladder and clutched the railing with both hands.
His boots actually lifted from the tank several times, and it felt as though a construction
worker were holding a sandblaster to his cheeks. When he glanced to the right, he
couldn’t see anything save for the swirling phosphorescent sand via his night vision,
and he wouldn’t dare remove the goggles.

Briggs was right behind him, hunkered down, pistol in one hand, the other sliding
across the railing.

The next gust slammed Fisher into the railing . . .

And when he looked back to check on Briggs, the man was gone.

35

SHOUTING
his partner’s name was a reflex action. Fisher didn’t expect to find the man. He’d
already assumed that Briggs had been swept off the train.

But then he was glad he’d called out—because a voice came from near his boots:

“Sam! Down here! Little help!”

Fisher lifted his chin to glance over the side of the oil tank.

There was Briggs, both hands locked onto a grab iron. He must’ve slid down the container
and seized the iron as he smashed into it. Time to repay the earlier favor. Fisher
got on his haunches and reached over, taking Briggs’s hand, then, raging aloud in
exertion, he hauled his teammate back onto the deck.

Coughing and spitting out sand, Briggs nodded, and they got back up and forged on,
the train moving relentlessly through the storm now, the containers—despite being
weighed down with oil—beginning to shimmy as though threatening to fall apart.

They neared the next car, and Fisher’s impatience got the best of him. He gave a hand
signal to Briggs then took off running. He made a flying leap over the gap between
cars, then hit the deck and flung out his hands to seize the railing. Briggs bounded
forward, made his jump, and landed behind Fisher. They both crouched down to spy the
end of the tank. No response from anyone ahead. Now they would make some time.

Yet before they reached the end of the tank, something very odd happened, something
that had them standing more upright and glancing around, their gazes lifting to the
skies . . .

The din of howling winds and hissing sand faded, as though they were passing through
some strange boulevard deep in the heart of purgatory, soft whispers coming on the
air, the sand falling in light flurries like snow, the clinking of the train more
distinct.

They took advantage of this lull and raced across two more containers. En route, Fisher
spoke quickly into his SVT: “Grim? Charlie? Can you read me?”

“We got you, Sam,” answered Charlie. “Looks like you’re in some sort of pocket.”

“Roger that. We’re almost there.”

“And, Sam, we got some new intel on that rogue Russian agent with the group.”

“You got an ID?”

“Yeah, and—”

Charlie’s voice dissolved into a rush of static accompanied by a blast of wind and
sand that struck with a vengeance, slamming Fisher and Briggs into the opposite railing.

He could barely see his gloved hands now, and while reaching the HEP car and locomotive
would take more time, the storm would, for the most part, conceal their approach until
the very last second. He doubted the MOIS agents were equipped with protective gear,
so they might’ve retreated inside. The reduced visibility could actually work in Fisher’s
favor, adding precious time to their remaining six minutes. The trigger man’s top
priority was to ensure the bomb was physically in the Abqaiq compound before completing
the firing circuit. Right now he was presumably as blind as Fisher.

The next connection between cars required them to descend and ascend the ladders since
the gusts—coming in erratic salvos like gunfire—made it far too risky to jump. Fisher
took another sonar reading as they came within two containers of the HEP car. He glimpsed
right through the oil-filled container to detect the shimmering white outlines of
a pair of agents huddling against the wind between cars, ready to ambush them. There
was another one inside the locomotive serving as engineer, and two more inside the
HEP car.

So the Iranians had, indeed, picked up a few reinforcements. The GRU agent would more
than likely be in the HEP car with the bomb.

Before they could climb up, ready to ambush the ambushers, a reverberation worked
through the oil tank and into the ladder. Fisher ascended a few rungs, then caught
the barest thump of footfalls. He turned back to Briggs, issued a hand signal, and
Briggs gave a curt nod, ready.

Just as the agent above neared the edge of the railing and spotted Briggs, who was
acting as the bait, a word came through Fisher’s subdermal, just a whisper from his
partner: “Now.”

Clutching the ladder with one hand, his pistol jammed tightly in the other, Fisher
pushed up from his current rung, leaned back, and shot the agent point-blank beneath
the chin just as the agent was bringing his rifle to bear.

As he shrank back onto the deck, Fisher continued his ascent, slapping his arm across
the dead agent’s knees in order to target the Iranian’s partner, who’d dropped to
his belly about two meters ahead and had propped himself on his elbows.

Yet before either of them could get off a shot, what seemed like a long chute of sand—a
twister tipped on its side—ripped across the train, sweeping the first agent’s body
right out from beneath Fisher, who seized the railing at the last second.

When he looked up again, the other agent was hurling through the air, writhing against
invisible claws and firing wildly in a reflex response, the rounds drumming into the
tank, a few ricocheting off the rails.

“Briggs?”

“Right behind you. No plans to slip again.”

“We’re clear to move. You get up there past the HEP car and take out the engineer.”

“Roger. I’ll need to check that windshield first to make sure they can’t see us.”

“Good call. We’re down to five minutes here.”

Fisher struggled up the ladder and hooked his arm completely over the railing, driving
it into the crook. He clutched his wrist, using his arms like a carabiner clip to
fasten himself to the deck. Briggs shifted past him, then Fisher carefully unhooked
his arm and fell in behind, taking another sonar reading.

“Hold up,” he ordered Briggs.

“Shit, what now?”

One of the agents inside the HEP car was not there. He took another reading, and the
image came up indistinct, suggesting that maybe the two agents were so close together
that he couldn’t tell them apart.

“What?” Briggs.

“Forget it. Keep going!”

They left the last tanker car and then Briggs motioned them onto their bellies. They
crawled forward so that Briggs could get a more furtive glance at the HEP car’s operator’s
booth, which was facing toward them.

“Can’t see much,” said Briggs. “Let’s do it.”

As they clambered to their feet, rings of light appeared in the distance, like fireflies
buzzing in a tight orbit, sparking and tinkling, with smaller, perpendicular pairs
flashing in a random sequence of yellow and white behind them.

Next came the whomping. And Fisher’s jaw dropped.

The twin silhouettes of Shammari’s AH-6 light gunships burst from the gloom. The prince
had ignored Fisher’s request to keep them on standby and had sent them directly into
the storm. As they approached, the shimmering rings became brighter and resembled
Fourth of July sparklers spun by overzealous children. The effect was created by their
rotor blades, as the air had turned into 80 grit sandpaper rubbing against their surfaces.

The first chopper knifed through more draperies of dust, and its pilot opened up on
Fisher and Briggs, laying down a bead of 7.62mm rounds fired from a pair of miniguns.
Rounds stitched their way up, across the tank container, cutting a line right over
the deck between them.

Fisher dove forward, with Briggs crossing the path of fire as the second bird came
in behind the first, swooping down and tipping forward, its rotors mere meters above
them.

“What’s he doing?” cried Briggs.

“Grim, if you can hear me, you need to call off these choppers!” hollered Fisher.

Automatic weapons fire cracked from the HEP car, and the fuselage of the chopper came
alive. The pilot broke off and banked away at a steep angle, sure to come around for
another pass.

Ironically, the agents inside the HEP car had driven off the bird—and that allowed
Fisher and Briggs to reach the ladder.

The HEP car’s windows were darkly tinted, so they couldn’t see the agents who’d just
slid open the side door and leaned out to fire. Out of options, Fisher and Briggs
descended anyway, rushing down between the cars, then Briggs climbed along the front
of the HEP to remain low, beneath the windshield. From there, he’d claw his way above
it, reaching the upper deck of the HEP from the storm side. That was the best path
to the locomotive.

“Make it fast, buddy. Those birds are coming back, and our triggerman’s got to be
nervous now.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

They banged fists, and Briggs tested his purchase on the HEP, then hauled himself
away. There was no upper deck on the HEP car, just a series of rungs across the top
not meant for climbing. Once he scaled his way up there, the gauntlet to the locomotive
would prove, in a word, interesting.

Meanwhile, Fisher took one more sonar reading, and the image brought a curse to his
lips.

Just a single occupant inside the HEP car. Clean reading. Where was the other agent?

“Briggs, we’re missing one. Stay sharp.”

“Yeah,” the man answered, his voice burred by what had to be an intense physical effort.
“I’ll be ready.”

Fisher shot a look to the sky: He couldn’t see the choppers, but their rotor wash
was suddenly stronger than the storm and blowing directly down on him.

Grim and Charlie were still unreachable.

As the pair of AH-6s continued around once more, Fisher peered alongside the HEP car,
then looked up, zooming in with his trifocals.

Abqaiq rose like some otherworldly oasis from the swirling night, the once-bright
security lights muted to soft candles, the chutes of burn-off bent sideways, the spherical
tanks futilely barricading walls of sand that broke into tendrils and reared back
like cobras ready to strike. Despite the sandstorm’s best efforts to disguise it,
the processing plant was still out there, waiting for them, and they were racing headlong
toward it.

Pursing his lips, Fisher hauled himself up along the back side of the HEP car, reaching
the operator’s door and clinging to it against the high wind. He tried the lock. No,
it wouldn’t be that easy.

Clutching the door’s handle with one hand, he leaned back and opted to shoot out the
window. Three rounds chewed through, then he busted free the rest of the glass with
his elbow and levered himself up and onto the sill, shoving in his pistol hand and
ready to fire. Clear. He hauled himself inside, collapsing onto the car’s floor.

Fighting for breath, he rolled, pushed up onto his hands and knees, then stood, spinning
back toward the controls.

They were gone. Stripped. Nothing here but bundles of wires jutting from empty consoles.
Some of the cables had been neatly cut, others torn free.

A small hallway ahead dropped down three steps to another door, this one made of aluminum
or steel and seemingly retrofitted to the car. No window. Iron bar handle. Two locks.
Dead bolt, no doubt.

“Sam, watch out! I think I see—”