With the clock drumming in his ears--both literally and figuratively--Hansen removed from his pack the nylon sleeve containing the COM-BAT, a six-inch, steel-winged robotic spy plane. While the device seemingly took its name from the Batman universe, COM-BAT actually stood for the Center for Objective Microelectronics and Biomimetic Advanced Technology, part of the University of Michigan's College of Engineering, which had been tapped by the military, through a five-year grant, to develop the sensors, communications tools, and batteries for "the bat."
In addition to the usual array of cameras, minimicrophones, and small detectors for nuclear radiation and poisonous gases, the bat also featured quantum dot solar cells that were twice as effective as current photovoltaics and an autonomous navigation system that was a thousand times smaller than current systems. The bat's body was shaped like a bullet, with a clear domed nose within which you could see its sensor array and solar panel. Its wings extended out at forty-five-degree angles in a V pattern and were slightly hooked at their ends, like a bat's.
Exercising extreme care, Hansen unfolded those wings, tested to be sure they were locked in place, then activated the bat via its smart-phone-sized remote with touch screen. He carefully slipped it through the hole he'd cut in the window, then gave the bat a slight shove, and it immediately took to the wind. With a barely perceptible buzz from its tiny motor, the bat headed toward the airport as Hansen worked the touch-screen controls and adjusted the main camera to point down at the airport. Meanwhile, Zhao's chopper drew closer. The gusts were increasing in strength and frequency, and it was all Hansen could do to maintain control of the little plane.
Then, without warning, the signal from the bat turned to static. Hansen checked his OPSAT. Same thing.
Someone was jamming him.
9
SERGEI left the keys in the ignition and quietly stepped out of the car. He eased the door shut. The snow and wind immediately cut across his face, forcing him to turn up his collar. He squinted as he turned back to Ames, who crossed to the driver's side.
They had taken a dirt road through a forest adjoining the airport and had pulled off into the brush so Sergei could move in from the west, hopefully undetected.
"If you leave me here," Sergei began in a warning tone.
"Why would I do that? You need to finish the job, and I need to collect the video."
Sergei gave a little snort. "Right. But after I hand you the video, you won't give me the money. You'll kill me."
"That's a chance you have to take. You walk away now, and we push that special button."
Hissing, Sergei slipped the camera into his deep front pocket. "I'm not sure I can find him."
"I'm jamming his OPSAT, his SVT, and his little spy plane. He's deaf and blind. He'll get in closer. He has to."
"Whatever you say."
Sergei took a deep breath and started away from the car, the snow already collecting on his shoulders. He saw a fuel truck parked beside the easternmost hangar. He'd have cover from the group and a good view of the west side of the airport, Hansen's most likely route of advance because of the drainage ditches and better cover.
Sergei glanced back one last time at Ames, who was inside the car and on his satellite phone, then stopped and thought for a moment.
He could go back now and kill the little bastard. Just be done with it. Then he would find and warn Hansen. He could do the right thing, and maybe Grim and the rest of Third Echelon would deem him a hero for exposing their mole, even though he'd been one himself. Maybe they'd reconsider their decision to drop him from the Splinter Cell program. He could save Hansen now. He still had that chance.
But Victoria . . . They would kill her. And then, yes, they would come for him. The consequences were that simple . . . and that deadly.
Sergei pushed on through the trees, ducking below low-hanging boughs as the whomping of the helicopter resounded like a racing heart.
HANSEN had darted out of the church and dropped down into a long embankment running parallel to a service road near the main airstrip. He'd seen how several culverts could provide fast and temporary cover before choosing his course, and he dropped into one drainage pipe just as the chopper thundered overhead and descended toward the helipad. He waited there for another few seconds, then slipped back out, dropped to his hands and knees, and crawled forward for a better view of the pad--about two hundred yards away.
He wasn't sure if the people on board the chopper or Sergei or someone else was jamming him, but he still had no contact with Grim and no electronic surveillance of the area via the COM-BAT plane, which now was circling the airport in an endless loop, waiting for its next set of instructions. Sergei's silence raised questions about him; but, then again, maybe he, too, was being jammed, and his signal had been cut off before Hansen's. He wanted so badly to give the man the benefit of the doubt, but a more powerful sense told him, No, you can't trust him anymore. He's turned.
The chopper pitched up, but the pilot was skilled enough to lower the bird into a hard but efficient landing despite the crosswinds.
Bratus, Zhao, and Murdoch had moved back toward the hangars and were shielding their faces from the rotor wash as the engine began to wind down. Hansen also noted that while the window was down on Bratus's car, the driver was no longer there. He scanned the area. No sign of him. Hmm.
It took several moments before the door on the chopper finally popped. Here we go, Hansen thought. This was either going to get very enlightening or very frustrating, depending upon what he could capture with the laser microphone in this weather and with all that rotor wash.
AFTER making his phone call, Ames got out of the car, donned a black balaclava to conceal his face, and followed Sergei's boot prints until he reached a stand of trees on the edge of the airport grounds. He sat on his haunches beside a thick oak, shivering. From this vantage point, he could survey most of the airport with his pair of 18 x 50 all-weather binoculars.
Within ten seconds, he spotted Sergei crouched down near the fuel truck. The fool was partially exposed and easily identifiable from this angle. Not so from where the agents and helicopter were positioned, but Ames would not have chosen that spot. Rookie.
Then, almost losing his breath, Ames spotted Hansen tucked in tightly along the embankment, surveying the scene with his trifocals and trying to listen in with his laser mic. He'd done an admirable, if imperfect, job of concealing himself from the group near the helicopter, but from the rear he was vulnerable, and that was when Ames noticed the monster of a man in a long coat and Soviet Army ushanka crouched over and drawing up behind Hansen. Unbelievable. Perhaps it was the wind or the continuing rotor wash from the chopper, but Hansen did not react to the guy's approach. It was Bratus's driver, and he was about to make contact.
No no no. This was not acceptable. Ames began to hyperventilate. If this fat ape reported trouble back to Bratus, then the meeting could go to hell. Ames looked to Sergei, still sitting there like a little bird in a nest, waiting for his mother. The fool! Ames flicked his gaze back to the helicopter, then back to the fat man, who was already on his phone. Ames's mouth fell open.
TWO men exited the chopper and moved toward the group, ducking slightly against the wash. Hansen zoomed in even more, and the floodlights from the hangar revealed both men as Asian, assumedly Chinese. They shook hands with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, who steered them toward the chopper, where another pair of men was unloading a black Anvil case about the size of a coffin, with a pair of heavy locks. Hansen couldn't get a good beam with his laser mic so he pocketed it and just observed.
Abruptly, Bratus raised a phone to his ear, then suddenly backed away from the group and drew a pistol.
"Oh, my God," Hansen muttered aloud.
Even as the words came from his mouth, Bratus shot Zhao in the head; then he fired at Murdoch, striking him in the chest. Both men dropped to the icy tarmac.
But Bratus wasn't finished. He shot the two men unloading the large case, then pushed into the o
pen chopper and shot the pilot and copilot.
He killed everyone except Murdoch's driver, who attempted to squeal away in his car, but not before Bratus put four bullets into the driver's-side window and the car simply came to a slow halt on the tarmac.
Just then a baritone voice rose from behind Hansen:
"Hello!" The cry was in Russian. "I am Rugar! What is your name?"
Hansen whirled back, tore off his trifocals, and found the business end of a suppressed pistol in his face. The man holding the gun, Rugar, was of inhuman proportions, and besides offering a promise of death, he flashed a carnivorous grin that left Hansen as shocked as he was breathless over his grave error. He'd been so engrossed in the images coming to him via his goggles that he'd failed to check his six o'clock, and the snowstorm had done an excellent job of helping to conceal the big Russian's approach.
"You didn't answer my question," added the fat man. "What's your name?"
Hansen just stared.
Rugar chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying himself. "What's the matter? You don't speak Russian?"
Before Hansen could reply, Rugar's phone rang, and in the instant he flicked his gaze down, Hansen lifted onto his left leg and delivered a roundhouse kick to Rugar's hand, knocking the gun from the fat man's grip. The pistol flew through the air several meters and landed in a pile of snow beside the service road.
Hansen then rolled around, reaching for his own pistol, but Rugar dropped on him like an avalanche, the snow blasting into Hansen's face and blinding him.
As he groaned and struggled against Rugar's immense weight, he realized the man had already seized his hand, the one going for his gun. He blinked, tried to move it, but then an elbow came down into his cheek, striking like a lead hammer.
In point of fact, Hansen had never been hit so hard in his life, even during all his training exercises, where they "trained as they fought." Pinpricks of light winked among the snowflakes, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. The blow now seemed to reverberate through his entire head, the pain growing roots that wrapped around his brain.
Nearly blind now, Hansen reached out, all his martial-arts training escaping from his memory, as though squeezed away by the man's sheer weight, but he still had sheer instincts and muscle memory. He found Rugar's cold ear, just beneath his hat, and seized it between his fingers.
Hansen tugged so hard that the fat man screamed and broke his grip, and as he moved slightly up, Hansen, in one massive expenditure of energy, rolled from beneath him. He came around onto his knees, drew his SC pistol, but Rugar was already there, delivering a solid jab to Hansen's jaw that sent his head back even as once more the Russian seized his gun hand and began to pin him back onto the snow.
The knife. Where was the knife Grim had given him? In its hip sheath, Hansen remembered. He tried to reach across with his left hand, but he couldn't get the angle, and Rugar was repeatedly hammering at his fingers to get him to release the gun.
Hansen grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it in the man's eyes, but Rugar didn't need to see a damned thing in order to keep holding down Hansen's wrist and pummeling the hell out of his hand. After three more blows, Rugar groaned and opened his mouth, a rabid dog ready to take his bite.
Suddenly Hansen's fingers gave out, and the weapon fell free. Rugar grabbed the pistol and fell back on his ass, the snow falling on him, the wind cutting across them as Hansen sat up to face him. His hands throbbed as he lifted them and, in a voice that cracked, said, "I do speak Russian. My name is Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev."
Rugar did not appreciate the quip. Hansen was certainly not the president of the Russian Federation. Rugar cursed at him and, still holding him at gunpoint, finally answered his ringing phone: "Yes, I have him. What? You did what? Oh, no. Okay? You want me to kill him?"
Rugar lowered his phone.
"You can't kill me," Hansen told the man in a jovial tone.
"Oh, really?"
Hansen began to laugh. "Yes. My gun is empty, you fool."
In the moment it took for Rugar to look down at the weapon, Hansen was rushing away, up toward the service road, where Rugar's weapon had landed.
Rugar screamed for Hansen to halt, and Hansen wasn't sure why he did, but he stole a look back just as Rugar fired.
The anesthetic dart struck on the neck, just below Hansen's left earlobe.
The fat Russian recoiled in surprise. "Tranquilizer?" "See you when I wake up." Hansen grinned and collapsed to the snow. A warm wave broke over his head and traveled down into his feet. The throbbing from Rugar's beating withered away, and every other ache and pain was replaced by the strange sensation of being weightless in a dark pool, in which he saw Grim shaking her head at him.
She opened her mouth, but when she spoke, a fat Russian man's voice came out: "He's unconscious but alive. I'm going to bring him back, and I will question him."
10
SERGEI had remained behind the fuel truck and watched in shock as Bratus gunned down his colleagues, the two loading men from the chopper, and the pilots. The Russian operative was a one-man killing machine, his silenced weapon thumping, his shots expertly placed. He'd taken out Murdoch's driver, and then, almost matter-of-factly, he'd made a phone call.
Following that, he'd begun trying in vain to open the big Anvil case that now lay on the snow-swept tarmac. The locks must have had digital combinations, because he didn't bother to check the bodies for keys. At one point he rose, stepped back, and fired a round into one lock to no avail.
And then a most amazing sight: A lumberjack of a man came forward from the service road with a body slung over his shoulder. Not until he came much closer did Sergei realize that the giant was carrying Hansen.
With his pulse beginning to race, Sergei thought of heading back to the car, but he had to be sure that Hansen was dead. At least the job had been completed, if not by Sergei's hand. He wouldn't collect the money, but perhaps they'd leave Victoria alone. Who was he kidding? Nothing was certain now.
For just a moment Sergei allowed himself to feel the pain of his friend's loss. He heard Hansen assure him, "I'm your friend." He remembered their time together at the CIA, their training on "The Farm," the practical jokes and the camaraderie, the pain they'd shared in Somalia, and that time Hansen had taken him out for drinks on his birthday and treated him like a brother. . . .
With eyes beginning to burn, he shifted around the truck to get a better view. The giant in the funny little hat set Hansen's body down near one of the cars; then, as Bratus shouted, the gaint hurried over to the Anvil case. They carried the case to Bratus's car and were able to open the pass-through so they could load it between the trunk and backseat, along with Murdoch and Zhao. They transferred all the Chinese bodies from the helicopter into Murdoch's car, since Zhao had left his car at the pub and had ridden along with Bratus.
After that, the big guy picked up Hansen and headed toward one of the hangars. Meanwhile, Bratus stood by his car and made another phone call, waiting impatiently for an answer.
Sergei frowned. The fat man was taking Hansen inside the hangar. Why? To question him? That meant Hansen might still be alive. They'd knocked him out? How? And why would they remain here, at the scene of multiple murders, to question a spy they'd captured? Why not take him someplace else? Maybe they didn't feel rushed. Maybe this was all planned from the beginning.
Sergei waited a moment more; then he darted away from the fuel truck toward the back of the hangar. He found the rear service door locked, of course, but he always carried his picking tools, and within a few breaths the knob turned freely.
Wincing, he carefully opened the door and slipped, save for a slight gust of wind, soundlessly inside. He now crouched behind a pair of helicopters, small ones reserved mostly for business travel. Nearby was a wall of mechanics' stations with power and air tools cluttering the benches. A pair of rolling carts with stacks of drawers sat beside one bird, and Sergei took up a position behind the taller cart while the fat man switched
on a light near another station on the opposite side of the hangar. Once more he set down Hansen's body. Then he went into a small adjoining office and returned with a wooden chair. He propped Hansen on the chair and proceeded to flex-cuff him to it. That the fat man walked around with flex-cuffs in his pocket said a lot about his line of work.
He grabbed Hansen by the hair, stared into his face, then grumbled something and let Hansen's head drop. He began searching Hansen's pockets and weapons belt, along with the pack, which he'd removed before setting him down. After the fat man moved the gear to a nearby table, he grabbed Hansen's wrist, studied the OPSAT, whose touch screen remained dark, then decided to remove the device and toss it down with the other stuff.
Just then Hansen began to stir, his head lolling from right to left, and suddenly the fat man smacked him across the face. "Wake up! Wake up!"
Slowly Hansen lifted his head, glancing vaguely, and that was when the fat man reared back and delivered a solid blow to the jaw. Sergei flinched and glanced away for a moment, even as the Russian let loose another fist.
Then the bastard went over to the table, took something, and returned.
A blade sprang to life in his hand.
Sergei wasn't sure he could watch any more of this. In his mind's eye, he saw Hansen's severed fingers dropping to the floor . . . then an ear . . . another ear . . . and shrieks of agony from his old friend.
"We know why you've come," growled the fat man. "Now, if you tell me what I need to know, you will live."
Like Sergei, Hansen had been trained on how to steel himself against torture, but you never really knew how you'd react until it was real. Would Hansen really hold it?