Splinter Cell (2004) (35 page)

It’s a Babylon supergun, complete and ready for use. The shopping mall is nothing but the enclosure for the weapon. When they want to fire it, I imagine the supergun is raised to the ground level, where it sits in that central, empty space beneath the domed ceiling. The two halves of the dome separate, like an observatory, and the barrel extends into the sky as far as it will go.

Incredible! No, it’s fucking
fantastic
! I have to admit I’m impressed. The thing is absolutely beautiful. It’s the sleekest, most awesome weapon I’ve ever seen in my life.

Now I realize what those blueprints were that I saw in Tarighian’s office in Turkey. Albert Mertens, Gerard Bull’s right-hand man, designed this thing. And it’s a jaw-dropping masterpiece.

From what I remember of Bull’s original Babylon supergun and what it’s able to do, this version looks very similar. I’m guessing here, but I’d say that’s a 1000mm gun that utilizes tons of propellant to fire a humongous projectile over a range of up to 1,000 kilometers.

I immediately snap some pictures of it with my OPSAT and then type a text message to Lambert. I tell him what I’ve found and that I’m going to try and sabotage the thing. At any rate, he needs to get the United Nations, or NATO, or whoever the hell he can persuade to help out, over here as soon as possible and bomb the
shit
out of the place before Tarighian has a chance to use it. From the looks of all the activity, it’s pretty damned close.

Sheesh. Sabotage the thing. How am I going to do that? The only weapons I’ve got with me are the frag grenades and my SC-20K. That’ll be like flicking paper clips at an armored tank.

Maybe the best thing is to set the grenades to go off in a bit, perhaps cause a diversion, and give me time to get the hell out of here. I can only hope Lambert will come through with the big guns. I reach into the Osprey and pull out a grenade, set it to go off in forty-five minutes, and place it out of sight but very near the double doors.

I begin to move slowly around the perimeter of the upper balcony. Whenever I find a good spot, I place another frag grenade and set it to go off simultaneously with the first one. I continue to do this all the way around the balcony, which thankfully is devoid of workers. They’re all down below, hurrying like mad to finish whatever they’re doing.

When I’m on the opposite side of the balcony from the double doors, I see the bright windows of the control room. It’s a bunker built into the floor that’s probably made to withstand the supergun’s huge recoil. Several men are inside the control room, and I recognize one of them—Namik Basaran, aka Nasir Tarighian, looking out a window at his baby.

I make my way around, placing three more frag grenades, and now I’m ready to disappear. Sarah Burns, darling, here I come. I head for the double doors and prepare to use the keycard to open them—but I hear my OPSAT beep quietly. A message is coming through from Lambert. It reads—

 

 

 

You don’t have to tell me twice, Colonel. I raise the keycard, ready to slip it through the slot, when suddenly the doors open. Four armed guards are standing there, and I’m caught with my thumb up my ass.

One of them sees me—and my strange alien uniform—and shouts. Before they can react, I bolt through them, shoving the two inner guys apart. They fall into the outer guys, knocking them to the floor. I run like a madman as I hear more shouting behind me. A gun fires and a bullet whistles past my head. I begin countermaneuvers of zigzagging and bouncing off the walls like a pinball to make myself less of a target.

Then the alarm sounds. As they say, all hell breaks loose.

I run into one of the wings containing nonexistent stores and head for the exit, the one I came in. When I’m about forty feet from the doors I see two guards on the other side of the glass. I pause long enough to swing the SC-20K off my shoulder, unlock the safety, and blast away, shattering the glass and killing the men. I barge forward like a bull, ready to smash through the remaining shards of glass, but a volley of gunfire behind me forces me to hit the floor. I roll to the wall and try my best to squeeze as close as I can to it, but the bullets are frighteningly near. The rifle’s still in my hands, so I let loose a barrage of rounds at my pursuers while lying on my back. I hit two of them, but the others jump for cover. This gives me the seconds I need to jump up and run through the broken glass doors. A shard cuts into my uniform at the shoulder, ripping the outer layer and opening a water tube. I fall to the ground outside the complex, roll, and leap to my feet without breaking the momentum of my progress.

The parking lot is clear. I’m almost free.

I run to the electrical van, pull open the door, and find that my buddy is no longer on the floorboard. What the hell, forget him. I put the key in the ignition and start it up, ready to throw it into reverse and tear out of the parking lot.

The cold metal of a gun barrel presses against the back of my neck.

I look in the rearview mirror and see my old friend the electrician behind me. He says something in Turkish and he doesn’t look too happy. I guess I must have hurt his head earlier and it’s payback time. I slowly raise my hands and he relieves me of my SC-20K. He then opens the panel door and tosses my gun to the ground just as a dozen of Tarighian’s armed guards surround the van.

“
MR
. Fisher,” Tarighian says as they march me into the control room. “Is spying on my facility a part of your Interpol report?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” I reply. I know it sounds lame, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

I scan the room to see what my opposition consists of. Besides Tarighian and the three guards holding me, I see Farid the bodyguard and Albert Mertens busy at a desk with another man. The odds would be pretty fair if I didn’t have my hands tied behind my back. They’ve also taken my Osprey, my headset and goggles, my weapons, and emptied all my pockets.

If looks could kill, Farid’s expression says it all. He’s obviously put two and two together and figured out I’m the one who broke his arm. I give him a smile and a wink.

Tarighian looks at me with those cold, brown eyes. “You should have stayed in Lake Van, Mr. Fisher. That’s where I thought you ended up.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You know, when I turn you over to my men, they will murder you and videotape it at the same time. They’ll up-load the tape on an Islamic Web site and the whole world—and all of America—will see you beheaded. You
are
American, are you not? You’re not Swiss, like you said.”

I don’t answer.

“I assure you that if I had the time I could make you talk. But I’m in a bit of a hurry. I fear I’ll have to expedite your sentence and make sure you’re no longer a threat to me before I begin this morning’s operation.”

“And what might that be?” I ask. I hope to appeal to his ego. “That’s an impressive-looking machine out there. What’s it do?”

Tarighian’s eyes flickered and he moved to the window. “It is lovely, isn’t it? I call it the Babylon Phoenix. The Babylon because it’s a reimagining of Gerard Bull’s supergun that was designed for Iraq in the 1980s, and the Phoenix because it has been reborn from the ashes of its ancestor.”

Hearing the mention of his creation, Mertens looks up and smiles at me.

“This is your doing, I gather?” I ask him.

The Belgian ignores me, but Tarighian answers for him. “Yes, Professor Mertens did an excellent job. To my specifications, of course.”

“What’s your game, Tarighian? What are you going to do?”

Upon hearing his real name, the man smiles at me. “You know who I am. I was afraid of that. Who do you work for, Fisher? The CIA? The FBI?”

“The NSA, not that it matters.”

He shrugs. “No, it doesn’t matter. You will be dead within the hour.” He gestures toward the supergun and says, “The Babylon Phoenix utilizes nine tons of special supergun propellant that can fire a 600 kilogram projectile over a range of approximately 1,000 kilometers.”

“That’s what Bull’s supergun was supposed to be able to do.”

“Yes. Alternatively, I could launch a 200-kilogram object into orbit with the assistance of a 2,000-kilogram rocket. The barrel, when fully extended, is 156 meters long with a one-meter bore. The launch tube is 30 centimeters thick at the breech, tapering to 6.5 centimeters at the exit. Like the V-3, the gun is built in segments. Twenty-six six-meter-long sections make up the barrel, totaling 1,510 tons. Added to this are four 220-ton recoil cylinders and the 165-ton breech. The reinforcement around the breech is fifty feet of solid concrete, steel, and rock. From our base here in Cyprus, we can hit any target in the Middle East we wish.”

“But it’s crazy,” I say. “You shoot the thing once and you’ll have the entire world on top of you in no time.”

“You’re right,” he answers.

“You only want to fire it once?”

“Yes. Once is all I need.”

“And what, may I ask, is your target?”

“I’m afraid you will go to your death not knowing that,” Tarighian says.

“Then can you tell me what kind of payload you’re firing?”

Tarighian scratches his chin and says, “Why not? I’m using a 600-kilogram MOAB, or as you call it, a Massive Ordnance Airburst Bomb. I think you know what this can accomplish?”

I knew what he was talking about. It’s similar to our CBU-72 Fuel-Air Explosive. It’s an incendiary, advanced cluster bomb carrying ethylene gas that explodes in the air, creating a fireball and explosive wave that spreads quickly over a much greater area than traditional explosives. The aftereffects of the explosion are very similar to those of small nuclear bombs but without the radiation. It’s a nasty, deadly device. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction—this is certainly it.

“You’re evil,” I mutter. Tarighian’s eyes flare and he approaches me. He turns his head slightly, as if he’s preparing to strike me, but instead he spits a glob of phlegm at me. It hits me in the face and dribbles down my cheek.

“That’s what I think of America,” he says. He moves away and addresses Mertens. “Begin the calibration. It’s time.”

Mertens nods and picks up a phone. After a moment he says, “Begin calibration. Raise the Phoenix.”

Six seconds later the control room shakes and a loud hum reverberates throughout the complex. Through the windows I see the ceiling part and slide away, revealing the dome two levels above. The supergun and its heavy platform begin to rise on a hydraulic lift toward the ground floor above us.

Tarighian, satisfied that everything is working properly, turns to me and addresses the guards. “He’s seen enough. Take him to the incinerator room and kill him.”

Farid grunts and makes a face at Tarighian. “I’m sorry, Farid,” he says. “I need you with me. Perhaps you’d like to hurt him a little right here?”

The brute smiles like an ogre. Even though his good arm is in a cast, I’m sure his other one can pack a wallop as well. The guards hold me steady as Farid faces me. He raises his free arm, makes a fist, pulls it back, and puts his entire weight into a punch that nearly knocks my head off. For a moment I hear a ringing in my ears and see nothing but bright lights. A tremendous spear of pain shoots through my now-broken nose into the back of my brain. Before I have time to recover even slightly, Farid hits me hard in the stomach. The guards let me fall to my knees as I gasp for breath. Blood pours from my nose onto the floor.

I hear Tarighian say, “That’s enough. Take him away and get rid of him. Be sure you videotape it. Make it gruesome. You know what to do.”

The men roughly pull me out of the control room.

THERE
was a seven-hour time difference between Cyprus and Washington, D.C. At precisely the moment that Sam Fisher infiltrated the shopping mall complex, Colonel Irving Lambert finished a phone call with the secretary of defense and waited impatiently at his desk for news from his Splinter Cell. He knew that Fisher had arrived safely in Cyprus, had received diving equipment from the Brits, and was on his way to Tarighian’s “shopping mall” outside of Famagusta.

In anticipation of Fisher’s report, Lambert had already been in discussions with not only the secretary, but also the top military brain trust at the Pentagon, the president of the United States, and the secretary of state. In turn, these people were in touch with their counterparts in the Middle East. Should a strike in Cyprus become necessary, Lambert wanted an immediate response. As of the current time, all the appropriate players were ready and willing—except for Turkey. Even in the face of proof, the Turkish authorities refused to believe that Namik Basaran was really Nasir Tarighian, mastermind and patron of one of the world’s most dangerous terrorist organizations. The prosperity he had brought to southeastern Turkey was unquestionable. He had created jobs for hundreds of unemployed. He had contributed food and money to just causes. He had created a great deal of goodwill between Turkey and her neighbors. How could this man be the evil being that the United States claimed?

Lambert’s intercom buzzed. “Yes?” he said, pushing the button.

“We’ve got some news on Horowitz,” Bruford said.

“I’m on my way.”

Lambert rose, grabbed his coffee cup, and rushed to the Operations Room where Bruford and other team members were working. Carly St. John had her hands on a printout that she was studying closely.

“What have you got?” Lambert asked, taking a seat at the table.

“Eli Horowitz isn’t an Israeli,” Bruford said. “He’s from Azerbaijan. He entered Israel when he was sixteen on the pretext that he was a Jewish refugee from Russia. The Mossad has just confirmed that Horowitz—which is his real name by the way—has used a number of aliases throughout his life. When he was living in Azerbaijan, he was arrested on conspiracy charges with a group of terrorists associated with the Kurds there. Because of his age and some political connections, he was set free. On a later occasion he was arrested in Georgia in possession of a cache of illegal weapons. He was about to stand trial when he miraculously escaped from jail. It was a daring operation that involved several participants. Georgian authorities believed the jailbreak to be the work of a powerful Russian mafia.”