"What?" whispered Blondie. Clearly these young Splinter Cells had a few things to learn about CommSec--communication security. SVTs did, in fact, take some getting used to--as well as a bit of ventriloquial talent--but this was Stealth 101.
Silence now.
Fisher leaned his head to the side, just enough for one eye to clear the pipe run. Directly below him was a clean-shaven head. Vin. Fisher eased his head back. A flashlight clicked on and panned left to right, pausing on piles of debris and shadowed corners until the beam had made a 360-degree circuit. The flashlight went dark.
Then came on again. The light angled upward, tracking slowly over the pipes and beams. After a long thirty seconds, the beam went out.
Above, Fisher heard a crack, not of wood, but of rock on concrete, followed by a series of metallic clangs. Something hard thumped into his thigh, then rolled off and hit the ground with a powdery fwump. They were trying to flush him out. Another rock smacked into the lintel over his head. It ricocheted upward, hung there for a moment, then came back down, tinging loudly in the darkness before zipping past Fisher's face.
"Nothing there," Blondie whispered. "Come on."
"Yeah, okay."
Footsteps clanked up the steps, then faded.
Fisher let out a breath. He drew his legs forward, under his chest, then stood up. Arms extended above his head, he grabbed the edge of the lintel, chinned himself up, then rolled onto the shelf. He was twenty feet above the floor; unless one of them found the perfect viewing angle through the pipes below, he was effectively invisible.
Next step, he thought. He had three options: hunker down and wait until they moved on, wait for a chance and slip away, or create his own chance and slip away. The first option was the worst of the three. With five people and at least a nominal equipment loadout, they could exfiltrate the foundry and stake it out electronically. He needed to be gone before the plan occurred to them. That left the third option: create some chaos and use the confusion to break out. How, though?
The answer presented itself with the sound of splintering wood above his head. The floor planks split. Ash and dirt funneled through the opening. The dust cleared to reveal a leg jutting through the hole, wriggling like a worm on a fishing line. To his or her credit, the person above made no sound, not even a gasp of surprise.
Fisher dug into one of his rucksack's side pockets and came up with ten-foot coil of Type III 550 paracord. This was one of Fisher's many "desert island staples," along with duct tape, Swedish FireSteel, and superglue for on-the-fly wound repair. He tied a quick running bowline in one end of the cord, then lassoed the dangling foot, looped the free end twice over a pipe, and finished with a cinch knot.
The leg jerked once, then again.
"Shit," a voice rasped from above. Sounded like Hansen.
Gonna need help, Ben.
Fisher didn't wait for it to come but rather dropped back down to the pipe run and followed it across the space, ducking under beams and around pipes, until he reached the opposite lintel, where he chinned himself up. Through the floor he heard the rapid padding of footsteps. Two people, it sounded like. Hansen had called for help.
Fisher followed the shelf south, past Hansen's position, until he reached the far brick wall. Below him and to the right he could see a steel ladder affixed to the wall. Arms outstretched like a trapeze artist, Fisher leaned out from the lintel, let himself fall forward, and then, at the last second, pushed off, snagging a pipe with both hands. He let himself swing twice, then hooked a lower pipe with his heels, reached forward, and grabbed the next pipe over. He wriggled his trunk forward until the pipe under his heels rode up under his butt, and then sat down. Next he rolled over so the pipe was pressed into his quadriceps and let himself slide off until his hands caught the pipe. Two hand-over-hand swings brought him to the ladder.
He stopped, listened.
From the floor above, he could hear shuffling and whispered voices: "Snagged . . . Go down there . . ."
Fisher climbed the ladder to the open floor hatch and peeked up. Thirty feet away he could see Hansen's hunched form. Standing behind him were two figures--Kimberly and Ames, judging from their outlines.
"Go down there. . . ."
Kimberly trotted off toward the stairs. Ames stayed behind.
Fisher climbed the last few feet and crab-walked away from the hatch, then stopped behind a stack of bricks. An impulse popped into his head; he debated it briefly, then flipped a mental coin. More chaos it is, then.
The ankle-deep loam on the floor made the crossing almost too easy. Twenty seconds after leaving his hiding place, he was standing behind the pair. Hansen, stuck up to his crotch in the floor trap, couldn't turn around; Ames could do nothing but stand watch over his team leader.
Fisher waited until Hansen said via SVT, "What? What kind of cord?" then reached forward, circled his right arm around Ames's throat, and clamped down with Ames's larynx in the crook of his elbow, his left fist pressed against Ames's carotid artery. He leaned back, lifting Ames free of the floor. Fisher began reverse walking, taking wide, balanced strides on flat feet to compensate for the extra weight. The levered grip on Ames's throat took immediate effect, shutting off the oxygen spigot to his brain and rendering him limp within four seconds.
Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, Fisher retreated to the hatch, where he stopped and stepped sideways behind the brick pile. He laid Ames flat, stripped the OPSAT (operational satellite uplink) off his wrist, then unhooked his SC-20 from its shoulder sling. He smelled the barrel; it had been fired recently. He ejected the magazine and found only two rounds missing. He hadn't been the only one shooting at the reservoir.
Fisher laid the SC 20 aside and took Ames's SC pistol from the holster and stuffed it into his waistband. He turned his attention to the OPSAT, tapping buttons and scrolling through menus until he found the first screen he wanted. In sequence, he tapped the buttons marked POSITIONING > ONBOARD GPS > OFF, then scrolled back to the diagnostics screen and tapped SELF-REPORT > SVT > MALFUNCTION > TRANSMIT INOPERABLE, then hit SEND. Next he switched screens to TACTICAL COMMS > INTRAUNIT, then called up the on screen keyboard and typed, MOVEMENT ON LOWER FLOORS, NORTH SIDE; INVESTIGATING, then hit SEND again.
Across the floor Hansen was moving, rolling to the left and withdrawing his leg from the hole. Kimberly had freed him. Fisher strapped the OPSAT to his wrist, returned to the hatch, and started downward. Footsteps clanged up the ladder across the room and, as his head dropped below floor level, he saw Kimberly's figure sprinting across to Hansen, who was climbing back to his feet. Hansen's taut posture told Fisher the team leader had failed to see the humor in his paracord trick.
Fisher repeated his trapeze act until he was back on the lintel shelf. Crouched over and taking careful, quiet steps, he headed south, stopping every ten feet to listen. Whether his ruse was working, he couldn't tell. As he drew even with the hole in which he'd entered the foundry, a pair of figures--Vin and Blondie--appeared on the floor below, silently sprinting north, trailing a cloud of dust. Fisher stopped, crouched down, and checked the OPSAT. It appeared Hansen had bought, at least for the time being, Ames's malfunction message, having used his command function to switch the team's comms from VOICE to VOICE + TEXT TRANSCRIPTION. As the transcription was coded by OPSAT number rather than name, Fisher couldn't tell who was who, but with Ames having gone solo, Hansen would have teamed up with Kimberly. In near-real time, Fisher watched the dialogue pop on the screen:In subbasement, north side . . . nothing yet . . .