Tom Clancy, Raymond Benson, David Michaels
Operation Barracuda
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author and publisher wish to acknowledge the work of Raymond Benson, whose invaluable contribution to this novel is immeasurable. Many thanks go to Ubisoft Entertainment personnel Mathieu Ferland, Alexis Nolent, and Olivier Henriot for their cooperation and support, and to Vanessa Lorden for her help. Finally, a big thank-you each goes to James McMahon and Dr. Grace Stewart for their expertise.
1
The OPSAT’s mechanical alarm wakes me at eleven o’clock sharp. Since I possess the ability to sleep soundly at the drop of a hat, anywhere, at any time, the OPSAT’s built-in prodder that nudges the pulse in my wrist comes in very handy. It’s silent and it doesn’t jolt me awake the way alarm clocks sometimes do.
I hear the wind blowing outside the small tent. The weather forecast had warned of a winter storm before midnight and it appears to be just beginning. Terrific. The sub-zero weather outside my bivouac would have in normal circumstances turned me into a Popsicle hours ago had it not been for Third Echelon’s technological breakthrough in designing the skintight, superhero-like uniform that separates my very human body from the harsh elements. Not only does it protect me from extreme heat or cold but the threads of Kevlar woven into the fabric somewhat serve as bulletproof material. At long range, the stuff works pretty well. I don’t want to have the pleasure of testing its strength at short range, thank you very much.
I crawl out of the tent, stand, and take a moment to survey the dark forest around me. Aside from the howling wind, I can’t hear a thing. Lambert had warned me that I might encounter wolves this far into the woods but I must have lucked out. If I were a wolf, I’d stay in my den and keep the hell out of this kind of weather. There sure won’t be any meals wandering about in minus ten degrees Fahrenheit. None except a two-legged mammal that happens to be heavily armed.
I quickly roll up the tent. The unique camouflage makes it appear to be a snow-covered rock when it’s erected on the ground. One would have to examine it at close range to recognize it for what it really is. Again, a well-designed piece of equipment, courtesy of the National Security Agency. It’s ironic that only a handful of the personnel within the NSA know of the classified department called Third Echelon. I’m such an elite employee of the United States government that you could count on two hands the number of people who can define “Splinter Cell.” And to tell the truth, I couldn’t name all those people. Aside from my immediate supervisor, Colonel Irving Lambert, and the minuscule team working in the unremarkable, unmarked building that stands separate from the main NSA headquarters in Washington, D.C., I have no clue as to what senators or Cabinet members have heard of Third Echelon. I’m pretty sure the president knows about us, but even he would Protocol Six me if I were caught. That means I’d be disavowed — they would wash their hands of me and pretend I never existed.
I pack the tent and lower my goggles. The night vision mode works remarkably well in a Ukrainian snowstorm. I may feel as if I’m in a scene from Doctor Zhivago but at least I’m not going to bump into any trees as I move forward.
Obukhiv is five miles away to the south. I’m somewhere between that small village and Kyiv to the north, which is where I began my mission. We spell it “Kyiv” now instead of “Kiev” because it’s the English translation of the proper Ukrainian name for the city. Same goes for “Obukhiv,” which used to be “Obukhov.” The people made a concerted attempt to change all city names from Russian to Ukrainian since the nation became independent in 1991. I’m pretty sure the Russians will keep spelling them the old way.
Moving through a free Ukraine is no problem these days so I had little trouble picking up my equipment from the American Embassy in Kyiv and obtaining an SUV to drive to Obukhiv. I laughed when I saw the thing — a 1996 Ford Explorer XL with 120,000 miles on it. But it runs okay. From the village I hiked into the woods earlier today and set up camp here in the cold forest. Third Echelon intelligence confirmed that the Shop’s third hangar for their stealth plane — which was destroyed a few months ago in Turkey — is located here in a clearing beyond the woods and is still in use. Satellite photos revealed that vehicles occasionally appear and men continue to go in and out of the structure. I already got rid of one of the three hangars, located in Azerbaijan near Baku. A special ops military force blew up the one that sat in Volovo, a tiny hamlet south of Moscow. Now I have the job of checking out the third one here to see what they’re up to. The Shop, a notorious arms-dealing network of Russian criminals, was left in disarray after the business in Cyprus last year. We seriously damaged their organization but the leaders are still at large. Much of our intelligence indicates the Shop picked up and moved headquarters out of Russia and went to the Far East, possibly the Philippines or Hong Kong. That remains to be seen. One of Third Echelon’s top priorities over the last several months has been to find the four so-called directors of the Shop and bring them to justice. Or kill them, whichever comes first.
A Georgian named Andrei Zdrok is the main man. He’s number one on the “to do” list. The other directors consist of a Russian army general named Prokofiev — no relation to the composer, I don’t think; a former GDR prosecutor named Oskar Herzog; and another Russian — former KGB — by the name of Anton Antipov. If I can find any information pertaining to these guys’ whereabouts, I’ll have accomplished the mission and can go home.
“I see you’re on the move, Sam.” It’s Colonel Lambert, speaking to me through the implants in my ears. They allow me to talk with the team back in Washington when the reception is good. I answer him by pushing on the one in my throat.
“I’m approaching the compound now. What’s the satellite show?”
“There’s no activity. You’re clear to infiltrate.”
I move quietly through the woods, my boots inadvertently making squish sounds in the snow and ice. Can’t be helped. I seriously doubt there are any guards this deep in the forest. I’ll have to be more careful when I approach the hangar, though. And it appears to be just up ahead, where the trees begin to thin out.
Crouching, I scan the field in front of me. A building that once served as an airplane hangar sits at the end of a runway. Whoever piloted the stealth plane had to be pretty adept — there isn’t much breathing space at the end before the trees become thick again. A smaller building adjoins the hangar — most likely offices and bunks for the guys working there. An electrified fence and gate surrounds the perimeter and an unpaved road — now covered by snow — runs through the forest from the facility to the highway leading out of Obukhiv. The No Trespassing and Keep Out signs have apparently done a good job keeping out the curious.
Three Taiga snowmobiles sit parked outside the compound. I see a lone guard in front of the door, smoking a cigarette. Damn. If I’m going to deactivate the fence, someone inside is going to know about it.
Wait. Someone’s coming down the road. I see approaching headlights through the trees and hear the sound of vehicles.
“You’ve got company, Sam,” Lambert says. “Looks like a motorcycle, or maybe a snowmobile, and a car. Came out of nowhere.”
“Yeah, I see ’em.”
I quickly move through the brush to the edge of the gate and lie flat in the snow. Most of the time my uniform is black but since it’s custom-made for a Russian or Ukrainian winter, this model is completely white and thus blends in well with the natural surroundings. In a moment I’ll unzip it, peel it off, and reveal the darker uniform for when I need to lose myself in the shadows.