Chapter 3:
Infiltrating hostile
territory
Every muscle tense, every inch of his body in preparation for what was to come, he glanced at his built-in altimeter of his OPSATIt was still red. It was still only 5000 feet, 1 minute thirty seconds. His tight suit was pressed firmly against his skin and he was beginning to feel the effects of a long fall. He pulled – almost yanked – his arm to his chest, which was a slow operation due to the intense velocity, and he looked the altimeter. It was still red, but army training told him that he had only a couple of seconds left. Patience was a virtue and something every soldier needed for his sanity to survive in wartime. A black operative needed the virtue more by a tenfold. Only a couple of seconds before…as if on cue, the red light flickered and changed to green. He gripped his backpack and pulled a cord. He was suddenly whisked into the air, the sensation of speed suddenly taken from him and replaced with a jerk. He looked up. The parachute was intact. It was dubious it would have survived the situation, but it held out. He allowed the wind to drift him closer and closer to the ground, but…wait…damn. He was floating further and further in the direction of the open sea. He'd have to cut off the parachute and try to survive the fall. It was too risky. He'd have to wait. He wished he had his balaclava mask and scuba gear right now, but that was out of the question. His footsteps would be too obvious. He had to jettison the parachute and try to land on the shore with hurting himself too much. It was going to be hard.
"Fisher, report."
"Successful HAHO jump, Lambert, despite almost losing the use of my legs. The wind was carrying me out to sea, and I had to cut myself loose and land on the sand. Is there any chance of a slightly closer deployment next time? That might be easier on my limbs. I'm only human, you know."
"I'm afraid that's out of the question; the terrorist population would have seen the Osprey and immediately notified any external contacts. They may have even used Strain as a tool to get their ends." Sam Fisher winced.
"Well, at least, could we have boat deployment next time?"
"That would have been out of the question as well. The seas are far too rough to keep a vessel topside. But you have a point there," he admitted grudgingly. "Maybe next time we have a kidnapping. I'm inputting the objectives into your OPSAT." Lambert signed off.
Fisher checked his OPSAT just as it updated.
Primary Objectives:
Locate and free Roland Strain
Do not rescue any civilians
Secondary Objectives:
Disable all communications
Identify his captors
Opportunity Objectives:
Discover how the flood barrier was placed
Sam spoke into his microphone. "Why am I leaving civilian hostages alone?"
"We can't risk them losing their nerve. They're not trained in shadow ops, so they can't move around undetected like you can. They might get killed, and we're not allowing civilian casualties." Lambert paused, and Sam heard typing. His OPSAT updated, including 'No civilian casualties'. Lambert continued, "Don't worry; I'm sending in Shadownet operatives to take care of them and the terrorists, too. You just need to deal with Strain."
Sam nodded, accustomed to the fact that sometimes Splinter Cells in training would complete missions Sam could not; and then froze. "Lambert…I'm going to have to sign off. Looks like the parachute rendered some attention after all."
Lambert scowled. "Get out of there, Fisher, but don't let them inform their head officer!" Sam mentally nodded, pressed himself against the sand without actually touching it with his arms, and slowly moved across the beach with his hands and feet. He rolled sideways noiselessly as the pair of terrorist scouts reached the parachute. Sam slowly rose to a crouching position and began to follow them at a distance.
In his years he had discovered that the one shadow that no-one is ever suspicious is their own. A technique Sam learnt during his recent operations is when you become a lithe predator, stalking the prey, waiting for the ideal moment to strike. When you're close enough to hear his breath, when you're closer than ever; every step he takes is a step you've given him, every decision and choice he makes is a choice you've permitted, until it's time to go your separate ways…and then, the choice is yours alone. His hand dropped to his gun as they stopped at the foot of the parachute, and Sam's Five-Seven was slowly removed from its holster. As Sam rose to his feet, the pistol in his hand, he heard them say "Looks like the Night Vision goggles do work. There was a parachute." But instead of shooting the terrorist in front of him…his hand snaked around his neck, slowly at first, and then he pulled his arm backward, carrying the terrorist's neck along with it. He raised his gun and pointed over the terrorists shoulder. He pulled the trigger and a soft thoom – accompanied by recoil and a smoking bullet shell ejected from the pistol – was the last sound the second terrorist heard. He fell backwards and landed on the soft sand with a thud. The first terrorist was frozen in Sam's arms, shocked by the image of a fallen comrade. He tried to see who his captor was, but all he knew was that he had a strong grip and a sharp knife.
"Quiet…This far from the mainland; no-one can hear you scream."
"Oh…God…please let me live!"
"I'm not God, but I'll see what I can do…if you give me some information."
"What? Anything! I'll tell you anything. Just don't kill me!"
"Alright…Where have you taken Roland Strain?"
"What; who? I don't know who you're talking about!"
Sam tightened his grip. "Don't play coy with me, soldier. I know you're holding him here somewhere."
"No! Please don't hurt me! I honestly don't know who Mr. Strain is!"
Sam cursed under his breath. "Has anybody been transported away from here?"
"Um, not that I…oh yeah, there was one person escorted out of here. I thought he was some sort of V.I.P or something; they had a lot of bodyguards and someone was talking to him cordially. They drove off into the mountains somewhere."
Sam sighed. "Ok, thanks. Do you know anything else?"
"Uh…like what?"
"Who are you working for?"
"S-some PMC from Moscow called Striker Supremacy; I think they're Russian but I don't know. I've seen some other nationalities as well. They're very secretive and barely anyone knows they exist. I was approached personally for the job of mercenary."
"Do you know why they would need oil?"
"Oil?" He inquired, surprised. "No, not that I know of…I do know that they're working on a hush-hush project called Project Atom, but I don't know anything about oil…"
Sam interrupted. "One more thing. Do you know how that flood barrier got there?"
The terrorist glanced wildly at the barrier. "Uh, no! I've told you all I know! Please don't kill me!"
Sam consented, tightening his grip and twisting at a certain angle to render the target unconscious. The pain is minor and temporary, and the target sleeps for several hours, or until woken. It is convenient for stealth operations.
To be continued...
