CHAPTER 8: FIRE FROM ABOVE

April 8, 2008

20,000 Feet Above Tripoli

Libya

The sleek, black-matted Osprey spy plane flew swiftly through the opaque, moonless sky. Sam Fisher sat down on a seat, preparing his parachute attachments on his shoulder. He had checked the 5.56x45-millimeter magazines for his SC pistol and his SCK-120 assault rifle. Fisher also made sure to reserve a flash/bang grenade and a airfoil round, just in case Fouad Zillah of Allah's Voice wouldn't surrender easily. Sam knew this mission was going to be tough, but it would ease over time, as Russian Army commandos take positions, and provide support for Sam. Sam looked up at the ceiling of the Osprey, and whispered a little prayer, before he was interrupted by Francis Coen, Third Echelon's field runner. She was a short, brunette woman, with a sort of a smooth face, very feminine. She wore fighter pilot clothing to withstand the G-forces applied to the Osprey.

"Remember, keep constant contact with Opalev. We'll be watching you closely via reconnaissance satellite." Coen's dark brown eyes looked Fisher up and down. "You seem apprehensive..."

"Yeah, I'm apprehensive. I have to rescue three hundred hostages from an Islamic madman, of course I'm apprehensive." Sam said. He remembered something. "Shit, I forgot my..." before Sam could finish, Coen drew out Sam's K-BAR Marine Corps combat knife.

Sam smiled. "Thanks."

"No problem," Coen said. The red light above turned green.

"That's your stop, Fish. Good luck." Coen saluted. Sam saluted back, and without saying a word, he disengaged the lever to the left of his thigh, and the seat pulled back, as a sliding opening below opened. Sam jumped from the Osprey, and flew through the thick, warm desert air.

Sam's free-fall was not so good. Lambert reviewed everything except for the intense wind turbulence up here. Sam flipped heel-over-heel in mid-air a few times in the last few seconds. Sam looked at his OPSAT, and clicked on his altimeter. He was at the altitude to coordinate his High Altitude High Opening technique. Sam pulled on the shoulder cords, and a loud Whoop was heard as his chute blossomed. As he floated, Sam could not see the ground. The darkness was astounding. The silence was also eerie. There was no sound. Sam wondered if he went deaf for a while. After fifteen seconds, Sam could see the city below. Dimly lit buildings and dark streets lined the land below. There were no skyscrapers. Just mid-sized buildings, apartments, and streets. Sam was slowly getting closer to landing. He would land some five hundred yards east of the U.S. embassy, and would have to hit the rooftop first, and work his way down. Fouad Zillah had probably already took out hostages, so it would be ironically easier to move them out.

Sam finally landed with a soft punch of his boots against the desert floor. Sam used his K-BAR to cut the nylon cords from his shoulder, and smothered his parachute into a neat pile. Sam donned his night-vision goggles, and scanned the vast desert area around him. In the distance behind him, he could see dim building lights, but right in front of him, some three hundred yards away, he could faintly see the U.S. embassy.

Fouad Zillah kept a body count of the thirty-something hostages he ordered his men to kill. He should of killed that white woman, the coordinator of the failed American assault against his men and the embassy. But he didn't. He had a dream a few nights ago, and he had the instinctive feeling this woman had more information than what she was telling his men. He dreamed out being on a large snowy mountain, and voice telling him "Be careful." Zillah didn't know what that meant, but he knew it was probably Allah's angels telling him the Americans were trying again for a second assault. Fouad safeguarded ths threat by positioning a few more men on the rooftop, and more covering the outside area. Zillah drew on his cigar, and entered the small office on the second floor, which the white woman was being interrogated.

She was not in good shape. Blood leaked from her upper lip, and her right eye was swollen almost swollen shut. A tray of white rice was scattered all over the floor, and the cot at which she slept in was overturned. Zillah's men had been torturing her over a few days now, and she hadn't said one word, utter not a single cry of pain. Almost like she was pain-resistant. Zillah would make her talk. Zillah opened the door, and two of the interrogators were kicking her, but she just sat there, hands tied tight behind her back, with a distant stare. Zillah ordered his mean to leave him alone with her. The men stepped out, and Zillah closed the door. He sat down on a chair on the opposite corner of the room.

"You know, woman, it seem like torturing you isn't making you talk. We're not progressing. We need you to tell us what you know about that American assault, and how did you coordinate it." The woman just stared forward, her blood-streaked face not turning to face Fouad.

"Please woman. Speak. Speak to me." The woman slowly turned her head to Fouad, her blue eyes hidden but radiant behind that bloody face. "You'll kill me anyway." The woman said. Fouad pulled out his M-9 Barretta pistol from his thigh holster, and discharged the magazine. He did the same thing with his AK-74. He dropped the magazines onto the floor, the woman watched him. Zillah then sat the two unloaded weapons on the floor. "Young woman, I will not kill you." Fouad said, pointing at the weaponry to demonstrate he had no intentions of shooting her. "Please. Tell me what you know."

Fifteen seconds of silence elapsed until the woman spoke up. "There were snipers a few hundred yards from the embassy. I gave them a hand signal so they could alert the troops to the embassy." The woman talked very slow and her speech was slurred, hinting sleep deprivation, and extreme exhaustion. Fouad nodded.

"What's your name?" Fouad asked.

"Nadia." she replied.

"Listen, Nadia, you will not any longer. So..." Fouad was interrupted with by a burst of static on his walkie-talkie.

"Yes?" He said into his walkie talkie.

"Sir, we lost contact with our rooftop squad." One of his men said frantically through the radio. Fouad cursed under his breath, and moved out of the room. He looked back at Nadia, and proceeded.

The man was an idiot. Nadia had played him for a fool. Her sympathetic face, and her speech made the man feel sorry for her. What he should of done was take the weapons with him he left on the floor. Nadia simply untied herself from the rope on her hands, and moved towards the weapons. She picked up the AK-74, shoved the clip inside of it, and proceeded out of the room cautiously.