Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath by Peter Telep Page A
Authors: Peter Telep
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blows, he caught sight of the man’s
painfully young eyes, and that youth reminded him of a moment after he’d had a few
drinks and his guard was down. His daughter, Sarah, had asked, “Is it easy to kill
a man?”
He’d considered the question for a long time, then finally told her, “When it’s for
our country, I try not to think about it. But most of the time I do. And it’s never
easy. Or fun. Or anything that should be glorified.”
Breathing a heavy sigh, Fisher traded his blood-soaked gloves for the troop’s, then
hustled out of there.
“Hey, Sam, Briggs here. Two down, nice and quiet. But they’re coming up fast from
the east. If you want me on combat control for that helo, I need to roll now.”
“Go. I’ll be right behind.”
Following a deep cut in the mountain formed eons prior by glaciers, Fisher abandoned
his assault on the last troop, who was just north of his position.
Maybe they could lure that soldier into following, then double back to take him out
once they were near the LZ. Getting to that troop now would take Fisher too far off
the trail and leave Briggs more vulnerable to those attackers from the east.
With his lips chapped and nose sore from the cold, Fisher dragged himself up another
ten meters, the grade nearly 40 percent now, his breath ragged. He had to stop, find
some air, find some way to actually catch his breath.
And that’s when the grenade went off.
The white-hot blinding flash, followed by the ear-rattling
ka-boom
sent him crashing forward and burying his face in the dirt. Grim and Charlie were
screaming in his ear for him to move, and for a moment, the world seemed to tip on
its axis.
There was no rush of imagery from his past, no reflections on his divorce, or anything
else—just that terrible ringing and white noise, the blinding flashes like old flashbulbs
going off repeatedly in his face.
One of those flashes turned into a lightning bolt with still images printed along
its surface, each cell depicting Sarah receiving the news of his death. No, he couldn’t
put her through that . . .
Muted gunfire stitched up the mountainside, and he could feel the rounds thumping
into the earth behind him. Was he hit by shrapnel? Was he okay? Where the hell was
he?
The moment came down like an avalanche, and barely conscious of his movements, he
was already on his feet, digging in deep, charging up the mountain, with more gunfire
trailing. He ripped free a grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it over his shoulder
without looking.
To his left rose a stand of pines, and he darted toward them, boots sliding as he
fought against the incline, his ears ringing loudly from the explosions.
Those sons of bitches were coming up behind him, but
he
had the high ground, if nothing else.
He had two more grenades left. Tugging down his trifocals, he went to sonar, marked
the positions of nine men now who were fanned out in a semicircle within the trees,
with several more, three or four, in the distance.
Night-vision mode allowed him to zoom in on the nearest troop. Seeing an opportunity,
Fisher shoved up his goggles and got behind the AK-12’s attached scope. As a rule
of combat—and if you had a choice—you never trusted an enemy’s rifle. He sighted the
forehead of the nearest troop, then panned right to the next three about a yard back.
The second man was there, leaning out from behind the trunk. Fisher knew that once
he fired the first round, the second guy would switch positions, ducking for cover—but
his tree wasn’t quite wide enough, and so when he did try to hide, Fisher would exploit
that reaction.
The moment seemed perfect, and firing down at a sharp angle decreased the amount of
bullet drop, placing the odds of a better shot in his favor.
If he did it right, gripped the weapon firmly with his left hand, gently with his
right, then exhaled halfway, every shot would be a surprise. There was no
painfully young eyes, and that youth reminded him of a moment after he’d had a few
drinks and his guard was down. His daughter, Sarah, had asked, “Is it easy to kill
a man?”
He’d considered the question for a long time, then finally told her, “When it’s for
our country, I try not to think about it. But most of the time I do. And it’s never
easy. Or fun. Or anything that should be glorified.”
Breathing a heavy sigh, Fisher traded his blood-soaked gloves for the troop’s, then
hustled out of there.
“Hey, Sam, Briggs here. Two down, nice and quiet. But they’re coming up fast from
the east. If you want me on combat control for that helo, I need to roll now.”
“Go. I’ll be right behind.”
Following a deep cut in the mountain formed eons prior by glaciers, Fisher abandoned
his assault on the last troop, who was just north of his position.
Maybe they could lure that soldier into following, then double back to take him out
once they were near the LZ. Getting to that troop now would take Fisher too far off
the trail and leave Briggs more vulnerable to those attackers from the east.
With his lips chapped and nose sore from the cold, Fisher dragged himself up another
ten meters, the grade nearly 40 percent now, his breath ragged. He had to stop, find
some air, find some way to actually catch his breath.
And that’s when the grenade went off.
The white-hot blinding flash, followed by the ear-rattling
ka-boom
sent him crashing forward and burying his face in the dirt. Grim and Charlie were
screaming in his ear for him to move, and for a moment, the world seemed to tip on
its axis.
There was no rush of imagery from his past, no reflections on his divorce, or anything
else—just that terrible ringing and white noise, the blinding flashes like old flashbulbs
going off repeatedly in his face.
One of those flashes turned into a lightning bolt with still images printed along
its surface, each cell depicting Sarah receiving the news of his death. No, he couldn’t
put her through that . . .
Muted gunfire stitched up the mountainside, and he could feel the rounds thumping
into the earth behind him. Was he hit by shrapnel? Was he okay? Where the hell was
he?
The moment came down like an avalanche, and barely conscious of his movements, he
was already on his feet, digging in deep, charging up the mountain, with more gunfire
trailing. He ripped free a grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it over his shoulder
without looking.
To his left rose a stand of pines, and he darted toward them, boots sliding as he
fought against the incline, his ears ringing loudly from the explosions.
Those sons of bitches were coming up behind him, but
he
had the high ground, if nothing else.
He had two more grenades left. Tugging down his trifocals, he went to sonar, marked
the positions of nine men now who were fanned out in a semicircle within the trees,
with several more, three or four, in the distance.
Night-vision mode allowed him to zoom in on the nearest troop. Seeing an opportunity,
Fisher shoved up his goggles and got behind the AK-12’s attached scope. As a rule
of combat—and if you had a choice—you never trusted an enemy’s rifle. He sighted the
forehead of the nearest troop, then panned right to the next three about a yard back.
The second man was there, leaning out from behind the trunk. Fisher knew that once
he fired the first round, the second guy would switch positions, ducking for cover—but
his tree wasn’t quite wide enough, and so when he did try to hide, Fisher would exploit
that reaction.
The moment seemed perfect, and firing down at a sharp angle decreased the amount of
bullet drop, placing the odds of a better shot in his favor.
If he did it right, gripped the weapon firmly with his left hand, gently with his
right, then exhaled halfway, every shot would be a surprise. There was no
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