Fallout (Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell)
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A radical Islamic leader who dreams of the past will do anything in his power to ensure that the future is destroyed-by hitting the technological world where it hurts: oil.
Casualty Care Division, Peter died. Fisher, who had spent as much time as they would allow him at Peter’s bedside in the airlocked hospital room, had gone to the cafeteria to catch a quick breakfast when the crash code was called. He returned to find Seltkins emerging from the airlock and a trio of nurses at Peter’s bed removing the IVs and monitor leads from his now-lifeless body. Still lacking a diagnosis, the army erred on the side of caution and flew Peter’s body to the Umatilla Chemical
runner that Fisher’s estimate put at US$10,000. He was five feet from the top when he heard a door slam somewhere to his right. Hunched over, he padded up the final few steps, then dropped to his belly and peeked around the corner. At the far end of the arched passage, where it curved around the bulge of the tower, a man in a gray velvet track suit was leaning on the railing, looking down at BakiyevLand. “Hey, you two, what’s the racket?” the man said in heavily accented English. Fisher
deserves arrest.” “And if they do?” Fisher asked. “Arrest you?” Fisher nodded. “Then God help you. My advice . . .” Frederick paused. “If it were me going back there . . . I’d go to ground before I let them get their hands on me. If you know they’re coming for you, run.” NOW, sitting on the bench, watching the two SSD officers watching him, Fisher realized he agreed with Fred’s advice. However steep the odds against success, he’d go to ground the second they made a move for him. After
squelch of radio static. Then a commanding voice shushing the other voices, followed by a tinny voice over the radio. Fisher strained to hear, but was unable to catch any of the transmission. Whatever it was, it provoked an immediate response. A soldier came trotting down the ramp, barked an order at the three chatting guards, then ran back up. Fisher caught a bit of it: “. . . ready . . . bring her . . .” One of the guards standing against the door turned, lifted the latch, leaned inside, and
by azalea bushes thick with bright orange and red blooms. To his right stood a four-story antebellum plantation house with a wraparound porch. A man in a white lab coat stood on the porch; he raised a hand to Fisher. Fisher waved back. AS he had on every other visit, Fisher found her on the rear lawn sitting in an Adirondack chair beneath a weeping willow. Beside her, a trio of ducks paddled across a pond, beaks poking water bugs on the surface. He walked across the carefully manicured grass