Operation Barracuda (2005) by Tom - Splinter Cell 02 Clancy Page A
Authors: Tom - Splinter Cell 02 Clancy
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noisy. When I have to keep quiet, the device I call the Safecracker is the next best thing. It’s the size of a cigarette pack and is equipped with suction cups and a transmitter that sends signals to my OPSAT. It records the minute sounds the lock mechanism makes within the safe and then creates a fairly accurate estimate of the combination needed to open it. It doesn’t always work. If it’s a really complex mechanism, I don’t have a prayer.
I attach the device to the safe and set it to work. Four minutes go by before the first number appears on my OPSAT. Damn, it’s taking too much time. I’m not comfortable with this. Harry forgot to tell me how long those tranquilizers last. I sure don’t want Fido coming in here after me.
Another three minutes and the second number pops up. Just one more and I can see if the Safecracker did its job correctly. But as I’m counting the seconds I could swear I hear something outside the office. I hold my breath, freeze, and listen carefully.
Come on, make another sound. Confirm what I heard the first time.
But there’s nothing. I exhale just as the third number appears on the OPSAT. I quickly turn the knob, trying the combination the Safecracker has provided to me.
The safe opens, revealing a few file folders.
I’m able to read some of the Cyrillic and make out that one file is devoted to Russia’s nuclear inventory. And China’s too!
“My God,” Lambert says. He can also see the papers through my trident goggles. “That document lists the location of every nuclear device in Russia and China.” I don’t risk answering him vocally but I continue to study the file. It dates back to the eighties, when the Soviet Union was a bit friendlier with its Asian neighbors, so it could be terribly out of date. The pages go on and on . . . uh-oh. There’s a page listing missing nuclear devices. Twenty-two of them. Holy shit. The general has scribbled coded notations beside these entries. There is a date on this page and it’s recent.
“Snap some shots of that, Sam,” Carly says. “I’ll work on making sense out of those notes.” I quickly do so with the OPSAT.
Another file seems to concern a Chinese general in the People’s Liberation Army by the name of Tun. I’ve heard of him. He’s a controversial figure in China, a real hawk. Tun likes to rile up the government with emotional speeches, inciting them to take action against Taiwan. I’m not sure what kind of power or influence the guy has these days but through most of the nineties he was considered a bit of a crackpot. Prokofiev’s file on the man is pretty extensive. Photos, biographical info, and . . . damn, lists of arms that Tun appears to have purchased from Russia. No, wait. Not from Russia. From the Shop ! It has to be. These are purchase orders for arms, worth millions of dollars, that Prokofiev has signed off on.
I quickly snap more photos and then carefully place them back in the safe. I close it, spin the combination knob, and stand.
“Good work, Sam. Now get the hell out of there,” Lambert says.
That’s when the office door opens. A woman, dressed in a nightgown and resembling Boris Yeltsin in drag, sees me and screams like a banshee.
6
I jump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.
In Russian, I say, “Please be quiet. I won’t hurt you!” I mean it, too.
But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.
She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.
“Listen to me!” I shout in Russian. “I work for the government! I’m here to help you.”
But it’s like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I’m
I attach the device to the safe and set it to work. Four minutes go by before the first number appears on my OPSAT. Damn, it’s taking too much time. I’m not comfortable with this. Harry forgot to tell me how long those tranquilizers last. I sure don’t want Fido coming in here after me.
Another three minutes and the second number pops up. Just one more and I can see if the Safecracker did its job correctly. But as I’m counting the seconds I could swear I hear something outside the office. I hold my breath, freeze, and listen carefully.
Come on, make another sound. Confirm what I heard the first time.
But there’s nothing. I exhale just as the third number appears on the OPSAT. I quickly turn the knob, trying the combination the Safecracker has provided to me.
The safe opens, revealing a few file folders.
I’m able to read some of the Cyrillic and make out that one file is devoted to Russia’s nuclear inventory. And China’s too!
“My God,” Lambert says. He can also see the papers through my trident goggles. “That document lists the location of every nuclear device in Russia and China.” I don’t risk answering him vocally but I continue to study the file. It dates back to the eighties, when the Soviet Union was a bit friendlier with its Asian neighbors, so it could be terribly out of date. The pages go on and on . . . uh-oh. There’s a page listing missing nuclear devices. Twenty-two of them. Holy shit. The general has scribbled coded notations beside these entries. There is a date on this page and it’s recent.
“Snap some shots of that, Sam,” Carly says. “I’ll work on making sense out of those notes.” I quickly do so with the OPSAT.
Another file seems to concern a Chinese general in the People’s Liberation Army by the name of Tun. I’ve heard of him. He’s a controversial figure in China, a real hawk. Tun likes to rile up the government with emotional speeches, inciting them to take action against Taiwan. I’m not sure what kind of power or influence the guy has these days but through most of the nineties he was considered a bit of a crackpot. Prokofiev’s file on the man is pretty extensive. Photos, biographical info, and . . . damn, lists of arms that Tun appears to have purchased from Russia. No, wait. Not from Russia. From the Shop ! It has to be. These are purchase orders for arms, worth millions of dollars, that Prokofiev has signed off on.
I quickly snap more photos and then carefully place them back in the safe. I close it, spin the combination knob, and stand.
“Good work, Sam. Now get the hell out of there,” Lambert says.
That’s when the office door opens. A woman, dressed in a nightgown and resembling Boris Yeltsin in drag, sees me and screams like a banshee.
6
I jump toward Mrs. Prokofiev, grab her by her massive shoulders, pull the woman toward me, step to the side, and place my hand firmly over her mouth. This muffles her scream to an extent.
In Russian, I say, “Please be quiet. I won’t hurt you!” I mean it, too.
But the woman is huge and strong. She wrestles out of my grip and swings an elbow into my stomach. The suit protects me but this woman means business.
She starts to run from the office and I tackle her. Her bulky frame falls to the carpet with a heavy thud as she screams again. I move over her and put my hand across her mouth again.
“Listen to me!” I shout in Russian. “I work for the government! I’m here to help you.”
But it’s like holding a 280-pound wild boar. Because I’m
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