Splinter Cell

35

“Mr. Fisher,” Tarighian says as they march me into the control room. “Is spying on my facility a part of your Interpol report?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” I reply. I know it sounds lame, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

I scan the room to see what my opposition consists of. Besides Tarighian and the three guards holding me, I see Farid the bodyguard and Albert Mertens busy at a desk with another man. The odds would be pretty fair if I didn’t have my hands tied behind my back. They’ve also taken my Osprey, my headset and goggles, my weapons, and emptied all my pockets.

If looks could kill, Farid’s expression says it all. He’s obviously put two and two together and figured out I’m the one who broke his arm. I give him a smile and a wink.

Tarighian looks at me with those cold, brown eyes. “You should have stayed in Lake Van, Mr. Fisher. That’s where I thought you ended up.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You know, when I turn you over to my men, they will murder you and videotape it at the same time. They’ll up-load the tape on an Islamic Web site and the whole world — and all of America — will see you beheaded. You are American, are you not? You’re not Swiss, like you said.”

I don’t answer.

“I assure you that if I had the time I could make you talk. But I’m in a bit of a hurry. I fear I’ll have to expedite your sentence and make sure you’re no longer a threat to me before I begin this morning’s operation.”

“And what might that be?” I ask. I hope to appeal to his ego. “That’s an impressive-looking machine out there. What’s it do?”

Tarighian’s eyes flickered and he moved to the window. “It is lovely, isn’t it? I call it the Babylon Phoenix. The Babylon because it’s a reimagining of Gerard Bull’s supergun that was designed for Iraq in the 1980s, and the Phoenix because it has been reborn from the ashes of its ancestor.”

Hearing the mention of his creation, Mertens looks up and smiles at me.

“This is your doing, I gather?” I ask him.

The Belgian ignores me, but Tarighian answers for him. “Yes, Professor Mertens did an excellent job. To my specifications, of course.”

“What’s your game, Tarighian? What are you going to do?”

Upon hearing his real name, the man smiles at me. “You know who I am. I was afraid of that. Who do you work for, Fisher? The CIA? The FBI?”

“The NSA, not that it matters.”

He shrugs. “No, it doesn’t matter. You will be dead within the hour.” He gestures toward the supergun and says, “The Babylon Phoenix utilizes nine tons of special supergun propellant that can fire a 600 kilogram projectile over a range of approximately 1,000 kilometers.”

“That’s what Bull’s supergun was supposed to be able to do.”

“Yes. Alternatively, I could launch a 200-kilogram object into orbit with the assistance of a 2,000-kilogram rocket. The barrel, when fully extended, is 156 meters long with a one-meter bore. The launch tube is 30 centimeters thick at the breech, tapering to 6.5 centimeters at the exit. Like the V-3, the gun is built in segments. Twenty-six six-meter-long sections make up the barrel, totaling 1,510 tons. Added to this are four 220-ton recoil cylinders and the 165-ton breech. The reinforcement around the breech is fifty feet of solid concrete, steel, and rock. From our base here in Cyprus, we can hit any target in the Middle East we wish.”

“But it’s crazy,” I say. “You shoot the thing once and you’ll have the entire world on top of you in no time.”

“You’re right,” he answers.

“You only want to fire it once?”

“Yes. Once is all I need.”

“And what, may I ask, is your target?”

“I’m afraid you will go to your death not knowing that,” Tarighian says.

“Then can you tell me what kind of payload you’re firing?”

Tarighian scratches his chin and says, “Why not? I’m using a 600-kilogram MOAB, or as you call it, a Massive Ordnance Airburst Bomb. I think you know what this can accomplish?”

I knew what he was talking about. It’s similar to our CBU-72 Fuel-Air Explosive. It’s an incendiary, advanced cluster bomb carrying ethylene gas that explodes in the air, creating a fireball and explosive wave that spreads quickly over a much greater area than traditional explosives. The aftereffects of the explosion are very similar to those of small nuclear bombs but without the radiation. It’s a nasty, deadly device. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction — this is certainly it.

“You’re evil,” I mutter. Tarighian’s eyes flare and he approaches me. He turns his head slightly, as if he’s preparing to strike me, but instead he spits a glob of phlegm at me. It hits me in the face and dribbles down my cheek.

“That’s what I think of America,” he says. He moves away and addresses Mertens. “Begin the calibration. It’s time.”

Mertens nods and picks up a phone. After a moment he says, “Begin calibration. Raise the Phoenix.”

Six seconds later the control room shakes and a loud hum reverberates throughout the complex. Through the windows I see the ceiling part and slide away, revealing the dome two levels above. The supergun and its heavy platform begin to rise on a hydraulic lift toward the ground floor above us.

Tarighian, satisfied that everything is working properly, turns to me and addresses the guards. “He’s seen enough. Take him to the incinerator room and kill him.”

Farid grunts and makes a face at Tarighian. “I’m sorry, Farid,” he says. “I need you with me. Perhaps you’d like to hurt him a little right here?”

The brute smiles like an ogre. Even though his good arm is in a cast, I’m sure his other one can pack a wallop as well. The guards hold me steady as Farid faces me. He raises his free arm, makes a fist, pulls it back, and puts his entire weight into a punch that nearly knocks my head off. For a moment I hear a ringing in my ears and see nothing but bright lights. A tremendous spear of pain shoots through my now-broken nose into the back of my brain. Before I have time to recover even slightly, Farid hits me hard in the stomach. The guards let me fall to my knees as I gasp for breath. Blood pours from my nose onto the floor.

I hear Tarighian say, “That’s enough. Take him away and get rid of him. Be sure you videotape it. Make it gruesome. You know what to do.”

The men roughly pull me out of the control room.