Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Operation Barracuda

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

THE BESTSELLING NOVELS OF

TOM CLANCY

THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

A new generation—Jack Ryan, Jr.—takes over in Tom Clancy’s
extraordinary, and extraordinarily prescient, novel.

“INCREDIBLY ADDICTIVE.” —Daily Mail (London)

RED RABBIT

Tom Clancy returns to Jack Ryan’s early days—
in an engrossing novel of global political drama . . .

“A WILD, SATISFYING RIDE.” —New York Daily News

THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

A clash of world powers. President Jack Ryan’s trial by fire.

“HEART-STOPPING ACTION . . . CLANCY STILL REIGNS.” —The Washington Post

RAINBOW SIX

John Clark is used to doing the CIA’s dirty work.
Now he’s taking on the world . . .

“ACTION-PACKED.” —The New York Times Book Review

EXECUTIVE ORDERS

A devastating terrorist act leaves Jack Ryan
as President of the United States . . .

“UNDOUBTEDLY CLANCY’S BEST YET.”

—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

DEBT OF HONOR

It begins with the murder of an American woman
in the back streets of Tokyo. It ends in war . . .

“A SHOCKER.” —Entertainment Weekly

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

The smash bestseller that launched Clancy’s career—
the incredible search for a Soviet defector
and the nuclear submarine he commands . . .

“BREATHLESSLY EXCITING.” —The Washington Post

RED STORM RISING

The ultimate scenario for World War III—
the final battle for global control . . .

“THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT.”

—Newsweek

PATRIOT GAMES

CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination—
and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists . . .

“A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT.”

—The Wall Street Journal

THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars
missile defense system . . .

“CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL PAGE-TURNER.” —Los Angeles Daily News

CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the
American government’s explosive, and top secret, response . . .

“A CRACKLING GOOD YARN.” —The Washington Post

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the
balance of power in the Middle East—and around the world . . .

“CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED.”

—The Dallas Morning News

WITHOUT REMORSE

His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA
is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

“HIGHLY ENTERTAINING.” —The Wall Street Journal

Novels by Tom Clancy

THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER
RED STORM RISING
PATRIOT GAMES
THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN
CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER
THE SUM OF ALL FEARS
WITHOUT REMORSE
DEBT OF HONOR
EXECUTIVE ORDERS
RAINBOW SIX
THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON
RED RABBIT
THE TEETH OF THE TIGER

SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

Nonfiction
SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP
ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT
FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING
MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT
AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE
CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER
SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND
(written with General Fred Franks, Jr., Ret.)

EVERY MAN A TIGER
(written with General Charles Horner, Ret.)

SHADOW WARRIORS: INSIDE THE SPECIAL FORCES
(written with General Carl Stiner, Ret., and Tony Koltz)

Created by Tom Clancy
SPLINTER CELL
SPLINTER CELL: OPERATION BARRACUDA

Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: SEA OF FIRE
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: CALL TO TREASON
TOM CLANCY’S OP-CENTER: WAR OF EAGLES

TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: CHANGING OF THE GUARD
TOM CLANCY’S NET FORCE: SPRINGBOARD

Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: ZERO HOUR
TOM CLANCY’S POWER PLAYS: WILD CARD

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TOM CLANCY’S SPLINTER CELL®: OPERATION BARRACUDA

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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley edition / November 2005

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author and publisher wish to acknowledge the work of Raymond Benson, whose invaluable contribution to this novel is immeasurable. Many thanks go to Ubisoft Entertainment personnel Mathieu Ferland, Alexis Nolent, and Olivier Henriot for their cooperation and support, and to Vanessa Lorden for her help. Finally, a big thank-you each goes to James McMahon and Dr. Grace Stewart for their expertise.

1

THE OPSAT’s mechanical alarm wakes me at eleven o’clock sharp. Since I possess the ability to sleep soundly at the drop of a hat, anywhere, at any time, the OPSAT’s built-in prodder that nudges the pulse in my wrist comes in very handy. It’s silent and it doesn’t jolt me awake the way alarm clocks sometimes do.

I hear the wind blowing outside the small tent. The weather forecast had warned of a winter storm before midnight and it appears to be just beginning. Terrific. The sub-zero weather outside my bivouac would have in normal circumstances turned me into a Popsicle hours ago had it not been for Third Echelon’s technological breakthrough in designing the skintight, superhero-like uniform that separates my very human body from the harsh elements. Not only does it protect me from extreme heat or cold but the threads of Kevlar woven into the fabric somewhat serve as bulletproof material. At long range, the stuff works pretty well. I don’t want to have the pleasure of testing its strength at short range, thank you very much.

I crawl out of the tent, stand, and take a moment to survey the dark forest around me. Aside from the howling wind, I can’t hear a thing. Lambert had warned me that I might encounter wolves this far into the woods but I must have lucked out. If I were a wolf, I’d stay in my den and keep the hell out of this kind of weather. There sure won’t be any meals wandering about in minus ten degrees Fahrenheit. None except a two-legged mammal that happens to be heavily armed.

I quickly roll up the tent. The unique camouflage makes it appear to be a snow-covered rock when it’s erected on the ground. One would have to examine it at close range to recognize it for what it really is. Again, a well-designed piece of equipment, courtesy of the National Security Agency. It’s ironic that only a handful of the personnel within the NSA know of the classified department called Third Echelon. I’m such an elite employee of the United States government that you could count on two hands the number of people who can define “Splinter Cell.” And to tell the truth, I couldn’t name all those people. Aside from my immediate supervisor, Colonel Irving Lambert, and the minuscule team working in the unremarkable, unmarked building that stands separate from the main NSA headquarters in Washington, D.C., I have no clue as to what senators or Cabinet members have heard of Third Echelon. I’m pretty sure the president knows about us, but even he would Protocol Six me if I were caught. That means I’d be disavowed—they would wash their hands of me and pretend I never existed.

I pack the tent and lower my goggles. The night vision mode works remarkably well in a Ukrainian snowstorm. I may feel as if I’m in a scene from Doctor Zhivago but at least I’m not going to bump into any trees as I move forward.

Obukhiv is five miles away to the south. I’m somewhere between that small village and Kyiv to the north, which is where I began my mission. We spell it “Kyiv” now instead of “Kiev” because it’s the English translation of the proper Ukrainian name for the city. Same goes for “Obukhiv,” which used to be “Obukhov.” The people made a concerted attempt to change all city names from Russian to Ukrainian since the nation became independent in 1991. I’m pretty sure the Russians will keep spelling them the old way.

Moving through a free Ukraine is no problem these days so I had little trouble picking up my equipment from the American Embassy in Kyiv and obtaining an SUV to drive to Obukhiv. I laughed when I saw the thing—a 1996 Ford Explorer XL with 120,000 miles on it. But it runs okay. From the village I hiked into the woods earlier today and set up camp here in the cold forest. Third Echelon intelligence confirmed that the Shop’s third hangar for their stealth plane—which was destroyed a few months ago in Turkey—is located here in a clearing beyond the woods and is still in use. Satellite photos revealed that vehicles occasionally appear and men continue to go in and out of the structure. I already got rid of one of the three hangars, located in Azerbaijan near Baku. A special ops military force blew up the one that sat in Volovo, a tiny hamlet south of Moscow. Now I have the job of checking out the third one here to see what they’re up to. The Shop, a notorious arms-dealing network of Russian criminals, was left in disarray after the business in Cyprus last year. We seriously damaged their organization but the leaders are still at large. Much of our intelligence indicates the Shop picked up and moved headquarters out of Russia and went to the Far East, possibly the Philippines or Hong Kong. That remains to be seen. One of Third Echelon’s top priorities over the last several months has been to find the four so-called directors of the Shop and bring them to justice. Or kill them, whichever comes first.

A Georgian named Andrei Zdrok is the main man. He’s number one on the “to do” list. The other directors consist of a Russian army general named Prokofiev—no relation to the composer, I don’t think; a former GDR prosecutor named Oskar Herzog; and another Russian—former KGB—by the name of Anton Antipov. If I can find any information pertaining to these guys’ whereabouts, I’ll have accomplished the mission and can go home.

“I see you’re on the move, Sam.” It’s Colonel Lambert, speaking to me through the implants in my ears. They allow me to talk with the team back in Washington when the reception is good. I answer him by pushing on the one in my throat.

“I’m approaching the compound now. What’s the satellite show?”

“There’s no activity. You’re clear to infiltrate.”

I move quietly through the woods, my boots inadvertently making squish sounds in the snow and ice. Can’t be helped. I seriously doubt there are any guards this deep in the forest. I’ll have to be more careful when I approach the hangar, though. And it appears to be just up ahead, where the trees begin to thin out.

Crouching, I scan the field in front of me. A building that once served as an airplane hangar sits at the end of a runway. Whoever piloted the stealth plane had to be pretty adept—there isn’t much breathing space at the end before the trees become thick again. A smaller building adjoins the hangar—most likely offices and bunks for the guys working there. An electrified fence and gate surrounds the perimeter and an unpaved road—now covered by snow—runs through the forest from the facility to the highway leading out of Obukhiv. The No Trespassing and Keep Out signs have apparently done a good job keeping out the curious.

Three Taiga snowmobiles sit parked outside the compound. I see a lone guard in front of the door, smoking a cigarette. Damn. If I’m going to deactivate the fence, someone inside is going to know about it.

Wait. Someone’s coming down the road. I see approaching headlights through the trees and hear the sound of vehicles.

“You’ve got company, Sam,” Lambert says. “Looks like a motorcycle, or maybe a snowmobile, and a car. Came out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, I see ’em.”

I quickly move through the brush to the edge of the gate and lie flat in the snow. Most of the time my uniform is black but since it’s custom-made for a Russian or Ukrainian winter, this model is completely white and thus blends in well with the natural surroundings. In a moment I’ll unzip it, peel it off, and reveal the darker uniform for when I need to lose myself in the shadows.

The hum of the electrified fence suddenly ceases. They’ve turned it off from the inside and the gate begins to open automatically.

Another Taiga snowmobile, driven by a lone rider, sails past me and goes through the open gate. A few seconds later, a black Mercedes follows. I make sure no other vehicles are lagging behind and then I roll my body through the gate as it starts to close. I lie still and peer around to make sure I wasn’t seen. So far, so good. Now’s the time to play chameleon and dispose of my white outer-suit.

After stuffing the garment into my backpack, I get up and creep closer, staying to the shadows. Positioning myself behind a boarded-up water well, I watch the newcomers as they stop their vehicles in front of the small building. The guard I saw earlier goes over to the hangar and unlocks the door. He swings it open and the guy on the snowmobile guides his ride inside. After a moment, he walks out and the first guard closes the hangar door—but doesn’t lock it. The Mercedes’ driver keeps the motor running as four men get out of the car. One of them appears to be a Russian army general. I change the lenses in my trident goggles, focus on the men, and positively identify the officer as General Stefan Prokofiev. One of the other guys looks like Oskar Herzog, but if it’s him he’s grown a silly beard. The third guy I don’t recognize. He’s smaller than the others and has long, flowing black hair. Looks kind of like Rasputin. The fourth man is another soldier, probably just a bodyguard for the general. I quickly snap some photos with my OPSAT and beam them to Washington via satellite uplink with encrypted burst transmission.

The door to the main building opens and I see two men standing just beyond the threshold. They wave to the four-some as the men walk inside. Hands are shaken and then the door slams shut.

The driver gets out of the car and greets the snowmobile rider. They speak in Russian, probably talking about the weather. The guard offers the rider a cigarette and they walk around the building. As soon as they’re out of sight, I run toward the hangar—roughly twenty meters—and peek inside the door. Where an airplane once rested, the place is now full of crates, snowmobiles, and a couple of cars. Nothing else of interest. I then reach into the backpack and grab one of the nifty homing beacons that Third Echelon created for me. It looks like a hockey puck, only smaller. It’s magnetized and is activated by a twist of the top. I quickly move back outside to the Mercedes, crouch behind it, and place the device on the underside. There is a soft clink as the magnet meets metal. I push a button on my OPSAT to make sure it’s receiving the signal.

Okay, let’s get inside the building now. I try the knob but it’s locked. So I knock and whistle loudly. My Russian isn’t great but it’ll do for short innocuous phrases in case I need to converse with someone.

I hear footsteps and the sound of the guard unlocking the door. It swings open and I reach for him, pull him outside, and give him a head bonk he won’t forget. The sharp edge of my goggles slices his nose a bit but he’ll live. I drag his unconscious form around to the side of the hangar and hide him behind a generator attached to the building. I then hurry back to the front door, turn off the night vision, and step inside.

The corridor is empty but I can hear angry voices in a room down the hallway. There’s a washroom next to it, so I go in there and shut the door. I open a pouch on my leg and remove a microphone with a suction cup attached to it. I lick the cup and stick it on the wall, then adjust my OPSAT to pick up the signal. Through my headset I can now hear what they’re saying. The Russian is difficult to pick up but I can understand some of it. For good measure I start recording it just as Carly St. John, Third Echelon’s acting technical director, speaks through the implants.

“I’ll try to give you a rough translation as we go, Sam,” she says, “then later we can do the whole thing.”

Either the general or Herzog is doing most of the talking. He’s giving the two men from the building a royal chewing out.

“It’s something about ‘failure to do this and failure to do that,’ ” Carly says. “And ‘a security breach.’ They’re ‘closing down the facility.’ ”

One of the men protests and sounds very frightened. Apparently he’s about to lose more than just his job.

BLAM! BLAM! The two gunshots startle me. They’re followed by the sound of two bodies hitting the floor. I hear the general or Herzog mutter something and then the four newcomers leave the room. They march down the hall, past the washroom, and exit the building. The place is dead silent.

I open the washroom door and look into the hallway. Empty. I quickly move to the killing room and sure enough, the two men who had greeted the general and his entourage are lying in pools of blood. I snap some photos and then move toward the front door. I gently crack it open and peer outside. The general is barking orders into a radio as the four men get inside the Mercedes. The driver has returned with his snowmobile rider pal.

“You’ve got more company, Sam,” Lambert says. “Three vehicles approaching. Better get out of there now.”

He’s right—I see more headlights coming through the gate at the other side of the compound. Military vehicles. Two trucks and a tank! I feel my heartbeat increase as the trucks pull in front of the building as the Mercedes takes off. At least eight armed soldiers—Russian, not Ukrainian—jump out of the vehicles and rush toward the front door—exactly where I’m standing.

Well, hell. I turn and run to the back of the building, past the killing room and into a space where several cots are set up—obviously the living quarters for the men who no longer work here. There’s a grille covering a ventilation shaft high on the wall. As I hear the soldiers enter the building and stomp along the corridor, I climb on one of the cots, pull off the grille, and climb inside. But I’m too late. One of the soldiers enters the room and sees my feet disappear into the shaft. He shouts loudly for others to join him. A deafening gunshot blasts part of the wall away behind me.

I snake along the shaft as fast as I can. Luckily I come to a junction just as the soldier points his pistol inside the shaft to fire at me. The shaft turns upward here so I leap above the gunfire and begin the climb to the roof. The soldier doesn’t follow me. I’m sure he figures they can catch me when I emerge at the top.

The grille on the roof doesn’t come off easily. I’m forced to draw my Five-seveN and shoot the corners of the damned thing. I holster my gun and then give the grille a good pounding with my gloved fist and it finally loosens. I pull myself up and out onto the snow-caked roof. The gunfire commences immediately, the rounds zipping inches over my head. The angle isn’t great for the soldiers so I’m at an advantage as long as I lie low. I reach into another trouser pocket and retrieve an emergency flare. It’s not much but hopefully it will be bright enough to blind the soldiers temporarily. I aim it to the sky and set it off. The flare bursts over the compound, violently brightening the darkness. The gunfire ceases momentarily. I rise and scramble across the roof to the other side, near the hangar. It’s not a big jump—I leap off the roof and land in a snow-bank. I drop, roll, and come up unharmed. But right in front of me is the snowmobile rider. He’s halfway in the process of drawing a Makarov when I deliver a Krav Maga ax kick to his chest. This propels him backward and he drops the pistol. I move forward and give him another kick in the groin, which makes him completely docile. I kneel beside him, search his pockets, and find the keys to the snowmobile.

“Thanks,” I say in Russian. “I’ll return it. Someday.”