Conviction (Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell)
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Several disastrous missions have depleted the ranks of the Splinter Cells. Third Echelon is training new recruits when a stunning piece of evidence is uncovered. Evidence that points to the mole who sold out his government...Sam Fisher, Splinter Cell(r) operative.
his shoulder. A dozen or more people were now at the bottom of the ditch, tending to the motorcyclist. From the border came the whine of sirens and flashing blue lights. He put another fifty yards between himself and the commotion, then walked back into the ditch, up the other side, and into the trees beyond. He paused to get his bearings, using the highway to his left and the soccer stadium lights to his right as navigation points. The CFL station would be . . . that way. Another two minutes of
huge mistake at some point in the last two days, Hansen and company shouldn’t have been able to track him here. Fisher mentally retraced his steps, starting with his boarding of the train in Tétange and ending with his arrival at the campsite outside Scheurerof. His credit cards and passports were sanitized; he’d given no one specifics of his plans; his comm protocols were streamlined and compartmentalized. . . . So how had they known to come here? Only one answer popped into his head, and the
picking up a rental car, Fisher made two stops: one to replenish his basic traveling supplies, including an economy-sized bottle of ibuprofen for his bruised ribs, and the second to pick up the DHL box containing his weapons and gear. He was heading south out of the city by three and arrived in Chinchón an hour later, in the middle of siesta, the traditional Spanish period of late-afternoon rest and rejuvenation. He wore Bermuda shorts, sandals, and an “I ♥ Madrid” T shirt. Chinchón was perched
technology, was a Splinter Cell’s bread and butter. The latter could fail you, the former rarely. Fisher kept swimming, angling toward the far cliff until he rounded the bend and the laboratory came into full view. Now, too, he could see the water-cooling system: four silver conduits, each three feet in diameter, rising forty feet from the surface before turning forty-five degrees and plunging into the earth beneath the facility. Fisher zoomed in on the water at the base of the conduits and saw
corridor. On the concrete floor painted lines in fading green, red, and yellow led away in both directions. Stenciled on each line were what looked like three-letter Cyrillic acronyms. There were no lights. Everyone donned their night-vision headsets. Fisher flipped a mental coin and pointed the others down the corridor to the left; he would take the right. With nods, the groups parted company and headed out. FISHER hadn’t gotten fifty feet before Hansen’s voice came over his headset. “Sam,