Free Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath by Peter Telep

do.”
    Fisher hustled away from the table. “Briggs? Come with me. We’ve got a lot of prep
     and no time.”
    The man rose from his station. “Sam, you mind if we make sure our extraction plan’s
     in place before we . . .” The young man drifted off, and wisely so, because Fisher
     was already ignoring him—
    But he did turn back and fix Briggs with a hard look. “Is there a problem?”
    “Uh, no.”
    “Good. Because the jump alone might kill you. Let’s go.”

6
    PALADIN’S cargo bay had been sealed off from the rest of the pressurized aircraft so that the
     side door and rear loading ramp could be opened to take on cargo or make hasty departures.
     The bay was still large enough to stow a small helicopter with the rotors removed
     but significantly smaller than an unmodified C-17 capable of carrying more than 100
     paratroopers and 170,000 pounds of cargo.
    Fisher stood near the door, double-checking Briggs’s gear while Briggs did likewise
     for Fisher. The loadout was always the same, each item meticulously chosen and inspected
     by Fisher before it was ever stowed on board the plane. They each wore an HGU-55/P
     ballistic helmet, tactical goggles, an MBU-12/P oxygen mask, Airox VIII O2 regulator,
     Twin 53 bailout bottle assemblies, tac-suits, gloves, and high-altitude altimeters.
    The final piece of gear was, of course, the topic of conversation:
    “How do you like that squirrel suit?” Fisher asked Briggs over the radio.
    The man extended his arms to reveal the black wings. “I’m proud to wear it.”
    “You look like a dork.”
    Briggs raised his brows. “That makes two of us.”
    Fisher repressed his grin. “Your record says you’ve made a few jumps.”
    “A few.”
    Fisher nodded. “So . . . two hundred twenty-six miles per hour . . .”
    “What’s that?”
    “That’s the world record speed for the fastest wingsuit jump. I think we can beat
     it.”
    Briggs’s eyes widened from behind his mask. “Do you mind if we don’t?”
    Fisher spun the man around, giving his MC-5 parachute rig a final inspection. The
     chute added considerable bulk and cut down on aerodynamics but tended to come in handy
     if they chose to actually survive their HALO—high altitude low opening—jump. Briggs
     checked Fisher’s suit and flashed him a thumbs-up.
    “All right, gentlemen, stand by,” said Grim. “Thirty seconds.”
    Fisher levered open the side door, then slid it over until it locked in place. The
     icy wind whooshed inside and nearly knocked him off his feet. He immediately joined
     Briggs on one knee to clutch metal rungs attached to the deck. Leaving the aircraft
     even a few seconds too soon or too late would severely affect their infiltration.
     Grim was using the SMI to calculate their entire jump, from the second they left the
     plane until the second they should, in theory, touch down on the surface within a
     quarter kilometer of the crash site—if not closer. The SMI factored in all the data
     such as the “forward throw” while exiting the aircraft; the “relative wind”; the air
     temperature, wind speed, and direction; the barometric pressure; and how much pizza
     Fisher had eaten for lunch—well, perhaps not that last part.
    Out beyond the door, the clouds were backlit in deep orange and red, and the setting
     sun coruscated off the wing tip. Fisher cleared his mind of the clutter, the past,
     the pain, the torn loyalties, the nightmares he’d had over that time Grim had shot
     him in the shoulder, which had been part of her plan to undermine Tom Reed.
    On cold days like this the shoulder still ached. But that was okay. He’d told her
     to do what she had to do. And he was still here, ready to show Briggs the ride of
     a lifetime.
    “Okay, stand by,” said Grim. “Remember, radio blackout once you pop chutes. In five,
     four, three, two . . .”
    The flashing red light above the door turned green.
    Without hesitation, Briggs vanished into the ether.
    Fisher