Sam Fisher- Plane Explosion

  As he and Briggs passed beneath the jet, Chern did, indeed, make his sacrifice to the motherland.

  The explosion shook the asphalt and kicked the charter jet back toward Paladin One in the first second.

  Next came the concussion that swept Fisher and Briggs off their feet and launched them into the air, even as their ears began to ring.

  Strangely enough, as Fisher’s boots left the ground, his thoughts focused not on the impending doom and promise of physical pain but on identifying the nature of the explosion. And he sure as hell knew the sound of C-4 detonating versus other types of explosions. So there was a moment of relief—a sigh that lasted all of a second in knowing that this was a conventional explosion. This was not one of the famed or, rather, infamous RA-115s, aka “suitcase nukes” identified years ago by GRU defector Stanislav Lunev.

  Better still, because the charter plane was taking the brunt of the explosion and they were wearing their Kevlar-weave tac-suits, Fisher thought maybe, just maybe, they might actually survive the blast.

  They flew nearly twenty feet before crashing and rolling to the tarmac, the fireballs lifting behind them, the fully fueled charter plane engulfed in the flames.

  Lying there, just a few meters away from Paladin One’s forward landing gear, Fisher wanted to stand and signal the pilot to get the hell out—

  But there was no need. As if on cue, the plane began backing away from the fires, the engines spinning up as Fisher stole a look back, the world still spinning from his fall, the roaring just a muted bass note behind the high-pitched ringing.

  The charter jet had been cut in half just behind the wings, its cockpit blown onto its side, the tail assembly lying askew and licked by orange fires spreading rapidly across the tarmac, fed by severed fuel lines. Puddles of pale yellow fluid swelled around the plane and whooshed into flames.

  In the distance, a larger group of charter company personnel stood in the shade of the hangar, gaping at the devastation, a heat haze billowing toward them.

  Fisher’s OPSAT was flashing with a message from Grim:

  911 called. Feds and fire service on the way! Get back to the plane!

  “Briggs!” Fisher could barely hear his own voice.

  Briggs said something as he scraped himself off the asphalt. He turned back and proffered a hand to Fisher, who groaned and rose.

  Just as he caught his balance, the flames roared more fiercely behind them, and Briggs’s lips moved in a shout that might’ve been, “Plane’s gonna blow!” but all Fisher heard was that steady and deafening hum.

  They hauled ass out of there, with first responders’ flashing lights now out on the service road and the on-site fire crew rolling forward in their yellow trucks.

  With another hollow burst, the rest of the fuel went up, tearing apart the wings with more tremors and sending sharp-edged pieces of the jet boomeranging in all directions.

  Fisher charged toward the C-17’s aft, where the loading ramp was beginning to descend.

  Something struck him hard in the back, knocking him flat onto his stomach.

  He turned his head, saw a section of one seat lying on the ground beside him. He felt something wet on his right hand. More fuel. He shot up, and seeing Briggs race ahead, he dragged himself forward, stumbling in behind the man.

  The pilot was wheeling the plane around, and it was Kobin who, with a line and harness attached to his waist, descended the ramp, ready to haul them aboard.

  Looking like a bad actor in a poorly dubbed foreign film, Kobin screamed, cursed, and waved them aboard, a few of his words penetrating the hum in Fisher’s ears.

  The smuggler seized Briggs, who turned back and took Fisher’s hand, and they bolted up the ramp, dropping to their knees inside the bay.

  Fisher’s hearing was beginning to return, if only a little, and he looked at Kobin, whose mouth was still running a mile a minute. Fisher waved his hand then pointed to his ear. Can’t hear you!

  A short stop suddenly knocked them to the right, then the plane began to turn once more. Emergency liftoff time.

  Fisher and Briggs stumbled their way out of the bay and collapsed into chairs inside the infirmary.

  For a moment, a wave of pins and needles passed through Fisher’s shoulders, working up into his head, and he thought, Well, maybe I’m going to pass out.

  He didn’t, and when the light returned to his eyes, Charlie and Grim were there, with Kasperov standing behind them.
...

  WITHIN the next hour, the blunt trauma to Fisher’s body began to reveal itself in a patchwork of bruises accompanied by deep aches and pains that had him wincing as he sat down in the control center with Charlie and Grim. Briggs took up a chair behind them; Kasperov had returned to the infirmary.

- Blacklist Aftermath, Chapter 30