Sam Fisher- Ten Wheeler Crash

  Whatever causes the ten-wheeler’s driver to suddenly change lanes, I don’t know, but that’s what he does—right in front of me. With no one at the wheel, Enemy Limo wavers, finally moving on a collision course with the right rail. I desperately try to steer around the stupid ten-wheeler when the asshole slams on his brakes. I remember two things. The first is that I see someone in Enemy Limo climbing over the partition to grab the steering wheel. The second thing is the back end of the ten-wheeler in my face.

  “SAM? Sam? Sam? Sam? Sam? Sam . . . ? . . . Sam . . . ? . . . Sam . . . ?”

  I think I hear Coen’s voice. I’m not sure if it’s a dream or what the hell it is. I feel pain in my shoulders and back. I’m aware of a puffy balloonlike thing in my face and then realize it’s an air bag. I’m wedged in the front seat of the limo. I see my arms and hands flailing on the outside of the bag and there’s blood on them. I then notice the odd angle of the horizon outside the bent and misshapen dashboard. The road is perpendicular to the limo’s hood. Damn, the car is on its side and I’m stuck inside. And there’s water everywhere.

  And then everything goes dark.
...

  I open my eyes inside an ambulance. Coen is sitting beside me with an expression of concern on her face. The vehicle shakes and bounces over the road and I hear the piercing siren above the rumble of the engine. I take stock of my body and am happy to find no oxygen mask attached to my face. I feel pain in my side but for some reason I’m not dead.

  “Hey,” Coen says. “Look who’s still with us.”

  “What’s going on?” I manage to ask. My voice comes out hoarse.

  “You’re on the way to the hospital, pal. Doesn’t look too serious, so you can relax.”

  Then I remember. “I wiped out.”

  “Yeah, but your bulletproof vest saved your life. And the air bag.”

  Damn, I forgot about that, too. Lambert and Coen made me put it on under my civvies before I left the Sofitel.

  “They have to X-ray you,” she continues. “You’re gonna be pretty bruised up. And your face looks like a pizza. But other than that you’re probably gonna be fine.”
...

  I’M released from the hospital around dinnertime. Coen was right, it wasn’t too bad. I have two cracked ribs that should heal on their own if I take it easy. There’s a bad gash on my left leg from when the limo crashed into the truck. That required eight stitches. My shoulders hurt like hell from the impact but thankfully nothing was broken or sprained there. I suppose my neck might have been broken, but as they say, I was lucky. Finally, my face looks like I’ve been through a perforator. Again, it appears worse than it is. The nicks and scratches should heal within days and leave me with no permanent scars.

- Operation Barracuda, Chapter 30, 31