Sam Fisher- Underwater Hiding

  The shooter appears at the other end of the dock. He raises the AK-47 and fires. The wood splinters in a million places at my feet as I turn and dive into the cold, murky water.

  It’s a shock. Thank heavens I’m wearing my uniform; otherwise I’d be freezing. It’s dark as hell, but I don’t risk using the LED on my OPSAT for illumination. They might be able to see me from the surface.

  As I swim away from the shore, bullets chop through the water, producing that otherworldly slow-motion effect you get when you fire a gun into water. Even in the pitch black I can see the trails of the rounds cutting lines on all sides of me. One comes dangerously close to my ear, and I feel the heat emanating from it as it groans past. I quickly reverse direction and swim back toward the dock and hope they can’t see me. I’m pretty good at holding my breath. That’s another thing that Krav Maga classes teach you—stamina and resistance to pain. My lungs are strong—the last time I timed myself holding my breath, I clocked a little less than four minutes. It was Katia Loenstern that pushed me to achieve a score past three minutes. I’ll have to remind myself to be nicer to her when I get back to Baltimore.

  I make my way to the line of sailboats on one side of the dock. I feel the hull of the first one and swim on, past the second and third. I figure it’s been at least two minutes since I submerged because my lungs are burning. When I can’t take it anymore, I dare to surface between the boats so I can catch a breath. As I hold on to the side of one of the rocking crafts, I hear two men talking on the dock above me. They’re down at the end, maybe thirty feet away. It sounds as if they’re arguing. I can’t understand the language, but I know it’s not Turkish. Actually it sounds like Farsi, but I’m not positive.

  The man with the gun suddenly lets loose with another barrage of gunfire into the water, and the other one shouts at him to stop. More arguing. Then I hear the men walk toward the shore, their boots clomping on the wood above me. I dunk my head and position myself directly beneath the sailboat and wait. More gunfire darts the water between the boats, but I’m safely out of the way.

  Where the hell are the police in this town? This is one time when I wouldn’t mind some interference.

  Another minute passes and I feel the pressure in my chest. The gunfire stops and I need to suck some air, but I’m not moving yet. I wait at least another thirty seconds—when I know I can’t take it anymore—before coming back up. When I do, I gasp for oxygen as quietly as possible and listen. I hear nothing. They’re gone. Maybe they think I’m dead.

  I wait another three minutes before pulling myself up and onto the dock. I walk back to the square and hear a police siren approaching from the distance. The Citroën is gone and the street is deserted. I run to the Pazhan and get in, even though I’m soaking wet. I start the car, back out, and head out of town before the cops arrive.

- Splinter Cell, Chapter 20