Sam Fisher- Cottonball to Head

After thirty seconds his lungs began to burn; he heard the pounding of blood in his head. He kicked off the bottom and broke into the air.

  He heard a muffled pop. He knew the sound all too well. Even as the voice in his head said, Cottonball, he felt the projectile strike the back of his head. The tang of the aerosol tranquilizer filled his nostrils. He snorted and ducked under again, shaking his head to get the aerosol out of his hair. He was only marginally successful. Within seconds his field of vision began to sparkle; he felt slightly drunk. Clearly, Third Echelon's weapons geeks had improved the LTL (less-than-lethal) projectile. This Cottonball's tranquilizer was much stronger and much faster acting. He'd gotten only a quarter dose, he estimated. If he'd been hit on land, he'd be asleep right now.

  Focus, Sam, focus. . . . Keep going. Distance was survival.

  He rolled onto his back and porpoised upward so only his mouth broke the surface. He sucked in a breath. Another muffled pop, this one sharper, but also familiar: a 5.56mm bullpup round from a SC-20K rifle. The round slapped the water two feet from his head. A mistake or--

  Pop!

  The second round zipped past his ear. No mistake.

  He dove again, rolled over, scissored hard for the bottom. He covered ten feet . . . twenty . . . thirty. . . . He stretched out his right hand. Come on, come on! His fingers touched something vertical--mud, weeds. He grabbed a handful of roots and pulled himself forward until he was pressed against the mud. He surfaced amid the weeds drooping over the embankment. He caught his breath.

- Conviction, Chapter 5