Sam Fisher- Fan Duct Ladder

  Beside him, the barrel-sized shaft emitted an electronic buzz, then a series of steel-on-steel clanks as the propellers gears began to re-engage. He ducked under blade six, then veered right and arched his body, feeling the trailing edge of the blade seven scrape his thighs.

  "Eight seconds . . . seven . . . six . . ."

  He put all his strength into his legs and kicked. He felt rather than saw the propellers begin to move, as though he'd been shoved from behind by a crashing wave.

  "Starting up . . . power's at twenty percent."

  "I'm through."

  "Don't slow down. The maintenance shaft is fifty feet down the tunnel. Should be a circular opening in the roof. It won't be marked; you'll have to feel your way. If you don't reach it in time--"

  "I know, I remember." Into the desalinization tank for boiling.

  "Power at fifty percent."

  Already, the roar of the propellers was nearly deafening. Beyond his mask he saw only froth. He angled his body upward. His outstretched hand touched corrugated metal.

  "Power at seventy-five percent," Grimsdottir called. "There should be a ladder jutting from the maintence shaft, Sam. Coming up quick now . . . Thirty feet . . . twenty-five . . ."

  With his hand thumping over the ribbed steel of the roof, Fisher had sense of his speed. He switched on his light, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ladder as it approached, but the swirling bubbles had reduced visibility to zero. He switched off the light. He'd have to do it by feel and reflexes alone.

  "Fifteen feet . . . You're dead on track, Sam. Almost there . . ."

  For a split second the froth cleared and he caught a glimpse of something, a horizontal steel bar. He latched onto the rung with both hands and was jerked to a sudden halt. Pain shot through his wrists, up his arms, and exploded in his shoulder sockets. His legs, fully caught in the slipstream, felt impossibly heavy. One of his fins was ripped from his foot, then the next.

  Climb, Sam, climb!

  He reached up, hooked his hand on the next rung, and pulled. Then again, and again. The draw on his legs lessened. He kept climbing, one rung at a time, until suddenly, his head broke into a pocket of air. Just as abruptly, the drag on his legs disappeared.

  He took in a few lungfuls of air until his heart rate settled; then he clicked on his task light and looked down. A few inches below his bottom foot, the water in the duct was rushing by as though driven by a fire hose--which, in essense, it was.

- Checkmate, Chapter 18