The combined effect of these measures overtook the invaders at once, scrambling their senses and motor functions, confusing and sickening them, provoking a hallucinatory and physically wrenching disconnection from their surroundings. Shaking, gagging, and retching, they staggered in confused, purposeless circles. One of them dropped onto his back, his bladder releasing, grotesque herky-jerky spasms running through his limbs. Another sank to his knees, clutched his heaving stomach, and vomited.
Partially overcome, Manuel knew he had bare moments in which to act. Forcing his legs to remain steady underneath him, he turned in what he thought was the hedgehog’s direction, clenched his eyes against its strobing lights, raised his FAMAS rifle, and pumped a 20mm HE round from its grenade launcher attachment. It was a crude, inaccurate use of an extraordinarily refined weapon, but it achieved its desired results. The shell struck the ’hog’s carrier scant yards from where he stood, detonating with an explosive flash.
Manuel dove to the ground as the concussion swept over him, waited a second or two, then got back to his feet and dusted himself off. A quick look around revealed that one member of his band had been killed in the blast, his flesh and clothing shredded by flying shrapnel. He himself had an open gash above the elbow. But the robot was wreckage. It leaned sideways on the burning remains of a rubber track, smoke and flames spitting from its mangled carrier. He could smell the odor of its fused wiring.
Wreckage.
He saw his remaining teammates struggling to regain their equilibrium, allowed them a few moments to recover, then hurried to gather them to his side. There was no time to linger over their single casualty.
“Vaya aqui!” he hissed. “Come on, we still have work to do.”
Much as Rollie Thibodeau loved his job at UpLink, much as he felt it was an important job, he hated how its hours screwed up his biological clock, turned his daily routine inside out, and cramped his lifestyle in more ways than he could have stated.
Take sex, or the lack of it, for one thing. Where would he find a woman who’d be in amorous sync with his schedule, falling into bed with the sunrise, emerging after sunset like a vampire? Take sleep for another. This was Brazil, land of bronzed bodies and the fio dental. How could he get any rest with the tropical daylight pressing against his window blinds, tantalizing him with its warmth, reminding him of the long, gorgeously romantic afternoons dancing past? Take, for a third example, something as important to a man as eating. Could cheerfulness truly be expected of him when his meals were fouled up beyond description? It was rotten enough being a hundred miles from the nearest city and having to subsist on the bland, unseasoned fare they served in the commissary. Rotten even when those tasteless dishes were hot out of the kitchen. But consuming them after they’d sat in a refrigerator for half a day, and then been warmed over in a microwave, was a gross indignity. And the hours at which one was forced to eat when working the night shift, calous ve, the hours were nothing short of unspeakable!
Thibodeau sat in his small but tidy office in a sublevel of the ISS compound’s main headquarters building, staring down at the plate of overcooked beef and watery, reconstituted mashed potatoes on his desk with a kind of savage contempt. It was slightly past eight P.M., and a new kid on his shift by the name of McFarlane had just strolled in with the meal, holding a dish for himself as well, looking as if he could hardly wait to get back to his post and dig into it ... something that had so annoyed Thibodeau, he’d been unable to even feign appreciation as he dismissed the youngster, which left him feeling still worse for having rudely punished the messenger for the message.
Well, he would just have to make it up to him later. Explain that even the most upbeat person in the world could have his disposition ruined by two years of eating lunch at eight o‘clock at night, and a repulsive approximation of dinner between midnight and three in the morning. Breakfast alone provided a modicum of satisfaction, and only because the prep cooks would arrive for work around six o’clock, giving him an opportunity to send for some fresh eggs or waffles before the end of his shift, and thus eat at least one relatively decent meal at a relatively sane hour.
“Lord, thank you for our fuckin’ daily slop,” Thibodeau muttered in his thick Cajun accent.
His features glum, he was about to reach for his knife and fork when the phone at his elbow shrilled. He glanced over at it, saw the redline light blinking, and promptly snatched up the handset.
Other than for training drills, the extension had never been used during his term at the facility.
“Yes?” he said.
The man on the line was Cody from the monitoring station.
“Sir, there’s been a penetration.”
“Where?” Thibodeau sat up straight, his culinary woes forgotten.
“The western quadrant.” Cody’s voice was edged with tension. “Wally detected several intruders. Thing I don’t understand, we aren’t seeing any damage along the fence. No sign perimeter integrity’s been violated.”
“You sic the li‘l bastard on ’em?”
“Affirmative. We actuated its VSI banks and acoustic cannon, but ...” A hesitant pause. “Sir, Wally’s gone off-line. It doesn’t look good.”
Thibodeau breathed. He’d insisted a thousand times that the ’hogs couldn’t be trusted. The hell of it was, he’d never once wanted to be proven right.
“You hear from Henderson and Travers at the gate?”
“We’ve been trying to radio them and there’s been no response.”
“Christ,” Thibodeau said. “Send some men out right away. I also want a full detail around the plant and warehouse buildings. Seal ’em up tight, hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thibodeau paused to collect his thoughts, gripping the receiver in his fist. He was anxious to get into the monitoring room and see what was happening for himself. But first he wanted to be sure he was covering all his bases.
“We better have us some air support ready,” he said after a moment. “Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
“What was that, sir?”
Thibodeau rose from his seat. “Tell the chopper pilots to fasten their goddamn seat belts, out.”
Manuel crouched behind the gate, his arm throbbing, the sleeve of his jumpsuit warm and moist where he’d been injured. His rapid movement had worsened the bleeding, but the sentry robot’s destruction was certain to draw security personnel to the area, and any holdup would increase the risk of capture. He’d have to attend to the wound later.
Making an effort to ignore his pain, he took a triangular slice of C4 explosive from his gear bag, peeled off its outer foil, and molded it carefully around the bottom of the gatepost. Next he extracted a twelve-inch segment of Primadet cord, one end of which was connected to an aluminum blasting cap, the other to a battery-powered timer about the size and shape of a marker pen. He inserted the end with the blasting cap into the saddle charge and set the timer’s simple dial mechanism for a five-minute delay. When he pulled the safety pin holding it in place, the arrow on the dial would start to turn, initiating the detonation sequence—but he couldn’t do that until his teammates finished wiring together the charges they had already planted on supports along the fence. The thin orange detonating cord would set off the linked charges almost instantaneously, and he intended to be well away from the area before that happened.
He settled down to wait. Several yards to his left a light shone in the guard booth’s broken window. The single wall he could see from his position was spattered with blood. A limp, upflung arm rested against it above the spot where one of the lifeless guards had fallen.
Manuel looked away from the booth, moving his gaze out along the perimeter fence to where the others were at their tasks, dark blurs against the deeper darkness. Blowing a gap in the fence hadn’t been his own idea. The watchmen on duty would have known the gate’s electronic access codes, and he’d proposed they be captured and made to unlock it at gunpoint. But Kuhl had formulated a minute-by-minute plan and wante
d them killed before the jump team’s arrival. With the robot and guards in the compound’s western sector eliminated, he had reasoned there would be a surveillance lapse until backup security units could arrive. This would give Manuel’s group an opening to set their explosives while Teams Orange and Yellow carried out their end of the plan.
Manuel hadn’t argued. It was Kuhl’s role to make the final calls, and his to carry them out.
Now Manuel saw one of the other jumpers come scurrying up toward the gate, a length of ’det cord winding out behind him. Not a moment too soon, he thought. His wound was large and ugly, the torn flesh imbedded with sharp fragments of metal. He would need to take care of it soon.
He inhaled to clear his head, then took the cord from his teammate and inserted it into the charge he’d just primed.
“Bueno, Juan,” he said. “Where is Marco?”
“Coming,” Juan said. He gestured toward Manuel’s arm. “You all right?”
Manuel looked at him.
“Yes, all right,” he said. He willed himself not to stumble as he rose to his feet. “Radio Tomas and the others. Let them know we’re through here. Then I pull the pin.”
In the center of the compound, three levels underground, Thibodeau rushed through the monitor room’s entrance to find Jezoirski, Cody, and Delure agitatedly studying their displays.
“What the hell’s goin’ on?” he said, noting their flustered expressions.
Delure swiveled his chair around to look at him.
“Sir, it’s Ned ... the ’hog’s detected a group of intruders in its sector. Could be the same ones we saw at the western perimeter, there’s no way to tell.”
Thibodeau eyed the screen and made a low, apprehensive sound in his throat. He cared less about whether these were the same trespassers Wally had encountered than how they had gotten into the compound without initiating any perimeter alarms, and what the purpose of their intrusion might be. A man who relied heavily on instinct, he saw a pattern and tempo to their movements that took him back to his days as a Long Range Recon Patrolman with the 101st Air Cav in Southeast Asia, awakening suspicions that were almost too crazy to share.
But he could not ignore the guideposts of his own experience, and commanding a LRRP unit out of Camp Eagle had taught him plenty. Outrageous as it seemed at first blush, what was happening had all the earmarks of an airborne insertion. That would account for the intruders’ seeming ability to materialize out of nowhere, and also explain their otherwise mystifying cat-and-mouse game with Wally. They hadn’t taken on the ’hog because they needed to, but because they’d wanted to, as if their aim was to put the goddamned contraption through its paces.
Thibodeau pictured the confused expressions he’d seen on the faces of the men around him when he’d come bolting into the room—expressions that must have perfectly mirrored his own. He felt sure those looks would have given tremendous pleasure to the unwanted visitors rushing around out there at the installation’s margins. Certainly he’d have enjoyed that sort of thing on his runs through the jungle between 1969 and 1970. The slicks would swing down low over the trees wherever they saw pockets of North Vietnamese and quickly insert their LRRP teams, who would plunge into the brush seeking out targets of opportunity, causing disruption and confusion for the enemy. Faire la chasse.
“Can you give me a better fix on those bastards?” he said.
Delure fingered a button on his console to superimpose a digitized map over the radar image they’d been viewing.
“How’s that?”
“Good, good, now bring it in closer.”
Delure hit another button and zoomed the image. Thibodeau saw geographical features of the compound’s western grounds enlarge and clarify around the blips of light, indicating the intruders’ position.
“A non.” He pointed at a curving blue line on-screen. “Take a look at where they are.”
Delure gaped up at him. “Near the west drive. That’s the quickest route from our motor vehicle pool to the perimeter.”
Thibodeau nodded.
“Get the ‘hog on their asses, an’ this time hit ’em with something stronger than fancy lights,” he said. “Our chase cars gon’ be on that road any minute!”
The anti-vehicular mines they had set were simply but cleverly camouflaged, wrapped in tar paper to blend in with the pavement. By day they would have been difficult for a driver to spot. At night they would be completely invisible.
Moments after they left the access road to rejoin their teammates, Tomas and Raul heard a low whirring sound close by to the right. They were turning to investigate, their FAMAS rifles at the ready, when the security robot sped nimbly up on them, a tubular apparatus on its side swiveling in their direction, liquid issuing from its nozzle in a pressurized stream.
Neither man got to trigger his weapon before the polymer superlubricant fanned over them, drenching them at first, and then abruptly solidifying in a thin layer over their skin, combat garb, and the ground under their boots.
Raul’s immediate thought was that they had been sprayed with a disabling foam, but he quickly realized this substance was something very different—more like dry ice in the way it hardened, except scarcely cooler than the air around him. Indeed, it was almost as if the fluid had altered his physical state rather than its own, as if every part of him that it touched had metamorphosed into smooth, slick glass. All at once he couldn’t hold onto his rifle. The more he tried, the more slippery his grip became. His eyes widening in alarm and incomprehension, he watched the weapon leap from his hands, snapping out the cable that joined it to his helmet display like a hooked fish at the end of a line, then dangling almost ludicrously from his helmet. He snatched at it, his fingers making wild grabs at its stock and barrel, but it slid out from between them and dropped near his feet.
He was bending to recover it when the soles of his boots lost their traction and his legs went skating out from under him.
The ground came up hard against his back, knocking the wind from his lungs. He attempted to scramble upright, and only flopped onto his side. Tried again and slid back down. The grass beneath him was stiff and slippery. His clothes were as unbending as molded plastic. His skin was brittle and much too tight. Out of the comer of his eye he saw Tomas skidding about on his stomach in the same helpless, flailing manner that he was, looking weirdly like a man trying to swim across solid ice.
He screamed then, his mind hurtling over the edge of fear to full-blown panic, screamed at the top of his lungs, and was still crying out when the security cars dispatched by Thibodeau came racing up the access road behind them.
The same road where, moments ago, the two invaders had planted their mines.
The three dark-blue quick-response cars beat their air support out of the gate by several minutes—partly because their drivers had been closer to the motor pool than the chopper pilots were to the helipad, and partly because the Skyhawk copters had longer crank times than the armored Mercedes 300 SE sedans, which sprang to life with the turn of an ignition key.
The drivers knew going into their pursuit that the lag would be a problem. Their chopper-automobile teams were equipped with integrated thermal tracking systems that allowed them to accurately pinpoint the location of their quarry, accomplishing this by means of a microwave video link between the Skyhawks’ pod-mounted surveillance equipment and receivers on the chase cars’ dashboards. But without the aerial transmissions from the helicopters, the men in the cars were relying on nothing more sophisticated than their headlights to spot the intruders.
Tragically, they also lost any chance of being forewarned about the concealed mines awaiting them on the access road.
There were two men in the first car besides the driver, one seated next to him, another in the rear. Neither passenger ever knew what hit him. The driver did see an almost unnoticeable dark patch on the roadway about three yards before the mine came up on him, and thinking it was a bump or pothole, tried to swing around it. But the high speed
at which he was traveling made that almost impossible.
The mine went off with a booming explosion as the edge of his left tire rolled over it. The Mercedes shot up into air, its front end bucking higher than the rear. While its armor-plated chassis had been designed to withstand a direct and sustained small-arms assault, its undercarriage was vulnerable to the blast of orange flame that went tearing into it, instantly killing all three of its occupants. A second later the vehicle came down on its right side and rolled crazily forward on two wheels before tumbling onto its roof, fire jetting from its shattered windshield.
His eyes large with shock and horror, the driver of the second vehicle pumped his brake furiously, swerved sideways, and went shooting past the ruined vehicle, coming close enough to see the charred, blistered remains of a face amid the flames in its rear window. Then his tires tripped a second mine and there was another roaring explosion. The last thing he heard as his vehicle was blown apart was the sound of his terrified scream mingling with those of his passengers.
Scarcely a dozen yards behind him, the third car’s driver succeeded where the others hadn’t. Chunks of metal and blasted pavement raking his hood, he wrenched his steering wheel sharply to the left, jolting off the road and onto the bordering lawn, his tires spinning up clots of soil and grass. With precious extra seconds to react, the man at the wheel of the last car veered in the opposite direction, also screeching to a halt in time to avoid sudden death.
In the darkness beyond the road, two members of Orange Team lay in silent hiding. Both intruders had moved off slightly ahead of their companions after sowing the road with mines, managing to outpace the northern perimeter’s security robot and stay well beyond its surveillance range.
Shadow Watch (1999) Page 7
