And the most helpless!
It was something the crocs would soon figure out. She didn’t understand what had happened, but she knew not a single piece of metal remained anywhere in the station. That meant no guns, no knives, no axes, nothing she could use to defend herself with. Now that the strange light had vanished, the fearful screeches of the birds began. It drew her attention to the aviary. One look told her the high broad arc of the netting was still intact.
Thank God!
She jumped to her feet and sprinted towards the net, running alongside it until she reached the entrance flap. Her fingers fumbled with the nylon zipper, as she heard the soft pad of footsteps behind her. She slid the zipper halfway down, then dived in and rolled away from the entrance. A long scaled shape surged out of the darkness, charging into the aviary netting. The crocodile’s snout came within an arm’s length of Laura before the netting snagged tight, holding it at bay. She saw a flash of teeth as the croc snapped its mighty jaws closed, then it swung its head from side to side, frantically trying to force its way through. It was one of the smaller animals, but more than able to rip her to pieces. It hung for a moment against the netting, then turned away in frustration before sullenly creeping off into the shadows. Laura waited until its tail was pointing toward her, then she darted forward and zipped the half open entrance flap closed.
She opened the inner flap and stepped into the aviary proper. She knew the crocs could force their way under the netting if they found the right place, so she ran to the rope ladder hanging from one of the tallest trees and started to climb. The ladder led into the tree tops where a camouflaged observation platform had been built to watch the birds. As she neared the blind, she saw the nails had been ripped from its supports, and its floor boards had fallen. Only the camouflage tarpaulin remained, strung over nylon ropes. She pulled herself up onto a branch, using the tarpaulin for support, then looked down. Outside the net, a long reptilian form crept through the shadows, searching for a way in.
Laura wiped the tears from her cheeks as she looked to the west where the horizon glowed a burnt orange. It was unlike any bushfire she’d ever seen. Unaware it was the glow of a great metal hull cooling after its fiery entry into the atmosphere, she wondered if somehow it was connected to the destruction of her station and of Dan’s disappearance. Her eyes became mesmerized by that distant radiance, by its rich color and ebbing intensity.
It was a hypnotic spell that lasted until dawn.
CHAPTER 3
Shortly before sunrise, a US Air Force C-17 skimmed the tranquil waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria on approach to the Gove Peninsula. To avoid detection, it had shut off all electromagnetic emissions while still five hundred kilometers out, forcing the pilots to fly and navigate manually. It seemed unnecessarily dangerous, especially at night and at such low altitude, yet the flight crew followed their instructions to the letter, never knowing the reason why.
The C-17 crossed the coast south of the tiny town of Nhulunbuy, flying just meters above the tree tops before touching down at Gove airstrip. What had once been a major World War Two airbase, named for a Royal Australian Air Force pilot killed in action in 1943, was now a gray sealed runway surrounded by stark red earth and lush green forest. The big jet taxied onto a rectangular apron in front of a small modern terminal building, where a four-wheel-drive army truck waited. Instead of heading towards the gravel track that ran southeast towards the crash site over two hundred and fifty kilometers away, the truck turned north towards Gove Harbor. Every vehicle that had ventured down the track since the impact had vanished, leaving Beckman in no doubt, the seven hundred kilometer long Central Arnhem Road was no longer under terrestrial control.
The army truck carried the contact team to the tip of the Gove Peninsula, past one of the largest aluminum smelters in the world, a pinprick of industrial civilization clinging to the edge of a vast wilderness. It delivered them to a small commercial wharf where a sleek gray RAN patrol boat waited. Once aboard the fifty-six meter vessel, they headed out into Melville Bay, swung around the cape to the northeast, and began a long, high-speed run into the Gulf. With the satellites out of action, there was no satnav to steer by, so the crew navigated the old fashioned way, with charts, compass, and dead reckoning. As with the C-17, a complete signals blackout was enforced, testing the crew’s ability to navigate blind at high speed at night.
While the patrol boat raced down the coast towards Blue Mud Bay, the team ate breakfast, then assembled on the stern to complete their final checks of packs and weapons. Beckman stood with his back to the wind, absently studying the two civilian additions to his ten-man team.
The first was Roland Markus. He was CIA, tasked with providing his own assessment to the Director of National Intelligence, who would in turn advise the President and the National Security Council. Beckman wondered what would happen if Markus’ assessment was different to his own. The President might be faced with contradictory advice from the Secretary of Defense and the DNI. The confusion that would create could paralyze decision making at a critical moment. Judging by the way Markus carried his MP5 submachine gun, he could look after himself, but Beckman wondered if he’d follow orders.
The other civilian was Dr Ian McInness, a relatively young scientist from Groom Lake. Beckman guessed he was part of the massive reverse engineering effort under way there, but he didn’t carry a gun and was probably incapable of using one if he did. He’d jammed his pack so full of scientific equipment, he could barely lift it. Beckman suspected he wasn’t carrying near enough food and water to survive an extended patrol in tropical heat. The scientist sat on one of the two inflatable boats lashed to the stern, meticulously painting sunscreen across his nose. When he finished, he carefully placed the tube in his pack, then pulled on his wide-brimmed sun hat. The moment he took his hand off the hat, it blew off into the sea. Dr McInness watched helplessly as his hat was left rapidly behind amidst the boat’s frothing wake.
Beckman groaned silently to himself, making a mental note to tell Hooper to keep an eye on the scientist. No one would miss Markus, he was one of those ruthless expendable types most countries had lurking in the shadows, but if the scientist died, there’d be hell to pay.
Sitting a short distance away, Frank Tucker and Steamer Massey watched Dr McInness doubtfully. Steamer, the giant African American who carried the predator missile launcher, leaned close to Tucker and whispered, “Bet you fifty, he dies first.”
Tucker sat with his back to his pack sharpening his knife on a whetstone. Even though he carried both the deadly LSAT light machine gun and Conan, one of the two largest specials, he’d never lost his fascination with the fat-bladed bowie knife. The former SEAL looked up, thought about it a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Sucker bet.”
“I’ll give you odds,” Steamer said shrewdly, daring Tucker to take him on. Steamer could have played pro-ball for Detroit if he hadn’t joined the Navy to see the world. He first met Tucker at Coronado, during phase one training. At first, they competed, trying to find out who was tougher. In the end, they called it a draw and had been a team ever since, with a near telepathic understanding of each other’s moves.
Tucker stopped sharpening his knife. “What odds?”
“Two to one.”
“Four.”
“Four? I’m not your mamma. I’ll give you three.”
“Deal.” They knocked clenched fists together to seal the deal. “Now I’ll have to keep his wimpy ass alive until someone else goes down.”
Steamer chuckled, “Baby sitter!”
A navy lieutenant appeared through the bridge deck hatchway above, came down the ladder with practiced ease, and saluted Beckman. “We’re entering the Walker River estuary, sir,” he said, indicating the river mouth ahead. “It’s close to high tide, so we’ll be able to get in over the mud flats, then we’ll head upriver as far as we can. The skipper requests you prepare for disembarkation now, as he may have to put you ashore at short notice.”
Beckman acknowledged the salute, “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“We’ll take you in as close as possible, but you may get your feet wet. We’ll have sharpshooters on the bridge and along the railings, just in case.”
“Let’s hope there’s no attack,” Beckman said, wondering how much the lieutenant knew.
“Don’t worry, we’ve had plenty of practice.”
“You have?”
“They’re sneaky bastards, but we’re pretty good at spotting them.”
“Spotting what?” Beckman asked, certain he was missing something.
“The crocs. The rivers are lousy with them.”
“Really?” Beckman glanced uncertainly at the approaching shoreline.
“Oh yeah. They’re a protected species, so they breed like bloody rabbits. But don’t worry, we’re authorized to shoot them if they go after you.” The lieutenant grinned. “Can’t let you blokes get eaten. It wouldn’t look good for the navy.”
Beckman looked bemused. “Wouldn’t want to make the navy look bad.”
“Just get ashore as fast as you can, and head away from the river. Watch the banks. They hide in the mud, under the mangroves. Can’t see the bastards until they move, or you step on one.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Beckman walked over to Sergeant Hooper as the lieutenant returned to the bridge. “Get ready to go ashore.” Hooper opened his mouth to bark an order when Beckman leaned close and said in a low voice. “And make sure they keep an eye open for crocodiles.”
Hooper gave him a strange look, “Crocodiles?”
Beckman shrugged.
“Right,” Hooper said, then paced between the troops. “Listen up! I hope you ladies have all enjoyed this luxurious pleasure cruise, because now we’re going ashore for a little stroll in the park. There’ll be plenty of trees where we’re going, so you’ll have lots of shade.” He smiled, then sniffed deeply and slapped his chest delightedly. “Ah! And more fresh air than you’ve ever breathed before. So let’s show these pretty little navy boys what a real military unit looks like! When we get off this ocean liner, get off fast. Keep your eyes open, your weapons ready, and only fire if fired upon. You got that?”
Hooper stopped and looked down at the youngest member of the team. Lieutenant Jonny Nuke Nolan, the payload specialist, lay on his back with his helmet half covering his face to block out the sun. The rumble of snoring echoed inside his helmet. Beckman had recruited Nuke straight out of MIT. He was a physics major with a IQ that looked like a zip code, and while he had attitude, Hooper knew he’d never make a soldier out of him. One day, if the kid survived, he might become the world’s top alien weapons expert, but until then he was just another mission specialist Hooper had to keep alive somehow. The sergeant lifted Nuke’s helmet just enough to look under it, then in a sweet voice, asked “Am I disturbing you, Lieutenant? Would you like a pillow?”
Nuke yawned and removed speakers squawking rap music from his ears. “Hey, thanks Sarge. And could you get them to slow this tub down? The engines are giving me a headache.”
“On your feet, sir!” Hooper yelled.
Nuke sat up, dropping his helmet, which rolled across the deck. Nuke’s officer rank, like the other mission specialists, was due entirely to his education, not his military standing. Beckman had made it clear from the start, when in the field, Hooper was second in command, and in combat, the force protection squad members called the shots. It was not the traditional chain of command, but it was designed to keep everyone alive.
Kim Vamp Gerrity, a member of Hooper’s force protection squad, caught Nuke’s helmet before it tumbled over the side. She tossed it back to the sergeant, who slapped it firmly on Nuke’s head as he clambered to his feet. “You lose it, Lieutenant, you go over the side after it. Got it?”
“Sure, Sarge,” Nuke said, miffed.
Vamp, the team’s tracking specialist, pulled her pack on and adjusted the straps. She was tall and muscular, with black hair and flashing blue eyes, and a tongue sharper than a bayonet. She’d started off as a radar specialist, had found a way to tweak her sensors to pick up stealth aircraft, and had been seconded by Beckman to tweak the team’s only tracking special. She glanced at Dr McInness, who was trying unsuccessfully to tie off a bulging pocket on his pack, then said to Xeno in a low voice, “Do you think he’s as helpless as he looks?”
Xeno, an expert in alien symbology and physiology who doubled as the team’s medic, followed Vamp’s gaze and smiled. “Oh yeah. They shouldn’t have let him out of the lab.”
Vamp tilted her head sideways, studying him. “I don’t know. He’s kind of cute, in a lost puppy, nerdy sort of way.”
“He’ll get eaten alive out here.”
“He might, if he’s lucky,” Vamp said mischievously.
Xeno looked surprised at her friend’s unexpected tastes. She nodded toward Markus, who sat by himself checking his weapon. “I thought he’d be more your style.”
Vamp gave the intelligence officer a dismissive look. “He’s too cold for me. I like them with a heartbeat, and a brain.”
Roland Markus, sensing he was being watched, aimed his weapon toward the coast as if checking the sights. He used the movement as an excuse to turn his back to the others, then he lowered the weapon and, ensuring his body shielded his hands, eased a slender rectangular device out of his vest pocket. The top third of the device was filled by a small, gray LCD screen. The remainder contained a black keypad, while a two gigabyte encryption scrambler was built into the back plate and a telescoping aerial was mounted on the right side. Keeping the device concealed, Markus pressed the transmit button on the front panel, sending an encrypted high speed burst signal.
The transmission lasted barely a tenth of a second. To any casual listener, it would have sounded like a flicker of static. To the Australian Defense Signals Directorate team waiting a hundred kilometers to the south at Numbulwar, it was music to their ears. The tiny settlement had the only road in the region accessible to the big DSD semitrailer, which had come up from the south to listen for any signals emitted from the impact zone. To the aboriginal inhabitants, the big eighteen-wheeler, bristling with aerials and guarded by a dozen soldiers, was a curiosity the like of which they’d never seen before.
The mobile listening post logged Markus’ signal, then passed it via land line to the ultra secret DSD listening station at Shoal Bay, near Darwin. The DSD station was one of the western world’s most secret signals intelligence gathering facilities, responsible for monitoring electronic communications throughout southern Asia, although for the moment it was tasked with a very different mission. Once DSD had the signal, they relayed it via the transpacific cable to Fort Meade, Maryland, informing their sister organization, the US National Security Agency, that contact had been established with the CIA agent. Moments later, a remote transmitter located forty kilometers from the DSD mobile listening post, transmitted a response.
Sitting on the patrol boat, Roland Markus watched a line of text appear on the gray LCD screen: Acknowledged. 0748. SS 93%.
Markus breathed a sigh of relief. The DSD listening post had received his transmission at 7.48 AM with a signal strength of ninety-three percent. He slid the burst transceiver back into his pocket, then glanced at the troops, checking that they hadn’t noticed his call-in. Because of the risk of detection, he would not use the device again unless he had something to report.
The patrol boat motored over the submerged mud flats at the mouth of the estuary and into the grip of choking heat and humidity. Lush green mangroves closed in on either side as they cruised up river and a thousand pungent odors bombarded their senses. Hundreds of birds called in a cacophony of strange voices, from high pitched warbles to menacing shrieks, while the monotonous thrum of insects hung as heavily in the air as the humidity. Giant dragon flies, with wingspans larger than a man’s hand, hovered above the murky green waters and darted through the dense shadows of the mangroves where the black mud appeared slick a
nd oily.
Why would they land here? Beckman wondered as the beat of the engines faded and the gray hulled boat nosed cautiously toward the bank.
The lieutenant hurried down the steps from the bridge deck. “There’s a rock bar up ahead, blocking the river. This is as far as we can go.”
“This’ll do fine,” Beckman said, studying the approaching mangrove.
The patrol boat shuddered slightly as the hull grounded on submerged mud, then sailors ran a gangplank out that splashed into ankle-deep water, Beckman led his team past the bridge house toward the bow. Half a dozen sailors with Steyr assault rifles took up positions along the railings and on the bridge deck, watching the shore intently.
Beckman took a step toward the gangplank, but the navy lieutenant barred his way.”Wait!”
From the bridge deck, a sailor yelled out, “Over on the right, about six meters.”
“Scare it off,” the lieutenant ordered.
Beckman stared in the direction indicated by the lookout, seeing only mud and mangrove roots. He thought the lookout was hallucinating, then another sailor fired three slow shots that struck the mud with a hollow thud. The river bank came alive in a blur of reptilian fury. The five-meter, mud-coated crocodile was invisible until it moved, then with astonishing speed and an awkward twisting gait, it raced into the water and vanished. The troops behind Beckman gasped. Not one of them had seen it, even when they had been staring straight at it.
“Son of a bitch!” Timer exclaimed. The former ranger and graduate of the US Army Engineer School at Fort Leonard Wood leaned over the side, peering into the water in search of the crocodile. “Did you see that thing?”
The Mothership Page 4
