by Ted Bell
“A cavern!” he heard Saladin shout from up ahead.
It was the size of a large church. The rock walls soared twenty feet overhead forming a natural dome. The air was so damp and cold you could see your breath in the flashlight beams. Precariously balanced towers of stone, each as big as small cottages rose into the darkness. An underground river, swift and silent, bisected the interior. Brock knelt beside it and plunged his hand into the water. It was a few degrees cooler than the air.
Harry straightened up and stretched for a moment, raising his hands above his head, trying to get the kinks out. He played his flashlight beam on the stone formations overhead.
“You think this is man-made?” he asked Saladin, who was inspecting another connecting tunnel on the far side.
“Not this part, no. But a good deal of this tunnel, yes. Look over here. See where the big grinding bit chewed the rock leading inside the tunnel?”
“Bit?” Harry asked. “This was all bored out? Even Mexican drug smugglers can’t dig tunnels this big.”
Harry knelt and ran his hands over the scarred rock beneath his sandals. He couldn’t really feel any difference in the rock here. But when he shifted his weight to stand, a loose piece of shale six inches long angled up from the cave floor. He bent down again and removed it, uncovering an opening. He stuck his hand down inside without thinking.
“Ow!” Harry said, yanking his right hand out quickly. He felt as if a razor-toothed animal had snapped at him.
Saladin aimed his beam at Harry’s hand. Blisters were already forming on all of his fingertips.
“What the hell?” Harry said. “Something burned me! Christ, that thing’s hot.”
“Thing?” Caparina said, taking a step forward to see. “What thing?”
Hassan now had his flashlight pointed down inside the hole. After a second, he stuck his own hand inside. Then he looked up at Brock and Caparina and smiled. “It’s not hot, it’s cold.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a power line,” Hassan said, a grin spreading across his face.
“Power line? In a cave? How come it’s so cold?”
“It’s a new kind of superconducting cable. Cheap, but very high tech because these things carry five times the electricity of aluminum or copper. Made of a ceramic core surrounded by a sleeve of extremely cold gases. The thermal insulation coating was damaged here, that’s why we found this repair hole.”
“How’d you get so smart?” Harry asked him.
Caparina said, “He’s got his master’s in engineering.”
“That helps. And where in God’s name do you suppose this power line runs to? And, what would you do with all this power out here in the jungle anyway?”
“Let’s find out, Harry Brock. Come on, the cable runs north.”
TWENTY MINUTES later, the threesome emerged from a well-disguised hole in the hillside. They stood for a moment, trying to get their bearings in a small patch of sunlight.
“This is it?” Harry said, looking around and unable to hide his disappointment. There was nothing but jungle replicating itself in every conceivable direction.
“That cable doesn’t come all the way out here for nothing,” Caparina said, logically enough. “Let’s keep looking.”
“Get down!” Saladin cried as he dove into the green thicket. “Shit!”
Harry and Caparina instinctively followed him, diving under the thick green foliage.
“What is it?” Harry asked, seeing Hassan’s wide-eyed expression. “What did you see?”
“Up there,” he whispered. He was pointing skyward at a wide hole in the canopy.
“Holy shit,” Harry Brock said. “A drone. What the hell are drones doing out here in the middle of nowhere? There’s nothing to spy on.”
“Oh yes there is,” Saladin said, watching the silent thing approach.
The twelve-foot-long Unmanned Aerial Vehicle, or UAV drone plane, was headed right toward them, skimming the treetops. The fuselage was matte silver, and there were slender red missiles mounted at the wingtips. A single silver bug-eyed camera hung mounted beneath the nose. Harry Brock knew the thing was a late-generation endurance craft. It could probably stay aloft for twenty-four hours or longer.
“Is it looking for us?” Caparina asked, watching the thing approach. “Or, at us?”
“Neither,” Saladin said, “it’s coming in for a landing.”
“I think maybe this is it,” Harry said, excited. He pushed a leafy frond aside so he could see beyond the vegetation. “The airstrip.”
“Right,” Saladin said, peering over his shoulder. “Let’s get closer.”
They moved quickly through the jungle and hid in the thick growth alongside the middle section of the airstrip. The tiny aircraft made its final descent, touching down at the far end of the weed-cracked asphalt runway. The drone sped along right past them, slowed, and then accelerated and lifted off.
“What the hell?” Caparina said.
“Touch and go landings,” Harry said. “Whoever’s flying that thing is getting in a little practice.”
“Is the pilot in that little shed?” Caparina asked.
A small corrugated building painted in camo colors was situated at the far end of the runway. Harry borrowed Hassan’s binocs and scoped it out. No movement that he could see behind the dirty windows, no sign of anyone at all. But there was a very odd-looking vehicle parked out on the rain-wet tarmac.
“The UAV’s not looking our way,” Harry said. “Keep well inside the tree line till we’re just opposite the shed. Check weapons.”
Harry checked out the weapon Hassan had given him earlier that morning. It was an interesting gun, a PP-19 Bizon submachine gun with a pistol grip and a folding butt. The gun had a high-capacity ‘helical’mag with 64 rounds. Harry was pretty happy with it. The gun had been made in Russia in the early nineties and was still in use by Spetsnaz and other law enforcement forces. It was comfortable to carry and would provide a lot of firepower.
They checked up opposite the shed, staying low in the undergrowth. There had been no movement and Harry was pretty sure nobody had seen their approach. The UAV was off doing loopy-loops in the wild blue yonder and no current danger to them.
“Okay,” Harry said. “Let’s go. I’m going over there. Then I’m through that door. You two wait here till I give the all clear. Understood?”
They nodded. Harry thumbed his selector switch to full auto fire and sprinted the few hundred yards across open ground to the shed. As he ran full tilt toward the door, he checked out the strange vehicle. It was a small tank, weighed maybe a ton. It was about a fifth the size of an Abrams M-2. Main Battle Tank. No turret, just a video camera pod atop a center periscope mount and twin 7.62mm machine guns front and rear. The single hooded camera lens was pointed away from him now and it stayed that way.
He flattened himself just to the right of the door, catching his breath and listening for any sign of life inside. He imagined the conditions inside would be near intolerable in this baking heat. The windows on either side of the door were filthy and caked with mud. He considered peeking through but decided it wasn’t worth it. His gut told him the shed was empty.
But you never knew. His gut had been wrong a few times.
He stepped back, turned toward the shed, and planted his foot hard in the middle of the door. The force of the kick sent the thin aluminum door flying inward. Harry rushed inside, staying low, gun out front. He saw the door lying on the dirt floor. His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the sudden darkness inside. But he sensed movement.
“Down!” he screamed.
Against the far wall was a long table stacked with electronic equipment. Mounted on brackets above, there were three small monitors displaying black and white aerial views of the canopy. Seated in an old swivel chair, wearing headphones, was a man in fatigues. Harry immediately saw that this one was alone in the dark room. The guy was just starting to swing around. Harry knew he had a gun in his hand before
he even saw it.
“Drop the weapon!” Harry barked. “No pistola!”
The guy kept coming around.
“Death wish!” Harry said, low menace in his voice. “I mean it, partner!”
Harry saw the guy’s shaded face in profile and his stubby black gun coming up and he squeezed the Bizon’s trigger. A short deafening burst. The guy, still in his chair, was slammed back into his equipment and then slumped to the floor, sending his empty chair skidding toward Harry. Brock took a few steps forward and stuck his foot under the guy’s shoulder, lifting him up a foot or so, then set him gently back down dead.
He stepped back outside into the blazing sun and made a beckoning motion to Saladin and Caparina. They were already running full speed toward him.
“I thought I told you guys to wait,” Harry said, irritated.
Saladin was all over the pint-sized tank, circling it, inspecting the mud-caked tracks.
“Here’s my question about the deceased gentleman in there,” Harry said, using his bandanna to wipe the sweat from his eyes. “A UAV like the one we saw can stay aloft for about twenty-four hours. He’s got three of them up there. So, what the hell? He’s sitting in there day after day looking at a million square miles of treetops? I don’t think so.”
“Probably right,” Hassan said, over his shoulder. He was kneeling to inspect the tank’s treads.
“So what’s he doing?” Brock said, bending down to inspect the rear-mounted machine guns.
“He’s practicing for flights somewhere else,” Hassan said, “that’s what he’s doing. You can fly these things seven thousand miles away from the target zone.”
“The U.S.?” Caparina said.
“Hey!” Harry said, watching Saladin pawing over the tank. “Stay away from that damn thing. It looks dangerous.”
“One camera and its facing the wrong way,” Saladin said. “The UGV can’t see us.”
“UGV?”
“Unmanned Ground Vehicle. Looks like a new Iranian Zulfiqar UGV,” Hassan said. “Liquid fuel. Called a Troll by the Iranian military, a Tomcat by the Israelis. See the angry red Troll face painted on the flanks? Definitely Iranian.”
“A robotic tank. You’re an engineer. How the hell does it work?”
“This UG’s not a true robot by any scientific definition, because it’s not autonomous. Battlebots like this are run by wireless controllers sitting inside virtual reality video displays, like the guy in there was doing.”
“These autonomous ones,” Harry said, “sound bad. They make up their own minds who they want to kill?”
“Right, you just cut them loose. There are rumors about a big one called the Ogre. It’s virtually unstoppable. Ogres use pattern recognition technology to kill anything that moves. Fortunately, those are extremely rare at this point,” Saladin said.
At that moment the robot tank lurched slightly and began moving forward. As it did so, Harry saw the camera lens begin to turn toward them.
“Another controller somewhere has picked us up!” Saladin said.
“Quick! Jump on the back,” Harry shouted to his two companions as he ran toward the vehicle. He leapt aboard the flat section at the rear. There were two grab-rails, one on either side, probably so troops could do what he was doing, hitch a ride.
“Come on, get on,” he said. “Just stay flat on the deck below the camera pod and we should be all right.”
He reached his free hand out to Caparina and pulled her onboard. The tank was gathering speed now. Saladin Hassan had to sprint the last few yards before he was able to leap on the back and grab Harry’s hand. The surveil camera was now cycling through a 360-degree observation rotation. The lens on its stalk was about a foot above their heads. As long as they kept their noggins down, Harry thought, they’d be invisible.
“Where’s this damn thing going?” Caparina said.
“Home to Papa, I hope,” Saladin answered.
“You mean Papa Top,” said Caparina.
“E.T. go home,” Harry said.
Harry Brock looked at Caparina and grinned. Then he banged his fist down a few times on the hot metal surface of the robotic tank.
“You heard me, Ugly. Take us to your leader.”
35
KEY WEST
A lex Hawke was unexpectedly charmed by Key West. He had arrived in these emerald waters aboard Blackhawke late the previous night. Already, he found the place irresistibly alluring. Disembarking on a whim just after his sunrise swim, he had begun an early-morning stroll through the old naval submarine base. Dew still glistened on the well-cut grass and even the early birds were still sleeping in live oak trees draped with Spanish moss.
He had emerged from the base at Olivia Street and then passed though the narrow streets of town. He whistled past the Old City Cemetery and wondered where everyone was. Not the dead, but the living. He assumed Key West stayed up late and slept late and, at this time of morning, the Old City would normally be deserted.
Following his nose, seduced by a powerful aroma, Hawke strolled the shadowy streets until he found the source of the delicious scent. A tiny corner café was dispensing intensely aromatic Cuban café con leche. He found a seat at one of the small tin tables on the sidewalk, chairs and tables still wet with last night’s rain. He zipped up his yellow windbreaker and sat down.
A young man with spiky blond hair and wearing a tight black T-shirt studded with rhinestones came outside and took his order of coffee and croissant. A few minutes later, the waiter, who was still wearing exotic eye makeup from the previous evening, returned with his breakfast and offered him a slim paperback history of the place called Isle of Bones.
“First visit to Key West?” the waiter asked Hawke, looking as if he already knew the answer.
“Right. I’ve been fishing on Islamorada a few times, but never all the way down here. Beautiful place.”
“Hurricanes took their toll, but we’ll bounce back.”
Hawke gave the waiter some money and said, “Town looks great to me.”
“Yeah, well, we’re pretty much back to abnormal now.”
Hawke laughed and picked up the guidebook.
Since he was in no hurry, he decided to delve into the slim volume of Key West lore. Blackhawke would provision here before moving south and the conference was scheduled to run two days. He was not looking forward to his first confrontation with Conch; but he was determined to make his case to the Americans and see a bit of Key West. It would help to have a bit of the local color. He began to read.
THE FIRST MAN who ever stepped out of his boat and set his boots upon this island, Hawke read, found himself knee-deep in bones. Early Spanish explorers, who had somehow survived the treacherous reefs guarding this sun-drenched isle, found an island littered with human bones. Grinning skulls decorated the low-lying mangrove branches as they glided toward shore; more were in the gumbo limo trees, swaying and tinkling in the trade winds.
Bones and more bones. The Spanish explorers had named it Cayo Hueso.
The Isle of Bones.
The island was of course a notorious pirate enclave for much of its colorful history. It was ideally located for the skullduggery of freebooters and privateers, preying on the galleons sailing out of Havana, loaded to the gunwales with gold. Hawke’s ancestor, the infamous pirate Blackhawke, had no doubt sent more than his share of Spaniards to the bottom after relieving them of their booty.
And then there were the reefs.
The razor-sharp spiny coral reefs that surrounded the island offered pirates a prized source of protection; and a source of bounty as the early “wreckers” plundered booty from foundered vessels. By 1835, “wrecking” salvage had made Key West the wealthiest city in America. Treasure still attracts its share of fortune hunters; it seemed no one could escape the tidal pull the island itself exerts on visitors. Even the most casual guest could sense buried riches around this island. Enormous emeralds sleeping deep in the sand, Hawke imagined, or flashing rubies skittering like crabs
beneath the turquoise sea.
Heading back, Hawke felt a palpable air of mystery hanging about the place. You could feel it, he had noticed on his walk, lingering back in the shadows, suddenly at your side, then brushing past as you rounded a corner, only to whirl and face you head on, cool upon your cheeks. At night, he imagined, walking along a darkened side street overhung with heavy magnolias and fragrant flowering frangipani, you could feel the steady pull of the past. On every block, softly glowing windows would hint, if not of treachery, then at least of whispered secrets and inhabitants best left undisturbed.
Blackhawke was moored alongside the great arm of a breakwater that enclosed the submarine basin at the Yard. The Navy, in one form or another, had been stationed in these pristine waters since 1823. In the early days, Key West had been the forward base of the Navy’s pirate-hunting West India Squadron. Their mission was to root out the bloodthirsty buccaneers from their hideaways deep in the mangrove creeks up and down the Keys.
When Hawke returned to the docks from his morning reconnoiter, he found the big black ship straining and tugging at her mooring lines. Rain fell, spitting fat drops at first, then coming down in buckets. Greeting the armed security guards both the U.S. Navy and Tom Quick had posted along the quay, he hurried along to Blackhawke’s covered gangway and saluted the Navy officer posted there. The man would be there for the duration. Security was tight all over the yard. Navy choppers buzzed overhead. There were divers down now in the basin. They would be inspecting his hull along with the Navy’s vessels, making sure everything stayed clean of limpet mines.
Hell, half the State Department was down here for Conch’s southern hemisphere security meeting. Brick Kelly, the Director of the CIA, was speaking on border protection in about three hours. “Good fences make good neighbors,” he’d said to Hawke when last they’d met at the White House. The place would be piled to the rafters with American bigwigs plus one reluctant Englishman who’d invited himself.
