Prey sahl-1

by Ken Goddard

  "First of all," MacDonald raised a single callused finger, "we will provide you with the resources necessary for each of you to maintain and enhance your own personal skills.

  "Second"-he raised a second finger-"we will provide a series of simulated exercises that will enhance your ability to function as a team against a wide range of tactical situations.

  "And finally," MacDonald said as he brought up the third finger, "we will provide individualized instruction with respect to specific weapons, techniques or tactics to meet the individual needs of you and your team leaders."

  MacDonald paused momentarily to note that Gerd Maas was staring at him expressionlessly.

  "To my far right is Master Gunnery Sergeant Gary Brickard. Sergeant Brickard will be your range master. He is also in charge of this facility in my absence. His special area of expertise is simulated combat situations, utilizing multimedia displays and robotics."

  MacDonald scanned the eleven faces of his audience once more, noting that even Maas seemed to be intrigued by the idea of robotics.

  "Sergeant Brickard and I have a great deal of experience in using live-fire exercises to teach rapid-strike entries and small-squad tactics. Our goal will be to provide all of you with appropriate simulations that force you to extend your capabilities to their maximum effectiveness while working in conjunction with other members of your team.

  "In effect, we intend to keep your skills honed to a state of readiness that will allow you to respond to a tactical situation at a moment's notice."

  MacDonald paused to look around the room once more. "Before I go on, are there any questions?"

  Much to MacDonald's surprise, Gerd Maas raised his hand.

  "Yes, Mr. Maas?"

  "Sergeant MacDonald," Maas said in his typical cold, gruff voice, "I am most impressed by the quality of this facility and the thoughtfulness of your planning. However, I was told this morning that we must accelerate our preparations. Therefore, I must know how soon you and your staff can be available to us."

  "Starting tomorrow morning, Sergeant Brickard and I, along with the rest of the staff, will be at your disposal in these facilities from oh-seven hundred to twenty-one hundred hours, seven days a week. Meals are normally scheduled at oh-six hundred, twelve hundred, and eighteen hundred hours. At your request, with appropriate notice, we can be available at any other time of the day or night."

  "And what do you consider appropriate notice?" Maas asked.

  "Twenty minutes to shower and shave would be appreciated," MacDonald said matter-of-factly. "However, a knock on any one of our doors would be sufficient."

  "One more question," Gerd Maas said. "Perhaps you could comment on the security of these facilities?"

  "I was about to get to that," MacDonald nodded as he stepped back behind the podium.

  "It is obvious that the United States Government has placed a very high value on your readiness quotient. I say that because over the past eight months, my staff and I have been allowed to spend approximately eighty-seven million dollars to create what I can honestly tell you is one of the finest covert training facilities I have ever seen."

  With motions that suggested an intimate knowledge of his equipment, MacDonald moved his callused right hand across the podium's control panel, causing the room to gradually darken. A sixteen-by-twenty-foot back-lit screen behind the podium lit up with a colorful graphics display.

  "As you can see from the first slide," MacDonald said, "the training facilities are located a hundred yards east of the main cabin and are connected to that cabin by three underground tunnels, two of which are reserved for utilities and supply transport. The third tunnel will be your access route to and from the facilities."

  MacDonald used a small hand-held transmitter to advance to the next slide.

  "The facility is constructed around a two-story, twelve- inch, steel box-beam frame. The walls are eight inches thick, constructed of precast tilt-up slabs of hardened and reinforced concrete that are welded to the frame. The floors are similarly constructed, but are twelve inches thick and have much more extensive reinforcement. The lower level has sixteen feet of clearance from floor to ceiling, and the upper level has thirty-two. The top ceiling is made up of thirty-six inches of reinforced concrete and six inches of armor plating. The entire facility is buried beneath twelve feet of soil.

  "In effect," MacDonald smiled, "we have provided you with a facility that is virtually impervious to anything short of a nuclear strike. Presumably, such precautions will not be necessary."

  There was an appreciative murmur of approval and amusement from the ICER team.

  The next slide had apparently been taken from the air.

  "As you can see, we have constructed extensive outdoor recreational facilities above the complex. These facilities consist of four tennis courts, four sand volleyball courts, eight racquetball courts, two basketball courts, a hundred- meter pool, a clubhouse, and locker-room facilities that include showers, rest rooms, and a weight room. You will, of course, have full use of these facilities at any time.

  "More important, however, aside from the connecting tunnels, the only way in or out of the Training Center is either through the access tunnel to the helipad, or the alarmed fire-escape tunnel that exits through a separate and secured underground corridor connecting the clubhouse and locker room. The escape corridors and stairwells are external to the primary building structure, and the outer blast doors are designed to withstand the impact of a HEAT-tank round. They are also coded to your fingerprints, and open only from the inside.

  "Getting back to the underground portion of the Center," MacDonald said as he advanced to the next slide, "the entire training facility is based around two hexagonal conference rooms with fifty-foot side-wall dimensions that are built on top of each other. We, of course, are now in the upper conference room."

  The next slide showed a blowup of the lower floor, with subdivided rectangles of varying lengths radiating out from all six sides of the two central six-sided rooms.

  "Here, on the lower floor," MacDonald went on, using a light beam as a pointer, "we have the command-and-control room, armory, machine shop, ammo bunkers, mechanical room, secured tunnel access to the main cabin, instructors' quarters, student quarters, medical facilities, multimedia room, emergency food and supply storage, rest-room and shower facilities, gym and dojo.

  "By the way," MacDonald said, diverting from his planned lecture for a moment, "you will be moving this evening from your rooms in the main cabin to the underground student quarters. Your new rooms will be comparable in terms of creature comforts and, of course, more secure. As you surely know, your presence here at the Center is a closely guarded secret. Should you want to wander about in the local wilderness or avail yourselves of the recreational facilities up on top, you will be provided with appropriate Park Service clothing.

  "Now then," MacDonald said, returning to his lecture as he advanced the projector once again, "as you can see, on the upper floor we have three Hogan's Alleys with extensive robotics, one commercially oriented, one residential, and one designed to simulate an assault on a small mountain cabin.

  "In addition," MacDonald went on, using his light pointer, "we also have two fixed-wing and two helicopter simulators, a chemical-weapons compound, a fifty-yard pistol range, a hundred-yard small-arms range with multiple weather and lighting conditions, and a five-hundred-yard-long gun range with variable cross-wind capability.

  "And if that isn't sufficient, ladies and gentlemen," MacDonald said as he turned off the projector and brought the room lights back up, "we will be happy to take you outdoors into several thousand acres of our nation's finest wilderness and see what we can do to make your lives both miserable and interesting."

  Standing ramrod straight, MacDonald looked around the room one last time. "That completes my introductory presentation. Are there any questions?"

  Gerd Maas raised his hand.

  "You described the physical security of this facility in gr
eat detail, but you did not indicate the presence of any other security personnel."

  "Yes, that's correct," MacDonald nodded. "In view of your 'need-to- know' security requirements, it was decided that we should try to keep the number of personnel at the Center to a minimum."

  "I would not argue with that decision," Maas said. "However-"

  "As you may recall from the slides," MacDonald interrupted, "the instructors' quarters are adjacent to the secured tunnel access. My staff and I have agreed to take responsibility for security. Quite frankly, Mr. Maas-" the burly command sergeant major smiled, "-if the six of us and the twelve members of the ICER assault group cannot deal with any security problem that might arise at Whitehorse Cabin, I think we have no business being here in the first place."

  Maas nodded his head in apparent agreement.

  "Any other questions?"

  The tall, blond-haired man sitting next to Maas raised his hand.

  MacDonald immediately recognized the man as Gunter Aben, the one who had been described in the files as a born killing machine. Barely controllable. Tends to be malicious under stress. Known to be adverse to discipline. Extreme caution advised.

  Clarence MacDonald had been looking forward to working with Gunter Aben ever since he had read his file.

  "Yes, Mr. Aben?"

  "Only one question, Sergeant Major. Would it be possible to see a demonstration of your robotics this evening?"

  MacDonald smiled in spite of himself.

  "We can do better than that. If you and the other members of your group will follow Sergeant Brickard down to the armory"-he looked at his watch-"in about forty-five minutes, we will formally introduce you to a few of the more devious and persistent members of our training staff."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eight?

  Awareness came slowly, as if the distant pinpoint of light he had been watching for quite some time was now trying to lure him up and away from the all-encompassing darkness.

  He did not understand why the number eight was suddenly so important.

  There was a sense-almost a suggestion coming from somewhere in the darkness-that it was the light itself that he had been trying to avoid all this time; but he couldn't accept that, because it looked so warm and comforting and inviting, drifting up there above him like that.

  As if it wanted to help.

  Or to warn him of some incomprehensible danger, of some creature that was at his heels and would overtake him at any moment if he wasn't careful. Which made no sense at all, because it hadn't moved and they hadn't spelled it right and he felt perfectly warm and safe and comfortable right where he was.

  He closed his eyes to make it all go away. But then he discovered that his eyes wouldn't close, so he continued to watch the glowing pinpoint as it began to grow-both in size and in intensity-until it seemed to take on dimension… and extension… and tone.

  What?

  Henry Lightstone said the word silently, not wanting to move any part of his body any more than he had to, because every one of those terribly sensitive parts seemed to be directly connected to that glowing pinpoint of light that he understood now was the very thing he'd been trying to hide from.

  He was becoming aware that the glowing pinpoint of light was nothing more and nothing less than pure, undiluted pain.

  "Can you hear me?" the voice repeated.

  "Yes," Lightstone whispered, managing to make the word audible, but just barely.

  "Can you open your eyes?"

  No.

  He might have whispered the word, or maybe he just thought he said it. He really couldn't tell. He thought he could feel the warmth of a person's breath against some part of his body, but nothing felt connected.

  "Why not?"

  Hurts. Leave me alone.

  "What hurts?"

  Lightstone tried to make some sense out of it all. It seemed like the soft and gentle voice-a woman's voice- was responding to his answers, which meant that he must be making sound.

  And the other thing she said. Or asked. Something about hurt. Or what hurts.

  Right. What hurts? A question.

  Easy answer.

  Everything.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind an urgent voice was trying to warn him that the tiny point of light had managed to come in much closer while he had been trying to listen to the voice. But he couldn't tell if that was true or not, because he could see that it wasn't a pinpoint of light anymore; rather, it was a slowly rotating disk, with edges that looked like they were very sharp and ragged.

  Like an etching tool.

  That's how they did it, he realized. They'd used an etching tool to warn him. Hell of an idea, he smiled to himself, having no idea of what he was talking about-or thinking about, for that matter-but for some strange reason, still confident that it all made some sort of sense.

  "Listen," the other voice, the voice that was much more feminine and caring, whispered, "I'm going to try to move your arm."

  No, don't do that.

  The rotating disk advanced cautiously, looking for all the world like a curious puppy trying to get in closer to get a better look.

  Goddamned dog, he thought. Should have warned me sooner. Wouldn't have had to go through all this.

  But of course it wasn't a dog. That was exactly the point, he reminded himself. Which didn't explain why they were making such a big deal over the number eight, or the word. Why eight?

  "What?"

  Why eight? he thought louder, really wanting to know, because it seemed to mean something. Something important.

  "I don't know. Something about a phone call. I think they missed it," the voice explained.

  Oh.

  "Listen, we're going to have to move you over to the other truck so we can go home. We're going to try very hard not to hurt you, but we need you to help us if you can."

  Much closer now. So close that he could see every single glistening edge of the rotating blades that were starting to pick up speed now.

  "No…" he whispered as loudly as he could, trying to make himself heard. But now the only sound that came out of his mouth was a raspy groan.

  "Okay, hold on, here we go…"

  Then the whirling disk lunged forward.

  And he screamed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Carl Scoby was still on the phone taking notes when he heard footsteps and then a knock on the door of his newly acquired Prime Rate motel room.

  "Hold it a second. I've got company."

  Rising slowly from the chair, a loaded and ready to fire. 45 SIG-Sauer automatic in his hand, Scoby-deputy supervisor of Paul McNulty's Special Operations team and the covert agent who invariably looked an awful lot like a cop-walked cautiously to the door and looked through the peephole.

  Then, smiling in visible relief, he slipped the SIG-Sauer back into his shoulder holster. He quickly unlatched the chain bolt and opened the door.

  "Thank God you're here," Scoby said, stepping aside as Paul MeNulty walked into the room carrying a suitcase and a field duffel bag. As MeNulty set the suitcase and bag next to the far bed, Carl Scoby closed and relocked the door behind him.

  "What's going on?" MeNulty asked, alerted by the stress in his partner's voice. MeNulty had worked with Carl Scoby for over twelve years and had long considered him the most unflappable member of his covert team.

  "I'm not sure," Scoby replied honestly, "but whatever it is, I don't like it. Hold on a second."

  Scoby walked over to the small motel table, sat down and picked up the phone.

  "It's MeNulty. He just walked in. Yeah, I think you should. Maybe it'll make some sense to him."

  "Who is it?" MeNulty asked as he came over and sat down across from Scoby.

  "Larry. He and Stoner spotted Sonny Chareaux in Bozeman a little over an hour ago. They've been tracking him all over the city ever since, just a second. Let me see if I can figure out how to switch this thing over to the speakerphone," Scoby said as he picked up the complex- looking te
lephone receiver.

  "When did Mike get back?" MeNulty asked, noticing that the motel phone had been replaced with one of Mike Takahara's outwardly crude but highly sophisticated communications rigs.

  "He hasn't. That's another part of the problem."

  MeNulty blinked in surprise.

  "'You mean he's still out at the airport with that goddamn plane?"

  "We think he's still out there," Scoby corrected, gesturing with his head at the silent packset radio lying on the table. "But he hasn't responded to any of our radio calls, and we can't get anybody to answer at the airport manager's office."

  "Christ! How long has he been out there?"

  Scoby looked at his watch. "A little over four hours."

  "It shouldn't have taken him that long," MeNulty said, shaking his head. "All he had to do was to borrow a maintenance uniform, walk out to the tarmac, look around a little bit, and then pop the door on the plane."

  "Yeah, I know," Scoby nodded. "I was getting ready to have Stoner and Paxton cruise by, see if they could find out what he's doing. But then they called in saying that they'd spotted Sonny. I'll let Larry tell you about that." Scoby pushed the small recessed button marked "SP" and then set the com-rig back down on the table so that the speaker faced both him and McNulty. "Larry, can you hear me?"

  "Loud and clear," Larry Paxton acknowledged, his normally bass voice sounding even more deep and gravelly over the open speakerphone.

  "Larry, I've got Paul sitting here next to me. You want to walk him through the situation with Sonny?"

  "Yeah, no problem. Tell you the truth, Boss, we're not real sure what we have out here, other than one hell of a confused mess," Larry Paxton said. "What happened is that Stoner and I were out cruising Bozeman when we spotted Sonny as a gas station on Kagy Boulevard, parked next to an outside phone booth."