The bodyguard shrugged, “Short hair doesn’t do it for me. Now the brunette in the black dress…” He made a sucking sound with his lips.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the fat man argued. “I’ve been with hundreds of women, and the short-haired ones are all freaks, guaranteed to make your toes curl. I had a short-haired woman in Rome once who could—”
Satisfied the conversation held nothing of value, Eugene swept the camera westward. He stopped on a casually dressed couple, this time a man and a woman. They both wore all-weather jackets, cargo pants, and hiking boots, and they spoke so softly Eugene could barely make out the words.
“I’m moving AT4’s and side-by-sides for your assets in Cambodia,” the woman said in a deep, raspy voice. “I also requested communications equipment for eight mobile units and a base station, but if you need anything else, just let us know.”
The man pulled something from his breast pocket, handed it to her, and said, “We could use some SATCOM antennas; ours are getting old. We also need cash in rupees and sterling.”
The woman nodded and pocketed the note. “Anything else?”
The man shrugged. “Manpower. We need technicians for the new network and more security at our forward operating bases.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Manning is tight right now; we can’t spare anyone in this AOR, but we might be able to pull some people from Africa. I’ll contact Dedrick to see if he has someone with the right credentials.”
She turned to leave, but the man stopped her. “Hold up,” he whispered.
She stopped and turned her ear to him.
“I want to know how the cleanup is going in Baltimore and Annapolis.”
Eugene thumbed up the volume and strained to listen.
“This is not the time or the place,” she growled.
“Hear me out,” he said, holding up his hands. “Eastern Division covers eighty-percent of the world’s population and we have the lowest tech. We’re always the last to get any news. I just need something to bring back to the teams, you know, to boost morale. We haven’t heard anything in weeks—not since Empress made her move.”
“Fine,” the woman said, looking over both shoulders. “Empress is about to go online with some new tech. I haven’t heard what it is, but it’s supposed to be big. I’ve also heard Casket is being used in the field, and the results are everything we hoped for and more. Teams in Africa are generating heat faster than anyone could’ve guessed. If things keep progressing at this rate, we’ll be able to re-equip Eastern Division from top to bottom and get everyone more troops by the end of the quarter.”
“Shit; that’s great. And the cleanup?”
“Don’t worry. Even Eastern Division will get the news when it happens. All the targets have been identified and are being followed. We’ll take them out one by one, then in two weeks, we’ll make our big move. Washington will be in chaos, and DARPA will be set so far back, they’ll be researching stone tools.”
Eugene’s mouth fell open in a noiseless gasp. DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, was the entity that gave birth to Lateralis and Nerium. The woman’s words held tremendous implications. It would take a massive coordinated assault to set back the research at DARPA—assassinations, cyber-attacks, bombings, sabotage, and more. If she was telling the truth, it meant she was in league with an army of well-trained terrorists operating within the United States. It also meant Santiago and his family had less than two weeks to live.
The couple didn’t say another word. The man stepped aside and lit a cigarette and the woman disappeared inside the building. Eugene wanted to follow her, but he knew he couldn’t. His best chance was to get outside the compound’s sprawling fences and try to catch one of them in the open. At the very least, he needed to send his evidence to Daron.
Eugene’s rucksack was buried a mile away. In optimal conditions, he could run that distance in less than five minutes. Today, the trip might take three hours. If he tried to run for it, the guards would shoot him before he made the first fence.
Even if he could make it past the fences without getting killed, he had no way to make a clean escape. He had hiked nearly ten miles over rough terrain just to get to the border of the compound. If he was spotted, they would mount dirt-bikes, side-by-sides, and trucks, then cut him off before he crossed the first ridge.
Eugene closed his eyes and prayed he could get a message out. Time was critical, but stealth was vital. He withdrew from his observation point slowly, barely rustling a leaf. Propping himself up on his elbows, he began to high-crawl toward the fence. Every thirty seconds or so, he flattened himself on the ground and listened for movement. The pause would last nearly a minute, then he would press on. Progress was maddeningly slow, but to rush would mean certain death. In order to get past the roving patrols, he had to make sure he heard or saw them first.
During one pause, he heard leaves crunching in the distance. With his face in the dirt, he waited for the footsteps to pass. There was no use going for his weapon; if discovered, he would be dead in seconds. The heavy boots picked through the brush slowly and stopped regularly. This guard knew what he was doing. He was undoubtedly sweeping the area with night-vision goggles between steps. On such a dark night, even night-vision wouldn’t clearly illuminate the brush-laden slopes. With luck, Eugene’s shape would blend with the dark forms of the surrounding vegetation.
The footsteps stopped directly ahead of Eugene, about thirty yards downhill. He closed his eyes. His chest rose and fell only a fraction of an inch. Perhaps the guard was investigating a disturbed path of leaves Eugene left on the way in. There was a chance he was just bored and had stopped to scratch his nose. Speculation served no purpose, so Eugene forced the thoughts from his mind. He focused on remaining as still as a stone and listening for movement.
Five minutes passed, then five more. Finally, the guard shuffled onward. He moved steadily, knocking dry leaves aside without regard for noise.
Eugene breathed a sigh of relief and crawled forward. He paused briefly at an opening in the fence along the road, then scurried around and hid. He waited and listened for another minute, then hurried forward, taking advantage of a gap in the patrols.
Midway between the second and third fence, a truck rolled up the road. Eugene ducked behind a shrub and turned his face from the blinding headlights. When the truck rolled by, he jumped to his feet and sprinted to the third fence, sliding behind a dense rhododendron for cover.
The precaution was a wise choice; moments later, the truck rolled back down the hill. A jolt ran down Eugene’s spine. If the meeting was over, the truck could be ferrying people between the compound and the parking area at the base of the mountain.
When the truck passed again, Eugene hurried around the fence and took cover on the other side. As his shadow melted into the hillside, a voice called out in the darkness.
“Is that you, Hobbs?”
Eugene swore to himself and strained to look for the source. A silhouette emerged from behind a tree on the other side of the road. As the man stepped out, his outline grew more distinct. His hands were at his face, surrounding a pair of dim, green orbs; he was adjusting his night-vision goggles.
“Yeah,” Eugene grunted in response.
The man relaxed. “You scared the crap out of me. What the hell are you sittin’ down for?”
“Well…” Eugene said slowly.
The pops of his suppressed pistol sounded deafening in the stillness. The first round struck the curious man in the throat, and the second passed through his left eye.
5
The man’s body had barely hit the ground when Eugene heard a radio crackle.
“Cesar, this is Abel.”
Without thinking, Eugene sprinted over to the dead man and snatched the push-to-talk from his chest.
He clicked the button and, in his best approximation of the man’s voice, said, “Abel, Cesar. Go ahead, over.”
“Cesar, I heard somet
hing near your position, and ops can’t pinpoint you on FLIR. Everything okay?”
“Not sure,” Eugene replied. “I’m headed down the road to check it out now.”
“Copy, Cesar. Lemme know if you see anything.”
“Roger.”
Eugene pulled the rifle and the radio from the man’s body and started walking down the dirt road, hoping he would be indistinguishable from the guard on infrared.
He passed the fourth fence and stopped, as if listening for intruders.
Keying up the radio, he said, “Abel, Cesar.”
“Go ahead, Cesar.”
“I can hear something out here. Could be a squirrel. I’m heading into the woods to check it out.”
“Copy, Cesar. Keep me informed.”
Crouching low, Eugene abandoned the road in pursuit of the imaginary squirrel. His pack with the communications equipment was a half-mile into the woods. If he could make the tree line, he would have a chance of getting his message to Daron before being overtaken by the guards.
His radio didn’t crackle for several minutes. When the low shrubs finally gave way to dense trees, he broke into a run. Pain shot down his side; his bones and tendons were still healing from a brief but violent confrontation with Jarrod Hawkins. Experimental splints allowed Eugene to move freely without causing further damage, but they didn’t stop the pain. He didn’t blame Jarrod for the attack, and he didn’t blame himself anymore. The fault lay with an ignorant scientist-turned-bureaucrat, but this wasn’t the time to ruminate on old grudges. Despite the nagging injury, he kept up a pace most cross-country runners would envy. He was halfway to the cache when a rumbling noise made his stomach drop. The truck was ascending the hill.
He didn’t pause to watch. He knew what would happen. The driver would spot the body in his headlights, and the hunt would be on. When the call went out, he would only have a few minutes before the security team caught up with him.
The truck engine roared as it reached the steep portion of the hill near the outer fence. Eugene sprinted onward. He reached the bush where his ruck sack was concealed, slid onto the ground, and tore it open. As he pulled out a portable satellite-communications antenna, the stolen radio crackled, “All personnel, switch to frequency delta.”
Eugene didn’t search the radio for a frequency labeled “delta.” These guys were pros; they would have established a predetermined channel to switch to if communications were compromised. He absently flipped a switch, setting the radio to scan every frequency for traffic. It scratched at several different channels, but gave nothing of use. He guessed they had used “frequency hopping” on the backup channel, a function that causes the radio to skip around between frequencies at rapid intervals. If anyone listening didn’t have their equipment on the right setting, they wouldn’t be able to receive more than a millisecond of traffic.
They were onto him, and there was nothing he could do to listen in. He hit a button on the SATCOM antenna, and a dozen plate-like reflectors sprung up and rotated into place above the polarization housing. He jammed the cone-shaped base into the ground, and a tiny electric motor started to whir, automatically positioning the antenna’s radials to sync with an orbiting satellite.
The truck motor rumbled on. Eugene guessed it was transporting reinforcements closer to his position. Soon, the hillside would be covered with a legion of mercenaries hungry for his blood. He tore open the pouch on his left hip and retrieved the camera. Simultaneously depressing buttons on the camera and the bulky SATCOM radio, he began transferring the surveillance footage. A message appeared on the radio’s blue screen. Wireless transfer in progress…5% complete.
Eugene rifled through the bag, removed a thermite grenade, and placed it on the radio. If the situation became hopeless, he would pull the pin and destroy the high-tech equipment. With his fail-safe in place, he drew his pistol and crouched next to a gnarled oak tree.
The throaty whine of side-by-side utility vehicles and dirt-bikes reached his ears. Someone was shouting, and two, then three more trucks started to ascend the hill. He checked his pistol; fifteen rounds remained—and would be about as effective as harsh words against the amassing, heavily-armed force. He listened to the bustling activity and scanned the forest for several minutes. No one was in sight, and none of the vehicles were headed in his direction. He slipped away to check the radio.
Wireless transfer in progress…98% complete.
His hands tightened around the display.
Wireless transfer complete. Standby.
Eugene drummed his finger on the back of the radio, willing it to hurry up. If he unplugged before getting the confirmation message, it could corrupt the file before it could complete the trip from his end to orbit and finally back down to Daron’s radio.
Message sent.
Eugene whispered a prayer of thanks and collapsed the antenna in on itself. He jammed it, the radio, and the camera into the rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. It was time to move.
Sprinting with the urgency of a hunted fox, Eugene made his way down the back of the ridge. He needed distance first; stealth would come later. He turned uphill and pumped his legs against the steep terrain, following a route that was impassible by vehicles. The hill pitched upward to his left, so he turned in that direction. He pulled himself onward with the stems of narrow trees that clung precariously to the slope.
Lungs burning and thighs begging for mercy, he neared the top of the hill. Rather than mount the crest, he traversed sideways across the slope. To silhouette himself at the summit would be an open invitation to a sniper’s high-velocity round. He found a deer path and used it to round the edge of the hill. Once the natural barrier was between him and his foes, he slowed to a trot. It was time to make his trail vanish.
He found a patch of hard ground at the edge of the deer path and stepped off. Moving slowly to avoid disturbing the soft duff, he picked his way downhill. After five minutes, he stopped to listen. Trucks and all-terrain vehicles still roared and hummed in the distance. He frowned, wondering why his pursuers weren’t keeping up.
Moving quietly and stopping frequently to listen, Eugene made his way to a rocky drainage. He followed it up the next hill, searching for concealment. A fallen tree drew his attention, and he moved toward it.
The decaying mass of wood was partially obscured by creeping vines and low shrubs. He stepped gingerly around it until he found a gap. He tossed his ruck inside, hoping it wasn’t already occupied by an animal with sharp teeth. Nothing crawled, slithered, or scrambled out.
He grabbed a large piece of bark from the ground and wedged himself into the gap, then used the bark and some leaves for concealment. He lay completely still with his ear tilted toward the open forest.
The noises of vehicles traversing the road continued for hours. The hill glowed pink with the approaching sunrise, but there was still no sign of anyone tracking him. One by one, the trucks disappeared, leaving only the occasional rattle of smaller conveyances. Eventually, the man-made noises faded entirely.
Cheerful birds sang to one another, and squirrels foundered in the leaves. For several minutes, it was peaceful. Eugene contemplated poking his head out to look around, but decided against it. Daron had the footage; he could afford to hide a few more hours.
Then the unexpected happened; the ground shook beneath him. Seconds later, a deafening roar split the air. The massive compound, as formidable as any bunker, erupted in a fiery explosion.
6
Broad, green leaves slapped against the front of the Range Rover. The road into Moloundou was narrow and deeply rutted in places, but it was nothing compared to the rugged trail Jarrod Hawkins had just left. Gradually, the dusty red road began to widen, and the vegetation’s frantic attacks on his windshield ceased. He let off the accelerator as sandy-colored buildings with tin roofs came into view. The transition from impenetrable forest to crowded city was startlingly abrupt. Women washed dishes in basins next to the street as their children played nearby. A man
strode past with a large bundle perched atop his head.
Men, women, and children alike stopped to stare at him as he drove past in the dirty but obviously high-end vehicle. He pulled his hood over his head, masking the change taking place beneath.
Since his transformation in the depths of Hillcrest, Jarrod’s skin had taken on a gray hue. The odd shade was due to billions of microscopic machines flowing through his veins. The machines performed different tasks within his body—some improved his ability to heal, some worked tirelessly to maintain a synthetic nervous system, and others worked in tandem with genetic alterations to grant him combat-specific enhancements. His mind held sway over the nanotechnology within him and the metamaterial armor on his skin. His hearing was greatly enhanced, as were his senses of smell and taste. Special chemical receptors in his mouth and nose allowed him to detect minute chemical variations in people around him. The scents would trigger cues placed in his brain through a process called “mental conditioning,” allowing him to determine the emotional state of anyone around him. His eyes had been simultaneously improved and degraded. He could see in near-total darkness with binocular vision, but only when the metamaterial interacted with sensory receptors on his cornea. Jarrod often wore bulky sunglasses in public to conceal the discolored bulging of his eyes.
As the Range Rover drew closer to the village, Jarrod concentrated on his appearance. Pigments flushed into the skin on his face, hiding his gray pallor. Until just a few weeks prior, Jarrod was unable to change his appearance at will. The scientists at Hillcrest intentionally withheld the mental connections required for him to camouflage his skin and armor. They worried he would be a greater escape risk with the capability to refract light, alter the texture of his armor, and change the color of his skin. They planned to test those enhancements when they were certain Jarrod could be controlled. When Jarrod escaped before the final phase of his transformation, the scientists assumed he would never be able to reach his full potential for camouflage.
The Path Of The Nightmare Page 4
