“Marty, you didn’t . . .”
“I’m sorry you had to get caught up in all this, Will,” Marty said.
“We had to get a copy of the manuscript somehow,” Nash said. “God, when those Nazis raided that monastery in France and stole the real manuscript, they set off a chase like you wouldn’t believe. Suddenly, everybody in the world who had a Supernova had the chance to get a live sample of thyrium. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Then, when we intercepted a DARPA transmission saying that there was a second copy of the manuscript in existence, we simply arranged for someone at DARPA to get a Xerox of it for us—Marty.”
But how? Race thought. Marty was with DARPA, he wasn’t with the Army. Where was the link? How was Marty associated with Nash and Army Special Projects?
At that moment, he saw Lauren go over to Marty and kiss him lightly on the cheek.
What the . . . ?
It was then that Race saw the ring on Marty’s left hand.
A wedding ring.
He looked at Lauren and Marty again.
No . . .
Then he heard Lauren’s voice in his head: “My first marriage didn’t exactly work out. But I’ve recently remarried”
“I see you’ve met my wife, Will,” Marty said, stepping forward holding Lauren by the hand. “I never told you I got married, did I?”
“Marty—”
“Do you remember when we were teenagers, Will? You were always the popular one and I was always the loner. The geek with the thick eyebrows and the hunched shoulders who stayed at home on Saturday nights wlrile you went out with all the girls. It was so easy for you, Will. But then, there was always that one girl you didn’t get, wasn’t there, Will?”
Race was silent.
“And it looks like I got her,” Marty said.
Race was stunned. Was it possible that Marty had been so scarred by his teenage years that he had pursued Lauren just to get even with Race?
No. Not possible.
Not without a push.
Such a theory failed to give Lauren any credit. She wouldn’t have married anybody she didn’t have a reason to marry—which really meant she wouldn’t have married anyone who didn’t advance her own career.
It was then that another image leapt into Race’s mind.
The image of Lauren and Troy Copeland standing in the Huey two nights ago, kissing like a pair of teenagers before Race had stumbled onto them.
Lauren had been having an affair with Copeland.
“Marty,” he said quickly. “Listen, she’s going to betray you—”
“Shut up, Will.”
“But Marty—”
“I said, shut up!”
Race fell silent. After a moment, he said in a low voice, “What did the Army give you to sell out DARPA, Marty?’
“They didn’t have to give me much,” Marty said. “My wife simply asked me to do her a favor. And her boss, Colonel Nash here, offered me an executive posting in the Army’s Supernova project. Will, I’m a design engineer. I design the computer systems that control these devices. But at DARPA that makes me nothing. All my life, Will—all my life—all I’ve ever wanted was recognition. At home, at school, at work. Recognition of my ability. Now, finally, I’m going to get some.”
“Marty, please, listen to me. Two nights ago, I saw Lauren with—”
“Drop it, Will. Show’s over. I’m really sorry it had to happen like this, but it has and I can’t help that. Good-bye.”
And with that Frank Nash stepped in front of Race—cutting off his view of Marty—replacing it with a view down the barrel of Nash’s SIG-Sauer.
“It’s been a pleasure, Professor, really it has,” Nash said, squeezing the trigger.
“No” Van Lewen said suddenly, stepping forward—in between Race and Nash’s pistol. “Colonel, I cannot allow you do this.”
“Get out of the way, Sergeant.”
“No, sir, I will not.”
“Get out of the fucking way!”
Van Lewen straightened as he stood before the barrel of Nash’s pistol. “Sir, my orders are clear. They came from you, yourself. I am to protect Professor Race at any cost.”
“Your orders just changed, Sergeant.”
“No, sir. They did not. If you want to kill Professor Race, then you’re going to have to kill me first.”
Nash pursed his lips for a moment.
Then—with shocking suddenness—the SIG in his hand discharged and Van Lewen’s head exploded, showering Race all over with blood.
The Green Beret’s body fell to the ground in a heap, like a marionette that had just had its strings cut. Race stared down at Van Lewen’s fallen frame.
The tall, kind sergeant had sacrificed his own life for his—had stared down the barrel of a gun for him. And now, now he was dead. Race felt like he was going to be sick.
“You son of a bitch,” he said to Nash.
Nash re-aimed his gun at Race’s face. “This mission is bigger than any one man, Professor. Bigger than him, bigger than me, and definitely bigger than you.”
And with that, Nash pulled the trigger.
Race saw the flash of brown shoot across in front of his face before he even heard the whistling sound.
Then, just as Nash pulled the trigger on his pistol, a miniature explosion of blood flared out from the Army colonel’s forearm as it was penetrated by a primitive wooden arrow.
Nash’s gun-hand was knocked sideways and the SIG discharged wildly to Race’s left. Nash roared with pain and dropped the pistol just as a volley of about twenty more arrows rained down all around them, killing two of the Army crewmen instantly.
The wave of arrows was quickly followed by a bloodcurdling battle-cry that ripped through the early-morning air like a knife.
Race spun at the sound and his jaw dropped at the sight that met him.
He saw all of the natives from the upper village—all the adults, fifty of them at least—charging out from the trees to the west of Vilcafor. They were shrieking wildly as they rushed forward, brandishing whatever weapons they could muster—bows, arrows, axes, clubs—and they wore on their faces some of the angriest expressions Race had ever seen in his life.
The charge of the natives was nothing short of terrifying.
Their fury was intense, their anger almost tangible. Frank Nash had stolen their idol and now they wanted it back.
Abruptly the crack of M-16 gunfire rang out from some-where close behind Race.
A couple of the helicopter crewmen had opened fire on the Indians. Almost instantly, four of the natives at the front of the rushing horde were hit. They stumbled and fell, crashing face-first in the mud.
But the others just kept on coming.
Nash—now with an arrow lodged in his right forearm, complete with a ragged piece of his own flesh dangling from its point—turned instantly and, with his people behind him, abandoned the village and made for the two Army choppers.
Race hadn’t even moved. He just stood there in the center of the street, rooted to the spot, staring dumbstruck at the horde of charging natives.
Then suddenly someone grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.
It was Renée.
“Professor, come on!” she yelled as she dragged him to-ward the empty Super Stallion on the other side of the village.
The Army people reached their choppers.
Nash, Lauren, Marty and Copeland leapt up into the rear compartment of the Black Hawk II at the same time as the chopper’s two crewmen threw themselves into the pilot’s and gunner’s seats.
The Black Hawk H’s rotors began to turn instantly.
Nash looked out from the rear compartment, saw Race and Renée running for the Super Stallion.
He yelled to the crewman manning the chopper’s rear-mounted Vulcan minigun. “Take out that chopper!”
As the Black Hawk H’s rotors whipped into overdrive and the big helicopter slowly began to lift off, the co-pilot jammed down on his trigger and a blazing barrage of gunfire blasted out f
rom the Vulcan.
The hail of gunfire that assailed the Super Stallion was shocking in its intensity. It pummeled the reinforced walls of the helicopter with thousands of bullet holes, each the size of a man’s fist.
And then—just as Race and Renée were coming toward it—the Super Stallion exploded into a billowing ball of flames.
The two of them dived to the ground a split second before a storm of burning-hot metal whizzed over their heads, shooting out in every direction. Two stray shards of red-hot metal, however, slammed into Renée’s shoulder, sizzling on contact. She roared with pain.
“Now take them out!” Nash yelled, pointing down at Race and the injured Renée.
The Black Hawk II was about fifteen feet off the ground now, rising quickly into the sky. The gunner immediately whirled the massive Vulcan around and drew a bead on Race’s skull.
Blam!
The crewman’s head snapped violently backward, shot right between the eyes.
Nash spun around in surprise, searching the ground below for the source of the shot that had killed his gunner.
And he saw him.
It was Doogie.
Crouched on one knee over by the moat with a stolen Navy MP-5 pressed against his shoulder, aimed directly up at the Black Hawk II! Behind him stood Gaby Lopez.
Just then Doogie loosed another shot and it pinged off the steel roof above Nash’s head.
Nash yelled at his pilot, “Get us the fuck out of here!”
With his arm looped underneath Renée’s good shoulder, Race scrambled for the ATV.
The crowd of natives was now standing underneath the two Army helicopters, shouting angrily at them, waving their sticks, firing their arrows in vain at the armored underbellies of the flying steel beasts.
Race leapt up onto the back of the ATV, yanked open the small circular hatch set inside it and helped Renée in through it.
Just as he was about to follow her, however, he saw Doogie and Gaby hurrying across the main street toward him, waving their arms wildly. Gaby was helping Doogie as he limped along as fast as he could.
They arrived at the ATV, clambered up onto it.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Doogie said in between breaths. Race saw his bloodied left leg. It had a makeshift tourniquet tied around it. “We got here just in time to see the colonel shoot Leo in the fucking head!” Doogie’s face was contorted with a mixture of rage and helpless confusion.
“The colonel had other priorities,” Race said bitterly. “Priorities that didn’t include us.”
“What are we going to do?” Doogie said.
Race bit his lip in thought.
“Come on,” he said. “Get inside. We’re not out of this yet.”
The two Army helicopters—the Comanche and the Black Hawk II—rose into the sky above the main street of Vilcafor.
Nash looked out the side door of his chopper at the crowd of angry natives beneath him, yelling and screaming and waving their fists at the helicopters. He snorted a laugh as he turned away from them and looked out through the for-ward windshield of the chopper.
The two Army helicopters cleared the treetops.
And Nash’s smile went flat.
There were eight of them—Black Hawk I helicopters—similar to his own but older; superseded models that the Army had discarded years ago. They were all painted black, with no markings on them whatsoever, and they hovered menacingly in a wide, 500-yard circle around Vilcafor like a pack of hungry jackals waiting on the periphery of the battle, waiting to pick up the scraps.
There came a sudden puff of smoke from one of the un-marked Black Hawks as, without warning, a missile shot out from one of its stub-like wings.
A long finger-like trail of smoke extended through the air in front of the helicopter as the speeding missile cut a bee-line for the Army Comanche. The Comanche exploded in an instant and dropped clumsily out of the sky. It smashed down onto one of the stone huts on the main street of Vilcafor, flames spilling out from its charred, twisted shell.
Race and the others were inside the citadel and about to climb down into the quenko when they heard the sudden explosion outside.
They hurried back into the ATV and peered out through its narrow slit-like windows to see what had happened.
They saw the blazing wreck of the Comanche lying awkwardly on its side on top of one of the small huts of Vilcafor.
They also saw Nash’s Black Hawk II hovering above the village, not daring to move.
The rotors of the Army Black Hawk thumped rhythmically as the big helicopter hovered over Vilcafor, in the center of the circle of ominous black helicopters.
Suddenly, two of the unmarked choppers banked out of their formation and flew in toward the village.
Black-clad soldiers sitting in their doorways opened fire on the natives on the ground and the Indians scattered immediately, hurrying over the log-bridges, darting into the dense foliage around the town.
A voice came over a loudspeaker from one of the choppers. A man’s voice, speaking in English.
“Army Black Hawk. Be advised, missile lock has been established on your aircraft. You are to land immediately. I repeat, you are to land immediately and prepare to hand over the idol. If you do not land immediately, we will blast you out of the sky and pick it out of the wreckage later.”
Nash and Marty exchanged a look.
Lauren and Copeland did the same.
“They’re not lying about the missile lock, sir,” the pilot said, turning to Nash.
‘Take us down,” Nash said.
Flanked by the two unmarked Black Hawks, Nash’s Black Hawk II slowly descended back to earth.
The three choppers hit the ground together. The moment the Army chopper’s wheels touched the mud the voice on the loudspeaker came again.
“Now exit the helicopter with your hands up.”
Nash, Lauren, Copeland and Marty did so, accompanied by the chopper’s pilot.
From the safety of the ATV, Race and the others stared out at the scene before them in awe.
Race couldn’t believe what was happening. It was like one of those fables where a big fish eats a smaller fish, only to be eaten itself by an even bigger fish moments later.
Frank Nash, it seemed, had just come across a bigger fish.
“Who the hell are these guys?” Doogie asked.
“I would guess,” Renée said, a strip of gauze pressed firmly against her bloody shoulder, “that they are the people who were responsible for the break-in at DARPA headquarters two days ago. The break-in that involved the theft of the Navy’s Supernova.”
Half a world away, Special Agent John-Paul Demonaco and Commander Tom Mitchell were sitting inside Bluey James’s filthy Baltimore apartment, waiting for the phone to ring. They were waiting for the call that would instruct Bluey to send out the V-CD of Bittiker’s message to all the TV networks. Naturally, Bluey’s phone had been hooked up to a bank of FBI tracing equipment.
There was a knock at the door.
Mitchell opened it to reveal two agents from Demonaco’s Domestic Terrorist Unit—a man and a woman, both young, clean-cut thirty somethings.
“What have you got?” Demonaco said.
“We checked out Henry Norton,” the female agent said. “The guy whose cardkeys and codes were used in the break-in. Our own investigations have confirmed that he had no known paramilitary contacts.”
“So who did he work with, then? Who could have seen him enter his codes and then pass them on to somebody?”
“Apparently he worked closely with a guy named Martin Race—Martin Eric Race. He was one of the DARPA people working on the project, the ignition system design engineer.”
“But we checked him out too,” the male agent said. “And he’s clean. No militia links, not even a history of contact with any extremist groups. He’s even married to a high-ranking Army scientist named Lauren O’Connor. She’s technically a major, but she’s had no combat experience. The rank is purely honorary. Race
and O’Connor were married late in 1997. No kids. No apparent discord. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But exactly three weeks ago, her FBI file was flagged when she was spotted leaving a motel in Gainesville with this man”—the agent handed Demonaco an 8 × 10 black-and-white photo of a man leaving a motel room—’Troy Copeland. Also a major with the Army’s Special Projects Unit. Seems Ms. O’Connor has been having an affair with Mr. Copeland for the last month.”
“So . . . ?” Demonaco said expectantly.
“So. Copeland has been under periodic surveillance for the past year, under suspicion of passing Army security codes to certain militia groups, one of which is—wait for it—the Republican Army of Texas.”
“But since the affair is only a month old,” the female agent said, “DARPA probably hasn’t picked up on it with any follow-up checks.”
Demonaco sighed. “And the Army and the Navy aren’t exactly the best of bedfellows. They’ve been pulling the rug out from under each other for years.” He turned. “Commander Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“Does the Army have a Supernova?”
“They’re not supposed to.”
“Answer the question.”
“We think they are working on one, yes.”
“Is it possible, then,” Demonaco said, “that this O’Connor woman was getting her husband to pass secret DARPA codes to her and the Army, and then she was passing diem on to her lover Copeland, not knowing that he was giving them to the Texans?”
“That’s what we figure,” the male agent said.
“Damn it!’
With the Spirit of the People in his hands, Frank Nash stepped out of his grounded Black Hawk EL Lauren, Marty, Copeland and the pilot did the same.
The two unmarked Black Hawks that had landed on either side of the Army chopper kept their rotor blades turning swiftly.
“Step away from the helicopter!” the voice on the loud-speaker demanded.
Nash and the others did so.
An instant later another fingerlike trail of smoke raced down from the sky at incredible speed—from one of the other Black Hawks hovering above the village. The missile slammed into the Army Black Hawk II, blasting it to smithereens.
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