“I’m thinking about buying a Camaro,” said Rockman.
“A Camaro?”
“Classic ’68. Has a rebored 302 in it. Engine is probably for shit, though. I’ve seen the driver and maybe I might trust him with a skateboard.”
“Can we have an all-around update, please?” asked Telach, who was addressing the entire team involved in the mission.
The chatter dissolved as the analysts tracking various developments gave terse briefings. Malachi fenced the updates off in a corner of his brain, concentrating on his space plane. He leaned toward the control screens, gradually falling into the zone. Once he was there, everything would be automatic. It was like typing; he wouldn’t have to look at the keyboard to know where his fingers were.
Five minutes from Hydra, the onboard computer did a series of system checks. They were all in the green.
He came over the Urals. Telach had to give the final okay to drop the sensors from the Vessel. He updated her regularly on the flight, even though she could track it from the Art Room.
“Preparing to deploy wings,” he told her, edging forward in his seat.
The blare of another new tune from G*ngs*rfx—a heavy metal–rap piece that found a way to incorporate a tuba—nearly drowned out Telach’s acknowledgment. Malachi got the view in his main screen; the computer helped out with a white box showing the Vessel. The streaking pipe was only forty-four inches long, counting the rocket motor. While theoretically detectable by three different Russian ground radars, the programming on all three would reject any returns from it as errors.
Malachi knew that for a fact, since he had helped develop the virus that placed the code into the systems.
The computer began counting down the seconds to Hydra. At H minus forty, Malachi cut the rocket motor but left it attached; the standard contingency plan called for using it to attempt to complete the mission if the winglets failed to deploy.
Not that they would. But you always had to have a backup.
At H minus three seconds, the computer flicked a small switch located nearly at the midpoint of the Vessel. This moved an actuator into position at the opening of four long tubes connected to the blisters on the pipe’s body. At precisely H zero, a small nanotrigger activated. A flood of hydrogen gas shot into the blisters. The thin metal around them, already partially burned and worn by the friction of the flight, burst away. Hydrogen, under somewhat less pressure, flowed into what looked like a compressed paper bag directly beneath the ellipses where the metal had blown away. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the pipe sprouted a set of composite wings and steering fins from the bulges. Malachi got a tone from the computer that indicated the winglets had been properly deployed, then glanced quickly at the instrument data on screen one. There wasn’t time to scan the numbers—he looked only to make sure they were all green, rather than yellow or red. He saw green, then quickly typed the command to lose the rocket motor. As he did, the Vessel began sending its video image back to the platforms above, which in turn gave them to Malachi, supplying a real-time image for his forward display.
The separation pushed the nose up and the Vessel began to jitter, not only making it difficult to steer but also hampering the pilot’s ability to stop its spin and fly it like a normal aircraft. Malachi’s fingers flew to the right side of his keyboard, thumbing the bat on the bottom and then poking the large red arrow at the right, initiating commands to deflate the rear fin and push out the leading edge on the starboard wing. His fingers flew back and forth for nearly thirty seconds, until the craft was completely stable and on course. At that point he began controlling it using the yoke, which operated like a standard pilot’s control stick. His left hand rested at the base of a pad that could control the limited maneuvering rockets as well as the attack angles and dimensions of the winglets.
“Sensor launch in ten minutes,” he said.
“Hallelujah,” said Telach. “I thought I’d be filing my retirement papers before we got there.”
“They let you retire from this outfit?” asked Rockman. “I thought they just took you out back and shot you.”
“That’d be too easy,” said Telach.
Malachi was too busy to joke. Stabilized, the Vessel was now gliding through 200,000 feet at about Mach 5. The optimum speed for dispensing the sensors in the Vessel’s belly was just under Mach 1, and the computer showed they’d be going at least three hundred knots too fast. Folding the middle and fourth fingers of his left hand into his palm, he hit the top triangular buttons on his control pad simultaneously, telling the computer to inflate the leading edge pieces two degrees, the standard way to slow down the probe’s descent.
Ninety-seven percent of the time, the procedure worked perfectly. This time belonged to the other 3 percent.
The inflatable membrane on the winglet was made from a sandwich of metal and thin plastic alloys. One layer of the sandwich was pure copper, and while it had a number of advantages over other materials that had been tried in its place, it also had a tendency toward hairline creases that caused problems under high-stress regimes. Pretty much by definition, the entire flight was a high-stress regime, and when the leading edge inflated now, the crease caused a dent in the winglet geometry. Within seconds, the dent created a strong vortex on that side of the Vessel; the new stress point made a hole in that part of the wing.
The hole was less than a millimeter, but it allowed a fair amount of hydrogen to escape. The winglet was constructed in small tubes or pockets, so structural integrity could be maintained, at least for a while. But even with the computer’s help, Malachi knew he was going to lose the battle to keep the Vessel from sliding into a spin.
“Problem?” asked Telach.
“I’m out of milk,” he told her, struggling with the controls.
Within a few more seconds, the control panel on the left went from yellow to red. Malachi opted for a trick he had practiced several weeks ago on the simulator—he jettisoned the winglets, guiding the probe entirely by the fins as if it were a missile. While doable, this complicated the sensor launch pattern.
“We’re going to be a little off-target,” he said.
“How much?” asked Telach.
“A little.”
In the simulations, he had managed to get about 75 percent of the sensors within five miles of the target.
Something moved behind him. Malachi jerked his head around, a shudder of shock running through him.
It was Telach. She came over to him and crouched next to his station. “You’re my man, Malachi. Do it.”
“Hey,” he said. While he appreciated the verbal stroke, her presence made him nervous. He tapped the keys with his thumb and pinkie, sweat pouring from his fingers.
“Ground team has to know—go or no go,” said Rockman. “It’s getting toward day out there. Should I bag it for tonight?”
“Hang on,” said Telach.
Malachi pushed his head down toward the keyboard, tilting his head toward screen two, where his course was projected. He was below the spaghetti tube by a good hunk.
“Go or no go?” asked Rockman.
“Just hang on,” said Telach.
The computer had calculated new launch data, recommending a sweeping arc as he approached the site. The pattern would rob so much momentum that he’d have to find a new self-destruct site, but he’d have to worry about that later. Malachi got a tone from the computer, counted another three seconds, then hit the keys as the diamond-shaped piper in his main screen glowed bright red.
Twenty-eight sensors shot out from the belly of the Vessel as Malachi applied just enough body English to slip the spinning pipe through a pair of drunken-S maneuvers. They fell in a jagged semicircle around the target area, hitting it like a hail of rocks.
They were supposed to form a circle, but this was going to have to do.
“All right,” said Telach, standing up. “Jimmy, you have the sensors?”
“Just starting to bring them in now,” said the Art Room te
chie charged with hooking into the bugs Malachi had dropped. “Got a couple of dead ones.”
“Enough for a profile?” she asked.
“I think so—got a couple of dead spots.”
“All right, ask Tommy if he can work with it.” She slapped Malachi on the back hard enough to make him lose his breath. “Good work.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he told her, scanning for a place to blow up his high-tech dump truck.
11
The canvas bag hit Dean in the back as he stood a few yards from the van, his hands on his hips, admiring the moon and wondering what the hell they were going to do next.
“Put ’em on, cowboy,” said Lia.
Dean picked up the bag and held it as she walked toward the edge of a stone wall about eighty yards away where Karr was watching the nearby highway with a starscope. The moon was so bright it was possible he didn’t even need the device. Karr gave her the scope and walked back toward the van.
The bag contained a thin vest and a pair of black pants. Dean stripped down and put on the pants, which were a little loose and stiff-legged. He pulled the vest over his black T-shirt. It looked and felt like the thin vest a hunter or skier might wear for additional warmth beneath a jacket. Karr explained that beneath the quilted fabric were flat tubes made from a boron alloy; the tubes could stop a bullet from an AK-47 at twenty paces.
“What’s the deal with the pants?” Dean asked Karr. “They shielded?”
“Nah, just black. Princess is very fashion-conscious. That and they have a locator in them. If you get lost I can find you.”
A car passed on the highway nearby. Dean watched the vehicle move past, its headlights making a long arc across the empty lot and the building.
“Another hour they usually send a guard around,” said Karr. “But we should be inside by then.”
“What are we waiting for?” Dean asked.
“Just waiting. You a big coffee drinker?”
“Cup or two a day. Why?”
“You ought to give it up. Makes you too jittery.” Karr walked over to the van and got in, emerging a short time later wearing a vest similar to Dean’s. As Karr walked toward him, something sparkled in the northern sky.
Dean stared up at it. “Shooting star,” he said.
“Nope,” said Karr. “Not even close.”
Karr stretched his arms and put them behind his head, staring in the direction of the meteor. Dean decided that he must be listening to something over the complicated com system that was partially implanted in his head.
He couldn’t imagine working with something like that. You’d feel like a psycho, hearing voices.
It was a damn good thing they didn’t have that in Vietnam, he realized. There was no telling what the people back at headquarters would try. He imagined being on patrol and having Dick Nixon whispering in his ear.
Dean laughed. Karr turned around, gave his own laugh, then went back to staring into the night.
The next step would be using pure robots, thought Dean. Maybe that was a good thing—better a machine got broken than a man killed. Still, it didn’t feel entirely right.
Could’ve used this vest in Nam, though. Lightweight sucker.
Karr turned abruptly and walked toward him. As he did, he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled very loudly.
“They hate when I do that,” he told Dean, tapping him and heading back to the van.
“They had some problems putting out the sensor net, but we’re good to go,” Karr said, opening the door. “Hop in. Princess can ride in the back.”
He started the motor, then took a small handheld computer from inside his shirt. He clicked a switch and a grid map appeared; another flick and a white-and-black diagram filled the screen.
“Are we going or what?” said Lia, opening up the back.
“Keep your shirt on.” Karr slid the van into drive and they started rumbling toward the highway. “Here’s the layout,” he told Dean, handing him the handheld computer. “This part here is a set of pumps and piping for underground oil tanks; don’t worry about it. We go through this fence, down through this storage yard to this compound. It’s like an auto salvage place, a junkyard. Except the cars are hot, and generally new. That’s where our parts are. If they’re ours. We don’t think there’s guards, but we’ll know in a minute or two.”
“How?”
“That flash of light was a space-launched plane self-destructing. Before it did that, it dropped a bunch of little sound and motion detectors, okay? They’re on the ground, and our people back home are using them to augment the other data they have. We wait until they’re sure they have all the players set, then we move out.”
“They can see what’s going on in there?” asked Dean.
“Not exactly. There wasn’t time to move the optical satellite that covers this region, and besides, it’s night, right? Can’t see in the dark. You’re going to ask me about infrared, right?”
“Not really,” said Dean.
“Not precise enough, not for this. This’ll do; don’t worry.”
Karr cranked onto the highway.
“You can shoot, right?” said Lia from the back. “I mean, you are a sniper.”
Dean turned to find Lia holding a submachine gun on him.
“Take it,” she said. “I know it’s a piece of shit. Just take it.”
“Nah. Solid gun,” said Karr. “Just old. Like Dean. He’s not a piece of shit.”
“Remains to be seen,” said Lia.
The gun looked like a shortened AK-74, with a folding metal stock and an expansion chamber on the muzzle to control the gases when fired. It had a long banana-style clip and an oddly shaped flash hider.
“AKSU. Basically a sawed-off AK-74,” said Karr. “We have to go native. But it’ll do the job.”
Lia had a similar gun in her hand and was piling up clips from a hidden compartment in the truck bed.
“Uses a five-millimeter bullet,” continued Karr.
“Five-point-forty-five,” said Dean.
“Very good. You’ve fired it before?”
“I’ve handled AK-74s,” he said.
“Same thing except different.” Karr turned toward him and smiled. He actually seemed to be paying a little more attention to the road now and turned his head back before adding, “Gun flies up more when you fire it than an AK-74. But it’s pretty sweet.”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Hopefully, you won’t have to. We want to avoid it, actually.”
“Not to the point of getting killed,” said Lia. She finished stacking the clips, then handed six to Dean. The boxes held thirty bullets apiece—a lot of lead considering they didn’t want to fire them. Dean put one each in his front pockets, then stuffed the others in his pants.
“Smoke,” said Lia, handing him two small grenades.
“Flash-bangs would be better,” said Dean.
“Let us run the mission, baby-sitter.”
“We have flash-bangs,” said Karr. “You won’t need them. This is all about subtlety, Charlie. Subtlety. We’re not in Vietnam.”
Under other circumstances, Dean might have told him to go to hell—or he might have laughed at him. Karr sounded like the typical know-it-all second lieutenant fresh from the States lecturing troops who’d been in the field taking shit for six months.
Dean shifted his clips around to get the grenades into his pockets. The vest did not contain pockets.
“Okay, boys and girls, show time,” said Karr, pulling the truck off the road. A tall fence topped by razor wire stood thirty yards away; there was a second one just beyond it. Dean reached for the door.
“Hold on, cowboy. Put this on first,” said Karr, reaching to the glove compartment. He took out a small tangle of wires and dropped it into Dean’s lap. Unraveling it, Dean found that there were ear buds and a mike that clipped to his shirt. A long wire ran down from it, ending in a micro-plug.
“Where do I plug in?”
“Back of your p
ants, believe it or not,” said Karr. “Kind of a designer’s in-joke, I think.”
Dean fished around and found a small receptacle on the back side of the waistband.
“Hear me?” whispered Karr. His voice had a slightly tinny sound to it.
“Yeah.”
“It works through our satellite system, but you’re locked off from the Art Room. Sorry about that.” The NSA op reached down to a panel in the door and took out what looked like a thick set of skier’s goggles. The sides were thick metal rather than plastic, and they weighed two or three times as much as goggles.
“Starscope,” explained Karr. “Range is a little limited, but you can’t have everything.”
Dean slid it over his head, pulling the rubber strap at the back taut. The interior of the van looked like a gray, washed-out video feed. The aperture adjusted automatically.
“The image won’t be as bright outside,” said Karr, who took out a similar set for himself. “They auto-adjust. The brains who designed them probably thought we’d break them if we had a knob to fiddle with.”
“Are we going or what?” asked Lia over the com system.
“Keep your shirt on, Princess.” Karr held up his small computer for Dean, who had to slide the night visor off to see the screen. “Lia’s point, I’m next, you’re tail. We go over the fence, avoid the minefield, move across, and get to the big shack.” Karr traced the path with his finger, then clicked on the button in the lower left-hand side of the screen. Displays of the layout of the facility flashed on, showing each member of the team as a green circle moving across the target area. “You’re always in the back. You watch our butts.”
“There people in there?” Dean asked.
“Oh, yeah,” said Karr. “They’re at the far end, though. I think we’re cool.”
“What do I do if they kill you?”
“That won’t happen,” said Lia, opening the rear of the van.
“Just remember, you’re paid to watch,” said Karr. “Come on. This is easy stuff compared to what you did in the Marines.”
“How do you know what I did in the Marines?”
“I keep telling you, Dean, I know everything there is to know about you.” Karr gave him a shoulder chuck and started away.
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