Cybernarc

by Robert Cain

  He’d wanted Delgado to die. With the capture of the helicopter pilot earlier, there was no need to take Delgado alive, and when Drake had knocked him down, Rod had been certain that the SEAL was going to kill the man.

  But Rod had intervened. Why?

  Rod didn’t know. There were too many new thoughts, confusing thoughts that needed further analysis before he knew what to do with them.

  The uncontrolled environment outside the laboratory was far stranger and more deadly than Rod had ever imagined.

  It was also far richer in data, in experience than he'd thought possible.

  Drake, too, was alone with his thoughts as the robot drove them along the coast road toward the early morning sun. And though he didn’t know it, his thoughts were strangely similar to those of his silent, titanium- steel companion.

  He’d wanted to choke the life from Delgado with his bare hands. He’d had Delgado, his carotid pulse hard and fast beneath his fingers. They no longer needed the man who had betrayed the SEALs in SNOWDROP, who had orchestrated the brutal, meaningless murders of Stacy and Meagan, the guy who’d destroyed the two people who’d been Drake’s whole life, saying it was "nothing personal.”

  It would have been so easy, so very, very easy to increase the pressure, to feel the bastard’s life slipping away. . . .

  But at that moment, Drake knew that he was not going to kill Delgado. The animal deserved to die, but Drake would not make that decision.

  Justice had little to do with it. Delgado was guilty and Drake would not have minded being the one to execute the only justice he deserved.

  But Drake was involved now in a war that went beyond the deaths of his Meagan and Stacy, beyond the deaths of comrades in SEAL Eight. Delgado’s death would be personally satisfying.

  But it wouldn’t bring back the dead.

  And the animal’s life might, just maybe, give Drake’s side a further advantage in the war. Yeah, the helo pilot might be able to give them Diamond . . . but Delgado had to know a hell of a lot about corruption in the Colombian government, about drug-lord penetrations of American security, about... Christ, who could tell what he might know?

  Drake glanced at Rod out of the corner of his eye.

  What might they learn if they did a PARET link between Delgado and Rod?

  Drake pushed the thought away. Nah, bad idea. Make a decent guy like Rod look into a cesspit like Delgado’s mind? No way. It wouldn’t be human.

  Using maps of the area Rod had stored in his memory, they found a side road that wound up into the Sierra Nevadas. The road soon became a dirt trail, probably used once by marijuana harvesters, leading to the clearing designated Fox Green. It didn’t take long to uncover their hidden, air dropped gear. While Rod made contact with the circling Hercules, Drake unpacked the balloons and gas cylinders, then began laying out the harnesses.

  Skyhook had first been introduced during the Vietnam era. Infrequently used—it had received more attention than it rated when it was popularized by John Wayne in The Green Berets—it still provided a quick- and-dirty means of extracting prisoners or personnel from combat zones without forcing helos to land in a hot LZ. When Drake had briefed the SEALs before their departure, he’d specified a skyhook extraction because he fully expected that the Salazar army would be hot on their heels and a helo extraction would be far too risky.

  It didn’t matter. As far as Drake knew, the Salazars—Roberto and Jose—could still be alive, and they might rally enough men to cause real trouble. A skyhook extraction was still their best way out of the jungle.

  Rod helped Drake into a nylon coverall, then the two of them pulled an identical garment onto the still unconscious Colombian. A web harness fastened the two of them together, seated back-to-back, and padded helmets were strapped to their heads. Normally, extractions were made one person at a time, but the pickup yoke on the Hercules was strong enough to support two medium-sized men.

  Two men. Rod in Combat Mod was something else. He would have to be picked up on a separate pass.

  Helium from a pair of fiberglass containers inflated a dirigible-shaped balloon that rose swiftly above the clearing, trailing a five-hundred-foot nylon line. Three cerise pennants at twenty-five-foot intervals fluttered fifty feet below the balloon, providing a target for the approaching aircraft. Rod secured the line to Drake’s chest harness, and the SEAL prepared himself, facing the direction of the C-130’s approach. It would be coming out of the east, following the valley along a course that would avoid the steeper slopes of the Sierras to the south.

  Drake could hear the drone of the aircraft now. He looked up at the robot. "You know what to do, Rod?”

  "Perfectly. While I have never PARETed an actual skyhook extraction, I have been fully briefed on the procedure. My role is . . . passive.”

  "Yeah. Like a target.”

  "I beg your pardon?”

  "Never mind. Just nervous, I guess.” The plane was closer.

  "I am in radio contact with Rescue Sierra Tango,” Rod said. "They report that they have the balloon in sight.”

  "Well, you’d better stand clear, buddy,” Drake said. He extended his hand. "You be careful, okay?”

  The robot looked down curiously at Drake’s hand. The SEAL had to lean forward, partly lifting Delgado’s dead weight on his back, to take the robot’s steel hand in his own.

  "Damned robot can speak Spanish and tear the top off a tank, but he doesn’t know how to shake hands,” he muttered, pumping the hand up and down. "Good luck, you damned electronic can opener.”

  "Best wishes,” the robot replied solemnly, "for a pleasant flight.”

  Drake wondered if Rod was serious, or if this was another attempt at humor. He had no time to ask, however. Approaching at an altitude of four hundred feet, the C-130 was almost over them. On its bow, a pair of tubular arms extended like open scissor blades. Using the pennants as aiming points, the Hercules pilot -nagged the line, trapping it in a mechanism that severed the line above the yoke and locked it tight below, feeding the line into a slot along the aircraft’s belly that led aft to the open rear doors of the cargo bay.

  The elastic line whipped Drake and his inert backpack into the sky, the laws of physics guaranteeing that the first part of their trajectory was almost straight up, clearing the surrounding trees by a generous margin.

  The shock of the pickup was far worse than the snap of an opening parachute canopy. That first, whipsaw crack left him stunned and disoriented. Delgado’s weight strapped to his back made it impossible to orient himself. Sky alternated wildly with jungle treetops flashing past in a blur of green as he dangled astern of the aircraft. The wind was a vicious, living thing, shrieking at him, clutching and battering him, twisting the SEAL like a toy at the end of a string.

  On board the aircraft, the line was engaged by an electric winch on the cargo deck, which began to draw him in.

  A fish on the end of a five-hundred-foot line, Drake and his prisoner were reeled in toward the gaping maw of the C-130’s rear door.

  Rod watched the Hercules roar off toward the west as the severed helium balloon broke free and dwindled into the sky. Drake and Delgado were a pair of tiny specks on an invisible line, following the dwindling aircraft.

  Blue Ranger, this is Rescue Sierra Tango, an inner voice told him. First package is snagged. We’ll swing around for a second pass as soon as we have them safe on board and the retrieval gear reset.

  Copy, Rescue Sierra Tango, he replied. I will be ready.

  He began by placing their weapons and combat gear in the Land Rover, then dropping an incendiary grenade into the gas tank. There was no sense in leaving military equipment where drug lords would be sure to find it. As the rover burned, Rod began preparing for his extraction.

  He didn’t bother with the nylon coverall—it would never have fit his Combat Mod body anyway, but the modified parachute harness went snugly over his torso, and he put the padded helmet on to protect his vulnerable visual and auditory sensors. He used two
more gas cylinders to inflate the second balloon and let it rise on the end of its nylon tether.

  The biggest problem was getting his weight down. The nylon cord was rated at over 1,200 pounds, but the yoke on the C-130’s nose could not manage much over 400 pounds. The margin for error was too small.

  He had already discarded his combat harness, ammunition, and weapons. With machinelike indifference, Rod reached down and opened access panels set into his thighs, then triggered a mechanical release. Large sections of Kevlar-and-ceramic armor came away in his hands, revealing the complex tangles of colored wiring and interlocking hydraulic pistons between his hips and his knees.

  There were several hundred electronic and mechanical connections that had to be severed in each leg. Though simpler than if he’d been trying to remove his Civilian Mod legs, it was still a complex and time- consuming process. His hands and fingers worked with inhuman speed, disconnecting, unplugging, unlocking. Restraining bolts slid from the robotic, titanium equivalents of femurs, and his legs came off. Legless now, his total mass would be less than 350 pounds.

  He tucked the loose wires back into the gaping holes where his ball-and-socket hip assemblies had rested, then steadied himself on his hands.

  He waited for the return of the Hercules.

  Drake scarcely felt the hands grabbing his arms and shoulders, dragging him up the ramp and onto the deck of the C-130. He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, feeling the vibration of the Herky Bird’s engines beneath him. He sensed, rather than saw, two men nearby, wearing combat fatigues and padded crash helmets.

  One of them began unfastening buckles and snaps. Delgado’s weight rolled free of his back.

  Carefully, aware now of myriad aches and bruises from his rough handling, Drake sat up. Rubbing the back of his neck, he watched while a man in combat fatigues freed Delgado from the harness, then handcuffed his hands behind him.

  "Is he still alive?” Drake asked. He had to yell to make himself heard above the C-130’s engines. "I’d hate all the effort to be wasted!”

  "He is quite well,” a voice sounded behind him. "But not for long, I fear.”

  Drake felt a sharp chill of recognition. He knew that voice!

  He turned sharply, rolling over on the deck of the plane. Harold Gallagher, CIA’s EXDIR, grinned down at him, a silenced 9mm automatic pistol aimed at Drake’s head. "And I’m afraid it’s not just your effort that is going to be wasted, Lieutenant Drake.”

  EXDIR . . . Diamond!

  In their planning for the mission, Drake and Weston had discussed the possibility that Diamond would surface in order to ensure Delgado’s silence. The bad guys on the helo had been more than halfway expected; they’d counted on it, in fact, in order to get another prisoner who would lead them to the CIA mole.

  But he’d not expected Diamond himself to show up . . . nor had he expected him to be on the C-130.

  Maybe he could use that to buy time. "What are you doing, man?” Drake yelled. "I’m not Diamond. . . .” "Can it, Drake. You know I’m Diamond. But you won’t for long.” He gestured to the other man, who pulled Drake’s hands behind his back while Gallagher kept the pistol on him. The SEAL recognized the second fatigue-clad man as well: Smolleck, the guy from the CIA’s Logistics Office.

  "We’ll pick up your mechanical friend,” Gallagher said when Smolleck was finished. "Then when we’re over the sea, the three of you will go for a swim. No bodies. No mess. The plane’s crew won’t know the difference. And neither will you.”

  "Why didn’t you just leave us in the jungle?” "Shit. You walked out last time. You could do it again. No, it’s better this way. More certain. That’s why Smolleck and I came out to see to the job ourselves this time, instead of entrusting it to the damned meres. I admit you gave me quite a turn a few hours ago. I was at Howard when the word came in that the helo team had been wiped out and the SEALs were back aboard a Coast Guard cutter. I couldn’t do anything about them. But I figured we could jump the C-130 and come see to you personally.”

  Still seated, Drake turned, hands awkwardly behind him. He could see the jungle behind the plane through the open ramp, caught the flash of sunlight reflected from the sea on the horizon.

  "Why not leave the robot? He can’t do anything to you now.”

  "I don’t like leaving loose ends,” Gallagher replied. "Even if they’re only machines.”

  Blue Ranger, Blue Ranger, this is Rescue Sierra Tango, the voice said inside his head. First package is safely aboard and we ’re set for the second pickup. Coming around from the east. Stand by.

  Rod waited, sensing the tug of the balloon at his harness, hearing the droning turboprops of the approaching C-130.

  The Hercules roared overhead, snagging the line, cutting the balloon free. Rod was snapped into the sky. Trees blurred a hundred feet beneath him. He rose until he was three hundred feet behind the Hercules, twisting and tumbling in the big aircraft’s slipstream. Through the line, he felt the winch take hold, felt himself being drawn toward the open cargo doors.

  The wind clawed at his damaged face. He clung to the line, trying to steady himself. Peering ahead, he could see into the plane’s open cargo deck, could see people moving there.

  Engaging his telephoto vision, he zoomed in on the scene, enhancing the plane’s dim interior lighting, focusing on the man standing there with a gun.

  EXDIR’s photo was already stored in his memory, as was Smolleck’s. While the robot had not seriously considered Gallagher as a likely suspect, the situation now made it obvious: Drake and Delgado, handcuffed and lying on the floor, EXDIR in camo fatigues instead of a business suit, holding a gun on the Navy SEAL.

  The winch had drawn Rod to within two hundred feet of the rear of the Hercules. The plane was climbing now, banking gradually into a gentle turn toward the north. White beaches flashed below, and then they were over the Caribbean. Rod caught a glimpse of the pastel- colored roofs of Santa Marta to the west.

  He had to get to the plane faster than the winch could pull him. Rod reached down and unfastened the snap that held the line to his harness. Then, with hundreds of pounds of pressure behind each clenched fist as it closed, he began to make his way, hand over hand, toward the Hercules transport.

  There was only one problem. The readout for power consumption in his visual display now read fourteen percent, and hand-walking up the line this way would use power at a terrific rate. As he watched, the four changed to a three.

  But there ought to be enough to make the trip, with a small bit of reserve.

  He kept moving, battling the wind and the drag of his own body.

  "We’re over the water,” Smolleck yelled.

  "Give it a moment,” Gallagher replied. "I don’t want any bodies washing ashore.” He walked aft a few paces, peering back at the robot. His eyes widened. The damn thing was hauling itself toward the plane, coming hand over hand! "I’ll be fucked,” he muttered. "Hey, Smolleck! Give me your knife!” He handed the pistol to Smolleck. "Watch him.”

  Knife in hand, he started forward. The nylon line ran through the slot in the deck forward to where it engaged the slow-turning drum of the winch. If he cut the line, the robot would fall.

  And there’d be no danger of that thing washing ashore. It would sink like a stone, miles off the Colombian coast.

  Rod saw Smolleck hand Gallagher a combat knife, saw the CIA EXDIR walking toward the winch. There was nothing he could do about it, however, except pull himself along more quickly.

  Thirty more yards to go.

  Power reading eight percent.

  Drake was handcuffed, but his feet weren’t tied. He knew he couldn’t take the time to get his hands in front of him, as he had the last time he’d found himself in this position, but he might not need them. Navy SEALs train extensively in the martial arts form called hwrang- do.

  His immediate problem was Smolleck, who was standing close by, a silenced Smith & Wesson automatic in his hand. He would have to take the gunman down befor
e he could deal with Gallagher, and he had to do it now.

  He gauged the distance between himself and Smol- leck’s feet. The logistics man had misjudged and stepped just a bit too close.

  Timing his move with the motion of the aircraft, Drake rolled suddenly toward Smolleck, lashing his feet out in a hard double scissors, locking his ankles around Smolleck’s calves and continuing the roll, knocking the CIA man off balance.

  "Watch out!” the man screamed, and then the gun went off as he fell, the noise sharp and loud despite the sound suppressor, punching a neat round hole in a first-aid locker on the bulkhead. The gun clattered across the deck.

  Drake lurched to his feet, drew back, then snapped his right foot hard into the side of Smolleck’s skull.

  Gallagher spun, knife up. "You’re more trouble than you’re worth, Navy,” he said. He turned slightly and clicked the switch that controlled the winch to off. "Why don’t you step outside with your friend?”

  He advanced with the knife.

  Drake stepped aside as Gallagher lunged at him. He knew better than to try kicking the knife; he could tell by the way the CIA man moved that he’d been trained in close combat, and lashing out with his foot would only get him stabbed . . . and probably incapacitated.

  Instead Drake lunged feet first at Gallagher’s feet, imitating the move of a baseball player sliding into home plate. His feet locked around Gallagher’s ankles. A hard snap-twist and roll sent EXDIR crashing against the aircraft’s bulkhead. Quickly, he jerked his feet clear and scrambled upright, looking for a chance to end the fight.