Synbat v5

by Bob Mayer

  The sun was about down and the twilight made for very difficult viewing. Powers pulled his night vision goggles down over his eyes and turned them on. The range, fenced with barbwire, bordered the Trace on the side opposite Powers and his team.

  “Be ready,” Powers whispered. “Something’s got the buffalo spooked.”

  On either side of him, men turned on their rifle night vision scopes; invisible laser beams licked out across the open field, probing the far tree line.

  Two low-lying silhouettes broke out of the tree line on the far side of the road. Powers could barely make them out through the goggles, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He gave the order while the shadowy figures were at the edge of the Trace. With a crack, two rifles sounded in concert.

  Powers limped back down the hill and hopped into his humvee. His driver cranked the engine and they roared around the dirt trail circumventing the range.

  The headlights illuminated the scene as the driver brought the humvee to a halt. Powers leapt from the vehicle, rifle at the ready. There were two bodies. The first dog — a scraggly Airedale — lay dead, shot through the chest. The second — a golden retriever, its coat almost black from dirt — lay panting, blood trickling from the bullet wound in its left foreleg.

  Powers shook his head as he dismounted. The retriever looked up at him with wide eyes and whimpered. “What were you doing, dumb dog?” Powers whispered as he lowered his rifle. The dog’s ribs showed and its fur was matted with brambles and dirt. It had obviously been running wild out here for quite a while.

  Powers checked out the wound; the round had gone straight through and missed the bone. He tenderly wrapped a compress around the leg. Tying it in place, he scooped up the dog and placed it in the back of the humvee. So much for their buffalo idea so far. Powers drove back around and returned to his overwatch position. Maybe larger predators would be coming later.

  8:34 P.M.

  “Are you sure they can see this? It seems so small.” Merrit looked dubiously at the fluorescent tape sewn onto the top of the watch cap that Riley had handed her.

  Riley nodded. “The sights in those aircraft not only can see at night, but they also give quite a bit of amplification. As long as you wear that, they’ll know you’re one of the good guys. That tape shows up like a beacon.”

  A Blackhawk helicopter settled onto the field. Riley tapped Merrit on the arm. “Let’s go.”

  Riley shouldered the radio, tucking the end of the antenna down into his shirt, and picked up his rifle. He gestured for his team to move out, then he escorted Merrit onto the aircraft, seating her facing forward next to him. The aircraft lifted in a smooth rush of power.

  Riley grabbed a headset that was hanging from the roof and put it on. “This is Chief Riley. We’re all set.”

  The pilot answered. “Roger. I’m Captain Patrick. We’re going to fly above the gunships, and we’re on their freq so you can hear them talk.”

  As the chopper gained altitude, Riley’s men rigged rappelling ropes on either side of the cargo bay. The ropes were attached to large O-bolts hanging from the ceiling, then were carefully coiled in deployment bags, ready to be used if they had to get out of the aircraft and a landing zone wasn’t available. After checking the rigs, Riley turned to his team and gestured as he yelled above the sound of the blades and engines. “All right. Lock and load.” Eight magazines were slammed home and the bolts pulled. The rifles were held between the knees, muzzles pointing at the floor. They were ready.

  9:14 P.M.

  “Eagle Center, this is Nighthawk Three One. I’ve got movement. Location point eight klicks east of checkpoint three seven. Request permission to break pattern to investigate. Over.”

  “This is Eagle Center. Permission granted. Over.”

  Riley found checkpoint three seven on his map and spoke into the intercom to the pilot. “Let’s slide on over there, sir.” He felt a surge of adrenaline. First contact of the evening. Maybe the last.

  “Roger,” the pilot acknowledged. The Blackhawk swooped to the west, overflying the OH-6 gunship pilot. Riley could see the green and red running lights of the smaller helicopter below.

  “This is Nighthawk Three One. I’ve got multiple targets moving west. They’re under the trees. Over.”

  “This is Eagle Center. Roger Three One. Break. Nighthawk One Six, break pattern and support Three One. Three One and One Six switch to tac frequency one-niner-five. All other elements hold in place and move to an altitude of five hundred AGL. We might be going hot here. Over.”

  Looking like fireflies, the other gunships drilled up into the night sky to five hundred feet and held position while the two designated gunships paired up. Riley had his pilot switch frequency and listened to the two pilots coordinate as they closed in.

  “Do you have them? Over.”

  “Roger. I’ve got you and them clear. Do you have me? Over.”

  “Roger. Got you in sight. I’ve got a clear field of fire at two hundred degrees. Over.”

  “I’ve got a two-seventy. Eagle Center, we’ve got multiple targets on thermals. Image is broken. They’re moving under the trees. Request permission to fire. Over.”

  There was a brief pause and then General Williams’s voice came over the airways. “This is Eagle Six. Do they look like they might be people? Over.”

  “Eagle Six, this is Nighthawk Three One. We can’t tell through the thermals. There’s too much residual heat coming off the trees to get a clear picture. If we can get them out in the open we could check them with our goggles. Over.”

  “Do you have any open area in the immediate vicinity? Over.”

  “Roger. About five hundred meters to the south we’ve got a field. Over.”

  “Use your mini-guns to move your target to that field and get a positive ID. Over.” “Roger.”

  A line of tracers roped out of one of the helicopters. Again and again it fired small bursts, herding the target in the desired direction.

  “This is Three One. They’re moving south. Over.”

  “This is One Six. I’m in position at the tree line. Over.”

  Riley talked to his UH-60 pilot. “Move us above One Six; over the field, so we can see the tree line.” Riley took a set of night vision goggles and slipped them on. He put another set on Merrit. “Watch that tree line.”

  Another burst.

  “This is Three One. They’re just about there. Over.”

  “There!” Riley grabbed Merrif s arm. “See them?”

  In the green glow of the goggles, shadowy figures were slipping out of the tree line. “What do you see?” Riley asked Merrit as he strained to make them out.

  “I don’t know. They’re moving fast.”

  “This is One Six. Hold guns. Hold guns. I’ve got targets in the open. I make out six deer. Over.”

  Williams’s voice was disappointed. “This is Eagle Six. Resume search pattern. Over.”

  “Take us back up, sir,” Riley spoke into the intercom. The Blackhawk climbed into the sky and they settled down to wait.

  Three more times they moved in as gunships picked out heat images under the trees, and each time the result was negative. As the night chill settled in and the residual heat dissipated, the thermal sights began to function better, identifying targets under the trees without having to move them out into the open. No Synbats — just deer and other animals.

  By midnight the helicopters were beginning to retrace areas that had already been searched. There was the possibility that the Synbats had moved through search areas and been missed, but it was a slim one. The operations officer had even planned the refueling schedule to make sure that contiguous areas were monitored and there would be no gaps.

  At five after midnight, Riley’s Blackhawk swooped down and flared, wheels settling onto the grass. Riley leapt off the left side and then turned to help Merrit. His team off-loaded wearily. The aircraft lifted with a surge of wind to head for the forward arming and refuel point (FARP) that the 160th had set
up in a nearby field.

  “Make sure your caps are on, tape facing out,” Riley ordered. Despite being at the headquarters, he was taking no chances. He walked over to the TOC with Merrit. It was not a happy group that stood in the large tent listening to the radio reports and tracking the search on map overlays. The entire park had been covered. The lair had been gone over in excruciating detail. No live Synbats had been found in the park. The perimeter defenses had reported negatively. Nothing.

  “What do we do now?” Williams directed the question at General Trailers, the senior man on the ground.

  Trailers was as exhausted as everyone else. “We’ve done about all we can do.” He turned to Merrit. “Is there any place you think they could be hiding from the thermals?”

  Merrit seemed lost in thought. “I have no idea.”

  Riley was listening to this exchange with a growing sense of frustrated anger. He wasn’t sure what the source of his anger was. Surprisingly, he couldn’t focus on the Synbats as the enemy. Even though they’d killed two of his men and all the others, including the young girl, he was beginning to realize that the Synbats were pawns in this game just as much as he was. The one at whom he could best direct his disgust was Trailers. Hossey and Williams were like Riley; they’d been caught up in the fix-it phase. Trailers, however, was responsible for the start of the project. But even Trailers was just a figurehead, Riley knew. Ultimate blame had to rest with a system that saw the need to develop something like the Synbats.

  Trailers laid out the facts, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. “We’ve checked the park. We’re almost positive there are no live Synbats inside the boundaries. Our perimeter was secure and there’s no way that any of the Synbats could have made it down to Route 79, or to one of the bridges, before we sealed them off. We’d have spotted them in the water from the air if they’d gone that way.” He looked around the tent. “So where are they? Could they be dead and that’s why we’re not picking them up on the thermals? Or could they be hiding in a pond or a cave or somewhere that the thermals can’t penetrate?”

  Williams was looking at the map. “As far as we know there are no caves in the park. If they were in the water, they’d have to be breathing and we’d pick up some slight heat difference at the surface.”

  A fuel truck loaded with JP-4 lumbered by on the road heading for the FARP, where the helicopters were being refueled. Riley watched the truck roll out of sight. Then the idea came to him, as if it had been sitting there all along in his frontal lobe. He turned to the others. “They’re not in the park anymore.”

  Trailers turned to him angrily. “How? How could they have gotten out, mister?”

  Riley looked the general in the eye. “They rode out.”

  “They what?”

  “The Civil War re-enactors,” Riley explained. “They had horse trailers. Did your people search them as they were leaving?”

  General Williams blinked and then slowly shook his head. “No. We were in too much of a rush to get them out of the park. We never thought of that.”

  Riley wanted to kick himself for not realizing it earlier. He’d even been standing there while some of the re-enactors had loaded, and he’d watched the cars and trucks drive away. If they had been looking for humans, they would have searched the trailers, but everyone had been thinking of the Synbats as non-reasoning animals. Riley vowed that this was the last time he would make that mistake.

  “We need to contact the civilian authorities and try to track down those trucks.”

  Trailers wasn’t buying into it. “You’re saying they stowed away on one of those vehicles?”

  Riley laid it on the line. “We have got to accept that these Synbats are intelligent and will do almost anything to survive. Whether you believe Doctor Merrit or not, they have capabilities we don’t even know about. They’re out of the park.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Trailers demanded.

  Riley stood his ground. “I’m not, but ifs the only thing that makes sense. We have to listen to the evidence we do have. As far as we can tell, they aren’t in the park. That means they got out somehow, and the most logical explanation is that they rode out. That would explain the attack on the re-enactors. They forced our hand, making us move the Civil War people out quickly.”

  It was too much for Trailers. “You’re saying that these things figured out that the park was surrounded and the only way they could get out was to sneak out in a vehicle? How could they have known that?”

  “The same way they knew to attack Search Base,” Riley replied. “The same way they split up and tried to lead us off in the wrong direction. We’re dealing with something we don’t understand, General.”

  Being talked to like that by a warrant officer wasn’t high on General Trollers’s list of favorite things. “Don’t tell me what I have to do, mister. I’ve done—”

  “Sir, I have a suggestion.” Hossey tried calming everyone down. “We can still keep the perimeter around the park and continue the search here. If the three adult Synbats have managed to hide somewhere in the park, I think they’ll have a much harder time staying hidden once the young ones are born. We’ll find them then. But if they are out, we need to get on line with the civilian authorities and check it out.”

  “Do you know how hard it’s going to be to find all those vehicles and then find out if the Synbats were in them?” General Williams looked at the glowing red numbers on the clock above the radios. “We have about six hours before the backpacks initiate. If the Synbats were on one of those trailers, they could have hopped off anywhere along the way. We’d need a miracle to find them now.”

  Trollers rubbed his forehead. “All right. I’ll get my people in Virginia working on the vehicle angle. Everything else here stays in place and we keep looking.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thursday, 9 April

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  6:17 A.M.

  Ken Bradley was enthused about the new job waiting for him in Atlanta. He’d been out of work now for two months and things were finally looking up. He was less than enthused about this last task he had to accomplish before he and his family hit the road. In his old Ford LTD he cruised the roads to the west of Soldiers Field, crisscrossing the numerous railroad tracks that ran through there, looking for the right location.

  Ken had tried, ever since getting the job, to find someone who would take his daughter’s dog, Holly, but there wasn’t much demand for an eighty-pound mixed-breed mutt with a half-chewed ear. They’d picked her up as a pup at the pound and Ken had wanted to take her there to be put to sleep. When news of that plan had been overheard by Kristen, she’d thrown the tantrum to end all tantrums. He’d promised not to do it.

  Ken randomly took a back alley between several warehouses, until he was out of sight of the traffic on South Indiana Avenue. Then he stopped, got out of the car, and opened the back door. He unbuckled the dog’s collar and threw the strap onto the front passenger seat.

  “Come on, girl.”

  Holly eyed him warily and didn’t move.

  “Come on, you dumb mutt.” Ken reached in, grabbed her front paws, and pulled, but eighty pounds of reluctant black Labrador and German Shepherd can be very difficult to remove from a backseat. Finally he resorted to climbing in behind her, putting his back to the other door, and pushing her butt with his feet. Acknowledging defeat, Holly leapt out the door and stood in the garbage-strewn alley looking up at him.

  Ken slammed the door and got into the driver’s seat. Holly stood expectantly just outside, nose pressed up against the glass. He turned the car around and headed for South Indiana. In the rearview mirror, he could see Holly following.

  “Damn,” he muttered, pressing harder on the accelerator. Holly disappeared as he sped around the corner.

  Just before reaching his house he rolled down his window and threw her collar onto the street. Now at least he could honestly tell his daughter that he hadn’t put her dog to sleep. He’d make up so
me story about a family with their own little girl who wanted the dog.

  In the alley, Holly finally stopped and looked around. The shadows beckoned darkly on all sides. She raised her head and cautiously smelled the air. With a low whimper, she slunk off into a small opening in the wall of an abandoned warehouse.

  6:30 A.M.

  Chicago police officer Billy Shields was driving down 1-90 watching the rush-hour traffic start to pile up when he spotted the horse rig stopped on the side of the road. Shields pulled past the rig, noting that the back doors of the trailer were open slightly. He parked in front of the truck, called in the stop to dispatch, and got out.

  The driver’s door was open. Shields stepped up and poked his head in. There was no sign of anyone in the cab. He wondered if it had broken down and the driver had walked to the next exit to get assistance. Shields walked around back, boots crunching in the gravel. He grabbed the back door and swung it open.

  The officer had seen more than his share of wrecks, somewhere the victims had to be scraped off the road, but he’d never seen anything like this. Two men lay in the straw on the floor of the rig, bodies literally torn apart. One man was completely disemboweled, his guts strewn about like strands of spaghetti. The other’s neck was almost completely severed, the head lying cocked at an impossible angle.

  Shields had his gun in his hand, but he couldn’t remember drawing it. He scanned the rest of the interior of the trailer, the muzzle tracking with his eyes. Nothing but bales of straw and horse feed. He hurried back to his patrol car, trying to keep his breakfast from coming back up.