“Oh my God...” said Nichols.
The entire project was unraveling. “Sergeant Foster!” yelled General Attwood. “Get your team out there right now!”
Foster’s team ran from the room. They jumped into the same van they had commandeered earlier and tore across the lawn.
“Nichols! Get your recovery team out there to back up my people!”
“Get out there now!” yelled Nichols. “Peters, stop and grab the medical staff. There may be survivors.” Oh, God, let there be survivors. Nichols’s group tore out of the room and piled into another van. They shot over to the infirmary to pick up the facility’s medical staff, then followed the tracks Foster’s insane driving had chewed across the grass.
General Calhoun Attwood knew this fiasco was probably the death blow for the Centurion project. He was sure Winston Cunningham had been gunning for him ever since he strong-armed the little piece-of-crap bureaucrat into giving this project the green light. This was just the excuse Cunningham needed to pull the plug. The worst thing was that Attwood had failed his son. This had been for him, after all.
Now it was up to Foster and his team to pick up the pieces and Nichols’s recovery team to sweep those pieces under the rug. General Attwood was determined no one would ever know of his only failure. He scanned the bank of monitors.
“Dear God in Heaven, what have I done...” he whispered. Then, “Somebody get me a goddamn headset!”
Tony Bascombe stood in shocked silence with the rest of Blue Team, looking down at the bloody, battered bodies of Jessica and Frank Pruitt. Then, without warning, they were slammed from behind by the revived Centurions. There hadn’t been time for the trainers to reload their tranquilizer guns, and the darts should have put the Centurions down for at least an hour. Instead, the creatures had only been knocked out for a few minutes. When they came to, they were pissed off.
Bascombe and Dufresne inched away from the melee, until their backs hit the chain link fence. Derek Dufresne fumbled with a new tranquilizer dart, willing his shaking fingers to insert the projectile into his gun. Bascombe tore his jacket open, desperate to reach the Glock 26 9mm pistol strapped under his left arm.
Everyone was screaming into their mikes, but not a single reply came from the monitoring center. Bascombe finally got his jacket open and struggled to yank the pistol out, momentarily forgetting to release the locking strap. Half his team lay on the ground, the Centurions still tearing at their bodies. Paul Sanford, Ken Yamaguchi, and Dom Briccola lay unmoving, blood splashed across their blue uniforms.
Delta rushed at Bascombe as he jacked a round into the chamber. He pulled the trigger. The bullet became a red spot on Delta’s chest, but the Centurion kept coming. Bascombe squeezed off a second round. Another red spot blossomed. Delta kept coming, its claws ripping bloody furrows into Bascombe’s arm, but twisted away at the last moment, crushing a screaming Derek Dufresne against the fence.
Bascombe heard a shriek. Bravo held Sue Carson over its head, then slammed Sue down across its knee. Bascombe heard the sickening crunch as her back snapped. Bascombe thought of all the times they had tried to teach the Centurions how to do things like this, but they never were able to perform.
Bravo charged at Bascombe, who moved along the fence, away from Dufresne and Delta. He brought the pistol up again and squeezed the trigger once, twice, a third time. The first two shots hit the creature’s chest, the third slammed into its head. The dead Centurion crashed to the ground.
Bascombe knew his Glock 26 held ten rounds, and he was not carrying a spare magazine. What he couldn’t remember in all the confusion was how many rounds he’d fired. He prayed there was at least one round left to use on himself should the need arise.
He glanced past the tangle of limbs that was Dufresne and Delta, to see Alpha, Charlie, and Echo squeezing through the same opening in the fence the trespassers had used to get in. The huge carcass of Delta lay bleeding and motionless across Dufresne, pinning him to the ground.
Away from the fence, near the bodies of the trespassers, the remnants of Blue Team lay strewn. Sanford, Yamaguchi, Briccola, Carson. Not one of them moving. And there lay Bravo, another Centurion who tried to take him out. Bascombe laughed hysterically, then stopped suddenly. He sat on the ground, his left arm soaked with his own blood, his right leg bleeding badly. When had that happened?
Two Centurions were out and lumbering for the woods, the last creature was almost through the opening. Bascombe raised the Glock with great effort. He struggled to point the wavering barrel at the last Centurion passing through the fence and squeezed off the remaining rounds. He kept squeezing the trigger, not realizing the magazine was empty. His arm dropped to his side, the pistol still clutched in his hand, darkness falling over him.
Moments later, Foster and his team roared up to the scene of carnage. His men jumped out of the van and set up a defensive ring around the vehicle, weapons at the ready.
“Switch to headsets and stay alert,” Foster shouted. “You got us, base?”
“Loud and clear,” Hector Valdez replied from the monitoring center.
Foster examined the killing field. He saw no movement. “Mitchell, check on the friendlies. See if we have any survivors.”
“On it.” Staff Sergeant Eric Mitchell, the team medic, shouldered his rucksack of medical supplies.
“Hold up, Eric,” Foster said. “Robinson, stick with Mitchell and keep an eye out.”
“Got it,” said Sergeant First Class Bernie Robinson, the demolitions expert. The men jogged to the first of the blue-clad bodies.
Foster called out, “Dave, Sal, check out the Centurions. Don’t get too close. Any problems, we take ’em out. Understand?”
“Roger,” Vincenzo answered.
“Movement outside the fence!” yelled Cummings.
Foster and Cummings moved toward the fence opening, Foster examining the breach, while Cummings swept the area with his assault rifle. Foster saw a big brown mass on the ground thirty yards away, crawling toward the tree line.
Dave Serrafino pointed with his assault rifle at the motionless carcass of one of the Centurions. “Go ahead,” Serrafino said to Vincenzo, “poke the bear.”
Vincenzo picked up a long branch. He leaned in and stabbed at the creature. No reaction. Sal Vincenzo looked at Dave Serrafino, who shrugged. Vincenzo whacked the Centurion over the head, breaking the branch. Still no movement.
“This one’s not a problem anymore,” Serrafino said.
“Let’s check the other one,” Vincenzo said, pointing the muzzle of his rifle toward the spot where Delta lay. “Your turn to poke the bear.”
Eric Mitchell knelt over the mutilated body of Dom Briccola. The medic’s bloody latex gloves prodded the body, but he knew there was no life left in the pile of grisly remains. Bernie Robinson stood over Mitchell, his assault rifle sweeping the area.
“These poor bastards look like they went through a wood chipper,” said Mitchell.
“Yeah,” Robinson replied, “two-legged wood chippers.”
“Mitchell, report,” Foster ordered.
“Three friendlies dead, so far.”
“Roger,” Foster responded. “Serrafino, report.”
“One nasty dead, one more to check.” Serrafino and Vincenzo carefully approached Delta.
“Roger. Cummings and I are going outside the fence to check on an unknown.” Foster used his assault rifle to wedge open the gap in the fence. Cummings slipped through right behind him. The two men approached the Centurion on opposite flanks. This one had been shot by a conventional weapon. The creature was moaning, crawling toward the nearby tree line.
“Cover me,” Foster said. He circled around to block the creature’s route. Cummings kept his rifle to his shoulder, aimed at the wounded Centurion. Foster moved ahead and stood in front of the creature.
“Hey!” he yelled. The wounded Centurion stopped crawling and struggled to lift up its massive head. A rumble started low in its gut and erupted as a might
y growl.
“Team,” Foster called on his radio, “any tranq guns up there? Got me a live one here.”
Echo struggled to its feet. The creature eventually, albeit painfully, rose up straight to its full seven-foot height, claws still bloody from attacking the trainers.
“C’mon, Sal,” Foster said, knowing that Vincenzo would never get a tranq gun to him in time. Instead, he put one round between the creature’s eyes. Echo stood still, the hole between its eyes drooling red fluid, then it toppled backward like a giant redwood coming down. When the Centurion hit the ground, the two men felt the earth tremble beneath their combat boots.
Mitchell and Robinson looked down at Sue Carson. While she wasn’t as ripped up as the first three bodies they’d examined, it was clear she was dead. She was bent backwards at the waist at an impossible ninety-degree angle.
“Jesus, Eric,” Robinson said quietly, “I’ve never seen anything like that before. Looks like she’s broke in half.”
Mitchell knelt down and felt for a pulse he knew wouldn’t be there. He gently laid her wrist back on the ground. “We’re zero for four.”
Vincenzo and Serrafino carefully approached the other mound of fur, jammed up against the fence. As they got closer, they realized there was a set of blue-clad legs sticking out from beneath it.
“Oh, Christ,” Serrafino said, “is that a friendly under that thing?”
“Sure as hell looks like it,” answered Vincenzo. A slight movement caught his eye. “Did those legs just move?”
“I think they did.” Serrafino pointed. “There’s another body to the left.”
Vincenzo did not waste a second. “Mitchell! We got friendlies number five and six over here. They’re still alive!”
“On my way!” Mitchell scrambled to his feet and gathered up his rucksack. Mitchell and Robinson ran toward Vincenzo and Serrafino. Robinson, ever the guardian angel, covered Mitchell from the rear the entire way.
It was Dave Serrafino’s turn to check on the fallen Centurion while Vincenzo covered him. Once they were positive the creature was dead, they started to pull it off the trapped trainer. As they struggled with the incredibly heavy body, Mitchell and Robinson ran up.
“Over here, Eric,” said Vincenzo. “Somehow, this guy is still alive.” He and Serrafino continued to tug on the Centurion. “Christ, this thing is heavy!”
“Hold up, Sal,” Robinson said. He pulled a coiled nylon rope from his rucksack, tied the end of it around the creature’s legs, then, the three men dragged the dead Centurion off the trapped man.
Their efforts were greeted by a scream from the now-freed trainer. Mitchell quickly checked the man’s vital signs, then dug furiously through his medical supplies. “Base,” he said into his mike, “we have a live friendly. I’m examining him now but he’s in shock, multiple broken bones, internal injuries. Name tag says Dufresne.” Mitchell turned. “Sal, go check out the other one. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
“Okay, Eric.” Vincenzo ran off toward Bascombe.
When Foster heard that two friendlies were still alive, he broke into a run. “Serrafino! Get out here and keep watch with Cummings!” Foster yelled into his mike. “I’m on my way back in!”
“Roger,” answered Serrafino. The two men passed each other at a dead run.
Foster came to a stop behind Mitchell. The team medic was on his knees tending to a badly battered Derek Dufresne. Dufresne’s eyes were closed, an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. His breathing was labored.
“How’s he doing, Eric?” Foster asked.
“That thing,” Mitchell jerked a thumb toward the dead Centurion, “pretty much crushed this poor bastard.”
“Do what you can for him. I’m going to check on Sal and the last friendly.” He ran to Vincenzo. “What’s the story, Sal?” Foster asked.
Vincenzo answered as he applied a bandage to the man’s leg. He had already torn the trainer’s left sleeve off and bandaged his upper arm. Small pink spots seeped through the dressing. “This guy got clawed up a bit, lost some blood, but he’s in better shape than the rest of his group.” Vincenzo hesitated. “Something else, Sean.”
“What’s that.”
“This guy was packing.” Vincenzo slid the small pistol over to Foster. “This is probably all that saved him.”
“Magazine is empty. He got off all ten rounds.” Foster closed the slide and shoved the pistol in his pocket. “What a mess this turned into.”
“If you ask me, this was never a good idea.”
“Yeah, Sal, but nobody ever asks us,” Foster replied. He heard the whine of an engine before he saw the BoDex van bust out of the wooded area and slide to a halt at the edge of the killing field. “Looks like the recovery team is here; stay with this guy until Mitchell can check him out.”
“Right.” Vincenzo continued to work on the injured man, who wove in and out of consciousness, and mumbled something Vincenzo could not make out.
“Just hang in there. You’re gonna be okay.”
The trainer grabbed Vincenzo’s arm, pulled him close and whispered, “Control...take...for...control...” he said, struggling to speak.
Vincenzo pulled back. “Try to relax.”
The man pressed something into Vincenzo’s hand. “For...control...” he repeated.
Vincenzo was surprised to see a narrow red whistle with a red neck lanyard. He recognized it as one of the whistles the trainers used to control the Centurions during their maneuvers. He wasn’t sure why this guy was giving it to him, but he took it and stuffed the whistle into the breast pocket of his fatigues.
The BoDex personnel exited the recovery van just as Foster arrived. He approached Brad Peters. “I hope you have a lot of body bags in there.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah, that bad.”
Peters turned to Sam Johnson. “Sam, take care of the vehicle.” Johnson moved toward the opening in the fence. “And if the keys aren’t in it, you’ll have to dig through the bodies.”
Sam Johnson stopped and looked at the remains of the two trespassers, his eyes wide, his stomach beginning to churn.
Peters saw his reaction. “Sam, you don’t have time to be sick.”
Johnson made his way to the red Jeep. He tossed the battered copper urn in the back and brushed the smashed glass out of the way before sliding into the driver’s seat. Sam Johnson breathed a great sigh of relief when he saw the keys in the ignition. His shaking hand turned the key, the engine starting right away. Johnson closed the door and rested his forehead on the steering wheel, trying to compose himself.
Brad Peters addressed the four BoDex recovery team members. “Work in pairs and get the bodies in bags, and do it quickly.” The men spread out. “I think we’re gonna need another van.”
“Take ours,” Foster offered. “We still have a scared rabbit and two more of the big boys to track down out there.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Peters extended his hand. “Good luck. I sure don’t envy you guys.”
“Nobody ever does.”
They heard the red Jeep pull out from under the trees and watched it disappear on its way to the back of a hangar at the BoDex facility.
“Make sure you get that fence secured as soon as you recover the Centurion outside the perimeter,” Foster said. “And when you get back, tell your boss to have a crew examine the entire fence.”
“Got it.”
“Team, move out,” Foster called over his communications system. “Time to go hunting.”
Foster passed through the fence opening, followed by Mitchell, Robinson, and Vincenzo. They met up with Cummings and Serrafino, still standing guard over Echo’s lifeless form. The soldiers waited there until the BoDex recovery team moved the last dead Centurion back inside the fence and into the second van.
While a pair of BoDex personnel secured the fence opening, a third vehicle whisked Bascombe and Dufresne to the infirmary. Moments later, the two remaining vans headed to the cryogenics lab with their gr
isly cargo. With all the bodies retrieved and the vehicles gone, the area was silent again, almost pastoral, the soft chirping of an occasional bird the only sound.
Foster addressed his team. “Cummings, on my right. Vincenzo, right flank. Mitchell, on my left, then Robinson. Serrafino, left flank. Keep the chatter to a minimum. Let’s go, men. Find me their trail.”
Robinson was the first to pick up the trail of the Centurions inside the tree line. The men automatically transitioned to a single file, with Bernie Robinson on point, followed by Serrafino, Foster, Cummings, Mitchell, and Vincenzo bringing up the rear. It appeared to Sean Foster that the creatures were hot on the trail of the young girl. His plan was to follow the creatures and let them lead his men to her, then scoop them all up in one big sweep and return them to General Attwood.
General Attwood immediately set the wheels of deception in motion; both time and fate were working against him. As soon as Foster’s men left BoDex property, Attwood made his way to an empty meeting room next to Nichols’s office. He slipped a satellite phone from his inside pocket, then punched in a number he had possessed for years but never had to use before. Hell, he didn’t even know who the person on the other end would be or what agency he operated under. All he knew was that the faceless voice was the insurance policy everyone with their own personal playground turned to when things went bad, and for General Attwood, things had never been this bad. Attwood had no choice. The time had come to call the number.
The scrambled line connected. Attwood said, “I have a situation that needs to be cleaned up.”
“Give me the details, General.” General Attwood knew better than to hold back the tiniest detail. When he had finished, the voice said, “I am dispatching the appropriate personnel right now. Keep your people out of the way and give my personnel everything they request. Jam all communications within your area of operations immediately.” The line clicked off before Attwood could respond.
The Devil's Claw Page 9