“Sound waves travel in a direct line,” Pen explained, tucking a wayward strand of salt-and-pepper hair into her lopsided bun. “So do radio and optical signals. That’s why we position relay towers atop hills or tall buildings, above potential obstacles. The towers have to be in the line of sight to receive and redirect the waves.”
“It’s also why you have to stand close to a video game console like the Wii for the controls to work,” O’Reilly put in. “Optical signals become distorted if they have to travel too far.”
I may be a little slow on the uptake but stuff sinks in eventually.
“So if you scatter tiny ‘mirrors’ to catch waves refracted off atmospheric particles,” I said slowly, “the signals don’t have to travel as far . . . or follow a straight line.”
“Exactly!”
Pen beamed like someone who’s just taught her pet orangutan to sit up and sing. Or chirp. Or emit whatever musical sounds orangutans make.
Thinking hard, I took off the goggles and turned them over in my hand. If these suckers performed as advertised, they might fit into DARPA’s Urban Leader Tactical Response, Awareness, and Visualization Initiative. The goal of the initiative was to give squad leaders engaged in door-to-door operations the ability to assess the situation and communicate with his or her troops using non-verbal, digitally recognized signals.
The project was huge. One of those monster programs I mentioned before that could rain megabucks down on individuals or firms invited to participate at the next level. More to the point, the project was being personally honcho’ed by my boss, Dr. David Jessup.
As I mentioned earlier, Dr. J and I have a somewhat precarious relationship. Do you blame me for wondering if these slick little goggles could create a bond? Or for adding the NLOS system to our already crammed test schedule?
“Is the van already packed?”
“It is,” Sergeant Cassidy confirmed. “I moved it to the secure lot an hour ago, but I can drive over and add this to the inventory of test items.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take the system home with me tonight. I want to read the specs again and make sure I understand them before we head out to Dry Springs.”
My intentions at that moment were completely honorable. I swear! I was even feeling a sense of noble dedication as I toted the carton out to my car after we agreed to reconvene at oh-dark-thirty the following morning to depart for our test site.
Such lofty matters as dedication to duty and contributing to the advancement of military technology couldn’t compete with the emotions that gripped me when I approached my new car, however. Sheer delight topped the list.
The beat-up Bronco I’d taken in exchange for a quickie divorce was no more. Thanks to the Fort Bliss Credit Union and the rogue FBI agent who’d blown up the Bronco several months ago, I now tooled around in a sleek little Sebring convertible. The Sebring probably isn’t the wisest choice of vehicles for someone with a heavy foot, but what the heck. It’s a loooooong ride out to our test site, with mile upon mile of empty road. Besides which, I make it a point to pay every speeding ticket promptly. They know me out there in Nowhere, Texas, and I’m not about to lose my license or worse, spend the night in a one-cell lockup with the local drunk. Those fines make a serious dent in my discretionary spending at the end of the month, but a girl’s gotta have some fun.
The convertible still retained enough of that sensuous new car smell to elicit a sigh of pure joy as I buckled in. That delicious scent and the feel of the late afternoon sun on my face as I left the parking lot were almost enough to make me forget the ridiculous twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit on post.
As mentioned, Fort Bliss is a humongous Army training center. I should also mention that the oldest part of the post sprang up during the Indian Wars. It hasn’t changed all that much since. I bring my team’s cramped facilities and outmoded HVAC system to the attention of the deputy post commander on a regular basis. He doesn’t return my calls anymore, either.
That negative input aside, I have to confess a fascination for the post’s history. The Fort Bliss museum gives glimpses into military life back before ABUs and MREs. Sorry. That’s meals ready to eat.
On a more personal level, there’s a definite plus to working on a monster training base. It’s crammed with troops. Hundreds of troops. Thousands of troops. All shapes, sizes, and ranks. Terrific pickings for a relatively recent divorcée with legs that used to earn some great tips back in my cocktail waitress days.
My legs don’t exactly show to advantage in baggy ABUs, but I have managed to dip into this vast testosterone pool a time or two. I also enjoyed a brief but satisfyingly torrid liaison with an instructor at the Avenger Missile School on post before I hooked up with Border Patrol Agent Jeff Mitchell.
Mitch and I have been seeing each other for several months now, and if he hadn’t called to say he was running a little late for our rendezvous at our favorite pizza joint that evening, I might never have taken the non-line of sight optical sensor system for a spin.
But he was. So I did.
In my defense, the components were just sitting there in their nest of Bubble Wrap. The narrow, tubular glasses. The egg carton full of disks. The detailed description of how to activate the sensors and receive transmissions. I couldn’t leave them in the front seat of an open convertible while I waited for Mitch inside Perry’s Pizza Parlor, could I?
Don’t ask why I didn’t lock the carton in the Sebring’s trunk and go my merry way. I’ve already asked myself that a dozen times. All I can say is that rather than wait in the noisy restaurant, I decided to sit in the sun and contemplate the stretch of desert across from the strip mall.
Although I would have rather parked overlooking, say, a stretch of Big Sur, I will admit the desert has a beauty all its own. The low, slanting sun had painted the earth in twenty-seven shades of red and brown. Off in the distance, the Franklin Mountains poked their rugged peaks into a near cloudless sky.
It was the wide-open vista between me and the mountains that got me thinking. All that empty space looked very similar to the remote site my team and I would deploy to first thing in the morning. Only a few twisted mesquite, some spiny cacti, and the gaping slash of an arroyo to add character to the landscape. Not a lot of obstacles out there to see over, around, and through.
Right behind me, on the other hand, were all kinds of obstacles. Twisting, I skimmed a glance along the E-shaped strip mall. The shops contained pretty much your usual assortment of businesses catering to the nearby military population. A dry cleaner. A Daylite Delite Donut shop. A health-food store for the physical fitness nuts like Sergeant Cassidy. A theater complex at one end, an All-American Fitness Center at the other. Plenty of nice, solid structures to mess up optical waves.
I debated another few moments before giving in to irresistible impulse to take the system for a short run. Just for a few minutes, to see if it would even turn on. No one had to know ’cept me.
Emptying the egg carton, I stuffed the shiny round disks into various pockets. That’s one major plus for ABUs. The shirt alone has four Velcro’ed flap pockets. Inside those are sewn-in pouches to hold small tools or flashlights or tubes of lip gloss. That’s in addition to the pencil pocket on the left forearm. I once thought the pencil holder would be perfect for tubes of lip gloss, too. The gloss bubbled up in the desert heat, oozed through the cap, and ran down my arm. I had to toss my uniform shirt. Just thought you should be forewarned . . .
ABU pants also have flaps and pockets everywhere. As a result, I had more than enough storage capacity for the sensors, my car keys, ID, wallet, and cell phone. With my cap crammed over my hair and the goggles dangling from one hand I exited the Sebring.
The sensors clinked as I headed for the service drive between the dry cleaner and the donut shop. I placed two in the alleyway and a couple more behind the donut shop. Another fit nicely on the window ledge of a photography studio. I put one atop a Dumpster and decided that should be enough to play with.
Back in the parking lot, I flicked the switch to activate the goggles. According to the specs, the tiny transmitter embedded in one stem would send signals to the closest sensor. That disk would relay the signal to the next nearest sensor, and so on and so on. Reversing the process, each sensor would then bounce back imagery captured by their electronic eyes.
I stood there in my best Terminator Woman stance. Legs spread. Hands on hips. Head cocked expectantly.
Nothing happened. Zero. Nada. Zilch. All I could see through the slit was a thin slice of the parking lot. Disappointed, I was ready to retrieve the sensors when a small hum sounded in the right earpiece of the glasses. A second later, blotches of vivid color exploded onto the tiny, transparent screen.
“Whoa!”
I staggered back, bombarded by startling images. They chased across the narrow slit of a screen, so many and so fast I got dizzy. Only then did I remember I was supposed to turn my head in the direction of an individual sensor to focus on the imagery it was transmitting.
I angled around and breathed a sigh of relief when everything faded except a view of some banged-up garbage cans silhouetted against a brick wall. Took me a moment to assimilate the scene.
“Well, whaddya know.”
Damned if I wasn’t “seeing” through the sensor I’d left on the Dumpster around a corner!
Cautiously, I turned my head a few degrees to the right. The cans blurred and a view of the alleyway materialized. The scene was so clear I could read the stenciled warning above a gas main. Another few degrees and I picked up some birds perched on a telephone wire strung between the buildings.
Okay, this was too cool for words! Much more fun than most of the items submitted for our evaluation.
Moving cautiously, I walked forward a few yards. The images projected inside the narrow slit faded, blossomed, faded again. As long as I maintained a direct line of sight with one of the sensors, I could network to the others. Suddenly I stopped dead.
“What the . . . ?”
Frowning, I focused my full attention to the figure on the screen. The sensor on the photography studio’s window ledge had picked him up. He was positioned next to a brick wall, half obscured by a white van.
The black ski mask covering his face sounded the first alarm inside my head, but it was the pistol he held in a two-fisted shooter’s stance that set off loud, blaring Klaxons.
CHAPTER TWO
I stood rooted to the pavement. Was I really seeing what I thought I was? Was that a man crouched behind that van? Aiming a pistol?
My heart slamming against my ribs, I tried to force my disbelieving brain to confirm the image. When the terrifying reality hit home, I had two, maybe three seconds to react. I used one of them to whip off the glasses and spin around. My pounding heart almost jumped out of my chest when I spotted the white van not thirty yards behind me. From this angle, I couldn’t see the shooter, but I knew he had a clear view of the health-food store and the fitness center next to it.
The very busy fitness center. With people entering and exiting. Some of them in uniform.
I didn’t stop to think about the fact that I was totally exposed there in the parking lot. Or that I might draw the shooter’s fire. Waving both arms, I screeched a warning.
“He’s got a gun! Take cover!”
The people in the vicinity did exactly what I would do in the same situation. They turned to see who the heck was shrieking at them.
In that frozen instant of time when they stood there, motionless, trying to grasp what was happening, the shooter fired. Crack. Crack. Crack. Three shots in quick succession. I heard one thud into something metallic, then the splinter of shattering glass.
Everyone was screaming now and throwing themselves to the pavement or sidewalk. I dived for the nearest car. A heavyset male in a blue jogging suit did the same. Crouched alongside a midnight blue Tahoe with an extended cab, he snatched a cell phone from his gym bag.
A movement just above him brought my glance whipping up. There was a woman in the driver’s seat of the Tahoe, I saw in those seconds of sheer terror. She must have just pulled into a parking place because her SUV’s engine was still idling.
The splintering glass I’d heard was her window. I could see her face through the jagged shards. Framed by a chin-length sweep of pale blond hair, her features were slack with shock and disbelief.
“Hey!” I screamed. “Get down!”
Why in God’s name does everyone turn to the source of a shout? Instead of ducking, the woman slewed around and spotted me waving at her wildly. Then her stunned gaze zinged past me to the van. And the shooter! She must have caught a glimpse of him from her elevated position because her eyes went wide with recognition of imminent danger. A millisecond later he fired again.
Oh, God! She’s hit.
That’s all I could think as the woman jerked sideways and dropped out of sight. All I had time to think before the Tahoe lurched forward, revealing the jogging-suit guy who’d taken cover behind it. He dropped to the pavement and the heavy SUV rolled on, gathering speed.
The driver must have knocked the gearshift when she went down, I remember thinking in absolute terror. Kept her foot on the gas.
When her vehicle headed right for the people spread-eagle on the pavement, I abandoned my cover and lurched into a stooped-over run. Looking back, I’m not exactly sure what I intended to do. Sprint across the parking lot, I guess, wrench open the Tahoe’s door, and yank on the steering wheel to keep it from rolling over those terrified gym patrons.
I’d taken only a couple of crablike strides when the SUV suddenly cut left. Tires screeching on the asphalt, it now aimed for the white van. I heard another shot, or thought I did. Then the Tahoe crashed into the van and shoved it forward a good five yards, exposing the shooter. He pumped out another frantic shot just before the Tahoe’s rear end spun in a vicious arc.
The next few milliseconds seemed to play out in ultra-slow motion. The heavy SUV slammed into Ski Mask. He crashed into the brick wall behind him. Bounced off. Dropped in a crumpled heap at the entrance to the alley.
I had started in that direction when the driver jammed her vehicle into reverse. She couldn’t have seen the body lying directly behind and below her tailgate. She had to feel it, though, when her vehicle crunched over him.
I’m not ashamed to admit I felt only a swift sense of relief when I saw the Tahoe hump over the guy. Kind of hard to work up a lot of sympathy for someone who’s taking potshots at you and everyone around you.
The Tahoe skidded to a stop, and I reached it a few seconds later. Exercising extreme caution, I edged around the front fender and spotted the gunman lying face-down. The black knit mask still covered his face but other, squishy parts of him were all too visible. The SUV must have crushed every bone in his chest.
That one glance was enough to tell me there wasn’t anything I could do for him. It was patently obvious that he’d fired his last shot. Just to be safe, I aimed a swift kick at the weapon lying a few feet from his outstretched arm. The semiautomatic clattered across the pavement, well beyond his reach, and I checked out the SUV’s driver.
She sat hunched over the steering wheel. Her breath came in loud, shuddering gasps. Blood blossomed from cuts on her temple and cheek and ran down her neck, staining the collar of her uniform. Like me, she wore field dress but hers were Army BDUs instead of Air Force ABUs. Remind me to explain the difference sometime, when I’m not pumping pure fear and staring at a blood-spattered profile.
“Are you hit?”
She jumped and flashed me a terrified look. “The . . . ? The shooter?”
“It’s okay,” I said swiftly. “You nailed him.”
Her gaze cut to the side-view mirror. Her breath rattled in. Out. In again.
“Is he dead?”
“From the looks of it. What about you? Did he hit you?”
“I’m . . . I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve got glass embedded in your face.
Don’t touch it!” I warned as she put a trembling hand to her cheek.
I leaned in and searched for signs of a more serious injury amid the blood and glistening shards.
“The bullet that shattered the window?” I asked urgently. “It didn’t hit you?”
“I . . . don’t think . . . so.”
My glance dropped to the patches on the front of her uniform blouse. They provided her name and rank, and the “MP” patch on her left arm gave a pretty good idea of where this woman had found the guts to careen her vehicle across the parking lot and into the killer.
“Sit quiet, Sergeant Roth. The police and EMT are on their way.”
Or so I hoped! Surely Jogger Guy had called 911. Just to make sure I plunged my hand into my shirt pocket and groped for my cell phone. I heard the wail of sirens at the same moment I dragged it out.
“Here comes the cavalry.” I searched her face, my stomach clenching at the dead white pallor under rivulets of blood. “Hang in there, Roth.”
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
“I will. I promise.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
She sagged against the seat back. Her eyes closed, then popped open again when my cell phone belted out a slightly raunchy rendition of “The Eyes of Texas.” Sheer reflex had me pressing the answer button.
The phone is so crammed with features it takes an astronaut to operate it. FST-3 might be at the bottom of DARPA’s food chain, but we are a component of a government agency charged with developing new technologies. That meant the slick little jobbie in my hand could do just about everything but scramble eggs. It would probably do that, too, if I could figure out all the buttons and menu choices.
At the moment, the best I could do was bring up an instant, astoundingly vivid image of the caller. The tanned face with the white squint lines at the corners of his eyes was one I knew well.
“Mitch! Where are you?”
“Almost to Perry’s. Where are you?”
“In the parking lot outside Perry’s. There’s been a shooting.”
Now You See Her Page 2