My, my. Two people who paid attention in biology class. She was impressed. “That’s the current theory.”
“One that we can only assume that you don’t agree with?” Davidson asked, a full smile on his lips.
“Do you have any idea of the odds that a zap of solar radiation would cause a useful mutation? Let alone creating the same one over and over again?”
Svengurd went back to cleaning his weapon. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to bore us with it.”
Rebecca’s lips pinched together. Hecklers were not her favorite. Especially when he interrupted before her big drumroll. “I won’t pull out the stats, but they are astronomical.”
“Then how do you explain it?” her eager student asked.
“That there is a type of radiation, until now undiscovered, that is conducive to positive mutations.”
Even Davidson frowned. “You’re postulating a ‘good’ type of radiation?”
“That would be my theory, yes.”
Svengurd snorted and turned his back on her while Lopez chuckled as he put his iPod earbuds back in, tapping his head against the belly of the plane to the beat of his techno music.
“Well, I think it’s cool,” the young soldier said, but with far less enthusiasm than he had before.
Rebecca had been laughed out of entire conferences before. A little military skepticism wasn’t going to dissuade her.
She brought back up the schematic of the scattered populations. “What else explains such divergent cultures coming up with the pyramids? There are so many similarities between these populations. They must be influenced by this gene.”
“Is that what Lochum is working on?”
Taking in a sharp breath, Rebecca’s mind whirled as she tried to think of something, anything, to say to get Davidson off that subject.
* * *
Brandt came to full consciousness at Lochum’s name. He had not given his team the “button up” on that moniker yet. Cracking his lids, he found the doctor still stumbling for words. Who the hell was this guy that the mere mention of his name could silence the talkative doctor?
“Um, no. His research goes in a different direction,” she said, stumbling as her screen’s light flickered across her face.
Davidson nodded. He was sitting a little closer to Monroe than Brandt would have liked, but the kid was obviously smitten with the doctor.
“So he’s not on board with the whole ‘good’ radiation story.”
“No, definitely not,” she chuckled a bit as she said it. “He is a little more ‘hand of God’ than that.”
“Really?” Svengurd’s ears had obviously pricked up.
Brandt was going to have to shut this conversation down if it went much further than this. He trusted his men one hundred percent, but Lochum’s work was way over the entire team’s pay grade. The less they knew, the better.
Monroe turned to Davidson. “Why aren’t we in our final descent?”
The private checked his watch. “We’re not landing for another hour.”
“What? We’re only thirty miles outside of Paris.”
Brandt shut his eyes. The discussion was taking a nice ninety-degree turn away from Lochum.
“Yeah, but we’re landing in Boxberg, then driving into France.”
“Why?”
Brandt didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Monroe was back at the laptop again as the private answered. “The French aren’t too welcoming when it comes to a military transport.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Monroe’s words took on that “I am smarter than everyone in this room” tone that all academicians seemed to learn in graduate school. “Belgium… It’s three hundred miles out of the way.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve got our GPS position right here.”
“How?” Davidson asked the question Brandt would have. The sergeant cracked his lids open again.
Monroe dug in her pack and pulled out a satellite phone. “I’ve had it modified to broadcast a Bluetooth signal so I can cruise the Internet.”
“You’re kidding!”
“You want to Google something?”
If the doctor didn’t already have Davidson around her little finger, he was now wound tightly. The private was practically in her lap. Given the kid’s prudish nature, it seemed Davidson preferred technology to sex.
Awe filled his voice. “How much did this cost?”
“What the grant writers don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“Seriously, you’ve got to walk me through how you did it.”
Brandt grinned as he closed his eyes. They were out of the woods. Whatever secrets Lochum’s name held would not be revealed today.
CHAPTER 3
Belgium Airstrip
Rebecca clutched her laptop as the plane landed a little too hard for her taste. As the transport rolled to a stop, she packed up her gear but made sure her satellite phone was still generating Wi-Fi.
“You know, we could continue on to Luxembourg and catch a connecting flight to Paris,” she said, trotting up next to Brandt.
“We could…” the sergeant answered as he opened the hatch. “But we’re not.” The soldier turned to his men. “Fall in.”
Balancing her pack on her shoulder and the open laptop in her palm, Rebecca followed him down the ramp. “Seriously, we’re going to be on the road for over four hours, and—”
“We’ll get there in under three,” Brandt said as he nodded to the flight crew, who closed the hatch behind them.
Exasperated, Rebecca tried a different tack. She did not want to be stuck in a car for three hours with this group. “Yeah, but it’s only a twenty-minute connecting—”
Brandt’s fist flew up and stopped just shy of her nose.
“What the—” Her words were cut off by a harsh “shush” from Davidson. Rebecca looked around and realized everyone had halted. Brandt had not been trying to scare her. He had given the “all stop” command.
“Lopez, aren’t we supposed to have a local driver?”
“I don’t know why,” the Latino snorted. “But, yeah, we were.”
For the first time, Rebecca realized they had landed at more of an airstrip rather than a true airport. Off to the left, the rusted tin hangar could hold three, maybe four planes at most. There wasn’t even a tower, just field after dusty field all around them. They weren’t just avoiding the French. Obviously they were avoiding the Belgian authorities as well.
As they stood halfway between their plane and the dark SUV, Rebecca wiped sweat from her brow as the Tarmac’s heat seeped into her boots. She’d traveled half a world and was still sticky.
Rebecca crinkled her nose. Maybe because they were in Belgium, but there was an odd hint of chocolate in the heavy air.
Brandt hit his earpiece. “Badger’s Den, this is Raven Flight. Can you confirm a driver?” Rebecca could not hear the response, but it must have been positive as the sergeant continued, “Den, could you request they step from the vehicle and identify themselves? Raven will hold position.”
She squinted toward the black Mercedes SUV. The windows were too darkly tinted to see inside. The seconds ticked by as her heartbeat increased. Where was the driver? As much as she had complained about the long car ride, she was looking forward to some German-engineered air-conditioning.
Brandt’s jaw clenched into a knot. “Den, we have no contact either. Do you have a satellite feed of the area?” The tension in his face increased exponentially. “You’re sure there are no other heat signatures? Roger that. Have the plane hold while Raven Flight investigates. Raven out.”
The sergeant turned to Davidson. “Do what you do best.” The younger man went to move off, but Brandt continued, “Take her inside.”
Rebecca stood her ground. “But I—”
“No questions,” Brandt hissed as he hefted his weapon into firing position. Lopez and Svengurd were already flanking the car. “Get inside.”
Rebecca believed in women
’s lib and all that, but when the guy with the really big gun looked worried and told you to take cover, you did.
Hurrying to catch up with Davidson, she asked, “What’s going on?”
The friendly smile so easily flashed now held a steady frown. The younger man seemed much older suddenly, his face lined with grooves too deep for one so junior. “Don’t fall behind.”
* * *
The Mercedes’ hood was still warm, but the engine was off as Brandt aimed his gun into the car. Lopez approached the driver’s side as Svengurd took the passenger’s. With a nod from Brandt, the two men opened their respective doors. His finger tightened on the trigger as his men scrambled back, positioning for a better shot.
Nothing.
“Empty, boss.”
Still, Brandt kept the bead on the driver’s side. “Check the backseat.”
Lopez and Svengurd repeated the maneuver. “All clear.”
“Trunk.”
This time the corporal took up a side position as Lopez popped the lid. Brandt never wavered in his gaze to the driver’s side.
“No blood, no signs of a struggle, Sarge.”
Brandt flexed his trigger finger. Where was the goddamn driver?
As if reading his mind, Lopez nodded toward the hangar. “Maybe he had to take a leak.”
There was something wrong. Very wrong. Far more wrong than a nervous bladder. Command had confirmed that the driver had radioed his arrival at the airstrip over a half an hour ago.
Sweat poured down Brandt’s back as Lopez and Svengurd looked at him. He hated the pit that had formed in his stomach. Especially when there was so little evidence that it should be there.
Except for the missing driver.
“Keys?” he asked.
“In the ignition, sir.”
Okay, not even a French driver would be that stupid. “Davidson, are you in position yet?”
* * *
“Just about,” the private replied to a question Rebecca couldn’t hear.
She knelt next to him on the rough steel grating. Davidson had moved them swiftly through the hangar past a lonely, half-assembled biplane and up to the second floor office. The place didn’t look like it had seen any business since World War II.
Dust clung to dust as Davidson struggled to open the window overlooking the Tarmac. Rebecca glanced around the room. Papers were scattered across the tiny desk as though someone had been trying to balance his or her checkbook, then suddenly disappeared. A 1950s-era radio adorned the otherwise barren shelf.
In the closed office, the heat grew oppressive, and that sweet smell of chocolate was replaced by a foul odor of mold and very old gym socks. With a heave, Davidson jerked the window open, creating a plume of cracked paint and dirt. Choking on the dusty cloud, Rebecca began to stand.
“Stay down,” he intoned in a voice that had gotten two octaves deeper since their playful banter on the plane.
Rebecca knelt beside him as Davidson shoved the barrel of his rifle through the open window. In quick order, he checked the Tarmac.
“Everything’s quiet, sir.” The private listened intently to the response. “Roger that, Sarge, but if anyone is out there, they’re dug in.”
Rebecca waited to make sure Davidson’s conversation was over before speaking. “So you’re a sniper?”
The private didn’t interrupt his surveillance, but his tone lightened. “We prefer to be called perimeter specialists.”
She let out a snort. If the kid was relaxed enough to joke, their situation couldn’t be that bad. Brandt was just overreacting.
A nervous Nelly.
But Rebecca found she was biting her lip. When Brandt had charged into that rain forest clearing at a breakneck speed, firing with precision, heedless of the fierce warriors, the sergeant had looked anything but nervous. And certainly not a Nelly.
“How long do you think we’ll be up here?”
Davidson squinted through the large telescopic sight and doubled back to check something, then moved on before answering. “Don’t know.”
Which probably meant a long time. Rebecca plunked down and opened the laptop atop her folded legs. Adjusting her seat, she got nice and comfy. At the very least she could get some work done.
That’s about the time the first missile hit their parked jet.
* * *
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Brandt shielded his eyes as the second missile hit the plane. The cockpit was nothing more than a cauldron of smoke and fire. Scrambling behind the SUV, he cursed his hesitation. He had known something was wrong. He should have bolted as soon as the driver turned up missing. Smattering pops of gunfire came from overhead.
“Davidson, status.”
Before the kid could respond, another missile hit, but this time struck the hangar. Specifically, the second floor, right where Davidson and Monroe were holed up.
“Davidson! Report!”
Nothing but static. Another missile hit the same target.
“Lopez, start the car and—”
But the telltale whistle of an incoming RPG filled the air.
“Hangar. Now!”
They fell back just as the missile hit the SUV. The explosion flipped the car into the air and crashed it back down in their last position. Brandt laid down cover fire, although he knew it was worthless. Whoever was aiming the missiles was far outside the range of his weapon, but still he let off controlled bursts. It gave his anger a tangible form.
Once inside, the sergeant wanted nothing more than to charge up those steps to the second floor, but he planted his boots. Don’t react. Act.
“Lopez. Svengurd. Clear the hangar.”
As they rushed to fulfill his order, Brandt took inventory of their assets.
It didn’t take long.
Not much here except for a decrepit biplane and several engine parts. Above them hung chains attached to pulley mechanisms. Neither provided much help against a well-armed contingent.
He tapped his earpiece. “Badger Den?” But static answered. Someone was jamming their radio communications. No big surprise.
“Clear,” Svengurd announced.
Brandt turned his attention to the second floor. Or at least what used to be the second floor. The mangled metal glowed a dull red, and the entire level was held up by only two twisted supports. He was worried that their added weight alone would collapse the entire structure.
But it was a risk he had to take, so he motioned Lopez to cover their fallback position and Svengurd to take point. They would mount the stairs. They would find Davidson and Monroe, hale and hearty. They would reassemble the biplane and fly the fuck out of here.
It was a great plan until a missile hit the second floor. This impact shredded the tenuous scaffolding. They dove out of the way as the metal screamed as its joists were torqued beyond their capacity, then shattered. The second floor and anyone on it came crashing onto the cement floor.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Smoke obscured the tangled wreckage. Then a cough, faint, weak—then another, stronger.
“Rebecca! Sam!” Slinging his gun, Brandt dug through the rubble.
“Hang tough!” Lopez yelled as Svengurd joined in.
But as hard as they tried, they couldn’t make headway. The metal supports had been superheated by the third blast and fused together. Unless they found an arc welder lying around, they weren’t getting through.
“I’m checking the back.”
Sure enough, toward the east wall, Brandt found an opening in the wreckage large enough for him to crawl through. As he tested the entrance, the metal haystack groaned but held.
“Davidson? Monroe?” Brandt shouted over the sound of his men desperately digging and his own ringing ears.
Climbing over the twisted remains of a desk, Brandt coughed. The deeper he penetrated, the more grime-clogged his lungs became. Vision hazy, he squinted. Was there a figure ahead?
“Davidson?”
Carefully climbing over a girder that precariou
sly held up a large piece of ceiling, Brandt became even more certain that there was someone ahead. Were they saying something?
Slipping between a series of beams, Brandt found the figure. Only it wasn’t Davidson. It was the doctor, pointing Davidson’s rifle at him.
“Monroe, what—”
He finally could hear her. “Get down!”
* * *
As Brandt dropped, Rebecca fired. She had expected a kick from the rifle, but still landed on her butt. She also missed the bastard, but Brandt was all over it, firing like a maniac.
“Nice shot,” the private commented.
She might have taken Davidson’s criticism a little harder if he wasn’t sprawled behind a bent girder. “Shut up, or next time I won’t use my own body to shield you from falling debris.”
Rebecca got a flash of a grin from Davidson as she helped him up, before the mask of pain returned. Using her sleeve, she dabbed blood from the younger man’s temple until her own cut started dripping down his cheek.
“Sorry.” Rebecca used her other sleeve to wipe the stain.
For all their injuries, they were lucky. If the private hadn’t gotten them on the move right after the plane was attacked, they would have been killed by that first strike on the hangar. Instead, the missile attack had just knocked them off their feet. She had banged up her knee. He had bounced off his head. Rebecca could not imagine the damage that would have been done if he had not been wearing his helmet.
Brandt’s gunfire died abruptly. They both held their breath. Davidson tried to raise his rifle, but gasped in pain. Rebecca scrambled to pick it up, but need not have worried. The sergeant came back into view, dragging the body of their pursuer.
“Where the hell did he come from?” Brandt asked.
Rebecca went back to the weakened private, but the young man waved her off. Davidson had accepted her ministrations before, but now, in front of his commanding officer? No way.
“He came in under the cover of the second missile attack,” Davidson reported, sounding far stronger than she knew he was.
Free of his burden, Brandt strode forward. “Why didn’t you sound off?”
Davidson tried to rise but fell into Rebecca’s supporting arms. She chimed in as the private regrouped. “After the first firefight, we went into hiding. I don’t think he wanted to give away our location.”
[Betrayed 01.0] 30 Pieces of Silver Page 4