Carl Lyons half expected minor resistance from his teammates, a question or two at least, as he turned away from the cockpit. Instead, he found Schwarz and Blancanales picking it up another notch, hauling out hardware from footlockers, restocking combat vests, webbing fitted with spare clips and grenades. The Able Team leader armed the bolt on his HK MP-5, unscrewed the Gem-Tech sound suppressor and chucked it on one of the Gulfstream’s seats. Going in hard meant kicking down doors and making lots of noise. And Lyons, feeling like a five-hundred-pound chained lion that hadn’t eaten in months, couldn’t wait to do just that.
The former L.A. detective went to a portside cabin window, lifted the field glasses to his eyes. He hit the small red button on the side, which brought the lens into instant focus as the high-powered fiber optics were fed by the battery-operated digital read minimodem fixed to the hard plastic frame. Wherever he panned, no matter what the distance, the optic read made the necessary adjustments in a nanosecond.
Only a few hours earlier it seemed they were handing Rosenberg off to some Farm blacksuits in western North Carolina. Since then, they’d been poring over cyberstolen computer blueprints on what Lyons strongly suspected would become their next battleground, chewing over the facts as they knew them, but aware before they headed out from a private airfield secured by Brognola east of the Smoky Mountains a few malignant questions were about to be excised the hard way.
They were three or four miles out from Galileo, the customized Justice Department military jet soaring over the prairie from about three thousand feet up, speed cut back to about two hundred mph, but both altitude and speed dropping. Bearing down on the classified NASA sister compound from the northeast, he took in the main office building. It looked like a squat black block, baking under the late-morning sun, plopped down in the middle of the prairie. Lyons couldn’t find the first sign of life around the perimeter, nor beyond to the runways. Even at a distance, and even though his Farm blacksuit pilots hadn’t been able to reach Project Director Harvey Turner by radio—or anyone else for that matter—it all felt wrong to Lyons.
As they closed to about two miles, Lyons began to trust his instincts still more that it was wise to scrap the original plan. Plan A had called for a simple face-to-face with the project director, putting it to him straight, shake some trees and see what fell out. Brognola had pulled some heavy strings to get the three of them—Special Agents Lemon, Schweeney and Blanco—on the ground and inside Galileo, but since Dreamland and subsequent Q and A of Rosenberg, he canned any fleeting ideas of dropping in to spread some sunshine.
“What do you have?” Lyons called into the cockpit.
“Static,” the pilot answered.
“What? Why?”
“It doesn’t make any sense, but all of a sudden our computer navigational systems look like they want to blink out on us.”
Lyons felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. “Which means what exactly? You going to be able to land us in one piece or do we get bounced clear down to Dallas in a ball of fire?”
“Fear not. I dropped the wheels right when the whole schlamozzel started to go hinky.”
“The ‘schla’—what?”
“I’ll get us down in one piece.”
Lyons could believe as much. The Farm hired out only the best from all branches of U.S. military elite forces. He didn’t need to scour the fine print on the track record on either flyboy, certain they’d flown under the worst conditions, such as enemy fire, lights out, seat of the pants. Still, his gut was knotted with mounting tension and anxiety, grimly aware they were dealing with people, places and things that should have defied all reason and rationale. The Able Team leader turned, as visions of invisible men and laser guns seared to mind. He found Schwarz working their own communications and tracking monitors.
Schwarz looked grim as he told Lyons, “You want the bad news or the very bad news first?”
Patience may work for saints, but Lyons was in no mood as he gritted his teeth, fire in his stare. “What?”
“This might be a wild guess, but somebody sure as hell doesn’t want us to land. They’re throwing out an EMP shield. That’s why all our instruments are going haywire. They’ll only get worse after we land.”
“Is that the bad news or the very bad news?” Blancanales asked.
“Once we’re inside…”
“It means,” Lyons growled, “no contact with our guys here.”
“Worse than that,” Schwarz said, “it makes our com links, our transponders and thermal handhelds useless.”
“So, we stick close the whole time.” Lyons looked at Blancanales and told him, “Grab your Little Bulldozer. And, Gadgets, make sure you pack some C-4, just in case we have to make our grand entrance even more grand.”
“Why blow down doors, big guy?” Schwarz said, and thrust his HK MP-5 at the LAR laid out on the floor toward the back of the cabin.
Lyons bared his teeth like a white shark ready to pounce on a bleeding seal. “Two reasons. One—the damn thing makes me nervous. Two—I want my hands filled with something more earthbound I know works and when and how I want it to. Any more questions?”
“Yeah. Now that you ask, what about the antiaircraft batteries?” Blancanales said.
Lyons started to frown, realizing in his adrenalized state to cave in doors and slap some bad guys around, he had forgotten all about that not-so-insignificant problem. “That’s a good question. Okay, two things the way I see it—and don’t hold back, ladies, if you disagree. One, the EMP screen should knock out any computerized or battery-operated platforms.”
“Should—maybe,” Schwarz said. “But, considering the Star Trek convention we’ve seen so far, are you willing to bet our lives they may or may not have some type of internal antishield to deflect their own EMP?”
“Well, my Number Two snappy answer is we’re on public property, covert base or not. Whatever they’re in process of doing inside, knowing what we now know, I’m betting they don’t want to blast us out of the sky or off the runway in a mushroom cloud they might see all the way to George W.’s ranch in Crawford or have one of those missiles skip on past us and plow into downtown Dallas. Did you catch all that?” Lyons barked into the cockpit.
“You’re the boss.”
“Just the same, if it looks to you like we’re painted…”
The pilot bobbed his helmet. “Emergency evasive maneuvers. Roger.”
“Here’s what else I want you to do once we’re dumped off…”
JOHN ELLISON LONG AGO thrust himself under what he believed was a granite-encased impression that he would be fully and unflinchingly prepared for the Day. Shortly after he had agreed to a plot that was no more, no less than treason and mass murder, he dangled several glorious mental banners over the moment, certain he could prepare himself well in advance.
Day of Reckoning. Day of Truth. Day of the Future.
Sounded good, noble, righteous.
But the reality—now that the Day was here—was no comparison to any flights of fantasy meant to fairly stitch up what he knew all along was an open wound of bleeding conscience. One look at the small bank of monitors, white lab coats chewed to crimson rags, bodies flailing across the screens while the subguns of their black-clad executioners flamed on in muted butchery…
What could he do now? No sense whining, looking back or straying off a course he’d chosen on his own free will. No, sir, he was along for the full ride, and wherever the roller coaster took him next he needed to maintain the heart of a lion.
He took a moment for himself, just the same, thinking if he tried hard enough he could rationalize the madness besieging Galileo. Naturally, there was a ton of cold, hard cash involved in his final decision, eighty million dollars U.S. to be exact, to be split any number of ways—which rankled him more than a little—but accidents were sure to happen between now and then that would beef up his take. Beyond sealing the gilded doors shut to the plight of the human race, securing his own retirement of comfort and pleasure, there was a whopping fat syringe of cynicism and cold indifference to his fellow man plunged into the bottom line. America, for one, was under siege by any number of political, social and moral ills that were so growing—nay, multiplying at a phenomenal rate. And there was no going back. No redemption.
He figured if he couldn’t beat them, then bail. No way did he want to look back at the end of his days and swallow regret like bitter gall. He wanted to live, and live large. As far as that went, the sky was the limit when they were handed their cut on the other side of the Atlantic. Truth be told, he would find himself so flush with cash he wouldn’t know what to do first. Sure, there would be his personal island nirvana to maintain, lavish toys and such, like speedboats and a Jacuzzi and a private jet to purchase. Then decorate his tropical palace with all sultry manner of imported women.
Just in case wretched excess wore thin, there would be plenty of glitzy hot spots around the globe he could turn into his personal playground.
He’d live large, like the king he was.
And damn right, he was owed, considering all the years and risks he’d undertaken for an increasingly ungrateful, narcissistic country that was swirling the bowl anyway. Take a look around, he thought, the dike had too many holes to plug up, and he was only one man—granted, he was a warrior—but standing against a mounting, raging tide of barbarians storming the gates of democracy. Nothing less than the threat of nuclear annihilation would hurl the savage unwashed masses back in their place.
Time to fly, tough guy.
He wanted to stand around and justify himself a little more, mentally submerge himself neck-deep in the golden sea of the future, but the action was heating up, demanding all of his grim focus. He figured half of the Russian team was just then hitting the Omega Control Room, hard at work, sweeping the work force with their on-screen silent dance of death, while the other Muscovite pack was spreading some more joy around Alpha Hangar.
Smoke, he found, was still curling out of the Gem-Tech sound suppressor fixed to his HK MP SD-3 submachine gun where he’d riddled the guy with what he figured was half a clip. He rated the project manager a last look, if only to make certain the man was dead. Harvey Turner was finally twitching out, he saw, the leather wingback creaking under deadweight and swinging some to the right. The PD’s office was Spartan except for a desk with its smorgasbord of family pics, American flag, some shots of the guy mugging with the President and other Washington notables, awards and medals of service and valor that didn’t mean squat anymore. But the Omega Main Terminal, where two of the computer wizards on the invading force were now burning CDs, was the star of the Galileo show.
Then the big man rolled in, three raid-suited operators with HK MP-5s in tow. A broken wisp of cigar smoke flying away in his wake, Sir hefted the black suitcase, swept the desk clear of Turner’s blood-tainted nostalgia, hurling memorabilia to the floor like so much refuse. Ellison felt his skin grow clammy, as Sir keyed open the case, then powered up the battery. As the bodyguards peeled off and shot the security monitors, the big man used another key to turn on the digital readout, began tapping in a series of numbers on the keypad. A twist of the small metal key to the far right, removing it and dumping into his pants’ pocket, and Ellison watched the slender box flare on with the red numbers to doomsday.
From somewhere down the hall the cries of agony and shouts of terror and panic seemed to mount to a shrill crescendo. Ellison found an odd smile on the big man’s face as the guy turned his way.
“Is there something you wish to say, Mr. Ellison?”
There was, in fact, but he wondered how wise it would be to ask what might sound stupid questions, thus betray a lack of faith and courage when he was reasonably sure Sir had all the bases covered. Still, the one-kiloton package would turn Galileo into a radioactive tomb, and that didn’t included God only knew how much liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen that would be touched off, but that was part of the ruse, he knew. By the time anybody of self-crowned importance combed through the rubble they’d be long gone. Three Cessna Super Citations were parked near the runway, fueled and ready to fly, but Ellison wondered about the sanity of detonating such a powerful explosive. In other words, did they have enough time to lift off and clear the shock wave and resulting EMP? And, if the compound was raided by the authorities, what with Justice Department agents already on the ground, why leave the package out in the open like that?
“Sir? They’re here. Bearing in from Runway Alpha, south, and closing on Portal L.”
Ellison followed Sir’s laughing stare to the monitors. Three supposed Justice Department agents were barreling toward the door in question. Armed and clearly weighted down with tools of war, one of them lugging a fat Multi-Round Projectile Launcher across his shoulder, it was a reasonable conclusion they hadn’t come to Galileo to serve search warrants. They either knew the score, or suspected Galileo, Ellison thought, was up for grabs by a conspiracy that reached clear to Russia, which was why Sir ordered the sudden acceleration of their original timetable in the first place. One of the alleged G-men was checking the door frame, when one of the operators said, “All doors are locked, as ordered, Sir.”
“Yes, but they don’t look the types to be dissuaded by such a minor inconvenience. Why make it difficult on them?” Sir said. “Unlock it and let them in.”
LYONS WASN’T TWO STEPS inside the reinforced glass door when right away he knew what was going down. Likewise, he knew they were marked, let in with no initial resistance, which told the Able Team leader the enemy believed they were walking them into an ambush. He’d be struck deaf, dumb and blind before he could say for certain whether they were being monitored and tracked by high-tech cameras so cutting edge he knew they could be blended in as part of the walls, ceiling, floor.
So be it. The three of them were bringing it on blind anyway, no fix on numbers, no faces even to match the opposition, but Lyons had a simple ironclad rule as far as that went.
If it was armed and angry, it went down hard and bloody.
HK subgun out as he scanned and advanced, Lyons locked in on the long burping retorts, the pandemonium of shouts and pleas for mercy flaying the corridor from what sounded the only open door before the floor met the east-to-west bisecting hall. Lyons felt his blood boil over this mass murder, like bubbling lava in his veins, as he hugged whitewashed concrete wall, hustling even harder with each forward step on his north vector for what were the aboveground think tanks. Schwarz and Blancanales, on the other side, were crouched, with Pol keeping on eye on their six.
Good to go? Only one way to test it all now, the Able Team leader knew.
Lyons slowed, creeping to the edge of the open door, the muffled subgun fire and screams so loud it seemed they wanted to bowl him off his feet. He hand-signaled Blancanales to lag behind and watch the corridor, indicated to Schwarz he should follow second and peel to the left.
Then Lyons bulled into the slaughterhouse.
RADIC KYTOL HOSED DOWN three more workers with a sustained burst from his HK submachine gun as they went lurching and shrieking back for their small offices. Others were attempting to slam doors to their cubicles, only the emergency lock system, he knew, had already been bypassed through the project director’s main computer and security terminal.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Kytol moved down the narrow hall, sweeping them alone or in pairs as they huddled in the tight quarters of their cubicles, kicking in doors where necessary, spraying occupants with short or long bursts, depending on the number of victims or if they were squeezing into a cubbyhole that required a few more skewering rounds.
Maybe fourteen kills to his credit so far, Kytol began to find it so ridiculously easy, mowing them down like so many fattened calves where they stood, sat, screamed for mercy or tried to squeeze themselves beneath their desks, that a dark cloud of suspicion wanted to intrude his concentration.
And what was this nonsense all about? Doubt? Fear? Overconfidence?
The hell with all that feeble noise, they were mostly men, engineers and scientists and such, but a few women in lab coats had been scythed in his marching execution thus far, and he couldn’t help but indulge a fleeting fantasy how he would have liked a few minutes alone with the females before blowing them away. It was messy work, killing them in such close proximity to his subgun bursts, that each office—most of which were not much larger than a walk-in closet—was practically demolished and left in blood-streaked, flesh-dappled ruins. Bodies thrashed and spun, as he surged into each doorway, spraying the cubicles, victims taking with them to the floor sparking, smoking computers and shattered desktop photos of family and friends, flesh, cloth and blood spattering walls like grotesque modern art where a mad drunken painter just threw his brush all over the place.
As he found a man on his knees at the last cubicle, hands up as if they would ward off the inevitable and screaming something unintelligible, Kytol, feeding his subgun a fresh 40-round extended magazine, listened to the brief stutters of muffled HKs and cries from the hallway where he knew two of his comrades were wrapping up their own death march, sticking to their vector.
Briefly hovering in the doorway, vaguely aware of his next victim pleading in front of him, he crunched numbers. Over one hundred Galileo employees, including security staff, maintenance and kitchen personnel, were being gunned down while their own computer wizards seized all critical data on present and future classified space projects. A lot of bodies between one full squad. And for what? And so what? He didn’t have all the particulars, but Boss Franjo had irons in the fire with a Russian Family that had convinced him the future was in supertech space stations and RLVs that could house nuclear platforms, only he suspected beyond the huge sums of money to be earned from this nasty business in America, there was another agenda that involved their people’s recent investments in Dagestan.
Not his immediate concern. He was just a soldier, carrying out orders.
Kytol riddled his last victim with a sustained burst, flinging him to the wall, the brutal impact seeming to pin him there like a giant bug before he crumpled in a sideways topple.
Easy work, Kytol thought to himself. Just another day at the office.
He was falling back, reaching for his handheld radio when a man-shape blurred into the corner of his eye. He was thinking it was Vidan or Luvan but a warning blared in his brain, instinct forcing his hand as he swung the subgun toward the armed figure that came charging like a gored bull. He was holding back on the trigger, spewing out 9 mm Parabellum rounds, nearly had the HK online when the first lances of hot lead tore into his chest.