Текст книги "Strike Zone"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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“Boy, you missed a hell of a dinner,” Mack told him.

“Thanks for filling in for me. Can Mr. Stoner and I sit down?”

“Colonel, of course. Ladies?” Mack gestured to the women who’d been fawning over him. As luck would have it, there were exactly three of them. Their eyes blinked as they did the math. One by one they took up positions.

“Actually, we’d like to be alone for a while,” said Dog.

Mack feared that the colonel was about to lower the boom for his accidental firing of the Badger’s machine gun. He told the women he’d see them later, then took a gulp of his drink as a final fortification against the inevitable onslaught.

“You just missed Prince bin Awg,” said Mack, wishing he had left with his host.

“The prince approves of this?” said Dog.

“Oh sure.”

“How about his uncle the sultan?” asked Stoner.

“Well, uncles, fathers, you know how that goes. Right, Colonel?”

Dog gave him a very disapproving frown.

“I don’t know that I saw any alcohol touch the prince’s lips,” said Mack, sticking up for his host.

“Mack, I need you to do me a favor. Or rather, I need the prince to do me a favor, I want you to help me ask him.”

“A favor?”

“We need to get to Thailand tomorrow, but not attract any attention,” said Stoner. “Bin Awg has a fleet of aircraft at his disposal. We’d like to use one.”

“Is that all? Hell, not a problem,” said Mack.

Was that really it? Was that all the colonel had come for?

Mack felt as if he’d been plucked from a den of jackals and delivered back to paradise.

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Paradise being Brunei, of course. There was no more beautiful spot on the planet, especially if you were considered a national hero.

“Can do, Colonel. How about the Badger? It’s like driving an old Caddy, swear to God. Pickup’s a little slack, but it’ll remind you of the fifties. Not that you were around in the fifties, but if you were, I mean. It’s a great plane.”

“I don’t want a Caddy,” said Dog. “I understand he has a Beech King Air.”

“Uh, I guess.”

“That’s the plane we’d like to borrow.”

The Beech King Air—formally known as Beech Model 100 King Air B100—was an extremely reliable and sturdy workhorse, an excellent design that could carry fifteen passengers fifteen hundred miles or more. It was relatively cheap to operate, and testimony to the solid design and production skill of “small”

American aviation companies.

It was also about as unspectacular a plane to fly as Mack Smith could imagine. A two-engined turboprop, the plane had been designed as a no-nonsense civilian flier, and that’s what it was. It wasn’t even a jet, for cryin’ out loud.

“But, Colonel, I’m serious, you take the wheel of the Badger. You aren’t going to … ”

Mack’s voice trailed off as he saw Dog’s scowl.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Should I ask now, or do you want to wait for morning?”

“Whatever’s better,” said Dog, rising. “We’ll be at the airport at 0800.”

Aboard Brunei King Air 2, over the Pacific

0854

IT HAD BEENa while since Dog had piloted a civilian turboprop, and while he couldn’t have asked for a more predictable and stable craft, his unfamiliarity with the plane did cross him up a bit. The King Air’s maximum takeoff weight was perhaps two percent of what the Megafortress could get off a runway with, and while there were clear advantages to the plane’s small size—its ability to land on a small, unimproved runway was specifically important here—the cabin nonetheless felt like an overloaded canoe to him. Still, it was obvious why the army had chosen the type in the early seventies as a utility and reconnaissance craft, and the solid state of the aircraft showed why it remained in the Army’s inventory when it could easily have been traded in for a newer model. The Garrett turboprops—fitted specially to the B100

model—hummed along in harmony as Dog and his team trekked northward across the ocean, their eventual destination a small airport in southern Thailand.

The strip lay about a half mile from the fab plant Stoner wanted to check out. Besides the CIA agent, Dog had brought along two members of the Whiplash security team, Sergeant Bison and Sergeant Rockland. The plant was in an area near the Cambodian border where rebels had been reported over the past six months. It wasn’t even clear whether the plant was operating. Stoner had bought two small dirt bikes to use to get to the plant; they were stowed in the back of the plane.

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Clear skies and a calm sea meant flying was a breeze, and Dog’s hardest job was not getting too complacent at the wheel—or bored. There were only so many times he could check his instruments and look at the map to make sure he had the course nailed. Stoner, sitting next to him, wasn’t very big on conversation. Inevitably, Dog began thinking of Jennifer, who still hadn’t returned his calls.

Was she more upset over this investigation business than he’d thought? Cortend surely was a pain in the ass, but Jennifer ought to understand that the colonel’s presence there was mostly a political thing; it wasn’t directed at her and eventually would go away. Whatever minor violations of the rules she had committed– if she had committed any—would be outweighed by her value to the program. Any baboon would realize that.

Maybe he should just come out and tell her that.

Of course, that was the one thing he couldn’t do as her commanding officer. It would be interfering with Danny, who had to have absolute autonomy, absolute authority to do the real investigation, Cortend be damned.

Dog checked his course, then looked at his watch. Bin Awg had modified the aircraft to increase the amount of fuel it could carry; in theory, they could have flown directly to the strip at Nanorpathet. But that would leave them with few contingencies, and so he had decided to refuel at Songkhla in the southern extension of Thailand on the Malay Peninsula. At 250 knots and better than eight hundred miles to go, it was going to be a long haul.

Maybe Mack had been right about taking the Badger.

Dreamland

11 September 1997

1800

(South China Sea, 12 September, 0900)

IT WAS SOobvious—so painfully obvious—that Rubeo very nearly smacked his head in derision as he realized it.

Most of the intercepted code was nonsense.

Not nonsense, exactly—mirrored bits of their own code, randomly sliced and diced, then spit back to camouflage the actual transmissions.

And that made all the difference.

Rubeo got up from the computer bank and walked to the counter where Mr. Coffee normally kept at least a half carafe warm. The fact that there was no coffee in the pot reminded him of Jennifer, and that in turn reminded him of his stupidity.

Not that telling Cortend what he had just now realized would stop the Inquisition. Cortend was the expression of a vast and infinitely stupid machine, the dark enemy of knowledge. It had stripped Oppenheimer of his status and fame. It had pursued Galileo; it had gotten Socrates to drink poison.

Cortend herself was a puny ant, a cog in the machine of ignorance.

A bad cog in a machine that couldn’t even serve a useful function, like making coffee.

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Rubeo measured out some grains and filled Mr. Coffee with water. As the liquid began to hiss downward, he went back to his secure phone and called the Command Center, requesting to be put through to Colonel Bastian. But Bastian wasn’t immediately available, according to the sergeant handling the communications system in the Whiplash trailer, aka Dreamland Mobile Command.

“I can get a patch through to his sat phone if you want,” said the sergeant.

“Oh never mind. Tell him to call me when he lands.”

“Here or there?”

“Whatever.” The sergeant started to say something but Rubeo didn’t have time for him; he killed the line and dialed Danny in the security office.

“I want to talk to Captain Freah. This is Rubeo.”

“Uh, the captain’s on another line and, uh, he’s overdue at the handheld weapons lab to check out the updates to the Smart Helmets and some of the—”

“Tell him to see me when he’s done playing with his toys,” said the scientist, slamming down the phone.

AT THE VERYmoment Rubeo was slamming down the phone, Danny was fuming as well. He’d been on hold now for nearly five minutes, waiting for Jed Barclay to come back on the line. The NSC assistant had called Danny—then asked him to wait without saying another word.

“Sorry about that,” said Jed, finally coming back on the line. “My boss has been sick and they’re running me ragged. This China crap—they’re crazy over there.”

“What’s up?” said Danny. He tried to be friendly but he knew there was a hard edge in his voice.

“Um, I wanted to tell you something, but, it’s like, it’s got to be off the record.”

“Yeah?”

“The official channels’ll come later.”

“Let’s go. What?”

“I talked to an FBI counterintelligence officer in charge of the Far East. Your scientist is off the hook.”

“How’s that?”

“Jennifer Gleason did follow procedure but her name was misspelled and reversed in the records. Dr.

Rubeo figured it out. And she was a student on the date of the first conference and there wasn’t even a formal requirement for her to register.”

Danny wanted to reach through the phone and give Jed a high-five. But instead he gave the NSC official his standard security officer: “Are you absolutely sure about all this?”

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“Yeah. Uh, like you’ll get a paper report. I also told the FBI guy to contact Colonel Cortend. I figured she’d be really routing up people’s butts.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot. Really. I really appreciate it,” said Danny.

“Listen, I got to go—could you pass a message to, uh, Dr. Rubeo?”

“What’d he do, take your head off?” said Danny.

“He was going on about, um—well, you don’t really want to hear it.”

“Accused you of being part of the Inquisition?”

Jed laughed. “That part was a compliment compared to everything else. I, uh, really don’t have time to uh, deal with him, but I need a favor. Not a favor really, but—”

“Tell me what you need, Jed, and I’ll get it.”

Jed explained that he needed yet another update on the ghost clone for a meeting with the President scheduled in a half hour. Danny realized that, besides being angry about Jennifer, Rubeo was probably pissed that he had to keep updating Washington every few hours. But that was tough nuggies.

Besides, the news about Jennifer would put him in a better mood.

“He’ll have to get me via sat phone. But I really need the latest. Really.”

“Jed, I will personally make sure that Dr. Ray calls you. I will hold a gun to his head and make sure. I’m going right there now.”

“Um, uh, that wouldn’t, uh, be, uh—”

“It’s a joke, Jed. He’ll call.”

Ten minutes later, Danny walked through the Megafortress hangar, down the long ramp that led to the elevators. He put his hand flat on the reader and waited for the car. When the door opened, Colonel Cortend and two of her lieutenants nearly flattened him.

“Colonel, just the person I wanted to talk to,” said Danny. “Looks like Ms. Gleason is off the hook for those minor security violations.”

“No security violation is minor,” said Cortend.

Danny explained what had apparently happened, and told her that the FBI agent would be getting in touch with her.

“Good,” said Cortend, in a tone so severe Danny momentarily regretted that he wasn’t wearing body armor. She glanced at her minions, who snapped to and rushed to open the door ahead—even though it was operated by a motion detector.

Downstairs, Danny found Ray Rubeo talking to himself as he pounded the keys on one of his computers.

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“Hey, Doc,” said Danny.

“Hmph,” said Rubeo.

“I have good news about Jennifer,” said Danny, summarizing what Jed had told him.

“Did you tell it to the hangman?”

Danny stifled a smirk. “If you’re referring to Colonel Cortend, yes I did.”

“Did she understand it?”

“What’s to understand?”

“Precisely. Precisely.” Rubeo slashed at the computer keys, then hit a combination at the top to save his work. “You don’t want to read this,” he said, getting up.

“Top secret?”

“It’s a letter to my congressman about idiots and numbskulls,” said Rubeo.

“Present company excepted?”

“I tried to explain the significance of what’s been found about the clone so far,” said Rubeo. “I started with the very basics—completely different aircraft. I didn’t even get to the transmission. Do you know what she told me? Do you know what she told me?”

“Uh, good job?”

“She told me that this was compartmentalized information, and she wasn’t authorized to hear it. Not authorized to hear it! Not authorized to hear it!”

“Hey, uh, Doc, go easy, all right? I don’t know how good my CPR is.”

Rubeo shook his head. Volcanoes appeared calmer before eruptions.

“I believe in security too,” he said. “You know that. You understand that. You’ve been here—you know what kind of operation we run. But. But—”

“Sure,” said Danny.

“This is obscene. This is harassment. I don’t think she’s coming back. She’ll resign.”

“Who? Cortend?”

“Jennifer Gleason.” Rubeo’s entire body shuddered.

“Look, Jennifer is off the hook for those meetings. The paperwork was misplaced. As for the rest of this, well, obviously we have to look very carefully, but—”

“Listen. I’m going to explain what they’re doing. Just nod your head if you don’t understand,” said Page 121

Rubeo. “Humor me. The reason the code is similar to ours is because it is ours—we’re receiving a mirrored stream of data. Not all our data, just little bits. Their actual code uses an encryption that’s twenty years old. They were using it when most of the scientists here were in diapers.”

Before Danny could say anything, Rubeo marched over to a table lined with printouts. His fingers flew over them as he explained what he had found. Danny didn’t quite catch it all—Rubeo made a big deal out of signal erosion curves and then somehow segued from that into how canon law made torture necessary during the Middle Ages because two eyewitnesses were always necessary for a conviction in the absence of a confession. But the bottom line was clear: No one at Dreamland was a traitor.

No one.

“The mirroring process is interesting in and of itself,” continued Rubeo. “It’s a real-time technique that uses a sampling sequence we haven’t seen before. There have been only two papers published on it, and they’re both several years old. Either the person behind the clone read those papers—or he wrote them.”

“Great,” said Danny. “Give me copies.”

Rubeo blinked at him. “You understand what I’m saying?”

“No, but I get the gist. Can you get me those papers?”

“Gladly,” said Rubeo. Somehow, his customary sarcasm seemed to lack the bite it had once had. It seemed almost—friendly. “You do read Chinese, don’t you?”

“Chinese? As in the People’s Republic of China?”

“No. As in Taiwan. The papers were written there by a man named Ai Hira Bai. If his name is any indication, he has both Chinese and Japanese ancestors, but he lived or lives on Taiwan. An adamant enemy of the communists. And a man who hasn’t been heard from since shortly after the last paper was published. There are no academic listings of him anywhere.”

“Interesting.”

“Even more interesting is the fact that his expenses to the conference were paid by a company owned by a man named Chen Lee. A billionaire who hates the communists and who has access to a wide range of technology.”

“How do you know this?”

“Well, if Colonel Cortend isn’t going to investigate anything beyond her nose, don’t you think someone better?”

White House, Washington, D.C.

2130

PRESIDENTMARTINDALE HADa state dinner scheduled to honor the ambassador from France, who was retiring and returning to Paris after a decade’s worth of service in America. The President, whose relations with France were as testy as that of any administration since John Adams’s, was only too happy to throw a big party for the departing buffoon.

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The dinner also allowed him the opportunity to get off on a good foot with his successor, a Mademoiselle Encoinurge. Encoinurge was an improvement in several respects, not least of all physically, and the President found it necessary to engage in a little personal diplomacy. This made it difficult for him to sneak away as planned, and so Jed Barclay and the others who were supposed to be meeting with him were ushered upstairs to wait. The secretaries of defense and state had been at the meeting and were dressed in tuxedoes. Jed, wearing his best pinstriped suit and a brand-new tie, felt underdressed. They were sitting in the dark and ornate Treaty Room on the third floor, next to the Lincoln Bedroom. A massive chandelier hung down from the center of the room like a beehive on fire. Though sturdy, Jed’s wooden chair creaked as he sat in it; it was at least a hundred years old, and he worried that he might break it if he got up too quickly.

Nonetheless, he jumped to his feet as President Martindale bounded into the room, several strides ahead of two aides and Admiral Balboa, the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“Gentlemen, Jed, good; we’re all here then. I’m looking forward to better relations with France,” the President told the secretary of state. “The ambassador actually seems to have a head on her shoulders.”

“It’ll make up for China,” said Hartman.

“One step at a time. Would you like to brief us on the situation?”

“The Chinese are still officially blaming us for shooting down their aircraft,” said the secretary of state.

“But the premier was impressed that you called the ambassador and is willing to take your call on the matter sometime this afternoon. We’re still working on the details. Jed’s pictures helped.”

Jed felt his face flush slightly.

“Good work, Jed,” said the President. “Maybe we’ll tell Mr. Freeman to stay in bed another week.”

“Uh—”

“Philip is feeling much better,” Martindale told the others. “I think he just didn’t feel like having anything to do with France tonight. All right, back to China.”

“The premier is in a conciliatory mood,” said Hartman, picking up where he had left off. “Or at least he’s prepared to be, if you say you’re in favor of the summit between him and the president of Taiwan.”

“I am.”

“He’d like a sign of encouragement. He may suggest you attend.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Martindale.

“The vice president? He’s in Japan.”

The President frowned. “Let’s think on that. Jed, what else do we know about the clone?”

“I have some data from Dreamland,” said Jed. He reached for his briefcase. “I just have to boot up my laptop, and, uh—”

“No, let’s skip the presentation,” said Martindale. “Give us an overview. Quick one. I have to get Page 123

back.”

Until that moment, Jed hadn’t thought about his stutter—and hadn’t stuttered hardly at all. Now that he was on the spot, however, it came back with a vengeance.

“Well, um, we, uh, know from the wing configuration it’s, uh, different than ours,” he said. “The experts have some, uh, more, uh, more technical data to go through, and they still have a lot of questions. But at the moment it looks slower, like maybe 450 knots—”

“Whose is it?” asked the secretary of state.

Jed shook his head. “Dr-Dr-Dreamland is still working on it. We have Space Command and NSA r-reviewing sensor data in the area, and that’s under way. But the first review of the earlier sighting didn’t yield anything, so we’re not sure what will come up.”

He had to get rid of the damn stutter or no one would trust anything he said. It made him sound like too much of a jerk. Fortunately, Jed had some handouts summarizing the data Dreamland had compiled, and he passed them out.

“So it’s not as capable as our craft?” asked Chastain.

“Well, it depends on your cr-criteria,” said Jed. “The experts think it’s not as f-f-fast. But it can carry a heavier load, which would mean a couple of things.”

“Did the Chinese get all this information?” asked Balboa.

“No,” said Hartman. “They know there was another craft involved. And that we’re trying to track it.”

“If they believe us,” said the admiral, “and that’s a big if, then we’re in race with them to find this thing.

Because if they grab it—”

“The Dreamland people will get there first,” said Martindale. He rose. “Right, Jed?”

“They’re getting closer.”

“Close doesn’t count,” said Balboa. “We need results. Now.”

Dreamland

1900

DANNY KNOCKED ONthe door to Jennifer’s small apartment twice without getting an answer. He turned and looked at the two airmen who had accompanied him, then reached into his pocket for the master key he’d brought along. He was just about to insert it in the door when a faint voice asked from inside who it was.

“Captain Freah,” he told her. “Hey, it’s Danny, Jen. Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer.

“Jen?” he said.

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He heard her footsteps and then her hand at the chain, pulling it open. She stood in the doorway wearing a bathrobe, though below it she had on jeans and a sweatshirt.

She’d cut her hair.

God, had she cut her hair—it looked as if she’d hacked it off with a knife.

Danny decided it was best to ignore it. He tried not to stare.

“Hey, you’re off the hook. Completely,” he told her. “Those conferences—we got information from the FBI and the security review at the time that clears you completely. Are you okay? Can I come in?”

She didn’t answer, turning away instead. Danny glanced back at his men in the hall, then stepped inside by himself, closing the door behind him.

“Colonel Bastian’s been trying to get ahold of you,” he told her. “And Chief Gibbs. How come you don’t return their calls?”

“How do you know I don’t return their calls?” she said, twisting around in a fury. “Do you have a tap on my phone? You think you can just listen in to anything you want any time you want?”

Danny was authorized by the security regulations covering Dreamland to do just that, but this clearly wasn’t the time to say so. “Of course not.”

She pursed her lips. The lower one started to quiver.

“Jen, I know this has been tough for you. It’s been tough for me,” said Danny.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be considered a traitor,” she said.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s got to suck.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She frowned, but then she started to cry. Danny found himself hugging her awkwardly, patting her back, telling her it would be okay.

Southeast Thailand

12 September 1997

1650

EVEN THOUGH HEhadn’t had much sleep last night, Boston found it impossible to nap on the plane.

While he had a special set of headphones to drown out the sound of the engines, the small plane shuffled up and down every so often, just enough to keep him awake. He spent his time leafing through a book he’d brought along and trading audio tapes with Bison, who unfortunately seemed to like the Grateful Dead considerably more than Boston would have thought possible.

Boston’s adrenaline shot up as soon as Colonel Bastian announced that they were within sight of the airfield. He strapped his seat belt on and waited as the plane banked and then circled over the small strip.

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While they undoubtedly cleared the nearby jungle by a good margin, to Boston it seemed like the wingtip came perilously close to the top of the nearby trees. He struggled not to close his eyes as the airplane turned hard and legged down onto what looked more like an unkempt driveway than an airfield. The strip didn’t have any lights or even a fence nearby; the only structures Boston saw as he stepped down the stairs were a telephone pole with a windsock and a two-story pillbox with a flat roof.

Boston put on his Smart Helmet and did a quick search of the area, using its composite view, which cobbled together IR, radar, and optical inputs to identify weapons and individuals. There was no one around.

“Yo, Boston, help me with the bikes,” said Bison from inside. The sergeant went back and manhandled the small dirt bike out of the rear cabin, barely clearing past the seats. They had taken along several cans of gas as well as guns and radios. Everyone on the team wore civilian dress, authorized by the colonel because of the nature of the mission.

Colonel Bastian and Stoner met the two Whiplash ops on the hard-packed dirt.

“I want someone to stay here with me and watch the plane,” said the colonel. “And let me emphasize, we show no military gear.”

“I think we have to wear vests,” said Stoner.

“All right,” said Bastian. “Be as discreet as possible.”

“Who’s better at riding a motorbike?” said Stoner.

Boston looked at Bison, who looked at him. Both men shrugged. While riding a motorcycle was not part of the Whiplash job requirements, everyone on the squad had done so at one time.

“Flip a coin,” said Dog.

Boston won the toss.

THE WIND WHIPPEDhard against Stoner’s face as he drove up the winding trail toward the fabrication plant. The sat photos he’d seen of it, part of a routine series covering the area, along with some background research provided by analysts back at the CIA, indicated that it had been abandoned about six months before. Already the jungle had begun closing in. Nature’s relentless march had broken up the edges of the road leading to the site; what two years ago had been a row of small, hastily built houses was now a collection of scavenged foundations.

Stoner would have preferred that the plant was still in operation. Getting information then would have been considerably easier—go in as a prospective client and look around, set up a tap into their computers, maybe even do a little B&E routine. Now all he could do was nose around and see what he could come up with. He had a digital camera and a chemical “sniffer” in his backpack, as well as a collection of programs on computer disks that would allow him to examine any computer he found. But as the building came into view, he realized he wasn’t going to be finding much of anything.

The parking lot and helipad had been overgrown by vegetation, and the weeds were so thick that Stoner had to stop his bike about twenty yards from the front of the building. He got off and took the IR viewer Page 126

from his backpack, using it to check around.

“We should cover the road,” said Boston, who’d taken his MP-5 from his ruck.

“Anyone who’s interested in us isn’t going to use the road,” said Stoner.

Built of cinderblocks, the one-story building had a row of windows at the front and side. Most of the windows were broken; the interior of the building had been stripped, not just of the valuable tools and machinery, but also of most of the sheetrock, ceiling tiles, and electrical wire. Stoner used his elbow to break enough of one of the windows so he could slip in easily.

A thick coat of reddish jungle clay covered the floor, swept in from the lot by the wind. There were tracks from another window at the side, but in the dim light Stoner couldn’t tell how recent they might be.

He took out his sniffer and started walking toward the back of the large open room, holding the long sensor wand ahead of him as he went.

The metal skeleton of a wall stood about twenty feet from the front. A jungle of twisted metal studs and beams lay beyond it, marking the actual fabrication areas. Much of the ductwork remained, though parts of it had been pulled out. Stoner followed the long runs as they snaked back into the bowels of the large plant. He nearly tripped over a row of pipes that jutted out of the cement floor, the last remains of a restroom. Pushing past a twisted wall brace, he entered a section of the plant that had been used as a clean room.

The sniffer picked up silicone and traces of gallium arsenide, along with a long menu of materials. There was no question the plant had been used to manufacture chips, and that its products were more advanced than the sort of circuitry needed to power a television or VCR.

WHENBOSTON WASa kid, he’d lived in a bad section of town, and he and his friends would sometimes wander through abandoned buildings about two blocks from where he lived. One building in particular held endless fascination for the nine– and ten-year-olds. Once a sewing factory, it was filled with ancient machines and all manner of pulleys and gears, many still hanging from the high ceiling. A mannequin sat in a shadowy corner; they liked to scare unsuspecting friends with it.

The afternoon visits ended abruptly when the building was taken over by crack smokers. Boston remembered them now as he worked through the skeletons of stripped walls, unsure exactly what they were looking for. He had his night-vision gear on, a special viewer designed by Dreamland that was much lighter than the normal-issue AN-PVS-7 and strapped on like a pair of swimming goggles. A light enhancer rather than an IR viewer, the device wasn’t as powerful and versatile as the viewer integrated into the Whiplash Smart Helmet. But it provided more than enough light here.

Boston got a touch of the willies as a shadow passed along the metal struts where the wallboard had been removed. He knew it was just Stoner, but he couldn’t rid himself of the tingle of fear bouncing in his chest. Then he heard something, or thought he heard something, outside.

Quickly, the Whiplash trooper retraced his steps out of the bowels of the building, pausing by a side window. He eased himself out of the opening and moved quietly toward the front the factory. Sliding toward the bottom to peer around the corner at the overgrown parking area, he told himself he was being ridiculous; there was no one there.

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Then he heard the bike engines kick to life.

STONER WAS JUSTscooping up some small bits of discarded chip material from one of the fab rooms when he heard the bike engine. Cursing, he stowed the sample and the sniffer in his ruck.

Boston had already gone outside.

He pulled out his pistol and ran to cover him.

THERE WERE THREEof them, two on one bike and one on the other. Boston leaped to his feet, running toward them like a madman. He managed to grab one of the thieves by the back of the shirt and tossed him to the side, upending the other rider and the bike at the same time. A slap of MP-5 against the man’s skull knocked him senseless. The would-be driver, meanwhile, scrambled in the dirt and managed to escape into the jungle.

Boston scooped up the motorbike, and reacting rather than thinking, he hopped on it and started to chase down the other thief.